Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Harris Drover, Luca Haas, Wyatt Hayes, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Relationship Reveal, Coming Out, Crack Treated Seriously, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, romcomollanov, working on making that a tag, i think it's catchy, romcom hollanov for life

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-18 Words: 15,534 Chapters: 1/1

waking up in vegas

Summary

"You've been dating for years," Hayden quickly clarifies, "and at no point did you think it would be a good idea to come up with some kind of plan for if this happened. You ghost everyone when you see each other. Half the time I don't know if you're alive or dead, and you still couldn't find ten minutes out of your busy schedules to figure out a contingency plan?"

"Big word." Ilya grins. "Have you been reading dictionary?"

"We weren't planning on getting married in Vegas," Shane points out when Hayden passes him on his lap around the bed. His eyes briefly flick to the TV. "Or coming out with such a spectacle. Obviously."

No matter how many times he'd turned it over, how many times he'd painstakingly played out every worst case scenario, he'd still never landed remotely close to what the reality had turned out to be: Hayden Pike pacing circles around their penthouse suite as he and Ilya hide from the rest of the world.

Or Shane and Ilya get drunk married in Vegas. Their friends try and keep their secret while they hole up in a hotel room.

Notes

One time, in a fic of mine titled hockeygossiplover24 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/86080096) Hayden Pike was asked, “How are me and Ilya meant to get married if no one knows about us?” and naturally, his response was, “Vegas. Everyone would think it was this whole funny thing, and then you’d be like, surprise, it’s real.”

Thus this fic idea was launched. Sometimes you just have to go back to your roots and get real romcom with it. This is very much a suspend your disbelief and enjoy the ride fic.

Set in a world where all of their friends know about them. Or at least suspect something. Thank you, Hayden Pike!

As always, everything is mostly set in canon unless I need to change something to fit my narrative.
 
PS, trying to coin the Romcomallov tag. Romcom Hollanov.<3

PPS, don’t forget to click read more on the first coded tweet :)

8:01 AM — Las Vegas

9:03 AM — Las Vegas hotel suite

Shane lifts his head with a grumble and blinks against the beaming light hellbent on attacking his senses. The light filtering in through the hotel room window is working in tandem with Ilya's blaring alarm. It's just about the loudest thing Shane's ever heard, the repetitive sound throbbing against his skull. His stomach roils uncomfortably.

He regularly plays hockey in front of thousands of fans, the slam of a puck basically a constant loop in his head, but the default iPhone alarm is going to be the thing that takes his eardrums out. Go figures.

He takes a few seconds to get his bearings, willing the contents of his stomach to stay put before his eyes land on the bed. The sheets are bunched into a lump in the center, the corner of the mattress poking out haphazardly.

Even if the sheets have exploded, it was surely a better option than the… floor?

His gaze drops to his own bath robed body, sprawled across the carpet, a towel bunched into a makeshift pillow under his elbow.

There's a split second where he thinks he and Ilya must have fought about something. It seems a reasonable conclusion; this is the hockey player penthouse suite version of sleeping on the couch.

He turns it over, tries to make it fit, searches for any disagreement they might have had, big or small. But he has nothing. He only has snapshots of the night. They’re in Vegas for the MLH awards. Which means so is just about everybody else they know. Everyone—a strange mismatch of Metros and Centaurs players—had eagerly agreed to go out after the ceremony to commemorate the occasion.

The group had been in good spirits. Subsequently, there had been shots. Cocktails, beer, a bottle of tequila. Hayden and J.J., Troy Barrett and his boyfriend making out in the corner at one point—he does remember the jealousy that had splintered through his chest as no one had taken any notice of them.

He remembers Ilya's eyes darkening at him from across the bar and Wyatt Hayes suddenly bulldozing his way up, slamming his beer against the bar to ask about the game last week, none the wiser to what he was impeding.

He's pretty sure that Hayden had tried to shove a slice of pizza into his mouth at one point.

He at least thinks it had been a wild night, especially for him, but that's where his memories end. The rest is fuzzy around the edges, just out of reach.

"Ilya," he tries, his mouth dry.

Ilya moans from somewhere under the detonated sheets.

Shane flops back down in defeat. You know what? The towel is comfortable enough for now. "Turn it off," he mumbles into the soft fabric. "Before my brain fucking explodes."

Another grunt, and then, "Can't move. I am dead, Hollander."

Shane twists his head to look at him. "I slept on the floor, asshole."

A mop of familiar hair finally pops up, the curls sticking up in every direction. He blinks a couple of times, his eyes glassy. "I think I remember trying to pull you into bed with me. But you were like dead weight."

Shane closes his eyes again, the intended bite of his words lost to the sleep tugging at him when he says, "Guess you need to lift more in the gym then."

"Is this why you do not drink? Ginger ale makes you less cranky?"

The alarm starts back up right on time. He hears a clatter, and then Ilya speaks again.

"Turn it off," Shane mumbles. "We can pass back out. Pretend this never happened."

He's already drifting off, the edges of Ilya's sudden flurry of words fuzzy. They can revisit this conversation when it doesn’t feel like the contents of his stomach are going to eject themself.

"Shane," Ilya says, and the sudden panic cuts into Shane's consciousness and drags him back to the present with a bump.

He pushes up a little jerkily. His plan of another round of sleep fizzles out as quickly as it had arrived because Ilya is staring at his phone, his mouth forming a little 'O' shape.

"What is it?"

"I have fifteen missed calls from Farah." He scrolls. "And texts from her and"—his gaze snaps to Shane—"Yuna. They are saying not to turn the TV on." His teeth dig into his bottom lip as he runs a hand through his hair. It does nothing to tame the explosion of curls.

"Okay." The words come out calm, but ice is running through Shane's veins, the warning, especially from his mom, settling over him uncomfortably. It's the cherry on top of his very shitty sundae, right there with his pounding head, clammy skin, and towel-pillow. "So you probably missed a photoshoot or something…" He forces a laugh. "Right?"

"Oh yes." Ilya nods sarcastically. "Breaking news: Ilya Rozanov misses photoshoot for shitty seltzer brand. They have plastered it across news channels at 9 AM."

"Fuck you. Now who's cranky when they're hungover?" Shane glances over his shoulder to the suddenly ominous TV stand. "Turn it on."

He doesn't need to tell Ilya twice. He scrambles for the remote and flicks the hotel room television on, immediately changing to the sports channel.

They don't have to wait long for their answer. Shane's not sure which of them utters the string of curse words. Maybe both. On the screen, slapped across a breaking news ribbon are words that he's not sure he's ever seen threaded together.

At least not by anyone else. Or anywhere publicly. They’re words he and Ilya shared. Often. But it was in the secrecy of their respective homes, the four walls keeping their whispered confessions safe.

The reporter lets out a surprised huff. "Unfortunately, right now we only know as much as you do. We're sharing the news as it comes in, but reports are saying that famed hockey rivals Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have tied the knot." Shane watches the man shake his head, a look of amused bewilderment passing over his face. Like he can't believe what he's hearing either. "What that means exactly is anyone's guess."

Shane's heart thuds to the carpet, right next to his stupid fucking makeshift towel-pillow. His mouth feels like sandpaper, any words he might want to say trapped in his throat. In fact, he's pretty sure there isn't enough air in this room.

Which is crazy because it's a penthouse suite. Expensive. Surely expensive enough for the best air circulation Vegas can offer. Maybe he should put in a formal complaint.

"—Rumors are saying it was a private ceremony after the MLH awards in Vegas last night with only a handful of witnesses. Presumably their respective teammates who were also in attendance at the awards."

Shane heaves in a breath, but it does nothing. Shitty airless hotel room.

"Okay," Ilya says, the words strained now, "turns out Farah was not calling about seltzer—"

Shane's eyes are fixed on the television, on this man talking about things he has no idea about. His words come out a mumble when he says, "Farah can fix this. You need to text her. And I need to call my mom—" He looks around himself. "Where is my phone?"

"How?"

"Pick up your phone and—"

"How can Farah fix this? It is already everywhere." There's a pause, and Ilya's eyes land on Shane, full of concern before they soften slightly. "You are freaking out."

And really, what would Shane do without Ilya? His wonderful, perceptive boyfriend— his husband? No, that can't be right.

He lets his forehead fall to his knees, his voice coming out a borderline wheeze now, "Oh god."

"I am freaking out," Ilya helpfully announces from somewhere to his right.

And Shane would love to point out that one of them should probably have a handle on not freaking out, but he's a little preoccupied with the air currently not hitting his lungs.

So instead, he sits there with his head between his knees and listens intently to the reporter drone on about his so called unexpected and shocking marriage. He lifts his head when it cuts to commercials, blinking against the sudden change in brightness as his eyes land on Ilya.

Ilya, who has ripped the curtains open and is now silently standing in front of the large window.

The seconds turn into minutes, the silence thick between them before Shane attempts to break it. He guesses it's his turn to have a handle on this. "Ilya?"

"I think I am still drunk." Ilya huffs a humorless laugh, but he doesn't turn around, speaking directly to the glass when he says, "This is one big nightmare. That is what Farah said—"

Shane winces. "She did?"

Ilya hums. "She said this is a PR nightmare. Too many stupid shots with too many stupid asshole hockey players. Barrett's tab was longer than his fucking arm, and now we are married—"

"I don't get drunk," Shane argues for some reason. Maybe it's because it's the one thing he's fairly certain of amidst this mess they've tangled themselves in.

