Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, the fanmail video didn't happen, Texting, Social Media, but mostly narrative stuff, Misunderstandings, Relationship Reveal, Fluff, like a dash of angst for flavor, Humor, Weddings, fix it fic in that there WILL be chairs at the wedding, Happy Ending

Language:

English

Collections:

HR, Fics LunaK does not want to lose track of, No thoughts just gay hockey, The best pairings to bask in

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-08 Updated: 2026-03-15 Words: 23,754 Chapters: 4/5

If They Only Knew

Summary

Shane and Ilya just want to tell the world about their relationship, on their own terms. If only anyone would actually believe them.

Or: the closet is reinforced steel, apparently.

"I think we tried too hard," Ilya says from the opposite end of the couch, probably scrolling through the same articles as Shane. "Was easier to keep secret than we thought. I could have kissed you on center ice, and everyone would say aww, I love their…what is word again?"

"Bromance?"

"Yes. That."

Notes

In which the infamous FanMail video never happened, but by the end of this, Shane and Ilya are probably wishing it would have.

This is (mostly) book-canon compliant up to that point, but the history/dynamic between Ilya and Svetlana is more like their relationship in the TV-universe.

Also I know that in the books the cottage is in Ontario, but in the show it's in or around Lanaudière, Québec, and I had already written like 10k of this before I realized part of it wouldn't work in Ontario. So. Whatever. My city now.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

ESPN✅ @ESPN

After shocking mid-season turn around, Ottawa Centaurs' Stanley Cup dreams are dashed as star center Ilya Rozanov suffers concussion during Game 6 against NYC Admirals

ESPN:

Ottawa's Rozanov Suffers Concussion, Centaurs Out of Playoffs

Despite a historic end to their regular season, the Ottawa Centaurs are officially out of play-off contention tonight.

The Centaurs' unprecedented win-streak began in late January of this year, turning their season around after the team experienced a harrowing in-flight emergency while en-route to Florida. For the first time in over a decade, the Centaurs' made the cut for the playoffs, even managing to knock out higher-ranked Montreal in a thrilling seven game series.

While many fans had high hopes for the persistent underdogs of the Eastern conference, their playoff journey came to a bitter end tonight, losing to the New York Admirals in the sixth game of the series. The game remained tied 1-1 until late in the second period, but went downhill for the Centaurs after Captain and star Center Ilya Rozanov suffered an illegal late hit from Admirals' Matthew Staal, resulting in Rozanov being taken off the ice by paramedics.

While paramedics were still on the ice, Admirals Captain Scott Hunter and Alternate Captain Carter Vaughan appeared to exchange tense words with Staal before being quickly separated by officials. Staal, a recent addition to the Admirals' roster, acquired just before the March trade deadline, has seemed to have some trouble fitting in with his new teammates. This isn't the first time Hunter and Vaughan specifically have appeared less than friendly with their new teammate in recent weeks. This latest confrontation raises questions as to whether the Admirals will be able to continue their playoff hot-streak, given the dissension in their ranks.

(Read More)

admirals 2k21🏆 @itsmeyagirl

thank you espn for bringing us the breaking news that scott hunter is 'less than friendly' with renowned homophobe matthew staal

ellie🏒 @hunterswingman
replying to @itsmeyagirl
what would we do without their piping hot takes

bri @getskipped
replying to @itsmeyagirl @hunterswingman
el did you see someone lip read the video of the fight

ellie🏒 @hunterswingman
replying to @itsmeyagirl @getskipped
OMG NO

bri @getskipped
replying to @itsmeyagirl @hunterswingman
Link: Hunter/Vaughan/Staal fight - with captions

ellie🏒 @hunterswingman
replying to @itsmeyagirl @getskipped
OH MY GOD WHO BROKE SCOTT HUNTER

admirals 2k21🏆 @itsmeyagirl
replying to @hunterswingman @getskipped
i didn't even know he knew that word

NHL Player Safety✅ @NHLPlayerSafety

New York Admirals' defenseman Matthew Staal fined $5,000, suspended one game for illegal hit on Ottawa's Ilya Rozanov

bri @getskipped
ONE GAME?!? he should be done for the season

Carter Vaughan's Stick Tape @sticktapeofficial
replying to @getskipped
his career should be over imo. somebody needs to start taking out the trash in this league

ellie🏒 @hunterswingman
replying to @getskipped @sticktapeofficial
[Image Description: screenshot of tweet from @sticktapeofficial, liked by @CVaughan19 ]
oh?? my god??? carter vaughan liked that tweet???

