Archive of Our Own ^beta

Things started going off-kilter right after Shane Hollander got back from the Australian Open Finals.

Ilya Rozanov didn’t pick up on his boyfriend’s oddity at first—he’d had a game that week. He’d flown to Detroit with the team for the match, and even though they’d lost, he’d still checked Shane’s Instagram updates as soon as it was over.

Yeah, he knew every single photo on there had to get vetted by the Montreal PR manager before Shane hit post, but that didn’t stop Ilya from being utterly obsessed with scrolling through snippets of Shane’s boring-ass life.

And boring it was, honestly. Tennis was the phoniest sport on the planet, and only someone like Shane Hollander could stand baking under the sun for five whole hours without moving an inch. Ilya saved the photos, cropping out all the irrelevant extras—sponsors, random celebrities, whoever else had photobombed the shot.

He didn’t think much of any of it, though. Shane was as diligent as an old ox when it came to this business stuff. Most of the time, his little robot just flew out, posed like a mascot, and then trotted right back home without a single thing happening.

He couldn’t even fathom what kind of mishap could’ve occurred. This was mid-season Shane—he wasn’t even touching alcohol or gluten, for Christ’s sake. With his social skills (or lack thereof), Ilya was positive it had been a totally uneventful trip. What he’d missed, though, was the way Shane had been in an unusually good mood when he’d flown back.

Before long, though, Ilya started noticing the changes. The first time was when they were ordering takeout one night.

“So let’s get pizza tonight.” Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane from behind, his stomach growling loud enough to rival a crowd’s roar. Not even Shane’s deliciously toned body could stop him from polishing off two nine-inch pizzas all by himself.

But he knew that at times like this, Shane would only pick at a tiny slice with him, doing it purely out of love—he hated messing up his diet plan.

“Hmm, let me see?” Shane hesitated for a second, then took the takeout menu from his hand anyway.

“Good. You pick first. I eat anything.”

“No, it’s fine, you go ahead and get the pizza.” Shane shook his head. “I think… I’ll have a pasta instead.”

Pasta? Pasta, of all things? Not a Caesar chicken salad or something equally bland?

Shane raised an eyebrow, a little smirk playing at his lips. “I’ve got a trick up my sleeve.”

Then, early the next morning, Ilya caught Shane pulling a lumpy, unidentifiable mess out of the fridge. He frowned, staring at the goop his boyfriend was stirring with a spoon like it held the secrets of the universe.

What is this shit? It has to be shit.

“Babe, don’t put celery in there.” Ilya felt all the strength drain out of his body as he watched Shane keep “perfecting” the bowl of shit. He swore he’d rather starve than take a single bite of it.

“Want a taste?” Shane took a satisfied sip, smacking his lips. “George was right—adding veggies in later is way better. Saves time, and it’s way more nutritious too.”

Shit. Ilya Rozanov cursed the entire world under his breath. There was actually another person out there who shared Shane Hollander’s twisted taste in revolting food.

Wait a second. Ilya’s head shot up. “Who is George? He wrote that terrible recipe book?no pictures at all. Throw it away, Shane. No one cooks like a science class.”

“Of course not.” Shane’s expression stayed completely deadpan as he pushed the cup toward Ilya. “This is breakfast. It’s good for you, Ilya. Just try it?”

Ilya couldn’t say no to the little glimmer of hope in Shane’s eyes. He hated disappointing his boyfriend more than anything. If Shane could stomach it, then so could he. Taking a deep breath and mentally numbing his taste buds, he chugged down the sludge that tasted worse than his dog’s kibble.

Encouraged by his “success,” Shane doubled down on his new hobby from that day onward. Their kitchen soon became overrun with weird smoothie recipes Ilya had never even heard of, and the sound of the blender whirring to life started sending chills down his spine—like someone was brewing a batch of dark magic in their own home.

Thank God Shane didn’t take charge of lunch too.

Naturally, Shane was thrilled with his culinary masterpieces. He even created a whole new document on his laptop to catalog every single smoothie recipe and his thoughts on it, going as far as to blend chicken breast with avocado and chia seeds into one unholy concoction.

