Psamanthe



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    The truth was, yeah, Shane married Ilya, but he’d married hockey first. He married hockey the second he signed his rookie contract with the Metros, and his courtship began long, long before. And his marriage to hockey wasn’t like his marriage to Ilya. Hockey wouldn’t ever love him back. Ilya wasn’t going to chew Shane up and spit him out at some nebulous point after he turned thirty and before he turned forty, his joints busted and his mouth full of dentures and his brain fucked to hell and back. And that marriage—his first marriage—had always come before his second, illicit shotgun wedding.

    It wasn’t ideal, maybe, but that was just how things were. Hell, it was probably the same for Ilya, too. The fuck was Shane supposed to do about it? Nothing, nothing, nothing. He liked his life just the way it was. He didn’t want to do anything different. He still doesn’t. And that’s the worst, most shameful part of it all: at the end of the day, some part of Shane will always wish he could wind back time like adjusting a watch; erase that Instagram post before it ever hit the internet and go back to the life they’d had before; the life that was slowly killing them both.

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    27 Jun 2026

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    "I don't mean to come here and freak you out," Scott said, though he knew there was no avoiding it. He'd been where they were before. It had felt like he was dying, back then. "I just don't want you to think you're the only ones, okay? There's lots of us."

    Their eyes snapped to him in unison, startled and intense. Hollander croaked, "What?"

    "There's over sixteen hundred guys in the MLH and AHL," he reminded them, because it had felt improbable to him when he first heard until he remembered the sheer size of the hockey world. "There's — well, we don't know how many of us there are, but there's at least seventeen of us that know each other. Plus you two. We watch out for each other."

    His eyes enormous, Hollander asked, "There's, what? A secret underground gay hockey network?"

    Scott shrugged. "Yeah, basically."

    ----

    Ilya and Shane find their way into The Tennis Club, a network of closeted hockey players that hook up - so long as everyone keeps it casual. Which is no problem! They can do casual, right?

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    16 Jun 2026

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    Ilya Rozanov stays in Boston. This makes some things harder, but mostly it just makes things different.

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    05 Jun 2026

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    Rozanov made a dismissive noise. “No, no, I will pick you up. Send me your address.”

    “I’m not giving you my home address.”

    “Why not!”

    “Because you’ll probably post it on social media to psych me out before our next game.”

    That made Rozanov laugh. “It is good idea,” he said. Stopped laughing. Started again. Blew out a breath like he had to get himself together. “I might do this to you,” he allowed, “but you have nice boyfriend living with you now. I would not do this to him. You are safe.”

     

    In which Ilya Rozanov adopts himself into Scott and Kip's household and refuses to leave. Kip finds this very sweet. Scott is going to kill him.

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    01 Jun 2026

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    It is an unremarkable, dreary March morning in Ottawa when Ilya Rozanov’s life swiftly burns to ashes around him. Ilya had intended to spend the rare morning off of training sleeping off the lingering exhaustion from the seemingly endless stretch of away games as long as Anya would allow.

    Instead, it is barely past six in the morning when armed agents pound on his front door.

    (Or, a remix of the FanMail incident.)

    completed fic, updates every thursday

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    05 May 2026