Ilya spins in place pretty successfully for someone who's allegedly still drunk. His face does something complicated, right there, standing shirtless in front of the city of Las Vegas. His eyebrows pull together, lips pursing, almost, just almost like he's holding back a laugh—which would be ridiculous because the whole world is learning they’re married at the same time they are—before his still glazed eyes land back on Shane in question.

"What?" Shane scoffs. "I don't."

Ilya's voice drops into a terrible imitation of Shane. "I don't get drunk, but I do get married to sexy Russian hockey player in middle of Vegas? Wow, Shane—"

Shane stands up, letting go of the very loose handle he had on any of this. It's Ilya's turn. Marriage is about sharing the load after all. "We don't… know that."

Ilya's eyes flick pointedly to the television, the breaking news report rolling once more.

"It doesn't mean anything. They saw we were in Vegas and… made a baseless rumor," Shane tries, but the words are weak even to his own ears. "It's not like they haven't done it before."

Ilya wordlessly lifts his left hand toward him.

Shane blinks a little blankly. He doesn't know much right now, probably couldn't name five things he can see and five things he can touch, but what he is sure of is that husbands weren't meant to withhold such vital information.

Surely that was in the wedding vows they'd exchanged. I vow to not lie. Better yet, I vow to not marry you in the middle of fucking Vegas.

They were late to the count on that one, but the first one still stands.

Sitting on top of Ilya's pinky finger, not even close to reaching the knuckle, is a novelty ring. The plastic kind that pops out of a gumball machine after you've manhandled a quarter inside. A dull silver band with an oversized plastic gem. Blue. A suspicious Metros shade.

Tacky. Definitely going to turn Ilya's skin green by the end of the day. More alarmingly, his first thought to the plastic tat sitting on his boyfriend— his husband's finger was that they could just buy a proper ring.

A good one. One that would last.

His hand is prickling against his side. It feels heavier somehow. He knows without even looking what is sitting on his own pinky.

But before he can check, Ilya has crossed the room in record time. A warm palm lands against his fingers and gently tugs his arm up between them. Sure enough, he has a matching ring. Green. Centaurs green. Just as tacky.

Ilya's mouth twists into a badly hidden smirk. "This is real commitment."

Shane tries to yank his hand away, but Ilya presses a firm kiss to his knuckles.

"This can't be happening," Shane says even as his heart twists at the sweet gesture.

Ilya's lips press into a flat line as he turns back to the TV. "We should probably call Farah soon. The texts she is sending are getting scary."

Shane nods jerkily. "Okay. Yeah, okay."

The news report restarts as they settle on the bed, Ilya's still exploding phone lying menacingly between them.

Physically, it's more comfortable, sure. But mentally, the panic prickling over Shane's skin is almost too much to bear. He hops back up, abandoning the mattress in favor of pacing a circle around the large room as his mind kicks back into overdrive.

How did this happen? Is this even real? Some kind of stress induced hallucination? A dream? He'd had dreams like it before. The stress of hiding bleeding into his subconscious, throwing worst case scenarios at him as he sleeps.

He always feels off kilter the next day. But this is more than off kilter. He's currently inventing new emotions right here in a Vegas hotel room.

"Do you remember anything?" Ilya cuts into his spiraling thoughts.

Shane shakes his head but keeps walking. "I remember the- the stupid fucking bar. The one that Hayden and Barrett were saying we needed to check out." He takes a hard left, almost toppling headfirst into the desk. "Why the fuck did we need to check out a bar? They're all the same. Alcohol. Sticky bar tops. Too many fucking eyes on us." Another groan tumbles past his lips as he comes to a stop, right back at the end of the bed. "Hayden and that stupid bartender. The one who insisted on the group tab because we'd get a discount. We're fucking millionaires. Why did we need a—"

A strangled noise interrupts his ramblings.

He looks up just in time to watch Ilya shove his phone under the sheets, his eyes landing back on the enthusiastic news reporter.

They're currently running an online poll on who they thought had been Shane's best man. Results show Hayden Pike is dominating the votes.

Dread drips down his spine when Ilya doesn't throw out a single quip. "What?"

"Nothing. I remember the same. Fuzzy after the bar. All the shots. Pike and Bood and the bartender—"

"What was on your phone?"

"Nothing," Ilya answers too quickly for it to actually be nothing. "Just"—he waves a vague hand through the air—"you know."

"No, Ilya. I don't know. And actually, I think you're under some kind of marital obligation to tell me."

Ilya shoots him a betrayed look. "Was just news alert."

Shane immediately resumes his pacing. "So everyone knows."

"Maybe," Ilya decides.

"Where's my phone?" Shane asks as he comes to a stop. "Oh god. I really need to call my mom."

He does a quick sweep of the room, but his phone is nowhere to be seen. Lost somewhere with his sanity, he thinks. It's fine. He'd find it eventually. He has the next fifty years of his life to get acquainted with this room.

"There are more paparazzi pictures," Ilya says after a couple of minutes.

Shane straightens up from where he'd been rummaging in his suitcase. "Of what?"

"Nothing bad." Ilya's face drops as he scrolls. "Okay. Maybe a little bad. Us at a chapel—"

"Ilya," Shane cuts in as his fingers clasp around a piece of paper that had been hidden by a rogue Metros sweatshirt. The last hopes he'd had that this had been some kind of joke dissolve right in front of his eyes.

Ilya looks up from his phone. "Huh?"

Shane rounds the bed to pass his findings to Ilya. A few seconds pass, both of them intently studying the marriage certificate. Their full names and alleged wedding date are proudly printed for anyone to see.

"Is it even legally binding?" Shane asks when Ilya brings the flimsy sheet closer.

"You want to divorce me already?"

Shane's pretty sure his face is the one doing something complicated now. Because as stressed as he is about this entire thing, that also isn't something he wants.

He sighs before his voice drops to a whisper as if the people in the rooms under them might be able to hear the commotion. "I thought we had bigger plans than an Elvis impersonator and"—he holds his left hand up, the gaudy ring still sitting there—"plastic rings."

"There was no Elvis impersonator, just Pike."

"You remember it?"

Ilya shakes his head, his lips drawing into a flat line as he holds his phone out. Sure enough, splashed across the front is a paparazzi picture of Hayden leaving the chapel with a broad grin on his face, Ilya on one side and Shane on the other.

He looks like their fucking bodyguard. But to his defense, bodyguard shift or not, he does look as drunk as Ilya and Shane do, the knot of his tie unraveling.

And with that revelation, Ilya gets to work googling the validity of Vegas marriages as Shane finally takes a seat on the edge of the bed. His hands feel empty without his phone. All he can do is watch the news reporter read out his personal business for the fiftieth fucking time or stare down at what he's pretty sure is an extremely legally binding marriage certificate.

"Why the fuck did anyone let us go through with it? Surely someone could have stopped us," he says, trying to make sense of it. "Maybe not Hayden, but."

Ilya looks up at that. "Where the fuck is Pike anyway?"

9:43 AM — Outside of a Las Vegas hotel brimming with hockey players

Trent Fellman (sports reporter): Can we have a minute, Hayden Pike?

Hayden Pike (hockey player on the Montreal Metros. Wearing oversized sunglasses, sipping from a large paper coffee cup and wearing a rumpled shirt that looks suspiciously similar to the one he had been papped in last night): Uh, sure. Yeah. What's up?

Trent Fellman: I take it you had a good night last night?

Hayden Pike: A good night in Vegas? [Laughs] Yeah, it was a night alright. [Shakes his head and sips from the coffee cup]

Trent Fellman: Can we take a quick statement from you? Are you happy for your teammate? Were you in attendance?

Hayden Pike: [Pauses] I'm not sure I'm following.

Trent Fellman: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov? What can you say about the rumors circulating? Are they true?

Hayden Pike: What rumors?

Trent Fellman: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov's alleged Vegas chapel wedding last night. I'm hearing reports that you were one of the witnesses, along with others from the Centaurs team. How long have you known about—

Hayden Pike: I have no idea what you're talking about. What the fuck are you talking about?

Trent Fellman: What do you have to say about—

[Hayden Pike exited the interview at 9:44 AM.]

10:02 AM — Las Vegas hotel suite

An incessant knocking breaks into the news report still rolling on the TV. They both flinch, their heads snapping in unison toward the sound.

Shane pauses his water sipping as Ilya jerks up from the bed and angles his head toward the door. They both wait a few torturously long seconds, Shane hoping whoever it is will give up and Ilya looking approximately half a second away from calling security.

But the knocking restarts, more force behind it this time.

"What if it's a reporter?" Shane asks, panic clawing its way up his chest once more.

Maybe they should just invite whoever it is in, let them get a good look at what they were calling hockey's first husbands. Hockey's first husbands in matching freak out robes. The hockey world would never recover. Or so they were saying.

Ilya shakes his head, but he doesn't look all that convinced either. "I don't think so." He pauses, the continuous knocking filling the silence until he decides, "Is probably housekeeping."

"Keep your voice down," Shane hisses.

Ilya turns to look at him, dropping his voice to an over the top whisper. "It is probably housekeeping. I was supposed to check out"—he glances down at his watch with a wince—"right now."

