Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

Shane should have known better than to send Ilya anywhere alone.

It was supposed to be straightforward. They needed a drain cover—their shower had been draining slowly for a week, and Shane had finally identified the problem as hair buildup. His hair, Ilya's hair, whatever. The point was: drain cover. Simple errand. In and out.

"You go ask someone where they are," Shane had said, already drifting toward the aisle with the lightbulbs they also needed. "I'll grab these and meet you."

"Why do I have to ask?"

"Because you're better at talking to people."

Ilya had preened at that, which—yes, Shane had known exactly what he was doing, but it worked, didn't it? Ilya had headed off toward the front of the store where an employee in an orange apron was stacking boxes, and Shane had gone to find the right wattage for their kitchen lights.

That was ten minutes ago.

Shane had found the lightbulbs. He'd also found a new battery for their smoke detector, and some picture-hanging strips that they probably didn't need but were on sale. No sign of Ilya.

He wandered toward the plumbing aisle, figuring Ilya had found what they needed and gotten distracted by something shiny. But the aisle was empty. Shane pulled out his phone, ready to text, when he heard it:

Ilya's voice, carrying from one aisle over.

"—and I tell him, moya rapuntsel (my rapunzel), you are clogging the shower, we will drown, and he says—"

Oh no.

Shane moved quietly toward the end of the aisle and peered around the corner.

Ilya was holding a drain cover in one hand and gesturing expansively with the other. A young employee—maybe nineteen, twenty, with a nametag that said TYLER—was nodding along with the glazed expression of someone who had lost control of a conversation several minutes ago.

"—he says is MY hair." Ilya's voice shifted into the flat imitation that Shane knew all too well. "'You shed like a husky, Ilya.' A husky. Can you believe? I do not shed. My hair is perfect." He ran his free hand through it demonstratively. "His hair, though," Ilya made a chef's kiss gesture. "Beautiful. Thick. Very nice to touch. But it gets everywhere. The drain, the sink, my clothes."

Tyler blinked.

Shane was going to die. He was going to die right here in the middle of aisle seven, and they would put "death by secondhand embarrassment" on his tombstone.

"Anyway," Ilya continued, "the hair is not really the problem. I like his hair. The problem is," He held up the drain cover. "We need this. Because if we don't fix drain, he will try to fix it himself, and he is very bad at fixing things. He thinks he is handy. He is not. Last time he tried to fix something, he broke the—how you say—the garbage disposal? I had to call repair man, and he was grumpy for a week." Ilya shook his head fondly. "He doesn't like to fail. At anything."

Tyler was clearly searching for an escape route. "So... you just need the one drain cover, or—"

"Two. One for main bathroom, one for basement." Ilya held both up, comparing. "Basement bathroom is tricky. My husband has very specific ideas about water temperature. Says our shower runs too hot. I say, is fine. He says, no, is scientifically proven that cooler water is better for skin and hair."

Tyler made a noise that might have been interest or might have been a plea for help.

"He reads studies about everything. Water temperature. Best way to load dishwasher. Optimal sleeping position. Says, scientists did the research, so we should listen." Ilya grinned. "Very strong opinions for someone who also cannot remember to buy milk."

Shane snorted quietly.

"Last week I catch him researching best type of pillows. I say, just pick one that is comfortable. Apparently comfort is subjective, but spine alignment is measurable." Ilya shook his head with obvious affection. "This is my husband. Makes spreadsheet comparing firmness ratings of pillows. I love him very much."

Tyler looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or call for backup.

"That's... thorough," Tyler managed.

"He is thorough about everything." Ilya squinted at the shelves. "Okay. Two drain covers. And—maybe also the—the thing for the faucet. He said the kitchen faucet is dripping. I will surprise him. Fix it before he tries to fix it himself and floods the kitchen."

"Aisle twelve for faucet stuff."

"You are very helpful, Tyler. I will tell my husband about you. He will say 'Ilya, you cannot just talk to strangers about our shower' and I will say 'Tyler didn't mind' and he will—" Ilya made a gesture near his own face. "The look. The 'I can't believe I married you' look. But he did marry me. So." He shrugged happily. "His fault."

Shane stepped around the corner. "There you are."

Ilya’s face lit up when he saw Shane, warmth softening every line of his expression. "Moy sladkiy (my sweetheart)! I was just telling Tyler about you."

"I heard."

"Only good things."

"You told him I have strong opinions about water temperature."

"You do have strong opinions about water temperature."

"Seventy-two degrees is optimal for—"

"See?" Delight flickered across Ilya’s face as he reached out and tugged Shane closer by his belt loop. "This is what I mean. You have facts. You know things. Is very attractive."

Shane shook his head, but he leaned into Ilya's side. "You're hopeless."

"Too late. You’re stuck with me now." Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane's temple.

"There are worse fates."

"Much worse. You could be married to someone who doesn't appreciate your spreadsheets."

"Do you appreciate my spreadsheets?"

"I appreciate everything about you, lyubimyy (my beloved)." Ilya's voice went softer.

Shane didn't say anything—couldn't, really, around the lump in his throat. Tyler was very carefully examining a display of pipe fittings.

"Drain covers," Shane said. "Let's go."

"Yes, yes." Ilya held up two drain covers triumphantly. "I found them. Also we need to go to aisle twelve. I am going to fix the leak."

"You don't know how to fix a faucet."

"I will learn. For you. I watch YouTube tutorials. You will be so proud."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"Ilya—Fine," he said. "But I'm picking the parts. You'll buy the wrong size."

"I will buy whatever you tell me to buy. Because you are smart, and I love you."

"Oh my god."

Shane was smiling—trying very hard not to, and failing anyway. Ilya noticed, because he always did.

"There," he said softly. "There is my favorite thing."

"What?"

"Your smile. When you try to hide it but can't." Ilya's voice was warm. "Best thing in the world."

Shane ducked his head, ears burning.

"This is marriage, Tyler," Ilya called over his shoulder as Shane started pulling him toward aisle twelve. Shane sighed. "Come on. Aisle twelve."

2.