Carter Vaughan's Stick Tape @sticktapeofficial
replying to @getskipped @hunterswingman
hot

NHL Player Safety✅ @NHLPlayerSafety

San Jose RW Noah Chouinard, twin brother of Ottawa's Nick Chouinard, fined $5,000 for slashing Admirals' Matthew Staal, suspended one game

breezy✨ @stillnobody
didn't even make it 10 seconds into the first period. noah you're a fuckin legend 💕

SJ >>> NYC @chouchouchouinard
replying to @stillnobody
FREE MY MAN HE DID NOTHING WRONG

breezy✨ @stillnobody
replying to @chouchouchouinard
FREE MY MAN HE DID IT BUT I DON'T CARE

Carter Vaughan's Stick Tape @sticktapeofficial
replying to @stillnobody @chouchouchouinard
[Image Description: screenshot of tweet from @stillnobody, liked by @CVaughan19]
seriously vaughan your twitter activity is gonna get you in trouble one of these days

Carter Vaughan✅ @CVaughan19
replying to @sticktapeofficial
😇

---

It probably shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that Ilya is the worst patient of all time.

He was snoring loudly just a few minutes earlier, when Shane had stepped out of their room to make a phone call, but now he's repeatedly calling for Shane in the whiniest voice he can manage.

"Yes?" Shane asks from the doorway, annoyance and amusement both audible in his voice.

Ilya doesn't answer him, he just raises his arms from the nest of pillows on their bed, making grabby hands in Shane's general direction. It's cute enough that Shane almost forgets to sigh obnoxiously as he crosses the room.

Almost.

Perching on the edge of the bed, Shane lets Ilya collect his hands in his and pull them to his chest.

"What day is it?" Ilya asks, which is the longest English sentence that Shane has heard from him in two days. The meds the doctors had given Ilya to treat his concussion and minor facial fractures were great for managing pain, but they also had the side effect of completely shutting down whatever part of Ilya's brain helped him translate. While in the hospital he had blabbered on almost constantly any time he was awake, with only about one in every ten words being in English. Shane was glad none of the doctors or nurses that bustled in and out at all hours seemed to speak Russian, because the bits and pieces he was able to translate were most certainly not appropriate for polite company.

"Thursday," Shane says quietly, rubbing Ilya's knuckles with his thumb. Ilya seems to accept this answer without question, for which Shane is grateful. He's lost count of how many times over the last couple of days he's had to fill Ilya in on the details of what happened. You took a nasty, very illegal hit on the ice, and went face first into the boards. You have a concussion, a broken nose, and the worst black eye I've ever seen. The Centaurs lost the game without you, and are out of the playoffs now.

The last point, especially, has been exceedingly unpleasant to repeat to him. The devastated, guilty look on Ilya's face breaks Shane's heart a little more each time.

"You can take more painkillers now, if you need them," Shane says, checking his watch and confirming that it's been more than the required six hours between doses, but Ilya shakes his head.

"No, am okay," he says, wincing and settling his head back into the pillows. They sit in silence for several minutes, Shane still stroking Ilya's knuckles with his thumb. He's about to make an attempt to sneak away, sure Ilya has fallen back to sleep, but instead is startled when Ilya speaks again.

"Interview is tomorrow."

Shane grimaces — he'd really hoped Ilya wouldn't remember that bit of scheduling until after it was already a moot point.

"I called and cancelled it."

Ilya opens his good eye, squinting at Shane, even in the low light. "Why? I can go."

"No, you can't," Shane snorts. He gestures to Ilya, wearing only his boxers and sprawled out in bed in the middle of the afternoon. "Look at you."

"I'm fine," Ilya insists. "Un-cancel."

"Ilya."

"Shane."

"No," Shane says firmly. "You look like shit."

"So?"

"So there's going to be pictures," Shane says, attempting to appeal to Ilya's vanity, because he's sure the fact that Ilya can barely string a few sentences together isn't going to deter him. "I want everyone to see how hot my fiancé is."

"I am hot."

Shane snorts — and humble as ever, too. "You look horrible."

"I still look better than you."

"I know," Shane agrees, squeezing Ilya's hands in his. "I want everyone to see I'm marrying up."