Shane ignores that. "I don't think housekeeping knocks like they're trying to break the door—"

"Are you guys in there?" a familiar voice floats through the room, muffled by the wood and a potent dose of alarm. It's followed by another pound on the door for good measure, and then a hiss, "This is really fucking bad. You need to let me the fuck in. Do I need to organize a welfare check because I don't think that'll go down well considering the"—he loudly clears his throat—"circumstances." The handle rattles. "Are you fucking listening, assholes? Let me the fuck in."

Hayden. Hayden, who has heard the big news. Shane's got an inkling that congratulations won't be in order this time, though.

"Let him in," he says when Ilya makes no move toward the door.

He raises a judgmental brow. "We don't know he is safe. He might have people with him."

"Like who?"

Ilya shrugs. "I do not know, Shane. A reporter? He walked us into the chapel fucking grinning; he is not exactly sane."

Shane doesn't think it's worth mentioning that they had also been grinning in the paparazzi pictures from the chapel. He doesn't think he's ever seen Ilya smile so big. If all of this wasn't so terrifying, it would be incredibly sweet. At least, he thinks it would.

Instead of any of that, though, he says, "Let him in. He can help."

He's not sure how, but he thinks there's probably strength in numbers. He also thinks there's a strong probability Hayden will break the door down if they leave him out there long enough.

Which wouldn't be beneficial for his staying in this room for the foreseeable future plan. He needs to stay three steps ahead at all times.

Ilya finally starts moving, rounding the corner toward the racket as the belt of his robe trails behind him. He'd found the matching one around the same time he'd ransacked the minibar and shoved a water bottle into Shane's hand before downing one of his own.

Shane hears the door open, and then a hissed back and forth before Hayden rounds the corner and comes to an abrupt stop in the archway of the bedroom. A shaky exhale leaves his mouth as his eyes land on the bed.

Well, Shane assumes that's what happens. The oversized sunglasses are currently taking up a lot of real estate on his face.

"Why aren't you answering your fucking phone?" he immediately snaps.

Ilya follows him in, uncertain eyes flicking from the sunglasses to the coffee in his hand and back to Shane again. "What is this? Shitty disguise?"

"I'm gonna fucking need it." Hayden chugs whatever is left of his coffee and then thrusts it toward Ilya. Ilya has no choice but to catch it as Hayden continues on his spiel, "You're gonna fucking need it if you want to leave this hotel room in the next ten years."

"Not planning on it," Shane mumbles.

Hayden runs a shaky hand through his tussled hair and begins pacing the room. "I just paid the room off for another night."

"You did?" Shane says at the same time Ilya asks, "Is Jackie going to be okay?"

Hayden's head whips toward Ilya, who is dutifully holding his empty takeout cup. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ilya shrugs casually. "They cannot pay worst player in the league that much. Does she need my card? I will text her."

"Shut the fuck up, Rozanov. They're out there calling you the MLH's version of Romeo and Juliet, and you're still being an asshole."

"They're calling us what?" Shane asks, voice straining again.

Hayden quickly shakes his head. "You know what, not important." He pauses his pacing to look between them. "What the fuck is the plan here?"

A few torturous beats pass, Hayden looking seconds away from tearing his hair out and Ilya looking borderline amused before Shane has to confess, "There is no plan."

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows before Hayden's eyes widen almost comically. "You've been"—he throws a vague hand toward the large bed—"doing, you know—"

Ilya huffs a laugh. "Yeah. You know, Shane."

"You've been dating for years," Hayden quickly clarifies, "and at no point did you think it would be a good idea to come up with some kind of plan for if this happened. You ghost everyone when you see each other. Half the time I don't know if you're alive or dead, and you still couldn't find ten minutes out of your busy schedules to figure out a contingency plan?"

"Big word." Ilya grins. "Have you been reading dictionary?"

Hayden blows out another tortured breath and continues his pacing.

"We weren't planning on getting married in Vegas," Shane points out when Hayden passes him on his lap around the bed. His eyes briefly flick to the TV. "Or coming out with such a spectacle. Obviously."

The truth is that he'd thought about marriage more times than he'd like to admit. Even when things looked hopeless, it had been a thought that had never really left him. A constant thrum of what if in the back of his head.

What if we were two people who had met outside of hockey?

What if we had regular jobs?

What if so many eyes weren't on us?

What if in the future things didn't seem so scary?

But no matter how many times he'd turned it over, how many times he'd painstakingly played out every worst case scenario, he'd still never landed remotely close to what the reality had turned out to be: Hayden Pike pacing circles around their penthouse suite as he and Ilya hide from the rest of the world.

In matching robes. Can’t forget them.

"I wasn't planning on being your best man in Vegas, either," Hayden says. He runs a hand down his face, the movement narrowly avoiding his sunglasses. "Fuck."

"Do you remember anything?" Shane asks.

"Not a fucking thing. I think I blacked out sometime around Troy Barrett's boyfriend ordering a round of shots to celebrate Barrett's win. Jesus fucking Christ."

"Do you need water? Maybe xanax?" Ilya cuts back in.

Hayden chooses to ignore that. "They're gonna ask every hockey player who walks out of this hotel what their opinion is on the power couple of the MLH." He pauses his rambling to look between them again, a little desperate this time. "Why are you both so calm right now?"

Shane sips from his water. Ilya yawns from his perch in the doorway.

"Shane?" Hayden tries.

"Keep sipping your water, Shane," Ilya says.

Hayden drops his voice, concern shuttering over his features. "Is he like in shock or something? Do we need to call someone?"

Ilya looks at him seriously. "I think you are the one in shock. You are a father. Is it code red emergency every time someone scrapes their knee?"

"This is a little more than a fucking boo boo. You are legally married. And you are rivals." A humorless laugh leaves his lips. "And no one even knows that you're fucking dating."

"Really?" Ilya hums sarcastically. "Thank you for letting us know. What would we do without you?"

"I'm right here," Shane cuts in, just in case they'd forgotten.

"We need a plan," Hayden reiterates.

Ilya laughs. Again. "You did not marry us, Pike."

"I was an accessory to it, Rozanov." He starts up his pacing, right on cue.

After a minute or so of whatever this is, Ilya breaks the silence again. "They are going to charge me for new carpet if you don't stop."

"They're going to charge me for a new carpet," Hayden says. "This is fucking crazy. They're going to ask the whole team. Coach." He throws a hand toward Ilya. "That quiet kid on your team who's really fucking good at drawing superheroes."

"Haasy," Ilya provides. "Is okay. He is awkward in every interview. Not so suspicious."

"Wait, did they interview you?" Shane asks, a couple of the words in Hayden's non stop spiel finally catching up with him.

But before Hayden can explain, as if the universe is laughing at them, the news report cuts to an interview with none other than the man currently wearing holes in their carpet.

The conversation halts, three sets of eyes snapping to the TV once more.

He looks just as ridiculous as he does standing in this hotel room.

They all watch wide eyed as Hayden realizes what he's being asked, awkwardly stammering through the remainder of the questions. And then, to finish, he shoots the man with the microphone a disgusted look and takes off back toward the hotel.

And now, they’re here.

It cuts back to the same man who's been droning on for the last hour. "So, it looks like Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander's best friend and teammate, has no idea what's going on either."

"Wow," Ilya mutters. "Very convincing."

"Fuck you," Hayden growls.

A vibrating phone suddenly starts up from the side table, effectively breaking into the commotion. They all turn toward it, eyeing it wearily. Ilya is the first to step forward. He cautiously picks it up and skims the screen before he looks toward Shane. "It's Yuna."

1:39 PM — New York

Dwain Colton (sports reporter): Hunter! Have you got time for a few questions?

Scott Hunter (captain of the New York Admirals. Gear bag slung over his shoulder as he exits the rink): Yeah, uh, sure thing.

Dwain Colton: What do you have to say about the big news?

Scott Hunter: The big news?

Dwain Colton: Last night’s.

Scott Hunter: [Laughs, clearly confused] Is this something on social media? You're going to have to be more specific. I just left practice. [Shrugs] I haven't checked my phone yet today.

Dwain Colton: [Laughs] Oh, I recommend checking your phone, alright. Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander.

Scott Hunter: Right. The MLH awards. Did they win?

Dwain Colton: They did one better than just win. They got married.

Scott Hunter: Is this some kind of prank?

Dwain Colton: Not a prank.

Scott Hunter: Maybe it's best to not… [Pauses] speculate on other people’s private lives then.

Dwain Colton: I totally agree. So in that vein, can I ask how it feels that your big moment set off what can only be described as an overwhelming domino effect?

Scott Hunter: [Now looking down at his phone] A what?

Dwain Colton: You know, you paved the way kissing your boyfriend—

Scott Hunter: Kip.

Dwain Colton: Right, Kip. Some say that you set off a cultural zeitgeist. What do you say about that?

Scott Hunter: I wouldn't say—

Dwain Colton: Speaking of, how is your marriage going?

Scott Hunter: Great. Thanks. I, uh, think I'm going to go. I think you should probably leave, too.

Dwain Colton: Don't forget to give your congratulations to Hollander and Rozanov. Maybe you can start some kind of club. Make some real change!

