Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Paternal Instinct, Married Life, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Original Hockey Team - Freeform, Philadelphia, just an excuse for shane and ilya to be dads to a random rival rookie, i would tag hockey but i feel like that's redundant

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-06 Words: 6,781 Chapters: 1/1

rookie, take notes

Summary

Shane should not adopt the rival rookie. It doesn't matter how much the kid reminds him of he and Ilya when they were eighteen. It does not matter.

Notes

i might explode waiting for episode 4

if you want my ramblings/thoughts on episode 3 absolutely please ask me

i also need to make a spreadsheet to keep track of canon teams/players in this universe because i KNOW there have been like 100 just randomly name-dropped to never be talk about again,,,,,,, the spreadsheet calls to me,,,,,,,,, excel like the goblin mask,,,,,,,

Technically, they're not legally called the Bullies, but Bullies rolls a hell of a lot easier to sneer. Besides, it's far more accurate than the Philadelphia Fury. Fury makes them sound like some sort of righteous fucking martyr, ostracized from the original six as an original expansion and still somehow reaping the pity over it, and that's about the furthest approximation from the truth that Shane Hollander can muster. 

He's standing in the away team's locker room, lips pursed in concentration as he listens to Wiebe's strategies before Ilya takes over with his captain-ness. They've been playing together as the first married couple in the NHL for more than half a decade now. They won the Stanley last year, and then that night, Shane had the best sex of his life with his very handsome husband with the Cup sitting right on the dresser as if it was meant to stay there. Of course, the Cup had to be passed on to the next teammate for their taste of shared victory, but the plaques and medals in their shared trophy-room sufficed well enough.

"I can't wait to win the next one with you," Ilya had muttered in Shane's ear before nipping it. 

Shane, of course, thought that they were set to go for back-to-back cups as a married couple, but of course, Philadelphia did what Philadelphia does best and threw a wrench in the entire NHL's standings. 

Abel Antonova, an eighteen-year-old center from Russia. 

Shane flexes his jaw, fully aware that depending on how they play the Bullies will have a massive effect on how they perform for the rest of the season. It's still early in the season, just a handful of games in, and they've traveled all the way from Ottawa to Philadelphia for their thrice-a-season game against those outside their conference. Shane's never played against Antonova, he just knows that the kid is a hell of a skater and somehow can weasel their way out of any scrap unscathed. They even have all their teeth. Fucker.

Oh, and they also have to be queer, which is like, yay for queer rights but also really fucking annoying that Shane has any sort of connection to the blue-haired blur on ice.

He heard one of the skill's showcase announcers claim that Antonova could be faster than him. Shane. Him. Shane Fucking Hollander. 

It had to have happened one day. Shane's in his mid-to-late-thirties, but he's not even close to retirement. He still has, like, one thousand more goals to score and about a dozen more Stanley Cups to bring home to his lovely husband who also managed to win them as well. Shane can be the breadwinner if he wants to be. Watch him. 

"Hollander--" Fuck, there's Ilya's captain-voice that Shane usually thinks is quite hot when he knows that he wasn't doing anything wrong, but he tuned out pretty much the entirety of his husband's speech to throw himself a preemptive pity party over the rookie on the Bullies. "You weren't listening."

"I was not," Shane answers honestly, hanging his head for a moment before looking up at Ilya. Brief concern flashes through his eyes, which probably means that Ilya will be talking about his locker room absentmindedness later, but that's a later thing. For now, Ilya's eyes harden back to his captain-slash-starting-center stare and he looks to the rest of the team. None of them seem to be too entirely phased by Shane's momentary lapse. If anything, they're just thrilled to get on the ice and give the Bullies a taste of their own damn medicine. "Anything important?"

Ilya smirks. "Don't trip over your skates."

The team straightens as their walk-out song begins to play over the speakers. The stands are packed with orange and black jerseys, though Shane's more than happy to see the smattering of black and red Centaur merch amongst the Bullies's crowd. A small media team is filming Philadelphia's absolutely abominable orange mascot throwing pies at people wearing Centaur gear. The mascot does a victory dance beside their victim, and Shane just knows that Ilya would think this to be hilarious. Shane doesn't. Obnoxious more like. Besides, their mascot is much better. Horse-person beats orange abomination any day. 