Ilya hums, seemingly mollified by this, and closes his eyes again. He drapes an arm over his face to further block out the sunlight that's creeping in around the curtains. "When is rescheduled?"

"Not sure. They're supposed to call me back." Shane doesn't mention that the scheduling assistant he talked to had acted like he had personally ruined her entire life by cancelling so late. Which Shane supposes is fair — there are a lot of people involved in something like this. But news of Ilya's concussion has been a top story on all the sports outlets the last couple of days. It's not like they'd just done it for fun.

"Come to bed," Ilya orders, patting the narrow strip of mattress between himself and one of his walls of pillows.

Shane rolls his eyes. "No. I've been in bed with you for two days straight. It's boring."

"I am cold. Help me."

"You have blankets."

Ilya groans, tugging sharply on Shane's hand and causing him to tumble sideways onto the bed. "You are better."

Shane grumbles to himself as he settles next to Ilya, but he's smiling as he does it. Ilya rolls gingerly to his side, tucking himself against Shane's chest with a few murmured words in Russian, too slurred and low for Shane to make out. Somehow sensing that it's time for a nap, Anya comes bounding into the room, leaping up onto the bed and nuzzling her way into the sliver of space between them.

"No," Shane tells her in his best commanding voice. "Get down."

"Leave her, Hollander," Ilya mumbles into his chest. "She's helping."

Shane sighs, petting Ilya's sweat-damp curls back from his forehead. In under a minute, Ilya is snoring, his fingers twisted into the front of Shane's shirt, keeping him close even in sleep.

---

Ilya stands in front of the full length mirror in his walk-in closet, fussing with the knot in his tie. As much practice as he's had tying one over the years, he still never manages to get it as straight as he'd like. He tries to let it go, sure that Shane will fix it for him a hundred times between now and the photo shoot, just for something to do with his hands. But still. He wants to look nice — for a whole laundry list of reasons, but mostly because he's learned an attractive face and expensive clothes can be a very effective suit of armor. Luckily, nearly a month out from the season-ending hit he has no memory of, his face is attractive once again.

They're in Ottawa still — Shane had wanted to stay close until Ilya received the all clear from his doctors, which had happened just yesterday afternoon. He's still banned from doing anything too strenuous — which did not include mild to moderate sexual activity, Ilya had checked — but he doesn't need to come in for check ups every other day anymore. And the fractures in his nose and eye socket are both healing nicely, neither likely to require surgery, which is a huge relief; Ilya is pretty sure he could pull off some facial scars, but he'd rather not find out for sure.

The interview today is the last thing on their to do list, and then they're headed up to the cottage.

They should have already left a week ago — Ilya has been going a little stir crazy cooped up in the house now that the weather has finally taken a turn for the better — but even he has to admit that Shane made the right call in pushing back the interview. Ilya spent a solid few weeks looking like he'd had a nasty run in with a boxer down a dark alley and lost miserably. Not to mention the fact that he'd been so loopy on pain medication that he probably would have embarrassed the hell out of both of them. They want their coming out interview to be classy, nothing too scintillating for the tabloids to dig their claws into, other than the obvious. Ilya, high on pills, gleefully telling a roomful of people exactly what he thinks of Shane Hollander's cock didn't really fit the tone they were aiming for.

So, Shane was right… Whatever. It's not like Ilya will ever, ever tell him that.

Ilya gives himself one last once-over, turning this way and that in the mirror to make sure he hasn't missed some stain or clump of dog hair on his dark pants or jacket. As excited as Ilya is for the interview, and for the truth to finally be out there, he's more than a little nervous, too. The first time they'd had this scheduled, his concussed brain had been too scrambled for him to feel much of anything about anything. But now that his mind is clear, it's all he can think about. It will take some time before the article is written and released, but after today, people will know. People who aren't in their inner circle of friends and family and teammates. Strangers will know that Shane is Ilya's, and Ilya is his. And that's all kinds of thrilling, but a little terrifying, too.

Everything is going to change.

Shane peeks around the corner, his face appearing in the mirror behind Ilya. His hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, allowing some of his dark locks to fall artfully around his face. He's also wearing his glasses, which Ilya suspects is just for him, since Shane doesn't usually wear them out of the house. Or maybe he just wants to look so very serious for the interview.

"You look great," Shane murmurs, studying Ilya in the mirror from head to toe. Ilya gives him a little nod in acknowledgment, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a grin. Shane grimaces back at him.