Jesus Christ. Ilya wanted to get on his knees and beg those poor, innocent ingredients for forgiveness for the crimes Shane was committing against them.

Ilya figured he’d find a way to survive before the smoothies killed him. But aside from that, he’d started noticing another little something that felt off.

First off, let’s get one thing straight: even though Shane was the love of his life, Ilya would be the first to admit that the man had zero fashion sense whatsoever. He had no talent for it, period. His wardrobe consisted solely of hoodies and sweatpants, and the only upside to that, as far as Ilya was concerned, was how quickly he could strip them off.

Then, Ilya found a tiny sweatband lying around the house.

“New sweatband?” He nodded at the thing hanging by the sink, feigning casual concern. Compared to him and his teammates, Shane barely even sweated during workouts.

“Uh, I heard it looks better when you take off your helmet with it on.” Shane looked a little flustered, his cheeks turning pink as he leaned in to give Ilya a quick kiss.

It did look better. Ilya’s eyes were glued to the post-game interview clip of Shane, watching as he reached up to pull the sweatband out of his soft, dark hair, his fingers running through the damp strands to fix them. The beads of sweat rolling down his smooth forehead glinted under the camera lights, and those cute little freckles scattered across his cheeks somehow looked even more charming than usual.

That sweatband made Shane look so much more composed, adding a touch of restraint to his usual laid-back vibe. The way he took it off was like he was unbuckling a necklet—like he was letting himself loose.

Wow. Ilya was suddenly a huge fan of sweatbands.

Shane hated change. Once he found a routine he liked, he stuck to it like glue. So Ilya was actually kind of happy to see him branching out and trying new things in his life.

But ditching the tie with a suit was a step too far. Way too far.

“Shane, don’t go out dressed like this.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping to a warning growl. He couldn’t remember what event Shane had to go to that night, but his boyfriend had picked out a sleek black suit jacket, paired with a white dress shirt that had the top two buttons undone—revealing his defined collarbones and a tiny sliver of his chest.

The worst part was the third button, which Shane had fastened meticulously, pulling the soft fabric taut against his chest and accentuating the shape of his muscles perfectly. It was way more distracting than it had any right to be.

To make matters worse, Shane wasn’t bothering to button up his suit jacket, letting that lazy, sexy look peek through for everyone to see.

“Do you think it look not good?” Shane licked his lips, sauntering over to Ilya and wrapping his arms around his waist.

Ilya’s gaze trailed from the tailored waist of the suit down to the open buttons of the shirt, then back up to Shane’s big, wet eyes. He could already picture a swarm of people flocking to Shane like moths to a flame that night, their eyes glued to his body.

He didn’t want anyone else looking at his boyfriend like that.

Shane reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his phone, his ass looking impossibly round in those dress pants—the suit jacket barely covered half of it.

Ilya snatched the unlocked phone from his hand. “No, Shane. Don’t let anyone see you like this. Only me. Only I can take your photos like this.”

“Ilya?” Shane’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, making him look even more edible. He bit his lip, a playful glint in his eyes. “How about put on my glasses? George said they make me look hotter.”

“No.” The possessive boyfriend in Ilya vetoed the idea immediately. He fastened the top two buttons of Shane’s shirt, then grabbed his own suit jacket and draped it over Shane’s shoulders, covering his body completely. He breathed in the scent of his own cologne on Shane’s skin, then leaned in to suck gently on his lower lip.

“Who is George? Is he… your new designer? I don’t like him… Hate his taste… And that guy who… gave you the smoothie recipe… was that the same George too?”

Their breaths came out in ragged pants, their lips brushing against each other with every word. Ilya’s hand rested on Shane’s neck, his fingers pressing lightly against his throbbing pulse as he mumbled the words between kisses.

Shane struggled to focus, his mind clouded by Ilya’s soft, lingering kisses. He strained to make sense of his boyfriend’s thick, accented English, his knees going weak.

God, Shane wanted to drop to his knees right there and then—but he’d ruin the designer dress pants his agent’d borrowed.

Summoning every ounce of willpower he had, Shane pulled away from the kiss first. He didn’t want to be late for the event that night. His eyes were hazy with desire as he panted out his answer. “George… Russell. He’s the same guy… Gave me the style tips and… and the smoothie recipes.”

