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“I need some space,” Shane says abruptly, one quiet Tuesday night in January.
Ilya blinked. “Excuse me?” His mind stuttered, caught somewhere between disbelief and panic.
Shane tilted his head, one eyebrow lifting in that infuriatingly adorable way. “One night a week. Completely solo.”
Ilya’s brain short-circuited. “You… want me out?” he murmured, hurt creeping through the incredulous attitude.
“Well, not out,” Shane assured, softening, “okay, actually yes, technically out, but not because I don’t love you, because I do, Ilya.” He rose from the chair he’d been perched in across the room and crossed the small space to the sofa, sliding a hand over Ilya’s knee with that quiet reassurance that always made Ilya’s chest tighten.
“But I’m not used to this. Spending every single second together. I love you so much, but I’m not an extrovert like you. It’s hard being around someone at the rink, and at home, and on the road, all the time.” Shane’s voice was gentle, even, but there was a tremor there, a vulnerability he rarely let show.
“What is this extrovert?” Ilya asked, his head tilting, desperately searching for the right English translation. “It means you do not love your husband?”
“No, Ilya, it means you’re better around big groups of people than I am. I need time to …recharge.” Shane’s hand stayed on Ilya’s knee, warm and grounding.
“I will recharge you,” Ilya said, his hand creeping up Shane’s thigh in the universal language of “I can fix this.”
“No, time to recharge…alone,” Shane clarified, removing Ilya’s hand with gentle persistence and looking at him plaintively. “Please, just one night a week. You can go out with the guys and do something. I just need a quiet night where I can read my book and relax.”
Ilya flopped back on the couch dramatically, a toddler in a grown man’s body. “You can read your book and relax with me,” he moaned. “I’ll be so quiet.”
“You will not,” Shane protested, amused and exasperated. “You’re handsome and talented, but you are also loud and incorrigible.”
“I think you say these hard English words on purpose,” Ilya groaned, burying his face in the pillows.
Then, finally, he gave in, sitting up with a pout and grabbing his phone. Shane tilted his head, watching silently.
“Who are you calling?” Shane asked, curiosity in his tone.
Ilya ignored him, letting the phone ring. Soon, Troy answered.
“Ilya, what’s up, man?” came the familiar, warm voice.
“Barrett, my husband says he hates me, and I have to leave,” Ilya said deadpan. Shane protested in the background: “That’s not at all what I said. I asked you to give me one night.”
“Fine,” Ilya corrected, “My husband says I have to leave the house once a week so he can be boring.” Shane rolled his eyes at him from across the couch.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Harris and I are hanging out, hold on, let me throw you on speaker.”
“Hey, Ilya,” Harris greeted.
“Hello. Can I borrow Troy for tonight? My husband is kicking me out of the house.”
“Sure,” Harris replied, laughing. “Just make sure to have him home before midnight, it’s a school night,” he joked.
“What are we doing?” Troy asked. Ilya shrugged. He had no idea what adults did in Ottawa in January on a weeknight.
“No clue,” he said, gathering jacket, keys, and wallet. He leaned down to kiss Anya on the head, then Shane on the lips—just because he loved him, even if Shane always grimaced when it came right after the dog. Serves him right.
“Umm, let me throw us in a group chat with some of the other married guys, see who is down,” Troy said as Ilya started the car.
“Okay, see you in 15,” Ilya replied, already imagining the absurdity to come.
Ilya pulls up to Troy’s apartment building and shifts the car into park, the engine humming softly as he grabs his phone again. He skims back through the group chat, rolling his eyes at the flood of messages—Wyatt being obnoxious, Zane spiraling, Troy absolutely encouraging all of it—before backing out of the thread and opening his chat with Troy.
Here, he types, quick and efficient, sending it off with a tap.
Almost immediately, his phone buzzes again, the group chat lighting up like it never stopped. Ilya huffs, still a little pouty about being exiled from his own home like some kind of misbehaving dog, but there’s a spark of excitement under it too, something he can’t quite suppress.
A night out with the guys, no schedule, no expectations—it’s not so bad.
