Chapter Text
Week 1
Montréal, Quebec
Shane Hollander couldn’t breathe.
He was sitting in a leather chair in the Montréal Metro’s General Manager office, across from Micheal Turner.
The GM assistant–his name was McCann, or something like that–was speaking in a grave, measured tone, but Shane had stopped listening minutes ago.
He only registered the sound of his mother gasping beside him, her manicured nails digging into his forearm hard enough to hurt, and he understood that things were somehow getting worse by the second.
Apparently, someone had started making threats against him online. Forums, anonymous accounts, all kinds of sick shit. Then, earlier that morning, a package had been delivered to the Metro’s registered office in Montréal.
Inside there had been a doll wearing his jersey. Its head had been cut off.
According to McCann’s explanation, there had also been a message addressed to him personally, warning him by name not to play in the playoffs.
Shane had been on top of the world until he walked into that office that morning. The Montréal Metros were heading to the playoffs for the first time in twelve years, and he had fully expected congratulations from the General Manager.
He was the captain.
He and his team had worked their asses off for this. He deserved the fucking congratulations.
Instead, he got death threats.
So Shane sat there with his chest caving in, sweat sticking to the leather chair beneath him, his mother’s nails still pressing into his arm while his father’s heavy hands rested on both his shoulders. It felt like he could physically carry the weight of his parents too, and it was suffocating him.
“Shane, are you alright?” Micheal Turner asked when he noticed him drifting away.
Shane nodded only because he heard his name. He had known Turner long before he became GM of the Metros. Turner had practically watched him grow up, from the academy years to the day Montréal drafted him.
“Yes,” Shane said hoarsely. “So what’s the plan?”
McCann and Turner exchanged a look.
“You do have a plan, right?” Shane asked. “Because there’s no way I’m not playing in the playoffs.” His voice came out sharper than he intended. Usually he was soft-spoken with management. He needed them to like him – it made it easier to bend them when the team needed something.
“Shane,” his mother started, but he cut her off immediately. He was twenty-four years old. He didn’t need his mother correcting his tone.
“I sure hope you do,” he said more firmly.
“We do,” McCann answered after another glance toward Turner.
“Good. Then let’s talk about it.”
McCann nodded, then crossed the office toward the door. He opened it and spoke quietly to someone outside.
“We’re ready for you.”
Then he stepped aside to let two men in.
Shane had noticed them briefly in the hallway when he arrived half an hour earlier with his parents, but he hadn’t paid much attention then.
Both men were tall, broad-shouldered, built like they knew exactly how to hurt someone if necessary. One was dark-haired, with a thick beard and black eyes. The other had golden brown hair, pale-skinned, with soft curls and a dark mole on his cheek.
Both wore black suits with crisp white button up shirts underneath.
The moment Shane saw them, he understood.
“Shane, let me introduce you to Cliff Marleau and Ilya Rozanov,” McCann said.
Shane didn’t immediately know who was who, but when the dark-haired man extended his hand, Shane stood quickly–a little clumsily–to shake it.
“Marleau,” the man introduced himself. His surname carried a French pronunciation, but his accent was American. Shane wasn’t lucid enough to place the state, though under different circumstances he probably could have.
“Shane Hollander. Nice to meet you,” Shane replied.
Then he reached for the other man’s hand. When he looked up, he found himself caught by a pair of piercing blue eyes fixed on him with an intimidating level of seriousness.
“Rozanov,” the blond man said simply.
The Russian accent was unmistakable, hidden in the rolled r and softened z of his surname. Shane had met enough Russian hockey players over the years to recognize it immediately.
“Nice to meet you,” Shane repeated.
“May I introduce Yuna Hollander, Shane’s mother and manager, and David Hollander.”
Shane sat back down, giving his parents room to greet the newcomers, but his gaze drifted upward again almost immediately, finding the blond man’s eyes once more.
“Rozanov and Marleau work for the security agency Bruins Security, out of Boston,” McCann explained. “Marleau is a former Boston Police officer. Rozanov is a former officer of the Russian Federal Protective Service.”
The room went quieter for a second after that.
“They’ll be responsible for your protection, Shane. Starting today, and continuing until the stalker is identified and arrested.”
“The Montréal Metros have already filed an official report with the Montréal police regarding the threats, so there’s an active investigation now.”
McCann sighed, and Shane noticed yet another look pass between him and Turner.
“What exactly does that mean?” Shane asked slowly. “Responsible for my protection how?”
The second the words left his mouth, he realized he had asked the right question.
“Shane,” Turner said, leaning forward over the desk, elbows planted firmly against the wood, “we are potentially looking at several very difficult weeks for you. We’re going to ask for significant sacrifices in order to let you keep playing while also guaranteeing your safety.”
Then he looked toward Shane’s mother.
“Which is our priority, Mrs. Hollander. I can assure you of that.”
“What does that mean?” Shane repeated.
“It means we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other over the next few weeks,” a deep accented voice answered. Shane turned sharply toward Rozanov again. Those intense blue eyes were still fixed on him, though now there was the faintest trace of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.
“You will not stay at your apartment anymore,” he continued calmly. “We need a secure location we can control completely. Somewhere we can install cameras, motion sensors, reinforced locks, surveillance equipment.”
Shane blinked. “Wait. What?”
“You’ll relocate as soon as possible,” Rozanov said. His tone remained even, almost cold, but not cruel. Just firm. Kind of absolute. “Marleau and I will stay with you there.”
“My privacy?” Shane asked immediately, incredulous. “What about my privacy?”
Rozanov held his gaze without flinching.
“Your privacy is gone.”
The words landed heavily in the room and were followed by absolute stillness for several long seconds. The man didn't flinch, but kept staring at him. He was at ease in the silence, which was more than could be said about Shane.
“For now,” he added after a second, his voice quieter but no softer. “Someone sent you a decapitated doll and threatened your life to stop you from playing. Until we know who they are and how close they can get to you, you do not spend a single night alone.”
Shane opened his mouth, but Rozanov kept speaking before he could interrupt.
“You go to practice with us. You come home with us. You inform us before every movement. Every appearance. Every schedule change.”
Shane was speechless, staring at Rozanov across the office.
But Rozanov didn’t look away. He held Shane’s gaze with the same rigid composure.
And suddenly, Shane laughed. A short, disbelieving sound.
“Oh, come on,” he said, shaking his head as he looked between Rozanov, McCann, and Turner. “You can’t seriously expect me to leave my apartment.” He let out another incredulous laugh. “For what? A fucking doll and a couple of emails?”
Turner exhaled heavily.
“Shane, please,” he said patiently. “Try to understand the situation. We cannot afford to underestimate these threats.”
Shane immediately turned toward his mother, searching for support.
“Mom, they’re trying to protect themselves, not me or the team.” he argued.
Yuna reached for his hand before he could continue, rubbing her thumb softly across his knuckles in an attempt to calm him down.
“I understand why you feel that way,” she said gently. “But as your manager–and more importantly as your mother… I’m not comfortable refusing this kind of protection.”
Shane stared at her in disbelief.
“This is fucking insane, Mom,” he muttered.
“Son.”
His father’s voice pulled his attention away. Shane looked up immediately, hoping at least one person in the room understood how absurd this sounded.
Instead, David leaned forward slightly in his chair.
“Maybe they’ll catch the guy before playoffs are even over,” he said reasonably. “And right now, you need to focus on the Cup.” He gestured vaguely toward Marleau and Rozanov. “Let these men deal with everything else so the only thing in your head is hockey.”
Unfortunately, David Hollander knew his son well.
That was probably the best argument anyone could have made.
Shane dropped back against the chair with a frustrated sigh, dragging both hands over his face before gripping the back of his neck. He stayed quiet for several seconds, thinking.
Then he looked back up and fixed his attention directly on Rozanov.
Because out of everyone in the room, he clearly seemed to be the one in charge. Even more than the fucking GM.
“Okay. Fine,” Shane said at last. “But I can’t just move into some random safe house.” He shook his head. “I can’t uproot my whole life four days before playoffs start. I need my routine. My space. My comfort.”
Rozanov remained silent, though Shane noticed his jaw tighten slightly, like he was already running out of patience.
“I have a condo,” Shane continued after a moment. “Outside Montréal. About twenty minutes north.”
That got their attention.
“It’s being renovated right now,” Shane explained. “But it’s livable. Mostly. I’d just need someone to clean it up a little and–”
“Does anyone know about this place?” Rozanov interrupted immediately.
His accent thickened slightly when he spoke faster, vowels rougher around the edges.
Shane shook his head.
He had bought the condo months ago mostly for hook-ups and privacy away from the city, though the renovations had dragged on long enough that he barely used it. Eventually he had planned to flip it and sell it. “No,” Shane answered. “Nobody.”