George Russell? The name sounded vaguely familiar to Ilya. He was about to press for more details when it hit him—he’d seen Shane tag that name on Instagram a month ago.

Ilya pressed a quick kiss to Shane’s mouth, then lowered his head and unlocked his phone with his fingerprint. Sure enough, georgerussell63 was right there on Shane’s recent follows list.

Ilya tapped on the profile, his jaw tightening at what he saw: a white guy with light blue eyes and golden-brown hair, and not a single shirt on in any of his photos.

Shane Hollander had liked every single one of his recent shirtless beach photos.

Fuck. Not another blonde-haired, blue-eyed Anglo guy except Hayden Pike. How many of these guys were there, anyway? Did they all just cling to Shane like leeches?

“How did you meet him?” Ilya’s voice was still rough with desire.

Shane swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Ilya, relax. We met at the hotel gym when we were both on the spin bikes. We swapped contact info. He’s an F1 driver.”

An F1 driver? A bunch of arrogant idiots with overinflated egos who knew nothing about teamwork. Ilya crossed his arms over his chest, mentally sneering at the very thought.

“Shane—did he hit on you when you biked together?”

“Hit on me?” Shane blinked, looking completely confused.

Ilya raised an eyebrow.

“Jesus Christ.” Shane’s mouth fell open in disbelief, and Ilya’s fingers itched to push him up against the wall and kiss that shocked look off his face. But he needed to hear his boyfriend out first.

“Ilya, I can’t believe you’re even asking that. George is just a friend. And just because he doesn’t wear a shirt while he’s cycling doesn’t mean he’s into me.”

“…You said he doesn’t wear a shirt?”

///

First thing the next morning, Max Verstappen picked up an unknown call with a thick Russian accent.“Fucking hell, keep your ex-wife in line.”

Max scoffed. “I don’t know who you are, or how you got my private number—but you just said ex-wife.”

“I don’t care, dude!” The guy on the other end yelled. “I get murdered by your ex’s bullshit milkshakes!”

“We’re divorced.” Max lowered his voice, repeating the words like a warning. “You know what that means?”

The Russian replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t fucking know. I can’t even spell divorce.”

“Besides, your ex’s fashion sense is dogshit. Tell him to stay the hell away from my boyfriend.”

Max didn’t care if people joked about him and George. But he’d never let anyone badmouth his taste in his ex. “You don’t know jack shit. God knows what your boyfriend’s been feeding you. But listen—George is the most beautiful man in the world. You’ve got zero taste. Bet your boyfriend could learn a thing or two from him.”

Ilya frowned, hating how his limited English was holding him back in this argument. He didn’t lose his cool easily—but he had to defend Shane’s honor, even if he’d started the fight first. “Pathetic. Running your mouth like that, all alone in your king-size bed. Cold? Must be so lonely. Let me tell you—had my way with my man good and proper last night.”

That hit a nerve. Max shot upright in bed. “I can’t believe you said this to me. Everyone knows our paddock love story. You? Sad little boyfriend. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

Max had struck right at Ilya’s sore spot. Ilya roared into the phone. “Story? More like a disaster! No wonder he’s your ex. All you do is talk shit behind his back. Those topless photos he posts? Bet they’re not for you, his ex-husband.”

“If you ever show your face in front of me, I’ll run you over. Swear on it.” Max was so mad he was pacing. “Who the hell said George and I stopped sleeping together after the divorce? Fucked him right after my last race. You know what improving means? We improve every single time we meet.”

“Wow. You call that meeting? Don’t think I don’t know F1 has 24 races a year. Go fuck yourself, Verstappen. You’re nothing but a barbarian who drives bumper cars.”

Max pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at the unknown number on the screen. How the hell had he ended up with this guy’s number—this guy with the godawful Russian accent? He screenshot the call ID to send to George, only to find he’d already been blocked. He had to switch to Instagram to send it, all while yelling at the guy on the phone. “Fuck? You wanna know how I fuck him? You sure? You couldn’t imagine the way his legs wrap around my waist. Those pretty blue eyes—teary, begging for more.”

