The Things We Don’t Say
Hurt comfort | male reader
You’d been together for almost two years now. Public, official, navigating the complexity of three professional hockey players in a relationship with a grace that surprised even you.
The media had mostly moved on from the initial frenzy. Your teammates knew. Your families knew. It was just… normal now. As normal as anything could be when your boyfriends played for rival teams and you were scattered across the continent for half the year.
The hardest part wasn’t the distance or the scrutiny.
It was the little moments you missed. The conversations that slipped through the cracks.
Like tonight.
You were in montreal—Shane’s home game against your team. Ilya had flown in to watch, rare mid-season scheduling giving him two days off. The three of you had planned to spend the evening together after the game, but your coach had called a mandatory team meeting that ran late.
By the time you made it to Shane’s apartment, it was past eleven.
You let yourself in with your key, already pulling off your tie. The living room was dark except for the TV playing quietly. Shane and Ilya were on the couch, but something about their posture was wrong. Stiff. Distant.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said, draping your jacket over a chair. “Coach wanted to review footage from last week. Took forever.”
“Is fine,” Ilya said, but his voice was flat.
Shane didn’t say anything at all.
You looked between them, trying to read the room. “Did something happen?”
“No.” Shane stood abruptly. “I’m going to bed. Early skate tomorrow.”
He walked past you without stopping, without touching you, and disappeared down the hall.
You blinked. Turned to Ilya. “What—”
“I am also tired.” Ilya stood, his movements careful, controlled. “Long flight. Should sleep.”
“Ilya—”
“Goodnight.” He followed Shane, leaving you standing alone in the dark living room.
You stood there for a long moment, confused and off-balance. They were upset. Clearly. But you couldn’t figure out why.
You replayed the evening in your head. The game had been clean—no dirty hits, no drama. You hadn’t said anything controversial in your post-game interview. The team meeting had just been standard video review.
Maybe they were just tired. It had been a long week for all of you.
You headed to the bedroom, but when you opened the door, Shane was already under the covers facing away from you. Ilya was in the bathroom with the door closed.
The message was clear.
You changed quietly, slipped into bed on your usual side. The space between you and Shane felt like a canyon.
————————————————————————
It continued the next day.
Shane left for his morning skate before you woke up. Ilya was polite but distant over coffee, answering your questions in short sentences before claiming he needed to return some calls.
You went to your own practice confused and unsettled. You kept missing passes, your timing off, your focus scattered.
“You okay?” your captain asked after you flubbed an easy zone entry.
“Fine,” you said automatically.
But you weren’t.
That evening, you tried again. Picked up dinner from the Italian place Shane loved, opened a bottle of the wine Ilya preferred. Set the table carefully.
They came to dinner. They ate. They were polite.
They were slipping away from you, and you didn’t know why.
“Did I do something wrong?” you finally asked, your oblivious voice somehow making the question sound smaller.
Shane’s jaw tightened. “You really don’t know.”
“No.”
He laughed, sharp and humorless. “Of course you don’t.”
“Shane—” Ilya put a hand on his wrist.
“No, he should know.” Shane looked at you directly for the first time in two days, and his eyes were hurt. Angry. “Yesterday was our anniversary. Two years since we all agreed to make this official. Since we stopped hiding and decided to be together, actually together.”
Your stomach dropped.
“You forgot,” Shane continued, his voice tight. “Didn’t mention it once. Not a text, not a word. Just showed up late talking about film review like it was any other night.”
“We had dinner planned,” Ilya added quietly. “Reservations. I flew in specifically for this, scheduled around games. We were waiting for you.”
Oh God.
“I cancelled the reservation at ten,” Shane said. “Told them you weren’t coming. And you walked in at eleven asking if something happened like—like it was nothing.”
Your chest felt tight. “I didn’t—I forgot. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”
“That’s the problem.” Shane pushed back from the table. “You didn’t realize. You never realize. We’re always the ones reaching out, planning things, making effort. And you just… exist. Expecting us to be here whenever you decide to show up.”
“That’s not fair,” you said, but your voice was still flat, emotionless, and you could see how that landed. How it looked like you didn’t care.
“Isn’t it?” Shane’s eyes were bright. “Name the last time you initiated a visit. The last time you planned something for us. The last time you said you missed us without us saying it first.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
You couldn’t.
“We love you,” Ilya said softly. “So much, we love you. But sometimes it feels like—like we love you more than you love us. Like we are more invested.”
“That’s not true,” you said, and finally—finally—something cracked in your voice. “That’s not true, I—”
But they were both looking at you with such hurt in their eyes, such careful distance, and you realized you’d never told them. Never shown them properly. You’d assumed they knew, that your quiet presence was enough, that being there was the same as showing love.
But they needed more than your presence.
They needed your effort. Your words. Your initiative.
And you’d given them nothing but your careful, controlled existence.
“I need some air,” Shane said, grabbing his coat.
“Shane, wait—”
The door closed behind him.
Ilya stood slowly. “I think… I think I will go to hotel tonight. Give everyone space to think.”
“Ilya, please—” You reached for him, but he stepped back.
“I am not angry,” he said, and he looked so tired. “Just sad. And I need to think about what I can accept in relationship. What I deserve.”
“You deserve everything,” you said desperately. “I know I’m not good at this, at showing—but I do love you. Both of you. More than anything.”
“Then show us,” Ilya said simply. “Because right now, it does not feel like it.”
He left.
You sat alone at the table you’d carefully set, surrounded by cold food and good wine, and felt something crack apart inside your chest.
____________________________________________
You didn’t sleep.
You sat in Shane’s apartment—your apartment too, technically, you had a key and clothes here and it was supposed to be home—and tried to figure out how to fix this.
