Archive of Our Own ^beta

The moment Ilya slips the wedding band onto Shane’s finger, it feels like the world goes quiet for the first time in his life.

Peaceful in a way Shane has never known.

They’re married. Husbands.

Ilya grabs Shane’s waist, dipping him down, and kissing him for all he’s worth. Shane grabs Ilya’s cheeks and melts into him. He forgets that they are surrounded by their friends and teammates, his parents. Is pretty sure they wouldn’t break apart for the next week, year, millennia if the irritating need for oxygen didn’t force them both to unseal their lips and take a breath.

If nineteen-year-old Shane could see him now–the scared-stupid kid who was already in way too deep the moment Ilya asked for his room number in that locker room–could know that he would have another first kiss with Ilya–this one as a married couple–that kid would collapse from anxiety.

Ilya dips forward and kisses him again, whispers, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane replies as he is tugged back to the house to sign their marriage certificate.

They sign the paperwork quickly, Nancy, their justice of the peace, regaling them with a story of the craziest wedding she ever officiated. “So, after the ex-boyfriend objects, the couple takes him to the back room of the chapel to talk. They emerged about thirty minutes later, letting me and everyone else know that they wouldn’t just be marrying each other anymore, but also the ex-boyfriend.”

Ilya, the one who asked for her craziest wedding story in the first place, says, “Happy endings are good, yes? Could’ve been messy.”

Nancy nods. “It’s an emotional day. It can get the best of anyone. I once had a bride sob after her mother told her she could no longer count all the years she and her groom had been together towards their anniversary. They were starting the count over again to their first anniversary. The bride thought that was extremely unfair.”

Shane isn’t going to sob, but he does agree with the bride. It does kind of feel like bullshit that all of his years of loving Ilya technically no longer ‘count.’

Nancy shakes their hands, says, “Congratulations again! I hope you have a wonderful first year of marriage! All the new firsts, it’s all very exciting.”

Shane hasn’t really thought about everything that happens after the wedding. He isn’t stupid or thoughtless; he’s just been a little distracted by his entire life blowing up to think about what actually being married to Ilya will be like.

He figures it’ll be the same as dating him. Just with more proximity now that they finally live together and play on the same team. They’ve been something to one another for over a decade, how many firsts can they have left? Then again, they did just have their first kiss, again.

Maybe Nancy is right. Maybe there are some more firsts to look forward to.

-*-

First Date Night

“What do you want for dinner?” Shane asks. He is standing in front of the fridge, door hanging open, studying its shelves and drawing a blank. His brain has been blissfully offline since their honeymoon and hasn’t quite come back online, even though they’ve been back for almost a week.

“Huh?” Ilya calls from the couch in the living room, where he has been drifting in and out of consciousness with Anya curled against his side.

“Dinner,” Shane says, closing the fridge door and opening it again. He’s kind of hoping that a completed meal will just appear if he opens the doors at just the right speed. “Do you have any thoughts? Preferences?”

“Whatever’s easiest.”

Shane closes the fridge and trudges over to the couch, where he leans over its back to pet Anya. “That is distinctly unhelpful.”

Ilya shrugs, unbothered by his own lack of helpfulness. He stretches his arms above his head and pushes his feet over the other end of the couch as his legs extend to their full length. “We could order take-out.”

Shane feels a tinge of anxiety at this. They’d been in Spain for almost two weeks–two weeks where Shane did not have control over what food was served. Though they hadn’t been overly unhealthy, the idea of not preparing his meal sent him into a guilt trip.

Something must show on his face because Ilya says, “What about the place with the,” he moves his hands through the air as though they could pluck the English words slipping through his sleepy brain from thin air, “salad you like with all the fruits and the chicken?”

“The summer salad from Bon Homme?” Shane says.

“Yes, that,” Ilya says, shifting to sit up, his back cracking with the movement.

“They don’t deliver, remember?” Shane says. “One of us always picks it up on our way home.”

Ilya scrubs at his sleep-squinted eyes, stands. “Then we go there.”

A new spike of anxiety hits Shane in the throat. They’ve been ‘out’ for months now, and they were quite literally making out in the streets of Ibiza in broad daylight six days ago. But that had been their honeymoon, in Europe, in an extremely gay city. It felt different.

This is home, where they’ve always hidden themselves, their relationship, their love. Shane inhales, reminds himself that they don’t have to anymore.

If they want to go out to eat on a random Tuesday night in August, they can.

With more confidence than he feels, he says, “Alright, let’s go.”

Ilya’s smile is small but pleased.
—

The ride into the city takes much less time than Shane remembers, Ilya navigating his flashy sports car with an indisputable confidence he usually reserves for hockey and making Shane come.

Shane is normally unable to focus on anything but Ilya when he is like this—it’s how they ended up naked together in the first place. But for some reason, Shane’s brain keeps glitching over the idea of going out to dinner in their hometown without having to worry about it anymore.

They have gone out to eat together before in Ottawa, for Christ’s sake. Hell, they went out to eat on the Centaurs’ owners' dime before their wedding.

Not to mention, they went out to eat practically every night in Ibiza. Were disgustingly all over one another everywhere they went. Shane hadn’t thought about it once—kissing Ilya however he wanted, wherever they went, holding hands and arms slung across waists and shoulders. They were on their honeymoon in Europe, surrounded by other queer couples, they barely stood out.

But here, back home, they stand out. Hometown fame and a dearth of other queer couples make Shane feel like everyone who looks at them is staring them down the scope of a sniper rifle.

Which is ridiculous. They haven’t had a single bad face-to-face interaction with the general public yet. But that fear of being found, being seen and judged, hated and reviled, was where Shane had mentally lived for over a decade, had mentally lived for maybe his whole life. Those knee-jerk instincts that helped you survive before didn’t just die a swift, clean death once you were happily out of the closet.

Ilya eases his orange monstrosity up to the valet parking drop-off. He looks to Shane. He is breathtakingly beautiful in the late evening glow of the setting sun. His golden sun-kissed skin with his tousled curls like a halo around his gorgeous face. He grins, tenuously excited, but there is something about the crease around his eyes.

He knows Shane too well. Knows he could panic at any moment. Is prepared for Shane to pull the rug out from under him. “Okay?” Ilya asks. A thousand questions packed into that tiny word, no judgment if Shane isn’t okay.

And God, how Shane loves him. He grabs Ilya by the neck, yanks him across the gear shift, and kisses him, deep and slow. It’d be romantic if it weren’t so filthy, Ilya meeting Shane’s feral need for physical contact with equal fervor.

They break apart laughingly when Ilya rams his hip into the gearshift in an attempt to get closer to Shane. “Jesus Christ, Hollander,” Ilya huffs.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane replies, kissing Ilya’s forehead, then cheeks. Is about to dive back into Ilya’s mouth when the valet knocks on the driver's side window, breaking them apart.

“Oh, right, dinner,” Shane says, releasing his husband, then undoing his seat belt.

Dinner is delicious, and fun, and to Shane’s complete and utter delight, a total non-event until they’re about to pay their bill. A little girl, about Jade and Ruby’s size, comes running up to their table.

She looks at Ilya like he hung the moon (Shane knows the look well, he’s seen it enough times in the mirror) and asks, “Are you Ilya Rozanov?” She’s missing her two front teeth, so his last name sounds like “Roth-a-nov.”

Ilya is immediately charmed. “Yes, I am.”

“I knew it,” the girl says, on an awed breath. “You’re my favorite player. I’m going to be you when I grow up.”

Shane covers his smiling mouth with a hand as Ilya gives the girl his full attention. “I have no doubt,” Ilya tells her. “You are already best center in your age group, yes?”

She nods proudly. “The older boys can’t even keep up I’m so fast.”

Ilya’s smile is ferocious and blinding.

From across the restaurant, a woman hisses, “Oh my God, Noelle!” A woman with the same brown hair and eyes as the little girl materializes. “I told you not to bother him.” Noelle’s mother looks to Shane and Ilya in turn, her eyes widened in apology. “I am so, so sorry about this.”

“It’s not a problem at all,” Shane assures her.

“It is important that I talk to all the fastest skaters in all the leagues,” Ilya says to mother and daughter.

“I’m faster than you,” Shane reminds him.

“Was basically tie,” Ilya refutes. “Noelle, tell me more about how you obliterate these slow boys who can’t keep up?”

Noelle is off like a rocket, regaling Ilya with stories of her kiddie league. Ilya is so enraptured, nodding along and asking questions, giving her his total attention, that a full fifteen minutes pass before Noelle’s mother interrupts.

“Noelle, sweetie, we should let Mr. Rozanov and Mr. Hollander get back to their night. Thank them for their time.”

Noelle turns to her mom, complains through gritted teeth, “But, Mom–”

“We’ve taken up enough of Mr. Rozanov and his husband’s night. Say thank you.”

Shane freezes. Mr. Rozanov and his husband.

It’s the first time he’s hearing those words from a stranger, the first time he and Ilya are out in the world, and someone they don’t know is treating their relationship as a non-issue.

Shane spends the entire time Noelle gets pictures with Ilya, desperately holding back tears. Noelle and her mom leave with a bunch of photos and an invitation to join them at hockey camp next summer.

Not much later, he and Ilya exit the restaurant, hand-in-hand.

-*-
First “Team Dinner” with The Centaurs

Shane changes his shirt again, Ilya watching him from the bed. Anya is curled up on Shane’s side of the bed, her head resting on his pillow.

“How do I look?” Shane asks, gesturing to his T-shirt and shorts.

“You look good,” Ilya says, with a teasing grin. “You’ve looked good in the last four shirts.”

“I know I’m being…weird,” Shane concedes. “I just want to make a good first impression.”

Ilya’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “First impression? Entire team was at our wedding. You’ve played against most of them for years. First impression is gone, I think.”

“First impression as their teammate, not as an opponent or as your husband,” Shane clarifies. He looks at the mirror, examines himself. Wonders if he has something else that better says, ‘hey, please just think of me as a regular new teammate and not as former enemy #1 or your captain’s husband,’ but that may be asking too much of his wardrobe. “This is stupid. I’m being stupid.”

Ilya scoops up Anya and pops up to his feet. “Not stupid,” he says, depositing their dog gently on the floor as he pads over to Shane’s side. “You are nervous. Normal to be nervous when you haven’t been the new guy on the team since you were nineteen.”

“Don’t remind me,” Shane huffs, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“Moya lyubov, vse budet khorosho,” Ilya soothes. Everything will be fine. Shane’s knees go to jelly as they always do when Ilya speaks his mother tongue. Shane grabs onto his husband’s waist, his fingers flexing against Ilya’s muscled abdomen and back through the soft fabric of his shirt.

Maybe, they didn’t have to go to Bood’s for this team bonding—

Shane’s thoughts must play across his face because Ilya chuckles darkly, leaning forward to kiss Shane’s forehead, cheek, and his neck just below his ear. He whispers, “After, dorogoy. If you behave.”

“Jesus Christ.” Shane braces himself on the wall.

Ilya grabs the juncture where Shane’s neck and shoulder meet and squeezes.

If Shane weren’t using the wall to prop himself up, he’d be on his knees. “We aren’t supposed to be there for another twenty minutes, right?”

Ilya squeezes his neck again, then applies pressure to his shoulder.

Shane lets himself sink to the floor.

They both need another shower, but they’re only fifteen minutes behind schedule when they finally leave the house.
—

“There they are!” Bood greets them upon their arrival. Once they’re through the gate, he grabs them in a joint hug that greatly surprises and pleases Shane to be a part of. “Glad you guys could make it.” He pulls back and booms across the yard to everyone else, “The newlyweds have finally decided to grace us with their presence.”

There is a chorus of boisterous greetings, most slightly embarrassing (“Jesus, Roz, what did you do to Hollander’s neck?”) but earnest in their happiness at their arrival.

The guys take turns roping Shane and Ilya into handshakes and hugs—mostly hugs, they are an exceptionally huggy group—asking them about the honeymoon and how Anya is as Bood fills up plates for them.

The circle around the fire pit expands, and two chairs materialize out of nowhere for them to sit. They take their seats and dig in. Shane is immediately drawn into a conversation with Chouinard and Barrett about the pre-season trades announced earlier in the week.

“Can’t believe Dallas let go of Bouchard,” Chouinard says.

Barrett groans, “To LA no less.”

“That D-line will not be fun to face in November,” Shane says before taking another bite of barbecue chicken. Ilya was right—Bood is a remarkably good cook.

“No, but we’ll be fine,” Chouinard says, “we’ve got enough depth across—”

“Talking about hockey already?” Ilya cuts in.

“We are a professional hockey team, Roz,” Barrett jokes. “May have forgotten while you were busy on your honeymoon.”

Shane flushes but laughs—this kind of ribbing he can take, even if he isn’t quite used to everyone knowing so much about his sex life.

“Speaking of,” Hayes calls across the fire, “how was Spain? Lisa’s been wanting to go forever.”

The next couple of hours fly by. Shane isn’t even aware of how late it’s getting, only that the sun has fully set and most of the guys are getting progressively sillier as the pile of empty beer cans grows. Haas, like the baby deer he is, almost topples into the fire when he stands to go to the restroom. Young catches him and helps him back into his seat.

“Careful, Haasy,” Ilya calls, passing Shane another ginger ale, “you won’t get out of practice next week, even if you set yourself on fire.”

“Can’t believe we’re already back,” Bood says. “Feels like the summers are getting shorter.”

“Well, the summers are shorter when you make the damn play-offs,” Barrett says, holding his beer up. They all cheer and do the same. Barrett turns to Shane. “You excited to do it with us this year, Hollander?”

“Oh, uh,” Shane almost chokes on his drink, “yeah, totally. I’m excited to get on the ice with you guys.”

Barrett laughs, asks, “Why do you look like I just asked you to participate in a root canal?” Shane grimaces. Barrett knocks their elbows together. “Relax, Hollander. I’m just messing with you. I joined the team like ten months ago. I remember how nervous I was back then. Can’t imagine how you’re feeling.”

Shane takes a long gulp from his drink, uses it as an excuse to take a moment to think. Tells himself to get over himself—this is Barrett, whom Shane has been warming up to. Barrett, who is possibly one of the only people in the world who could understand how Shane feels. “It’s been… a lot,” he says. “Most of it’s been good. Great. Amazing. And I really am excited to play with you guys, but…”

“You thought you’d retire a Voyageur,” Barrett finishes for him.

“Things didn’t end well with my last team,” Shane explains delicately. He doesn’t want to get into the details, the wound is still too fresh, may never heal properly. “They knew I was gay, but finding out about Ilya was too much for most of them.”

“And now you get to be the new guy on your husband’s team, which has got to be a mindfuck,” Barrett surmises.

Shane nods. “But I’m ready to play, learn the team. And Ilya and I have rules, we’re going to be professional—”

“Hollander,” Barrett says, holds up a hand to stop Shane’s carefully prepared speech about marriage and professionalism in the work environment. His multi-step plan for maintaining an environment that won’t alienate any of their teammates. Barrett says, gently, “No one’s going to freak out if you kiss your husband.”

“I know, everyone’s great, but when we’re at work—”

“When you’re at work, you’re still married,” Barrett says. “My boyfriend, Harris, works in the Centaurs’ Comms office. So it isn’t the exact same as you and Roz, but it’s close enough. I think everyone on this team has seen us kiss on multiple occasions.”

“We don’t want to be a distraction,” Shane says.

“I promise you, it’ll be more distracting if you two try to act like you aren’t how you actually are. Like, obviously don’t fuck on center ice in the middle of practice,” Barrett laughs at his own joke, Shane flushes hot pink and hopes Barrett thinks it’s due to their proximity to the fire, “but it isn’t like you guys have to share rooms with other members of the team on the road.”

Shane gapes at him. “That’s—that’s exactly what we were planning to do.”

“Holy shit, Hollander,” Barrett groans in disbelief. He places his fingers between his lips and whistles sharply. Once the circle goes silent, Barrett stands, says, “Listen up, team: Hollander just let me know that he and Roz plan on not rooming together when we’re on the road—”

“Fuck’s sake,” Chouinard huffs.

“Not it!” Bood yells. “Someone else can deal with Roz—”

Hayes shakes his head. “Why? That’s unnecessary and—”

“We don’t want you guys to worry,” Shane defends himself. Because really, this was his idea. “We’re not going to let our relationship get in the way of how we play. We won’t let it be a distraction.”

At his side, Ilya has his arms folded across his chest, and he’s wearing his shit-eating grin.

“Hollander, we could spend from now until when practice picks up next week telling you all the reasons this is stupid,” Bood says.

“Instead, though,” Barrett holds up a hand to stymie the rising voices who are about to do just that, “we are going to have a little demonstration. Alright, gentlemen, who is willing to room with either of these bozos while we’re on the road?”

“I would rather fall into the fire,” Haas answers immediately.

“Like I said, I will pull Alternate Captain privileges,” Bood says. “I’m not going to be the one sleeping in the hallway because Roz is impossible to be around.”

“Also not looking to deal with a pent-up Hollander either,” Dykstra adds. “Feel like that may be worse.”

Hayes says, “I would rather sleep in a hotel lobby than share a room with either of you while you sext.”

The entire gathering bursts out in laughing agreement.

“That’s not—we wouldn’t—” Shane sputters. Ilya reaches over and links their hands together.

“So we’re agreed,” Barrett says, “Hollander is stuck with Roz on road trips?”

Yells of assent ring out. Shane can’t stop his nervous chuckle. He had known Ilya’s team was different from the Voyageurs, had been happy for and jealous of the immediate support Ilya received when they were outed back in March. To experience it for himself is a whole other matter.

Ilya inclines closer, drops his voice, and asks, “Okay?”

Without questioning how everyone else will react, Shane closes the distance between them and kisses Ilya. No one chirps them. In fact, when they part, no one seems to be paying attention to them anymore. They’ve all returned to their discussions. Bood stands and asks if anyone wants more of the dessert he and Cassie made.

Shane feels warm all over and also a sudden tightness in his throat that usually precedes tears. He wasn’t prepared to feel this safe with this group of guys so quickly.

Another hour passes as they all chat and joke, Ilya’s hand clasped in Shane’s, all the while, when finally Chouinard announces he needs to get home. Everyone takes this as a signal and starts filtering out in groups with their assigned designated drivers, saying goodbye.

“You ready?” Ilya asks, a secret promise in his voice that has Shane jumping to his feet.

“Bye, lovebirds!” Hayes calls, waving at them.

They say their goodbyes and are walking back to the car when Bood yells, “Careful with our new star center, Rozanov! His neck is not a chew toy!”

“Jesus,” Shane huffs as they get in the car.

They’re halfway home when Ilya asks, “What do you think?”

Shane smiles as he looks at Ilya, then up at the sky through the windshield. “I think Ottawa’s bringing home a Cup this year.”

-*-

First Fight

Shane pulls up to the Pike house, puts his SUV in park, and slams his forehead against the top of the steering wheel, groaning in frustration.

He should not have taken off for fucking Montreal in an adrenaline-fueled rage. Once the anger had dissipated a bit, he had felt like a puppet with its strings cut—exhausted and overwhelmed, and he still had an hour left to drive.

He considers turning around and heading back to Ottawa without bothering Hayden and Jackie. There’s no reason to—

But when Shane looks up, Hayden is standing on their front porch, cellphone to his ear, his free hand waving in Shane’s direction.

Shane gets out of the car, his brain scrambling to come up with an excuse for why he’s showing up unannounced at his best friend’s house on a random Saturday afternoon, except as he approaches the porch, he hears Hayden say, “He’s in one piece, Rozanov. I’ll text you later.”

Hayden slides his phone into his pocket and surveys Shane. “So all it took for you to leave Rozanov is for him to express concern that you might not be eating enough?”

Shane opens his mouth to tell Hayden to go fuck himself. Instead, he bursts into tears.

“Oh, dude, Shane,” Hayden rushes down the steps and hauls Shane in for a hug that would be bone-crushing were he not a professional athlete. Hayden draws him through the house, quickly past the living room where Jackie is distracting the kids with an animated movie, and onto the back patio.

He settles Shane into a wicker chair, hands him a ginger ale, and says, “You want to talk about it?”

“About Ilya being an asshole?” Shane deflects.

“Sorry, buddy, not today.” To his credit, Hayden seems genuinely remorseful to not get to talk shit about Ilya. “On this one, the Russian menace and I are aligned.”

“It’s not—” Shane’s voice cracks. “It’s not—it wasn’t a problem anymore. I had gotten it under control. I wasn’t…”

God damn it. Why is this so hard to talk about?

Hayden waits patiently, his blue eyes so kind and understanding. Shane swallows down the words crawling up his throat. He changes tracks.

He taps his thumb against his soda can. “It was such a stupid fight. Does it even count as a fight if one of you isn’t even yelling?”

“You got mad enough to flee the scene of the crime. I think it counts as a fight.”

Anxiety grips Shane’s heart and squeezes. “I shouldn’t have done that. Ilya was so…nervous to bring it up, and the words he was using... he clearly looked up how to talk to someone with,” Shane taps his fingers against his knee, hoping against hope that Hayden won’t make him say disordered eating out loud. “And I just freaked out. I got so defensive, and angry, and I took off before—Jesus Christ, I am such a dick.”

Shane had needed time and space to think, to breathe—and after sending the initial I’m fine and safe text to Ilya, he hadn’t considered at all how his taking off for hours would make his husband feel—Ilya, who had been left one way or another by everyone he had loved.

The tears fall again as he grabs his phone from his–Ilya’s, because of course he was wearing Ilya’s clothes–Centaurs hoodie pocket. He ignores all of the missed calls and texts from his parents, going to the bottom of his text thread with Ilya. He types:

Mne ochen' zhal. Ya tebya lyublyu. Skoro domoy

“Shane,” Hayden says his name like he’s been calling for Shane’s attention for a while. “You know he’s just worried. Wants to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. We all do.”

Jesus. So they’ve all been talking about this behind Shane’s back. The defensive anger flares again, bright and hot.

“I eat better than any of you,” Shane snarls. Hayden holds up his hands in immediate surrender. Once again, Shane's stomach clenches with self-loathing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. This is just—a lot. And it’s all tangled up in my head.”

“No one’s saying you have to have answers or anything figured out,” Hayden says slowly, carefully, no judgement in his tone—and fuck, Ilya probably sent him the link about how to talk to someone in your life who is exhibiting disordered eating symptoms. “We just want you to know we care, and you’re not alone, or whatever bullshit your brain is telling you.”

Shane’s phone has not stopped vibrating since he texted Ilya. Shane looks down at the screen.

No sorry. You don’t need to be sorry.

I handled everything wrong.

Moya lyubov.

Shane.

Come home. Please.

Shane looks up at Hayden, nods. “I know I’m not.”
—

The drive home is infinitely longer than the drive up. If Shane was exhausted before, it is nothing compared to the bone-deep weariness he feels now. Especially after an hour of the Pike kids climbing all over him.

It’s a beautiful August evening, and the sun is setting behind the house. It’s picturesque in a way that makes Shane’s heart—anxious and tangled up as he is at the moment—calm. He never thought he’d get to have this, a home and a dog and a husband and a life that he loves.

He feels tears itching at the corners of his eyes again. God, why is he like this?

He enters the house through the garage, leaving his sneakers by the door. Anya rushes to him, barking joyfully at his return.

He kisses the top of her head and runs his fingers through her soft fur, not sure if he’s soothing her or himself. “Hey, baby girl.”

He had never been an animal person before, but goddamn, if this dog isn’t changing his mind.

He braces himself as he rounds the corner into the kitchen. He crumbles immediately. Ilya looks like hell. Eyes red-rimmed, cheeks blotchy, haphazard curls sticking up in every direction.

Shane barrels into him, his voice breaking as he says, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I left.” He wraps his arms around Ilya’s chest and shoulders, buries his face in his neck.

Ilya scoops Shane up—lifts him off the ground as he pulls him close. He’s whispering something in Russia too softly for Shane to make out. Ilya presses his face to the top of Shane’s head and kisses his hair, so carefully it sends Shane on a new crying jag.

They make it to the couch somehow, Shane ending up mostly in Ilya’s lap as they both refuse to let the other go. Shane finally emerges from the crook of Ilya’s neck, his hands going to Ilya’s cheeks as he presses their foreheads together.

He says hurriedly, “Mne ochen' zhal. Ya ne dolzhn byl ukhodit' vot tak.”

Because he is sorry–sorry for all of it. But most importantly, for leaving when he shouldn’t have.