Their mascot, actually, isn't even a horse-person, which Shane thinks is wildly confusing. They're the Ottawa Centaurs, not the Beavers. The franchise probably couldn't afford to get two people to wear the mascot suit, which is probably why they downgraded.

Shane's eyes rove over their audience, but pauses when he finds a group of middle-to-late aged adults sharing beers and trading stories with fond smiles. It's parent night for Philadelphia, and somehow their management managed to accumulate nearly every players' parents to watch the game.

It might make it harder, sure, but Shane's lost plenty of times in front of his own parents. The Bullies's parents can deal with watching their kids get their ass kicked. 

Half an hour to warm up, then as soon as the puck drops, Shane promises that he'll put the Bullies right back on their asses.

Shane has always been better at skating than walking. He glides naturally on the ice, stick held in front of him as he chases the puck that Bood sent towards him. He nabs it and slaps it right towards the goal, past Wyatt's head and to the unoccupied spot in the top left corner of the net. He nods, pleased with his performance, and then skates away. He taps his fist against Troy's as they skate past each other, and in the moment of minuscule downtime, Shane sneaks a glance at how the Bullies play across the ice. 

They're fast. Shane will give them that much. A set of massive defensemen smack a puck back and forth before a blur of orange zips between them and takes it right to the goal. Shane frowns, catching the "02 ANTONOVA" right on the back of the orange and black jersey. Fast. Not as fast as Shane. 

The warm-up period ends, and Shane returns to the bench to receive the last bits of grilling from Wiebe. He's not opening tonight. The starting line will have to go to Ilya. Knowing the Bullies, it's just a matter of time before they foul one of the Centaurs and Shane gets to share the ice with his husband. The goals are practically guaranteed now, especially with Troy at their side. 

Shane watches the puck drop with rapt attention. All six-three of Ilya is against Antonova, who hardly comes up to his shoulder. The kid is small, but Shane knows better than to discount the 'Russian assassin' due to their size. Philadelphia's win rate is the best it's been in decades. Nine-two-zero. Shane wishes he could say the same for their own team, but at least they're faring better than the Voyageurs. Ilya's always sure to check the score and laugh at the fumbles of Shane's former team. 

Antonova's lips move, saying something around their neon blue mouth guard, and Ilya actually freezes. 

Antonova wins the face off and is already at the other side of the rink, collecting a pass from their defenseman, James O'Gale, and sailing it right into the net--

No. Wyatt has a handle on it. Shane's shoulders deflate as relief floods into his chest, but even then, relief is fleeting. Shane watches Ilya closely for the rest of his shift, offering just a quick touch on the arm in support as Shane takes his place as center after Wyatt stops the puck after the Bullies's third shot on him. Shane's facing off against a different center from the Bullies, one that doesn't get a lot of ice time. It's no issue for Shane to steal the puck from under him and take it to the net. He and Young dribble the puck amongst them before Shane gets into an optimal position and sinks the puck right into the top right corner, above the reaching hand of Philadelphia's goalie, Dave Platine. 

The little crowd that arrived to actually watch Ottawa play erupts, and the disdain from the Philly fans is all too clear. Shane doesn't let it get to him and returns to the bench to allow their third line out to play. 

"Are you okay?" Shane asks in his husband voice instead of his player voice. 

Ilya blinks, then shakes his head. "Antonova is good at hockey."

What did they say? 

Why did they say it?

Do you need me to beat the shit out of an eighteen-year-old rookie?

Shane doesn't exactly vocalize any of these questions, but he's sure that Ilya understands the sentiment. Instead of answering any unsaid questions, Ilya sprays some water into his mouth, then passes the bottle off to Shane wordlessly. Usually, Shane would be looking for any camera that searches to steal the Hollanov clip of the night, but he doesn't quite care at the moment. Antonova's back on the ice, and they just scored a goal. 

Now tied, this leads the teams into television break, and Wiebe certainly has a few words to share over their game. Usually, Ilya would protest that they're only ten minutes into the first period, but he's quiet, hands resting at the top of his hockey stick as he stares past Wiebe's shoulder, through the clear penalty boxes, and right into Philadelphia's team bench. Shane follows Ilya's eyeline to where Antonova stands with crossed arms and a tilted head. Their cheeks are still round with youth, but their eyes are dark and sharp in a way that Shane recognizes. Though they're from Russia, Antonova certainly has some sort of East Asian blood in them. 