Your first instinct was to text them. Apologize. Explain.
But words had never been your strength. And they’d been hearing your apologies and explanations for two years while nothing changed.
They needed action. Proof. Something real.
So you started planning.
By morning, you had a list. By afternoon, you’d made calls. By evening, you were standing outside Shane’s practice facility, waiting.
He came out with his teammates, laughing at something his captain said. Then he saw you and stopped.
You held up a garment bag. “I got you a new suit. For the charity gala next month. The one you said you needed but didn’t have time to shop for.”
Shane stared at you. “You… remembered that?”
“You mentioned it three weeks ago. Complained that your stylist was too busy.” You offered the bag. “I called her. Told her your measurements and what you like. She put this together. If you don’t like it, we can exchange it, but I thought—”
Shane took the bag slowly. Unzipped it. Inside was a perfectly tailored navy suit, exactly his style.
“I also rescheduled the reservation,” you continued. “For tonight. Same restaurant. They had a cancellation.” You pulled out an envelope. “And these are tickets to that Broadway show Ilya mentioned wanting to see. Three seats, next time we’re all in New York together. I checked our schedules. We have two days there in March.”
Shane’s eyes were wide.
“And I booked a house in Quebec for the summer. All of July. Private, secluded (are you guys seeing what I’m doing here heheh). I already cleared it with our teams—we’re all free that month. I thought we could just… be together. No games, no media. Just us.”
Your voice was still calm, but your hands were shaking slightly.
“I know I forgot our anniversary. I know I’m bad at this—at remembering dates and planning things and saying what I feel. But I—” You had to stop, had to breathe. “You’re not more invested. You’re not loving me more than I love you. I just don’t know how to show it the way you need. But I want to learn. I want to try.”
Shane’s expression was doing something complicated. “You did all this today?”
“I should have done it before. Should have been doing it all along.” You looked at him directly, your doe eyes serious and raw. “You deserve someone who makes effort. Who shows up. Who remembers. I want to be that person. I’m trying to be that person.”
Shane set down the garment bag carefully. Then he crossed the space between you and pulled you into a fierce hug.
“You idiot,” he said, muffled against your shoulder. “You stupid, wonderful idiot.”
You wrapped your arms around him, holding tight. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. I know you are.” He pulled back to look at you. “We should have said something sooner. Should have told you what we needed instead of expecting you to just know.”
“I should have asked.”
“Yeah. You should have.” But he was smiling now, soft and real. “The suit is perfect, by the way.”
“Good.” You touched his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “Is Ilya at the hotel?”
“Yeah. The Marriott downtown.”
“Come on. We need to go get him.”
————————————————————————
Ilya opened his hotel room door in sweatpants and an undershirt, his hair messy. His eyes widened when he saw both of you.
“We are sorry too,” he said immediately. “We should not have—”
You kissed him. Cut off his words with your mouth, gentle and thorough and deliberate.
When you pulled back, his eyes were dazed.
“I booked us a house in Quebec for July,” you said. “Month-long vacation. Just us.”
“You… what?”
“And I got tickets to that show you wanted to see. Hamilton. March.”
“How did you—”
“You mentioned it. Two months ago. You said the music made you feel things.” You took his hand. “I remember everything you tell me. Both of you. I’m just bad at showing that I do.”
Ilya’s eyes were getting bright.
“I love you,” you said, quiet and serious. “Both of you. More than hockey, more than anything. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t important. Like you weren’t my priority. You are. You’re everything.”
“Come here,” Ilya said roughly, pulling you into the room. Shane followed, closing the door behind you.
Ilya kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding into your hair. Shane pressed against your back, his lips finding your neck.
“We love you too,” Shane murmured against your skin. “So much. Even when you’re impossible and emotionally constipated.”
“I’m working on it,” you said.
“We know.” Ilya’s hands found the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath to touch bare skin. “We see you trying. Is enough. You are enough.”
You turned to capture Shane’s mouth, kissing him slowly while Ilya’s hands mapped your ribs, your stomach, the muscles of your back.
“Missed this,” Shane breathed. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too. Both of you.”
They guided you to the bed, hands gentle and reverent. Ilya pulled off your shirt while Shane worked on your belt, and they touched you like you were something precious. Something cherished.
“So beautiful,” Ilya murmured, pressing kisses down your chest. “Our pretty boy.”
Shane’s hands found your face, tilting it up so he could kiss you properly. “Don’t forget us again,” he whispered. “Don’t forget this is important.”
“I won’t,” you promised. “Never again.”
You pulled them both down with you, and spent the next hours showing them without words what you couldn’t always say—that they were wanted, needed, loved beyond measure.
————————————————————————
Later, tangled together in the hotel bed with the city lights filtering through the windows, Ilya traced idle patterns on your shoulder.
“The house in Quebec,” he said. “It has lake?”
“And a dock. You can fish.”
“I do not fish.”
“You mentioned wanting to learn.”
Ilya went quiet. Then: “You really do listen.”
“Always.”
Shane pressed a kiss to your temple. “Set a reminder on your phone. For our anniversary next year.”
“Already done. With a two-week advance warning.”
“Good.” He smiled against your skin. “We’re keeping you, by the way. You’re stuck with us now.”
“Good,” you echoed.
Because you couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.
This was home.
They were home.
And you’d spend the rest of your life making sure they knew it.
____________________________________________
THE END
Author note : I wanted to do a emotionally almost avoided angst idk I just wanted the reader to be a piece of shit (Lowkey based on a real life experience 🥹✌️I’m a pos) I hope you guys like I wanted to do something kinda sad