"What?"

"The interview is cancelled again."

"What?!"

Shane nods sympathetically. "I know, I know. I guess they got their wires crossed about the new date, and half of the production people that were supposed to be there were already double booked for another interview."

"Better not be with Scott Hunter," Ilya mutters darkly. It seems like Sports Illustrated is always more than eager to interview him. His husband should be jealous, the way they chase after him. And Hunter loves the adoration, Ilya just knows it. He wouldn't be surprised if Hunter somehow orchestrated this whole thing in an attempt to sabotage their interview. Typical Scott Hunter.

Shane ignores Ilya's comment, continuing to talk before Ilya can really get started with his complaints about hockey's golden boy.

"They're confirming a new date. They're supposed to let me know by tomorrow."

"Is almost June!" Ilya says, as if Shane might be unaware of the date. "Wedding is in six weeks!"

"I know," Shane says, catching Ilya's hand in his. "I told them it has to be next week."

Ilya huffs — they're certainly going to be taking this down to the wire. There will barely be enough time for the article to be published before the wedding, which means all eyes will still be on them. They had initially planned for there to be a bit of a cooling off period between the inevitable media shit storm and the wedding, to give a little time for people to get used to the idea of them being together, before finding out that they're married now, too. But it seems like that's not to be.

They certainly know how to keep things interesting.

What will it be like, Ilya wonders, once all this excitement has finally died down? He's starting to think maybe Shane has had the right idea all along — he's ready to embrace the boring.

"Third time's the charm," Shane says, catching the knot in Ilya's tie. Instead of straightening it, he pulls it down and off, and Ilya forgets all about the interview in a hurry.

---

The third time is decidedly not the charm.

This time it's Hayden Pike's fault, because of course it is. In the end, all roads always lead to Hayden Pike.

Four days before the newly rescheduled interview, Shane gets a frantic phone call from his teammate. Pike and his wife had been planning on spending a night away from the kids for their anniversary — a nice dinner in the city and tickets to the theater, so they can spend a night acting like grown-ups, instead of circus ringmasters. But then their babysitter had cancelled at the last second, which means it's up to Ilya to save the day.

And Shane, too. But mostly Ilya.

"Goodbye, Pikes," Ilya says to Jackie and Hayden, shooing them toward the door. "All is well. I am in charge."

Hayden groans, no doubt debating the merits of cancelling the night out all together, just so he doesn't have to be indebted to Ilya. Ilya, of course, tries to always keep the upper-hand when it comes to Hayden Pike, so he's eager to send them on their merry way.

"Enjoy night in hotel," Ilya says to Hayden as Jackie searches for the keys in her handbag. "But not too much. Do not make fifth Pike for me to babysit."

Hayden rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to retort, but his wife beats him to the punch. "We can't," she says distractedly, still sifting through the items in her purse. "He had a vasectomy."

From the look on Hayden's face, Ilya can tell he had hoped Ilya would go to his grave without ever knowing this particular bit of information. He can also tell from Shane's expression that he already knew about this, and was intentionally hiding it from Ilya. Oh well, Shane's shocking betrayal will have to be dealt with later — Ilya has bigger fish to fry at the moment.

"Is that why you got so bad at hockey?" Ilya asks Pike, unable to keep the abject glee from his voice. "Because they cut off your balls?"

Shane covers his mouth, ducking around the corner into the kitchen so his best friend won't see him laughing at his expense.

"That's not what it fucking means, Roz! Jesus!" Pike protests, checking Ilya hard with his shoulder as he pushes past him and out the door.

Jackie watches him go, the finally located keys clutched in one hand, a slightly amused expression on her face. Ilya accepts a hug and a kiss on the cheek from her, promises to call if anything goes awry, and waves her off as she joins her husband, who is fuming in the front seat of the car.

"Why do you always terrorize him?" Shane asks, reappearing with one twin held aloft under each arm, the two of them happily giggling away.

Ilya pulls a shocked expression, covering his heart with a hand. "Me? Terrorize my good friend Hayden Pike? Never! I just asked a simple question!"

Shane rolls his eyes, turning on his heel and heading back into the kitchen with the girls to finish serving up their dinner.

In the morning, both of the twins wake with sore throats and low-grade fevers. Nothing too serious, just a case of strep throat. But then that afternoon, Shane sneezes four times in a row, and it all goes downhill from there.