When the break is over and they're released back to the ice, Shane watches the way that Antonova moves carefully. Speed, clearly, is their ally, and Shane wants nothing more than to be put on the ice at their side to test how fast they could really push themselves. 

Wiebe must sense this, for he calls for a shift change and Shane's line goes right out while the Phillies smack the puck around near their zone. 

Shane goes straight for the rookie.

With his wings distracting Philly's line, Shane takes a wide arc to catch the rookie from behind.

He goes to slam his shoulder right into their side and pin them against the boards, but Antonova moves first, sliding both their body and the puck back just a half meter so Shane's shoulder knocks into the boards without any cushion.

By the time Shane regains his bearings, Antonova is at the other side of the rink, flanked by their own wings and their massive defensemen watching Shane expectantly.

Fuck, he groans into his mouth piece and takes after Antonova.

They're heading straight for the wall of Centaur defensemen

Shane waits for them to take Antonova to the ground--

But Antonova shifts in the blink of an eye. They're through the tiniest gap between the defensemen and sends the puck sailing right between Wyatt's legs into the back of the net. 

The stands erupt, and Shane's left skating towards the bench where Wiebe rubs away the crease between his brows. 

2-1, just a minute left in the first period. 

And it doesn't get any better from there. 

In their second career hat trick, Antonova takes the Bullies all the way to the victory with an embarrassing score of 5-2. 

Not even Shane's flawless assist to Troy was enough to shake the team from their odd daze.

The locker room breakdown is terse, Wiebe going over what they had done wrong, and what they couldn't have accounted for. He says they'll review all the footage when they're back in Canada, but until then, they should take the night to rest before they fly home in the morning. Go out to drink, to eat, to do something to get their mind off the loss. 

It's not like Shane has never lost before. He's a hockey player. With eighty-game seasons, it would be impossible to win them all. He's lost the Stanley Cup twice. He's been on teams that haven't even qualified for the Stanley Cup. Canada lost at their third Olympics, and Shane didn't even have the luxury to add at least a bronze medal to he and Ilya's trophy room. 

The Centaurs filter out of the locker room in waves. Shane stands under the hot water of the guest showers until his skin is red, half waiting for Ilya to join him for some PG showering. They may be affectionate, but they're not fucking animals, alright?

But Ilya never comes. 

Shane dries himself off with an orange towel (ha ha) and ties it around his waist as he heads out to meet Ilya. He's exactly where Shane left him, sitting in the middle of a bench with their duffel bags half-open and half-strewn all around him. He hasn't even taken off his pads, only the jersey that goes atop of it. There must be something real interesting about the floor, for Ilya hasn't even looked up to appreciate Shane's practically naked body. 

"What happened back there?" Shane asks gently, reaching into his bag to find his lotion and deodorant. 

"I don't want to hear it."

"Not like... not like a hockey thing. What happened at the puck drop?" Shane frowns, then pulls a shirt over his head as soon as he's moisturized. It's one of Ilya's old shirts. Shane probably grabbed it in a rush when they were leaving the house to make it to the airport. "Antonova said something, right?"

Ilya nods, then takes a careful breath. "The kid. They are also from Russia."

Shane nods, then unwraps his towel and dons a pair of underwear. These, at least, are his own. 

"Yeah. Played a year in the KHL in Moscow before being drafted here." If Shane's memory doesn't fail him, Antonova was the sixth overall draft pick, and Philly was thrilled to have them as their first. "Does that... have to do with something they told you?"

"Da." Oh, Ilya's accent is strong. Shane finishes dressing and sits at Ilya's side. "They told me... we would never be welcome home."

Shane blinks, then sighs, at least somewhat sympathetic from where they're coming from. Antonova is the first out gender non-conforming player in the entire western professional sporting world. There's a good reason that they sport their mother's feminine last name on the back of their jersey, and that same reason is why they're likely never allowed back in Russia.  "Russia's not your home anymore--"

"I know." When Ilya sits up straight to look Shane in the eyes, his are teary and glassy. "I have home in Ottawa, with you, your parents, and Anya." He clenches his jaw. "It is how they said it, Shane." Shane's name takes upon a pleading tone. "They looked... they looked so scared. Antonova... is young. They are like me when I was young, except without the partying and the spending and..." Ilya shakes his head. "I was just... concerned, I guess."