“Shane’s got the prettiest freckles and eye sockets…” Max caught the new name through the phone. Before he got blocked again, he fired off a text to his ex: What’s going on with you and Shane?

His ex replied right away on Instagram: my new hockey friend.

Max tuned out the yelling in his ear, like it was just Horner rambling on the team radio. He typed shanehockey into the search bar—and sure enough, found a verified account.

“Shane Hollander?” Max clicked on the profile. Surprise—he was a soft-looking mixed-race Asian guy, nothing like Max’s crude idea of a hockey player. Clean-shaven, with those freckles that made him look like some harmless little animal. He had this vibe Max knew all too well—easygoing, restrained, nice. A total hockey Virgin Mary…

Oh no. Max’s gut screamed. This was exactly the type of guy Princess George really love for.

“Mr. Verstappen? Are you still there? I’m so sorry about all the extremely offensive things Ilya said to you. I apologize on his behalf.”

A new voice had taken over the call—polite, measured, the kind that reminded Max of his ex, who’d had the same PR training. Max raised an eyebrow. “Oh. So you’re the boyfriend who does not publicly show him.”

“Um.” Shane’s voice went pink over the phone. “I’m sorry. It’s… complicated between us.”

“Complicated? Rivals? Please—you’re just screwing around and too chicken to admit it.”

Max cut him off, clearly not waiting for a reply. He went back to searching for that damn Russian name. How did you spell it? Elia? No—Ilyarozanov

——81

Max thought: I hate 81.

“Either you’re in, or out. Sitting on the fence? That’s the most boring fucking place to be.”

Shane fell silent for a second. “Thank you. That’s… actually good advice.”

“Whatever.”

“Did George invite you to his yacht?” Max asked suddenly, right before Shane could hang up.

Shane froze. “He did. But I have to wait until…”

“Don’t go.” Max interrupted him. “If you don’t want your boyfriend to lose his mind.”

///

So George Russell was definitely Shane’s most unlikely friend—other than me, that is. Ilya Rozanov thought to himself.

He still couldn’t wrap his head around how the two of them had even become friends.

Well, except for the fact that they were both top-tier talents in their respective fields, equally obsessed with appearing perfect in front of others, always wore linen business-casual shirts, never missed a single corporate event, drove British cars…

And hooked up with a rival during their rookie season.

Okay, fine—they did have a lot in common.

Sure, he and Max had their own share of similarities too—like their love for cars, their blue eyes—but Ilya only admit he preferred McLaren.

Red Bull and Mercedes? Nothing but glorified tractors.

So if he noticed Shane had picked up a hint of George’s sharp tongue lately, it was obviously just his sweet Shane being led astray by a bad influence.

Shane held up the envelope in his hand, facing the camera.

“A prediction I wrote at the start of the season? Let me check—Oh, Team Rozanov won’t win Stanley Cup this year. God, I have no idea why I wrote that.”

“Sorry, I’m just joking.” Shane winked at the lens. “I have the utmost respect for Rozanov. We’re pretty good friends off the ice. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Cut to the next clip.

“Shane’s prediction? Pretty accurate.” Ilya paused, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ve already got one at home anyway.”

“My goal for this year…” The man stared at the camera, pretending to think hard. “Maybe I should get a smaller cup.”

A voice-off camera pressed, “For what?”

“For Shane.” Ilya shrugged, drawling the words like he was sharing a well-kept secret. “Put him in. Spit in his mouth.”

When the segment aired, the entire Centaurs team was crowded around the locker room TV. The second that line hit, the room erupted into chaos, the noise nearly blowing the roof off.

Jane:

You're fucking unbelievable.

Ilya stood in the middle of the chaos, head bowed as he typed on his phone, a grin never leaving his face.

Lily:

Which kind of unbelievable?

Hard or you're already choose cup.

Relax, I'm just returning say hi.

Three minutes later, his phone buzzed again.

Jane:

The kind where I have to sign you up for another media training session.

Also, my agent just called. She sounds like she wants to murder someone.

Lily:

Tell her she have to get in line.

Shane’s definitely first.

He stuffed his phone back into his locker, whistling as he peeled off his gear. This clip was gonna break the internet—“Spit in his mouth” was more than enough to keep the Canadian sports tabloids busy for a whole week before the boring playoffs even kicked off.