Shane, as devoted to his health as he is, has somehow managed to avoid getting so much as a cold for years, which means he's spectacularly unprepared for the woes of having strep. The combination of being totally unable to regulate his own body temperature, and the severe pain in his throat every time he tries to swallow or speak, has made him exceptionally irritable. Just about the last thing he seems to want is Ilya constantly pestering him.

That said, Ilya is about eighty percent sure that being annoyed with him distracts Shane from how terribly he feels, so he's willing to be the proverbial punching bag for a couple of days. Not that it's really a chore — Shane is cute when he's angry, like a snarling little kitten. And the fact that he's doing all of it while tucked into bed with the blankets pulled up to his chin makes it hard to take him too seriously.

"You're just going to get yourself sick," Shane snaps when Ilya crawls back into bed with him late in the afternoon.

"I am Russian," Ilya says, settling against the pillows next to Shane, who huffs and kicks a foot out from under the blankets, immediately too hot again. "We do not get sick."

Shane scoffs, muttering something Ilya can't quite make out under his breath.

"Is true!" Ilya insists. "Russian immune systems are strong, made to survive harsh winter. Your weak Canadian immune system folded like leaf."

"We have winter here, too."

"Of course you do," Ilya says patronizingly.

"Leave me alone," Shane whines, settling his head on Ilya's shoulder.

"Of course, solnyshko," Ilya says, running his fingers through Shane's tangled hair. "Anything you want."

---

"We're never babysitting again," Shane tells Ilya over dinner a few days later, which he's actually been permitted to eat at the table, for once, instead of in bed. He's mostly recovered, though his entire body still aches like he's been hit by a car, and his head feels strangely full and heavy. At least the fever has finally resolved itself, which is why had Ilya allowed him to leave their bed, albeit begrudgingly.

"No!" Ilya cries, his spoon clattering loudly into his bowl. "I like small Pikes! Is not their fault their dad is terrible!"

Shane doesn't even bother engaging in that argument for what must be the millionth time. There's no point. And besides, not that Shane would ever dare say so aloud, but the fact is that the chilliness between Ilya and Hayden has thawed considerably in recent months.

It started somewhere around the time Shane told Hayden they were getting married, and asked him to be his best man, insomuch as they're going to have such things at their wedding. It had seemed to occur to Hayden then, finally, that what they had between them was actually real. Not a weird and complicated prank, or some kind of fling where his friend was liable to get his heart broken. He'd seemed to decide that, despite every instinct screaming otherwise, this wasn't something he needed to protect Shane from. The way he and Ilya chirp at each other is a bit more good-natured now, like mildly antagonistic co-workers, instead of feral cats fighting to the death in a gutter.

Most of the time, anyway.

While Shane had been ill, Hayden had called a few times to check in, feeling guilty that it had been his kids who had gotten him sick, and that they'd had to cancel their interview yet again as a result. Shane hadn't felt much up for chatting, so Ilya had taken over on reporting on his condition, and none of the calls had devolved into arguments. Which maybe isn't a lot, but it's not nothing.

Shane takes the dishes to the sink, rinsing them for the dishwasher in spite of Ilya's protests that he just relax. He's tired of relaxing. Between Ilya's concussion and the strep he's spent an unprecedented amount of time in bed over the last several weeks, and he's eager to do basically anything else. Like do the dishes, or try to talk Ilya into a bonfire tonight. Or maybe even give an interview to a well-respected sports magazine.

"Did Sports Illustrated ever email you back?" Shane asks, realizing that in his fever-induced brain fog over the last few days, rescheduling had completely slipped his mind.

Ilya snorts, shutting the dishwasher too hard with his hip. "Yes. They were very rude, I think. Do not want to interview us anymore."

Shane drops onto one of the bar stools at the counter, phone in hand, and scrolls back through the last few days of mostly unopened emails. Ilya had emailed about rescheduling from Shane's account, since he has been the one handling the logistics up until this point, so Shane easily finds the message in question, skimming it over for himself. As good as Ilya's English is, he still sometimes misunderstands tone, especially over email or text, so Shane is sure the email isn't as rude as Ilya seems to think. But by the time he reaches the end of the two short paragraphs, his jaw has gone slack in shock.