"Concerned?"

"It's been eighteen years since we were in their shoes, Shane," Ilya says with a sigh. "If I got you pregnant when we first hooked up, we could've been their fathers."

Only after Ilya sends him a suggestive look does the comment fully catch up to Shane. "Ilya--" Shane hisses, smacking his husband's arm. Ilya tilts his head back and laughs, and Shane can't help but relish in the swell of relief that courses through his chest, even if it's at Shane's expense. "God. We're old enough to be fathers of rookies." Just saying it out loud feels rightfully insane. Shane always knew that kids were going to be in the picture for them both one day. They've talked about it a few times, using a surrogate and Shane's genes. Ilya had been scared to pass down his mother's depression and his father's Alzheimer's, which Shane understood. He's been blessed with a good and healthy family track record, and they know that they'd want the same for their future kids. 

"What?" he says jokingly, trying to grab at Shane's arm as he pulls away. "Is true, no?"

"You can't get me pregnant."

"I can try."

"Oh my god!" Shane and Ilya freeze as Troy Barrett yells from the group of lockers over. "Can you two, like, shut the fuck up?"

Ilya laughs as he finally moves to get out of his game gear, and Shane buries his face in his hands. 

Shane doesn't talk to him the entire walk out of the arena and towards the hotel, but he does hold Ilya's hand. 

Of course, most of the fans have cleared out, but it is goddamn Philadelphia which is known for their asinine fans that tend to wreck havoc after every single sporting event, no matter if they win or lose. A few years back, Shane found a video of the mayor instructing her citizens to not tear down light poles over the Birds game, and then the police went out and greased all the poles anyways to make sure nobody would climb to the top and do something bullshit stupid. 

Well, Philadelphians are not just bullshit stupid, but they're damn determined as well. 

Despite the greased poles and the warnings from their mayor, a group of Philadelphians managed to steal an entire light post and hide it from the authorities.

Shane doesn't know how the hell America can get anything done, but he knows better than to question the wills and the way of his neighboring country. Maybe later he'll ask Boyle, Young, and Baxton what growing up in the US was like, but that's also bound to be something that Shane will get more story than answers. Well. Team bonding. Everyone sit around the campfire and share an insane story from their youth. 

It seems Philadelphia is not as devoted to hockey as they are to American football, for the crowds are mellow and usually confined to small clusters of friends sharing a few cigarettes underneath the street lights. It's also a Tuesday night, which probably accounts for more than most of the reason why nobody wants to be out this late. 

They're nearing the hotel when Shane spots something out of the corner of his eye. He pauses, pulling back on Ilya's hand to make him stop as well. 

Like any major city, of course there's a predominant homeless population, but something about the shape in the alley didn't appear to be just homeless. Shane recognizes that jacket--grayish denim with a large fur-lined hood.  

"What is it?" Ilya inquires, peering over Shane's head to follow his eye line. "Do I need to defend you from... assailants?"

"Big word, nice," Shane comments out of habit. 

"Thank you. I have been watching NCIS."

"Fun."

"Not really. Too much murder. The goth girl is cute though." Ilya shrugs, and Shane sends him a look. "No freckles, though, so not marriage material."

Shane rolls his eyes fondly and turns his attention back to the alley. The jacket moves as the person stands, a stream of cigarette smoke pluming from their lips. Ilya hums quietly, picking up on what Shane had noticed as well. Shane takes a careful few steps towards the alley, pulling Ilya along with him just in case Shane's suspicion happens to be incorrect. When the person in the jacket doesn't exactly bristle when discovered, Shane relaxes his shoulders and lets go of Ilya's hand. 

"Hey, Antonova," Shane calls. 

The kid turns, knocking the hood off their head. "What do you want?" they ask, bringing the cig once more to their lips. 

Shane stares for a moment because the kid has a strong facial structure and a cigarette between their teeth. It takes him back to when he was seventeen, standing outside in the cold of Regina as he introduced himself to the person who would forever change his life. 