Rozanov studied him for another second.
“Neighbors?”
“No.” Shane hesitated briefly. “I bought the whole building.”
“It’s in your name?” asked Marleau.
Shane shook his head. “No, I bought it through a holding company–the one I use for investments,” he said. “I think it could be traced back to me, but not without raising some questions.”
That finally earned a reaction.
Marleau lifted his eyebrows while Rozanov exchanged a quick glance with him. Something silent passed between them before Marleau gave a small nod.
“That could work,” Marleau admitted.
“I’m going to need the full layout,” he added, his tone far warmer than Rozanov’s. “Entrances, exits, renovation plans, utility access, everything.”
“Okay,” Shane said slowly. “I’ll give you a number.”
“And don’t worry about cleaning it,” Marleau continued. “We’ll handle it.”
That immediately made Shane suspicious again.
“What exactly does ‘handle it’ mean?” he asked.
“It means we sweep the property first,” Rozanov answered before Marleau could. “Cameras, motion sensors, secure locks, as I said.”
His tone remained calm, flat and professional. Fucking annoying.
Shane rubbed his forehead. Jesus Christ.
“There’s also a gym downstairs,” he said eventually. “In the basement.”
That finally pulled a more genuine smile out of Marleau.
“Yeah,” he said. “That could be useful.”
“Shane.”
Turner drew his attention again, offering him an encouraging smile from behind the desk.
“Thank you,” the GM said sincerely. “I know this isn’t easy, but we appreciate your cooperation. We’ll make sure you’re protected, and hopefully this will all be over soon.”
Shane nodded weakly, though he still felt like his entire life had just been hijacked in the span of thirty minutes.
“Now,” Turner continued, straightening some papers on his desk, “I’d like you to meet the attorney handling the case.” Then his eyes shifted briefly toward Marleau and Rozanov.
“And I’m sure these gentlemen would like a private word with you afterward.”
Shane needed to speak to his fucking bodyguards alone, which meant he first had to get rid of his parents.
“Go back home, please,” he said firmly when his mother immediately tried to use her role as his manager to stay for the meeting.
“Shane–”
“No.” He shook his head tiredly. “This is already hard enough without me having to worry about you two on top of everything else.”
Yuna looked visibly unhappy with that answer, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Maybe we could stay in Montréal for a few days,” his father suggested carefully.
“You live in Ottawa, yes?” came a familiar deep voice behind Shane.
David turned toward him. “Yes, we do.”
“I think you can return home with complete peace of mind,” Rozanov said calmly. “Nothing is going to happen to Shane.”
Shane glanced back automatically–and blinked in surprise.
Rozanov was smiling. Not much, just enough to soften the severe lines of his face, but it was there. Accommodating and reassuring. Apparently, he had a completely different face reserved for parents.
Then Rozanov slipped a hand inside his blazer and pulled out a business card, offering it directly to Yuna.
“You call me whenever you want,” he said. His Russian accent thickened slightly around the vowels. “Questions, concerns, anything.”
Yuna accepted the card reluctantly.
A heavy hand landed on Shane’s shoulder before he could say anything else.
“We should go now,” Rozanov said quietly.
Shane froze instinctively beneath the weight of that hand. There was something immovable about it, like being physically reminded that his life was no longer entirely his own.
Yuna still looked hesitant, but David gently touched her arm.
“Come on, Yuna,” he said softly. “We should let them work. And let them get to know each other.”
Shane absolutely did not want to get to know them.
Especially not Rozanov.
Half an hour later, Shane was sitting in one of the smaller meeting rooms with Rozanov across from him and Marleau beside him.
He had already given them the address of the condo. After a brief discussion, Marleau had excused himself to start organizing the security sweep and initial setup.
Which left Shane alone with Rozanov. Silence settled in the room.
An uncomfortable silence for Shane, at least. Rozanov seemed perfectly at ease with it, typing something on his laptop with complete focus, his expression serious and unreadable.
Finally, without looking up, he spoke.
“I now have your full schedule. Team obligations, public appearances, practices, playoff calendar.” His fingers kept moving over the keyboard. “My team will handle all travel arrangements from this point forward. Flights, hotels, transportation.”
Shane immediately felt something sink heavily into his stomach.
“We reserve the right to decide when you leave, where you stay, and how you move around.”
Only then did Rozanov finally lift his eyes to him.
“One of us will be with you at all times. Practice, home, team events, everywhere.” He paused briefly. “I also need to ask you to limit unnecessary outings outside of work.”
“Wait, wait.” Shane held both hands up immediately. “Hold on a second.”
Rozanov fell silent.
“What exactly does that mean?” Shane demanded. “I can’t see my friends anymore? My teammates?” He leaned forward in frustration. “I need social time with the team. That’s literally part of my job as captain.”
Rozanov watched him steadily for a moment before answering.
“We decide case by case,” he said calmly. “But one of us accompanies you every time.”
Shane let out a sharp breath through his nose.
“What about…” He hesitated awkwardly, then vaguely gestured with one hand. “You know.”
Rozanov’s eyes narrowed slightly in understanding.
Then, to Shane’s absolute irritation, the corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest smirk.
Was it actually possible to hate someone this quickly?
“Once the condo is secured, you may bring guests there,” Rozanov said. “We just require names beforehand. NDA agreements. Standard precautions.”
Shane stared at him in horror.
“Or,” Rozanov continued evenly, “we can arrange a secure hotel.”
“We?” Shane repeated incredulously. “Who the fuck is we?”
His voice bounced sharply off the walls of the meeting room.
“This is not a group activity.”
For one terrible second, Shane realized he had handed Rozanov the easiest joke in human history.
But Rozanov didn’t take it, probably because he wasn’t a fucking kid like his teammates.
Instead, his expression flattened again into something quieter, more… personal?
“I am sorry about this, Hollander,” he said.
The way his accent wrapped itself around Shane’s surname sounded strange somehow.
“But this is how things are going to be for a while.”
He closed the laptop calmly.
“The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be.”
Shane leaned back in the chair slowly, feeling suddenly exhausted.
Too exhausted to argue. Too exhausted to even be angry anymore.
For the first time since walking into Turner’s office that morning, he realized this was real.
And his entire life had just changed.
Ilya Rozanov was a fucking monk.
The man could stay silent for an absurd amount of time. Shane was pretty sure he hadn’t spoken a single word since they arrived in his apartment in downtown Montréal.
Back at the rink, Rozanov had calmly–but very firmly–informed him that his car would stay there for now and that Shane would ride with him instead.
For one brief moment, sitting in the back of the black SUV while Rozanov drove through Montréal streets in complete silence, Shane had genuinely wondered if maybe he was the stalker all along.
Rozanov walked in like he already owned the place. He set himself up at the dining table without asking permission, pulled a laptop and two phones from his bag, and immediately started making calls.
The first one was entirely in Russian.
Shane understood absolutely nothing except that whoever was on the other side sounded just as serious as Rozanov did.
Meanwhile, Shane himself had no idea what the fuck to do.
Everything about this situation felt unnatural. Having someone else inside his space felt wrong enough already, but the fact that the man clearly wasn’t a guest made it worse. Rozanov wasn’t visiting.
He was staying.
Eventually Shane drifted toward the kitchen island, taking advantage of the rare moment between phone calls.
“So…” he started awkwardly. “What’s your deal?”
Rozanov looked up slowly.
“My deal?” he repeated, one pale eyebrow lifting slightly.
“Yeah.” Shane shrugged. “You said we’re gonna spend a lot of time together, right? So what’s your deal?”
Rozanov studied him for a second before answering.
“I am your security detail, Hollander. You do not need to socialize with me.” His accent dragged heavily over certain vowels. “Just do whatever you would normally do if I were not here.”
Shane actually considered that for a moment.
Technically, he could do that. Eventually, maybe, he could ignore him completely and just go on with his life.
Except his normal life usually involved the rink, the gym, or his teammates.
Not standing barefoot in his kitchen while one man filled his condo with surveillance cameras and another typed away at his dining table.
“Yeah, well,” Shane said eventually, “none of this is exactly normal. So I think I’d actually feel less weird if I acknowledged your existence and talked to you.”
Rozanov looked thoroughly unimpressed by that argument.
“Fine,” he said simply. “You start.”
That caught Shane off guard immediately.
“Oh.” He blinked. “Right. Okay."
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“I guess I assumed you already knew everything about me.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I do not.” Rozanov closed the laptop halfway with two fingers and finally gave Shane his full attention. “Tell me anyway.”
Shane shifted his weight against the counter.
“Well. My name is Shane Hollander, but yeah, obviously you know that already.”