The media scrum was the usual post-game chaos—cameras, microphones, reporters jostling for position in the corridor outside the locker room. The Centaurs had just beaten Montreal 4-3, and Ilya had scored the game-winner. Naturally, the press wanted a piece of him.

Shane had already done his interviews. Gave the standard answers—team effort, good puck luck, have to keep building. He was half-changed at his stall now, pretending to check his phone while actually watching Ilya handle the reporters on the monitor mounted in the corner of the room.

The guys had learned to keep one eye on these things. Ilya's post-game interviews were legendary.

"Ilya, great game tonight. Can you walk us through that game-winning goal in the third?"

Ilya shrugged, still half out of breath, hair damp with sweat, that post-victory glow radiating off him. "Was good shot, yes. But really," He waved a hand dismissively at himself. "My husband made the pass. Perfect pass, right on my tape. Always knows where I am on the ice."

Two years of playing together, and it still hit him every time. The casualness of it. My husband. Said out loud, in public. After years of hiding—stolen moments in hotel rooms, careful distance in public, the constant exhausting performance of just teammates, just rivals, nothing to see here—now Ilya could say it like it was nothing. Like it was easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was. Finally.

"Even before," Ilya continued, something wondering in his voice. "I would go somewhere and he was already there. Very annoying when he was rival. Very good now that he is husband."

Wyatt, two stalls down, snorted. "He's doing the thing again."

"He's always doing the thing," Troy said, grinning.

Shane didn't respond. Just watched.

"You two have great chemistry on the ice—" the reporter started.

"Best chemistry," Ilya interrupted. "Best in the league. I am biased, obviously, but also I am right." He grinned, that crooked smile that still made Shane's stomach flip after all these years. "I tell him, you read my mind, and he says—"

Shane winced preemptively.

"—he says," Ilya's voice shifted into the flat, grumpy imitation that he'd perfected over the years, the one that was just accurate enough to be mortifying. "'You're predictable.'"

The reporters laughed.

"What did I ever do to deserve this? My own husband." Ilya put a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "I am most unpredictable player in the league. I have highlights. I have the dangles. Very unpredictable. Very creative. Coaches always say, 'Rozanov, we don't know what you're going to do next.' But he knows." Ilya pointed vaguely in the direction of the locker room. "Always."

"So he can read your game—"

"He can read everything. My game, my mood, when I am hungry, when I am tired, when I am pretending to be fine but actually am not fine." Ilya's voice went softer, and Shane's throat tightened.

The reporter looked like she hadn't expected the interview to go this direction. "That's—"

"Is annoying," Ilya repeated, but his voice was warm now, fond. "Also," He paused, searching for words. "Also best feeling. To be known like this. For someone to pay attention for so long that they know where you will be before you know yourself. I am very lucky."

Shane had to look away from the monitor. His eyes were burning.

"Jesus," Harris muttered. "You okay over there?"

"Fine," Shane managed. "He's just—"

"Being Ilya," Troy finished. "Yeah. We know."

On screen, the reporter was trying to steer back on course. "The shot itself, though—top corner, glove side. Did you know you had him beat?"

"Shot was because of Shane," Ilya said, like this was obvious, like there was no other possible explanation. "Pass was perfect, so shot was easy. I just had to put stick in right place. All good things because of husband."

He said it like he was stating a basic fact. Water is wet. Sky is blue.

"You can write that down," Ilya added, nodding seriously. "Usually I focus on hockey, but this is real truth. Is most true thing I say in any interview ever."

The reporter's mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. "I'll... make a note of that."

"Good. Make sure you spell his name right. Shane Hollander-Rozanov." Ilya spelled it out slowly, carefully. "My husband."

The locker room had gone quiet. Shane realized the other guys were watching the monitor too now.

"That's very sweet," the reporter said, and she sounded like she meant it.

"Is true." Ilya shrugged. "I am luckiest man in the world because I get to play hockey with my favorite person. I could talk about the goal—was good goal, yes, nice shot, very exciting—but goal is not the story." He grinned. "Story is Shane Hollander's husband scores the winning goal. This is better headline. More accurate."

"Shane Hollander's husband?"

"Yes. This is how I think of myself now. Before, I was Ilya Rozanov, hockey player. Now I am Ilya Hollander-Rozanov, Shane Hollander's husband, who also plays hockey." He said this like it was a promotion. An upgrade. "Much better title."

The reporter laughed. "I think most people would say it's the other way around."

"False." Ilya made a gesture like he was trying to encompass something too big for words. "He is the important one. I am just the one fate smiled on. To know him. To be known by him. To be the person he chooses." His voice went soft again. "Every day he chooses me. Still surprises me."

Shane put his face in his hands.

"Hollander's crying," Wyatt announced.

"I'm not crying."

"You're a little bit crying."

"Shut up."

On screen, Ilya was wrapping up. "Anyway. Good game. Team played well."

"I'll make sure to include that."

"Good." Ilya nodded, satisfied. "Now I go find husband. Tell him he made good pass. He will say 'it was an easy read,' because he cannot take compliment, and I will say 'accept the compliment, moy milyy (my dear),' and he will get red in the face," Ilya mimed blushing, patting his own cheeks. "Like this. Very cute. Is my favorite thing."

"Your favorite thing is making your husband blush?"

"My favorite thing is my husband," Ilya corrected. "The blushing is—how you say—bonus feature. Okay. Thank you."

He gave the camera a thumbs-up and walked off.

The locker room erupted.

"ALL GOOD THINGS BECAUSE OF HUSBAND," Tanner yelled, and suddenly everyone was chanting it, pounding on lockers, making a general ruckus.

Shane kept his face in his hands.

When Ilya walked into the locker room a minute later, he was grinning. "Did you see? Good interview, yes?"

"You're the worst," Shane said, muffled by his palms.

"I am the best. Because of my husband. This is what I say in interview. Did you hear?"

"The whole room heard. The whole city heard."

Ilya crossed to Shane's stall and gently pulled his hands away from his face. Shane's eyes were red-rimmed.

"You are crying," Ilya said softly.

"I'm not—"

"I cry too, when you say nice things about me. Is love."