"Wow," is all he can think to say, reading it over a second time. There's no room for ambiguity — the email is cold, verging on unprofessional, and the parting line is one hell of a closed door: we will reach out to you in the future if there is such a time that we feel we can accommodate your extremely unpredictable schedules.

"I told you!" Ilya says, pinching Shane's hip. "I know when people are being rude! Even in English."

"Well, being rude is your specialty," Shane murmurs, flagging the email for follow up. He'll have to send some sort of apology, at the very least. His mother wouldn't like him burning bridges at such a prestigious publication — although, if she saw the actual email, it's just as likely she would tell the booking agent to go screw herself. Since Shane had come out to his parents, his mother has been… well, not quite on the warpath, but it certainly doesn't take much to get her there these days. Where she used practically bend over backwards to keep the brands Shane endorsed happy, she now has absolutely no qualms with terminating relationships with anyone she deems unfit. When Reebok had tried to quietly pull their annual Pride collection earlier this year, citing the 'uncertain political climate', Yuna Hollander had very loudly told their brand representative where they could stick their political climate. Shane had heard his mother's end of that conversation, and he was pretty sure she brought the poor Reebok guy to tears.

Shane still has a little too much of his father's people-pleasing nature in him to be quite so outspoken, even in his own defense. Luckily, between Ilya and his mother, he has an army and then some willing to go to war on his behalf.

"I am never rude," Ilya insists, pulling the cutting board and a large chef's knife out of the drying rack. "Everyone always says: Ilya Rozanov, nicest guy in the league."

As Shane watches him chop up an apple, he can't help but agree. Because somewhere down the line, even before concussions and tuna melts and ginger ale, Ilya had picked up on the fact that Shane liked apples. Maybe born of Shane hearing that old apple a day saying too young and believing it as fact, he's always had a habit of eating one after dinner. Shane had never thought to question why there were always fresh apples in Ilya's Boston apartment, or later in his house in Ottawa. It had taken all the way up until last summer for him to realize that, actually, Ilya hates apples. But still, he dutifully bought them any time Shane might be around, just in case. And now that his secret is blown, he chops them up for him too, because he knows there's no chance of Shane just biting into them and eating them off the core.

Ilya Rozanov: nicest guy in the league. But only if you're Shane Hollander.

Later, as they lay sprawled out on the patio furniture in front of the fire, Shane sends a screenshot of the email from Sports Illustrated to Scott Hunter. It was him, after all, who had gotten Shane in contact with the writer who had interviewed Scott after he came out. Shane had been up front with Hunter about exactly why he wanted to do the interview, and he'd been very helpful, though visibly rattled by the news that Shane's secret long-term partner was Ilya Rozanov. At this point, Shane has gotten used to that reaction.

Did you have this much trouble convincing them to interview you? Shane types. It's definitely too late at night to be texting Hunter out of the blue like this, so he's more than a little surprised when three dots appear almost immediately. Although, Hunter does own a bar now, so maybe he actually stays up past 9 pm once in a while.

No, never, comes Scott's reply. Then, a moment later: Kissing your boyfriend on live television is a great way to come out, in my experience. It's just too bad neither of your teams even made it to the finals.

Shane snorts, catching Ilya's attention as he gets up to add more wood to the fire. He raises a questioning eyebrow at Shane.

"Rose?"

"No, Scott Hunter," Shane says, and Ilya's eyes narrow.

"Why are you texting Scott Hunter?"

"We're making plans to elope," Shane deadpans. Ilya continues to stare at him, not amused in the slightest. "Why do you think I'm texting Scott Hunter? About the interview."

Ilya huffs — he still holds an inexplicable amount of ire for Scott Hunter. Shane suspects it's at least in part because Ilya's competitive side is annoyed that Hunter will forever be known as the first gay NHL player. Never mind the fact that Ilya had been nowhere near ready to come out back then, or that he's not even gay. The fact that Scott Hunter, of all people, had beaten him to the punch will always rub some part of Ilya the wrong way.