"Just stopping by," Shane pockets his hands with a shrug. "I didn't know you lived in this part of town."

"I don't." 

Well, Shane's just trying to be friendly, but there's at least an alternate motivation underneath all his polite Canadian words. "Ilya and I are staying nearby. You wanna join us for a drink at the bar?"

"I don't drink here." Right. Eighteen. Americans and their odd rules. "And I beat you both. Badly. I don't know why you'd want to be seen with me."

Because my husband's worried about you. And Shane would be lying if he said he wasn't worried for the kid either. Abel Antonova, fresh from the KHL all the way from Moscow and the savior of the dying Philadelphia Fury franchise. Antonova enters the light of the streetlamp, and Shane's stuck with how bone-deep tired the kid looks. Bags pull under their shiny dark eyes, a jarring contrast to the paleness of their skin. Their hair hangs straight and messy, a bit greasy and black roots showing about two inches down as their natural color grows in to replace the blue they usually sport. Antonova is quite small too, especially for a hockey player, at a few inches shorter than Shane. Ilya's shadow looms over them both as he approaches. 

Something in the back of Shane's head wonders if the kid has even hit their last growth spurt yet.

Probably. They're a whole adult. A professional athlete. 

Antonova straightens at the sight of the man, then reaches into their pocket to offer a cigarette. 

"No, thank you," Ilya says gently, holding up a hand to decline.

"Old and lame," Antonova grumbles, putting the offering right back into their pocket. 

"I am not old or lame," Ilya corrects with a point. "Respect your elders."

"Do you want me to respect you or not call you old?" Antonova raises a brow, and Shane can't hold back the fond laugh that escapes him. Antonova's intense dark eyes flick to Shane. "You think being old is funny, yes?"

"Very," Shane says dryly, beckoning for Antonova to follow. "Come on. Let's get inside."

Shane prepares for more resistance, but finds that the rookie is full of pleasant surprises as they drop their cigarette and grind it to ash under the heel of their casual high-top sneaker. The kid snakes their hands into the kangaroo pocket at the front of their hoodie underneath their signature jacket and shrugs, not quite looking up from the grooves of the sidewalk.

Shane only looks to Ilya, who nods approvingly, and the three of them walk the last block to the bar beside their hotel. 

As expected, a good amount of Centaurs are already inside, taking up a good portion of the bar top and surrounding tables with friends and family that they picked up around the area. Despite the miserable loss to Philadelphia, the boys seem to be in decent spirits.

Until they see the harbinger of their doom enter between their two star centers. 

"Who invited the rookie?" someone calls, and it's a damn good thing Shane can't figure out who it is otherwise he'd have Ilya make them do pushups until their arms give out. 

"I am allowed here," Antonova says smoothly. "My city. My win."

Somehow, that garners respect as the Centaurs laugh and return to normal. Shane tries to corral both his husband and the rookie to a quieter corner of the bar away from the louder Centaurs who would without a doubt grill Antonova for everything they're worth. 

"Is ambush," Antonova hisses to the men at their sides. "You led me to ambush." 

"I did not," Shane says as he takes a seat at a table next to Ilya and allows the rookie to slide into the bench seat across from them. Ilya's already flagging down a waiter to place their drink orders. "I led you to a warm restaurant where you're going to eat something."

Antonova narrows their eyes. "I am not child."

"You are child," Ilya corrects before turning to the waiter to get their tab started. "You are three apples tall."

"I need another cigarette."

"I don't think the Fury would be happy if they lost their best player in a decade to premature lung cancer," Shane notes with a point. Antonova raises a brow. Shane puts his point away. 

What am I doing? He's not... he's not this rookie's dad. He doesn't even know anything about the rookie other than the fact that they are Russian and asshole-ish like Ilya, fast and meticulous like Shane, and somehow managed to scrap together concern for their well-being from two of the best players in the NHL after properly defeating them right on their home ice. 

"Were your parents there tonight?" Shane starts the conversation again with a hopeful little grin. "I know that it was big for the team to win while they were all watching."

Antonova purses their lips. "Nyet. My mom is back home in Russia. She cannot leave."

"Can't leave?" Ilya echoes, leaning forward on his forearms. "What do you mean can't leave?"

Antonova shrugs. "She is frail. Long travel is not good for her, so I pay for her doctors and bills from here in America. She does not like Russia much. Wants to be here with me."