Shane grabbed him by the jersey and pulled him down for a kiss. Wolf whistles erupted around them, but Shane didn't care. He couldn't, not when Ilya had told a reporter—had told the world—that Shane was everything: that every good thing began and ended with him.

"I love you," Shane said against Ilya's mouth. "You asshole."

"I love you too." Ilya was smiling so wide it had to hurt. "Is on the record now. Cannot take back."

"Why would I want to take it back?"

Ilya's expression went soft. "You wouldn't?"

"Never." Shane kissed him again. "Say it in every interview. I don't care."

"Careful, moy zaychik (my bunny). I will hold you to this."

"I'm counting on it."

3.

The Centaurs and their partners were at Monk's—their usual spot—for what had somehow turned into an impromptu team dinner. Someone had shoved a bunch of tables together, and now there were players and their significant others crammed around in mismatched chairs, passing pitchers of beer and baskets of fries.

Ilya, as captain, was technically supposed to be setting a good example. Instead, he was on his third beer and completely unable to stop smiling at Shane, who was sitting next to him, looking unfairly good in that brown shirt that made his eyes glow like molten caramel in golden light.

"And he had to carry that thing all the way to the Student Union," Bood was saying, gesturing with his beer glass. "Best fifty dollars I ever won."

"Oh god," his wife, Cassie, muttered. "You have got to stop telling that story when people are eating."

"New game!" Bood continued, grinning and taking another swig of beer, "On the count of three, everyone says the name of the most whipped person on the team."

"Oh, this isn't even a competition," Troy said immediately, pointing at Ilya. "We all know Roz is gonna win."

"Facts," Wyatt agreed, and his wife Lisa nodded enthusiastically.

"Okay, but," Evan said, grinning, "can we talk about how Roz picks flowers during his morning runs?"

"Oh my god," Caitlin clutched her chest. "That's adorable."

"I saw him!" Evan said. "Last week, early morning. He was running through the park, and then he just… stopped. There he was, crouched in his running gear, picking wildflowers from the side of the path like—"

"They were pretty!" Ilya protested. "And Shane likes them better than store ones. Says they're more special because no one else would think to pick them."

"You pick them during your cardio," Evan said.

"Is good for intervals," Ilya said defensively. "Stop, pick flowers, continue running. Very efficient."

The table was already losing it.

"Oh, oh!" Wyatt raised his hand. "What about the notes?"

"What notes?" LePointe asked, leaning forward with interest.

"Cap leaves notes," Wyatt said. "In Hollander's gear. Little pieces of paper."

"They’re not lit—" Ilya started.

"I found one once," Troy interrupted. "It fell out of Shane's practice jersey in the locker room. Just said 'you will be great today' with a little smiley face."

Shane's face was burning. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"How many notes are there?" Lisa asked, delighted.

"I don't count—"

"Every day," Shane said quietly. "He leaves one every day."

"What do they say?" Cassie asked, completely charmed.

Ilya shrugged, trying to look casual. "Little things. 'Have good practice.' 'Remember to drink water.' 'Your hair looks nice today.'"

"Your hair looks nice?" Bood repeated, incredulous.

"It did! Was very shiny that day!"

The table erupted in laughter.

"Okay, but my favorite," Harris said, "is that Rozanov has learned Shane's smoothie order at six different shops."

"That's not—" Ilya said.

"You know the exact temperature he likes it," Harris continued. "The specific type of oat milk. How many times to stir it. And you've memorized this for six different locations, so no matter where you are in the city, you can pick up his exact smoothie."

"Is important!"

"You have a spreadsheet dedicated to it on your phone," Harris said. "I've seen it. With the shop names and the exact modifications."

"I don't have a—" Ilya stopped. "Okay, I have spreadsheet. Shane likes his smoothie a specific way!"

"This is the most romantic thing I've ever heard," Caitlin said.

"Wait, wait, wait," Boyle said. "We haven't even talked about the book thing."

"Oh god, the book thing," Tanner groaned, grinning.

"What book thing?" Shane asked nervously.

"You know how you're always reading?" Evan said. "And you dog-ear pages or make little notes?"

"Yeah?"

"Roz reads them after you," Luca said quietly. "All of them."

The table went silent.

"What?" Shane turned to Ilya.

"Is true," Ilya admitted, not quite meeting Shane's eyes.

"But you hate reading," Shane said, voice cracking slightly.

"I don't hate it. Is just... slow for me. Hard sometimes, with the English." Ilya finally looked at him. "But you love it. And when you want to talk about book you finished, and you get all excited about the parts you liked, I want to—" He gestured helplessly. "—I want to understand."

"Last month," Luca added, "Boyle saw Ilya at a bookstore. With a dictionary. Looking up words from your book."

"There were many difficult words!" Ilya protested. "Very complex vocabulary!"

"You spent two hours," Wyatt said gently, "reading a book with a Russian-English dictionary so you could discuss it with Shane."

Shane looked like he was about to cry.

There wasn't a dry eye at the table.

"I don't care if you call me whipped," Ilya said, looking around at all of them. "I get to pick flowers for my husband. I get to write him notes that make him smile. I get to learn about things he loves so I can share them with him. Is—" He struggled for words. "—is love. Real love. Not grand gestures. Just... paying attention. Remembering. Caring about small things that matter to him."

Bood wiped his eyes. "Fuck, Roz."

"So yes," Ilya said firmly. "I am whipped. Very whipped. And I would do it all again. Every day. Because it means you notice. You remember. You care more about person's happiness than looking cool."

Wyatt raised his beer. "To being whipped!"

"To being whipped!" the table chorused, all of them clearly emotional.

Shane grabbed Ilya's hand under the table, squeezed so hard it almost hurt.

"You read my books?" Shane's voice was wrecked.

"Only the boring ones," Ilya confirmed. "I want to know why."

"Your notes." Shane said. "They're—" His voice cracked. "—they're the best part of my day."

Ilya kissed his temple. "Then I will keep writing them."

"I still can't believe you have a spreadsheet for my smoothie order."

"Is color-coded by neighborhood."

"Oh my god."

"What? Is practical!"

Shane kissed him, long and slow and not caring who saw. "I love you," Shane said against his mouth. "So fucking much."

"I know," Ilya said, grinning. "Is why I write you notes."