“It’s okay, you texted. Said you were safe. I just worry.”

“No, that’s not…” Shane ducks forward and kisses Ilya on the mouth. “I got angry and overwhelmed, and the only thing I could think about was needing space to breathe and think. I grabbed the keys and left like a selfish dickhead when I could’ve just gone upstairs. Ilya, I am so sorry.”

“No, I am sorry, I spring big conversation on you without warning,” Ilya says, his giant hands bracing against Shane’s back, anchoring Shane to his lap while also tugging him closer.

“You did nothing wrong,” Shane says. “You’re my husband, and you’re concerned, you should be able to bring these things up without me freaking out.” Ilya’s fingers dig into Shane’s back. “I got defensive and angry because I know—I know you’re right. I don’t… I don’t know why I do it. Obsess about my diet. It’s an anxious control thing, obviously. When I feel like things outside of my control are spinning out, I obsess. I thought I was doing better but…”

“What is making you feel like this?” Ilya asks slowly, carefully.

“I don’t know,” Shane says for what must be the one hundredth time today. “Everything changed so fast in the last six months. And yeah, like, 98% of it has been incredible—us and Anya, finally getting to live together all the time. Being married. And the Centaurs have been amazing. But it’s a lot of change, really fast.”

“It is.” Ilya nods, small and sharp. A pit in Shane’s stomach forms—heavy and bottomless. Shane hasn’t seen Ilya this tight and guarded since before their first summer at the cottage. Back before they knew that the other felt the same, before they knew what they could be, what they could have.

Shane has spent his entire life in the pursuit of perfection. Turned it into a goddamn career. Has bent himself over backwards and cut himself into smaller and smaller pieces to be what everyone expected him to be.

But Ilya has never asked him to be anything but himself. If there is anyone on this earth, on this timeline, in this reality, that Shane can say these words out loud to without judgment, it’s Ilya.

“I am so insanely happy. Like the kind of happy that I thought was going to be impossible for me when I was younger.” Shane cups Ilya’s scruffy cheeks, sweeps his thumbs under his hazel eyes. “To be married to you, to get to play professional hockey on the same team. We have a whole life that we’re building together, and I am so scared of losing it.”

“Shane,” Ilya breathes his name like he’s been punched in the lungs.

“It’s not like—it’s not like with the plane,” Shane chokes on the words. He isn’t sure there will ever be a time when even thinking about almost losing Ilya won’t leave him slightly ill. “And it isn’t anything you do or say or—”

“Is your brain,” Ilya says, reaching up and tapping Shane’s temple. “Brain is liar, and even though you know it is a liar, you can’t ignore it, either.”

“Yes, that! And my brain—it’s like screaming at me that I have to be perfect all the time, I have to get everything right, every single time, or I’ll lose it all. And the eating—”

“Is something easy for you to control,” Ilya finishes for him, understanding clear in his eyes. “If you eat the way your brain tells you to, it is a way for you to be perfect and not lose…everything.”

Shane isn’t sure how there is any water left in his body for him to be still crying. He curls into Ilya, his face pressing into his neck. “I know it’s stupid, doesn’t make any sense,” he mumbles into Ilya’s skin.

“It isn’t stupid,” Ilya protests. “As Galina says, ‘Brains can be jerks.’”

“Galina is right. My brain is a giant asshole sometimes,” Shane says.

Ilya hums, says carefully, “Maybe you should…find your own Galina.”

Shane takes a shaky inhale as he pulls himself back up to look his husband in the eye. He places his hand on Ilya’s chest, palm over his heart to feel it beat-beat-beat with warmth and life and love.

There is no more running from this thing that has been chasing him like a dog biting his ankles. No dodging or deking or swerving away for another few laps. It is time to face this. Time to be as brave as Ilya.

Shane says, “Yeah, I think I should.”
—

It is shockingly easy to find a mental health professional who specializes in anxiety and disordered eating. Shane goes into a physical office in Ottawa to meet with a very nice general psychologist named Paul, who tells him within seven minutes the type of specialized professional he needs. It makes Shane feel stupid for not coming in sooner—almost his entire life, he’s been fighting these battles in his head, and less than 10 minutes speaking with a professional and they know what he needs? He does his best not to beat himself up, but he wishes he had gotten over himself sooner.

Shane is handed the card of a woman named Elizabeth, based out of Toronto, who takes on virtual clients and can meet with him before the end of the week.

Shane knows this isn’t going to be easy. That progress will be made and lost, and that there will probably never be an actual end to this.

But as he sits on the couch beside Ilya discussing their upcoming practice schedule, Anya wedged between them, he knows he wouldn’t want to be doing this with anyone else by his side.

-*-

First Official Practice

Ilya wakes up to the bed rocking like an earthquake has hit Ottawa. “First day of practice! First day of practice!” Shane chants as he crawls across the sheets to jostle Ilya awake.

Ilya groans. “Too much excitement, Hollander, for this early in the morning.” He cracks his eyes open to find his husband in slightly sweaty workout clothes, most likely from his pre-breakfast run. “Especially from someone who has already exercised.”

Shane giggles—full-on exuberant giggles—as he leans down to litter Ilya’s face with kisses and whispers in his ear, “First day of practice!”

Grinning like a fool, Ilya grabs Shane and rolls them over so he is pinning him to the mattress. “You know you’ve been practicing with the team for a week already, yes?”

“Open skates and non-mandatory practices, not official practice,” Shane argues, as though anyone but him would be excited about the first day of official practice over a decade into their career. Shane kisses Ilya’s cheek and shoves at his shoulders until he can wiggle off the bed. He walks backwards out of the room, grinning like a maniac. “Let’s go!”

Ilya checks the time on his phone and groans in agony. It is barely 6:00 am. Practice doesn’t start until 10:00. He hauls himself out of bed, mumbling, “I married a psychopath.”

He smiles the entire walk down to the kitchen.
—

They are, unsurprisingly, the first ones to arrive at the arena. Not even the coaching staff has arrived yet.

They enter the locker room, and even though this isn’t the first time they’ve done this, Ilya gets a thrill as they set their bags into their adjoining lockers. Looking at the official name tapes at eye level, in big, bold capitals, ROZANOV right beside HOLLANDER will never get old.

Shane is a man on a mission to get into his practice gear, skates, and pads in record time.

“It’s not a race,” Ilya tells him as he lazily changes into his compression shirt.

“Good thing for you because you’d already have lost,” Shane snarks, attempting to wrangle his hair back into a tie before grabbing his helmet and stick. “Come on, let’s go.”

“You go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute,” Ilya promises. Shane leaves with a quick wave.

Ilya sits on the bench and takes in the empty locker room. Takes his time putting on his pads and practice jersey. Laces his skates at a pace that would make Shane complain if he were present. Ilya does not care, he wants to live in this moment for as long as he can.

The moment when he is the only man on Earth who knows that this team is winning the Stanley Cup this year. He knows it to be true in his bones the way he knows that Shane is the love of his life.

No room for doubt, just certainty.

Ilya is finishing up tying his skates when Bood and Barrett come into the room. “Hey, Cap,” Bood greets as he walks to Ilya and pulls him into a one-armed hug as though they didn’t see each other yesterday at optional practice. “Hollzy already putting us all to shame out there?”

“He doesn’t even have to be on ice to put you to shame,” Ilya replies.

“And the favoritism begins,” Barrett says, toeing off his shoes and tugging off his shirt.

Ilya immediately regrets his snark. It is important to both him and Shane to be professional at work—they are no longer hiding, but they also won’t do anything to make anyone question their spots on the team. “That’s not—I wouldn’t—”

“Joke, Roz,” Barrett cuts in. “We know you would never. Mainly because Hollander would slit your throat with his skate if you did.”

Ilya laughs. “He is known for his bloodlust.”

“God, I’d love to see that,” Bood says, a far-off twinkle in his eye as though he is imagining it. “Think we can be a bad enough influence on Hollzy for him to his knuckles a little bloody this year?”

Ilya hates the idea of Shane getting into a fight on the ice. He also loves it. He does not have time to examine these opposing feelings. Instead, he shakes his head and says, “Finish up and let’s go.”

“Roz, we’re the only four here. Shit, Wiebe isn’t even here yet,” Barrett says.

“We want the Cup this year, yes?”

Bood and Barrett nod. Bood says, “Duh.”

“Then let’s go.”
—

Practice is brutal and exhausting, exhilarating and fun in a way it never has been before. There is magic in the air.

Ilya knows, and by the looks in the others’ eyes, they are starting to understand as well.

Shane and Haas stay on the ice after Wiebe releases them. They’ve been building their chemistry throughout optional practices, and they are already terrifyingly efficient together. Dillon cannot keep up on left wing. Hell, Ilya doesn’t think he could keep up.

Barrett comes up to lean against the boards at Ilya’s side as he watches them skate around one another, passing the puck back and forth, firing shots on the net with such accuracy and ferocity that it is a minor act of God they haven’t put a hole through it.

After a particularly beautiful top-shelf shot from Shane, Barrett whistles under his breath. “Is our second line going to be better than us?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Not today. Maybe not even this year. But those two…” Ilya watches Shane and Haas come to a stop on the ice; they’re both flushed, Shane is speaking rapidly, and Haas drinks in every word. “We find those two a proper left wing, and they’ll be scarier than you, me, and Bood.”

Barrett lets out a cacophonous booming laugh that echoes through the whole arena, drawing Shane and Luca’s attention for a moment. “Sorry,” he yells, throwing up a hand just in case they can’t hear him.

“What’s so funny? You don’t agree?” Ilya asks.

“No, no, I agree,” Barrett replies. “I just realized why you’ve had that look on your face all day. Holy shit. We’re winning the Cup this year. And like, probably every year after.”

Ilya tips his head as Shane and Haas part on the ice, Shane grinning as Haas takes off down the ice. Even from a distance, their eyes meet, and Shane’s smile is big and bright and determined. It’s the most beautiful thing Ilya has ever seen.
—

That night, the Centaurs Social Media Team posts a group of photos.

The first is of LaPointe and Young cheesing at the camera and holding up peace signs, they are both in only half their padding, their helmets hanging off their heads. The next photo is of Hayes in full gear in the goal, talking with Dykstra, who is tapping his stick against the ice.

The third is of Wiebe talking to the whole team, the fourth of Ilya, Barrett, and Bood flying down the ice.

The fifth is of Shane and Luca still on the ice after practice, with Shane pointing down the ice with his stick and Luca listening intently. The sixth of Holmberg and Chouinard doing drills. Chiron appears in the seventh, and the eighth is of the majority of the team messing around in the locker room after practice. The ninth is from behind the home team bench of Wiebe and the coaching staff watching practice, clipboards and iPads in hand, most of them smiling knowingly.

The final photo contains no one. It is of two locker cubbies side-by-side, the names ROZANOV and HOLLANDER can be read at the dead center of the image.

The caption reads: DAY 1🏒

-*-

First Visit to the Children’s Hospital

Shane no longer gets nervous for work events. He has accepted that he will never be as affable or charming in interviews as he tries to be. That his serious, professional demeanor usually makes him seem wooden and uptight. Robotic, some have said.

Dinners, galas, and award ceremonies are fine, as he can either mimic those around him or fade into the background.

But fan interactions—especially with kids—still make him nervous. Because they matter. Montreal fans were clear about their expectations for him: play well and receive admiration. Play poorly or fall in love with your rival and marry him, and face banishment.

Ottawa has been the opposite, so far. There have only been a couple of games, but everyone has been kind and overwhelmingly excited to see him. He has been honestly shocked by how many people are already wearing 24 in Centaurs red and black in the crowds. It makes his heart do a weird wobble when he thinks about it too much.

The team is heading over to the Children’s Hospital after practice today, and Shane is desperate for it to go well. Harris even coordinated with a local therapy dog training company to have some puppies-in-training join them.

Ilya is over the moon.

Practice goes smoothly—Haas and Shane are clicking in a way Shane has never had with an official line mate before (he can never tell Hayden this). Dillon has been pushed down to third line, and LaPointe has been pulled up to see how he can keep up with them. So far, kind of.

“You good, LP?” Shane asks after a play that ended in a sneaky goal from Haas that Hayes gave a polite golf clap for. Shane had provided the assist. LaPointe had barely participated in the play.

“I’m good,” LaPointe says. “Don’t slow down for me. I can’t learn how to keep up if you’re giving me training wheels during practice.”

Shane grins at that.

And he doesn’t stop grinning the rest of practice. He loves hockey. Has always loved hockey. But the older he got, the more money he made, the more responsibilities that came along with it all. It bogged down the love. Diluted it. And he doesn’t know if there’s anyone to blame but himself. He put so much pressure on himself because he played for Montreal, and that environment was unforgiving.

It has been exceptionally eye-opening being on this team.

Shane never told Ilya, but he had been worried before their first official practice. That he’d be too intense for them, too neurotic, too serious. Hell, he had been too serious for half the Voyageurs, and they were a serious team.

The Centaurs were good guys, great guys. Talented players, too. There was a light to them, a joy Ilya nurtured in them that Shane loved. A light that he hoped he wouldn’t smother with his obsessive game tape review and over-analyzation, his pre-practice conditioning, and post-practice drills.

As he should have expected, he has been welcomed with open arms. Hayes, Chouinard, and Dykstra usually join him for pre-practice weight training, the entire first and second offensive lines staying on for post-practice drills. Haas may actually be watching more tape now than he does. Barrett and Bood pick his brain about plays and strategy, about the stats of their upcoming opponents.

Hockey is fun here. He loves it again. Loves these guys, this team.

Once practice ends, they all shower quickly and carpool to the hospital. Ilya happily babbling about Mario Kart and puppies. Shane is content to listen.

The Children’s Hospital is bright and colorful—cartoon characters’ faces plastered on posters litter the halls, asking about flu shots and cold symptoms.

The team splits up, guided by hospital staff to various wings. Shane sticks with Ilya, Hayes, and Bood, doing his best to read the signage but losing his way as they go up a couple floors, and take too many lefts and rights through the labyrinthine halls.

Ilya chats with their guide, Matilda, an older woman in a gray pantsuit, whom he seems to know well, as he asks after her children and grandchildren. She finishes her story about her youngest daughter, when she gasps and says, “I am so sorry, I forgot to say congratulations on your wedding, Ilya! So happy for you! And the kids will be so happy to see you again!” She swings the door wide, and they enter a ward that makes Shane draw up short when he reads the sign.

Neuro Oncology

Brain cancer. Kids. Kids with brain cancer.

Oh, he did not mentally prepare enough for this.

Hayes sidles up to him and says, “It never gets easier, but the kids are worth it. Promise.”

“Yeah, no, I just,” Shane clears his throat, “I thought it’d be kids in for broken arms and appendicitis. The easy stuff that they go home after a day or two for. Not…this.”

“It used to be like that,” Hayes replies, “but then we got a new Captain who made it a point to visit a new wing of the hospital every time we came. Now we all split up, and every wing gets a visit before we all leave.”

Shane looks to his husband, who is already entering a room, greeting a family. The child—she is so heart-breakingly small—yells in excitement when she spots Ilya. “That sounds like him, yeah.”

Hayes grabs him by the collar and drags him into a room where a boy, long and gangly, clearly just beginning his awkward teenage years, is lying in the bed. His head is shaved, and he has various tubes and wires attached to his body. He is playing a game on a cell phone and ignoring his parents, who are seated along the windows. “You guys cool if we say hi?” Hayes asks as they come to a stop at the foot of the kid’s bed.

The boy looks up from his phone, annoyed and uninterested by their appearance, and returns his attention to his phone. Only to drop it into his lap and double-take at them. “Holy shit,” he gapes, “you’re Shane Hollander.”

“Seth, language,” the kid’s mother scolds as Shane laughs.

“Yeah, I am,” Shane says.

“What is Shane Hollander doing in my room?” Seth asks, staring at Shane like he isn’t real.

“Our team visits every month,” Hayes replies.

“Oh my god, you’re Wyatt fucking Hayes,” the kid says, his gaze tracking to Hayes. Hayes’s cheeks go pink.

“Seth, language,” his mother says, but her tone is one of habit, not of any actual remonstration.

“No one is going to believe I met Wyatt Hayes and Shane Hollander,” Seth says.

“We could take a picture with you,” Shane suggests. “As proof.”

“Yes!” Seth practically leaps from his bed with his enthusiasm. But Shane and Hayes make their way over to him to take a few pictures. They speak with Seth and his parents for a little bit, then take their leave to go see another patient.

As they’re leaving Seth’s room, Hayes says, “See? Totally fucking worth it.”
—

After the Neuro Oncology wing, they head down to the cafeteria which has been adjusted to suit the day’s activities. The tables are filled with board games and Legos. A sitting area with a few TVs is already hosting video games tournaments. The side doors lead outside to a small playground and a half-sized basketball court. There’s an arts and crafts corner and an entire area sectioned off to contain the therapy puppies. The therapy puppy area is the most popular station.

Ilya practically sprints to the puppies before Barret wrangles him into an excessively loud Mario Kart showdown. Bood and Hayes head outside to play basketball, leaving Shane to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. He considers joining some of the kids messing with the Legos, but as the noise and excitement rises, he eyes the playground. Plans a route to the quiet of outside.

But Haas grabs his elbow before he can escape. Wordlessly, Luca nods towards the doors Shane had just entered through, and tugs Shane back out into the hall.

They head back to the elevator bank and while they wait, Shane asks, “Where are we going?”

“My favorite place here,” Luca says. “It’s quiet.”

Shane nods, doesn’t press.

They take the elevator up three floors and Shane smiles as they pass the direction sign pointing them towards the nursery.

They stop outside the wide windows that overlook all of the slumbering newborns.

“Babies?” Shane says, quirking his eyebrow at Luca.

Luca shrugs. “I have a big family. Lots of siblings, too many cousins. It was always chaos growing up. Good chaos, but still. Whenever things got too rowdy or my sisters wouldn’t stop torturing me, I would go look after the littler kids, the babies.” Luca doesn’t wait for Shane to reply, just nudges him further down the hall to the NICU.

The charge nurse smiles when she notices Luca, stands and gives him a motherly hug. “Good to see you back!” She turns her attention to Shane. “And you brought a friend!”

“Pauline, this is Shane Hollander, the newest Centaur,” Luca introduces him.

“I live in Ottawa Luca, I know who Shane Hollander is.” Pauline shakes Shane’s hand. “Welcome to the NICU, Mr. Hollander.”

“Shane is fine,” Shane says.

“Come this way.” Pauline gestures them around the desk and towards a room with three incubators in it. “We can head in here first. Oliver’s parents both have work today and he’s such a snuggler. So is Stella. Luca, show Shane how to prepare.”

Luca walks Shane through proper hand-washing procedure and how to robe up. They put on hats to pull back their hair and shoe covers.

Pauline stands between two incubators and says, “Who wants to take Oli?”

“Wait, we’re going to hold them?” Shane asks, taking a step back.

“Only if you want,” Pauline explains. “And only the babies who are healthy enough for it, and whose parents or guardians have signed the consent forms.” At Shane’s continued stare of disbelief, she continues, “It’s good for them, being held.”

Shane stammed, “I don’t–”

Luca steps forward and holds out his hands for Oliver. “I’ll show you.”

Pauline deftly pulls the tiny baby from the incubator and gently transfers him into Luca’s huge hands. Luca is actually Shane’s size, maybe smaller, even. But with a newborn in his arms, he looks over-sized.

“See, it’s fine,” Luca says, rocking gently on his heels. “And Pauline stays with us the whole time.”

“Want to say hi to Stella?” Pauline offers. “You don’t have to hold her if you don’t feel ready.”

Shane nods, shuffles to stand beside Stella’s incubator. And wow, okay. That is a little baby.

Shane slowly pushes his hand through the incubator hand-hole and softly traces his finger along her arm reaching her miniscule hand which latches on to his finger and doesn’t let go. “Woah.”

Luca smiles and says, “I know.”
–

Shane and Ilya get home after dark, having spent the entire afternoon and early evening at the hospital. They don’t even make it past the foyer before Shane crashes into Ilya, his body more drained than after a playoff series run.

“Tired?” Ilya whispers as they embrace, practically holding Shane up. Anya pads over to them and circles their legs.

“Exhausted,” Shane mumbles into his shoulder. “But good. Like so good. Those kids—”

“They are the best,” Ilya says. “They go through so much yet somehow stay so happy.”

“It really puts a lot in perspective. Good reminder of what’s really important.”

Ilya kisses Shane’s cheek, then his forehead, then his other cheek.

They stand in the foyer, holding onto each other for a few more minutes.

-*-

First Media Crash Out

They have been anticipating it. In fact, Harris had been working with them–mostly Ilya–on how to firmly but politely handle the relentless stream of incredibly invasive questions about their relationship. Shane had been receiving media training at the knee of Yuna Hollander since before Bantam League. No one was worried about Shane losing his cool with the reporters.

In retrospect, Harris would admit that that had been a glaring oversight.

They were barely three weeks into the season, and not a single member of the Ottawa Centaurs had completed an interview without being bombarded with questions about Ilya and Shane’s relationship.

Every time, it was the same questions: What’s it like playing with a married couple? Does it affect the team? With this many openly queer players, are they forcing their lifestyle on the rest of the team? Is it a distraction? Is it affecting their games? Is it affecting the team’s game? They just got married in July, but we haven’t seen them be particularly affectionate on the ice–is there already trouble in paradise? Or was it even a real relationship? Was this just a ploy for more attention and sponsorships?

Ilya shrugged off the questions and talked about the game they had just played, regardless. The rest of the team took the questions in stride–Bood, Barrett, and Hayes going so far as to give the interviewer a silent glare until an appropriate, game-related question was asked. Dykstra and Chouinard had taken to ignoring the reporters and conducting interviews with each other.

Shane seemed to be the only one struggling with this intense focus on his relationship with his husband rather than on hockey. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that after the first couple of games, the obsession with their marriage would die out. That if he and Ilya maintained their professional distance during games, interviews, and appearances, people would focus on the incredible hockey the Centaurs were playing and not the fact that two of their players were married to one another.

They are in Charlotte, having just destroyed the hometown Terrapins–a particularly satisfying win as the Terrapins had a fascination with throwing out a particular slur throughout all three periods, and yet all of the goals scored that game came from Barrett, Ilya, and Shane. Not to mention, Hayes had bowed at the end of his shutout performance to an entire arena of boos.

Post-game, especially a win this resounding, Shane is usually one of the first showered and in his suit, ready to get back to the plane or hotel to review tape of their next opponent and sleep. But tonight he is keyed up, adrenaline spiking through his veins in a way that makes his fingers dance along his thighs. Ilya, still in his uniform, gives him a half-lidded smile that lets Shane know that his husband has post-game plans to work out all of Shane’s extra…aggression. Shane bites his lip. The tape review can wait until tomorrow.

That’s when Wiebe enters the locker room. “Alright, Rozanov, Hollander, and Hayes, media call.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Coach?” Shane asks.

Wiebe shakes his head. “Oh, I’m sure it’s a terrible one, but the calendar demands it.”

Wiebe holds up a clipboard and flips to a color-coded piece of paper that Harris had meticulously charted for post-game interviews. Usually, the players requested by the media–the ones who had particularly good or bad performances or the Captain–were the ones who did the interviews. But when it very quickly became abundantly clear that Ilya and Shane were going to be the only Centaurs requested for interviews for the foreseeable future, Harris built a chart. Now the requests don’t matter; everyone rotates, and every eleven games, Ilya and Shane will do post-game interviews together. “Gotta feed the beast,” Harris explained, “but not too much or they’ll get greedy.”

“Are you sure Hollzy and Rozy even need to be there?” Bood asks, standing up from his bench. He walks to Hayes and wraps his arm around him. “I’m sure they only want to talk to this guy after that fucking shutout!”

The slight tension in the room disappears as the team erupts, chanting, “Hazy! Hazy! Hazy!”

Hayes blushes, says, “I’m pretty sure I could walk out there naked, and I still won’t receive any questions.”

Shane hates that he’s probably right.

“Let’s get this over with,” Shane huffs, standing.

“That’s the spirit, moya lyubov,” Ilya says, kissing his cheek and leading both Shane and Hayes out of the locker room.

The interview room is Shane’s personal nightmare come to life. A small, sweaty hotbox with a low ceiling, no windows, and no air-conditioning. It is filled to capacity with reporters and camera-people all foaming at the mouth as they watch him enter the room and take a seat at the table on the slightly elevated stage at the front of the clustered chairs. The energy in the room shifts from shocked disbelief–no one can quite believe Hollander and Rozanov have been sent out together–to over-eager in less than a second.