Still, it would be better if Cliff Marleau lived in Ottawa. Ilya likes all of them, of course, but Cliff is fun. He sighs to himself, like this is some great personal injustice, and taps back into the chat as the messages keep rolling in.
The car door opened as Troy climbed into the passenger seat. An icy gust of wind cut through the car before he quickly slammed the door, warming his fingers on the heater.
“Stop being dramatic, you were outside for a minute,” Ilya teased.
“Hey, you have to be nice to me Roz, I’m sacrificing a night with my very sweet boyfriend to hang out with your grumpy ass,” Troy scolded back.
“You be nice to me Barrett, my husband is bullying me.”
“By telling you to get a hobby?”
“I have hobby, I am hockey player,” Ilya retorted.
“Yeah, but so is he. He just wants you to have your own thing. Stop acting like Shane was trying to hurt your feelings.” Troy scolded.
Ilya turned back to his phone as more texts rolled in.
“I guess we’re going bowling,” Troy murmured as Ilya updated the navigation. Troy actually sounded excited—slightly—which made Ilya smile.
“Don’t get too pumped,” Ilya teased, glancing at him. “It’s just bowling.”
“Yeah, yeah, but any excuse to see you pout about Shane kicking you out counts as entertainment,” Troy shot back, smirking.
Ilya laughed, shaking his head. “You’re terrible.”
The car hummed along the quiet January streets of Ottawa. Snowflakes drifted lazily past the windshield as they traded half-jokes and stories from the week. Ilya’s pouting about Shane faded into the background, replaced by the easy camaraderie of a night finally dedicated to friends—and maybe just a little harmless chaos.
The Capital Lanes parking lot is half full when Ilya pulls in. He supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised; it is a Tuesday night, after all. He and Troy walk into the alley a little after 7 and take in the place. There are a handful of lanes occupied, and it looks like the median age is at least 60. Great.
The truth is that Ilya has never gone bowling in his life. Why would he? He is a hockey player, not... whatever this is. But the promise of a league caught his attention. If bowling is something he and his team can win at, they will join and win. Troy mentions renting shoes, and they head to the counter, reserving a lane for the night and receiving pairs of the ugliest shoes he has ever seen.
“They’re bowling shoes,” Troy explains as Ilya stares at the offending footwear with open disbelief.
“Why do I need special shoes for bowling?” Ilya asks, still horrified.
“It’s like renting skates at the rink—the floor gets fucked up by normal shoes,” Troy says, already pulling his own off and lacing up without question.
Ilya follows suit—unhappily—and makes a mental note to order his own if they end up joining the league. He will not be wearing rentals again.
Troy disappears to the concessions stand while Ilya finishes lacing up, returning with two pitchers of beer and cups, which earns him a raised eyebrow.
“You clearly haven’t been bowling before,” Troy says, pouring them both a drink. “It’s pretty typical to drink while you’re playing recreationally.” He lifts his cup in a casual cheers.
Ilya hums and takes a sip while they wait for the others. The beer is, to put it lightly, terrible—some kind of light domestic nonsense—but it is still beer, and he already likes bowling night a little more. The alley smells faintly of lemon cleaner, lit harshly with fluorescent lights, but the people around them are laughing, relaxed. It is… fine.
He lets Troy handle the lane setup, watching as he taps through a system that looks like it belongs in a 1980s sci-fi movie. Bood arrives next, giving a quick wave before grabbing shoes and joining them. He drops into the plastic chairs and immediately reaches over to ruffle Ilya’s hair.
“First time getting the boot from your wife, Roz?” he asks with a grin.
“I did not get the boot, and Shane is not my wife,” Ilya says, already pouting.
“You did, and tonight he is,” Bood replies easily. “Don’t stress. That’s marriage. Sometimes your spouse needs a night to themselves. Most of ours get a few when we’re traveling—Shane is stuck with you all the time.”
“Haha, very funny,” Ilya deadpans. “Your wife still kicked you out tonight.”
Bood shoots him a look, but there is no heat behind it—just easy, familiar teasing.