[Scott Hunter exited the interview at 1:41 PM]

11:12 AM — Las Vegas hotel suite

"Yeah, mom. Yeah. Thank you, love you, too— Yeah, I know. I'll try and find my phone."

After a few more questions are volleyed at him, Shane hangs up the call and hands the phone back with an overwhelmed shake of his head.

His mom had been as reassuring as possible in the face of a drunken Vegas wedding, but he'd spent most of the call assuring her that they probably didn't need to fly out to Vegas.

Not yet, at least. Mostly because that seemed excessive, but also because he isn't sure they'd make it inside. They had a pushy news reporter to contend with. And Hayden Pike standing guard at the hotel room door like their own personal bouncer.

Ilya settles on the edge of the mattress. "What did she say?"

Shane meets his gaze. "You can probably guess—"

"Thank you for making perfect son in law official?"

"Fuck off."

Ilya smiles. It's soft, a little worried still, maybe.

Shane aches to reach out, to touch him in some way, but something stops him. Maybe it's the knowledge that everyone with an internet connection now knows about them. They might not know it all—and they never would if Shane had anything to say about it—but these people he had and never would meet, the same people who might judge him for his choices, had their hands on the most precious thing to him.

It feels wrong, somehow. Like they'd managed to hit him right where it hurt the most. He hates everything about it.

"She said to stay put and let Farah work out the rest," Shane starts, "I don't know what there is to figure out. It happened. We're"—he gestures between them clunkily, still not used to saying the words— "married. It's not like she can annul it. And even if she could, what good would that do? It's already out there. It's fucking everywhere, Ilya."

The panic that had been hellbent on clawing its way up his chest has simmered to a dull ache, diluted by… everything else that's happening. It's probably a good thing he'd misplaced his phone. He can't imagine scrolling through the seven thousand articles would have helped his nervous system.

"Farah is very smart lady. She will figure something out. If not we can divorce." Ilya shrugs, his voice tight when he says, "Easy. Fixed."

"No." The word leaves Shane's mouth before he can think it through. He pauses, assessing Ilya's face.

His feelings are under a spotlight in a way that makes him feel itchy.

It isn't like they don't talk about it. Shane knows he loves Ilya. More than anything. They regularly tell each other that. It had become an ending to every phone call, Facetime, or anytime either of them left.

They send each other randomly timed heart emojis throughout the week. A reminder that they were thinking of each other even during their jampacked schedules.

Sometimes Ilya would get soppy and pepper soft kisses over his freckles and whisper that he's the love of his life.

And yet this, his unexpected and undiscussed marriage, is a different ballgame. He's pretty sure he's playing a different game altogether.

He blinks. But Ilya is giving nothing away, a mask of indifference staring back at him. Maybe even challenging him.

"Unless that's what you want," Shane tries, the words careful.

Ilya wordlessly shakes his head, and Shane's heart wobbles. It's like whiplash in this fucking hotel room; his body doesn't know which emotion is going to hit next.

"Is that what Farah said? She'd figure it out?" he asks, grabbing onto the conversational life raft with both hands.

Divorce really isn't something they should consider. For the headlines’ sake, of course. No need to make it even more of a spectacle.

The corner of Ilya's lip twitches like he knows what Shane's doing. "Maybe not in such nice words. She said not to worry, too. And sent her congratulations."

Shane can't help but smile at that. "Mom said the same." He hesitates. "Well, what she actually said was that it was ridiculous that we didn't invite her. Apparently she loves Vegas." He huffs. "News to me."

"We will just have to get married again," Ilya says plainly.

And Shane has no choice but to agree. Really, it would be rude not to. Especially on a day like today.

"Okay," he says. He's pretty sure he fails in biting back his smile if the look on Ilya's face is anything to judge by.

Ilya reaches out and runs a soft knuckle down his cheek. "It will be okay."

"Do you think?"

Ilya tips his chin. "Yes. I know—"

"They're interviewing Scott fucking Hunter," Hayden interrupts suddenly, effectively popping their incredibly unstressful bubble when he almost trips over the bed to get to the TV.

Shane crashes back to reality with a thud.

Hayden holds his foot up with a string of curses at the same time a reporter all the way in New York shoves a microphone into Scott Hunter's confused face.

See? No time to panic; it’s go fucking go in this hotel room.

"They're not cutting any corners, are they?" he murmurs as Hunter’s face scrunches in concern on the large screen.

"He's like the gay, wise old man of the MLH," Hayden mumbles. "Of course they were going to ask him."

"What does that even—" Shane tries.

But Hayden shushes him, and the room falls silent, making way for Scott Hunter's thoughts on their marriage.

The gay, wise old man shoots an irritated look at the overzealous reporter. "Maybe it's best to not… speculate on other people’s private lives."

You could hear a pin drop in the silence. And then, before it can really get started, Scott Hunter turns and walks back the way he'd come. It cuts back to the studio, the report starting back up.

"Well, that was…" Shane pauses before landing on, "Nice."

He's still kind of lost about the whole thing, truthfully.

Hayden quickly nods. "Yeah. It was." He turns back to them. "He's kind of scary. Like gruff, almost."

Ilya huffs a laugh. "Do you want his fucking number?"

Shane pushes back up from the bed. "I'm going to look for my phone again."

"You could say you're raising money for the foundation," Hayden suggests a handful of minutes later.

Scott Hunter's warning to not speculate on people's private lives had somehow morphed into a brainstorm session. From where he's half-listening, Shane wouldn't exactly say it’s going well.

"We have money," Ilya says simply. He's lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as he repeatedly throws and catches a balled up pair of socks.

"More money," Hayden clarifies from where he's standing guard at the foot of the bed.

Shane is still searching for his phone. He's moved on to ransacking Ilya's case now.

And to top the ridiculousness off, the news report is still looping behind them. He's pretty sure they've all tuned it out.

"We have more money. We have already been through this, Pike. You might not, but we—"

"Fuck off, Rozanov. Like a sponsored marriage kind of thing."

"I have a better idea. I will sponsor you to be quiet."

"Any word from Farah yet?" Shane interrupts, speaking directly to the pile of clothes he's currently wading through.

"No, not yet," Ilya says.

"Okay, what about an Insta link then?" Hayden cuts back in. "Their wedding gift to you is a donation to the foundation."

"Whose wedding gift?" Shane asks.

"Everyone who clicks on the link."

"We should hire you," Ilya says flatly. The words are punctuated by the balled up socks hitting the ceiling before landing back in his hands.

Shane finally straightens up and turns back to the commotion with a defeated sigh. "Not in there, either."

"Try the bathroom," Ilya suggests.

Shane doesn't exactly have a better idea, so he heads into the large bathroom. He does a quick sweep, listening to Hayden and Ilya bicker through the open doorway.

Hayden's gaze snaps up from his phone when Shane walks back through, still empty handed. "J.J. just texted. Wants to know what the fuck is going on."

Shane lifts his wrist to look at his watch. It's almost midday. The exact wake up time of a bunch of hungover hockey players in Vegas.

"Everyone's gonna start waking up soon." He pauses, thinking the situation through before he continues. "It's not like we can tell everyone to put their lives on hold so they can stay locked down in a fucking hotel. Half of them have flights tonight."

Right on cue, Ilya's phone starts back up, a continuous buzz as a slew of notifications bleed into each other.

It feels similar to last month when Ilya had crowded him against his kitchen counter, pressing hot open mouth kisses down his chest, lazily trailing down until he'd settled, his hands firm on Shane's bare hips.

They'd ended up burning the protein pancakes. Smoke had filled the kitchen, and then the fire alarm had started blaring.

He'd already been more than aware. He hadn't needed the reminder.

"Harris wants to know our room number—" Another buzz cuts Ilya off and then, "Okay, never mind. He is on his way."

"Okay," Shane breathes.

"You could," Hayden starts.

"Could what?" Shane's lost the thread of the conversation somewhere.

"Tell everyone to stay in the hotel." His words take on a bite when he says, "For everyone's sake if that dickhead is still out there. I'm pretty sure half of them are still drunk. We'd be fucked if he shoves a microphone in their faces."

Shane doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't know about the rest of the Metros, but the people who knew—Hayden and J.J. and most of the Centaurs—would try so hard to play it off as nothing to protect them and their secret that they'd end up putting their foot in it.

He knows that for a fact. Hayden's interview had been living proof of it.

He also doesn't think it's worth pointing out that as good advice as this is, Hayden isn't exactly on top form himself. He still hasn't taken the sunglasses off. Shane's starting to worry that they've adhered themselves to his face.

"The reporters probably gone," he says. "It's been what, like two hours. Surely there's… other things to report on. We'll be old news by morning."

He doesn't even believe the words coming out of his mouth, but it's not like there's a handbook for getting drunk married to your public rival turned business partner.

"I'll go and find J.J.," Hayden says. "Try and let everyone know what's going on. Maybe warn them that if they leave, they're going to get ambushed."

Shane nods. "Thanks, Hay."

"Find Haasy. He does not do well under pressure," Ilya says.

12:32 PM — Outside of a Las Vegas hotel brimming with hockey players

Trent Fellman: Luca! Can we have a minute?

Luca Haas (Ottawa Centaurs' rookie): Um. Of course. Hello.

Trent Fellman: How were your first MLH awards?

Luca Haas: Yes. Good. Thanks.