A tiny nod from Rozanov.
“I’m twenty-four. I play hockey, center, first line. I got drafted by the Montréal Metros when I was seventeen.” He hesitated for a second before adding, "I'm the youngest captain in the NHL.”
Rozanov’s expression didn’t change, but Shane got the distinct impression he was listening very carefully.
“This is my first year as captain,” Shane continued. “And the first time in twelve years the Metros made the playoffs, so…” He exhaled through his nose. “Pressure’s pretty intense right now.”
“Mhm.”
“I don’t really have hobbies,” Shane admitted. “I work out. I do yoga sometimes. I run. I read.”
“And your mother manages your career.”
Rozanov said it neutrally, curiously rather than judgmentally.
“Yeah, she does.” Shane shrugged lightly. “She knows me. Knows what I like. I get overwhelmed sometimes so, she kind of… takes things off my plate, you know?”
He glanced away briefly.
“I just want to play hockey. I don’t really care about sponsorships, interviews, endorsement deals, any of that shit. My mom handles it so I can focus on the game.”
Rozanov stayed quiet for a few seconds, watching him in that intense way he had that made Shane feel strangely restless under his gaze.
“And you?” Shane asked finally. “You’re Russian, right?”
Rozanov nodded once.
“How the hell did you end up in Boston?”
For the first time that evening, something shifted faintly in Rozanov’s expression.
“I was born in Moscow, 29 years ago.” he said after a pause. “I entered Federal Protective Service training very young.”
“The government security thing?”
A faint twitch touched Rozanov’s mouth.
“Yes. Government security thing.”
Shane snorted. Rozanov leaned back slightly in the chair.
“Mostly protecting politicians, officials, wealthy people with enemies.”
That sounded… terrifyingly on-brand for him.
“I left Russia when I was twenty-five,” Rozanov continued. “Boston private sector had demand for my skills. Different world, same problems.”
“And you just started your own agency?” Shane asked.
“Eventually.” he said vaguely “At first I worked freelance security contracts. Corporate clients. Athletes. A few government-adjacent jobs.”
That government-adjacent sounded incredibly suspicious, but Shane decided not to ask.
“Then I founded Bruins Security.”
Shane tilted his head slightly.
“So you’re the boss?”
Rozanov shook his head once.
“One of them.”
“Who’s the other one?”
“Svetlana Vetrova.”
The name rolled smoothly off his tongue in Russian.
“She is my partner.”
“Oh.” he wanted to ask some more questions but he didn't know the guy enough to keep going. He would have liked to just keep the conversation going. Maybe because he feared silence more.
“Do you have a life partner, back home?”
Rozanov looked at him for a long moment.
And something in his expression made him understand he had gone too far.
“Oh,” Shane said quickly. “Sorry. I just meant–” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Conversation.”
Rozanov didn't respond, he simply reopened his laptop with one smooth movement, eyes dropping back to the screen.
And just like that, the conversation was over.
Shane stood there awkwardly for another few seconds before giving up entirely and walking toward the kitchen. Apparently, that was how things were going to work with Rozanov.
You talked. He decided whether the conversation lived or died.
He opened the fridge and stared inside for a moment. Mostly vegetables, protein containers, meal-prep boxes, oat milk, water, his ginger ale and enough supplements to qualify as a pharmacy.
Behind him, Rozanov’s voice suddenly broke the silence again.
“You cook?”
Shane glanced over his shoulder.
Rozanov hadn’t moved from the table, but he was watching him now instead of the computer screen.
“When I can,” Shane answered. “I’ve a pretty strict diet.”
A pause.
Then, because apparently he had completely lost his mind sometime during the day, he asked:
“You hungry?”
Rozanov tilted his head slightly, almost like the question surprised him.
“I can order food.”
“Yeah, but I’m cooking anyway.” Shane shrugged. “So.”
Another silence stretched between them.
Then Rozanov gave a short nod.
“Fine.”
Shane’s definition of cooking turned out to involve an absurd amount of preparation for a deeply disappointing amount of actual food.
Forty minutes later the kitchen counters were covered in carefully chopped vegetables, steamed greens, salmon, brown rice, fermented vegetables from a glass jar, and a soup that smelled aggressively healthy.
Rozanov eventually abandoned the laptop and leaned one shoulder against the kitchen entrance, silently observing the entire operation with the same concentration he probably used for bomb threats.
At some point his eyes drifted toward the two plates Shane was preparing.
Then his brow furrowed slightly.
“This is dinner?” he asked.
Shane looked up. “Yeah?”
Rozanov stared at the portions for another second.
“For both of us?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Shane frowned slightly. “Why?”
Rozanov crossed his arms over his chest slowly.
“Hollander,” he said with complete seriousness, “This is really sad. Like hospital food.”
Shane blinked.
Then he burst out laughing.
“Oh my God, fuck off.”
“I am serious.” Rozanov pointed at the plate with one finger. “You are professional athlete. I have seen larger portions served to prisoners.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“That is salmon corner and emotional support vegetables.”
Shane laughed harder, nearly dropping the spoon he was holding.
“It’s balanced,” he defended. “Everything’s measured.”
Rozanov looked deeply suspicious of the word measured.
“There are six almonds.”
“Because six almonds is a serving.”
“That is not serving. They got lost along the way.”
Shane actually had to lean against the counter because he was laughing now, exhausted enough that the absurdity of the conversation was finally getting to him.
“You’re funny.”
“Yes I am funny. Do I not look funny?”
Shane shook his head and went back to stirring the soup.
“No, you don’t.” he confessed, honestly. A smile spread across Rozanov’s face.
“I’m on a macrobiotic nutrition plan,” Shane explained. “Everything’s calculated. Protein intake, inflammation control, muscle recovery, energy levels.”
Rozanov watched him carefully.
“It sounds like… a lot.”
“I have to be careful.” Shane shot back. “Especially during playoffs.”
He moved around the kitchen, glancing at him every now and then, just to see if he was boring him to death, but he looked like he was listening to him. He was good looking, Shane took his time to realize.
“My body’s literally my career,” he explained. “Sleep, recovery, hydration, nutrition–every tiny thing matters. If I’m slower on the ice by even half a second, it changes games.”
Rozanov stayed quiet, listening.
“I need to stay at peak performance all the time,” Shane continued. “You don’t survive playoffs otherwise.”
“Hmm.”
Shane narrowed his eyes immediately. “What does hmm mean?”
Rozanov’s mouth twitched faintly at one corner.
“It means hockey players are insane.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“What’s that?”
“Fermented cabbage. It’s good for gut health.”
Eventually they sat across from each other at the dining table.
“It smells… strong.”
Shane snorted into his soup. “But it’s good, believe me!”
Rozanov looked at his plate again after sitting down.
Then he looked at Shane.
Then back at the plate.
“You eat like this every day?” he asked finally.
“Pretty much.”
Rozanov picked up his fork slowly.
“And you survive?”
“Yes.”
“Barely, from what I can see.”
Shane laughed and felt at ease. It was almost pleasant to have dinner with someone else and banter a little bit. “Oh, your true personality is coming out already, I see.”
Rozanov didn’t even react to the kick.
But Shane caught the briefest glimpse of amusement in his eyes before it disappeared again.
The conversation faded after that into silence, less tense than before. Maybe it wasn’t all that bad.
Later that night, after checking every lock in the apartment twice and spending another twenty minutes on a call with Marleau, who was now at his condo outside Montréal, Rozanov sat on the couch. Shane was on the other end of it, rewatching some clips with his tablet.
“You got training tomorrow morning.”
“Mm-mm. I do.”
“I'll drive you.”
“You better, because my car is at the rink.”
“I will ask Cliff to get it and take it to the apartment.”
“Oh, thanks.”
Shane tried to focus on the footage playing across the tablet screen.
It was a recording of their last game–the one that had secured their place in the playoffs.
Toronto was waiting for them now. First round. First game only a few days away.
And Shane wanted to be ready.
He sat on the couch with one knee pulled up, clips replayed over and over again. Defensive structures. Line changes. Small mistakes nobody else usually noticed.
But he noticed them.
“Your mother sent me an email with your full schedule.”
Ilya’s voice cut through the room suddenly.
Shane looked away from the screen toward him, sitting across from him, looking at his phone.
“She did?”
“Yeah.” Ilya’s eyes stayed on the screen as he scrolled. “You have a photoshoot the day after tomorrow and another one scheduled after first game against Toronto.”
Shane groaned softly. “Right.”
“I am allowing it because it was already approved and there is a contract.” Ilya continued. “But from now on, I will reduce promotional activity as much as possible.”
Only then did he glance up briefly.
“Too many people on set, not much security. I don’t like it.”