Shane exhales slowly and sits back in his chair. He catches the waiter doing his rounds, Ilya's tall glass of coke sitting right next to Shane's usual ginger ale. There's a third drink that appears to just be water with a lemon wedged on the rim. 

"And, uh, your father?" Shane asks slowly.

"Not around," Antonova answers with a wrinkle of their nose. "He is Japanese. Lives in Aomori. I do not think he even knows I am here." The waiter arrives and sets the glass of water down right in front of Antonova. They take a long sip of it, plucking the lemon off the rim to stare at it. "I think my father would care more if I were a based ball player."

"Baseball," Shane corrects gently, earning a glare from Antonova. The kid then shoves the entire lemon into their mouth and sucks. Shane blinks, then looks to Ilya to make sure that his husband is also watching what he's watching. "So... how are the Furies?"

Antonova shrugs. "Alright, I guess," they admit after spitting out the rind of the lemon onto the cocktail napkin that came with their water. "Is good when I don't walk in on teammates making out."

Ilya raises a brow and laughs. "Happen often?"

Antonova rolls their eyes, but there's a strange sort of fondness to it. "They say they are not gay, but giving best buddy a tongue kiss before every game seems gay." Antonova stirs the ice around in their glass with the black plastic straw. "I do not know history between them. I do not want to know. I want to play hockey not... telenovela." 

"Telenovela?" Ilya echoes with a smirk. 

"Da. Jersey loves to watch them to annoy me. Calls it team bonding or some shit." That must be Mac Jersey, defenseman with a decently solid record that's only ever played for the Fury. "I think they watch it to get ideas."

"We should introduce that into the locker room," Ilya turns to Shane. "I think Bood and Dykstra would enjoy it."

"We are not watching telenovelas in the locker room," Shane responds, but Ilya's already turned himself right around to shout at the boys at the bar. 

They all seem to be thrilled at the prospect, but slightly too tipsy to actually consider and retain it as they turn back to their conversations with each other.

"You see, Hollander, I am captain so my ideas are great."

Antonova rolls their eyes and takes another slow sip of their water. They press their mouth into a flat line as they stare a hole into the table. Shane takes a long moment to just study the kid. Pale, blue hair with the black roots growing out a couple of inches, dark and straight brows set over dark and narrow eyes. Antonova has a sharp nose, thin lips, and a build that would look slightly too thin to be of a hockey player, yet Shane knows that the kid is one to be intimidated by inside the rink. Eighteen years old. Probably'll be Rookie of the Year. Probably'll be the reason why Philly will finally make it past the first round of playoffs this year and finally have a chance to taste the silver of the cup.

It also helps that the Fury has been building, player by player, to restore themselves to the Bullies that everyone knew them as back thirty years ago when they were the most fearsome team in the league. They managed to get Zimmerman reunited with O'Gale, and with an old friend Jersey, the three of them have proved to be a dangerous and young trio. Shane knows that he can keep up, but he won't ever stop being impressed by new talent.

Eighteen years ago, he was in all of those kids' shoes. The skates fit just right, but they always felt too big. 

Montreal hadn't been in the playoffs for a few seasons, and Shane was expected to bring them up to proper speed. 

"Hey, kid," Shane tries, because the least he could do is at least try to make the kid a little less miserable. Antonova glances up, then raises a brow. "Ilya and I have a hockey camp that we do every summer--"

"I know." Antonova looks back to their drink, swirling the ice with a serious expression. "Irina Foundation, yes?" Antonova flicks their dark eyes to Ilya, then back to their drink. "Good cause."

"Yes, very," Shane knits his hands together under the table. "If you were available, perhaps, we could always use more coaches."

"Me?"

"Them?" Ilya sputters.

Shane kicks Ilya under the table. Ilya presses his lips together to hide his laugh. "Yeah. I think it would be good to have a coach that specializes in not being hit."

"Too many concussions?" Antonova smirks. "Brain working poorly in your old age?"