Trent Fellman: How were the after parties? Or should I say the wedding reception? [Laughs]

Luca Haas: [Doesn't seem to be following] Sorry. What do you mean?

Trent Fellman: The royal hockey wedding, of course. Hey, you're close with Rozanov, right? So I take it that you knew about him and Hollander before the big day? How long’s that been going on?

Luca Haas: The MLH awards?

Trent Fellman: How do you like playing with Rozanov?

Luca Haas: [Blushes] Uh. Yes. It is good. An honor. He's a great player. Obviously.

Trent Fellman: So, Rozanov and Hollander's wedding.

Luca Haas: [Clears throat] I…

Trent Fellman: Were you there?

Luca Haas: I have never had a conversation with Ilya Rozanov in my life.

Trent Fellman: But you're—

Luca Haas: Uh. Thank you. I am going to go and get breakfast now.

[Luca Haas exited interview at 12:34 PM]

1:01 PM — Las Vegas hotel suite

"Okay, so I have good news and bad news," Hayden says as he rounds the corner, coming to an abrupt stop in the archway.

The movement is so similar to this morning that it hits Shane that he's somehow experiencing an even more fucked up version of groundhog day. Is this it? Is he destined to fade away watching Hayden Pike enter his hotel room on repeat?

Oh god.

He used to be the MLH's number two draft pick. He used to win cups. Planned to win a few more, honestly. Used to be invited to award shows in Vegas, where if he was lucky, he'd win something. He used to own a phone. He used to do yoga— His eyes quickly flick to the spacious floor. Okay, he can probably still do yoga. Maybe tomorrow.

Today all he has is a tasteless plastic ring that he's pretty sure is stuck on his pinky, an empty minibar, and his husband's hand lazily trailing through his hair from where he's lying next to him.

But before he can continue his pity party of one, his eyes land on the overflowing bag in Hayden's arms. "What the fuck is all of that?"

"Good news or bad news first?" Hayden presses.

"Bad," Ilya says absentmindedly.

He'd been texting Troy Barrett since Hayden had left. Barrett had offered to text everyone to let them know what had happened, and Ilya had taken him up on it because 'he didn't trust Hayden.'

It seems Hayden is in the process of proving him right. But at least he'd ditched the glasses.

"I'm pretty sure Luca Haas just got you in a second scandal," he cheerfully announces.

That pulls Shane back to reality. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Hayden's lips pull into a firm line. "Turns out the reporter is still out there." He blows out a breath, shaking his head. "He's persistent, too. Haas learnt that the hard way."

"What is the good news then?" Ilya asks before Shane can.

Hayden triumphantly holds the bag up, his face splitting into a satisfied grin. "I have donuts. And Advil. Eat up, fuckers."

"I thought you were leaving to find J.J.," Shane points out, a little lost as he watches Hayden rummage through the bag he's already placed on the desk.

"I tried," Hayden insists as he slides a bottle onto the wood. "But I have no fucking idea where he is. He's not in his room."

"So instead of looking for him—" Shane's eyes land on the spread of things. They probably have enough provisions to last the rest of the year. "You got donuts and half a drugstore? How does that help us?"

"And vodka," Ilya says excitedly as he pushes up from the bed.

Fucking great. Shane doesn't even have Ilya's hand in his hair anymore. But he guesses that's fine because they have fucking cough syrup.

Hayden points to the bare minibar. "I can't fix anything if you starve to death in here. I won't have that on my conscious."

"Conscience," Shane corrects.

"Eh, whatever. Tomato, tomato," he says with a wave of his hand before he picks the box up, opening it toward them. "More importantly, breakfast is served."

Shane doesn't bother pointing out that it's past midday.

Ilya cheerfully picks up a donut, his words garbled with jam when he says, "This is the first good idea you have had all day, Pike. Second best idea is ditching the fucking sunglasses."

"Oh. I gave them to Haas. I thought he could use the anonymity."

Ilya nods. "Is good idea."

Shane reluctantly pushes up from the bed to join them. But only because his stomach had been growling for the past ten minutes. It's definitely not because the donuts had been a good idea. Or the fact that Ilya and Hayden had reached some sort of breakthrough. Who cares if he rocked the flimsy paper boat their friendship resided on? Certainly not him.

He has bigger fish— donuts to fry.

"Did you at least text him?" he asks as he fishes his breakfast from the box.

"No," Hayden replies. "But I did escort Haas upstairs. I think he was in shock. Found Hayes on the way to his room and left him there. He seemed to know how to handle it." He shrugs before taking a bite of his own donut, an appreciative groan leaving his lips.

"Oh. Good," Shane says dryly. "Really fucking helpful, Hay."

"Thank you," Hayden mumbles.

"What did Haasy say to the asshole outside?" Ilya asks then.

But before Hayden can say anything to that, there's a loud knock at the door. They all freeze in place, donuts halfway to their mouths.

"It is probably Harris," Ilya points out, and the sudden tension immediately fizzles back out.

Hayden does the honors, walking toward the door, his donut still in hand. There's a pause, and Shane assumes he's double checking the peephole, until his voice filters back through, "It's Harris."

A couple of seconds later, as promised, Harris steps through the archway, his eyebrows pinching in confusion at the sight before him. Shane can't blame him. Their expensive penthouse suite looks like a drug store slash liquor store slash Dunkin Donuts has hit it all in one fell swoop.

Or on second thought, it could be Hayden Pike trailing behind him, quizzing him about Luca Haas' general mental state.

"I guess I just want to know if he's always like that? Like a scared stray cat almost— don't get me wrong, he's a nice kid. I like him. But you have to let him come to you, you know?"

Harris turns to look at him. "What is it that you said happened to Luca?"

"Long story," Ilya mumbles from where he's carefully assessing the vodka. "Probably needs therapy, thanks to Pike."

Thankfully, before anyone can get into it, Harris' gaze lands on the open box of donuts. "I can't lie, I thought it'd be more…" He pauses, his judgmental gaze flicking between them all before he lands on, "Code red in here. Everything seems weirdly calm."

"Is opposite of calm," Ilya says flatly. "Shane Hollander is eating a fucking donut." He abandons the vodka to throw a lazy thumb over his shoulder. "Pike almost walked a hole into my carpet."

Shane holds his half eaten donut up as if he needs to back up Ilya's claims.

"Technically the hotel's carpet," Hayden murmurs before his gaze snaps back up in realization. "Not even technically. It is the hotel's carpet, dickhead."

"Okay." Harris squints at the desk again. "And I see that on this very… not calm morning. You've found time to take advantage of the buy one get two free birthday donuts." He pointedly clears his throat. "While the biggest scandal of your careers is happening outside."

"Hey," Hayden is the first to cut in. "It's not exactly a scandal. It's a very happy marriage, right? And besides, we had the donuts for the twins’ birthday last year, and they were fucking good." He punctuates his spiel with another large bite.

Harris nods. "Sure. Zero complaints from me as long as I can have one."

Hayden gestures him forward. "Be my guest. The more the merrier. Hey, I guess it is kind of like your reception—"

"No," Shane says at the same time Ilya huffs a dry laugh.

"This is not our fucking reception, Pike," he says.

"Are you going to have a reception?" Harris asks, and Shane can hear him trying to play down his curiosity. "Or I guess, professionally, I should ask, are you going to stay married? No judgment either way," he clarifies before taking a bite of his donut.

Shane hadn't attended a crisis meeting before, hadn't needed to, but he's pretty certain that they're usually a little less hungover in Vegas than this. Hayden had jam dripping down his chin, for fucks sake.

He needs less donuts. Less Hayden Pike. Probably a desk and some chairs for good measure. Space to think if he's pushing his luck.

"I think we…" Ilya trails off, looking at Shane for some guidance.

Guidance that Shane isn't sure he has in him. He considers, a whole Rolodex of scenarios playing out in a split second until he lands on, "I think we need to survive today first."

"Yes. Probably," Ilya agrees with a firm nod.

And that's that. Everyone goes back to their donuts as if it's the most normal thing in the world.

That is until Harris rummages in his pocket and pulls out a familiar looking phone. He holds it toward Shane with a grimace. "I think this belongs to you."

A heady mix of relief and terror hit him at the same time. "Where did you find it? I've been looking all morning."

"I think Ilya gave it to me at some point last night. I don't know." Harris shakes his head. "It's a blur."

Shane takes it from his hand. "Thank you, Harris. You're a lifesaver."

"I don't know if I'd recommend turning it on," Harris adds.

He hesitates. He's probably right. As much as he'd thought he wanted to read the wall of texts he knows is waiting for him; now it's back in his hand, venturing in seems about as inviting as walking outside and cheerfully greeting Trent Fellman. His parents can get in touch with him through Ilya anyway. He slides it into his pocket.

Harris turns to Ilya next, apparently on a one man Senior Director of Communications mission now everyone's finished breakfast. "Before I forget." He points at him. "Coach called. He wants to talk to you at some point in the foreseeable future."

"Oh no," Ilya deadpans, but Shane can hear the glimmer of worry in his facade.

Harris rolls his eyes. "I can personally assure you that it's nothing bad. I think he just feels terrible." He shrugs. "He told me that he'd texted you, but we both assumed that you might be a little… preoccupied with everything else going on. He said that if I saw you, to tell you not to worry about anything to do with the team. Everyone has your back." His gaze flicks to Shane. "Both of you."