Shane nodded slowly.
Honestly, he didn’t even mind.
If anything, hearing that almost relieved him. He had already been planning to ask his mother to cut down some commitments during playoffs anyway. Interviews, sponsor obligations, appearances–all of it drained energy he wanted to keep for hockey.
“Fine by me,” Shane said, eyes returning to the footage. “I just want to play hockey.”
Ilya spoke again. “You will not say this in a few weeks.”
Shane smiled faintly to himself.
Maybe Rozanov was right. Maybe he was underestimating what the playoffs would do to him mentally. The exhaustion. The pressure. Still.
“Whatever,” Shane muttered. “Do whatever you need to do, Rozanov.”
His eyes stayed fixed on the screen as a replay showed him missing a pass in the neutral zone.
“But you have to promise me something.”
Silence. Shane could feel Rozanov looking at him now, fully attentive.
“Do everything in your power to let me play these fucking playoffs,” Shane said quietly. “And get that Cup.”
The room stayed silent for a moment longer. Then Ilya relaxed back against the couch.
“Deal.”
Rozanov stayed in the stands during practice, seated high enough to see the entire ice clearly, broad shoulders immobile beneath his dark coat, eyes fixed on the players below with unnerving concentration.
Even from across the rink, Shane could feel his presence.
And he knew his teammates would notice too.
So before practice started, once everybody had gathered inside the locker room, Shane decided to address it immediately.
“Guys, come here for a second.”
The room slowly quieted as his teammates gathered around him. Some were already fully dressed in practice gear, others were still half-naked, helmets abandoned across benches.
Hayden Pike–alternate captain and Shane’s best friend–stepped up beside him immediately. Shane had already explained the situation to him over the phone the night before.
“So,” Shane started, rubbing a hand briefly over the back of his neck, “apparently some degenerate asshole decided to make threats against me over the past few days.”
The room instantly shifted.
“What kind of threats?” J.J. Boiziau asked immediately from the back.
“Just threats,” Shane cut in quickly before anyone could spiral. “Some online bullshit. They basically don’t want me playing in the playoffs.”
“Well, they can go fuck themselves then,” Gilbert Comeau replied instantly, leaning back against his stall with a crooked grin.
A few guys laughed.
“Absolutely,” Shane agreed. “But management’s taking it seriously, so apparently I have security now.” He pointed vaguely toward the rink outside. “You’ll probably see him around today. Big Russian guy. Looks like he kills people professionally.”
That earned a louder reaction.
“I wish I was joking,” Shane added dryly.
“But listen,” Shane continued, his voice shifting slightly back, “I don’t want this becoming a distraction.”
“I want everybody focused on Game 1. Toronto’s gonna come at us hard, and they are not going down easy.”
A few nods around the room. Shane raised a finger. “And I’m telling you right now–I want Toronto gone in four games. Not five. Not six.” His eyes moved across every face in the locker room. “Four. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Cap!” the room exploded immediately.
That finally pulled a grin out of him.
“But, Cap,” Renaud spoke up a second later from near the tape station.
The defenseman–and unofficial team enforcer–looked unusually serious now.
“How bad are these threats, exactly?” he asked. “Like… should we actually be worried?”
Shane walked over immediately and wrapped an arm around the back of his neck, pulling him briefly closer.
“Renny,” he said solemnly, “the only thing you need to worry about is Ryan Price.”
The entire room burst out laughing.
“And honestly,” Shane continued, patting his cheek once before letting him go, “I think that’s already enough for you.”
Everyone laughed harder this time. Everyone except Renaud.
Because despite his size, despite the fights, despite the fact that he regularly punched grown men for a living –Renoud was genuinely terrified of Ryan Price, Toronto’s infamous enforcer.
For a few minutes, the tension dissolved completely.
And standing there in the middle of his team–hearing the noise, the chirping, the nervousness about the game–Shane almost forgot about the cameras they were setting up in his condo in that very moment, the threats, the security protocols.
A few minutes later they were on the ice, and he was certain that everyone had been looking for Rozanov in the stands.
“…You weren’t kidding,” Hayden muttered quietly, skating toward him. “He does look like he murders people professionally.”
The following morning, Ilya accompanied him to the MG shoot.
It was part of the playoff campaign for the brand’s new hockey gear line–promotional videos, social content, press photos, the usual corporate circus Shane tolerated only because his contracts required it.
The production had rented a smaller practice rink just outside Montréal for the day.
When they arrived, the parking lot was already crowded with vans, lighting trucks, and production assistants hauling equipment through the side entrance.
Shane had barely stepped out of the SUV before Ilya’s attention shifted completely into work mode.
They entered the rink and were immediately greeted by the production manager. While she welcomed Shane enthusiastically and told him how excited they all were to work with him, Rozanov interrupted her.
“That’s really nice,” he said, without sounding like he meant it at all. “How many people are on site today?”
The woman blinked slightly before checking her clipboard. “Uh… thirty-one, thirty-two?”
Ilya looked at her steadily. “Thirty-one or thirty-two?”
For a second she looked thrown off. “I think thirty-two, with catering.”
“I will make do with ‘I think,’” he commented dryly. “Any late additions to the crew?”
“No.”
Shane stood there watching him like he was witnessing some strange species in the wild.
“You’re doing recon for a fucking hockey commercial,” Shane muttered while they headed inside. “And you’re scaring people.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“I think you can do your job without being scary.”
“I think you can do your job without talking.”
He didn’t even look at him, and Shane found himself shaking his head, speechless.
Inside, the rink had been transformed into a full production set. Lighting rigs hung over the ice, cables ran across the floors behind the boards, cameras sat mounted on tracks near the benches. Crew members moved constantly through the space carrying coffee cups, garment bags, microphones, pieces of equipment Shane couldn’t identify.
And through all of it, Ilya stayed near the perimeter, always watching.
The first half of the shoot happened off the ice.
They dressed Shane in fitted black compression gear beneath partially open training jackets from the new MG line, the kind of athletic clothing designed to show exactly how much work professional athletes put into their bodies.
The photographer spent an absurd amount of time repositioning him under the lights.
“Shoulders back.”
“Turn slightly.”
“Look left.”
“Hold that.”
Shane had done enough campaigns by now that the entire process felt automatic. Smile a little less. Chin lower. Pretend candid exhaustion while six people adjusted lighting around him.
He was honestly freezing a little and couldn’t wait to get back into proper hockey gear.
At some point, while an assistant adjusted the collar of his compression shirt, Shane glanced toward the far side of the rink.
Rozanov stood near the boards with his arms crossed beneath his black coat, watching the entire set with the same attention he gave literally everything.
When he noticed Shane looking, his eyes moved once down his body.
The compression gear left very little to the imagination.
Rozanov raised one eyebrow slightly, and Shane immediately became painfully aware of the fact that his nipples were showing through the fabric because of the cold.
Asshole.
The second half of the shoot moved onto the ice.
That part was easier.
Once Shane had his gear on and a stick in his hands, his body relaxed automatically into something familiar. The cameras followed him through skating drills, shooting sequences, simulated game moments against the boards.
The production team kept asking for “more intensity,” which mostly translated into Shane repeatedly stopping hard enough to spray ice toward very expensive equipment.
By the end of it, sweat clung to the back of his neck and his thighs burned pleasantly from exertion.
The crew finally wrapped late in the afternoon.
Shane headed straight toward the locker room attached to the practice rink while Rozanov remained right outside it.
The hot shower felt incredible.
For the first time all day, everything became quiet.
No cameras. No lights. No people staring at him and noticing his fucking nipples.
Just steam and hot water pounding against sore muscles.
Honestly, maybe he stayed there longer than necessary, which was probably why the locker room door suddenly opened.
Shane looked over his shoulder through the steam.
Rozanov stepped inside without hesitation.
“You are taking too long.”
Shane stared at him incredulously, heat from inside creeping up his neck.
“I’m showering.”
“We have to go.”
“I’m literally naked, Rozanov,” Shane said, trying to hide his private parts.
Rozanov looked away, but a second later he tossed the towel toward him through the steam.
“What the fuck, Rozanov,” Shane complained as he caught it one-handed before it smacked him directly in the face.
Rozanov leaned one shoulder casually against the row of lockers afterward.
“Good reflexes. Now fucking move.”
Shane wrapped the towel around his waist while glaring at him.
“You’re such an asshole.”
The words slipped out naturally before he even thought about them.
“Move. Up, up,” Rozanov urged impatiently before finally leaving him alone again.
“This is your life, huh?” Rozanov said as soon as they got into the SUV.
Shane had made the mistake of trying to sit in the front passenger seat on the very first day, before Ilya informed him–in the coldest tone imaginable–that he was supposed to sit in the back from now on.