Later, after they'd moved on to Bood’s other ideas, Shane leaned close to Ilya. "About the flowers."

"Wildflowers. Small ones." Ilya's thumb brushed over Shane's knuckles. "You like flowers on the kitchen table. Makes you smile when you come downstairs for breakfast."

"I keep them," Shane admitted.

Ilya's breath caught. "You keep them?"

"Every flower you've ever picked for me. Pressed in a book."

Ilya's eyes went suspiciously bright. "Every flower?"

"All of them. The book is almost full."

"Hollander."

"It’s Hollander-Rozanov."

"You're ridiculous."

"Yes. But I'm just as whipped for you."

They grinned at each other like idiots.

Across the table, Bood raised his beer to them again.

"Most whipped couple in the league!" he announced.

"Thank you!" they said in unison.

They were. And they were proud of it.

4.

The league event was exactly as boring as Shane had expected—too many people in suits, too much small talk, too many strangers who wanted to talk about hockey but didn't actually know anything about playing hockey.

Ilya was better at these things—could talk to anyone, charm anyone, make anyone feel like they were the most interesting person in the room.

He'd lost track of Ilya about fifteen minutes ago. It was far from unusual at these events—someone would pull one of them into conversation, and they'd drift to opposite sides of the room. It was fine. Normal. They didn't need to be attached at the hip.

Except now Shane was three drinks in, tired of networking with sponsors who definitely didn't care about his existence, and he couldn't find his husband anywhere.

He scanned the room again. Spotted a few teammates, a couple of coaches, various executives he vaguely recognized. No Ilya.

Then he looked toward the bar.

And his stomach dropped.

Ilya was there, wearing that navy suit that deepened his eyes into something almost sinful, leaning casually against the counter, drink in hand. Next to him—practically pressed against him—was a woman.

Not just any woman. The kind of woman who made rooms go quiet when she walked in. Tall, dark-haired, legs that went on forever, wearing a dress that probably cost more than Shane's first car. She was laughing at something Ilya had said, her whole body angled toward him like a flower toward the sun.

Shane went stock-still, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. There was something about seeing them together—Ilya golden and charming, the woman gorgeous and interested—that made something ugly curl in his gut. Ilya was married to him.

He watched Ilya say something else and tried to tell himself he wasn't jealous. They were literally wearing matching wedding bands that Ilya insisted on posting about twice a week. There was absolutely no reason to feel the hot twist in his chest watching his husband laugh with a beautiful woman.

Except Ilya was gesturing enthusiastically, using his hands the way he did when he got excited.The way he moved his hands when he talked about hockey, or when he was telling a story he loved, or when he was—

The woman laughed, throwing her head back, and Ilya grinned at her. That crooked grin Shane had first fallen for fifteen years ago. The kind that probably stopped traffic.

Shane knew that feeling—knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of Ilya's attention, the way it felt like being the only person in the room.

Shane gripped his champagne flute so hard he was surprised it didn't shatter.

He should stay here. Should be mature about this. They were both adults. Ilya was just being friendly. Ilya wasn't—he wouldn't—

The woman touched Ilya’s arm for a heartbeat, and Shane’s vision narrowed, red creeping in at the edges.

"Excuse me," Shane said to the sponsor mid-sentence. "I need to—"

Okay. Okay, so Shane was walking over there. Right now. He was just going to check in. Say hello. Remind everyone—especially the gorgeous woman in the red dress—that Ilya was married. To him. To Shane.

God, he was being insane. He knew he was being insane. He kept walking anyway.

Shane crossed the ballroom, and every step felt too slow. He could see Ilya's face now, animated and happy, eyes bright with whatever he was talking about. Ilya loved talking to people. Loved making them laugh. It was one of the things Shane loved about him, usually, except right now all Shane could think was that Ilya was making her laugh.

He didn't know what he was going to say. Something casual. Something that made it clear Ilya was taken without being weird about it. Hey babe, there you are. Who's your friend?

Normal. Chill. Not at all like he'd been spiraling for the last five minutes.

The woman leaned in, nodding eagerly at something Ilya said. She was completely engaged, utterly charmed, and Shane's throat felt tight.

This was stupid. This was so stupid. Ilya loved him. Ilya posted photos of him with captions like "best decision of my life" and "my husband is most beautiful man in the world." But the woman was beautiful. And she was laughing. And Ilya was using his hands.

Up close Shane could see her face clearly—she had perfect skin, a perfect smile, perfect everything. The kind of woman who probably never got awkward about emotions or blushed when given compliments or panicked about whether they were good enough.

Ilya threw his head back laughing at something, and Shane's heart did something painful and frantic in his chest. When was the last time he'd made Ilya laugh like that?

The woman spotted him first. Her face did something complicated—recognition, then amusement, then what looked like profound relief.

"You must be Shane," she said.

Shane blinked. "I—yes?"

Ilya turned, and his whole face lit up—brighter than it had been a second ago—and Shane felt some of the panic ease slightly.

"Moy angel (My angel)!"

Wait. What?

“Oh, thank god you're here," the woman said, looking relieved. Actually relieved. "Your husband has been explaining your latest SUV purchase."

Shane's brain screeched to a halt. He looked at Ilya, who was grinning without a shred of guilt.

Your husband.

The jealousy drained out of him so fast he felt dizzy, replaced immediately by mortification so intense he wanted to sink through the floor.

"Oh my god," Shane said, face going hot.

"Wonderful. Amazing. Please." She gestured at Ilya like she was returning a lost item. "Take him. I'm begging you."

"What—"

"Don’t get me wrong, he is a lovely man," the woman said. "Very charming. But I have now been standing here for," She checked her phone. "Twenty-one minutes, and in that time I have learned a lot more about your—or for that matter any—SUV’s safety features than I ever thought I would."

"Is all him!" Ilya protested, grabbing Shane's hand like he'd been waiting for the chance. "He bought whole SUV because 'four-wheel drive for winter, good in snow, won't slide on ice.'"

Shane stared at him. Ilya had been bragging about his car. To this beautiful woman.

"It has good safety ratings," Shane said weakly.