The questions begin before they are all even seated.

“Hollander, how does it feel to be second-line to your husband?” someone yells.

Ilya swears in English and Russian, the mic carrying the profanity to everyone’s ears.

Hayes looks at Shane’s frozen grimace, then leans into his mic. “So much for southern hospitality, damn.”

Beneath the table, Ilya’s hand reaches over and squeezes Shane’s knee. An encouragement or a reminder to show restraint, Shane isn’t quite sure. He leans forward and clears his throat, “I guess if that’s really your first question after that kind of a win, I’d say it feels like the current line builds are exactly how they should be. Our team chemistry is really flowing.”

A new voice immediately follows up with, “So it isn’t causing any trouble at home? You going from being a first-line center and Captain on a Stanley Cup-winning team to now having to play second fiddle to your husband on a team with zero Cups?”

Shane stares out at the sea of people, gobsmacked. Apparently everyone in Charlotte wants to piss him off today, not just the Terrapins. “No, it isn’t a problem for us.”

A woman in a black blazer in the front row doesn’t bother raising her hand, instead, leaping to her feet and asking, “Do you think you have an unfair advantage getting to play a professional sport on the same team as your spouse?”

Shane pulls back from the mic as though he has been physically slapped across the face. An unfair advantage? He just spent the entire night being called homophobic slurs. Has spent the last half year having his relationship and sexuality publicly dissected by strangers on a daily basis. And these people wanted to act like they had an–

“No, not advantage,” Ilya answers. And to Shane’s shock, he does not add an additional snarky comment about how annoying and boring Shane is.

“What do you have to say about how much of a distraction your relationship is from your team and the game itself?” some asshole from the back asks.

“I mean, you’re the ones asking only questions about them instead of the game, so…” Hayes answers before Shane or Ilya can. “A game where they both scored goals, and I shut down the goal. If anyone cares, we can also talk about that.”

“Hayes, can you comment on how having two men in a relationship affects the team dynamics?” a guy in a quarter zip yells.

“Love to,” Hayes says. “It doesn’t affect the team dynamics that they’re married. It affects the team dynamics that they’re Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, two of the best players the league has seen in three decades. We’re playing tighter, faster, better hockey. Rozanov has been a hell of a Captain for years, and adding Hollander to the line-up is just elevating all our play. We’re eleven games in, and we’ve only lost once.”

Shane’s heart clenches. He leans forward and mouths Thank you to Hayes.

Undeterred, the next question is lobbed at them. “Is there any discussion of the effect your relationship has had on the league? Other teams?”

“Is there any discussion?” Ilya repeats, his eyebrows coming together in an irritated V.

“Pretty sure it’s all you guys ask about,” Hayes says.

Shane can’t help himself, says, “Don’t see how our being married would really affect any of the other teams.”

The reporter, simpleton that he is, continues, “Hockey is a contact sport, a lot of touching, may make some players uncomfortable.”

“Because I’m gay, right?” Shane says, any control he had entered the room with long gone. “They’d be uncomfortable because I’m gay, and what? It’s contagious? Or possibly I’m going to what? Use it as an opportunity to grope them? Jesus Christ.”

The room is silent, save for the clicking of cameras and the reporter's stammering. “That’s not what I–didn’t mean to imply–”

“That’s exactly what you meant,” Ilya says.

“Any actual questions about the game we, as professional athletes, just played?” Hayes asks in a valiant attempt to get the interview back on track.

“There has been a noted lack of affection between you both,” a woman in the middle of the room says. “There is speculation that your relationship has been for publicity and that your marriage is fake. Do you have anything to say about that?”

Shane looks at Ilya, who looks as shocked by the audacity of this reporter as Shane feels. Hayes says into the microphone, “What is in the water in this city? Like, is it lead poisoning? Or some sort of brain-eating black mold?”

“So let me get this straight, we’re too gay, and our relationship is a spectacle meant to make everyone distracted and uncomfortable? But we’re also not acting in love enough, so we’re in a made-up PR relationship?” Shane asks. He and Ilya had been through hell, and now these know-nothing strangers were accusing them of faking their relationship? “None of that makes any sense.”

Ilya nods, says directly into the mic, “I agree. Is extremely stupid, moya lyubov.”

“You have to admit there is very little proof to support your claimed relationship,” the reporter bravely (or stupidly) pushes. “The FanMail video from Hayden Pike, which most still speculate was a deep-fake or prank, and a few photos from your wedding, which were–”

Shane holds up his left hand, where his wedding band has returned post-game. “Is this not enough proof? We were outed without our consent, our privacy violated on the basest level, forcing us to make a public statement about our relationship before we were ready. What more do you people want?” Shane asks. “Do you just want us to fuck right here on the table? Would that help everyone wrap their heads around the fact that we’re married?”

The room is silent, not even the cameras clicking.

Shane clenches his jaw. “We don’t owe you shit.” He pushes back from the table and stands, holding his hand out for Ilya. “We’re done here, yeah?”

The room sparks with action–reporters yelling, cameras flashing again. This is going to be all over the internet in less than half an hour. Shane will probably have a panic attack about this tomorrow morning, but right now, he can’t be fucked to care.

Ilya grabs his hand and follows Shane off stage, his face alight like a child on Christmas morning. Hayes’s mic picks up a rush of murmured Russian as they pass by him. Hayes stands and follows them out of the room.

Once they are safely down the hallway outside of the Visitor’s Locker Room, Shane says, “Holy shit. I cannot believe I just did that.”

Ilya kisses his forehead. “Solnyshko, you were incredible.”

“Amazing, Hollander,” Hayes says as he passes them by. Claps them both on the back reassuringly. “Ten out of ten, would highly recommend you do it again.”

He disappears into the locker room.

“I think Harris is going to kill me,” Shane replies. “Once this hits the internet, which will be any second. He’ll probably be out for my blood.”

Ilya wraps Shane in a hug. “Harris will understand. He is just as irritated by these questions.” Ilya pulls back and tugs Shane towards the exit. “Now, let’s go.”

“What? You need to finish getting changed. Our bags, our gear is still in the locker—”

“Does not matter, team will grab it for us. Time to go to the hotel.”

Shane flushes as he is dragged out the doors and into the warm North Carolina night. “Ilya, the team isn’t even on the bus…”

A black sedan is idling beside the rented team bus that has been transporting them around Charlotte. Ilya holds up his cell phone and waggles his eyebrows. “I got us an Uber.”

Shane laughingly follows his husband to the car, to the hotel, to bed.

Shane is correct–video recordings of the interview are all over the internet before midnight. By the end of the week, the official ESPN YouTube video has over 111 million views.

The top comment on the video has almost 14 million likes. It reads: “We’re done here, yeah?” Yes, Daddy. Sorry, Daddy. 🥵 Also, major congrats, Ilya Rozanov, for getting to handle ALL OF THAT

Ilya prints out the comment, frames it, and keeps it on their dresser beside a photo of Anya.

-*-

First No English Day

Shane is frustrated by his glacially slow progress in learning Russian. He has been working at this slowly but surely for the last half-decade, and he feels like he is barely able to cobble sentences together.

He listens to language podcasts and has workbooks to help build his vocabulary. He listens to the playlists of only Russian artists that Ilya builds him on Spotify, and they watch TV shows from Ilya’s youth with the English subtitles on to further Shane’s linguistic grasp.

But it doesn’t feel like enough. It makes his chest hurt every time Ilya says something in his native language, and Shane asks him to repeat himself and then say it in English.

“Lyubimyy,” Ilya says, when he sees Shane’s frustration mounting one evening while they are cooking dinner and Shane forgets the Russian word for scallions, “you have learned so much so quickly. Russian is a difficult language, it takes time to learn.”

“English is difficult too, and you learned it so fast,” Shane laments.

Ilya chuckles. “This is a competition, too?”

“No, that’s not—” Shane laughs, scrubs at his neck. “That’s not how I meant it. I just hate that there are times when you have to speak English because I still can’t understand you. That’s not fair to you.”

Ilya turns off the burner that is currently cooking the quinoa. “Shane, you know I do not expect you to speak Russian fluently. This pressure is—”

“I know you don’t. I’m putting the pressure on myself because we’ve been together in some way, shape, or form for almost our entire adult lives,” Shane says. “Being able to speak your language in our home whenever you want is like the lowest bar to clear, and I’m failing you. And God, when we have kids, I want to be able to help you teach them how to—”

Ilya’s mouth on his cuts Shane off. Ilya spins him, hands going to the backs of his thighs and hoisting him up onto the counter. When their lips finally separate, Ilya breathes, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Knees clutching at Ilya’s waist, Shane grabs his chin, kisses his cheeks. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Ilya meets Shane’s eyes and licks his lips. “This is something you really want? To be better at speaking and understanding Russian?”

Shane nods emphatically. “Yes.”

Ilya’s hands skim up and down Shane’s thighs, push his knees up higher around his waist, forcing Shane’s ankles to lock behind his ass. “The thing that made me learn English was not having the option to speak to anyone in Russian.”

“Makes sense,” Shane says, edging himself closer to the edge of the counter, seeking friction. “Total immersion.”

Ilya dips forward, his forehead pushing up under Shane’s chin to kiss along his neck. “Da, immeno eto.”

Shane sighs, his eyelids fluttering as his hands go behind his back to brace himself on the counter. “So, what? We do ‘No English’ days?”

“We can,” Ilya nips at Shane’s ear, tugs at the hem of his shirt, “work out the details later.”

Shane shifts and grabs at Ilya’s shirt as well. “That sounds like a good idea.”

They do work out the details later that night, and miraculously don’t burn dinner.
—

They decide to have their first ‘No English’ day on a Sunday, when they have an optional morning practice, and nothing else planned for that day.

Shane wakes up nervous. He knows Ilya won’t berate him or make him feel awful for getting things wrong–and Shane has been surviving, and getting off on, Ilya’s teasing since 2010.

He just…he wants to get this right for Ilya.

They are never chatty during breakfast, but the meal is quieter than usual as Shane spins his wheels mentally.

“Vso v poryadke, moya lyubov?” Ilya asks.

Shane nods. “Da, vso v poryadke.”

And he is fine. Just unspeakably nervous of failing the love of life in yet another thing.

“Shane,” Ilya reaches across the table and grabs Shane’s hand, “this isn’t a test or…or a punishment.”

“Hey, no English!” Shane protests, then drops his forehead to the table. “Holy shit, how did I fail this so fast?”

Ilya chuckles lightly. “Eto ne proval. Prosto nuzhno prodolzhat popytki. Eto ne obyazatel'no dolzhno byt' ideal'no. And it is okay if it is never perfect. I love you and your terrible accent.”

“Ya znayu,” Shane says, poking at his turkey bacon. His head snaps up. “Wait. How bad is my accent?”

Ilya just laughs.
—

Practice is the most English Shane hears that day, but Ilya continues to speak to him in Russian. He calls out directives, insults, and sexually charged innuendos with equal zeal.

“What is he saying?” Luca asks Shane as they set up for passing drills.

Shane shakes his head, says, “You don’t want to know.”

Unsurprisingly, hockey-related Russian is Shane’s most understood vocabulary. Though he never had a chance to practice it with the sole Russian on the Voyageurs over the previous couple of years, it had been exciting to tease Ilya out on the ice in his native tongue.

It has also been a great way for Shane to learn directions like left and right, up and down, backwards and forwards, things like faster and slower. Not to mention Russian curse words and phrases.

Thus far, Shane’s favorite phrase is zhopa s ruchkoy--which literally translates to ‘ass with a handle’ but means ‘useless’ or ‘pointless’ or sometimes ‘smartass’–followed closely by pizdets--meaning ‘everything is fucked,’ an absolute calamity of a situation. Much to Ilya’s chagrin, Shane now knows that dolboyob means ‘useless moron’ and has forbidden him from calling Hayden that anymore.

They end practice with a first-line vs. second-line scrimmage that has Ilya and Shane laughingly cussing each other out. Barrett and Bood request Russian insults from Ilya, who swiftly teaches them all of the ones that make Shane blush from their vulgarity. Shane is only moderately offended when Ilya compliments Bood’s pronunciation.

When they get home and have eaten lunch, Shane just decides to jump in with both feet. He grabs Ilya by the hand and walks him around the house. Points to all of the furniture and the lamps, mirrors, and photographs, and tests his vocabulary skills. Tells Ilya to sit down on the couch, to lie on the floor, to walk up the stairs.

Ilya squints at Shane from the bottom of the stairs, says, “I know you are very polite Canadian, lyubimyy, but would you really ask me using the formal ‘you’?”

“Fuck, okay.” Shane is horrifyingly bad at formal vs. informal. Is somehow better at remembering the order of the words than he is at remembering to use informal ‘you’ with his own husband. He changes to the informal, and Ilya goes up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, Shane runs through the different tenses and then starts going over the topography he sees out their windows.

Trees. Derev’ya.

River. Reka.

Sun. Solntse.

Clouds. Oblaka. Sky. Nebo. And though they aren’t there yet: moon and stars. Luna y zvezdy.

Ilya grins the whole time, only correcting Shane on his pronunciation a couple of times.

They take Anya for her afternoon walk, and Ilya talks. He speaks slowly, but animatedly, about their upcoming away game. About taking Anya to the doggy spa, the movies they’ll watch on the plane, beating the hell out of LA, going out with Rose after the game. Every few sentences, he stops, has Shane translate what he said without typing things out on his phone to visualize the words.

By the end of their walk, Shane is confidently responding to Ilya without having to translate whole sentences out loud.

Food and cooking-related Russian, like hockey, is easier for Shane as they are his most used vocabulary and phrasings. He struggles a little bit while they’re eating, his brain lagging a bit, but Ilya is happy to patiently wait while Shane works things through.

On the other hand, later that night in bed, Shane is absolutely not so patient.

“Oh my God,” he groans into the mattress, “please just let me come. Pick up the pace. Jesus Christ, something.”

Ilya chuckles darkly, his hips maintaining their languid pace as he rocks back and forth, in and out of Shane. “Isn’t midnight yet. No English.” Ilya smacks his hand against Shane’s thigh.

Shane whimpers. “Mean.” Shane pushes back, attempts to goad Ilya into providing more pressure, more friction, more anything. “I can barely think in English right now.”

“I guess we stay like this then.” And Ilya has the nerve, the audacity, the fucking gall to stop thrusting completely.

Shane reaches for his own cock, and Ilya, reflexes of a professional athlete, slaps Shane’s hand back to the bed.

“What the fuck, are you serious?” Shane pushes up and glares over his shoulder at his husband. This beautiful, perfect masochist that he married.

Casual as ever, as though they are standing in the cereal aisle of the grocery store and not in bed actively fucking, Ilya says, “Da. Eto ochen' ser'yezno. Imenno etogo ty i khoteli. Pomnite?”

And yes, yes, Shane did ask for this. For ‘full immersion.” Asked for help to learn his husband’s language so he could always communicate in his own home.

And this is what he gets for it: edged within an inch of his fucking life.

Shane clears his throat, racks his brain for basic Russian words because fuck actual sentence structure all the way to hell. “Pozhaluysta. Yeshche. Sil'neye.”

Ilya grins, whispers, “I knew those would be useful phrases,” and finally, finally picks up his pace.

Shane screams every Russian profanity he knows.

-*-

First Game Against Montreal

The day before their first game against the Montreal Voyageurs, Shane wakes up and sprints to their en suite to vomit. He has been wracked with anxiety for days, his spine and brain, slowly winding like a spring, tighter and tighter. He is liable to snap at any moment.

Ilya rushes into the bathroom, drops to Shane’s side, his hand rubbing his husband’s back. “What’s wrong? Food poisoning? Sick?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Shane says, through the hand covering his mouth. He is sick to his stomach—just not in the way Ilya means. “Nerves. Had a nightmare. I woke up and just…” Shane gestures to where his traitorous body ejected mostly stomach bile.

“Oh, moya lyubov,” Ilya soothes, closing the toilet, flushing it, and helping Shane up so he can sit on the lid. Ilya shifts so he is squatting between Shane’s knees, his hands gently gripping Shane’s thighs. “Tell me.”

“It was… everything goes wrong,” Shane whispers, squeezing his eyes shut and reliving his recurring nightmare. “None of us can score, everyone’s getting into fights, the booing.” Shane shakes his head, opens his eyes to look down at his adoring husband. Ilya’s head is tilted, eyes and mouth tightened with concern. Half his hair is melded to his skull, the other half sticking up in wild tufts. Shane has no idea what he did to deserve this man.

He shakes his head. “They hate me, Ilya. The entire city of Montreal hates me.”

“The entire city of Montreal hates me as well. You are not special in this, Hollander,” Ilya says, very obviously attempting to lighten Shane’s spirit.

Shane cups Ilya’s cheek and exhales. He knows he is spiraling. Allowing his worst thoughts to get the best of him, eat away at his sanity in nagging little chunks. “I’m worried about what’s going to happen to the team. Our team.”

“The team will be fine because we will win.”

“The Voyageurs aren’t going to pull punches. They’ll take all their anger with me out on the guys. It’s going to get dirty. And we both know the refs aren’t going to call shit. What if something serious happens to one of them because of me? What if—”

Ilya cuts him off. “Shane, the team is all grown men. Except for Haas, who I assume still needs his mother’s permission to play.”

This pulls a weak chuckle from Shane.

“The team will be fine. They are tough, they are strong, they are good.”

Shane says, “I don’t think I could take them hating me, too. And I think they will after this game.”

“Impossible,” Ilya says, standing up. He bends to kiss the top of Shane’s head. “Only idiot would hate you, and the team is not idiots. Now come, brush teeth, shower.” He gently heaves Shane to his feet. “You feel good enough for breakfast? Toast and eggs? Tea? Possibly gross smoothie with too much kale?”

Shane kisses him on the cheek. “You are the best husband in the world.”

Ilya says, “Good, you can tell Elizabeth when you call her later.”

“I don’t have an appointment with Elizabeth today,” Shane says. He doesn’t have another virtual therapy session until the end of the week.

Ilya gives Shane a long look.

Shane purses his lips, prepares to argue, and deflates. Ilya is right. He needs to talk to Elizabeth about this before it causes him to backslide on the progress he’s made. “I’ll text her and see if she can fit me in after practice.”

—-

Ilya has many feelings about Montreal. None of them are positive. If it were possible to fist-fight an entire city, he would already have raw and bloody knuckles. But Shane–his beloved Shane–would hate that. Shane would not want him risking himself for his husband’s honor.

So, absolutely demolishing the Voyageurs on their home ice will have to suffice.

Ilya drives them to practice, Shane’s knees bouncing on the passenger side the whole drive. Halfway to the arena, Ilya places a hand on Shane’s thigh and squeezes, doing his best to offer calm, steadfast support. To not let Shane see the raging beast that is demanding to be set free, to rip Montreal apart. Ilya’s anger on his behalf is not what Shane needs. What Shane needs is to feel that they, along with their team, will come out of the game tomorrow night whole. Ilya cannot promise that they won’t get banged up and bruised–it is hockey, after all–but he can make it so his husband worries less.

Upon pulling into the parking spot, Ilya texts Harris with a request to pull Shane away for fifteen minutes post-practice. As they are suiting up in the locker room, Harris replies with a thumbs-up emoji.

Practice is tense. Their team chemistry–a beautiful thing most days–is off-beat and jagged at the corners. Barrett can’t seem to find the net, and Haas trips over his own skates. Young and Chouinard almost cause an entire team pile-up during bagskate when they somehow collide. The whole time, Shane doesn’t make eye contact with any of them. Ilya can see his hands twitching around his stick even though he is wearing his gloves.

Wiebe does his best to give them an invigorating pep talk, but the usual vitality that pumps through them feels deadened by the seriousness on all of their faces. Even Hayes, who in the darkest of times has a smile and nonsensical fun facts for them all, looks grimly determined. Though it has not been stated in plain terms, they are all aware of what awaits them tomorrow night in Montreal.

As they trudge back to the locker room, Harris, angel that he is, appears, gesturing for Shane to follow him in that enigmatic way that makes them all do his bidding. Shane quirks an eyebrow, but hands Ilya his stick and gloves and follows Harris down the hall and out of sight.

Ilya holds the door to the locker room open for the entire team to file in, counts them as they go by to make sure they are all there. He closes the door behind him and calls, “Everyone, sit. We need to talk.”

“Cap, can it wait until after showers?” Chouinard asks, already stripped out of his practice jersey and shoulder pads.

“No, we do not have the time for that,” Ilya replies, striding over to Shane’s locker and placing his gloves in the proper cubby, leaning his stick against the wall. Ilya sits on the bench and eyes his team. “Harris can only distract Shane for so long.”

That pulls all of the sweaty, muttering hockey players to a silent, standstill. Half of them practically snap their necks in their search for Shane, only now just realizing he isn’t there.

Ilya takes his gloves off, tosses them lazily into his locker. “I have done my best to be a good captain, remain professional when it comes to Shane, since he joined the team.”

“Cap–” Hayes calls from where he is meticulously unstrapping his pads from his legs.

“No, Hazy, let me just get this done,” Ilya rushes. “I have never wanted to put any of you in this position, to ask you for something for Shane as his husband.” Ilya scrubs at his jaw, frustrated that even after over a decade on this damn continent speaking this stupid, clunky language, the words still come too slowly when it is crucial.

“You don’t have to ask for anything, Rozy,” Bood says.“We are all prepared for tomorrow. We have Hollander’s back no matter what.”

Murmurs of assent follow this, vigorous nods.

“I know you do, that was never in doubt,” Ilya reassures them all. “But what I am asking of you is to stand down. No matter what they say–no matter what they say to provoke you, no matter how dirty they play, we play clean, we play tight, and we never throw the first punch. They chirp, skate away. They say the worst thing you’ve ever heard about your mother, you say ‘thank you,’ and skate away. They high-stick you, you apologize for being in the way, and skate away.”

There are now almost two dozen pairs of confused, squinted eyes pointed at him. Dykstra asks, “Who the hell are you and what have you done with Ilya Rozanov?”

“Did we enter an alternate reality during practice?” Hayes asks.

“Shane is nervous that something serious will happen to one of you. That, while defending him, the way you would defend anyone else on this team, they will take out their anger at him on you. You will get hurt and resent him,” Ilya explains, eyes darting to the clock. They have less than five minutes to wrap this up. “I know none of you would, but Shane…”

“So you want us to just… take it?” Haas asks.

“Yes, take it, like good, polite Canadian boys. And then ram it down their throats the way Shane would by reminding them that he was the only reason their team was ever worth a damn in the first place.” Ilya clears his throat and looks directly at Barrett. “Other than me and Shane, it’ll be the worst for you. I’d understand if–”

Barrett bristles. “If Ilya Rozanov is going to maintain his cool while an entire team of assholes is throwing slurs at his husband, I’m not going to be the one who breaks.”

Ilya says, “If nothing else, not showing them a reaction will piss them off, hopefully throw off their game.”

Bood smiles, big and bright, “Is that how Hollander got under your skin? Being polite?”

“Is one way,” Ilya concedes.

Some players hoot, while Hayes calls, “I like this plan. An entire team of Shane Hollanders. Montreal won’t know what hit them.”

“Alright, we’re in,” Young says. “Fucking with them like this could be fun.”

“Just to clarify, though,” Dykstra says, “they punch first, I’m allowed to punch back, yeah?”

“I expect you to punch harder, but yes,” Ilya replies. He stands, looks at his team, a sudden burning in the corner of his eyes. “Thank you, this is–”

“Don’t,” Barrett says, holding up a hand. “Shane’s one of us. If us being polite, perfect Canadians to de-escalate will help him, we’ll do it. No big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” Ilya argues.

“Shut up, Cap,” Bood calls, returning to the task of removing his sweaty practice uniform. “Just accept that we like Hollander better than you and move on.”

Laughter rings through the locker room as everyone goes about their business as though Ilya hasn’t just made one of the biggest requests of them.

Shane returns to the locker room a few moments later with Ilya still seated on the bench.

“Everything okay?” he asks, sliding onto the bench beside Ilya. “Figured you’d be ready to leave by now.”

“Fine.” Ilya clears his throat. “Just taking my time. What did Harris want?”

Shane tilts his head dubiously, but he doesn’t push, instead says, “Wanted to run some social media stuff by me. Make sure that Comms has a complete list of all my brand sponsors, admin stuff.”

“All your brand sponsors,” Ilya repeats, mocking smugness dripping from his tone. It is no secret that Shane is the league's most brand-sponsored player.