So this time he went directly to the rear seat without arguing.
Rozanov started the engine, one hand resting loosely on the wheel.
“Everyone pampers you,” he continued, amusement threading through his accent. “Everyone smoothing your feathers all day long.”
Then, to Shane’s horror, he started mimicking the people from the set.
“Oh, Mister Hollander, right this way please.” His voice shifted into an exaggeratedly sweet tone. “Amazing job, Shane. You are such a natural.”
Shane groaned immediately. “Oh my God.”
Rozanov just went on.
“So much intensity in those dark eyes,” he continued dramatically, now imitating the director from the shoot. “Can we get little more emotion from the captain?”
Shane dropped his head back against the seat with a long sigh.
Rozanov smirked faintly at him through the rearview mirror.
“My life is hockey,” Shane argued. “That stuff is just… work, I guess.”
“You love it.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You love everyone treating you like little prince.”
Shane immediately shot him an offended look.
“They do not treat me like a prince.”
Rozanov kept his smirk on while driving.
“Mm.”
“I’m just polite to people,” Shane defended himself. “You should try it sometime.”
That earned him an actual short laugh under Rozanov’s breath. Rare enough to feel almost shocking.
“What do you mean? I am very polite,” he replied dryly. “Those people do not even know how many crew members work on their own production, but I am the rude one?”
Rozanov glanced at him again through the mirror.
“You think kindness means competence or care?”
He knew that they didn’t care about him. They just wanted him to be good and patient till they got what they wanted, but he was okay with it. It was all about giving and taking.
Shane knew what Rozanov was trying to tell him.
The fact that he wasn’t always kind, accommodating, or easy to deal with didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t care or that he was an asshole. That was probably the point. That all the softness Shane was used to–the smiles, the praise, the careful handling–wasn’t the same thing as reliability.
Still, something about hearing it from him irritated Shane immediately.
He smiled faintly anyway, shaking his head as he looked out the window.
“So what exactly are you trying to say?” he asked. “That you get to be as rude as you want because you’re protecting me?”
Rozanov’s eyes lifted briefly toward the rearview mirror.
“People being kind to you or worshipping the ground you walk on does not mean they care about you.”
Shane’s jaw tightened.
“And you do?” he shot back before he could stop himself. “Come on, Rozanov. The management doesn’t care about me, they care about the playoffs. About the Cup. And you care about what they care about.”
The words came out sharper now, years of buried frustration surfacing almost unexpectedly.
“I’m not stupid,” Shane continued. “Do you think I was born yesterday? I’ve been in this business since I was seventeen years old.”
He leaned back harder against the seat.
“I know exactly what I am to them.” he said, looking outside the window.
“I’m an asset,” Shane said flatly. “I know that already. So I don’t need you showing up here and giving me lectures like I’m some spoiled kid who doesn’t understand how the world works.”
Rozanov stayed silent, hands steady on the wheel.
Shane laughed quietly under his breath, but there wasn’t much humor in it.
“You’re protecting an asset,” he continued. “Fine. I get it. But I’m still a fucking person, and I don’t want to be treated like some doll everybody moves around.”
That finally made Rozanov look at him properly through the mirror.
Very serious now.
“This is not about what you want.”
Shane let out another small laugh and rubbed a hand over his face.
“Maybe. But we want the same fucking thing, just for very different reasons.”
The silence that followed felt heavier this time.
Because Shane had really thought that things with Rozanov could be normal. Not friendly, necessarily, but civil, human. Maybe even understand each other a little. Maybe he had been too optimistic.
There were two versions of Ilya Rozanov.
The one from the night before–quiet, unexpectedly funny at times, capable of listening while Shane rambled about hockey and nutrition and routines. The man who made dry comments about fermented vegetables and looked almost relaxed sitting at Shane’s kitchen table.
And then there was this version, the version that expected obedience. The version that walked into every room already in control of it.
Rozanov wanted control over the situation even when that meant pushing directly against Shane.
They were technically on the same side, probably, but not in the same way.
Because Rozanov’s goal went beyond Shane as a person. The management wasn’t protecting Shane, the man, but Hollander, the hockey player. He was a means to an end.
And he was fine with it. What he wanted most in life was to win the cup, wasn't it?
When they arrived back at the apartment building, Rozanov parked quickly, his hand already reaching for the keys before the car had fully settled.
The building was one of those older Montréal blocks that had been renovated just enough to look expensive from the outside, but still kept the narrow concrete entrance and the slightly worn metal staircase leading up from the sidewalk. A small row of mailboxes sat near the door, half under a flickering exterior light.
Shane was still turning the last part of their conversation over in his head when they got out of the SUV and he didn’t immediately notice Rozanov stop.
Ilya had frozen near the base of the stairs.
“What?” Shane asked, already feeling something tighten in his stomach.
Rozanov didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the mailbox unit.
Shane followed his gaze.
At first it just looked like clutter–a few flyers, an envelope sticking out slightly, maybe some delivery junk someone hadn’t collected yet. Then he saw the envelope properly.
“This is yours, yes?” Rozanov asked, walking to it first.
Shane followed a step behind, slower now. “Yeah.”
Ilya didn’t touch it straight away. He looked at the surroundings first–the entrance, the street, the reflection of the glass door, the blind spots between parked cars. Only then did he reach into the inside pocket of his coat.
He pulled out a pair of thin leather gloves and slid them on without haste.
Only after that did he take the envelope from the mailbox, using two fingers to lift it cleanly from the edge, careful not to disturb anything else around it.
“Open the door,” he ordered.
Shane moved immediately.
He barely remembered climbing the stairs, only the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears while he fumbled with the building door and then with the apartment lock upstairs. His hands shook badly enough that it took him two tries to get the key in properly.
Rozanov stayed directly behind him the entire time. Close enough that Shane could feel his presence at his back like pressure.
The moment they stepped inside, Ilya locked the door behind them and moved straight toward the dining table.
Only then did he finally open the envelope.
For a second he didn’t react at all.
Shane drifted closer automatically, almost unable to stop himself.
On the table, beneath the apartment lights, was a printed photograph of him.
An official NHL media shot in his Metros jersey–one he had seen a million times over the years. He actually needed to update it; he was almost five years older now than in that picture.
Except someone had drawn two thick red X on his eyes.
Under it, in uneven handwriting, a message had been written in red ink.
Shane read it once.
Then again, slower this time, while something freezing spread through the center of his chest.
Think carefully about your next move.
I will see you in Toronto.
Shane didn’t realize he had stopped breathing until his lungs dragged air back in painfully.
For a moment, everything around him narrowed to that page. The red ink. The Xs over his eyes.
Toronto.
He barely even registered Rozanov moving around the apartment behind him.
Ilya opened the black backpack he always carried and pulled out a transparent evidence pouch. Calmly he slid both the envelope and the photograph inside without touching them directly. Then he took out his phone and immediately started a call.
Shane felt panic rising so fast it almost made him dizzy.
“Who are you calling?” he asked.
“Cliff,” Rozanov answered shortly–not to Shane, but into the phone as Marleau picked up.
“What’s going on?” Shane asked again, voice distant even to himself. His eyes kept dragging back toward the red Xs. Toward the I will see you in Toronto.
“We need the condo now,” Rozanov said into the phone. “The apartment is compromised.”
Shane blinked hard.
“Wait–what?” he repeated. “Compromised?”
That finally made Rozanov look directly at him.
And whatever he saw on Shane’s face seemed to finally get his attention.
“I’ll call you back in a bit,” he told Cliff quickly. “Be ready.”
Then he hung up and crossed the room in two steps.
He grabbed Shane firmly by the shoulders.
“Shane. Look at me.”
Shane tried. He really tried.
But his focus kept slipping away, his eyes dragging back toward the table, toward the letter, toward the realization that somebody got that close to his apartment and left that there for him.
Rozanov’s hands moved upward abruptly, gripping both sides of his face, firm, too hard.
“Look at me,” he repeated, colder this time.
Shane had no choice now.
His eyes finally locked onto Ilya’s face, and after another second they focused fully when they reached those blue eyes staring directly into him.
Shane blinked hard.
“Breathe with me,” Rozanov ordered quietly.
And Shane did.
He waited for Ilya’s inhale and forced himself to match it. Again. Again. Slowly and painfully he began to take control back into his body.
“Good,” Ilya said, still holding his face steady. “Very good.”
The tension suddenly drained out of Shane all at once, leaving him weak and strangely boneless.
“He knows where I live,” Shane whispered. His voice sounded small. Barely recognizable.
Rozanov nodded once, expression grim.
“I need you to pack a bag. We are going to the condo now.”