"Best safety ratings!" Ilya announced, squeezing Shane's hand. "He shows me crash test videos. Multiple crash test videos. Says, 'look how well it protects passengers, look at the airbag deployment, look at the structural integrity.'"

The woman was grinning now, no longer the threat Shane's stupid brain had built her into, instead someone clearly amused by Ilya's enthusiasm.

"That's actually very sweet," she said.

"Is extremely sweet! He buys safest car he can find because last winter I slid on black ice. Just a little slide, nothing happened. But my husband," Ilya pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart. "He worries."

Shane felt like an idiot. A jealous, possessive, completely irrational idiot who'd somehow convinced himself that Ilya was—what? Flirting?

"I'm so sorry," Shane said to the woman. "He's—"

"Completely in love with you? Yes, I noticed." She extended her hand. "Olivia Chen. I'm with the Ottawa Arts Council. We're trying to get your husband to agree to some promotional work, but he's been too busy cataloging your virtues."

"She asked about my interests," Ilya protested. "You are my interest."

Shane wanted to die. Or possibly kiss him. Both seemed equally likely.

"I'll send over the information," Olivia said, clearly trying not to laugh. "Shane, your husband is delightful. Also, congratulations on your very practical SUV."

"Thank you?" Shane managed, shaking her hand and trying to figure out how to apologize for the murder he'd been planning in his head sixty seconds ago.

"Ilya, maybe talk about literally anything else for the rest of the evening?"

"No promises!" Ilya called as she walked away. Then he turned to Shane, eyes sparkling with amusement. "You were jealous."

Shane wanted to deny it. Opened his mouth to deny it. But Ilya was looking at him with those hazel eyes, knowing and fond, and so obviously his lying seemed pointless.

"Maybe a little," Shane admitted.

"You were doing the face. The angry kitten face. Could see it from across the room." Ilya's grin was delighted.

"I couldn't hear what you were saying," Shane said defensively. "You were just—you were using your hands, and she was laughing, and—"

"And you got jealous." Ilya tugged him closer, not letting go of Shane's hand. "Is very hot."

"I wasn't—"

"You looked like you wanted to commit murder." Ilya's voice went soft, intimate. "I saw your face. You think I don't notice when you watch me? When you get that look?"

Shane's ears were burning. "You were making her laugh."

"I was telling her about your SUV YouTube rabbit hole." Ilya's thumb brushed over Shane's knuckles. "How you watched crash test videos at two in the morning because you wanted to make sure I would be safe. How you test drove six different models even though you hate car shopping because you wanted the one that would protect me best."

"You scared me," Shane said quietly. "When you called and said you'd slid off the road—"

"I know. I could hear it in your voice." Ilya pulled him a little closer, until they were standing too close for a professional event, until Shane could smell his cologne. "Then a week later, you impulse-buy for first time. Say is 'practical upgrade.' But I know you bought it thinking about me."

Shane's throat felt tight, but for entirely different reasons now.

"Want to leave early?" Ilya asked, grinning.

"We've only been here an hour."

"Perfect. Our work here is done. Now we go home."

They left twenty minutes later.

"I wasn't that jealous," Shane lied.

Ilya laughed, bright and happy. "You were ready to fight her."

"She touched your arm."

"So?" Ilya grabbed Shane's face with both hands, grinning. "You think I care about some woman touching my arm? You think I notice anyone else when you exist?" He kissed Shane, quick and firm. "You are…" He struggled for words. "You are everything. And I want everyone to know."

Shane's heart staggered inside his chest, cracking open and mending all at once.

"You're insufferable," Shane said, but his voice was soft.

"And you were jealous, which means you love me." Ilya opened the passenger door. "Now get in your boring, practical, very romantic SUV, and take me home. Before you have to fight any more women I talk to about how you love me too much to let me drive in winter with bad tires."

Shane got in, shaking his head but smiling.

"Good SUV," Ilya said, patting the dashboard. "Very good at keeping me safe. Very good at making my husband lose his mind with jealousy."

"I'm never living this down, am I?"

"Never," Ilya confirmed cheerfully. "Is my new favorite story."

"Oh my god."

"I will tell everyone."

"Please don't."

"Too late. Already planning. Will be very dramatic retelling." Ilya's grin was wicked. "But first, we go home. You can show me how jealous you were. In sensible back seat with excellent legroom."

Shane laughed, helpless and embarrassed and so stupidly in love.

"Yeah," he said. "The back seat has very good structural integrity."

"Is exactly what I want to hear."

Ilya reached over and laced their fingers together, and Shane squeezed back.

5.

The rink was chaos—good chaos, the kind that came from fifty kids between the ages of six and twelve all trying to learn hockey at the same time.

Shane was working with a group of ten-year-olds on their wrist shots, demonstrating the motion over and over in between adjusting grips and stances. He liked this part—the teaching, the patience it required. The way kids looked at you like you had all the answers.

Across the rink, Ilya was running a skating drill with the younger kids. Shane could hear him even from here—his voice carrying, enthusiastic and encouraging.

"Good! Very good! See, you are getting faster. Soon you will be faster than me. I will have to retire."

The kids laughed. Ilya was good at this too, but in a different way than Shane. More energy, more jokes. The kids loved him. Shane watched him high-five a wobbly six-year-old who'd managed to stop without crashing into the boards, watched him crouch down to adjust a kid's helmet strap, watched him skate backward while making exaggerated impressed faces at a little boy's crossovers.

Something in Shane's chest went soft.

They'd talked about it, vaguely. Kids. A family. The conversations always happened late at night, in the dark, when it felt safer to want things out loud. Ilya would say something like "someday, maybe," and Shane would say "yeah, maybe," and they'd leave it there, this delicate thing neither of them wanted to examine too closely in case it fell apart.

Watching Ilya now—patient and silly and completely unselfconscious—Shane thought: he would be so good at this.

During the water break, Shane noticed one of his ten-year-olds—a small, serious girl named Emi—had wandered over toward Ilya's group. She was hovering at the edge, clearly wanting to ask something but too shy to interrupt.

Shane watched Ilya notice her. Watched him skate over, crouch down to her level. The way he did it—easy, natural, like making himself small for a nervous kid was the most obvious thing in the world—made Shane’s heart ache in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.