“Shut up,” Shane snaps with no bite. He flicks Ilya’s ear as he stands to start pulling off his practice jersey, and it takes all of Ilya’s self-restraint not to tackle him into the showers.

—

Shane makes it all the way to Centre Bell the next afternoon without feeling like he’s going to throw up again. But the moment he walks through the players’ side entrance, he is struck by how the building is exactly the same as the day he last walked out. Everything looks the same; nothing feels the same.

For his entire twenties, he spent more time under this roof than in his own home. He spent thousands of hours practicing and playing here. Laughed and cried with a team he had considered family. Bled on that ice, won three Cups on it, too. But to look at the walls now–the team banners and posters, it is like he never existed.

He is a ghost haunting a house that forgot he even lived there.

Ilya jostles their shoulders together as they approach the Visitor’s Locker Room, winks at him cheekily. Shane, who is infused on a cellular level with anxiety, meets his husband’s gaze and grimaces.

“It’ll be fine,” Ilya promises as they enter the locker room first. Shane nods as they find the lockers where their gear is waiting for them. The rest of the team filters in behind them, the pregame energy revving up as they all begin to tug their ties and suits off.

Barrett and Bood have a pre-game ritual of attempting to have a comprehensible conversation with one another in only song titles for as long as possible. The first to drop pays for the first round of drinks at the post-game bar. While strapping on his pads, Hayes is explaining, in great detail, The Lord of the Rings films to Haas, who is politely listening and making a genuine effort to follow Hayes’s rapid monologue. Holmberg and Chouinard are attempting to learn how to juggle using their shin guards.

Dykstra attempts to wrestle control of the locker room speakers but is thankfully waylaid by Young. “Absolutely not, D. We can’t go out on the ice with our ears bleeding.”

Thankfully, no one even tries to speak to Shane as they suit up. When they receive the call for stretches and on-ice warm-ups, Shane expects the mood to finally sour. For the dour intensity of the day before to return like a lead blanket across all their shoulders. He is once again proven wrong as the guys laughingly head down the hallway, Barrett and Bood running away from Haas, who has been, against his will, deemed “it” and must now chase them.

Shane is too confused by their light-hearted behavior to even register his heart beating in the back of his throat as his skates cut across Montreal ice for the first time in six months. The boos reach his ears with all of the subtlety of a grenade to the face. Once, he had loved the determination of Montreal fans to create the most hostile rink in the league.

He knew this was coming. It still hurts.

His eyes are drawn up to the stands where most of the signs declare him a traitor. There are even people holding up shredded 24 jerseys.

Shane does his best to ignore it, hustling to the Centaur’s side of the ice. Ilya waves to the growing crowd as though he is the Queen of England, welcoming them all to afternoon tea. “This will be fun!” He proclaims as they all settle in for hip stretches.

Halfway through warm-ups, the boos that somehow have not abated impossibly get louder. Shane turns to see Hayden and J.J. have crossed the line at center ice by a few inches. They wave at Shane.

Shane ducks out of drills and goes to meet them. They exchange quick bro-hugs, Hayden saying, “Sorry, man.”

Shane looks at the crowd, heart still beating a tattoo against his Adam’s apple. “I expected it.”

“Still sucks,” J.J. says.

At their backs, Comeau skates past them, sending up a spray of ice. “Hey, traitors, want to get back to work?”

Hayden and J.J. lightly punch Shane on the shoulder and go back to their team. Shane returns to his for the last few moments before returning to the locker room for final talks. Wiebe and the assistant coaches run through their strategy and shift changes, all of them glossing over the rise in angry noise outside the locker room. Shane has never been to war, but this is probably what a Viking attack sounded like.

He thinks he may be choking on his own tongue. There’s a stabbing pain in his chest directly below his heart. He attempts to focus on his breathing, but inhaling feels insurmountable, exhaling a foreign concept.

Wiebe passes the floor off to Ilya, who stands and looks at every single player in the locker room in the eye one-by-one. “This will not be easy—”

Chouinard yells, “We don’t like it easy.”

Sticks slam against the floor.

Ilya smiles, and the stabbing pain in Shane’s heart dulls to a throb. “We’ve beaten them before, and that’s when they actually had talent on their team—”

The team whoops and hollers, Bood yelling in his deep baritone, “Hollander!”

Shane isn’t sure there is enough blood left in his body to flush, but he does note that his next breath comes easier.

“Play aggressive, play clean. Never let up,” Ilya instructs, and Shane’s disbelief must be written all over his face because the guys start laughing.

“Yes, I know, Hollander, impossible to believe that I would suggest a clean game against these assholes.” Ilya shrugs. “But I must keep you on your toes, keep things exciting, yes?”

Someone wolf whistles. Everyone cackles.

Shane takes off his gloves to give the room at large two middle fingers. But he is, miraculously, also laughing.

Ilya rouses them to their feet, and they start marching out, knocking their helmets against Ilya’s as they file by him. Shane, though farther up front in the line, is always the last one to tap helmets with Ilya. For obvious reasons.

Ilya darts forward. Kisses him hard and fierce and sure. Shane says, “Surprisingly docile speech today, Captain.”

“The team doesn’t need pumping up,” Ilya says as they leave the locker room and join their team. “If anything, they needed pumping down.”

Shane smiles at him; wonders how they are basically on the ice again, but the boos seem to be muffled now, as though coming to him through a concrete wall. “Absolutely not a saying.”

Bood playfully hits at Shane’s skates with his stick. “Get in line, Hollander. Not getting this A at this pace.”

Shane pushes at Bood’s shoulder before he winds his way to the front of the line.

Once Shane is out of earshot, Bood says, lowly, “Don’t worry, Roz. The boys have this.”

“I know they do,” Ilya replies. “I hope I do as well.”

“Just remember that if you kill any of them, they will absolutely send you to prison, and you’ll only get to see Hollander through a glass wall once a month,” Bood says.

“That isn’t ideal.” Ilya tilts his head back and forth as the boos on the ice rise and the Centaurs begin taking to the ice.

Bood inhales deeply, then exhales as though he has just taken in a lungful of fresh, bracing Canadian air. “Nothing like the sound of hatred in the evening, eh, Captain?”

Ilya smiles.

—

Shane is, unbelievably, smiling.

Deep in the third period, Ottawa is up 4-2, and the roof of Centre Bell is likely to blow off. The Voyageurs—and God, what a trip to think of his previous team in such a way—came out swinging. Quite literally. Comeau has spent multiple stints in the box, bloodied and pissed off. Shane is sure that if Drapeau were not hindered by staying in the net, he too would’ve been throwing fists. Instead, he, like all the other Voyageurs, is throwing insult after insult out to see what sticks.

To Shane’s amazement: none of it does. He’s heard some of the most disgusting comments he’s ever heard in his career, and every single Centaur has taken them with a smile. And in Ilya’s case, a wink. Haas even apologized to a player who slashed him.

Shane hadn’t understood at first, thinking his team had lost their minds. Then he hears Aranov—someone Shane had invited to his wedding—call Barrett a worthless faggot while they battle for the puck against the boards. He is ready to hop the barrier for Barrett, but Barrett says, “Thanks for the reminder. I had totally forgotten.”

Barrett skates away with the puck, and Aranov stares, gobsmacked. And it keeps happening. Relentless shit-talking that is so personal and degrading that it honestly qualifies as assault, and the Centaurs politely thank the Voyageurs for their insight before skating away, usually with the puck.

“What the fuck,” Shane murmurs to himself.

On his left on the bench, Haas says, “We are all polite Canadian boys tonight. Captain thought they needed a reminder of what they lost, so we decided to give them a team of Shane Hollanders. Well, maybe not in skill but—”

Shane cuts Haas off with a one-armed hug. His throat clogs with emotion, and there is a funny tugging in his stomach that he recognizes as affection. He had liked this team from the start, but God, these guys—he loves this team so goddamn much.

On his next shift, Shane joins in on the fun. When he meets Comeau at a face-off, and he is called the night’s favorite slur, he replies, “Shit? Really? I should probably let my husband know.”

He scores off the face-off.

The game becomes, impossibly, fun as the Centaurs beat the Voyageurs into the ice. With only two minutes left in the game, Wiebe taps Shane on the shoulder and says, “Got a little time left. Want to remind them who the hell you are?”

Shane’s over the boards in an instant, Bood swapping out. Ilya swings out to play left wing as Shane takes up center, and Barrett drills the puck down the right side of the ice.

Ilya and Shane both score off assists from Troy before the game ends, silencing the Montreal fan base with a 7-2 score.

The locker room is electric post-game, and when Ilya, Shane, and Troy go for press, they practically giggle through all of the questions.

At breakfast the next morning, Ilya shows Shane his phone. It is open to Twitter, showing the Centaurs' official page. Harris had tweeted out a photo from the post-game interview, Ilya, Shane, and Troy standing shoulder-to-shoulder and grinning. It is captioned: Dream Team.

Ilya scrolls, chuckling, “But look at the comments…”

Shane almost spits up his kale smoothie as he reads:

@centaurs221:Best and gayest line-up in professional sports.

@urworstnitemare: The gay agenda is apparently just being insanely hot and really fucking good at hockey?

@hockeygrl003: Voyageurs getting sent to an early grave by a monster of their own making. What a time to be alive!

@hollanov: Imagine fumbling a player so badly, you create a hockey dynasty in another town!

-*-

First Christmas

Christmas is Shane’s favorite holiday. Not for any religious reasons or the presents or decorations or anything actually Christmas-related. But because when he was a kid, it meant two weeks off from school to skate as much as he wanted. As a teenager, it meant travel tournaments. And as an adult, it means a little extra sleep, skating as much as he wants, and getting to see his parents for a little longer than a single, rushed meal during the regular season.

Shane is particularly excited about the Christmas season this year because he gets to spend it all with Ilya. Not a stolen 48 hours together, no heading back to Montreal the day after Christmas, so he won’t miss practice. An actual holiday season spent together, one where they can do all the stupid, cheesy stuff everyone else seems to enjoy, and maybe start making some traditions of their own.

And after their fight last Christmas, Shane is determined not to fuck it up this year. They’re married now, and he isn’t one for omens or anything, but if he messes up another holiday because he’s too focused on hockey, he’ll have a panic attack and further ruin it.

Not to mention, his husband had a shitty adolescence, and Shane will not let that carry on any further. Shane is going to make this season magical, and Ilya is going to like it, goddamn it.

“We should have the team over for Christmas,” Shane says during breakfast the first week of December.

Ilya looks at him over his mountain of scrambled eggs, says, “Bood hosts the Christmas party the day after.”

“Yeah, that’s the family party,” Shane says. “We could do a just-the-team party before. Do stupid shit like a Secret Santa or something.”

Ilya sets his fork down and stares at Shane intently. “You, Shane Hollander, want to host a hockey player party in our home? Where we live?” Ilya reaches across the table and places his palm on Shane’s forehead. “Are you okay? Feeling ill?”

Shane pushes his hand away, laughingly. “Fuck off, I’m fine. I just thought it’d be fun.”

“It would be fun, that is why it is concerning you suggested it.”

“Wow, you asshole,” Shane scoffs, taking an extra-vicious bite of turkey-bacon.

Ilya grins, gets back to his breakfast. His hand finds its way to Shane’s thigh and rests there the rest of breakfast.
–

Later in the locker room, as they’re all putting on their pads and skates, Ilya hops onto the bench and whistles. “Listen up, dumbasses. We are doing Christmas party at our house in a couple weeks. Just the team. There will be food and alcohol. And we are doing Secret Santa because it will be dumb, but also very funny. Be there.”

“Thank you for that incredibly vague invitation,” Barrett says.

Ilya hops off the bench and snatches up his skates. “You will not come?”

“Oh, no, I will absolutely be there,” Barrett clarifies. “I need to see Shane Hollander participate in a Secret Santa with this group of deviants.” Barrett holds up crossed fingers. “Preferably with you both in the dumbest Christmas sweaters Canada offers.”

“Oh my God, please,” Bood adds. “Can we get team Christmas sweaters?”

Shane laughs loudly. “Sorry, I’m just picturing the Centaur logo in an ugly Christmas sweater design? And it’s somehow even dumber.”

“Ugly Centaur Christmas Sweater Party,” Ilya says, lacing up his skates. “This we will do.”
–

The Ottawa Christmas Market is both adorable and Shane’s worst nightmare.

There are cute little stalls that look like mini ski chalets, drenched in twinkly lights, selling hot chocolate, cider, and gluhwein, crepes, and French fries. There’s a Christmas train for kids to ride and an overcrowded ice rink to skate in. Dozens of trees line the square and streets, and Christmas music blares from every speaker.

And there are people everywhere. Shane is overstimulated immediately. Laughing children are running into his shins and hips; there are so many people out and about, they are buffeted back and forth by the shoulders of hundreds of strangers. He is outside in negative degree weather, and Shane isn’t sure he’s ever been this close to feeling claustrophobic.

But Ilya is enchanted.

He practically bounces from stall to stall to see what people are selling. Buys them a carved wooden Christmas ornament in the shape of an ice skate. Double-fists the hot chocolate and convinces Shane to share some fries. He laughs when they come across the Santa tent, and is super-bummed when he sees how long the line for the holiday train is. He points out all of the decorated trees and the large light displays–is especially taken with a retina-searing reindeer and sleigh set-up.

After an hour of wandering around, Ilya asks if Shane is ready to go home.

Shane grabs his hand, kisses his palm, and says, “We haven’t even gotten to the gingerbread-house-building tent yet.”

“Gingerbread houses? Like with the candy and icing?”

Shane nods.

Ilya’s eyes widen. “Let’s go there. Immediately.”
–

Ilya pauses the movie for the fifth time. “So they don’t even notice the child is missing until they’re in another country? That is dumb and bad parenting.”

Shane smiles from where his head is pillowed in Ilya’s lap. “Wait until you see how dumb the criminals are.”

Forty minutes later, Ilya is laughing so hard that they both fall off the couch, the thuds of their bodies hitting the floor, scaring Anya awake from her nap.
–

The Centaur Ugly Christmas Sweaters are the stupidest things Shane has ever seen. The Centaur is wearing a Santa hat, a red Rudolph nose, and is surrounded by a bunch of other Santa-hat-wearing Centaurs, and they are pulling Santa’s sleigh. The design honeycombs outward and overlaps. It is so very ugly and mildly headache inducing.

But also insanely soft and warm. Shane has been wearing his around the house since it arrived in the mail earlier in the week.

The team arrives at their house in waves, all of them carrying gifts and cookies and bottles of alcohol. All of them in their matching sweaters.

“Cassie is so jealous,” Bood says, pointing at his own sweater. “She wants her own.”

“Dude, I don’t blame her. They’re weirdly good quality,” Hayes replies, adjusting the Santa hat on Bood’s head so it sits at a rakish angle.

“House looks great,” Chouinard comments as he sets trays of Christmas cookies on the kitchen counter beside the warming plates the caterers dropped off earlier (It was one thing to host a hockey player party, it was another to cook for one, and that was a bridge too far for Shane).

The house does look great. They had a team come out and put up the lights outside the house, but Shane had been adamant that he and Ilya put the tree up themselves. The rainbow string lights don’t reach all the way around the tree, the star on top is absolutely off-angle, and he’s pretty sure the ornament balance and placement would send a professional decorator into cardiac arrest, but they love it. They also have three matching stockings hanging from the mantle.

“Thanks,” Shane says, accepting multiple bottles of wine and wondering what they’re going to do with all of this alcohol. There may be a hockey team in their house right now, but there are now almost fifty bottles of assorted booze. Not to mention the countless cases of beer left in the garage to keep cold.

Chouinard eyes the counter where the alcohol is piling up, his face twisting up the same as Shane’s. “Oh, yeah, man, I don’t know if that’ll be enough.”

“What?” Shane says.

“No worries,” Barrett calls, entering with two flats of Harris's family's cider, a handle of tequila, and another of gin. “And Harris volunteered to grab us more if we run out.”

“Run out,” Shane echoes. “Run out? We have a game tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, Hollander, tomorrow night,” Bood says, adding another tray of cookies to the pile. “That’s more than enough time to recover.”

Shane sighs. “Jesus Christ.”

–

The Secret Santa is objectively a shitshow. No one remembers whose name they pulled from the hockey helmet they passed around the locker room the week prior, so everyone bought each other more alcohol, which they proceeded to open and drink in the middle of Shane and Ilya’s living room.

“I feel like we should’ve seen this coming,” Shane whispers to Ilya, who is drinking from a bottle of vodka that is just his.

Ilya wraps his arm around Shane’s shoulder. “This is why I was shocked you suggested we host hockey player party.”

LaPointe and Holmberg are standing on their coffee table, leading the team in a sing-along to Jingle Bells, except when they hit the “all the way” portion of the song, everyone is supposed to drink. Most of the team is failing at reaching the right part of the song and just drinking anyway.

Hayes is already passed out on the couch, a blanket draped over him, with Anya–also in a Centaurs Christmas sweater–curled around his feet.

Barrett has snuck away no less than seven times to FaceTime Harris, each call getting louder and louder, the more alcohol Troy imbibed. The last call was only 2 minutes, and everyone could hear Troy from the back patio repeatedly saying, “I love you so much. Like so much.” It would’ve been annoying if it weren’t so damn cute.

Shane is the only sober one in the house at this point. Poor Luca attempted to stay in the happy, buzzy inebriation state, and instead has been catapulted into total black-out by Chouinard, Young, and Dykstra, who have been teaching him the wonders of drinking games. Waterfall has been the favorite of the evening.

Jaakala, Williams, and Boyle went out back, without coats or hats, their boots only half-done up, and drunkenly built an entire snow-family in their yard. Ilya gave them cucumbers to use as noses instead of carrots, and they used beer bottle caps for the eyes and smiles. They’re all misshapen and wonky–Mrs. Snowman’s face is completely upside-down, and the snow children creepily have too many stick arms.

Bood, Dillon, and Wachowicz spent a good fifteen minutes out on the back patio and now have an incredible cross-fade going–Shane is concerned he’s going to have to order pizza as all of the catering and the Christmas cookies were consumed hours ago.

“What an absolute mess.” Shane leans his head against Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya kisses his temple. Shane can feel Ilya’s smile against the top of his head. “Is fun though, yes?”

—

Most of the team sleeps over that night–Young ends up in one of their bathtubs, LaPointe in Anya’s living room dog bed, and Haas on their kitchen floor.

Shane wakes up with, thankfully, only his husband and their dog in their bed. His phone has enough notifications on it to let him know that he already regrets not confiscating the team’s phones before letting them into his house last night.

Thankfully, there is nothing too incriminating—a few photos of the guys clearly drunk and having fun, but nothing inappropriate. There’s a photo of Hayes and Barrett with their arms slung around each other, while they’re both chugging a beer that has way too many likes and comments on it because, in the background, you can see Ilya kissing Shane’s cheek.

Shane shares Bood’s post from before the alcohol started taking effect. It’s a photo of the entire team in the living room, all of them in their Christmas sweaters and smiling hugely at the camera. Ilya and Shane’s slightly lopsided tree is in the background. The caption reads: Team Dads Hosted Christmas This Year! Can’t wait for next year!!🎄

Hungover–some of them still drunk if the alcohol-scent wafting off of them is anything to go by–they impossibly beat the Nashville Wranglers that night.

“I think it’s the Christmas sweaters,” Ilya says. “Give us superpowers.”

–

Christmas itself is an understated affair.

They wake up slightly later than usual. Shane goes for a short run with Anya. He and Ilya detour to the shower together before breakfast. They exchange Christmas gifts and go to Shane’s parents’ house for lunch.

They make lunch together–Shane scouring the internet for recipes of the Russian foods Ilya said were his favorites to eat at the holidays. He is particularly proud of how the pelmini and kurnik turn out. He also eats more than one of the kozuli for dessert.

They head home a little before sunset, and after Anya’s post-dinner walk, crawl directly onto the couch. With Christmas movies playing in the background, and Ilya’s hand running through his hair, Shane drifts off to sleep. He wakes to Ilya flipping through the channels, landing on the Hallmark channel to watch a high-powered businesswoman fall in love with a Christmas tree farm owner/worker. Shane isn’t sure, as he isn’t fully awake, but Ilya seems enraptured.

“This seems…”

“Unrealistic?” Shane supplies.

“I was going to say fast, but,” Ilya shrugs, accepts Shane’s suggestion.

“Well, some people don’t spend seven years secretly fucking their rival while denying their feelings,” Shane says, pushing himself up into a seated position, as the couple on-screen have a very heated argument about a Christmas cookie competition.

Ilya scoffs. “But where is the fun in that?”

“Yes, fun, that is how I would describe those first few years as well,” Shane chuckles.

Ilya shifts and lays his head on Shane's shoulder. “Why are they throwing flour at each other?”

Shane places his hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t know. Straight people are weird.”

–

Hours later, they’re lying in bed, sweaty and sated and breathing heavily. Ilya pats Shane’s thigh, asks, “You okay, Hollander?”

Shane, whose head is actually hanging off the side of the bed because he hasn’t mustered the energy to lift it yet, huffs. “Jesus Christ, I think I fucking astral projected out of my body.”

“Certainly projected something,” Ilya laughs, jokingly looks up. “Almost hit the ceiling that time.”

Shane groans, kicks errantly at Ilya’s shins. “Such an asshole.”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya concedes, rotating to pull Shane more comfortably onto the bed, before lying on top of him. “But your favorite asshole.”

Shane sighs, finds Ilya’s hand lying on the bed, and threads their fingers together. “Merry Christmas, Ilya.”

“Merry Christmas, solnyshko.”

-*-

First Losing Streak

So the thing about it is… Ilya refuses to acknowledge it. Hopes that if he is obstinate enough in ignoring it, it will go away. Though he attempted this method all those years ago with his feelings for Shane, and he ended up so hopelessly in love with the man he married him. Regardless, Ilya is hopeful that this previously failing strategy will work this time.

Shane will not let him ignore it. “You have to talk about it with the team, Ilya.”

“Talk about what?” Ilya snarks, crouching down to greet Anya as they arrive home after their most recent loss. In a string of losses. Prior to January, the Centaurs hadn’t lost more than two games in a row at once. The ship started to go adrift, and the team immediately righted their course.

But for the last two weeks, on the road and at home, they’ve lost every game. Seven straight losses.

“Ilya, pretending like it isn’t happening won’t make it go away,” Shane protests, sliding his game bag onto its pre-determined spot on the foyer bench right beside Ilya’s. “We have to address this with the team, or this could turn into an actual slump–”

“Ah!” Ilya bellows. “Don’t say that word. Don’t even think it.”

“Ilya.”

Ilya has always loved the way Shane says his name. It doesn’t matter the tone or time of day, a pissed off shout across the ice or a whispered whine in a dark bed–his name has always felt safe in Shane’s mouth.

Ilya does not look up, continues to lavish attention on Anya, but he says, “Shane, moya lyubov.”

Shane squats down beside him and strokes down Anya’s back. “Bood keeps catching edges. Haas is acting like he doesn’t know which end of the stick is which. Barrett can’t pass for shit. I’m missing shots I could make in my sleep in Pee-Wee League. The D-line might as well be asleep, and I’m pretty sure Hayes will just start weeping in the goal the next time he lets a shot in.”

“Thankfully, I am still playing perfect.”

“You’ve spent more time in the box in the last few games than you have the rest of the season combined,” Shane points out. “You’re making some seriously avoidable errors.”

“I know,” Ilya snaps, standing suddenly. Shane recoils slightly at the swiftness of his movement. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am–”

“No, I’m sorry,” Shane interrupts, pushing himself up to stand. “You don’t need me to tell you all of this. I’m just frustrated with how poorly I’m playing, how poorly things have been going. The team is better than this.”

Ilya nods, cups Shane’s neck, and pulls him in to kiss his lips softly. “We are all frustrated. This is not our team. Not how we play.”

Shane rests their foreheads together. “Maybe it’s time someone reminded us all of that.”
–

“Everyone, shut up, yes?” Ilya shouts in the locker room the next morning. It is unnecessary, the team has never been more subdued before practice. Not even Bood and Hayes are talking. “Before we start practice, we need to talk about it.”

“Do we really, Cap?” Bood asks. “Feels unnecessary to rehash how shitty we’ve been playing.”