While Shane hits Antonova with one of his signature veteran, I'm sick of your bullshit, rookie, looks, it does nothing to quell the surge of fondness that takes over him. Eighteen years ago, Ilya was saying the same thing to Scott Hunter. Scott's been retired for a few years now, happily married with three cats somewhere in the New England countryside. He's not the recluse that Shane was sure he'd turn into. Scott and Kip are found frequently on runs through parks and have a steady presence on social media of them attending whatever charities and volunteer events that their schedules would allow. 

Which reminds Shane of the group that Scott invited both him and Ilya into just before they got married. 

It's not exclusive, not in the slightest, but to be a member is nothing short of a soaring badge of honor. 

"And if you wanted to, we're always looking for new members for the Hockey For Good organization."

"Terrible name," Ilya mutters, and Shane rolls his eyes fondly. Ilya spent the better part of four hours trying to workshop a better one with Carter Vaughan just to have Troy Barrett practically lose his mind and forcibly have them move onto their first actual agenda topic. Harris was thrilled and managed to record most of the meeting. After being effectively censored of the swears, Harris put snippets of the playful argument onto the organization's Instagram page and garnered them a legion of support overnight. 

"It is terrible name. And this is... club, yes?" 

"Sort of." Shane makes a so-so gesture with his hand. "It's mainly just a bunch of hockey players advocating for more acceptance within the sport. We meet a few times a year, but nothing super formal. Just... y'know, representing a cause."

"Good cause," Ilya supplies before taking a very long drink of his Coke. Usually, it would be a hearty glass of beer that he would pour with the boys, but Shane at least appreciates that Ilya wants to be sober for this. No need to get drunk with a rookie. "Every player that's not an asshole should be in it."

Antonova and Shane share a look that says exactly what the both of them are thinking.

You're an asshole. You're the secretary of the fucking group. 

Well, Antonova probably doesn't know that Ilya's the secretary of Hockey For Good, and frankly, Shane has no fucking idea why any of them thought Ilya would be a good secretary anyways. He takes notes in indecipherable Russian and then proceeds to forget to upload any of the meeting notes to their shared cloud until Shane ends up doing it himself in the middle of the night after Leah Campbell, vice-president, sends her fourth irritated text of the hour.

Unlike everyone else, however, Ilya manages to attend every meeting. No matter when, no matter where, Ilya is there in person or on a screen. 

And he can recall any conversation topic at the drop of a dime. 

Shane has no fucking clue how he does it, and he doesn't know if he's more infuriated or impressed at his husband's subtle genius. 

"I will think about it," Antonova says eventually after picking their words carefully. "I do not know if I have time."

"Yeah, no, that's totally fine," Shane reassures with what he hopes is a gentle smile. "I just know that we would all love to have you on the team with us. We could use some young guns in with the veterans and other retired players."

"Ah, so you are old."

Shane doesn't even bother to hide his smile. "Yeah, I might still be old, but I could still mop the floor with the Fury any day of the week."

"Yes. That is exactly what happened tonight." They take a smug drink of their water. 

"Rough night."

"Rough plays," Antonova corrects. "Your lines were sloppy. Very. And your defense."  The sharkish, shit-eating grin that Antonova sends Shane says it all. "Like... like cheese." Swiss. Swiss fucking cheese. 

And. Well. Yeah, they were. Defense wasn't tight and the lines weren't pushing into offensive zones effectively. Wyatt tried his best at the goal, but there was only so much he could do against Abel Antonova, the so-called Russian Rookie Assassin with one hell of a snipe. 

"We lost," Shane holds his hands up. "Fair and square."

"I want a rematch," Ilya mutters quietly before he takes another drink. "You fucked with my head at the puck drop."

Antonova blinks, and for the briefest of moments, Shane catches a drop of shame in their eyes. "Sorry."

Ilya glances at Shane out of the corner of his eye, half bewildered to be getting an apology so easily. Shane bats away the creeping sensation to try and do damage control, though he isn't exactly sure what's damaged and why it needs to be controlled. 

"Was one game," Ilya responds easily. "It will not hurt our chances of going to the playoffs."

Instead of biting any sort of snarky comment or adding more fuel to their little bickering flames, Antonova drops the rind of their lemon into the half-drank water and shuffles out of the booth. "I think I will go back home now. Was fun. Thank you for..." they nod their head to the glass. "For water. Very refreshing."

The rookie tightens their jacket around their shoulders and heads towards the door, and Shane's gripped with an odd panic that has him calling out the kid's name to get them to momentarily pause at the door. 