He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see Emi asking something. He could see Ilya’s expression shift to thoughtfulness, how he gave her every ounce of his attention. As if her questions were the most important thing in the world.

Shane drifted closer, trying to look like he wasn't eavesdropping. Then he gave up and watched, because he'd never been good at pretending when it came to Ilya.

"—the best hockey player you know?" Emi was asking. "Like, the very best?"

"The very best?" Ilya considered this seriously, like it deserved real thought. "This is hard question. Many good players. But—" He glanced over toward Shane, and Shane quickly pretended to be examining his stick. "—I think my husband."

Shane felt warmth spread through his chest.

Emi's eyes went wide. "Coach Shane?"

"You know him?"

"He’s running the shooting drill."

"Ah! Then you are lucky. He is excellent teacher." Ilya tilted his head.

"He keeps making me do it again. The shot. He says my weight is wrong," Emi grumbled.

"He is tough, yes? Expects a lot?"

Emi nodded.

"You want to know a secret?" Ilya leaned in conspiratorially.

Emi nodded again, this time more eagerly.

"He makes me repeat things all the time. 'Ilya, your form is wrong. Ilya, do it again. Ilya, one more time.'" Ilya's voice shifted into his Shane impression—flat, slightly grumpy, weirdly accurate. Shane had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "Very bossy. But," he dropped back to his normal voice. "He is very good at seeing these things. So I do it again, and I get better."

"So I should listen?"

"Yes. Always. He is—" Ilya glanced toward Shane again, and this time Shane didn't look away fast enough. Their eyes met.

Ilya didn't look away either. Just held Shane's gaze and kept talking, like he wanted Shane to hear this.

"He is the hardest working person I know. Since we were young—eighteen—he worked harder than everyone. Practiced more. Cared more. People told him he was too small, too slow, not strong enough. He didn't listen. He just worked. Now," Ilya spread his hands. "Now he is the best."

Shane's throat went tight.

Eighteen. Back when they'd hated each other—or thought they did, anyway. Back when every meeting was a competition, every game a battle, every interaction charged with something neither of them had words for yet. Even then, apparently, Ilya had been watching. Noticing. Admiring.

All those years, Shane had thought Ilya saw him as an obstacle to overcome, a rival to defeat. And instead…

Instead, Ilya had been thinking: he's the hardest working person I know.

"If he tells you your weight is wrong," Ilya continued, still looking at Shane, "your weight is wrong. But this is good. This means he is paying attention. He wants you to be better. He doesn't waste time on people he doesn't believe in. So," He finally looked back at Emi, tapping her helmet gently. "He believes in you."

Emi beamed. "Thanks, Coach Ilya."

"You are welcome. Now go. Show him you can do it. Then come back and tell me all about it."

Emi skated off toward Shane's group. Ilya straightened up, knees cracking, and met Shane's eyes again.

Shane didn't know what his face was doing. Something embarrassingly soft, probably. Something that said I love you and I can't believe you're mine and you're going to be such a good father someday all at once.

Ilya skated over.

"You told her I was the best hockey player you know." Shane's voice came out rougher than he meant it to.

"You are."

"I'm not the best—"

"You are my best." Ilya said this simply, like it was obvious, like there was no other possible answer. "And hers now too, maybe. She is going to work very hard on her wrist shot. I can tell."

Shane looked back toward his group. Emi was already there, picking up her stick, squaring up to try again. Her stance was better already—feet wider, weight forward. She'd been listening.

"You told her I believe in her."

"You do. You push harder when you see potential."

Shane hadn't realized he was that transparent.

"You see things," Ilya said, softer now. "In players. In people. What they can be, not just what they are. Is a gift. I have always—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Admired this. About you."

Always. Not just now, not just since they'd been together. Always. Even back when they were rivals, when they were supposed to hate each other, when admitting anything good about the other felt like losing.

"How long?" Shane asked quietly.

Ilya knew what he meant. "Since the beginning. Since you were eighteen and too stubborn to admit you were tired. Since you stayed after every practice to work on your weak side. Since you looked at me like I was the enemy and I thought—" He laughed softly. "I thought, this one. This one is going to be something."

"You never said anything."

"Could not. Back then." Ilya shrugged, but his eyes were bright. "Now I can. Now I tell everyone. Anyone who asks. My husband—" His voice cracked slightly. "My husband was worth waiting for."

Shane kissed him. Surrounded by the clatter of skates and the hum of chatter, he leaned in. Soft, quick, but entirely deliberate—a kiss that cut through the noise and made the world shrink down to just the two of them.

When he pulled back, Ilya was staring at him with wide eyes.

"What was that for?"

"For—all of it." Shane's voice was rough. "For always seeing me. Even when I didn't know you were looking."

Ilya's smile went soft. Devastating. "I was always looking, moy dusha (my soul). Could not help it. You are very distracting."

"We should—" Shane cleared his throat. "We should talk. Later. About—the future thing."

Ilya's breath caught. He knew what Shane meant. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Shane looked over at the kids, at Emi practicing her wrist shot with fierce determination, at the six-year-olds wobbling around on the ice, at all of it. "I want that. With you."

Ilya's whole face transformed. Joy, pure and unguarded, the kind he usually saved for when they were alone.

"Okay," he said, voice thick. "We talk later."

"Later."

"But now—" Ilya grinned, and his voice went light again, because that was how they did this, that was how they'd always done this—big feelings wrapped in teasing. "Now I go back to my group. Boss-man is very strict. Will fire me if he sees me mushy on company time."

"You're impossible."

"Yes. But you married me."

"Best decision I ever made."

Ilya's eyes went bright. "You cannot say things like this when I am trying to be normal at children's event."

"Who said anything about normal?" Shane was already skating backward toward his group. "Go teach your kids. I'll be over here being the best hockey player you know."

"Very cocky, moy kotyonok (my kitten)!"

"I learned from the best!"

Ilya's laugh followed him across the ice.

Shane went back to his group, back to Emi who was waiting with her stick ready and her face determined. He crouched down next to her, adjusted her grip one more time.

"Better," he said. "Now show me again."