“Yes, it is very necessary, Bood,” Ilya says. Most of the faces in the room are frowning at him, some are looking away shame-faced. At his side, Shane, who is seated on the bench in front of his locker, taps his knuckles against Ilya’s knee in support. “We have been playing very shitty hockey. But we are not a shitty team. Before this,” Ilya waves his hand in the air, refusing to say the word slump, “nonsense, our record was 31-10. Something is happening right now, but is not permanent. Just off couple weeks.”

“Very off,” Barrett says.

Ilya shoots Barrett a glare for interrupting. “It’s okay, but it ends now, yes? No more catching edges or letting other offense through. No more missing easy shots or ending up in the box for stupidity. This team is too good for this.”

A few of the guys nod, others tap their sticks lightly against the floor.

“Now, we go out, have practice, listen to Wiebe. Remember who we are, yes? Get on airplane and beat stupid Pittsburgh Pilots tomorrow night.” Ilya feels the energy in the room change, not necessarily fixed, but better. Gentler, lighter. More like how the Centaurs locker room should feel. “Now, go, get out of here, or we bagskate the whole practice.”

“Cap, no,” Holmberg huffs as he rushes out of the locker room, Young and LaPointe on his heels.

“Fuck you, Rozy, that was such a good speech until the threat,” Bood says, nudging his elbow with Ilya’s as he passes by. The team filters out until it is only Ilya and Shane, looking at one another, practically standing chest-to-chest.

Shane grins, shoves lightly at Ilya’s helmet with his hockey stick. “Rousing speech, Captain.”

Ilya looks down between them, raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Something is certainly roused.”

Shane laughs, pushes off of Ilya’s chest, and walks backwards out of the locker room. “Let’s go. I heard if we aren’t on the ice quick, our asshole captain is going to make us bagskate for hours.”
–

They beat Pittsburgh 3-2 the following night.

Afterwards, in the locker room as they strip out of their gear, Shane is unbearably smug. “Told you we had to talk about it.”

Ilya makes a disgusted face, and a sound similar to the one Anya does when she throws up after eating grass. “Really? A ‘told you so’ after a win, Hollander? Cannot let me enjoy victory for even a moment?”

Shane shrugs. “What can I say? You’re rubbing off on me.”

Walking past them to the shower, Bood cringes, says, “Never fucking say that again, Hollander.”

_*_

First All-Star Weekend

“Shane, how does it feel to be back on this stage beside Rozanov eleven years later in the exact same position?”

The question was as expected as it was uninspired.

“It feels unsurprising,” Shane says, leaning into the mic and adjusting his suit jacket so it stops creasing across his shoulders. When the NHL once again announced it would not be taking a league break for the Olympics, so Shane would not be playing for Team Canada, he and Ilya began theorizing about this year’s All-Star Weekend. Wondering how the league was going to handle it.

Not invite either of them? Crowell would love that, but they had been playing too well for that.

Invite only one of them? Ilya was enthralled at the idea of being an official WAG for a weekend.

But the most likely, and profitable, option had come to fruition: pit them against one another. Because the NHL wouldn’t do a goddamn thing to make the league an easier place for them to be, but they would certainly squeeze every fucking dime out of their relationship.

It was Europe vs. North America. Once again. Because God forbid Roger Crowell have a single original thought.

“Ilya, same question for you,” the reporter calls.

Ilya clears his throat, says, “Same answer.”

The crowd chuckles.

Someone yells, “Are you excited to compete against each other again?”

“We compete against each other every day at practice,” Ilya says, his tone that of a bored teenager. “You all just aren’t there to watch.”

“Excited to be out of the Canadian cold for a little bit?”

Shane is happy for any softball questions they want to lob his way. “Yes. It’s nice to get a few days of Arizona sun and warmth.”

Someone in the back asks, “Question for Shane: are you looking to redeem yourself since the last time you played against Ilya?”

Shane knew the question was coming, and it still feels like a slap to the face.

“Last time we played against each other was Friday,” Ilya answers before Shane can. “He won.”

“Last time he publicly played against you,” the reporter clarifies.

Shane looks at Ilya and calms himself. Remembers his Harris-and-Farah-approved statement. “I caught an edge and tripped. It was an accident, but that happens. Even to professional athletes. I wish it hadn’t happened, but I can’t change that it did. I am looking forward to adding to my winning record against Ilya, though.”

“Lies,” Ilya jumps in. “Our record is basically equal.”

“We’ve played each other 58 times, I’ve won 30 times,” Shane recites, incredibly grateful to Harris for doing the research for him. Also, secretly shocked that he and Ilya hadn’t been keeping track themselves.

“That is basically even,” Ilya argues.

“Would you be saying that if the record was reversed and you had 30 wins?” Shane asks. The crowd chuckles.

Ilya glares and says into the mic, “Next question.”

—

“What on Earth is that?” Shane asks as Ilya sits down across from him, carrying a concerningly large alcoholic beverage. There are multiple pieces of fruit wedged along the rim and a paper umbrella jauntily speared through an orange slice.

Ilya shrugs, taking a sip through the twisty straw. “Tastes like coconut.”

Shane reaches for the piece of pineapple on Ilya’s glass. Cringes when he takes a bite and finds the fruit slathered in Ilya’s drink. “That does not taste like coconut.”

“Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever had real coconut.”

“Not a popular flavor in Russia?”

“Shocking, I know.”

Shane rolls his eyes as Ilya hollows his cheeks to suck on his straw. “Ilya,” Shane says his husband’s name like a warning, a curse, a prayer. “We are in public and about to meet our friends for dinner. Do not do that.”

Ilya sucks harder, blinks innocently at Shane. “Do not do what? I am not doing anything.”

Shane playfully kicks him under the table. “You are such a dick.”

“On that we can agree,” Scott Hunter says from behind Shane, Kip standing beside him.

Shane and Ilya stand to greet them, Shane sliding into Ilya’s side of the booth to make room for Scott and Kip.

“Enjoying your thousandth All-Star weekend, Hunter?” Ilya asks once Scott and Kip have placed their drink orders.

Shane elbows Ilya while Kip snorts a laugh.

“I’m thirty-three, Rozanov,” Scott says. “Only three years older than you.”

“Are you sure?” Ilya asks, his eyebrows drawing together incredulously. “Thought you were looking for retirement home here in Phoenix. I heard warm weather is good for decrepit bones.”

Shane groans and knocks his head against the back of the booth.

“Decrepit?” Hunter repeats.

“Means you are elderly and infirm,” Ilya explains, proud of his ever-expanding vocabulary.

Kip leans over and kisses Hunter’s cheek. “Don’t worry, I will still love you even when you are old and decrepit.”

Ilya points at Kip, says, “You married a very good man, Hunter. Honestly, too good for you—”

“And you didn’t?” Hunter asks.

“Absolutely,” Ilya agrees, and thankfully, the server returns with Kip and Scott’s drinks before he can call anyone boring.

—

The skills competition is as uninteresting as ever. Shane is still the fastest skater; Ilya is second by less than a tenth of a second. It is basically a tie.

The game is all anyone wants to discuss with him, players, fans, and press alike. Ilya was initially bored by it, but now he is having fun, answering all the same questions differently.

When Carter Vaughn drunkenly asks him if he is ready to get his ass beat by his own husband, Ilya winks and says, “Happens every night, anyway.”

A post-skills-competition interviewer asks, “Has there been tension at home with the upcoming head-to-head game tomorrow?

“Why would there be tension?” Ilya allows his face to show genuine bafflement. “Shane Hollander is most relaxed human being on the planet.”

While signing some fan merchandise during a meet-and-greet, a young woman in a Hollander jersey says, “This is probably super personal, but please tell me you have a bet between you on who’s gonna win or score more goals.”

On his left, Shane laughs. Ilya is only slightly surprised when his husband says, “Of course we do.”

Ilya finishes signing the Ottawa hat the woman had handed him with a flourish and passes it to Shane. He meets the fan’s gaze and winks. “But we won’t tell you what the winner gets.”

The woman chokes on her spit.

—

The game is fun—all the more so as Ilya and the Europeans edge out Shane and the North Americans by a goal.

At the end of the handshake line, Ilya grasps Shane’s gloveless hand. “Should I collect my earnings tonight or wait until we get home? Hotel walls are thin here.”

From somewhere to Ilya’s right, Scott Hunter groans, “For fuck’s sake, Rozanov, you know people can hear you, right?”

-*-

First Valentine’s Day

Shane has kept a lot of secrets in his life. Some of them small, some of them significant, some of them catastrophic.

He thought after the whole public outing thing, he didn’t have any secrets left.

Turns out, he had another one he had been keeping even from himself. Maybe not as life-altering as finally figuring out his sexuality or naming his feelings for Ilya, but it had surprised him all the same.

He, Shane Hollander, was looking forward to their first Valentine’s Day as an out, married couple.

They had had to be careful to protect their secret over the last few years, unable to send flowers, or chocolates, or even a stupid fucking card. Never getting dressed up and going out to a fancy restaurant. Jesus, they hadn’t ever even been able to spend the actual day together before, one or both of them out on the road.

While the other guys on his team would complain about all the cheesy Valentine’s Day gifts and dinners, Shane had stewed in jealousy, only able to say the words Happy Valentine’s Day over the phone in the dark of his hotel room, where no one but Ilya could hear him.

So sue him: he is excited.

The Hockey Gods are even working in his favor. There is a break in their schedule, having just returned from ten days on the road. Their next game is in two days at home, so they even get the day off.

Shane books the fancy restaurant weeks in advance. Double-checks the flower delivery four times the day before. Even gets Anya a bow with hearts all over it to surprise Ilya with. He searches high and low for the perfect overly sentimental card with kitschy hearts on the front.

He has a plan, and he is ready to execute first thing in the morning. He usually wakes hours before Ilya even stirs.

His plan goes off the rails the moment he reaches consciousness as he wakes with his dick in his husband’s mouth.

“Holy shit, Ilya,” he gasps. This isn’t a unique or particularly rare experience, but it is still mind-blowing.

Ilya’s only response is to work him over faster, his cheeks hollowing in a way that he knows makes Shane’s back arch and thighs clench.

He fists the sheets, holding on for dear life. He has no chance, his orgasm hitting him like a freight train. “Oh my God,” he groans.

Ilya laughs into his stomach, says, “Happy Valentine’s Day, moya lyubov.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Shane gasps, still catching his breath.

Ilya looks up at him. His eyes are so heavily lidded they might as well be closed. He is unspeakably beautiful in the early morning light creeping into the room around their blackout curtains. “Any ideas on how we should spend the day?”

Shane’s smile is guileless. “Yeah, a few. You?”

Ilya determinedly kisses his way up Shane’s stomach. “More than a few.”

Ilya’s ideas are better. Way better than Shane’s.

Though Ilya does love Anya’s bow and the flowers, and his eyes glisten when he finally opens the stupid card once they finally leave their bed.

They are late to their dinner reservation, but Shane doesn’t care because Ilya’s arm is wrapped around him the entire night.

The next day at practice, Shane forces Ilya to change in the showers so the team doesn’t see the nail marks down his back.

-*-

First Pride Night

It feels like Pride Night sneaks up on them.

Harris had spoken extensively with Shane and Ilya about what they were comfortable with, how much they wanted to share, and what their boundaries were. They film some short-form stuff for social media, and the team takes photos in their Pride jerseys, and then Shane kind of…forgets about it.

Which makes him feel like he’s even worse at being gay than he usually does. But this had all happened during their losing streak back in January, so he had a lot of other shit on his mind.

The day starts like any other regular home game day: wake up, pre-workout smoothie, run with Anya, shower, breakfast, then morning practice.

Shane doesn’t even remember it’s their Pride Night until they get on the ice and see all of the work the arena crew has put into raising all of the pride flags above the rink. Shane almost causes a fifteen-man pile-up when he cuts into the ice to bring himself to a stop so he can stare up at them all. He only knows what half of them represent—again, the guilt of being bad at being gay—but seeing them all there, in the rink where he plays with his husband makes chest tighten, and the corners of his eyes itch.

Montreal had a Pride Night, insofar as that’s what they called it. Performative by definition and not particularly believable at that. For him, Montreal Pride Night had been a nauseating experience from start to finish most years. Before he came out to his team, he hadn’t been able to make eye contact with most of them on those nights, afraid they would see his secret sitting just below the surface. Once he had come out to the team, they had no longer been able to make eye contact with him. Shane, at the time, had just been stupidly grateful they had stopped using homophobic slurs when he was within earshot.

Something like this would never happen there.

“Yo, you good, Hollzy?” Chouinard asks as he clips Shane’s shoulder. He follows Shane’s gaze up. He says, “Oh, dope,” and skates off like Shane’s not having a minor breakdown on the ice.

“The flags look so good!” Hayes says as he skates by Shane. “Barrett, tell Harris he did a good job!”

There are shouts of agreement all around the rink. Ilya comes to a stop on his left and nudges their padded shoulders together. “Okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Shane says, voice shakier than he would like. He thinks of younger Shane—eleven and not sure why he can’t stop staring at the older defenseman with crystal blue eyes on the opposing team. Sixteen and baffled by why all of his teammates are so obsessed with talking about tits instead of hockey. Nineteen and kissing Ilya Rozanov, and feeling like he’s finally awake for the first time in his entire goddamn life. “I’m just thinking… how much something like this would’ve meant to younger me.”

Ilya kisses the side of his helmet. “Means much to adult you, too, I think.”

Shane can only nod.

—

Harris, angel from above that he is, orders the Pride tape from all the brands so none of the guys need to swap out between warm-up drills and the actual game. They are all wearing their Pride jerseys for the entire game. San Francisco, their opponents tonight, will be as well.

Ilya is particularly pleased about this as he received approval for his jersey to be the Bi Pride pink, purple, and blue—even his Captain’s C—while everyone else sports the traditional Pride rainbow.

The arena is packed—livelier and more spirited than usual, and Shane is taken aback by just how many signs and flags wave from the crowd. He has received more love and support from his hometown than he thought possible, but the way they continue to show up for him, Ilya, and Troy is breathtaking.

There are multiple signs with an enlarged photo of the three of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling. Shane recognizes it from the post-game interview after beating Montreal. One reads: Be Gay, Play Hockey. Another reads: Best Line ✅ Hottest Line ✅ Gayest Line ✅. And another: The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit 🌈

Shane continues to scan the crowd and chuckles at a sign that simply reads: Hollander + Rozanov 5ever in rainbow colors.

His chest tightens again.

He spots his parents in their usual seats. Usually, one of them wears Ilya’s jersey, the other Shane’s. Tonight they are wearing custom jerseys—again, thank you, Harris. The front is the standard Centaurs logo in the rainbow, but the back is split between Shane and Ilya. The numbers are bisected down the middle at a diagonal from right shoulder to left hip, showing the majority of Shane’s 2 and a little of the top of the 4, a peak of Ilya’s 8, and the majority of the 1. Harris portmanteau-ed their last names to HOLLANOV.

As the team runs passing drills, some of the short-form social media videos they had previously filmed play on screen, much to the delight of the crowd. According to Harris and the rest of the comms team, they were, “doing numbers on TikTok.” Shane does not understand social media, but is happy to be directed by Harris, and lip-sync words about having a friend named Valentina, and have the rest of the team pop up behind him and scream, “Ally.”

There’s another one of Ilya and Troy being ridiculous while a song asking you to name a more iconic duo than a twink and a redhead plays. Rose explained the significance of it to him, but he’s already forgotten.

The team is vibrating with energy in the locker room post warm-ups. Wiebe gives them a short pep-talk that has them all slamming their sticks against the floor.

When Ilya stands, he looks at them and grins, “Alright, boys, don’t be too rough on San Francisco tonight. They are good sports, yes? We send them home sad for loss but proud knowing gayer, better team beat them.”

The team laughs and hollers as they chase one another back out to line up for introductions. Shane is almost blown back off the ice with the wall of noise that erupts when he is announced. The thing in his chest that has been building all night threatens to burst.

When Ilya is called out, the roof on the arena may as well be blasted off. Shane watches him skate to center ice, waving at the crowd and blowing kisses, and Shane finally names the feeling that has been trying to bust his breast bone clean open since he first saw the flags lining the arena rafters.

Pride.

-*-

First Sick Day

Shane wakes up feeling fine. Doesn’t even think of it as feeling healthy—won’t think that until after—because this is his baseline. Everything is fine and aligned, maybe a little sore from the game against Philadelphia two days ago.

He doesn’t realize something is wrong until the afternoon. He, Haas, and LaPointe stay after practice to work on some plays—cleaning up their passing and perfecting their timing. He’s passing the puck to LaPointe when he realizes he’s nauseous. Easy to ignore. He’s looping around Haas, receiving a backhand pass, when the nausea presses deeper into his body. His pads feel restrictive against his body in a claustrophobic way, his jersey sticking to him like a strait-jacket. Worse, but still ignorable.

He is attempting a slap shot when he throws up on the ice.

It isn’t the first time he’s been sick on the ice. He’s a professional athlete who has absolutely overworked himself before. But it has never been like this. He drops to his knees and heaves and heaves.

“Holy shit, Hollander, are you okay?” LaPointe asks.

Shane gasps for air as he wipes at his mouth with his gloved hand. He is desperate for a toothbrush. “I think… I think I might be sick?” His stomach contracts painfully, and he throws up again.

Ilya slips and slides across the ice in his sneakers a few moments later. Haas had apparently disappeared to grab him.

“Shane, Shane,” Ilya drops to his side, hands all over him, checking for injury. “What’s wrong? Why are you so pale?”

“I’m okay—”

“That is not okay,” Ilya cuts in, side-eying the grotesquely large pile of vomit.

“Sick,” Shane says. “Food poisoning? The flu, maybe—” He cuts himself off before he vomits on his freshly showered husband.

“Okay, home, now,” Ilya declares. His worried face compresses even further when Shane does not fight him on it. Ilya helps him out of his practice gear and into his street clothes, the process revealing to even Shane that he is shivering.

“Christ, Hollander,” Ilya says, pulling Shane’s hoodie over his head, “why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well this morning?”

“Was fine this morning,” Shane pouts. He officially feels like shit and would like to be home, wrapped up in bed with his husband and his dog. “Didn’t start feeling bad ‘til later. When practicing with Luca and LP.”

Ilya mumbles under his breath in Russian the entire drive home while Shane shivers in the passenger seat, though every vent is blasting hot air in his direction.

Ilya practically carries him inside and upstairs to the shower. Shane is unable to find a comfortable temperature, too overheated for anything too hot, but too shivery for anything below warm. Ilya bundles him into sleep pants and an oversized hoodie and buries him in their bed, tucking the sheets around him.

Shane is hopeful that he will feel better after some sleep.

—

He does not.

He wakes up in a puddle of his own sweat. No longer nauseous, but achy, with a sweeping chill racking his body. He groans, pushing off every blanket and pillow in sight.

“Moya lyubov, sh sh,” Ilya soothes from the other side of the bed.

“Too hot,” Shane complains. “Thirsty.”

Ilya hands him a glass of water. “Do you think you can keep some medicine down?”

Shane glugs down the water and immediately regrets it, racing for their en suite.

As he hurls the water into the toilet, he hears Ilya sigh, “That’s a no then.”

—

The rest of the day is an endless cycle of napping, attempting to drink a small bit of water, and regurgitating it back up, all with Ilya fussing in the background. If Shane weren’t so goddamn uncomfortable, he’d find the fussing cute, properly appreciate the sweet concern. But right now, with his clammy face pressed against the tiles of their bathroom floor, his toothbrush pointlessly hanging out of his mouth, feeling like he is one dry heave away from death, the fussing goes mostly under-appreciated.

Ilya paces their bedroom, eyes on the bathroom, cellphone to his ear. “He hasn’t kept anything down all day. Not even water. Should we go to the hospital?”

“If he still isn’t able to drink in the morning, probably,” Yuna says from the other end of the line.

“Dehydration,” they say simultaneously.

“I’ve never seen him like this before,” Ilya says, feeling on the verge of tears and murder. He feels useless, unable to make things better for his sick husband.

“He doesn’t get sick often, but when he does, he makes it count,” Yuna sighs. “When he got the chickenpox in preschool, David and I didn’t sleep the whole week, he was so itchy and sick.”

Ilya stares mournfully at Shane, who has impossibly fallen asleep on the bathroom floor.

—

Shane wakes up on the bathroom floor hours later. He feels like shit—he’s hungry and thirsty, his back hurts while the rest of him feels weak. The glare of the overhead bathroom light makes his dry eyes ache. Not to mention the inside of his mouth has never felt more disgusting. His toothbrush is lying on the bathroom floor in front of his face for some reason.

He scrambles off the bathroom floor, only to kick Ilya, who is leaning against the bathtub, asleep, in the thigh. He awakens with a shout of, “Chto da khren?”

“Why are we sleeping on the bathroom floor?” Shane asks, reaching for the toothpaste and a new toothbrush from the drawer. He practically pours the toothpaste into his mouth.

Ilya presses his palms to his eyes and blinks himself further awake. “Floor was the only place you were comfortable, said the bed was too hot and soft.” His knees and hips crack as he stands up. He reaches for Shane. “How are you feeling?”

Shane finishes brushing his teeth before answering. “Disgusting. But more human.”

“That’s good,” Ilya says, pressing the back of his hand to Shane’s forehead, then his cheeks. “You aren’t burning up anymore. Think you can keep some water down?”

Shane checks in on himself, says, “I think I can try.”

Ilya sprints back into their room and returns with a glass of room-temperature water. Shane slowly takes a couple of sips, even though he is desperately thirsty. Ilya watches him drink his glass of water like he is the one dying of thirst.

Shane finishes the glass, and they stare at each other for a full thirty seconds. When Shane doesn’t throw up, he says, “Oh, thank God,” and refills the glass right there in the bathroom sink.

After his second glass of water, Ilya says, “Let’s get you back into bed, you need more rest.”

Shane shuffles back to bed, where Anya is already snoozing. Ilya unnecessarily helps him get under the sheets and properly situates his pillow for him. Now that he no longer feels like death, Shane can appreciate the fussing. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“I do nothing,” Ilya argues as he crawls into his side. “Just hover while you are sick.”

Shane snuggles closer. “It was sweet hovering. Jesus, you slept on the bathroom floor with me.”

“Sickness and health, yes? I know we didn’t say them at our wedding, but those are still the vows, yes?”

Shane presses his forehead to Ilya’s shoulder and sighs. “When I’m feeling better, I’m kissing the hell out of you for that.”

_*_

First Joint Ad Sponsorship

“This feels weird,” Shane says, gesturing to where he is standing in compression shorts, hockey shoulder pads, and nothing else.

Ilya chuckles from his chair. “You look very pretty.”

Shane rolls his eyes, still uncomfortable being filmed all day.

The Under Armour brand manager had been ecstatic when Ilya and Shane agreed to do a campaign shoot for Pride month. She was even more excited when Yuna had negotiated—for an additional fee—the right to use behind-the-scenes footage on the brand’s socials. The photos would run in magazines and on billboards across North America and Europe for the entire month of June, while the behind-the-scenes footage would be immortalized forever on the internet.

A concept that makes Shane overwhelmingly anxious if he thinks about it longer than a couple seconds.

The day is long, and Shane, who has been doing brand deals his entire career, still feels a little stiff the whole time. He does what he can to mimic poses he’s seen online, to relax his jaw and shoulders. An athlete his whole life, he is at the very least coachable, and the photographer seems happy with the solo shots they take.

Ilya is, of course, a natural. His face—his immaculate bone structure and obscenely luscious hair—was made to be photographed. Shane has always known Ilya is breathtaking, but watching him model tank tops and super short running shorts is like watching a neoclassical statue walk off the pedestal in moisture-wicking cotton.

Shane is shocked and grateful that for their joint photos, they are both fully clothed. Shane in shorts and a zipped-up hoodie, Ilya in a compression T and joggers. They have them sit and stand next to and behind each other. Lean onto one another, hang their arms across the other’s shoulders and waist. Have them walk towards one another, walk past each other and look back over their shoulders. Make them stand as far apart as possible while still in frame, and stare at one another.

They change clothes—Shane now in the joggers and a tank, Ilya in the zip-up hoodie and a pair of low-slung sweats. The hoodie is barely zipped, and he isn’t wearing a shirt underneath. Shane is pretty sure he is blushing for every photo they take in these outfits.

The day ends quietly, everyone on the Under Armour team praising them for a job well done. Thanking them for their time and professionalism, one young PA quietly thanking them for what they’ve done, how much it has meant to his little brother, who just wants to play hockey like all the other kids at school.

“Not so bad, yes?” Ilya says back in their hotel room.