Coach and Wyatt arrive next, right on time—miraculously. They grab their shoes, and Wyatt practically skips over, dropping into a seat with an easy grin.
“Hey, guys.”
“Hey,” Coach—Brandon—no, Coach says, settling beside him.
Once they are all laced up, Troy takes the first turn. He knocks down most of the pins, then clears the rest on his second throw, turning back with a smug smile that only encourages the others. Ilya steps up next, selecting a ball and weighing it in his hand. It seems simple enough—roll the ball, knock down the pins. He has far more complex skills than this.
He rolls it down the lane.
Straight into the gutter.
“Shut up, it is my first time,” he says immediately, even though no one has said anything yet, which only makes them laugh harder. He sets his jaw and lines up his second attempt, determined to correct the mistake.
He knocks down exactly one pin.
One.
Ilya drops back into his seat beside Bood with a huff, arms crossed, wearing a pout that rivals the one from earlier when Shane kicked him out.
The night continues like that, round after round, the easy rhythm of taking turns, drinking bad beer, and chirping each other settling in quickly. It becomes painfully obvious that Wyatt is the best of them, which makes absolutely no sense. How is a goalie good at bowling? He is supposed to stop things from going into nets, not knock them down. The rest of them hover somewhere around average—a few strikes here and there, nothing impressive, nothing that would suggest to anyone around them that they are professional athletes.
And Ilya is, by far, the worst.
He alternates between throwing the ball too hard, sending it straight into the gutter, or somehow managing a decent first throw only to miss everything on the second. It is frustrating—infuriating, even—but every time he sits back down, there is another round of laughter, another comment from Wyatt, another dry remark from Coach, and somehow it keeps being… fun.
By the end of the night, after losing three games in a row, he still agrees to join the league that runs through March, making sure it does not interfere with their schedule. They will improve. They will win. There is no other acceptable outcome.
Ilya drops Troy off with a smile before heading home, the streets quieter now, the city settling into the night. The house is dim when he steps inside, the lights low and the television casting a soft glow across the living room. Shane is asleep on the couch, a book tipped sideways against his chest, his glasses slightly crooked.
Ilya pauses in the doorway, something soft settling in his chest as he takes in the sight. So. He did need the night.
He nudges Shane’s shoulder gently. “Shane,” he murmurs. “Come on.”
Shane blinks awake, disoriented, already halfway back to sleep. “You’re back,” he mumbles.
“Yes,” Ilya says, amused despite himself. “And you are going to bed.”
Shane hums something that might be agreement, letting Ilya pull him to his feet. He leans into him on the short walk down the hall, clearly exhausted, and collapses into the bed the second he gets there, barely managing to kick off his shoes before disappearing again.
Ilya watches him for a moment, shaking his head fondly as he pulls the blankets up around him. Fine. Maybe the exile was justified.
He changes quickly, then slides into bed beside him, reaching for his phone instead of the light. The group chat is still active—Wyatt sending far too many messages, Bood encouraging him, Troy chiming in just enough to keep things going—but Ilya ignores it, opening a browser instead.
Bowling shoes.
If they are doing this, he is doing it properly.
He scrolls for a moment, unimpressed with most of the options, until he finds a few that are… acceptable. Sleek. Minimal. Not embarrassing. Those will do. Then, after a beat—
bowling balls custom
If they are joining a league, he should have his own equipment. Something properly weighted. Something precise. Something that will actually let him win.
Ilya glances over at Shane, already deeply asleep beside him, then back to his phone.
Yes.
This will be taken seriously.
When Tuesday night came around, Ilya had already packed his brand-new bowling shoes and bowling ball into his brand-new bowling bag. Yes, he was taking this very seriously—tonight was their first league match, and they would be winning.
Shane smiled at him across the room, his adorable reading glasses perched on his nose and a book on the history of hockey propped in his lap. Ilya would normally be distracted by Shane’s glasses, but not tonight. Tonight, he was focused on taking home the win. Troy was picking him up, so Ilya waited and paced, glancing occasionally at his phone to make sure he didn’t miss anything in the CBL group text—but the men were being quiet tonight.