Meanwhile, back at home, Shane Hollander was buried under a pile of throw pillows, repeatedly replaying the video. His ears were burning bright red as he stared at the screen, at that bastard licking his lips on camera.

His phone lit up again with a new message from Lily:

By the way—ceramic or glass for the cup?

///

By the end of May, a proper warmth had finally seeped into the air. For Shane and Ilya, that meant two big things: their hockey season was over, and the F1 Canadian Grand Prix was kicking off in Montreal.

The drivers would be sticking around Montreal for the whole weekend—and for Hollanov, it was the perfect excuse for a much-needed, totally legitimate reunion. The pair had been invited into the pit lane as guests of honor for Mercedes and Red Bull respectively.

Shane was wearing a grey casual suit with a Mercedes pass clipped to his lapel, while Ilya had a Red Bull lanyard around his neck and a can of the energy drink in hand. Their eyes met across the bustle of the pit lane, right outside their respective garages.

Ilya leaned against the Red Bull garage door, watching as Shane navigated the comings and goings of the Mercedes engineers with a slight awkwardness. A grin tugged at his lips before he could stop it, and he pulled out his phone.

To Jane:

Silver doesn’t suit you, sweetie. You look like a groom onto the wrong set.

Shane glanced down at his phone—but didn’t reply. But Ilya caught him shooting a quick glare toward the Red Bull garage while pretending to adjust the brim of his cap.

Soon enough, the Red Bull PR manager freed up some time and arranged for Ilya to test his skills on the simulator.

Ilya didn’t hesitate; he slid into the seat and ran a lap around the virtual Circuit Gilles Villeneuve. On the exit of a corner, he deliberately went all out—locked up the tires and spun off the track—drawing a chorus of good-natured screams from the onlookers.

He climbed out of the simulator, his hair a little messy, and looked up to find Shane standing right behind him, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. Those brown eyes of his were fixed firmly on Ilya.

Ilya's inner desire for admiration was instantly satisfied. He tilted his chin toward the simulator, mouthed two words clearly:

Your turn

Shane’s gaze lingered on his face for a few seconds. He turned his head to say something to the Mercedes staff beside him, but the tips of his ears flushed a faint, visible shade of red.

A few minutes later, Ilya swirled the champagne in his hand, watching as Shane slid into the seat still warm from his body heat and put on the headphones. Even the way he adjusted his posture screamed precision—back straight, fingers fidgeting nervously on the steering wheel.

Then the screen lit up, and the virtual Circuit Gilles Villeneuve unfolded before them.

Shane drove flawlessly. His braking was precise, his racing line was clean, his gear shifts were crisp and seamless. He finished the simulation perfectly—a full second faster than Ilya.

Shane pulled off the headphones and climbed out of the simulator. His eyes found Ilya’s again, and his face lit up with excitement, like ripples spreading across a calm lake after a stone is tossed in.

Ilya’s heart gave a little flutter, just like it always did when he saw that look on Shane’s face.

He licked his dry lips, and shot back, his tone deliberately dismissive:

Boring.

Perhaps the Montreal weather suited Mercedes perfectly that weekend. George took first place, with Max right behind him in second.

Shane had booked an omakase dinner for Monday night weeks in advance. When the agreed time rolled around, the four of them moved like they were on a covert mission—each taking a different route, slipping quietly into the hidden private booth of the restaurant.

Ilya sat in silence, accompanying their two guests through the meal. The sashimi was visibly fresh, and the table was loaded with all sorts of imported chilled ingredients whose names Ilya couldn’t even begin to guess.

Shane and George seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves, murmuring to each other about the texture of every dish. Ilya didn’t eat this kind of stuff often; he shoveled everything into his mouth like a bull. Raw food all tasted the same to him, and he couldn’t tell what was good or bad—he just felt even hungrier after finishing.

Dinner finally came to an end. After dropping George and Max off at their hotel, Shane said he needed to chat a bit more with George about a commercial endorsement contract. Ilya nodded and said he’d head downstairs for a smoke.

The elevator doors were just about to slide shut when another hand shot out to stop them. Max Verstappen slid inside, wearing a tired, knowing look. Their eyes met in the reflective walls of the elevator, and neither of them said a word.