"The training camp this summer?" Shane asks.

Antonova manages an odd sort of half smile. "I will text you about it."

Then, the kid's through the door and into the chill of the Pennsylvania night. Shane shakes his head fondly and turns to Ilya, peering over his shoulder to look at who he's texting. 

"Sasha?" Shane questions. Without his glasses, he can't quite make out the complexities of the Russian words, but he can read the contact name well enough. Shane can also tell that they have not been texting frequently, and this conversation is a new one. If he were a younger man and if he weren't so secure with the love of his life, perhaps he might've been jealous. After all, Sasha was Ilya's first, and that's something that Shane will never have. But Shane gets to be Ilya's last and forever. That's what's the most important. 

"He has connections," Ilya answers. "Around Moscow."

Which makes sense. Sasha's now some rich socialite that funds all sorts of expensive arts and humanities with his millions of dollars. Still a flirtatious playboy, but a flirtatious playboy that's halfway across the world that Shane doesn't have to worry about in the slightest. 

"What sort of connections?" Shane asks before taking a drink of Ilya's coke. Hm. He still doesn't like the taste. He goes back to his ginger ale. 

"Ones that can help me find Miss Antonova and get her in the United fucking States as soon as possible." Ilya says it so casually, then reaches to take a drink of Shane's ginger ale before returning to his own coke. Shane doesn't care. His heart feels a little too big for his chest as he stares at Ilya and the way that his shockingly kind mind functions. "Antonova does not deserve to be away from her." Ilya quickly responds to Sasha's text, then moves his free hand to toy with his gold crucifix. 

Shane's eyes soften. He wants to do nothing more than to pull Ilya into his lap and kiss every inch of his face. He wants to run his fingers through his hair and practice singing those old Russian lullabies.

"I can bring her home," Ilya says quietly, then shuts off his phone to deposit into his pocket. "But we shall do that later, yes?" 

We. Shane nods. "Yeah, let's join the boys. I bet they've been wondering what the kid's been saying."

Ilya snorts and nods, standing from the table. He grabs both he and Antonova's drinks and deposits the latter onto the bar as Shane and Ilya take up two empty seats near the end. 

"Hey!" Boodram shouts, drawing the attention of the whole team to their captain and star center. "Look who finally stopped fraternizing with the enemy!"

"You all are terrible," Ilya says dryly. "That is why I am trading to Philadelphia. You can have Antonova instead."

"Man, fuck that!" Dykstra hollers before the team falls right back into their usual post-game antics. 

Shane slips his hand into Ilya's and presses their shoulders together. 

I love you, Shane's eyes say as he looks to his husband. 

I love you more, Ilya's eyes reply as he smiles.

The next time the Centaurs play Philadelphia, they're on Ottawa's home ice. The Fury lost in overtime after they sent Shane, Ilya, and Troy out as their most efficient line. They couldn't let the Fury take them to the shootout. Wyatt's a damn good goalie, but Philadelphia hasn't lost a single shootout in the past eight months. 

The teams skate to congratulate each other in handshake lines. Shane smiles at Philly's captain, Sam Chauveu, pleased when the man returns the smile and handshake. The last one in the line, expectedly, is Antonova, and they take their sweet time skating in a slow circle around the rink before heading towards the locker room with the rest of their team. Shane and Ilya, the last to join their team in the locker room, watch as the star rookie skates up to the glass where a kid maybe twelve years old watches with star-struck eyes. 

Antonova nods at the kid with something soft in their gaze, then turns behind him to a group of box seats reserved for visiting teams. Sitting away from everyone else is an older woman with mousy brown hair and tired eyes. She has a waifish frame that's swallowed by the obnoxiously orange Fury jersey, one sporting ANTONOVA 02 on the back of it. She blows Antonova a kiss, and they catch it before pressing it to their heart. 

Antonova hands the stick over to their fan with a small smile, then retreats into the locker room as the kid marvels at their gift from their favorite player. 

"I want kids," Shane says gently to Ilya at his side. 

Ilya smiles. "Did the grouch over there awaken something in you?"

"They're not all too bad," Shane replies as he ushers Ilya into the locker room. "I wouldn't be too mad if our kids turned out like them."