“What if he knows about that too?”
“You said nobody knows about it.”
Shane nodded automatically, trying to think through the panic. Trying to remember.
“My real estate agent,” he whispered eventually. “He knows.”
Rozanov processed that immediately. “You gave us his number, remember? We already checked him out.”
“Shane, right now I need you to move.”
“Rozanov–” Shane swallowed hard. “Ilya. He’s coming to Toronto.”
Even speaking felt strange. Detached. Like he was hearing his own voice from somewhere outside his body.
Panic had flattened everything out.
Ilya’s hand slid from his cheek to his jaw, fingers tightening slightly there until Shane focused on him again.
“We are going to be careful,” he said firmly. “Everything is going to be fine, Shane. But I need you to breathe and make that fucking suitcase.”
The coldness in his tone grounded Shane more effectively than comfort would have, probably.
He was still shaking, but he nodded.
Then, almost in a trance, he moved toward the bedroom and forced himself to think.
Comfortable clothes. Clothes for media appearances. Training gear. Rink clothes.
Toiletries. Chargers. Headphones. His tablet. A couple of books he had started already.
His hands kept trembling while he packed.
And the entire time, one thought looped endlessly inside his head.
Whoever had written that message knew exactly where he lived.
And he was gonna be at the first game of the play-off in Toronto.
It couldn’t become a distraction. It just couldn’t.
Shane could feel the panic rising again beneath the nausea, climbing slowly back up his throat, but he shut his eyes hard and forced himself to focus. His hands were buried inside the open suitcase on the bed, fingers twisted tightly into the fabric of one of his hoodies.
Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out.
He tried to fall back on the exercises they had taught him years ago, when he was younger, during all those mandatory mental conditioning programs for junior players. Techniques meant to prevent on-ice breakdowns, to keep athletes focused and composed under pressure.
The funny thing was that Shane had never really suffered from pre-game anxiety. He had always been good under pressure. Better, even.
But now none of it seemed to work.
His chest still felt too tight. His thoughts too loud.
Then his mind drifted unwillingly to a few minutes earlier–to the feeling of Rozanov’s hands gripping his face firmly enough that Shane had no choice but to focus on him.
Those blue eyes. Severe as always, but entirely fixed on him.
He tried to remember the rhythm of Ilya’s breathing and unconsciously matched it again in his head.
That worked better than every technique sports psychologists had ever taught him.
Slowly, the shaking eased enough for him to think.
When he finally felt somewhat back in control, he looked around the bedroom, trying to figure out what parts of his life he actually wanted to bring with him.
There wasn’t much of himself in the apartment.
A few framed pictures. Some books. Clothes. Hockey equipment.
Most of the important things were still in Ottawa anyway.
His memorabilia, the meaningful stuff, was all packed away for the cottage once construction was finally done.
Most of the work there had already been completed. Right now they were finishing the indoor training rink and the wooden dock overlooking the lake. During the season his father had been supervising everything for him, alongside the real estate agent and the contractor who sent him weekly updates with pictures and progress reports.
Shane focused on that instead. The cottage. The lake. Summer.
And if everything went according to plan, he would spend that summer there with his first Stanley Cup.
Right now it felt impossibly far away.
“Are you ready?”
Ilya’s voice cut through the room suddenly.
Shane turned and found him standing in the doorway, slipping his coat on.
And then Shane saw it.
The shoulder holster beneath the fabric. The gun resting against his side.
The sight hit him harder than he expected.
“You’ve got a gun?” he asked weakly.
Ilya nodded once.
“Yeah.” Then, after a beat: “Are you ready? We have to go.”
“Why do you have a gun?”
No answer.
Rozanov just watched him.
“Ilya…” Shane tried again. The first name still felt strange in his mouth, but he suddenly didn’t want that artificial distance between them anymore.
“Shane.”
That tone stopped him immediately.
“It’s nothing, okay?” Ilya said. “Just for the drive from here to the condo.”
“And for the game?” Shane asked before he could stop himself. “Will you have it at the Toronto game too?”
Rozanov shrugged lightly.
“Maybe. You want me to?”
Shane wasn’t ready to answer that question.
What exactly was one man with a handgun supposed to do inside a sold-out NHL arena?
“There will be security, Hollander,” Ilya said, calmer now. “We are taking this seriously, okay? Your job is to play hockey. Leave the rest to me.”
Then his tone hardened again.
“But right now we need to go. Move.”
And somehow that helped.
Because yes–he needed to think only about hockey.
He could do that.
When they arrived at the condo, Marleau was already waiting for them outside the back entrance.
“Mr. Hollander, good to see you again,” Cliff said warmly as Shane stepped out of the SUV.
“Hi. Call me Shane, please,” he answered automatically. “Mr. Hollander is my father.”
Marleau grinned.
“Fair enough. Then you call me Cliff. Or Marly.”
He picked up Shane’s duffel bag before Shane could protest. The suitcase was apparently already being handled by Rozanov at the back of the vehicle.
Cliff moved around him with the same constant awareness Ilya had, but differently somehow. More relaxed. Less sharp around the edges. His eyes still tracked everything–but he smiled while doing it.
“Come this way.”
Shane followed them toward the back entrance of the building.
He had bought the place months ago with the intention of renovating and eventually selling it for profit. Well–eventually.
At first it had mostly seemed useful as a discreet place to bring hook-ups from apps without taking them back to his actual apartment or ending up at theirs.
A private investment and a convenient fuck-den.
He had never imagined it would become a safehouse from a stalker.
“Now,” Marleau said once they reached the rear entrance, “we had to stop renovations on the second apartment.”
“Can we discuss this inside?” Rozanov interrupted impatiently.
Cliff didn’t react to the tone. He simply entered a security code into a keypad beside the door–a keypad Shane was absolutely certain had not existed the last time he visited.
“I’ll give you the code later,” Cliff added with an easy smile.
They climbed upstairs.
There was another keypad outside Shane’s unit now.
Another code. Another new lock.
“Welcome home,” Marleau said lightly as he opened the door for him.
Inside, Shane immediately noticed the unfinished sections of the condo. Plastic coverings still sealed part of the hallway where construction work had stopped halfway through. One bathroom clearly wasn’t done yet.
“We accelerated the work in the main bathroom,” Cliff explained while setting Shane’s bag near the entrance. “But one of the bedrooms still isn’t usable, they will finish it when we leave for Toronto. Me and Roz will sleep on the couch in the meantime.”
Rozanov was already at the kitchen island setting up his laptop.
“The windows are alarmed now,” Cliff continued. “There’s a camera covering both the front and back entrances. We’ll only use the back entrance from now on.”
“What about guests?” Shane asked automatically.
“There will be no guests,” Ilya answered without even looking up from the computer.
Shane opened his mouth immediately, but Marleau cut in smoothly.
“Not without clearing it with us first,” he corrected diplomatically. “The fewer people know you’re here, the better.”
“But my team,” Shane protested. “My parents? My best friend?”
“We’ll evaluate case by case,” Cliff said vaguely on purpose.
“There are also cameras covering part of the living room,” he added after noticing Shane’s expression tighten. “But those only activate when neither of us is here.”
Shane felt a cold wave of nausea anyway.
“There are no cameras in your bedroom,” Cliff clarified quickly.
Shane nodded stiffly.
“And obviously none in your en-suit bathroom.”
“Motion sensors too,” Marleau continued, “but same thing–only active when the apartment is empty.”
Still, goosebumps spread down Shane’s spine.
The whole situation suddenly felt terrifyingly real.
The condo had been furnished exactly the way Shane wanted, but now half the hallway was blocked by a heavy protective sheet cutting off access to the unfinished side of the apartment.
“The gym?” Ilya asked suddenly.
“They didn’t have time to deliver all the equipment Shane ordered,” Cliff answered, “but I had them install the tatami.”
“Okay.”
Then Ilya’s laptop crackled with static.
“Tatami?” Shane repeated blankly.
The same word echoed faintly from the laptop speakers.
Ilya had already connected to the security cameras.
“Is it working?” Marleau asked.
“Yes,” Ilya answered. “On mobile too?”
“Try it.”
Ilya immediately started checking the system from his phone.
“Sorry,” Shane interrupted, trying to drag the conversation back toward something understandable. “Why is the gym important?”
“It works,” Ilya muttered instead, focused on the screen. “Good job, Marly.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Excuse me?”
That finally made Ilya look at him.
“After the Toronto game,” he said calmly, “we start self-defense lessons.”
Shane blinked.
“I can’t risk getting hurt during playoffs, Rozanov.”
“Nobody is going to hurt you, Shane,” Cliff answered for him gently. “We just need to teach you what to do if something happens while we’re not with you.”