She did. And when the shot went top corner—not perfect, but close, closer than before—Shane felt something settle in his chest.

Ilya was right. He did believe in her. He believed in all of them, these kids who were just starting out, who had no idea yet how hard it would be or how much it would cost or how worth it it all was in the end.

He looked across the rink at Ilya, who was making his group of six-year-olds laugh at something, who caught Shane's eye and winked.

You're going to be such a good dad, Shane thought. We both are.

And for the first time, the thought didn't scare him.

It just felt right.

+1.

They were in Toronto for a game when it happened.

Shane had left Ilya in the hotel bar—just for a few minutes, just to run up to the room for Ilya's phone charger because his husband was constantly forgetting to charge his phone and then panicking about it—and when he came back down, he saw them.

Ilya and a man who could only be Andrei.

Shane had never met Ilya's brother. Had only seen him in a handful of old photos, back when Ilya still had contact with his family in Russia. The man across from Ilya had his bone structure, his height, but none of his warmth. Andrei Rozanov looked exactly like his pictures: cold eyes, expensive suit, the kind of smile that never reached anywhere that mattered.

Shane slowed his approach, phone charger forgotten in his pocket.

They were speaking Russian. Shane's understanding had gotten good over the past few years—good enough to follow conversations, to understand Ilya's phone calls with Svetlana, to catch the gist of Russian films they watched together. Good enough to know, immediately, that this conversation was bad.

"—always so sensitive," Andrei was saying, his voice low and venomous. "Papa would be ashamed, you know. His son, parading around with—"

"Don't." Ilya's voice was flat. "Don't talk about him."

"Why? Is truth. You think he would approve of this?" Andrei gestured vaguely. "You and your—what do you call him? Your husband?" The word dripped with contempt. "You disgrace everything Papa built—"

"Papa built nothing but debts and broken promises," Ilya said, his voice strained into steadiness. The voice he used when he was hurt but trying very hard not to show it. "He is dead. You took everything he had left. What is there to disgrace?"

"You could have been someone. Could have married a proper woman, had sons, had a real legacy—"

"I have a real life."

"You have a sin." Andrei spat the word. "Playing house with another man, thinking you can call it marriage. It's disgusting. Mama would be ashamed—"

Shane saw Ilya flinch. Saw his whole body go rigid.

"Don't," Ilya said quietly. Dangerously. "Don't you dare talk about Mama."

"Why not? It's true. If she could see you now—"

"She would be happy for me." Ilya's voice cracked. "She wanted me to be happy. That's all she ever wanted."

"She wanted you to be normal—"

Andrei's hand shot out and grabbed Ilya's shoulder. Hard. Aggressive. The grip of someone who meant to intimidate.

Shane moved.

Normally, there was a pause—an inventory taken in a blink. Distance, exits, angles. What a body could do and what it would cost. That pause never came. The world narrowed to a shoulder, a hand, the space between. Andrei’s fingers were on Ilya’s shoulder—then they weren’t.

Shane didn’t remember crossing the space between them—only the jolt in his arm, the solid give of a body pinned hard. His forearm locked across Andrei’s chest, his weight settling in automatically, precise and brutal.

The Russian words weren’t measured or rehearsed; they tore out of him, low and harsh, shaped by fury and something colder underneath it. Shane leaned in just enough to make it impossible to look away, every word driven in like a correction. This was not a negotiation. This was not a misunderstanding. Shane didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"Tron moyego muzha yeshcho raz (Touch my husband one more time)," Shane said, and his voice was shaking with rage. "Tol'ko, blyat', poprobuy. (I fucking dare you.)"

Andrei's eyes went wide with shock. "You—"

"Ya blyat' ne shuchu. (I’m not fucking around.)" Shane pushed harder, and some distant part of him—the part that wasn't consumed with protective fury—noted that Andrei actually looked scared. Good. "Ne razgovarivay s nim. Ne smotri na nego. Ukhodi. Nemedlenno. (Don’t talk to him. Don’t look at him. Leave. Now.)"

"Shane—" Ilya's voice, somewhere behind him. Shaky but steady.

Shane didn't take his eyes off Andrei. He couldn’t think of anything else to say—he'd learned Russian to understand Ilya, to communicate with him, to share in that part of his life. Not for this. But he needed Andrei to get it, needed him to understand in his bones what Shane was saying.

Because Shane didn't do this. Shane was the peacekeeper. The one who de-escalated. The one who apologized and smoothed things over and made nice. Shane had been in exactly three fights in his entire hockey career, and two of them had been when someone went after Ilya on the ice.

This was the third.

The phrases he'd practiced were not quite enough for everything he wanted to say, so he switched to English, his voice low and deadly calm in a way it never was.

"You don't get to touch him. You don't get to talk about his Mama." Shane's voice cracked on the last word. "You don't get to use her memory as a weapon."

Shane continued, and every word was measured. Deliberate. “You don't get to make him feel like shit for being happy. You took money from him for years, you and your father both, and he gave it because that's what he does—he gives and gives because he's generous and good and he loves his family even when they don't deserve it. But you? You don't deserve it. You don't deserve him."

Andrei's face had gone red. "You cannot tell me—"

"I'm not finished." Shane's voice was steel. "He is my family now. Mine. My husband. And I will not let you hurt him. You don't get access to him anymore. You don't get to make him feel small. Not while I'm here." Shane's hands were shaking. “I don't care who you are, I don't care what you think you're owed, I don't care about your bullshit excuses. You put your hands on him again, you even look at him wrong, and I will make you regret it. We clear?"

"You think you can threaten me—"

"It's not a threat. It's a promise." Shane stepped back, grabbed Ilya's wrist—gently, so gently, the opposite of how Andrei had grabbed him—and pulled him toward the elevators. Over his shoulder, he added in Russian, "Vali otsyuda. (Get the fuck out of here.)"

They made it into the elevator before either of them spoke. The doors closed. Shane hit the button for their floor, and his hands were shaking—adrenaline crash, realization of what he'd just done, the full weight of it hitting him all at once.

"I’m so s—" Ilya tried, his voice shaking.