"What did he say?" Ilya asks, unable to let it go. Shane waits for him to sit down, settling his feet back in Ilya's lap before handing him his phone so he can read the messages for himself. Hunter's text barely even qualifies as chirping, but Shane still braces himself for a reaction, counting down silently in his head until…

"Well you can fucking tell Scott Hunter—"

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

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rip voyageurs @montrealunoffical
replying to @NHLFollowTrack
what the fuck happened????

kaz @shaneageurs
replying to @montrealunoffical
the girls are fightingggg

ellie🏒 @hunterswingman
replying to @montrealunoffical @shaneageurs
quick who has $100 to spare? send hayden a fanmail request

rip voyageurs @montrealunoffical
replying to @shaneageurs @hunterswingman
good idea. that man will say any fucking thing in a video

in mourning 💐 @paydenhike
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OH MY GOD HE TURNED OFF HIS REQUESTS

kaz @shaneageurs
replying to @montrealunoffical @hunterswingman @paydenhike
omg wait the girls really are fighting

---

Shane makes it approximately half a mile down the road before his phone starts to ring. He pushes the button on his steering wheel, answering the call on Bluetooth without checking to see who's calling. It's still early on a Saturday, and there's really only one person it could be.

"Hooollander," Ilya whines before Shane even gets the chance to say hello. "You left me all alone in this bed."

"I didn't want to wake you," Shane tries, but to no avail.

"This is terrible husband behavior."

"Good thing we aren't married yet, then."

Ilya sighs loudly, the rustle of sheets in the background telling Shane that he's still lounging in bed. "Where did you go?"

"My parents are coming over for dinner," Shane reminds him, flipping on his turn signal in spite of the fact that he's still on the backroads in the middle of nowhere, and there aren't any other cars as far as he can see in any direction. "I'm getting groceries."

"Fine," Ilya grouches. "Then I am going to make pancakes while you are gone, and there will not be any left when you get back."

"You're going to fall back to sleep as soon as I hang up."

"I will not."

"And we're out of eggs."

Ilya makes a strangled sound of annoyance, hanging up without any further ado. Shane shakes his head, an amused smile playing on his lips. He gives it about…twenty minutes before Ilya calls him back, once again bored and lonely in the empty cottage.

He should have let Ilya run the errands — he loves having an assigned task, especially one that allows him to swing through a McDonald's drive-thru without Shane pretending he's not silently judging him from the passenger seat. But the neighboring towns are small, and there's a significant chance that if Ilya were to set foot in any of the nearby grocery stores, he would be recognized immediately.

It really should be a moot point by now. The publication date for their originally scheduled interview was weeks ago, and Shane has more than had it with the sneaking around. Especially when it feels like they got so close. This summer was supposed to be different. They were supposed to be able to get breakfast and a coffee at the cafe in town, or stroll the local farmer's market together without it being the end of the fucking world.

Except…would it really be the end of the world? If they were seen together in public?

As soon as he had recovered from his bout of strep, Shane had sent an effusively apologetic follow up email to Sports Illustrated, and received no response. So it's safe to say that the classy, sophisticated coming out interview they were banking on is firmly off the table. But they had planned to be officially, publicly a couple by this point, so everyone who knows them already knows. And most of the people who know, with several glaring exceptions, have also now received wedding invitations. It's a wonder that a photo of those hasn't leaked yet — from an overzealous fan stealing Rose's mail, or maybe featured in the background of one of Hayden's stupid FanMail videos. But no — all of their friends have been as careful as them. Everyone around them has taken on the burden of their secret — some more willingly than others.

And then there's the trade to Ottawa…

No official contracts have been signed yet, but Farah has assured them that the deal is as good as done. Ottawa is as eager to have Shane on the team as Montreal had been to get rid of him, once he had disclosed his and Ilya's relationship to the team.

Even with Hayden and J.J. standing firmly at his side, it had been… horrible. So much so that Shane has been doing his best not to think about it too much. Or to at least adopt a more Ilya Rozanov-type view of the situation — if the Voyageurs don't want him, fine. Fuck them. He'll go somewhere that appreciates what he can bring to the table, without condemning him for who he is off the ice.

But… fuck. The betrayal stings more than Shane can put into words. He still regularly wakes from nightmares about that silent locker room, filled to bursting with people, and yet so quiet that Shane could practically hear the sound of his own heart shattering. The room had felt like it was spinning around him, the disappointed and disgusted faces of his teammates blurring as his body had started to shut down. When it became clear that team loyalty apparently no longer extended to their once-beloved captain, Hayden had steered him out of the locker room and to the safety of the parking garage, the sound of J.J. hollering at their teammates in a furious mix of French and English echoing down the empty halls.