“Yeah, but–”
“Is the hotel okay?” Ilya interrupted, already looking back toward Cliff.
“Yes. Everything’s set. You can go whenever you want.”
“I need sleep.”
“You do.”
Shane watched Ilya stand from the chair and remove his blazer. Underneath, the shoulder holster became visible again.
The gun too.
With practiced movements, Ilya unloaded it, dismantled it partially, and stored everything inside his bag before putting the blazer and coat back on.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, heading toward the door.
And suddenly panic surged violently through Shane’s chest again.
“Where are you going?”
Maybe something of that panic showed in his voice, because Ilya’s expression softened slightly for the first time in hours.
“I’m going to the hotel to get some rest,” he answered. “Cliff’s staying with you tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
Then, after a brief pause:
“Try to sleep. Don’t think about anything.”
And a second later he was gone.
The door closed behind him.
Leaving Shane alone with Cliff– and with the sudden, horrible feeling of being abandoned.
Cliff was nice.
Nicer than Rozanov, at least, though that wasn’t exactly difficult.
They talked for a while during dinner, after Cliff had gone out himself to pick up food because they couldn’t risk having delivery sent directly to the condo. Shane had apologized in advance for his diet, explaining that playoff nutrition was non-negotiable, but Cliff seemed far less interested in the actual food than in everything surrounding Shane’s life.
The games, the training, the pressure. What it was like being famous. What NHL players actually did off the ice. Whether the stories about groupies and puck-bunnies were true.
Shane answered where he could, sitting on the stool by the kitchen island, picking at his aggressively healthy poke bowl while Cliff ate pizza standing on the other side of it.
“Some guys definitely enjoy the attention,” Shane admitted eventually.
“And you?” Cliff asked casually.
Shane snorted softly.
“I’m boring.”
“You’re twenty-four and captain of an NHL team. I don’t think your definition of boring is appropriate.”
But Shane shrugged.
For him, life had always narrowed itself down to hockey eventually. Training. Exercise. Diet. Recovery. Sleep. Repeat.
If it weren’t for his mother, he probably wouldn’t even bother with half the sponsorship deals brands kept throwing at him. Except brands loved that version of him.
The disciplined one, the focused one, Canada’s golden boy.
There were things nobody could know beneath that image. Things Shane couldn’t tell anyone–not his teammates, not the media, not even his mother.
Definitely not Cliff Marleau while he stood there eating pizza under the glow of the condo lights.
Fuck. He really couldn’t think about that right now.
Eventually he retreated to his bedroom.
The room felt both familiar and strange at the same time. It smelled faintly like fresh paint beneath the detergent scent of the clean sheets.
Shane took his time unpacking, hanging shirts carefully in the closet, folding workout clothes into drawers, setting up his toiletries in the bathroom. Anything to create some illusion of normalcy.
By the time he brushed his teeth and changed into sleep pants and an oversized t-shirt, exhaustion had finally started settling heavily into his body.
He climbed into bed and reached automatically for his phone, intending to check messages. Maybe text his mother. Maybe Hayden.
The phone vibrated in his hand before he could unlock it.
Unknown number.
A sharp drop hit his stomach immediately.
For one horrible second he thought it was another threat. Another message. Another reminder that somebody out there was out to get him.
this is rozanov
i’ve secured and closed your apartment
save this number
i’ll see you tomorrow for practice
Shane stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then, before he could really think too hard about why, he saved the number.
Another notification appeared almost immediately after Rozanov’s message.
This one came from an app.
Shane opened it automatically and dropped into the conversation thread.
hotstuff88
hi, you disappeared
the sexting was hot
you still wanna meet?
Voyager24
Hi, sorry, busy days
it was
i still wanna meet, but not right now
we could do it again?
hotstuff88
right now?
Voyager24
if you’re in the mood
hotstuff88
always in the mood for those thighs
another pic?
It felt strange doing this with Cliff sitting just outside his bedroom door.
But seriously, what exactly was he supposed to do? Become celibate until the end of playoffs? Until they caught the guy? And what if they didn’t catch him? What if this thing stretched beyond the playoffs?
And honestly, he was horny. Christ.
The entire day had left him tense and restless in a way he didn’t even want to examine too closely.
Especially not the part where Rozanov had grabbed his face and forced him to breathe.
Nope. Absolutely not thinking about that.
A hot stranger waiting for thigh pictures was a significantly safer mental direction.
Shane pushed the blankets aside and tugged his sweatpants down enough to leave himself in boxer briefs. He switched on the bedside lamp for better lighting, bent one leg upward slightly, and angled the phone carefully to show the inside of his thigh disappearing beneath the hem of his underwear.
He snapped the picture and sent it.
The answer came almost instantly.
hotstuff88
fuck, you’re so hot
A second later the stranger returned the favor with a picture of his cock wrapped in one hand.
Shane settled back against the pillows with a slow exhale.
For a little while, at least, he could pretend things were normal.
Practice the next morning was brutal.
Not necessarily because of the drills themselves–though Thériault was skating them hard as usual–but because everybody was nervous. You could feel it in the air.
Pat Drapeau and Danny Berkes were working separately with the goalie coach. Renaud and J.J. were running strength circuits near the boards while Shane and Hayden focused on velocity drills.
Normally there would’ve been chirping by now. Trash talk. Someone laughing after eating shit into the boards.
Instead there was mostly silence.
Just skates cutting across ice and pucks cracking against sticks.
At some point there must have been a shift change in Shane’s security detail, because when he glanced toward the stands again Cliff was gone and Rozanov had taken his place.
He stood halfway up the bleachers with his arms crossed beneath his dark coat, watching the rink with that same unreadable concentration he brought to everything else.
Shane found himself wondering if the seat had been chosen strategically somehow. Somewhere with the best line of sight over the exits and the ice.
On impulse, he lifted a hand in greeting. Because… why not?
Rozanov acknowledged it with a single nod.
By the time they finally dragged themselves back into the locker room, the silence had become unbearable.
“Guys.”
Shane didn’t even raise his voice much, but the room was so quiet everybody heard him immediately–even the players still lingering near the entrance. Within seconds the team naturally gravitated toward him.
“I know you’re nervous,” Shane started. “I’m nervous too.”
“But this?” He gestured vaguely around the room. “This isn’t us, okay? We play well because we actually enjoy this. That’s how we got here.”
Shane also believed that their discipline had gotten them this far, but it wasn’t the right time to say that. Nervousness and anxiety were what threatened their progress in the playoffs, not their discipline right now. He had to lower the bar to make it more attainable, he had to offer small bits of feedback to boost his teammate's confidence in themselves and in the team.
“Renny,” he said, looking toward Renaud, who towered over almost everybody else in the room. “You’re our wall. The best wall in the league if you ask me. And I trust you to do whatever it takes to keep that Viking Santa on Toronto’s side of the ice.”
A burst of laughter moved through the room.
Even Renaud grinned, helmet still tucked under one arm, sweaty hair stuck to his forehead.
“Pike. Mitty.” Shane pointed between Hayden and Miitka. “I know it feels like everything’s on us right now. It’s not. We win as a team or lose as one.”
Then he looked toward the goalies.
“Pat. Danny. You guys carried us here. We’re the team with the fewest goals allowed in the league for a reason.”
One by one he moved through the room, throwing out comments, encouragements, reminders. Small things. Specific things. Enough to pull everybody back together.
“You all know I suck at speeches,” Shane admitted eventually, earning a few snorts. “But what I’m trying to say is… we did a pretty damn good job this year. We’re one of the strongest teams in these playoffs, and we need to own that. Even if we’re nervous. Even if we’re anxious. We just keep playing like we did last fucking week.”
Every eye in the room stayed fixed on him. The weight of the captain’s C stitched onto his chest suddenly felt right. “So go home. Rest. And come back tomorrow acting like the team I know we are, okay?”
A chorus of ‘yes Cap’, whistles, and shouted replies exploded around him almost immediately.
Then the locker room came back to life.
Guys moved toward showers and lockers again, conversations restarting all at once.
The tension cracked open, Shane let out a quiet breath of relief.
Then movement near the doorway caught his attention, to where the crowd of players had blocked his view until now. The locker room door was still open, and leaning against the frame with his arms crossed stood Rozanov, watching him, completely still.
And suddenly, absurdly, all Shane could think was that he was beautiful.
The thought hit him like a punch to the face.
The realization arrived so suddenly that Shane immediately looked away, irritated at himself. He bent down and started ripping pieces of gear off instead, gloves first, then shoulder pads, movements sharper than necessary.
“Inside or outside, Rozanov,” he called without looking at him. “This place is about to get full of naked men.” A few of the guys nearby snorted immediately. “I wouldn't want it to stir something inside you.”