“You gonna score a strike for me tonight?” Shane asked with a smirk.
“It’s not like that,” Ilya protested—he’d happily score for Shane in hockey any day, but bowling was very difficult, evidently. “But yes, I will score a strike just for you,” he promised, hoping he could deliver.
Ilya’s phone buzzed with a text from Troy: here. He gave his husband a quick peck on the lips before hurriedly grabbing his bag and rushing to the door, Shane laughing and calling out, “Have a good night,” as Ilya closed the door and climbed into Troy’s car, hefting his bag into his lap.
The Centaurs arrived at Capital Lanes a little early, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and the faint scent of lemon floor cleaner greeting them like a welcome. Ilya was practically vibrating with excitement, his brand-new bowling shoes squeaking with every step. Troy and Wyatt were calm, casual, checking in with the lane attendants and cracking jokes, while Zane—Bood, as he was more often called—already had his game face on. Coach, predictably, carried an air of mild skepticism, scanning the alley as if assessing the competition.
Their opponents were waiting: the Golden Acres Retirement Bowling League. The men were all sporting matching floral bowling shirts and polished shoes, some hunched slightly over their balls, but all radiating decades of bowling experience. They looked at the Centaurs with sly smiles, exchanging whispered jokes that carried clearly across the lane.
"New blood," one of them said, voice dripping with mock menace, "hope you can handle the pressure."
Ilya squared his shoulders, gripping his ball like it was a hockey stick. "Pressure is fine," he muttered under his breath. "We are prepared. We are organized. We will win."
The first frame began, and it was immediately humbling. Wyatt, to Ilya’s amazement, was the first to step up—and true to form, knocked down eight pins in one roll, finishing the spare with ease. Coach followed, steady and methodical, sending the ball down the lane with practiced precision, picking up most of his pins. Bood gave a shrug to the group before rolling his ball—his technique was a little unorthodox, but he managed a solid spare.
Then it was Ilya’s turn. He positioned himself, took a breath, and let the ball go. It wobbled slightly, curved just a touch, and knocked down… three pins. Ilya blinked, stunned. Troy stifled a laugh, Wyatt raised an eyebrow, and Bood just shook his head, muttering something about "rookies."
The Golden Acres team cheered and laughed, leaning into the Centaurs with witty taunts. "Careful there, son," one said, "don’t throw your back out!" Another piped up, "Is that your first time bowling, or your first day in life?"
Ilya clenched his jaw but couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at his lips. They were fun, sure—but he wasn’t here to be charming. He was here to win.
The first game ended quickly, the Centaurs soundly defeated. Pins were left standing everywhere, and though they had some bright moments—Wyatt’s strikes, Coach’s spares—overall, the Golden Acres crew had them thoroughly outplayed. But even in defeat, Ilya felt a thrill. The team had laughed, joked, and most importantly, played together. They would come back stronger.
As they gathered their things, Ilya already began planning. "Next week," he said, tightening the strap on his bowling bag, "we practice. We strategize. And we win."
Wyatt groaned. "I am not practicing bowling when I have hockey full-time."
Bood muttered, "Yeah, good luck with that."
Ilya threw them a look that was half menace, half grin. "You’ll thank me when we’re champions."
And somehow, even as they walked back to the car, exhausted, laughed at, and thoroughly humbled, he couldn’t wait for the next match.
Over the next several weeks, the Centaurs faced a parade of opponents, each match a new challenge and a new lesson. Their first night against the Golden Acres Retirement Bowling League had been humbling. The old-timers were ruthless with their witty taunts, even from across the room, teasing the Centaurs worse than any pro hockey opponent, and Ilya’s three-pin opener quickly became a running joke in the group chat.
The following week brought the Alley Cats, a team of energetic college students who thought their youthful chaos could intimidate the Centaurs. Wyatt dominated with perfect strikes, and Ilya managed four spares, earning cheers from the group. It was the first time they felt a taste of real victory, and the Centaurs reveled in it.