Shane nods, but says, “Let’s wait and see the proofs.”

—

The proofs come in an email two weeks later—the attachments labeled as magazine and billboard, and then socials.

They chose a couple solo shots of each of them for magazines: Shane, standing with his arms by his sides, shirtless in the stupid pads and compression shorts, staring past the camera. Ilya, in shorts and a T, sitting with his legs sprawled wide and his arms propping him up from behind. Shane, in sweats and a T, his arms raised over his head like he’s stretching, half of his stomach is visible. Ilya, in just shorts, his body facing away from the camera, his head turned slightly so his pouting profile is visible. His entire muscular back and perfect ass are the focal point.

The billboard selections are mainly of them together. One of them, side by side, arms folded across their chests. Another of them facing one another, hands on each other’s waists, Ilya’s side profile on full display, but Shane, resting his head on Ilya’s shoulder, is staring directly into the camera.

The third is of Shane standing behind Ilya, arm coming across his chest and sneaking under the open hoodie to rest his hand over his heart. Ilya is grinning at the camera while Shane is smiling at Ilya.

The fourth is a striking image of them on opposite sides of the frame, just staring at one another. Even though they aren’t touching, the way they are looking at one another feels intimate in a way the others don’t.

Ilya says, “See, not bad. Beautiful even.”

Shane traces a finger over the photo where they’re separated but staring at one another. Wonders how egotistical it would be to have another ad campaign photo hanging in their home. “I guess.”

He doesn’t have it in him to look at the socials folder. If this is what the ad campaign looks like, he cannot contemplate what was captured behind the scenes. At least everything looks tasteful, even if it feels more like an intimate look into his marriage instead of an ad campaign for athleisure.

He closes the email, says, “I’ll tell Mom to let them know we approve the proofs. What do you want for dinner?”

—

The behind-the-scenes content starts dropping during their playoff run. The Centaurs find it hilarious how much more attention they’re getting for the Under Armour campaign than for making a legitimate bid for the Stanley Cup.

“You guys are so cute,” Hayes says, holding up his phone to show Shane, Ilya, and the rest of the team a video of Shane and Ilya decked out in Under Armour gear, heads bent together as Ilya peels an orange, and divvies out the pieces between them. He waits until Shane has finished chewing and starts talking again before handing him a new piece.

The video is captioned: Next month’s brand ambassadors take a snack break 🍊

It already has over 300,000 likes and is only 24 minutes old.

As his contract demands, Shane shares the video. He also saves it.

The next day is a video of Ilya posing for his solo shots and Shane standing off to the side, watching him adoringly. Shane shares it with the words: Can you really blame me?

He has never received more social media engagement in his entire career.

At the end of the week, Under Armour posts one of the photos from in-between shots, and they caption it: TFW everyday is take your husband to work day 😍

It’s a photo of them between shots. Ilya has his arms around Shane’s waist, and Shane is holding onto the string of Ilya’s hoodie. They are standing nose-to-nose and smiling.

The top liked comment reads: jfc LOOK AT THEM!!!! they are so in love, how did we not know?!?

Shane reposts the photo to his stories, adding his own caption: When the rivalry gets too heated.

He actually has to turn off his phone to stop it from overheating from all the notifications.

-*-

First Play-Offs and First Bench Clearer

“I hate St. Louis,” Bood says, from his locker. “Have I mentioned how much I fucking hate St. Louis lately?”

“Yes!” Multiple guys shout.

“But valid,” Barrett says. “As Harris would say, the vibes from this team are rancid.”

Shane isn’t one hundred percent sure he understands the saying, but if Harris says it, it must be right. St. Louis has never been his favorite team to play against, but over the last few years, they seem to be building a team of first-rate assholes. And not lovable ones like Ilya. Just genuinely terrible guys who are kind of good at hockey, and have no problem playing dirty.

They have also proven themselves to be the most homophobic team the Centaurs played during the regular season—not only throwing slurs but targeting Shane, Troy, and Ilya in ways that had Bood and LaPointe earning their ‘enforcer’ titles.

“Well, is not like we are here for party,” Ilya says. “We are here to crush dreams, ruin lives, and send them home crying, yes?”

The team laughs at that as they finish getting ready. Because Ilya is right: they are here to crush St. Louis’s Cup dreams. And no one got into professional hockey to make friends.

Game 1 of Round 1 of the play-offs is always stressful, but Shane is impressed with how the Centaurs are dealing with it. They are still them—fun and lively and a little unserious, but the focus is there in all of their eyes.

They want this.

The game gets off to a brutal start. The Arches’ starting center and biggest douchebag, Callahan, takes Ilya into the boards with such force within the first two minutes that Ilya drops to the ice. Haas and an assistant coach have to actually physically hold Shane to the bench to keep him from getting on the ice to go to Ilya.

Ilya gets up after only a second and skates past the bench, a muttered, “Fine,” send Shane’s way to soothe his nerves. But he clearly isn’t fine. There’s something wrong. His ribs most likely from the way he’s skating.

The shift change comes two minutes later, and Shane is treated to Callahan’s particular brand of play. Physical assault with a side of verbal, for fun, apparently?

Faggot has lost all meaning to Shane at this point.

It isn’t fun to hear, but the sharp edges have dulled significantly over the season. Which has been an interesting trajectory for Shane—going from being terrified of everyone knowing about his sexuality and using it against him to not giving a shit when half the league (and internet) calls him a slur.

He’d call it growth if he weren’t ninety percent sure it wasn’t mainly mental and emotional exhaustion.

So that’s what he’s expecting from Callahan. More of the same. Except that’s…not what Callahan calls Shane.

Shane almost misses it. Probably would have missed it if Haas hadn’t dug his skates into the ice and pulled up short. “What the fuck did you call him?”

And that catches Shane’s attention—Luca is not a chirpy player, let alone someone to lose focus over some silly bullshit.

That’s when the word registers. Shane brings himself to an abrupt halt. Spins around to see Luca—sweet, young, baby Luca—squaring up to the mountain that is Callahan.

“Luca,” Shane calls, but he knows he’s too late. Luca is shouting, shouting loud enough for even their bench to hear him. LaPointe—God bless him for having speed even though he’s a burly 6’5”—is already rushing to his side.

“What the fuck did you just call, Shane?” And Shane has never seen Luca like this—it would be heart-warming to see him standing up for Shane if he wasn’t going to get himself killed.

“You heard me,” Callahan snarls, this time louder, “and so did that—”

And there it is again. That word that Shane hasn’t had to hear since going pro. Sure, there have been racist remarks, snide comments about his sight line, and how much rice he has to eat to maintain his weight.

But this—this hasn’t happened since Juniors.

And Shane doesn’t have the time to stop Luca or LaPointe from catapulting themselves fist-first at Callahan because he’s now watching every single member of his team hop the boards. The St. Louis bench, who isn’t close enough to hear what was said—or maybe they did, and they have no problem with it—immediately follows suit, flooding the ice.

It’s pandemonium—fists and helmets are flying, there’s blood splatter across the ice. And even though this fight is about Shane—or at least what was said about Shane—he is the only one not fighting.

At least until an errant elbow clips his chin, and then he is dragged into the tumult.
—

The locker room is silent save for intermittent groans as guys ice their faces. Half the team has split lips, the other black eyes. Shane has a quickly forming black eye and jaw beneath the ice pack pressed to his face, and beside him, Ilya is still bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow. Against their usual locker room protocol of professional distance, they are holding hands, Ilya’s thumb rubbing soothingly across the back of Shane’s bruised and slightly split knuckles.

Wiebe and the coaching staff finally enter the room. He looks around at everyone, asks, “Everybody been seen?”

They all nod, say, “Yes, Coach.”

“The medical team told me no one had anything serious. Bruises, cuts, scrapes, the usual. No breaks or fractures, but if any of you are feeling anything out of the ordinary, you call medical immediately.”

Another round of “Yes, Coach.”

“We’ll start with the good news: Callahan has been pulled off of St. Louis’s active list, pending further review from the league—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bood says, mouth agape. “The league is actually going to do something about the blatant racism? Holy shit.”

“Who knows if it will last beyond this round of play-offs,” Wiebe says, “but for now we are thankful they’re pulling him. No one wants to watch Roz commit actual murder with his bare hands on the ice.”

“I don’t know,” Dykstra says. “I think I’d enjoy it.”

Ilya’s hold on Shane’s hand tightens as murmurs of agreement echo around the locker room.

Wiebe concedes the point with a small tilt of his head. “Next piece of good news: game’s a wash. Both teams take a loss.” There are groans to the unfairness of that, but Wiebe holds up his hands. “Luca swung first, our entire team was on the ice first. The refs took the irrefutable video evidence of just cause into account, and are calling it even.” Wiebe turns on his heels, smiling. “And to be clear, I’d be happy losing the whole series just to watch Luca sock Callahan in the jaw so hard he actually dropped him.”

The entire locker room erupts. Luca, bruised and battered but still alive thanks to LaPointe’s assistance, blushes beneath the cheers.

Wiebe walks over and pats Luca on the shoulder. “Which brings us to the bad news: Haas is out for the remainder of Round 1.”

“Bullshit!”

“That is such ass.”

“Can’t we appeal that?”

Wiebe holds up placating hands, “Our entire team got into a fight with the opposition. This is lenience.”

“Still bullshit,” Ilya finally breaks his silence. “Luca should get to beat the shit out of Callahan before every game he has to sit out.”

“Agreed,” Wiebe says, “but I’m supposed to be giving you all a speech about how violence isn’t the answer, you’re role models for kids, blah blah blah. Barrett,” Wiebe spins to Troy, who has pieces of tissue lodged up both nostrils and an ice pack against an elbow and his knuckles. “Do you think Harris and the comms team will be pissed if we change our team stance to, “Violence is never the answer except when some asshole is a racist. Always punch racists.”

The team laughs, and it loosens something in Shane’s chest to see them all so angry on his behalf. For so long, he has carried this alone—had only one or two other players of color on his team who could understand—to have his team shoulder even one percent of this for him in the only way they could makes it a little easier to bear.

Barrett says, “Yeah, Harris can make that work.”

“Amazing,” Wiebe turns to Shane and Ilya. “Rozanov, the press is waiting. What do you say to telling the entire city of St. Louis to go fuck themselves?”

“You want to send Ilya to post-game press after that?” Shane asks.

“Jesus Christ,” Hayes whistles. “Wiebe has officially lost it.”

“Probably,” Wiebe shrugs. “And, Hollander, if you think this’ll make things worse for you, then we’ll just send Hayes and Dykstra—”

Shane shakes his head. “No, they earned this.” Shane looks at Ilya. “Try to keep the league fines to below $50,000, okay?”

Ilya pouts, “Then I might as well not even go out there at all. Below $50,000? Psshh.”

“Get creative,” Shane says. “I believe in you!”
—

Ilya gets fined $52,000 by the league for his post-game remarks.

The Centaurs annihilate the Arches over the next four games and move onto Round 2 of the playoffs.

-*-
First Joint Invitation

It arrives in the mail.

An innocuous, thick, cream envelope with a dead Canadian Prime Minister on the stamp, and overly fussy writing on the address.

They’re so busy that week with travel and playoff games that neither of them pays it much mind. Not until after morning conditioning on Thursday, when LaPointe asks the locker room at large, “Have you guys gotten the invitations for the wedding yet? Gina’s getting nervous since her family back in Vancouver says they haven’t gotten them yet and the wedding’s in early July.”

“Got ours,” Hayes says.

“Us, too,” Bood replies.

More words of assent flow through the locker room. Shane shrugs, continues getting dressed, and reminds himself to actually look at the mail when they get home.

The envelope waits for him in the middle of the pile on their kitchen counter. Seriously, it’s 2022, why are they still getting so much physical mail?

Shane grabs the fancy envelope and is flipping it over to rip it open when he finally registers the addressee on the front.

Mr. & Mr. Hollander-Rozanov

He freezes.

“What is it?” Ilya asks from the fridge. When Shane doesn’t respond, he says, “Shane, what’s wrong?”

Shane shakes his head, holds the envelope up for Ilya to read. “Nothing’s wrong, we got LaPointe’s wedding invite. Just—look at this.”

Ilya comes to his side and reads the envelope. He freezes just like Shane did. “That’s—”

“No one’s ever called us that before,” Shane whispers. He pulls out the invitation—standard, tasteful, beautiful. Proper name, place, time, blah blah blah. He finds the RSVP card that they’re supposed to send, marking off their dinner preferences, and there it is again.

Mr. & Mr. Hollander-Rozanov

Ilya’s hand comes up to rub Shane’s back. “It’s… nice to see.”

They haven’t changed their names. Yet. They talked about it ad nauseam, and honestly, the main thing stopping them is the absolute nightmare of paperwork that would await them if Ilya changed his legal name during the citizenship process. If something goes wrong with the paperwork filings, all due to a name change, it could slow things down by months or years.

They can wait for the name change.

Shane feels slightly less silly getting emotional about seeing it since Ilya seems to also be glassy-eyed. This is going to be their shared last name soon. This will be their kids’ last name.

There is a sharp catch in his lungs—their kids, their family, their life that they are sharing and building together. All right there, succinctly written in black on cream.

Mr. & Mr. Hollander-Rozanov

Shane tips his head onto Ilya’s shoulder and marks them down for one steak dinner and one salmon.

-*-

First Birthdays

Shane has never been a birthday person. He doesn’t hate his birthday or anything, but he’s also never been one for attention that wasn’t hockey-related.

His thirty-first birthday falls on a playoff game day–game five against Philadelphia in Philadelphia. He wakes up in a hotel bed with his husband’s naked body pinning him to the lumpy mattress, Ilya peppering kisses across his chest and up his neck.

“S dnyom rozhdeniya, moya lyubov,” Ilya whispers against his cheek.

Shane grins, grabs at Ilya’s hip, cards his other hand through Ilya’s hair

Ilya shifts up and Shane groans at the release of pressure against his lower back. “Need to get out of bed and stretch, starik?”

Shane playfully jabs at Ilya’s ribs as he settles fully on top of Shane. “I am only five weeks older than you.”

Ilya hums thoughtfully as he runs his hand down Shane’s thigh, grabs his knee to wrap it around his own waist. “More like five years.” Ilya dips forward and kisses down Shane’s neck.

“So disrespectful to your elders, Rozanov,” Shane tuts.

Ilya lets out a back of laughter and presses a chaste kiss to Shane’s chest, directly over his heart. He digs his chin into Shane’s pec and meet’s Shane’s gaze, says, “Oh, so you want me disrespectful?”

Shane flushes, shrugs as nonchalantly as he is capable of in the moment.

Ilya’s smile is feral when he grabs Shane by his thighs and yanks him down the bed
—

Ilya’s birthday falls near the end of their run for the Stanley Cup. They are at least home in Ottawa, with morning practice and a game against Seattle that evening.

Ilya loved his birthday when he was little. The cake, the presents, the attention. An entire day about him. But as he got older, after his mother passed, the day only served as a reminder of how much his own life was not about him. The mid-June day passed without acknowledgement from his father or brother; Svetlana was the only one to remember.

As a young adult, he mostly ignored the day or used it as an excuse to get so drunk he couldn’t remember his own name or that he didn’t have anyone to celebrate a day about him with.

Then on June 15, 2014 the strangest thing happened. A text from Jane. From Shane.

Happy Birthday, asshole. And good luck.

Ilya is helplessly charmed. He is sitting in the Bears’ locker room, suiting up for Game 5 of the fucking Stanley Cup final and he is grinning at his phone like a smitten fool.

Probably because he is a smitten fool. But he cannot afford to be a smitten fool for Shane Hollander. Not now. Not ever. He stows his phone in his locker, stows his feelings deep inside, goes out onto the ice and scores two goals. He spends the entire post-game interview trying to not grab his phone and respond to Hollander. Spends the rest of his evening pacing his apartment, phone in his hand. Tells himself he hasn’t texted Hollander back for the last five months for a reason, was keeping his distance for a reason–a simple Happy Birthday text that made his heart slam against his ribcage was not going to be the thing that broke him.

Seeing Hollander in a tux and on the verge of tears a month later at the NHL awards is what breaks him.

He and Hollander continue to do whatever stupid fucking thing they’re doing–flirting and texting and secretly fucking any chance they get.

And on June 15th every year, Hollander sends him a simple Happy Birthday text. In 2017, Shane–and what a fucking revelation, Ilya calls him Shane now–even adds a little 🙂 at the end of his birthday wish text.

2018 and 2019 are complete departures from the last seventeen years–he gets to spend his birthday with someone. With Shane. They fool around and order take-out, Shane gives him gifts and they have dinner and cake with Shane’s parents.

In 2020, Shane is playing in the Stanley Cup finals in Anaheim. Ilya hates that he can’t be there with him to quietly support him. Shane is hyper-focused during the regular season, during playoffs and the Cup run, Shane is the definition of tunnel-vision. Ilya does not expect anything for his birthday, but Shane–his beloved Shane–sends him flowers in the morning and his parents over in the afternoon, arms laden with food, cake, and presents. They all watch the game together, and just before midnight Ilya gets a FaceTime call.

The next year is their first year out, and Shane, who still doesn’t feel totally comfortable with all the eyes on them, still goes out of his way to celebrate Ilya. Ilya loves him an outrageous amount.

This year, Ilya’s birthday falls on their second to last game day for the Stanley Cup. They are both jittery and focused, high-strung. Ilya’s ribs are bruised from the series against Philadelphia and Shane’s left knee is twinging from Game 1 against Washington. They are at least at home in Ottawa.

Ilya wakes up in bed alone. No Shane or Anya in sight. He goes downstairs to find an empty kitchen and living room. An empty house.

He starts brewing some coffee–now in his thirties, caffeine is his life’s blood–and sets about cooking eggs and turkey bacon for breakfast. The food is just about ready when he hears the door open, followed by the padding of Anya’s paws against the hardwoods, and Shane’s quiet footsteps.

“Damn it,” Shane says as he enters the kitchen, coming to wrap his arms around Ilya’s waist, “I thought I’d get home and back into bed before you woke up.”

“I am not that heavy of a sleeper, Hollander,” Ilya snarks, leaning back into Shane’s warmth.

Shane kisses his neck. “Happy birthday. Welcome to the elderly and encroaching on death club!”

“Pah!” Ilya exhales, spinning in Shane’s arms. “I am still young and full of energy.”

Shane grins, kisses his cheek. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“You are being very rude to me on my day,” Ilya says.

“My deepest apologies.”

“Do not worry yourself, lyubimyy, we will think of some way for you to make it up to me.”

Shane snorts, pulls out of Ilya’s hold. “Make it up to you? I had some thoughts on that as well.” He tugs his shirt over his head and walks backwards out of the kitchen. He kicks off his short little running shorts before he rounds the corner out of sight only to reveal to Ilya that he isn’t wearing anything underneath.

Ilya sprints after him.

_*_

First Joint Stanley Cup

Shane has never felt any type of way about the Washington Falcons. They’re a fine team with a bunch of talented players that he doesn’t hate, and Seattle is usually a decent place to visit.

Right now, he hates the Falcons, Seattle, and the entire state of Washington, for that matter.

They are in Game fucking 7 for the Stanley Cup, and nothing is going right for them. Passes are getting intercepted, shots on goal are going wide, Hayes can’t close the goal, and Shane and Ilya haven’t won a single face-off. The first period is ending, and the Centaurs are down 0-3.

They enter the locker room in frustrated silence during the period break. Wiebe stands in the center of the room, clipboard tapping against his thigh. Shane has no idea what their coach is planning to say to pull them out of this, but he prays it’s fucking good.

Wiebe starts to chuckle, “So, uh, that was rough.” His chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh.

The team looks at their coach, then each other, unsure if he’s lost his mind. Barrett is the one to break the tension as he cracks up, too. Then they all—Shane, included—are laughing.

Wiebe finally pulls himself together, wiping genuine tears from the corners of his eyes. “You guys feeling better? A little looser?”

They all nod, a few ‘yeah’s fly up around the room.

“Good. You know you can do this. I know you can do this. What is stopping you from doing this?”

“The Falcons,” Chouinard says. “The Falcons are stopping us pretty effectively.”

“No, they aren’t,” Wiebe fires back. “You’re beating you. The Falcons are not a better team. We’re just defeating ourselves instead. Our first line has more goals than any other first line in the league. Hell, our second line has more goals than most first lines in the league.”

Someone whoops.

Wiebe continues, “Hazy shuts down the goal on a weekly basis. Weekly. And our D line is so tight our allowed shots-on-goal percentage is one of the lowest in the league.”

“Hell yeah, it is,” Holmberg cheers.

“So what the hell is stopping you? Are you all really that scared to be Stanley Cup Champions? Because that’s what happens at the end of this game. This league that has doubted you, ignored you, thrown you away, has to finally fucking recognize what we’ve known since September: we’re the best team in the league. Our names belong on that Cup. Not the goddamn Falcons.”

“Holy shit,” Haas says, “Coach swore.”

“Now, can you go out and play your game not Washington’s?” Wiebe asks.

Their sticks slam against the benches.

“Rozanov, you got anything for this bunch of miscreants?”

Ilya stands. “Place your bets now: me vs. Hollander. Most goals and most assists.”

The locker room goes wild, as Shane looks up at Ilya with a grin he wishes was a disapproving frown. “Really? Turning the Stanley Cup final into a competition, Rozanov?”

“Is our thing, yes?” Ilya winks at him before returning to the team. “Also, secret third option: neither of our stats matter if Hazy shuts the goal down.”

“What are the stakes?” Dykstra asks.

“Uh, we win the Stanley Cup,” Shane replies.

“Loser pays for the first round of drinks for the whole team after every game for the first half of next season,” Ilya says.

The team hoots their approval.

“My money’s on Hollander,” Dykstra announces to a boisterous round of claps and cheers.

Bood holds up his hands and calls, “I’ll put my money on Cap.”

Barrett says, “Looks like I’m leading option three with Hazy-Hayes slamming the door and locking it.”

The locker room is almost unbearably loud to Shane, but he’s smiling, feeling more settled in his skin than he has that night.

Ilya throws his hands up, gestures to the ice, “Roll out, boys.”
—

The second period is one of the best twenty-minute periods of Shane's entire life.

The Centaurs score four goals: Barrett with an assist from Ilya. Haas gets a hatty in ten minutes, which Shane didn’t even know was humanly possible. Three beautiful, perfect goals all assisted by Shane.

Hayes and the D-line have transformed into absolute menaces—the goal is shut, and Holmberg is talking so much shit, it’s only a matter of time before Shane, Ilya, and Troy get to create some magic on a power play.

The Falcons are frustrated and determined going into the third, but it doesn’t matter. The Centaurs own the ice tonight. When Galovich, the Falcon’s winger, takes a swing at Ilya, earning himself a trip to the box, the power play line honestly doesn’t feel fair. Ilya scores on an assist from Shane, and Barrett practically tackles them both to the ground in his excitement.

As the clock runs down, only seconds left in the third period, Shane can feel his body trembling. Adrenaline, excitement, and overwhelming relief flood his veins. The final buzzer rings, and his entire team is on the ice, gloves flying through the air like shooting stars. He’s wrapped up in Haas and LaPointe’s arms, their profanity-laced shouts going directly in his ringing ears. The team comes together in a dog pile of limbs and helmets, cries and laughs.

Shane’s pretty sure they’re all crying. At the center of it all is Ilya. Ilya, lifting gigantic Bood off his skates and hugging him. Ilya, kissing all over Hayes’s helmet. Ilya, grabbing Troy and the two men, just screaming in each other’s faces. Ilya, hugging Haas tight, telling him how proud of him he is. Ilya, being wrangled by every member of the team before he finally makes it to Shane.

“Not bad, Hollander,” Ilya says, through his non-stop smile. He’s keeping his professional distance, not reaching for Shane even though his hands are clearly flexing for him.

Shane has no time for that, grabs Ilya around the neck and reels him in to kiss the absolute hell out of him.

The Centaurs' social media team posts a group of pictures on Instagram and Twitter captioned: Your 2022 Stanley Cup Champions.

The team with the Cup. Ilya, hoisting the cup. A locker room full of half-dressed men, cheering and jumping, the whole scene diluted by sprays of champagne. Barrett, holding two bottles of champagne, riding on a Bood’s back—both men grinning ear-to-ear. Haas and Hayes on the ice, holding the cup together. Choinard, Young, and LaPointe, pouring champagne into the cup. Wiebe, covering his tear-streaked face as the entire team holds the cup over his head.