"No. I'm sorry," Shane cut him off. "I know you can handle yourself, I know you don't need me to jump in, but he touched you, and he was talking about your Mama, and I just—I couldn't—"

Ilya kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. It was fierce and desperate and grateful, Ilya's hands framing Shane's face, their bodies pressed together in the small elevator. When they broke apart, there were tears on Ilya's cheeks.

"Thank you," Ilya breathed. "Spasibo, spasibo—"

"I've got you," Shane said.

They stumbled into their hotel room. Ilya fumbled with the lock, fingers unsteady. Once the door clicked shut behind them. He stayed where he was, rooted to the carpet, trembling.

"Hey," Shane said softly, moving closer. "Hey, it's okay. He's gone. You're safe."

"I know." Ilya's voice was small. "I know, I just—" He looked at Shane, eyes bright with tears. "You defended me."

"Of course I did."

"You don't understand." Ilya sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "No one has done that since... since Mama."

Shane's heart cracked. He knelt in front of Ilya, took his hands. "Tell me."

"When I was young—before she..." Ilya's voice caught. "Papa would get angry. Would say things. Mean things. And Mama would always—she would step between us. Physically, sometimes. She would say, 'Ne razgovarivay tak s moim synom.' ('Don’t talk to my son like that.') She was small, you know? Smaller than you even. But she would stand up to him. For me."

Shane squeezed his hands. Waited.

"Then she was gone and there was no one. Papa said whatever he wanted. Andrei too. And I learned to just... take it. Because that's what you do, right? When you are alone, you take it." Ilya looked at Shane, and tears slipped down his cheeks. "But you. You came between us. Like she used to."

"Ilya—"

"I spent years taking pain from people who were supposed to love me. And then you—" His voice broke completely. "You didn't even think about it."

"He doesn't get to touch you like that," Shane said fiercely. "Not when it's meant to hurt."

"You learned Russian for me, but you used it to—" Ilya laughed wetly. "Tell off my brother."

"I needed him to understand," Shane corrected. "To know, in a language he couldn't dismiss or pretend to misunderstand, that he can't do this anymore. Can't hurt you anymore."

Ilya pulled back enough to look at him. "You didn't plan this."

"Yeah." Shane cupped Ilya's face. "I learned Russian because I wanted to understand you. To communicate with you. To know you better. But in that moment, I was so angry, and I just—I just needed him to hear me."

They sat there for a long moment, just holding each other.

"Mama would have loved you," Ilya said quietly. "She would have loved that you make me laugh. That you care about foundation in her name. That you learn my language just to know me better." His arms tightened around Shane. "But mostly she would have loved that you protect me. The way she used to."

"I'll always protect you," Shane said into Ilya's shoulder. "That's what husbands do."

"Not all husbands."

"Good husbands, then."

"Best husbands." Ilya pulled back, wiped his eyes. "You know what she used to say? Mama?"

"What?"

"She used to say, 'Ilyusha, kogda-nibud ty vstretish togo, kto tebya uvidit. Uvidit po-nastoyashchemu. I kogda vstretish, ne otpuskay.' ('Ilyusha, someday you will meet someone who sees you. Truly sees you. And when you find them, hold onto them.')" Ilya's smile was watery. "I found you, moy zolottse (my treasure). And I'm never letting go."

Shane's throat felt too tight to speak, so he kissed him. Soft and sweet and full of promise.

"They are not my family anymore," Ilya said eventually.

"Okay."

"You are my family. You and Yuna and David and Svetlana and the team. You."

"Okay," Shane said again, softer.

"I mean it, Shane. He can say whatever he wants about me. But he talks about Mama—" Ilya's voice hardened. "He doesn't get to use her memory against me. Not when I have people who honor her memory properly. With love. With—" He gestured helplessly. "With everything you do."

Shane pressed a kiss to Ilya's forehead. "She would be proud of you. The foundation, the hockey camps, all of it. You know that, right?"

"Sometimes I forget." Ilya's voice was small. "Sometimes I hear Papa's voice, or Andrei's, and I forget that maybe I'm not disappointment they say I am."

"You're not a disappointment. You're incredible." Shane pulled back to look him in the eye. "You're kind and generous, and you love more deeply than anyone I know. You're a good teammate, a good friend, a good husband. The foundation has helped thousands of people. The hockey camps give kids opportunities they wouldn't have had. You matter, Ilya. Your life matters. What you do matters."

Ilya's face crumpled. "Fuck. You cannot say things like this when I am already emotional."

"Too bad. You're stuck with me saying nice things about you." Shane kissed him softly. "Forever. That's what our marriage contract says."

"I don't remember that clause."

"It was in the fine print. Right below the part about the Loon Call."

Ilya laughed, watery but real. "You are a menace to society."

"But I'm yours," Shane said.

"Yes. You are mine. And I am yours."

They lay down together, still fully clothed, Shane's head on Ilya's chest, Ilya's fingers running through Shane's hair.

"Thank you," Ilya said quietly. "For—" His voice broke. "For being family when I thought I had none left."

"You have a family," Shane said firmly. "People who love you. Who see you. Who know you're extraordinary."

"You make me feel..." He searched for the word. "Safe. For the first time since Mama died."

Shane's eyes burned. "Good. That's what I want."

"You do it very well." Ilya kissed the top of his head. "Even if your Russian grammar is terrible."

"I'll keep practicing."

"Good. Because next time you defend me, I want you to use subjunctive case properly."

"There's not going to be a next time. Andrei's never getting near you again."

"Hmm. Protective. Is sexy."

"I'm serious."

"I know. Is why is sexy." Ilya grinned. "My angry kitten who turns into angry lion when necessary."

"I'm not an angry kitten."

"You absolutely are. Small and cute and occasionally hissy." Ilya's expression went soft. "But for me, you become fierce."

"For you," Shane agreed. "Always for you."

They fell asleep like that, tangled together, safe in their hotel room miles away from Andrei and the past and everything that had tried to break them before they found each other.

And in the morning, when they woke up, Shane made Ilya laugh by attempting to order room service in Russian. Ilya taught Shane how to properly conjugate the Russian verbs he'd butchered the night before.

Shane took notes.

Ilya loved him.