"That's fucking something," Hayden says, giving Ilya an enthusiastic smack on the back. "Finally some good fucking news."

Ilya hums. "Yes, I guess so. Thank you, Harris."

"Before anything else, I just want to congratulate you both," Harris continues. "I know it's not ideal circumstances, and there's a media frenzy of epic proportions happening that we definitely need to tackle sooner rather than later." He sighs happily. Maybe even dreamily. "But you got married! That's awesome."

And just like that, they move on to the more important stuff. Harris falls into damage control mode, his voice taking on a professional edge as he throws out a whole list of things they can try to make this more bearable.

Even though it sort of makes Shane's head pound, it's all going relatively well until a familiar voice floats through the archway, cutting their conversation off as quickly as it had started.

"Oh fuck." Hayden winces. "Looks like they're airing Haas' interview."

Harris immediately walks into the bedroom, and they all silently file in behind him, crowding around the television as Luca Haas, the shy Centaur’s rookie, attempts to take on the formidable Trent Fellman.

There's no way to sugarcoat it. It's just as bad as Hayden had implied. By the second question, Luca's cheeks are flushed red, his eyebrows scrunched together as he tries to come up with a response. It makes Hayden's earlier interview look like a masterclass.

"That was the worst one yet," Shane decides, almost shivering at the memory as it cuts back to the original report.

Ilya pulls his phone back out. "I will text him. Tell him he does not have anything to worry about. Fellman is just a fucking—"

Hayden jerks toward him. "Who the hell is this guy? You were a fucking asshole about my interview." That hangs in the air for a few moments, but Ilya's already tapping away. So Hayden continues, "I think what you actually said was—"

"Because I do not like you, Pike." Ilya hums sarcastically, not bothering to look up from his phone.

Hayden scoffs, throwing his hands up. "You're cut off from the fucking donuts."

"Oh no," Ilya huffs. "What will I do without the fucking donuts?"

The bickering becomes white noise as Shane's gaze is pulled back to the screen. Instead of repeating like it had all morning, the report cuts straight back to Trent Fellman's next interview. Shane's chest tightens.

"I found J.J.," he manages to get out before Trent asks his first question, a microphone stuck in none other than J.J. Dagenais' slightly confused face.

"Oh, fuck," Hayden breathes.

Ilya barks a loud laugh. "Looks like Haasy is off the hook."

2:02 PM — Outside of a Las Vegas hotel still brimming with hockey players

Trent Fellman: So are you going on record and saying you have no idea—

J.J. Dagenais (hockey player on the Montreal Metros): Look, Trent. I have no idea what you're even asking me. What wedding? It was the MLH awards last night. I can tell you how I feel about Luca Haas winning rookie of the year over the Metros rookie. Or how Shane fucking Hollander swept the—

Trent Fellman: Looks like your teammate is on his way back over.

Hayden Pike: [Approaches] Hi again, Trent. Nice to see you as always. [Leans into the mic] Quick question: do you have anything better to do with your life?

Trent Fellman: [Laughs] I could ask you the same thing about last week’s game, pal.

Hayden Pike: Ha. [Shakes head] No. What you're doing out here is one of the—

J.J. Dagenais: Me and Hayden Pike made out at the MLH awards after party. [Nods] Quick, Trent. Report on that.

Trent Fellman: You— Wait, what are you talking about?

Hayden Pike: [Looks at J.J. and then back at the camera, right down the lens] Yep. Full make out. What? Trent, have you never heard of a celebration before?

Trent Fellman: Aren't you married?

Hayden Pike: [Shrugs] Aren't you? Is your wife not concerned that you've been standing out here since sunrise?

Trent Fellman: [Speaking into earpiece] Pull the plug on this interview, and cut to commercials, Christine.

2:05 PM — Las Vegas hotel suite

Me and Hayden Pike—

The interview cuts from Hayden and J.J.'s serious faces back to the studio in record time, and if Shane had any surprise left in him, it might make an appearance right about now.

But instead, he blinks at the screen as if they're going to reappear and explain themselves. "Why did we let him leave?"

Ilya and Harris are still blinking at the screen a little blankly as the reporter huffs an awkward laugh at what had just unfolded. And then to really top it off, the paparazzi pictures from the chapel flash back up as if they're a bandaid for whatever Hayden and J.J. had almost said.

Just what Shane needs. A picture of him fourteen hours ago grinning from ear to ear. Grinning like he's not now confined to the same four walls. Grinning like his best friend isn't a huge liar.

Hayden had told them that he was going to go and get J.J., muttered something about damage control, and then swiftly sprinted out of the room. What he hadn't felt the need to enlighten them on was that apparently getting J.J. entailed whatever the fuck that had been.

Shane's pretty sure that was the opposite of damage control. He finally tears his gaze from the screen and rounds the bed to put his phone on the charger. He's caving. And all it had taken was his very stupid best friends. "Why the fuck did we let him leave?" he repeats, mostly to himself as he watches his phone turn back on.

A few seconds later, a wall of texts fly down from just about everybody in his life. A mix of confused congratulations and pressing questions. He ignores them all and clicks into his text thread with Hayden instead, firing off a quick question of his own.

"That was…" Harris trails off. "I truthfully have no idea what that was." He turns away from the TV when it cuts to commercials and unlocks his phone. "Metros PR team has their work cut out for them," he mumbles.

"What did you say?" Shane asks, the words finally dragging him from staring a hole into his phone screen.

Harris' head snaps up, his features pinching. "Not you." He blinks a couple of times, guilt written all over his face. "Them. You know—" He waves vaguely to the TV again. "Whatever that was."

Ilya snorts. And then clears his throat. "Sorry," he quickly mumbles.

Shane shoots him a glare before he sits back on the bed with an exhausted huff.

He doesn't usually care about any of this stuff. The gossip. The overeager reporters desperate for a scoop. That one subsection of Twitter who have always been slightly too invested in the team's personal lives.

Most days it went straight over his head, because he knew what he needed to do. Play hockey, and play it fucking well. He didn't let the outside noise distract him. Not when his teammates relied on him. Especially not when he had cups to win.

But this is different, because he hadn't spent the last handful of hours watching gossip about him. He'd spend it watching it about them, their private life handed to anybody who wanted a piece of it in real time. An unstoppable wildfire burning its way through what felt like every player in the MLH. Their friends. People who, some more successfully than others, have done everything they can to carry this secret for them.

A part of him is grateful for that, but really all he can feel is a crushing ache in his chest at what was now on the line.

He doesn't know a lot, but what he does know is that if this had all been solely about him, it would have been easier to handle. But Ilya and what they'd painstakingly built over the past decade feels off limits, an overwhelming protective instinct to lock it all away so no one can make it seem less than it is.

And then, there's the rest. The thing he's not sure he can say out loud. What had been eating him up since he saw the ring jammed on Ilya's finger.

There is so much regret coursing through his body; he doesn't know where to put it.

They'd trudged through their entire relationship, fighting like hell to make something that could work against the shitty hand of cards they'd been dealt. And now what? They'd skipped over the wedding like it meant nothing. They'd skipped over the proposal.

Of course he and Ilya had talked about marriage, but it's something Shane had imagined, too. Growing up, his mind had been a one way track on hockey, hockey, hockey. And it still is. He's not sure he'll ever shake it. But somewhere along the way, the universe had handed him Ilya.

It's like it knew that he could never drop the hockey, and so it had gifted him the first fucking draft pick instead.

And then suddenly, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Especially in the last couple of years, a world of possibility opening up when they'd finally decided to give this thing between them a real shot.

"Any word from Farah?" Harris cuts into his spiraling thoughts, probably sensing the sudden shift in mood.

See, Ilya had been right. It is the opposite of calm in here. They'd removed the load bearing distraction pillar that is Hayden Pike, and it's all gone to shit. He can't stop thinking.

His head is like static.

Thankfully, Ilya seems to be faring better. He shakes his head. "No. Not yet. She is sending updates. Says she is working on it."

Harris nods. "Okay."

"Who's that?" Shane asks when Harris' phone vibrates for the fourth time in the last couple of seconds. Each time, Harris' eyes had flown to the screen like he'd needed to read it as quickly as possible.

A slight blush tinges his cheeks as he mutes the slew of notifications. "Troy. He's just asking where I am." He shakes his head. "He'll be fine. Just being needy. More importantly, what can I do for you two?"

"Go to Troy," Ilya says like he'd been reading Shane's mind. Shane hopes he hadn't. "He might need you."

"No." Harris huffs. "He doesn't need me, but you guys do—"

"We have not been alone all day," Ilya simply says. "It would be good for us to talk." He meets Shane's gaze, and there's concern swimming there. "I think, yes?"

"Yeah," Shane quickly agrees. "That's probably a good idea."

"Okay," Harris concedes, but he doesn't sound so sure. "Only if you're sure."

"We are," Ilya confirms. "Thank you, Harris."

"Everyone has your backs. No matter what you decide to do. And you have my number if you need anything."

After a quick goodbye, the door clicks shut, and they're alone for pretty much the first time since this morning. The hotel room suddenly seems ten times the size, like them and all their problems have been left to rattle around in here.

"What the fuck?" Shane murmurs, walking back through to sit on the bed.

Ilya immediately sits next to him, his shoulder pressing into his. After a few moments, he speaks, his question quiet, "What do you want to do?"