The final photo is in black and white, of two figures on the ice—they are the only ones left in the entire arena. The picture captures them from behind as they slowly skate away. Their faces are blurry, indistinguishable, but the backs of their jerseys are crisp and clear. Twenty-four has their forehead pressed to the eighty-one’s temple. Their hands are linked together.

-*-

First Broken Bed

Shane wakes up with a pounding head, a crick in his back, and his cell phone alarm screaming. “Oh, God, why?”

Ilya groans like a beached whale to his right.

Eyes still firmly shut, Shane scrambles for the phone and tumbles gracelessly to the floor, ass first. “What the fuck?”

He finally opens his eyes to find a disaster zone. Sheets and pillows everywhere, though his and Ilya’s clothes are folded neatly on the chair in the corner. The bed looks lopsided, drooping on one side, as if it somehow got into a car accident the night before.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane huffs, pulling himself up to his knees to finally shut off his alarm. 5:00 am. Fucking why?

The plane. They have to catch an early plane home to Ottawa because they have media appearances all day tomorrow, because they won the Stanley Cup.

The night before comes back to his hungover memory in foggy snatches. The game, the after party. So much alcohol. He and Ilya coming back to the hotel room and—

Ilya buries his head beneath a pillow as he groans in indistinct Russian.

Shane snatches the pillow away. “Ilya, wake the fuck up. We have a problem.”

“Oh my God, what, Hollander?” Ilya whines. He is not a morning person to begin with, add in a massive hangover, and he’s going to be a fussy baby all day.

Shane gestures to the mattress. “We broke the bed.”

Ilya finally lifts his head and squints at the bed beneath him. Inspects it until he finds the pronounced dip that should not be there and smirks.

“No,” Shane hits his bare chest, “you do not get to be proud of yourself for this! This is mortifying. The entire team is going to find out.”

“How is this embarrassing? We’re professional athletes who are so good at sex we broke a bed.” Ilya falls back to the mattress, smug grin still firmly in place. “Think we should get another Cup for this achievement.”

“You are not helping,” Shane squawks, hopping to his feet, mind running but at a much slower pace than usual. Now that the adrenaline is dissipating, a hangover migraine is making itself known, and his thoughts feel like soup. “Maybe we can handle this—pay for it outright without anyone on the team finding out?”

Ilya just chuckles.
—

Because Shane wanted to handle the incident before they left, he and Ilya are the last ones on the bus. They ascend the steps to thunderous applause, wolf whistles, and catcalls.

Shane has never blushed this fiercely.

“Congratulations!” One of the guys calls from the back.

“Didn’t know you guys still had it in you, being old and married,” Young says, as they pass him, “but damn.”

Someone even dares to say, “Just as long as it’s a broken bed and not Hollander’s back. We want another Cup next year.”

Ilya, the asshole, actually takes a bow before taking his seat.

-*-

First NHL Awards

Ilya, for all of his love of partying, drinking, and celebrating in general, is not looking forward to the NHL Awards. He knows it will be a good night—it is no secret Shane had the most points during the regular season, so the Art Ross is his, and the Conn Smythe is coming to someone on the Centaurs (most likely Ilya or Troy). The entire team is here in Vegas for one final hurrah before going their separate ways for the next few weeks before camp starts. Not to mention, Shane will be in a tux the entire night.

These things all add up to what is sure to be an excellent time for Ilya.

But he is tired. And even though he loves his team—loves them in a way he didn’t know was possible—he just wants time alone with Shane. Just them, without other people or cameras around.

And what a shift that is—he spent over a decade just wishing he could publicly be seen with Shane, and now, one year of being out, Ilya, guiltily, wishes for some of their previous privacy back.

It isn’t as though he regrets coming out—he just misses the quiet intimacy of their relationship. He is endlessly grateful for all the support they’ve received from their team, their city, their fans, but with all this attention, it does feel as though there are parts of their relationship that are no longer theirs. Most of the time, Ilya can easily ignore the random bloggers who analyze photos of them not holding hands at the grocery store, and wonder if divorce is imminent.

After such a public year, Ilya is yearning for some peaceful privacy with his husband.

Their hotel room is absurd, the Centaurs paying for Shane and Ilya to stay in one of the penthouses. It’s a different penthouse than that time all those years ago, but it feels the same in the way all Vegas hotel rooms feel the same. Windows that let in too much artificial light, luxurious furniture that borders on gaudy. A room and bar service menu that is mediocre at best, but costs more than the top shelf. At least the vodka is serviceable.

Ilya, still only in his towel, walks up behind Shane, who is finishing putting on his tuxedo shirt, and wraps his arms around his waist. “You’re going to make us late,” Shane says, but he stops his ministrations with his cuffs and leans back into Ilya.

Ilya presses his face into Shane’s neck, noses at the soft skin beneath the crisp starched collar. He kisses his favorite freckle just below Shane’s ear, asks, “What if we skipped it?”

“Well, I’d feel like an idiot in a tux with nowhere to go,” Shane says.

Ilya’s hands slide down to the top of Shane’s pants, fingers toying with the button. “That is easily fixed.”

“Ilya.” Shane spins in his arms, his hands coming to rest on Ilya’s chest. “What’s this about? I thought you, Bood, and Troy were already figuring out who was paying for what round of drinks tonight.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, “but I am also sick of sharing you with everyone else.”

Shane’s eyes soften. His hand comes up and cups Ilya’s neck, drawing him down. When their mouths meet, it feels like the settling of a rocking ship, the gentle lap of waves against a sandy shore, the near-silent click of the front door closing, the warm glow of porch lights staying on late into night.

Ilya had never known what coming home felt like until he kissed Shane Hollander.

When they part again, Shane whispers, “Soon. We’ve got this tonight and Rose’s premiere next week, then we have almost an entire month until camp starts. What if we…what if we go somewhere less highkey for our anniversary?”

Ilya raises his brows. Their anniversary trip was booked, some European island in the Mediterranean that came highly recommended by every queer person they knew. But it was also known for being extremely popular and energetic, full of vacationing Americans and Canadians, a place they would most likely be recognized over and over and over again.

“Trust me,” Shane says, “I have an idea.”

Well, that is easy. Ilya trusts Shane with anything and everything. He nods, presses a kiss to Shane’s brow.

Shane rubs his thumb along Ilya’s jaw, presses a kiss there, then lightning quick reaches down and playfully slaps his ass. “Now go put on that tux that makes you look unfairly sexy so we can go get told how great at hockey we are.”
—

The awards go as anticipated. Shane blushes his way through a very heartfelt speech when he is presented the Art Ross. He thanks every member of the team, coaching and training staff, and ends his speech with, “And I guess I should thank our team captain, Ilya Rozanov, but that guy’s kind of an asshole, so…”

The crowd is so busy laughing and clapping that they miss Shane look directly across rows of hundreds at Ilya and mouth, Ya tebya lyublyu.

Ilya blows him a kiss.

The entire Centaurs organization is on its feet when Troy Barrett is named the regular-season MVP. Ilya’s hands feel raw from how hard he claps. Bood, Haas, D, and Hazy start a chant of his name, “Barr-ett, Barr-ett,” that the entire room takes up and doesn’t stop for minutes. Troy seems beside himself at the podium. At his seat in the row in front of them, Harris has tears streaming down his face. Shane leans forward and grips his shoulders, and Harris reaches up in silent thanks at the show of support.

“Holy—holy shit,” are the first words out of Troy’s mouth. The crowd laughs at his honest bafflement. “I didn’t think—the Conn’s obviously going to Roz, so I didn’t think anyone from our team had a chance for this—I’m—”

Troy clears his throat, shakes his head. “When I got to the Centaurs, I thought my career, my life was over.” Another small chuckle, even from the team. Everyone knows who the Centaurs were two seasons ago. “But it was just the beginning of everything. Every player thinks they’re on the best team with the best guys in the NHL, but I have proof of it.”

The people working behind the scenes do some magic, and a photo of the Cens on-ice with the Cup fills the screen behind Troy. The crowd cheers their approval.

“This group is special in a way that isn’t just defined by their talent, but by their goodness, their joy, their love for each other and the game. I wouldn’t be playing the way I am, wouldn’t have had an MVP-worthy season without any of them, or the coaching and training staff. But especially our Captain.”

Ilya dips his head, flushing slightly as the guys around him shout their agreement.

“If you haven’t played on a team with Roz, then you won’t get it. The way the rest of you hate him, that’s how he loves us.” Shane reaches over and grabs Ilya’s hand, laces their fingers together. “There’s a reason we won the cup, why Hollander was uncatchable the entire season, why I’m up here now, and why Roz’ll be up here in a few minutes. Thank you, Cap.”

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand while the rest of the team calls, “We love you, Roz,” and “You’re the best, Cap.” Ilya’s vision is cloudy for some reason.

“And finally, Harris,” Troy’s smile is big and brilliant, “thank you for everything. You make me better.”

The next few awards come and go, Ilya not really paying attention, emotional exhaustion settling deep in his bones, into his soul.

The presenters for the Conn Smythe this year are two baby-faced rookies—not quite rivals, not quite friends—the league is purportedly trying to sell them as the next Hollander vs. Rozanov without the overwhelmingly gay love story at the end.

Ilya doesn’t even hear his name when it’s called, has to be pulled up out of his seat by Shane, who kisses his cheek and sends him towards the stage.

It is only slightly surprising that he won considering how much Crowell hates him compounded with Troy being awarded the regular season MVP. Then again, he had an incredible play-off run, an undeniably stand-out run—and yet, Ilya’s hands are shaking. He feels so light, he could float away. He makes it to the podium and stares out at this sea of people. At his peers and teammates, friends, and not-quite-foes, but certainly people who dislike him.

He finds his team and zeros in on Shane, anchors himself to his smile, the constellation of freckles he can’t see from here but knows is there.

“Hi,” he says into the mic, says to Shane. “I am not good at heartfelt speeches in this stupid language.” He hears laughter, but only has eyes for the sparkle in Shane’s eyes. “But I guess I will try?

“Thank you for this,” he gestures to the trophy that he hasn’t even touched yet. “Thank you for recognizing our team, what we worked so hard for this year. Thank you, Ottawa, for supporting us and showing up for us. Thank you to Wiebe and the rest of the coaching staff for not killing me, I know it was tempting. Thank you to the best D-line in the league, and to Hazy for imitating a brick wall so many times that the rest of you basically stopped trying to score.”

More laughter, shouts of Hayes’s name. Ilya watches Shane nod, urging him on.

“Thank you to Bood and Barrett for being the best wingers in the NHL. It is more fun playing with you than it should be. And thank you, LP, Hollander, and Haas, for being better than everyone else’s first line. It made my life a lot easier. Thank you to the whole damn team, being your Captain has been the greatest honor of my life.”

He hears Bood scream, “We love you, Cap!”

“Thank you to my family. Mama, ya vsegda boodyy tebya lubit i skuchat za toboyu. David and Yuna, for being there since…” Ilya stumbles over the words. “Thank you for loving and supporting us from the second you knew. And my husband, you are the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me, even if you think I’m an asshole.” Thankfully, that draws a laugh because Ilya is pretty sure the level of public vulnerability he is currently feeling is going to make him vomit. “Ya tebya lyublyu bol'she vsego na svete.”

—

The after-party is rowdy even by NHL standards. Shots are thrown back, alcohol drunk straight from the bottle. Excessively loud music shakes through speakers, and a makeshift dance floor appears. At one point, Ilya is pretty sure he sees one of Minnesota’s D-men hanging from a chandelier.

The Centaurs join in the festivities, but Ilya and Shane keep themselves to a two-drink maximum. They celebrate with their team, drifting apart to talk to other players—Shane even going off to hang out with Hayden and JJ for a little bit—but always coming back together, their magnetic poles always drawing them to the other’s side. It’s just after midnight when Shane snakes his arm around Ilya’s waist and asks, “Do you think they’re drunk enough to not notice us leaving?”

“Who gives a fuck?” Ilya sets his drink down on the table, says to everyone in earshot, “Bye, love you, see you at camp.” Then tows Shane out of the room to the sounds of the Centaurs yelling their goodbyes at their backs.

The elevator ride up to their room is interminable as they share it with a group of inebriated twenty-somethings who are indiscreetly staring at them. The twenty-somethings get off the elevator two floors below the penthouse level, and at that point, Ilya is unable to not grab his husband and attempt to devour him.

It is a testament to Shane’s state of mind that he practically jumps Ilya, instead of reminding him that there are most likely cameras in the elevator. Shane’s hands rake through his hair as he kisses down his throat. The elevator sings their arrival to their floor, and Ilya has never been more thankful to be a professional athlete than he is when he carries Shane around. He’s able to get them through the door, across the living room area, and into the bed.

“How did you manage that?” Shane asks through gasps as he rips his tux off. He hastily folds it into a shoddy pile on the floor beside the bed. Ilya’s shoes are thrown so haphazardly they hit the window on the other side of the room.

“No idea,” Ilya replies, diving onto the sheets. He latches onto Shane’s recently revealed collarbone and bites down.

Shane moans then scrabbles at Ilya’s hips. “Oh my God, oh my God, take your pants off now. I will die if I can’t touch your dick in the next five seconds—oh, thank God.”

Ilya’s chuckle morphs into a gasp as Shane works him with his dexterous fingers. After twelve years, Shane knows his body better than he does.

Ilya, ravenous and never one for being outdone, slides down Shane’s body, mouthing at his cock through his boxer-briefs.

“How are you so hot?” Shane asks the ceiling. “It’s so incredibly unfair,” he splutters off as Ilya removes his cock from his underwear and swallows him whole. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

Ilya bobs his head, a man starved—his mouth and tongue hollowing and rolling as his hands grope up Shane’s chest and waist, hauling his thighs up and over his shoulders. “So incredibly unfair,” Shane sighs, sinking into the bed with all of his weight. After a few more moments, Shane whines, “Ilya,” shoving at his shoulders, but Ilya will not budge.

He had to sit through an entire award show in a moderately uncomfortable tuxedo, be emotionally vulnerable in front of hundreds of people, and then stand around in a room full of the same boring idiots when all he wanted to be doing was this. He has a plan, and he will not be deterred, no matter how beautifully Shane begs.

He pulls off of Shane’s cock, kisses up his thigh, and across his hip. “I love you, but I will not be distracted.”

“Distracted? Who’s distracting?” Shane asks, his voice already soft and floaty.

Ilya drops Shane’s legs, slowly kisses his way up his torso across his pecs, his neck, his jaw, his mouth. “You, my beautiful husband, are very distracting.”

With his long hair splayed across the pillow, his muscular body laid out across the stark white sheets, looking perfectly debauched, Shane has never been more beautiful. However, Ilya says that about him everyday, so his opinion on the topic might not be quite trustworthy.

Shane grabs him by the neck and pulls him down into a kiss that is all tongue and teeth and grinding hips. “Fuck,” Ilya groans.

He reaches into the bedside drawer he had dumped the condoms and lube into earlier, grabbing what he needs, and sets quickly to work. With every finger he adds to stretch out Shane, his husband’s pleas for speed take on a new tone of desperation. “Ilya, Ilya, I’m fine. I’m ready, just—just—”

Ilya takes pity on them both, sinking into the welcoming heat and clench of Shane’s body. He’ll never get used to it, never tire of it. Every time is like the first. A moment of bliss, of the unbelievable knowledge that he gets to have this—this pleasure, this love, this trust with Shane for the rest of their lives.

He had told himself that he would not get deterred, he had a plan to build slowly, to drag this out in a delicious torture that sent them both over the edge only after Shane was begging. But the moment he slides home, Ilya knows he does not have it in him tonight.

He wraps Shane’s thighs around his waist, and once he receives the nod of approval, he is thrusting with everything he has. “Oh, thank God,” is punched out of Shane as his hands go up to brace against the headboard. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants with every meeting of their bodies.

“Moya lyubov."

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane says. “So much. I love you so—holy fuck—I love you so fucking much.”

Ilya speeds up, his motions choppy and out of rhythm, as he reaches between them, his hand finding Shane’s cock to stroke him in time.

Shane slams a fist against the headboard as he moans, his orgasm hitting him fast. Ilya catches his teeth onto Shane’s collarbone once more and follows him shortly after.

He is careful not to collapse on top of Shane, to roll over, and not spread the mess across the bed. He goes to the bathroom and grabs a warm washcloth to clean them both off, before crawling back into bed and on top of Shane.

Shane’s hands come up to card through his hair. “I love you,” Ilya says, amazed that these words that come so easily now were once so terrifying.

Shane kisses the top of his head. “Love you, love you, love you.”

-*-

First Tattoo

They’re in LA visiting Rose when Shane finally says it out loud. “I want to get a tattoo.”

They’re huddled around a corner of Rose’s expansive kitchen table, through the expansive windows, buttery morning light streams in, the Hollywood hills surround them on every side.

Ilya stops mid-sentence. He and Rose have been talking about her movie premiere they’re attending with her in a few days—some summer blockbuster action flick that required Rose to speak Russian for a good bit of it. Ilya had helped her over FaceTime, and she had even flown him in to set after he had eviscerated her dialect coach on using the wrong accent one too many times (“Your character is from Moscow, you should sound like me and Svetlana, not some stupid Cold War spy from bad American thriller.”).

Ilya looks at Shane, puzzled. Rose’s eyes widen with wild amusement.

“Oh, hell yes,” Rose says, holding up her hand for Shane to slap in a high five.

“A tattoo tattoo?” Ilya says, puts his hand to where his loon sits proudly and his bear is partially hidden beneath his black tank top. Shane gets a little distracted by the bulge of Ilya’s bicep as it curves against his chest. “Or a tattoo like the glitter horses Ruby and Jade stick to us when we are there?”

“I do not want a wash-off tattoo, shithead.” Shane leans across the table and pushes at Ilya’s shoulder. Uses it as an excuse to feel his husband up.

Ilya raises his eyebrows sardonically. “So you want permanent glitter pony tattoo?”

Rose grabs her phone from the table, her thumbs flying across the screen. “I’m going to text Gian, he has like three dozen tattoos. He knows all the best artists in LA. I’m pretty sure he has a couple on speed dial.”

Rose’s co-star from her most recent project, Gian Luca Rapha, is one of Hollywood’s most notoriously inked stars. Apparently, one of his sleeves is an award-winning piece for his artist.

“You don’t have to do that,” Shane says. “I’m—”

“He’s asking if you know what you want,” Rose says, looking up at him. The twinkle in her eye says that now he has put this out into the universe, she’s not letting him second-guess himself.

“That was a fast response,” Shane says.

Rose shrugs, her smirk is coy. “The man will take any excuse to talk about tattoos. Do you have ideas about what you want?”

Shane shoots a glance at Ilya, not shy necessarily, just…he hadn’t had a plan for how to show his husband this idea. He just knew in every hypothetical he had run through in his mind, they had been alone for a very specific reason.

Fuck it.

Shane pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Uh, yeah.” He quickly taps through to his photos and goes to an album he’s been secretly compiling for the last few years.

He pulls up his favorite example and slides his phone across the table. Rose and Ilya incline their heads towards the phone.

Rose’s face pinches. “Is that—”

Ilya clears his throat, murmurs, “A lily.” When he tips his head up and meets Shane’s gaze, Shane sees every emotion he feels reflected back at him. They stare at each other for a second, possibly a whole year—Shane’s pretty sure the Earth could’ve collided into the sun in the last 45 seconds, and he wouldn’t have noticed or cared.

“So this is like a thing for you guys,” Rose says, her voice full of tenderness for them. She picks up Shane’s phone and shares the folder of black-and-white tattoo inspiration photos with herself. “I’m going to send these to Gian, he’ll know exactly who can do this for you.”

“Thanks,” Shane whispers. He coughs and stands from the table. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

Ilya says, “I will go work out now.”

Rose looks up from her phone, grinning devilishly. “Uh-huh, sure. Just wipe down the tiles in the guest shower when you’re done, please.”

Ilya grabs a pair of noise-canceling headphones off the kitchen counter and tosses them at her as they exit the kitchen. Rose’s laughter chases them up the stairs.
—

Shane is now regretting telling Rose he wanted a tattoo.

The artist arrived at her home less than 12 hours after he verbalized wanting one. He didn’t even know tattoo artists made house calls. The artist–a quiet, middle-aged man with every inch of his body except his cheeks covered in ink–has a pair of assistants help him set up his chair, stool, table, and machines in Rose’s living room. “Best light,” he explains.

He pulls out an iPad, and while his assistants set up a heavy-looking printer, he shows Shane the designs he came up with that afternoon.

“Oh, oh, wow, you did this today?” Shane asks, watching the beautifully detailed designs fly by as the artist scrolls. Shane is flabbergasted at how he captured exactly what Shane wanted without him having to verbalize any of it.

The artist–Shane missed his name when Rose introduced him–shrugs as though it’s nothing. Which it isn’t to Shane. This will be going on a visible part of his body, a permanent reminder to the world of his love for Ilya. Maybe he should take more time to think about this?

He turns to see Ilya and Rose sitting on the couch, watching him, both doing their best not to hover. He meets Ilya’s gaze. Ilya winks.

Yeah, no. Shane is getting this fucking tattoo.

He picks his favorite design, and the artist fiddles with it a little more. The reason for the printer finally becomes apparent as it produces three different-sized stencils that the artist holds up to Shane’s forearm for him to compare and contrast which works better for the size and shape of his arms, his muscles. The placement of the stencil takes longer than Shane could have ever anticipated. The artist puts on glasses, pulls out an actual ruler and marker to draw lines marking the center of Shane’s wrist and the inside of his elbow.

Once Shane spends a few minutes looking at the purple stencil on his forearm in the mirror and confirms he likes the placement. It is nearly midnight when the artist puts a needle to Shane’s skin.

He is nervous about the pain–the internet claims that forearm tattoos don’t hurt too much, but the concept of getting repeatedly stabbed by a needle for hours isn’t an appealing one to Shane. It pinches a bit. There is a minimal burning sensation. Then it is just pressure. Once he is used to the pinching-burn, it starts to feel good.

Hours pass, Ilya comes and sits beside him, and they watch animal videos on his phone for a little bit. They take a break when the artist is halfway through, drink some water, and go to the bathroom. Shane returns to the tattoo chair to find Ilya asleep on the couch.

It’s a little after 5:30 am when the artist finishes. Shane spent the last hour drifting in and out of sleep, a little shocked he’d be able to relax enough even to nap. The artist takes a few photos of his finished work, then cleans and wraps the tattoo. Lets Shane know he can remove the second skin in a day or two. Hands him a tube of after-care lotion.

Shane can’t stop staring at his finished piece. It is perfect. Exactly what he wanted, better than he could’ve imagined. He thanks the artist profusely.

Once the artist has left, Shane goes to wake Ilya, squats down, and gently brushes his curls away from his closed eyes, whispers, “Hey, want to go sleep in an actual bed?”

Ilya blinks awake slowly. “Done already?"

“Already? The sun’s up, Ilya.”

Ilya scrambles into a seated position, squints out the sun-flooded windows, hisses like a vampire. He turns back to Shane and grabs at his arm. “Let me see.”

“Careful,” Shane says, but proudly proffers his left forearm.

Over the layer of second-skin, Ilya runs a reverent finger along the delicate lines, traces the edges of the lilies like he is trying to memorize every detail. “Moya lyubov.”

Shane leans forward, kisses Ilya soft and slow, says, “Moya lyubov.”

Ilya’s smile is as bright as the rising sun.
–-

Shane has never been fond of the photography portion of attending Rose’s premieres. When he sees the pictures after the fact, all he notices is how wooden his smile is, how stiff his back, the alternating panic to absolute dissociation in his eyes.

This premiere is decidedly different. Not because he doesn’t hate all of the flashing lights and demands for him to face certain ways alongside Rose and Ilya—because God, does he hate it—but because for the first time at an event where he is too dressed up for comfort while walking down a cheap maroon carpet, he is laughing.

Rose and Ilya—both absolutely stunning in a matching crimson dress and suit, Shane feels like the odd man out, even if his slacks and short-sleeved shirt match—turn the entire night into a game of who can bait the paparazzi more.

When told to look to the left and smile, Ilya replies with an emotionless “No” and continues to stare straight ahead, his jaw held in that way of his that is equal parts smoldering and scolding.

When asked to pose by herself, Rose just pulls Ilya and Shane closer to her sides.

Shane is delightedly along for the ride.

Questions fly at them from all angles. A few suggestive, some invasive, but most fawning curiosity that Shane still doesn’t really understand. Why does anyone actually care about their personal lives?