They rode silently down to the first floor, strode straight out of the lobby, and came to a halt at the burger joint on the corner at the end of the road, pushing through the door one after the other.

The warm, greasy aroma of fried food hit them like a hug. Ilya made a beeline for the corner booth, and when the waiter approached, he rattled off his order at lightning speed:

“Largest meat platter, two orders. Four double cheeseburgers. Ice Coke, large.”

He paused, glanced up at Max. “What do you want?”

Max tugged his cap lower. “Got Red Bull?”

The waiter nodded and took the menu away. Ten minutes or so later, a heaping tray of grilled meats was set down on the table, piled high with ribs and sausages. Next to the golden, slightly charred fries were mountains of beef patties oozing melted cheese.

One look at it was enough to promise pure, unadulterated food-induced bliss.

What followed was a nearly twenty-minute feast eaten with the sort of reverence usually reserved for sacred rituals. In the noisy bustle of the burger and BBQ joint, their satisfying crunches were barely audible. Their empty stomachs, starved all evening, finally softened and soothed under the hearty meal.

They didn’t exchange a single word until they’d cleaned their plates completely, mopping up the last fry with a dollop of ketchup. Ilya let out a long, contented sigh, wiped his hands, and slouched back in his chair:

“This is real fucking food.”

Max drained his drink and let out an unapologetic burp:

“I desereved this pork.”

Their eyes met—and then they both burst out laughing. On the TV hanging on the wall, last night’s race was being replayed, and no one paid any mind to the two men in the corner, shoveling food into their mouths like there was no tomorrow.

Ilya glanced at the screen, lifted his Coke in a toast: “To not starving to death?”

“To,” Max clinked his Red Bull can against Ilya’s, “the junk food alliance.”

“Since our lovers…” Ilya paused, then corrected himself, “pea princesses are friends—what the hell were we even fighting about?”

Max popped open a new can of Red Bull. “For the sake of the fifteen ribs you just treated me to, I’ll let the dumb shit I heard slide.”

Ilya scratched the bridge of his nose. Whenever Shane came up, his mood soured before he could help it. “I lost it back then. This whole thing’s just so damn hard. How’d you two get married?”

“Got wasted after the Vegas race.” Max said flatly. “Woke up to two pieces of paper next to the puke puddle. Can’t remember a single thing in between.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a cheesy movie trope.”

“Worse than that.” Max quirked the corner of his mouth. “We stared at each other for five whole minutes. George said it was absurd first. I said we should get divorced. Then we both started Googling Nevada’s divorce procedures at the same time.”

“And then?” Ilya pressed.

“Then we spent two months pretending it never happened. Then another two months trying to sort it out through lawyers. Right up until the last second—when my agent called to ask if I was sure about filing the papers.”

“I said no.” Max’s voice was laced with self-mockery. “This fucking piece of paper was harder to tear up than I thought.”

“But you still separated?” Ilya cut in before he could stop himself.

“You asked how we started, not how we ended.” Max shot him a sidelong glance, then went on. “All I’m saying is—sometimes you don’t need a perfect plan to start something.”

“You just need that split second. When you’re sick of all the ‘if’ and ‘but’. Then you grab the person next to you, say fuck it, and jump.”

Max paused, then said out of the blue: “So you transferred to Ottawa for Shane?”

Ilya hesitated. No one outside Shane’s family knew that secret.

But this was Max Verstappen.

Ilya nodded at him.

“That’s dumb as hell.” Max commented without hesitation.

“You took the leap already. The question isn’t whether to jump or not anymore.” Max went on, not bothering to soften the blow in the slightest.

“Enjoy the falling, mate.”

Max had this weird knack for being brutally honest—it made you want to keep talking, whether you meant to or not.

“I’m scared.” Ilya’s voice came out a little dry. He almost never opened up like this, but the words spilled out anyway. “That all of this… that Shane’s gonna figure out I’m not perfect at all. You know it was just sex between us before. But going public? Getting married? That’s a whole different life—I’m definitely gonna fuck up.”