"I have no fucking idea," Shane admits honestly.

2:35 PM — Outside of a Las Vegas hotel still brimming with hockey players

Trent Fellman: [Sighs] Can we have a statement?

Cliff Marleau (hockey player on the Boston Raiders, Ilya Rozanov’s ex teammate): A statement on what?

Trent Fellman: Ilya Rozanov.

Cliff Marleau: That guy is my brother. [Laughs] Even if he did leave me for Ottawa.

Trent Fellman: [Nods] So is that you confirming that you know about him and Hollander?

Cliff Marleau: Yeah, course I know about the charity. It's great. They're great. I actually have an automatic donation set up that goes out of my account every—

Trent Fellman: [Clears throat] The alleged wedding, not the foundation, to clarify.

Cliff Marleau: Wait, whose wedding?

Trent Fellman: [Sighs] Do none of you hockey players find time to check your phones? Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov's last night in Vegas.

Cliff Marleau: [Shrugs] We're sort of busy. Hockey players, that is. I have no idea what you're talking about. [Clears throat] To clarify.

Trent Fellman: Okay. [Pauses] Do you have anything else to say?

Cliff Marleau: Sure. Love is love.

3:29 PM — Las Vegas hotel suite

"What are you thinking, Shane?" Ilya finally asks, successfully kicking down the hastily placed wall between them.

They'd spent the last however many minutes pointedly not talking about it. Instead, Ilya had asked if he wanted to order room service, and Shane had been starving—turns out the donut had done nothing to satiate him—so he'd agreed. As they'd eaten, they'd talked about anything but the elephant in the room sitting on the table between them.

At one point, they'd talked about Luca Haas taking home rookie of the year as they'd passed bread over the table. Normal dinner time talk like their own lives weren't crumbling down around them.

Now they're back in front of the TV, the air thick with all the things they aren't saying, and as much as Shane is grateful for the reprieve from it all, he also feels like he's going to shatter. Right here on the fancy carpet, next to the hole Hayden Pike had almost worn.

He wants to say so much, but he doesn't even know where to start. Every thought is tangled in a thick web of disbelief that they'd even ended up here.

"I'm thinking," Shane finally starts after a couple of moments, his voice bordering on strained, "about how we've been so careful for years." He huffs a humorless laugh. "Painfully careful."

They'd lived their lives on high alert for as long as he could remember. At the start, it had felt more frantic, like his life would end if even one percent of this thing between them had gotten out. But over the years, as they joined their lives together, it had simmered to a dull agitation. It was never far away, bubbling under the surface, reminding him to not get too close. Keep throwing out the usual quips, the ones he could recite by heart. To not seem too friendly around the people who didn't know.

It was always there if he looked hard enough. And now it isn't, he feels like he's missing something vital.

Ilya reaches out and takes Shane's hand in his. Shane makes a noise in his throat as his eyes land on their tangled fingers. Their stupid fucking rings still in pride of place. He's pretty sure he wouldn't even be able to take his off if he tried.

"How did we let this happen?" Shane asks, but he makes no move to let go, resting further into Ilya instead.

"I do not know," Ilya says softly. "It was very stupid."

Shane nods, but the real confession is still there, sitting heavy on his chest. "And I'm thinking that we wasted our wedding," the words leave him in a rush, landing bluntly between them. His eyes flick to Ilya's face, but Ilya is waiting for him to continue. "Have you thought about it?" he pushes.

He wants to push and push until he wrings every last thought out of Ilya's head. Wants to measure them up with all the complicated feelings in his own chest to see if they're on the same page.

He wants to know if Ilya is as angry as he is that this is just another thing they can't have. The worst part is that this time it had been entirely their fault. Their reckless stupidity costing them something else. And when you don't have much to begin with, a stupid mistake feels insurmountable.

"What we've lost. I mean," he clarifies when Ilya finally opens his mouth to speak.

"All of the time," Ilya admits as quickly as Shane had, and it chips off some of the hurt in his chest. "But I do not think this is a waste. Stupid decision, yes. But a waste? We are married now." Ilya shrugs, and it jostles their hands. Shane tightens his hold. "We would be just as married if we spent thousands of dollars on stupid wedding."

"Stupid wedding," Shane repeats the words around a huff of a laugh.

"In an ideal world," Ilya continues, "I would not have chosen…"

"Vegas," Shane supplies. "Hayden Pike escorting us out of a chapel." His eyes dart around the room. "Our honeymoon in a penthouse fucking suite."

"Yes. All of that." Ilya pauses, a few seconds of silence passing between them before he continues, "But I do choose you, Shane. Us. No matter what happens."

"Me too," Shane readily agrees, because amidst everything else, that much he's certain of. He could've told anyone that a long time ago. "Always."

"Even with shitty Elvis impersonator?" Ilya throws in for good measure.

"I don't think there was actually an Elvis impersonator." Shane pauses, racking his brain. His gaze slides to Ilya's. "Right?"

"I have no fucking idea." The corner of Ilya's lip twitches.

Shane shakes his head, that disbelief making a hasty U-turn. "We're fucking married, and we don't remember a thing."

"I suppose it is not the best idea we have ever had, but neither is whisking me away to your cottage in middle of nowhere because you have a concussion and wanted me all to yourself."

Shane does drop his hand then, an affronted look crossing his face. "Fuck you. I thought about inviting you way before the concussion."

The smile that had been threatening to overflow on Ilya's face does now, wide and bright as a laugh tumbles past his lips, and Shane is hit by everything all over again. This ridiculous, beautiful man is his husband. Everything he'd ever wanted, but thought he couldn't fully have.

"Fuck off," he mumbles, ducking his head to hide the gooey look he's sure is on his face. Fucking heart eyes, as Hayden would say. "You did that on purpose, you asshole."

Ilya shrugs, but that smile doesn't falter. "You needed some liquid courage. Is nothing to be ashamed of, Hollander."

"I did not need fucking liquid— they were fucking pain pills anyway."

"I used to watch that stupid documentary you did," Ilya admits suddenly, his gaze still stuck on Shane, his blue eyes filled with a heady mix of amusement and something else entirely. "The one you did with the cute yoga segment." Something glints in his eyes. "Very good downward dog."

Shane slowly raises a judgmental eyebrow. "Okay, stalker."

Ilya hums. "Yes, probably. Mostly was to get to sleep, though—"

Shane kicks at his ankle. "Shut up."

Ilya laughs again, but after a few seconds his face sobers.

"If you had asked me at the cottage," he starts again, looking at Shane seriously now. "The first time," he clarifies, his voice so earnest that it settles over Shane's skin pleasantly. "I still would have agreed to marry you with shitty plastic ring. Even then."

Shane can't help his own smile. "Yeah?"

Ilya nods.

"And now?" Shane presses, already knowing the answer. Can see it in Ilya's face.

Ilya pointedly lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers, the cheap plastic just as ugly as it had been every time Shane had the displeasure of looking at it.

"I will always choose you, even in shitty circumstances," Ilya finishes.

Shane nods, a mix of relief and so much love for Ilya circling in his chest. He guesses, in a backwards way, this ridiculous conversation had kind of been like their vows. Vows that felt like them. He doesn't want to think about what vows they'd exchanged at the chapel, if any. Probably a slurred I do, where's the vodka?

And so, he goes the whole nine yards, and says, "I will always choose you, too."

"I know." Ilya nods. A pause and then, "Who would not?"

"Asshole," Shane murmurs. "How the fuck did you make us getting drunk and married in Las Vegas sound romantic anyway?"

Instead of a reply, though, Ilya finally presses his lips to Shane's, immediately licking into his mouth filthily. Shane hums happily as Ilya's hands land in his hair, gently tugging at the strands in a way that makes a shiver roll down his spine.

You may now kiss the groom is Shane's last thought before every sense is replaced with Ilya. His husband.

Eventually though, Shane pulls back, murmuring a quick, "Pervert," as his brain slowly turns back on.

"What?" Ilya smirks. "Is our wedding night, Shane."

"Honeymoon," Shane quickly corrects before he has to tip his chin to reconnect their lips, throwing his leg over Ilya's lap to settle there.

Ilya shifts them backward on the mattress, giving them more room to work with. His happy hum turns into a pleased groan when Shane's hands drop to toy with the waistband of his sweatpants. His fingers briefly dip inside—

"Do you want to go on a honeymoon?" Ilya asks suddenly, the question stopping Shane in his tracks.

Shane’s chin jerks up, blinking at Ilya blankly. His brain buzzes like static. He's so close he can see Ilya's eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks. "We haven't figured anything out"—his eyes flick around the room pointedly before he shakes his head"—You're about to fuck me, and you want to know if I want to go on a fucking honeymoon?"

Ilya shrugs casually before his hands fall to Shane's hips, squeezing once. "We figured everything out. I choose you. You choose me. Anybody who doesn't like it can go and fuck themselves." Another squeeze. "Easy."

Shane's mouth opens and closes, but no words make it out. Ilya's not wrong. That is the conclusion that they'd come to. He thinks. He's not exactly firing on all fronts right now. He swears his brain is moving in slow motion.

"Shane?" Ilya presses after a few moments.

"Yeah," Shane says, the word coming out a little breathy as he meets his gaze again. "Yeah, okay."

