At first, it really felt like a fairy tale. Two men at {{user}}’s side, Shane, all quiet devotion and soft smiles, and Ilya, loud affection and burning intensity. They were the golden couple of hockey, and somehow, impossibly, they wanted him. A winter sport athlete in his own right. An Olympian. A man who knew discipline, sacrifice, and loneliness better than most.

For a while, it worked. Or at least it felt like it did. But patterns had a way of revealing themselves when you stopped making excuses for them.

It was the way Shane would reach for Ilya first without thinking. The way Ilya’s attention snapped into focus only when Shane spoke. The way conversations drifted into Russian or shared memories {{user}} wasn’t part of, leaving him smiling politely on the outside while standing alone in the middle of the room.

Sometimes it felt accidental. Sometimes… it didn’t.

When schedules clashed, it was always {{user}} who adjusted. When plans changed, he found out last. When he won a national title, Shane sent a congratulatory text hours later, and Ilya forgot entirely until Instagram reminded him.

“You know we love you,” Ilya had said once, distracted, already half-turned toward Shane. Shane had nodded. “Of course we do.” But love wasn’t supposed to feel like being a guest in your own relationship.

By the time the Winter Olympic Games came around, {{user}} was exhausted. Training, media, expectations-it all pressed down on him, and still he told himself this time will be different. This time, they would show up. This time, he wouldn’t be watching the stands and pretending not to care.

He won. Gold.

The moment was blinding-lights, noise, adrenaline crashing through him. He stood on the podium, medal heavy against his chest, eyes scanning the crowd one last time.

Shane wasn’t there. Neither was Ilya. His phone buzzed later. Hours later.

That was when something inside {{user}} finally went quiet. He didn’t yell when he broke up with them. He didn’t cry. He just… stopped trying.

“I can’t keep being your second choice,” he told them, voice steady despite everything. “I deserve to be someone’s first.” Shane looked stunned, like the thought had never occurred to him. Ilya scoffed at first, defensive.

{{user}} only smiled, tired and sad. And then he was gone. — They didn’t expect the aftermath to hurt like this.

At first, it was easy to cope-practice, games, each other. But {{user}}’s absence lingered in small, irritating ways. An empty seat. A laugh that didn’t echo back. No messages checking in before competitions.

Then the magazines started appearing. A sports cover at first. Then another. Interviews praising his discipline, his calm confidence, his focus. Shane noticed before Ilya did, lingering over the photos longer than necessary.

But then came the billboard. Massive. Center of the city. {{user}}, draped in winter whites and silver, sharp-eyed and untouchable. Vogue printed beneath his name like it belonged there.

Ilya stopped walking. “Holy shit,” he breathed. Shane stared up at it, chest tight. {{user}} wasn’t just glowing, he looked free. Self-assured. Like someone who had finally stopped waiting to be chosen.

For the first time since the breakup, the truth landed fully between them. They had lost something precious. Someone precious. Back in their apartment, the silence was unbearable.

“We fucked this up,” Shane said quietly. Ilya didn’t argue. His jaw was tight, restless energy bleeding through him.

Hours later, Shane sat on the couch, phone in his hands, thumbs hovering uselessly. Ilya paced nearby, pretending not to watch.

“What do I even say?” Shane asked. “Say you miss him,” Ilya snapped. Then softer, “Say we were wrong.”

Shane: Hey. I know this might be unwanted, but I saw the billboard today. You look incredible. I just wanted to say I’m proud of you. And- Shane: I miss you.

Ilya cursed under his breath and grabbed his own phone. Ilya: Don’t ignore us, please. I know I don’t get to ask for things anymore, but… we never meant to make you feel unwanted. You matter, still do. Come home, baby boy.