Rose is pulled aside for an interview with Entertainment Tonight, and she drags Ilya and Shane to stand behind her as she answers questions about her character and the movie.

“And it looks like you brought your own security to the carpet tonight,” the young interviewer says, gesturing to Shane and Ilya.

“No, no,” Ilya cuts in, “Rose is our security. Cannot go anywhere with Shane without getting mobbed. Needed to bring Rose to help keep all of his adoring fans away.”

Shane jabs him playfully in the stomach. “Shut up.”

Ilya dips forward and kisses Shane on the cheek, whispers, “Make me,” against his ear.

The interviewer asks Rose another question that Shane does not hear. He whispers back, “There are literally one hundred cameras pointed at us right now.”

Ilya grins mischievously as he tilts his head in a yes, and? way that has been getting Shane into trouble—and various hotel beds across North America—since he was nineteen.

Shane laughs, trying to keep his voice down as Rose wraps up her interview. “You are trouble.”

“I am not trouble,” Ilya refutes, reaching forward and wrapping his hand around Shane’s forearm, his palm grazing just below where Shane’s recently cleaned and lotioned tattoo sits on display. “I was good, innocent Russian boy until you corrupted me with all of your Canadian vulgarities.”

“My vulgarities are what I’m known for.”

“Dangerous hockey player with a tattoo,” Ilya says, leaning forward. His whisper goes low and rough as he asks, “What is next? Nipple piercings?”

Shane cannot stop his flush, but he refuses to let Ilya win. “I looked it up. Could do it tomorrow, and they wouldn’t be healed enough by the time the season starts, and who knows how much the chest pads would chaff against them. Maybe when we retire?”

Shane is forever grateful to the paparazzi who got a photo of Ilya’s face in that moment.

The photo makes its way around the internet at an alarming speed, considering Rose—the star of the movie whose premiere they were attending—isn’t even in it. Shane and Ilya are standing practically chest-to-chest. Ilya is looking at Shane with so much love, his mouth hanging slightly open. Shane is grinning cockily, as though he has just beaten his husband in six consecutive face-offs.

In the bottom right of the photo, you can see where Ilya is clutching Shane’s wrist, his thumb caressing the inside of Shane’s bare forearm where a cluster of lilies in black and gray cover his skin.

-*-

First Anniversary

They leave for vacation eleven days before their actual anniversary. Shane doesn’t even tell Ilya where they’re going, just tells him to pack for warm weather. They drop Anya off with Harris and Troy on their way to the airport, Ilya huffing and puffing about not knowing where they are going.

They arrive at the airport, and Ilya glares at the television monitors where they are waiting to board. “Vancouver. We go to Vancouver for our anniversary. Very romantic, Shane.”

“Yes, that’s why I told you to pack for warm weather,” Shane quips. “We’re connecting through Vancouver, don’t be an asshole.”

Ilya shrugs, rolls his eyes. “Is who I am. You know who you married.”

Once in Vancouver, Shane does his best to avoid their actual boarding gate until the last moment–a damn near impossible feat as his anxiety requires that he make sure the gate exists the moment he is within the airport limits. Ilya points at every gate and asks, “Is that us? Is that us? Oh, Jesus, please tell me we aren’t going to Toronto.”

“Why in the hell would we fly to Vancouver to fly to Toronto when we live within driving distance?”

Ilya says, “Misdirection to surprise me with boring anniversary change.”

Shane refuses to fall for this bait, instead distracting Ilya with one of the airport bars.

When it is finally time to board, Ilya looks from the gate monitor bearing their destination to Shane, back to the monitor, then back to Shane. “No,” he says in disbelief.

“Yes,” Shane confirms, pushing him towards the attendant checking tickets and passports.

Ilya wraps an arm around his waist and kisses his cheek. “Who are you and what have you done with my boring husband?”
—

Ilya is practically vibrating with excitement when they land in Honolulu. The airport is open-air in parts, and they are hit with warmth and evening sunshine the moment they step off their plane. Ilya drags Shane through the airport towards baggage claim, but Shane digs in his heels.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Shane says, “we aren’t quite there yet. We have another flight to catch, Rozanov.”

“We aren’t staying here?” Ilya asks.

Shane says, “You said you wanted privacy. Lot more private places in Hawaii than on Oahu.”

Ilya allows himself to be led through the airport to a much smaller plane.
--

Their rental house in Kauai is small and private and beautiful. Every room at the back has an ocean view, the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors opening wide to let in the salt-tinged air. It is peaceful in a way that nowhere Shane’s ever been except the cottage. He doesn’t think he could live somewhere that doesn’t have a hockey rink within spitting distance, but he definitely understands why people want to live here.

There is a tree-lined fence that wraps around the property, turning their rental into a secluded oasis. For this week, they are the only people on the planet.

Shane loves it.

The first evening and day are spent having sex and sleeping in various spots around the property. The bed, the oversized couch in the living room, the wall of the hallway, the poolside lounger overlooking the ocean, the kitchen counter.

Day two is spent much the same, except every so often, Ilya leads Shane past the gates and down to the beach, tackles him laughingly into the warm waves of the Pacific. Though it is a public beach, there aren’t that many people around. And those that are, don’t pay them any mind.

Shane paid extra to have the fridge stocked upon their arrival, so they gorge themselves on fresh fruit and everything they can grill. They go through more pineapple in a day than Shane has ever eaten in his previous thirty-one years.

They sleep in and take naps, they jog on the beach, and then Shane does yoga. Ilya reclines naked in the hammock attached to the back patio, his skin turning golden under the sun while Shane attempts to read his book slathered in SPF 100. Upon reading the same paragraph for the fifth time, he finally admits defeat and just stares at Ilya.

They take their rental car out to the Na Pali coast and hike some waterfalls, kayak the water, and Ilya even talks Shane into snorkeling. Shane is embarrassingly thrilled when a turtle swims leisurely past him. Ilya takes a surfing lesson and is annoyingly proficient immediately.

They stay up late watching bullshit movies with too many explosions and not enough plot, but neither of them is really paying enough attention to care, too happy to have uninterrupted time together finally. They don’t check their phones the whole week, only really using them as phones when Harris and Barrett text them Anya updates. Otherwise, they’re just really expensive cameras that they usually forget on one of the tables throughout the rental.

They spend their final day in Kauai rotating between bed, the pool, and the beach. Shane is unable to let go of Ilya the entire day, his hands on his shoulders, waist, or hips. Fingers interlocking as he is pulled under the water or back into bed. That night, they fall asleep after midnight curled together, Ilya practically on top of Shane, with the bedroom windows open wide, the lull of the tide meeting the shore the only noise other than Ilya’s quiet snores.

The next morning, Shane wakes up sadder than he has any right to be. Feels like he is saying goodbye to a friend he won’t see again for years. There has been something so incredibly freeing about the last seven days. Shane Hollander, who plans every minute of his day, every calorie of every meal, every slide of his skates across the ice, had let go for a few days. And it felt really good.

It was one thing to escape to the cottage–a place that was theirs–another to go somewhere new and find exactly what you’re looking for. Exactly what you need.

To just be with Ilya felt transformative in a way he hadn’t expected after all this time. They had known each other for fourteen years, been something to one another for twelve, been officially in love and together for five, and married for one. Other than hockey, Shane’s relationship with Ilya had been the most constant thing through his adulthood. He thought he understood the shape of it, the weight. The way they fit together and apart. Ilya’s importance to him.

And yet, here he is carefully folding his t-shirts into his suitcase, feeling the corners of his eyes itch with unshed tears. Ilya comes up behind Shane, wraps his arms around his waist, and kisses his neck, says, “Lyubimyy.”

“I’m fine,” Shane hedges, “just being stupid.”

“Is not stupid,” Ilya mumbles into the back of Shane’s head. “It was…nice here. Special. I will miss it too.”

Shane exhales, lets his weight fall back into Ilya. Lets his husband hold him for a long moment.

Shane hugs Ilya’s arms tighter across his body. “Why am I even being like this? It’s not like… we aren’t even going home yet. And when we do, we live and work together. I see you everyday. I just feel like I’m going to miss…”

Ilya kisses his shoulder, mumbles into the crook of his neck, “Miss this version of us. Yes. I feel it too.”

Shane nods, tucks himself closer to his husband. It is silly, an impossibility. It isn’t like he actually wants to live in seclusion with only Ilya, never seeing his parents or their friends or Anya, never playing hockey again. But there is another piece of him that is loathe to give up this version of Ilya, that only he gets to see, to experience, to love. Soft and smiling, vulnerable and happy and carefree. Who Ilya is at his core, when all of the nonsense of life can’t touch him.

Not to mention, leaving behind the version of himself that Shane only gets to be with Ilya. Silly and sarcastic, relaxed and more than a little weird. Fully and freely himself.

Shane sighs, turns to awkwardly press a kiss to the side of Ilya’s head. “Enough moping. We need to finish packing, or we’ll miss our plane.”

Ilya releases him, asks, “Are you still not telling me where we are going next?”

Abundantly proud of himself for keeping this secret, Shane shakes his head. “You can wait a couple more hours.”
–-

Shane knew it was only a matter of time before they were recognized. He is honestly shocked they went the entire week walking around a public beach on Kauai without anyone approaching them.

Upon landing in Maui, they are walking through the airport, trying to find their way to where they can pick up their rental car, when he hears a shout of, “Holy shit, dude. Is that Shane fucking Hollander?”

Ilya’s hand tightens in his as Shane’s stomach drops. The level of enthusiasm is nice, appreciated even, but the voice itself–

He and Ilya look up to see a half-dozen young men in their twenties excitedly making their way over to them. They’re all backwards snapbacks and boardshorts, flip-flops snapping against linoleum, and repeated shouts of, “Bro! No Way!”

Shane hates that he has to mentally prepare for this to go poorly. That he has to gentle himself into a place mentally where he and his husband may be called slurs on their anniversary trip by a group of young men, who eighteen months ago thought Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were the epitome of masculinity.

One of the guys finally makes out the shape of Ilya’s face under the brim of his cap and hollers, “Holy shit–and Ilya Rozanov!”

The group of young men skid to a stop in front of them, one in a blue tank top saying, “I cannot believe I’m seeing Stanley Cup winners in real life. This is crazy!”

One in a retina-burning neon green hat looks at Ilya like he is a god and says, “That goal you had at the end of game five against Philly was–” The entire group hollers their agreement, drawing stares from more tourists.

“Thank you,” Ilya says with a nod. “It was a good game.”

“It was insane,” Blue Tank Top says. “You guys coming back from being down by two to win the whole thing–” More shouting and excitement.

“And dude, the way you guys absolutely fucked up Toronto back in March,” says one of the guys in the back who is wearing, for no comprehensible reason, three pairs of sunglasses. “Awesome!”

“Thanks,” Shane says awkwardly. He’s never been good at taking compliments from fans for doing his job well.

Neon Hat asks, “What are you guys doing here? I thought all professional athletes went to Disney World after winning their championship.”

“Players with kids,” Ilya says.

“Oh, cool,” one in the front says, bobbing his head. “So you’re doing like a bro’s trip to Hawaii instead. That’s cool.”

Before Shane or Ilya can correct him, Blue Tank Top elbows him in the side. “Don’t be stupid, Matt. They’re married, dude.”

Matt blushes, “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, I totally forgot.”

And isn’t that a batshit insane thing to hear after the year they’ve had–a year where everyone defined them publicly by their sexuality and their relationship–this twenty-year-old guy, who was apparently a fan of hockey to some degree, had forgotten they were the only out and married couple in the entire NHL.

“We’re actually on trip for our anniversary,” Ilya says, hintingly.

“Oh my God,” Blue Tank Top gapes. “And we’re bothering you like a bunch of assholes.”

“Sorry, dudes!” Neon Hat actually grabs at his head, looking devastated. “We weren’t even thinking–”

Shane cuts the poor kid off before he has a full-blown breakdown at the airport and draws even more attention from passersby. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We appreciate your support for Ottawa!”

Triple Sunglasses holds up a hand from the back and says, “Not to be that guy, but can we, like, get a picture with you guys before you go?”

They take a picture quickly, Ilya and Shane squished in the middle of the group of exuberant twenty-year-old guys.

Ilya and Shane wave goodbye and head for the rental cars with calls of, “Thank you,” and, “Oh my God, that was so fucking cool,” and, “Happy Anniversary,” at their back.
–-

Their rental house in Maui is much more centrally located and less private, the crowded Kihei sidewalks spilling onto the beaches and into restaurants. It makes Shane feel like a self-important dickhead, but it is almost alarming when they go to the beach for the first time, and no one bothers them. It isn’t like they’re Rose-level famous or anything, but the attention they’ve received over the last year has felt inescapable.

But as they sit on the beach shoulder-to-shoulder in broad, streaming daylight, they are left alone. Once in a while, someone will yell, “Ottawa,” or “Hell yeah, Centaurs,” in their general direction, but otherwise, nothing. For the most part, Shane doesn’t even notice people trying to discreetly take video or pictures of them either.

It is a grounding experience–to be with his professional hockey player husband, who he just won the Stanley Cup with, on a very public beach, and to be ignored.

“It’s nice,” Ilya says as they walk into the ocean to cool off. “To relax but not have to hide.”

Shane kisses him full on the mouth as a wave crashes into them.
–-

The next couple of days pass in a blur. They drive the road to Hana, Ilya cackling with every curve while Shane white-knuckles the Oh-Shit-Bar. They do a zipline course through the rainforest in Haiku. They hike waterfalls and lush green hills. They go to a place that Ilya found online called Aunty Sandy’s Banana Bread and house an entire loaf in one sitting. They eat fish tacos and acai bowls and spam musubi from the ABC store across the street from their rental.

Learning from almost missing their Valentine’s Day reservation, Shane does not book anything for their actual anniversary. A wise decision, as his legs stop working at midday around his third orgasm. Shane suggests heading to the beach for a little while, but they are ultimately unsuccessful as Shane immediately drops to his knees when Ilya puts on his tiny little swim trunks.

They are awake well past midnight, Shane lying at an angle with his head at the foot of the bed, his feet on the headboard. Ilya is splayed on top of him, his body going in the opposite direction. They’re naked and sweaty, and neither has a clear memory of how they ended up in this position.

“I think I may have blacked out,” Shane announces between huffs. He is a professional athlete, but holy shit, even his body has limits that Ilya loves to test.

Ilya slaps at his torso. “You definitely blacked out.”

“You don’t have to sound so goddamn smug.”

“Why wouldn’t I be proud?” Ilya asks, his head popping up across the bed. “I am the world’s best husband. Ten orgasms in one day. There should be a Stanley Cup for that.”

Shane weakly kicks at him. “There is. It’s called not getting divorced.”

Ilya blows a raspberry at the ceiling.

Shane pushes at Ilya’s hips until he moves, shifts to sit up–this position cannot be good for his back–and catches sight of the clock. 12:17 am.

“Huh. It’s not our anniversary anymore,” he says as he rolls his sweaty body up the bed so he is leaning against the headboard.

Ilya grumbles as he moves around the bed until he is seated beside Shane. “Good first year of marriage, yes?”

Shane rests his head on his husband’s shoulder. “The best.”

Ilya turns, cups Shane’s cheek, and brings their foreheads together. “Yes, the best.”

“Do you remember that story Nancy told us when we got married? About the woman who cried about having to start the anniversary year count over again?” Shane asks.

Ilya nods. Shane continues, “Well, I was on the bride’s side. It’s bullshit. I’d already spent a decade loving you, and what? Now that we’re married, I have to start back at zero.”

“Yes, what a burden,” Ilya teases.

Shane pinches Ilya’s arm. “Fuck you, let me talk–I was annoyed at first, thinking about how we’d have another ‘first’ anniversary. But then I got excited thinking about all the new firsts in our first year being married, right? First Christmas and Valentine’s Day–”

“First fight,” Ilya interjects.

“Yeah, that too,” Shane concedes. “I don’t know what I did to have you, but I’m so lucky,” Shane’s voice breaks with emotion, “to get to do life with you. All the firsts and seconds, the boring day-to-day, and the difficult shit, and all the really, really good shit, too. I just…love you, and us, and our life. Oh, God, this is verging into cheesy Hallmark movie territory–”

“No, no,” Ilya kisses Shane quickly. Once, twice, three times. “Is perfect, like you. You are the best and scariest thing that has ever happened to me. Ya tebya lyublyu. Vozmozhno, ya polyubil tebya yeshche do togo, kak my vstretilis. Bez tebya menya net.”

And what a concept that is–that Ilya loved him before they even said hello, was only waiting to meet him to put that love into practice.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane whispers against Ilya’s lips. He burrows into Ilya’s side and closes his eyes. He could fall asleep like this.

After a long beat, Ilya says, “We should shower and change the sheets. You’ll hate yourself in the morning if you sleep in this mess.”

Shane surveys the shambles of the bed, his own body. There is a sudden itch beneath his skin. He leaps off the bed, says, “I’ll start the shower, if you strip the bed?”

Ilya grins. “Da, lyubimyy.”

_*_

The First Day of Their Second Year of Marriage

Shane wakes in a pool of golden sunlight and his husband’s arms. It is as spectacular as it sounds.

Shane slips out of bed to pee and brush his teeth before going on a quick run. They’ve both been exercising while on vacation, but nowhere near their usual training and conditioning regimens. He is not looking forward to the amount of protein they’re going to have to eat to gain back the muscle mass they’ve both lost over the last twelve days. Shane pushes the thought to the back of his mind. They have a couple more days of vacation to enjoy together.

Shane quickly and quietly pulls on his workout clothes and sneakers, grabs his headphones, and proceeds to spend the next six minutes looking for his wayward phone. He and Ilya had both turned their phones off yesterday morning, taking the opportunity to shut out the world completely. After powering it down, Shane had put it on the counter, but it isn’t there anymore–most likely knocked to the floor during the blowjob Ilya had given him a few moments later.

He finds his phone beneath the living room coffee table, impressed that it had traveled that far, and turns it on. He immediately regrets it.

He can’t even open Spotify to get to his Russian-language podcast before his phone burns up with the fire of a thousand suns with incoming texts and notifications. He knows his parents and friends would be texting Happy Anniversary messages, but why the hell does he have thousands of Instagram and Twitter notifications?

Against his better judgment, he opens Instagram. Better to yank the band-aid off now and get it over with if it’s something bad or frustrating. After a moment, Shane has to find a seat; his legs suddenly have the structural integrity of Jell-O and can no longer support his weight.

Thousands upon thousands of notifications, a bunch of tags–all of them wishing him and Ilya some iteration of Happy Anniversary.

He’s tagged in Jackie’s story–a photo of him sitting on the floor of the Pike house with a twin tucked under each arm as he reads them their favorite book. On the couch at his back is Ilya, wearing a tiara, passed out, mouth gaping, with a sleeping Amber splayed across his chest and Arthur snuggled between him and the couch. Heart emojis block out all of the kids’ faces, but above the photo reads Happy Anniversary, Uncle Shane and Uncle Ilya. We love you!

Hayden has posted a similar photo on his story–this one with Ilya in the Pike’s pool with Jade and Ruby hanging off his arms, Arthur on his back, and Amber riding on his shoulders. The kids’ faces are all blocked off with emojis, but Ilya is smiling exuberantly. On the right side of the picture is Shane, clutching at his stomach from laughing so hard. Hayden has added Happy Anniversary to my best friend and my kids’ favorite jungle gym!

Rose has tagged them as well. Her story post reads Happy Anniversary to my favorite ex-boyfriend and his favorite ex-boyfriend-now-husband. Love you both! over a photo of Shane, Ilya, and Rose on the red carpet only a month ago. Rose is smiling at the cameras, but Shane and Ilya are smiling at each other.

More and more tags and well-wishes, and photos.

Bood reshares the photo of the whole team from Christmas in their stupid sweaters piled together in Shane and Ilya’s living room with a cheeky Happy Anniversary, Dads! We love you!

Haas shares a photo of Ilya and Shane seated together on a post-game flight. They are both asleep, Shane’s head resting on Ilya’s shoulder, Ilya’s head leaning against the top of Shane’s head. Dykstra shares a photo of Ilya assisting Shane with tightening his gloves before a game.

Chouinard shares a video of Shane and Ilya smack-talking one another as they race each other down the ice after practice. You can hear Shane call Ilya a shithead and Ilya call Shane a cheater. Their ebullient laughter echoes through the arena.

Under Armour reshares the behind-the-scenes video from their ad shoot all those months ago of Shane and Ilya sharing an orange with the wordsHappy Anniversary to our favorite Stanley Cup Champions!

Hazy’s story has a photo of the team celebrating their Cup win in Seattle. All of them are huddled together, arms slung widely around shoulders and waists, eyes glazed over drunkenly. Smiles, so many smiles. In the front, slightly to the left, with a sloppy heart drawn around them, are Shane and Ilya. Ilya has his arms around Shane’s waist and is kissing his cheek. Shane’s face is slightly down-turned and scrunched up in earnest joy. Happy Anniversary to the best couple in the NHL is typed at the bottom.

The Centaur’s official page–Harris–even did an actual grid post. A carousel of photos, most of which Shane has never seen before. The first is of their lockers, their side-by-side names boldly taking up the center of the image. A photo from practice with Shane and Ilya talking at center ice. Another from the locker room before a game, Shane and Ilya are bonking helmets. The game in Nashville, when Ilya’s stick snapped when he was slammed against the boards, and he had to sprint to the bench to get a new one. Captured in perfect clarity is Shane passing his own hockey stick off to his husband as he glides by. A photo of Ilya and Shane on the floor of the physical therapy room, petting Chiron. The next, a photo of Ilya hugging Shane after he scored a particularly nasty goal on Toronto during a power play in Round 2 of the playoffs. A photo of them from the NHL awards after-party–there are other people in the photo, milling about, talking and partying, but at the center of the image are Shane and Ilya standing together, just looking at one another, completely unaware of anything happening around them.

The next is a video from the locker room. Shane is sitting on the bench with his face in his hands, and Ilya is bouncing excitedly beside him, his hand on Shane’s shoulder. The video swivels between them and Barrett, who is reading off his phone, “Yeah, Hollander, you should really acquaint yourself with ABO dynamics. This shit is wild!”

Shane, red as a tomato, looks up and says, “Please stop reading fanfic about us.”

Troy grins devilishly. “You think this is bad, you should read the shit they write about you and Pike.”

Shane groans while Ilya cackles.

The final photo is the same black-and-white photo from the Stanley Cup post. Shane and Ilya, the last ones in Seattle’s arena, skating off the ice, Shane’s head on Ilya’s shoulder, their hands clasped together, their faces obscured but their numbers visible. The caption reads: Happy Anniversary, Roz and Hollzy! #2481forever.

There are tens of thousands of comments on the post. All of them are kind (Shane says a silent thank you to the Centaurs' social media team for deleting the shitty ones).

Shane is crying for some reason. Maybe after spending twelve days having fun and relaxing with Ilya, his guard has lowered. Maybe after the terror of being outed and threatened and then spending a year publicly being relegated to “the gay hockey player married to the other kind-of-gay hockey player,” seeing this much direct, genuine love and support for them is emotional kryptonite. Whatever it is, it makes Shane brave.

He opens his camera roll and selects a photo from their last day in Kauai. A selfie from the beach. The sun and waves in the background. He and Ilya are pressed together, tanned and happy. Their sunglasses are slightly askew from their cheeks touching, but their smiles are broad. Ilya has an arm around Shane’s shoulders, and at the bottom of the photo, you can see Shane’s arms around Ilya’s waist. A quiet, happy moment, just the two of them.

Shane agonizes for a few moments over what to write. How vulnerable he’s willing to be here. He already feels pretty exposed just posting the picture. He considers typing something jokey like My husband is hotter than everyone else’s and even if it’s true, that feels cheap.

In the end, he posts the damn thing with the only three words that really matter.

Ya tebya lyublyu
–

When he gets back from his run, Ilya is awake and making breakfast.

Shane wraps him in a hug and asks, “How long until it’s ready?”

Ilya eyes the eggs on the stove, tilts his head, guesses, “Five minutes?”

“Alright, I need a shower,” Shane says, reaching forward and turning off the burner Ilya is using.

“Why did you do that?” Ilya asks, sleepily confused.

Shane drags him from the stove. “Because we’re going to need longer than five minutes in the shower.”

Ilya smiles, small and beautiful. Shakes his head as he chases Shane to the bathroom. “I love you.”

Shane catches his hand and sighs. “I love you too.”