“Perfect?” Max repeated the word, a faint laugh in his tone. “Listen— the night before George and I went public, I was glued to the sim, tweaking the feedback settings over and over. He was arguing back and forth with Toto nonstop.”

“You wouldn’t believe how ridiculous the PR team looked.” He grinned at the memory, showing a row of straight white teeth. “They were on the video meeting, listening to one of us yelling obscenities on the sim and the other doing the same in real life. Bet they thought the two maniacs were gonna start brawling at the press conference the next day.”

“We’re total opposites, inside and out. Everyone thought we’d never make it past the first season.”

“Woke up the next morning, both of us with bloodshot eyes. His from anger, mine from pulling an all-nighter. George stared at the ceiling for ages, then turned to me and said: Max, fuck this bullshit. I’m gonna say what I want to say. I told him: sure, worst case scenario, we’ll both end up racing endurance.”

Max shrugged. “In the end, the joint statement we slaved over for twelve hours? It was just two sentences.”

“What were the two sentences?” Ilya couldn’t help asking.

Max shot him a none of your business look, then switched gears. “George and I have both crashed into actual walls. Me in Monaco, him in Singapore. But once you do it. You realize it’s not the end of the world.”

“If you can’t let go when you’re cornering, you end up slamming into the wall. See? That’s the problem. When you tie yourself up too tight, on and off the track. Fear and vulnerability start mixing together. Then you can’t even make it through the straightaways, let alone the corners.”

Max fell silent, turning to glance at the TV behind him. The replay had hit the podium scene— the British driver was soaked head to toe in his champagne, his blue-gray eyes sparkling like diamonds in the sun, blond hair plastered to his forehead, arms spread wide like a bird in flight.

“Marriage, coming out, even the divorce later—they’re all just corners.”

“That’s how we love.”

“We clash, yet we chase each other.”

///

When Ilya got home, Shane was already back at their Montreal apartment. Only one floor lamp was on in the living room, the dim glow casting a soft halo over the sofa. Shane sat nestled in that pool of light, still wearing the navy blue shirt from dinner, his sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms.

Before Ilya could even draw near, Shane frowned and complained, “You smell like a walking grease stain.”

“I should treat Max to some vodka next time. Maybe we ought to go into business together and open the best dessert shop in the world. That way, no one will ever crave those numbingly boring healthy smoothies of yours and George Russell”

Ilya shrugged, owning up to his “crime” without a hint of remorse. He shrugged off his coat as he walked, draping it over the arm of the sofa. “How was the tea party?”

He sank into the sofa, his body tilting naturally toward Shane’s as he leaned in to brush a kiss against his lips. Tiny specks of the lamp’s warm light danced in the depths of Shane’s eyes.

“It was good,” Shane answered the question first, then without a single beat of hesitation, he went on—

“Ilya Rozanov.”

Being called by his full name made a faint flicker of surprise cross Ilya’s brow. He froze mid-movement, his gaze locking onto Shane’s face.

Shane met his stare head-on, his warm brown eyes brimming with nothing but tender, tangled love.

“Will you want to go public with me?”

Shane held his gaze, no trace of hesitation in his voice. “We can tell the whole world—we’ll keep competing on the ice, but off the ice, you’re my one and only choice.”

The air fell silent. Outside the window, the city’s night view softened into a blur of twinkling lights.

The smile on Ilya’s face faded slowly. He lifted a hand, the warmth of his palm pressing gently against Shane’s cheek.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he murmured, his voice carrying the cool, gravelly lilt of his Russian accent, yet soft beyond measure.

Shane’s eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn’t expected that answer.

“What do you think I transferred to Ottawa for?” Ilya leaned in again, pressing a kiss to Shane’s forehead.

“I’ve wanted to shout it from the rooftops for so long—you are my love, my one and only, now and forever.”

Love is a race for victory at breakneck speed;

Love is a showdown between champions at the summit.

My greatest opponent in this life,And my one and only love.

—The end—

Epilogue

Ilya lay in bed, holding Shane close in his arms. “So you read Max and George’s coming-out statement?”

Shane kissed Ilya’s lips softly. “Yes, I have. I think we can come up with something cooler than theirs.”

Max Verstappen and George Russell are married.

 

No further questions.