Laughter bounced through the locker room, but when he glanced back toward the door, Rozanov was still there, pale eyes fixed on Shane with the same unreadable expression he always seemed to wear.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“I’ve seen naked men before, Hollander.”he said, casually “Don’t take too long making yourself pretty, little prince.”
Shane felt heat crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck, he needed to shut that nickname down before it actually caught on.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said calmly, then he disappeared down the corridor.
Hayden looked over slowly while peeling off his undershirt.
“You wanna tell me why your terrifying russian bodyguard keeps staring at you like that?”
Shane grabbed a towel and threw it directly at his face.
“Shut the fuck up.”
He didn’t fucking know.
“I don’t like you calling me that in front of my teammates,” Shane said the first chance he got, once they were back inside the SUV and Ilya was driving them home through downtown traffic.
“Why?” Ilya asked without looking at him. “Afraid it undermines your authority?”
If he was being honest, yes. That was exactly the reason.
“I don’t like nicknames,” Shane said instead, watching the city lights slide past outside the window. “I don’t want it catching on.”
Silence settled briefly between them, filled only by the low hum of the engine and the muffled sound of tires against wet pavement.
“You’re a good captain.”
The compliment caught Shane so off guard he actually turned to look at him.
Ilya’s eyes stayed on the road, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel.
“Average,” Shane muttered after a second. “They gave it to me because I’m good on the ice and easy to manage off it.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I’m too young to be captain.”
“I don’t think so.”
Shane looked back out the window again, uncomfortable with praise.
“Well,” Ilya continued calmly, “you did good today. They needed that.”
Shane let out a slow breath, leaning his head briefly against the seat.
“Fuck,” he admitted quietly. “I needed it too.”
That finally made Ilya glance at him for a moment.
“You nervous for tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Shane said honestly. “A little.”
The city blurred gold and white across the windshield while traffic slowed at a red light.
“What do you do when you’re nervous?” Ilya asked.
I fuck strangers, usually.
“Work out,” Shane answered. “Mostly.”
A corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched faintly.
“We could do that,” he said. “Start building foundations for your self-defense lessons.”
Shane considered it.
He’d never really been a fighting type. Hockey was violent, sure, but it was structured violence. He’d thrown a few punches over the years because hockey players were expected to sometimes, but he’d never actually known how to fight. Usually there were other people who handled that for him.
“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Alright.”
By the time they got back to the condo it was late afternoon.
Neither of them spoke much on the way upstairs.
Shane dropped his bag in his room while Ilya immediately moved through the condo checking locks, windows and turning off the alarm.
Shane disappeared into his bedroom to change.
A few minutes later he came back wearing black training shorts and a fitted long-sleeve compression shirt. Ilya had also changed and was waiting for him in the kitchen.
Shane instantly regretted having eyes.
Because underneath the dark coats and structured blazers and all the layers Rozanov usually wore, he hadn’t fully realized how massive the man actually was.
Broad shoulders, thick arms, heavy muscle built more like a fighter than an athlete. His black muscle tee stretched across his chest and torso, and the loose training shorts exposed long, powerful legs dusted lightly with pale blond hair.
“Problems?” Ilya asked without looking at him directly.
Shane immediately looked away.
“No.”
A pause.
“You’re staring, Hollander.”
“Fuck off.”
That smirk appeared briefly at the corner of Ilya’s mouth before he grabbed a pair of gloves off the counter–training gloves this time, not leather ones–and nodded toward the hallway.
“Let’s go.”
The basement gym sat beneath the condo level, accessible through a private internal staircase Shane had barely used since buying the building. When he stepped downstairs, he stopped halfway down the stairs.
The room was still unfinished around the edges. One wall remained partially exposed where construction work had stopped, and boxes of unopened equipment sat stacked in a corner beneath plastic sheets. But the center of the space had clearly been reorganized fast.
A treadmill stood near the wall beside a stationary bike and a weight bench with neatly arranged dumbbells.
And covering most of the center floor, a black tatami mat.
Shane looked around slowly.
“That’s definitely not what the project looked like.”
“Cliff adapted it,” Ilya said simply. “We needed space.”
Of course they did.
Ilya took off his shoes and socks and walked barefoot onto the mat while Shane stayed near the edge for another second, suddenly very aware of how much smaller he felt down here.
Not smaller physically, exactly. Shane was tall-ish, athletic, strong in the way professional hockey players had to be. But Rozanov was something else entirely.
“Come on,” he said.
Shane stepped onto the mat cautiously. He wasn’t going to take off his training shoes, the mere thought of standing barefoot on the mat gave him the chills.
“We start easy tonight,” Ilya continued. “Just because you have game tomorrow.”
“Management would probably kill you if I showed up bruised.”
“They could try.”
That almost made Shane smile.
Ilya moved closer then, and Shane immediately felt his body tense on instinct.
“First thing,” Ilya said calmly, “self-defense is not fighting.”
Shane frowned slightly.
“Is surviving long enough to leave.”
He stepped around Shane slowly while he spoke.
“You are not trained for prolonged combat. You are athlete, not fighter. Your goal is putting distance, buy time and escape.”
His accent thickened slightly when he focused.
“Most people panic, they freeze. So first lesson is simple.” He tapped two fingers lightly against Shane’s chest. “You have to move.”
Then, without warning, Ilya grabbed his wrist, fast. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that Shane instinctively jerked in surprise.
“Someone grabs you,” Ilya said. “Your instinct will be pull away.”
He demonstrated immediately–Shane pulling backward against his grip.
He adjusted Shane’s arm carefully.Shane already felt out of breath. He wasn't used to all that... physical contact.
“You move toward thumb. Always weakest part of the grip.”
His large hand repositioned Shane’s wrist with precision.
“Rotate. Sharp movement.”
Shane followed the motion awkwardly once. Then again. The third time, his wrist slipped free immediately.
“There,” Ilya said.
Something warm and sharp flickered briefly through Shane’s chest at the approval in his voice.
“Again.”
For the next twenty minutes, Ilya walked him through simple movements.
How to break a wrist hold. How to create distance if someone cornered him. How to use leverage instead of force.
“No hockey instincts,” Ilya warned at one point after Shane instinctively squared his shoulders like he was preparing for a hit. “This is not ice.”
Shane laughed under his breath, slightly breathless now. “Oh I know.”
“Attack me.”
Shane blinked. “What?”
“Come on.” Ilya spread his arms a little, casual. “Try.”
Shane stared at him like he’d lost his mind.
“You want me to attack you?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
A faint smirk touched Ilya’s mouth.
“It is only terrible idea for you.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Come at me, Hollander.”
There was something challenging in the way he said it, calm and certain, like he already knew exactly how this would end. Which honestly irritated Shane enough to move.
“Fine.”
He stepped forward fast, mostly intending to shove him rather than actually attack him.
It happened in less than a second.
One moment Shane was moving toward him. The next, Ilya had turned his body, caught Shane’s wrist, and redirected all his momentum sideways. Shane stumbled hard across the mat with a startled curse, barely catching himself before hitting the floor completely.
“What the fuck–”
“You lead with shoulders,” Ilya said calmly behind him. “Too obvious.”
Shane turned immediately, annoyed now.
“Well excuse me for not being a trained assassin.”
“Security specialist.”
“You literally have a gun.”
Ilya ignored that.
“Again.”
Shane narrowed his eyes, this time he went faster, actually trying.
He aimed low, the way he would when driving someone into the boards during a game.
Ilya moved before Shane even fully reached him.
A sharp pivot. One hand catching Shane’s forearm while the other landed briefly against his chest.
Then suddenly Shane was flat on his back on the tatami, air punched lightly from his lungs. Not hurt, just shocked.
Ilya stood over him, completely steady.
Shane stared up at him for a second before laughing incredulously.
“Oh, you asshole.”
A rare real grin appeared briefly on Ilya’s lips then, and it was like his entire face changed his shape.
“There,” he said.
Shane grabbed the hand Ilya offered him and let himself get pulled back upright.
The problem was that Ilya didn’t let go immediately. Or maybe Shane didn’t.
Either way, they ended up standing too close.
Shane suddenly became hyperaware of everything at once–the heat coming off Ilya’s body after training, the rough pressure of his hand around Shane’s wrist, the faint smell of soap and sweat clinging to his skin.
And Ilya–Ilya was looking directly at him now. Something shifted quietly in the room.
The atmosphere thickened so suddenly Shane felt it physically, like the air had become heavier between them. His pulse kicked once, hard.
For one strange suspended second, neither of them moved.
Then Ilya’s grip loosened, he stepped back first.
“Go to sleep, little prince.”