"Yes?" Ilya checks.

Shane nods, more assured this time. "Yeah. To all of it. The honeymoon. Figuring it out. Whatever if it's with you."

Something soft shutters over Ilya's expression. He tugs him closer, which shouldn't be possible with Shane already sprawled on top of him, but they manage. "Okay," he says.

"I love you," Shane says, resting his palms on Ilya's face to keep him where he is. He places a chaste kiss on his lips, murmuring, "So much."

Ilya immediately tips his chin, connecting their lips once more. This time it's softer, syrupy kisses traded back and forth until Ilya pulls back to say, "I love you, too." Another kiss. "Husband."

And Shane doesn't have time to react to that because a phone is suddenly vibrating from somewhere behind them. Ilya lets out an irritated groan, his forehead landing on Shane's shoulder with a soft thump. "Who the fuck is that?" he murmurs against his skin, punctuating it with another wet kiss.

"I have no idea," Shane admits, quickly glancing over his shoulder.

He'd banished the phone to the desk sometime between Harris leaving and dinner. It was that or throwing it out of the window.

"Leave it," Ilya insists. The words are followed by another kiss. And then another as his lips slowly move down Shane's chest. "No one knows we are here."

Shane doesn't have time to point out that almost everyone in their life knows exactly where they are because the phone abruptly stops. He breathes a sigh of relief as he turns back to Ilya.

But then, it starts up again, the same annoying clatter against the wood.

"I should probably just see who it is—" he decides, clambering out of Ilya's hold to retrieve it. He makes it across the room in record time.

Hayden Pike.

He walks back through, turning the screen toward Ilya.

"Ignore him," Ilya immediately says, impatiently gesturing him forward again. "Come here."

"It might be important. One second," Shane warns before he answers the phone, praying that this is quick. And as painless as possible. "What?"

"Shane," the familiar voice floats down the line. "Haasy wants to know why Rozanov isn't answering his phone." The words are padded out by muffled chatter and an occasional shout.

"Uh." Shane fights the urge to hang up on him, his head already hurting again. "Where the fuck are you? What's all that noise?"

"Oh. Yeah. Harris told me to give you guys space, so I found Haasy and Hayes. We're outside the casino. Think Bood's inside."

"Oh. Right." Shane doesn't have time to unpack that him hanging around the Centaurs in theory should be weird, but for some reason, it really isn't. It's probably the most normal part about today. "Okay. Wait." He turns to Ilya and relays the question.

"Oh, I turned my phone off," Ilya says simply. "What does Haasy want?"

Shane relays that question back to Hayden in this one man game of telephone he's suddenly gotten himself into.

"Don't know, man," Hayden says, and then as Shane's about to speak, he continues like Shane had been the one who'd called him, "Look, I gotta go, man. Gotta head inside with Dykstra and find Bood. I'll call you later. Don't worry about a fucking thing, okay?"

"Oh right. Yeah, sure." He shoots Ilya a wide eyed look, and Ilya huffs a laugh as he reaches for his phone. Presumably to see what Luca wants. "Bye then, Hay."

"Bye man." And then Hayden hangs up.

Shane glances down at his phone and then back up at Ilya with a shake of his head. But instead of commiserating and getting back to their earlier plans like he'd imagined, Ilya's gaze snaps up from his phone, that easy expression replaced with concern.

"What?" Shane asks, his heart tripping in his chest.

"Farah said to call her."

4:57 PM — Outside of a Las Vegas hotel still brimming with hockey players

Trent Fellman: Wyatt Hayes.

Wyatt Hayes (Ottawa Centaurs’ goalie): [Looks up from phone] Trent Fellmen?

Trent Fellman: Fellman. You know what, call me whatever you like. Can I take a few minutes of your time?

Wyatt Hayes: I'm actually on my way to meet a friend.

Trent Fellman: Anybody we might know?

Wyatt Hayes: [Pauses] Ryan Price.

Trent Fellman: Pay the price.

Wyatt Hayes: Uh, yeah. The one and only.

Trent Fellman: He has a boyfriend.

Wyatt Hayes: Yep.

Trent Fellman: [Sighs] What are you going to tell me?

Wyatt Hayes: Nothing. [Looks around] What are you even doing here? I've been practicing all day. Not a clue what any of this is.

Trent Fellman: No, you haven't. I've been out here all day, and I haven't seen you—

Wyatt Hayes: No way. Why? Did something big happen?

Trent Fellman: Hollander and Rozanov—

Wyatt Hayes: Great guys.

Trent Fellman: Yes. They—

Wyatt Hayes: Started a charity. I know. Fucking great, right?

Trent Fellman: [Lowers mic] You're fucking with me.

Wyatt Hayes: [Smirks] Not at all.

Trent Fellman: Is that Troy Barrett?

Wyatt Hayes: [Turns] Sure is. Going to see his boyfriend, I think. Wanna talk about that?

Trent Fellman: [Sighs] No, I don't.

6:24 PM — Las Vegas hotel suite

Their call with Farah had gone about as well as could be expected. They'd talked everything out until Shane's voice had felt croaky, and his head had buzzed with worst case scenarios.

Farah's first suggestion had been a statement. Today. She'd spent the day working behind the scenes to let everyone who needed to know, know. And then she'd told them that the ball was in their court.

If they wanted to try—keyword try—to bury it, to keep going as normal, on and off the ice until it hopefully blew over, Farah would be on their side to the best of her ability. But she didn't know if the stress it would bring them would be worth it. Or if it would blow over considering the magnitude already. The cat was well and truly out of the bag, and they couldn't exactly put it back in.

The conclusion was they could either face it now and get ahead of it, or push it to face at a later date. Bottom line was, they had to face the consequences of their reckless decision in some way to be able to hopefully move on with their lives.

One thing that had stuck in Shane's head was when Farah had told them there's more power in support.

Because it might feel like they were alone right now, but it wasn't necessarily true. They'd seen it today when one by one each of their friends had been interviewed by Trent Fellman. They didn't exactly have the best poker faces, but it's the thought that counted. And the thought had been there tenfold.

Their friends had done what they could to protect what they had.

So in the end Farah had sent the statement over. They'd read it more times than Shane could count, going over every last sentence to triple check it was good enough. That it went over every point so they hopefully wouldn't have to address it again.

A handful of hours ago, Shane would have thought this would've been the hardest thing he’d ever have to do, but with Ilya by his side, the words they'd shared still ringing in his head, it doesn’t seem so bad.

Still fucking terrifying. But he doesn't feel like his life is over. It's kind of hard to when Ilya is lying next to him, twisting his horrible ring back and forth.

“Are you ready?” Ilya asks absentmindedly.

“No,” Shane admits. “But we can do it.”

“We can.” Ilya’s fingers run over the ring again. “It is time to stop hiding, I think.”

Shane hums his agreement, watching Ilya fiddle with the gemstone.

"What?" he presses after a few seconds.

"We can get good rings." He looks up. "Expensive. So they last. Can even get those boring rubber ones like Pike has to wear on the ice if you want. No point in hiding anything now."

Shane huffs a laugh, but Ilya's words settle in his stomach, his heart wobbling at the thought of being able to do something so simple. Something they haven’t been able to do until now. He decides he wouldn't mind a boring silicone ring.

"Is the wedding budget we didn't use going on the rings now?" he teases.

"Maybe. Can get it engraved."

Shane hums. "With what?"

Ilya thinks it through before he says, "Second draft pick."

Shane barks a loud laugh. He can't help it. "You're an asshole."

Ilya makes a show of thinking about it some more. "First time I got drunk, I got married in Vegas."

Shane shakes his head. "Too many words. Won't fit."

Ilya grins.

Everything is quiet. Like the worst of the day has finally settled somehow. And in the quiet, with Ilya's warm body next to him, something he'd said earlier comes back to him.

We will just have to get married again.

Shane thinks the ridiculous idea through for all of five seconds before he scrambles off the bed.

"Where are you going?" Ilya calls after him as he walks through the arch, back to all of the things Hayden had bought earlier.

Shane ignores him, already rifling through the bag until he finds what he's looking for. He rips open the bag of candy, takes one out, and walks back through, coming to a stop on Ilya's side of the bed.

Ilya blinks up at him blankly. "Do we need to open a window? Finally get some fresh air?"

Shane is already cursing himself for what he's about to do. But still, he ignores the gnawing in his gut and drops to one knee, holding the peach ring out very indelicately. A few of the sugar granules flutter to the carpet as he starts, "Ilya Rozanov—"

Ilya's eyes widen, flicking between Shane's face and the candy sitting in his palm. Shane can't tell if he's somehow touched by this insane gesture or if Shane's managed to shock any of his usual taunts out of him.

Either way, he continues, in too deep to back out now.

"Okay, wait. You're throwing me off," he says as he wobbles a little to the left, his hand flying out to steady himself.

Ilya snorts, and then mumbles a quick, "Sorry. Sorry. Carry on."

Shane nods, holding the candy higher. "Will you marry me?" he asks. He's pretty sure his cheeks are flushed. Mostly from embarrassment, but maybe also because Ilya is looking at him like this is endearing and not at all weird. "Again. For real this time," he adds just so that they’re both clear that the peach ring supplied by Hayden Pike is merely a placeholder.

Ilya's grin just grows wider. "Yes."