Week after week brought new opponents and new challenges. Against the Kingpin Crushers, a team with serious strategy, Coach laid out a rotation system, and Ilya, focusing harder than ever, landed his first strike. Troy nearly knocked over a nearby soda from excitement. The Pin Pals, a mixed group of retirees and young adults, were next, and by then Ilya was landing doubles with growing consistency. Even Coach, usually stoic, allowed himself a small, proud smile.
Some teams were chaotic, like Alley Oops, whose pins flew in every direction, and some were intimidating, like Strike Force, whose black shirts and custom balls made them look professional. Ilya’s confidence wavered here and there—balls in gutters, spares missed—but his precision steadily improved. He began calculating every throw, considering angles and weight, learning to read the lane like a hockey rink.
By the final weeks, the Centaurs had a rhythm. They laughed, bickered, and occasionally lost, but each game showed Ilya’s relentless drive. He was the first to arrive at practice, the first to pick up spares, and the first to celebrate every strike, imagining Shane’s grin at home. The second to last league night against the Pinheads was the culmination of it all. Ilya threw with focus, rhythm, and joy, hitting strike after strike, his teammates cheering him on, and for the first time, he played not just to win, but to show how far he’d come.
The final match of the league came on a sunny Tuesday in March. The Centaurs were currently sitting seventh in the league, out of ten, and the battle was really just for who would finish sixth. But Ilya felt like it was game seven of the playoffs. His normally silly team was focused, serious—their pro-athlete instincts kicking in. They milled around their lane, checking shoes, balls, and scorecards, waiting for the game to start.
A flash of black and red caught his attention, and he froze. Through the door marched Harris, Samantha, Lisa, Cassie, and finally—bringing up the rear—his Shane. They were decked out in black-and-red Centaurs jerseys and carried handmade posters, plopping down at a table behind the lane with loud whoops and cheers. Shane looked absolutely adorable as he walked in with the wives, and he turned to show Ilya the jersey he was wearing. Across the back read: “ROZANOV”. Ilya’s chest tightened. Oh, how he loved his husband.
The game kicked off, and their cheer squad—far more intense than anyone expected—was actually helpful. Every spare, every strike, every near miss was met with exaggerated cheers and playful bribes. Ilya pulled off a strike on his first throw and spun around to see Shane beaming at him. His heart fluttered, and he felt a surge of focus. The intensity spread to the rest of the Centaurs. Troy’s throws were precise, Bood kept up his competitive banter, Wyatt’s form was perfect, and even Brandon looked like he was enjoying himself a little too much.
The wives got into the action in the most dangerous way possible: bribing the players with kisses for good rolls. After a perfect strike, Ilya wandered over to collect his reward from Shane. The man blushed and acquiesced with a shy grin. “This is unfair,” Ilya whispered, smirking, “I’m supposed to be focused on the game, not getting distracted.” Shane just laughed, brushing a strand of hair from Ilya’s forehead.
As the frames ticked by, the Centaurs played the best game of their ten-week league. Spares were clean, strikes came in unexpected bursts, and the team’s laughter and cheering only added to the energy. The crowd of other players and spectators, usually old retirees or casual bowlers, looked on with mild confusion at the amount of drama emanating from lane seven.
When the final ball dropped and the scores were tallied, the Centaurs had done it—they won the game and officially finished sixth in the league. The boys erupted like they’d just hoisted the Stanley Cup, throwing arms around each other and laughing. Ilya hugged Shane tightly, lifting him slightly off the ground in his excitement. The WAGs cheered, waving posters and scarves, and the Centaurs basked in their small, ridiculous, perfect victory.
Amid the laughter and celebration, Coach finally spoke up. “So… when’s the next league start?”
The boys went silent for a beat, then grinned at each other. “Next season,” Ilya said, already plotting, “we’re going to crush it. And we’ll actually practice this time—during the off-season for hockey.”
Troy leaned over and elbowed Harris. “Looks like we’ve got some serious off-season plans.”
The group laughed, already imagining their next ten weeks of black-and-red dominance. For one glorious Tuesday evening, the Centaurs had everything they wanted: friends, fun, a cheering squad, and a little bit of glory.