Shane had never expected it to go well. But he'd thought that, once the news had a little time to sink in, the team that he'd loved so much, that he'd given his blood, sweat, and tears to for over a decade now, would have his back.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Farah had called him the morning after Montreal had officially cut the team loose for summer break, quietly letting him know that the Voyageurs weren't planning to re-negotiate his contract, now that he was a free agent. That afternoon, for only the second time ever in his entire NHL career, Ilya had skipped a mandatory practice, electing instead to sit silently next to Shane on the back porch of his Montreal home.

Neither of them spoke a word the entire day, not until well after the sun had set and Shane's teeth were chattering with the evening chill. Ilya was just a comforting presence at his side as Shane stared into the middle distance, his legs tucked to his chest under a ratty, oversized hoodie. It had probably been childish, but he'd kept the hood pulled up, the drawstrings tightening the material until only his face was left peeking out. Like it might stop him from hearing that deafening silence, keep it from playing over and over in his mind. He'd sat like that, perfectly still, for so long that by the time he finally tried to get up, his muscles had screamed and rioted in protest. Just straightening his legs brought tears to his eyes, and once they began to fall, Shane found he couldn't stop.

He has no idea what he would have done without Ilya by his side. Ilya, who never pushed him to talk before he was ready, instead just gathering Shane to his chest and carrying him to their bed like he weighed nothing. And maybe he didn't — Shane was pretty sure everything inside of him had been scooped out until he was left empty. Until all that remained was that fucking silence, and the blank stares of people he'd known for years, blinking back at him like they'd never seen him before.

There's a relief to knowing he'll never have to set foot in that locker room again. But there's a bone-deep ache, too, and he's not sure it will ever really go away. He had planned to be a Voyageur for his entire career, to wear their colors every day until he retired. To see his jersey hung from the rafters, next to the championship banners he'd helped hoist there. The Centaurs are great, but they're not his team.

Although, as it turned out, his team hadn't really been his team either, in the end.

Shane bites the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on what's in front of him, instead of behind. The promise of getting to play on the same team as Ilya — as his husband. The careers they still have in front of them, the legacy they'll build together. It's almost enough to make him forget all the rest.

And besides, in the much nearer term, Shane has dinner to make.

He parks the car and pulls up the ingredient list Ilya texted him the night before. Even though Shane likes to tease him about it, it's sweet how much thought Ilya puts in to dinner with his parents. If Shane was in charge of the menu, they'd probably have the same boring combination of salmon and rice that he always makes for himself when he's alone, but Ilya would never allow it. He always chooses a restaurant-quality recipe, and manages to execute it flawlessly. With Shane's help, of course, though he mostly just does as he's told.

He skims the list, chuckling at Ilya's editorializing — Carnaroli rice (Not instant rice. Not Arborio. Carnaroli) and parmigiano reggiano (if you bring home the shredded parmesan cheese from the bag again I am leaving you). Despite the fact that he just talked to him, Shane feels a pang of longing. He wishes he'd brought Ilya with him, consequences be damned. And if he really thinks about it — what is he even still so afraid of? Whose opinions does he care about more than that of his former team? Whose disgust and disapproval could possibly hurt him more than that?

Shane is halfway across the parking lot when his phone starts to vibrate in his pocket, and he glances at his watch before reaching for it. It turns out he'd overestimated Ilya's resolve — he only made it seventeen minutes.

Shane is smiling as he taps the accept button. "Hi, Ilya."

---

Ilya flips the lid of the dryer closed, punching the start button without changing any of the settings — if he's doing the laundry, there isn't going to be any air fluffing or fancy fabric softener. Any clothes that can't handle the basic settings weren't destined to survive anyway, and if Shane wanted the laundry done differently, he should have done it himself like he'd promised four days ago. But now Ilya is out of clean underwear, and the only socks left in Shane's drawer are the black ones that are the wrong height that he won't wear, but also won't throw out for some unfathomable reason, so the situation is dire. There's no such thing as dry cleaning or a wash-and-fold in the middle of nowhere, Québec, which is pretty much the only thing about city life that Ilya misses when they stay at the cottage for an extended period. Well, that and halfway decent dim sum.

Ilya considers the plastic laundry basket full of clean socks for a long moment before sighing and lifting it to sit atop the washing machine. He's so deeply tempted to just dump the entire contents of the basket in Shane's sock drawer, without bothering to pair up the socks or even separate out the ones that belong to Ilya, if only to see how pissed Shane would be about it. Ultimately, he decides it's not the day for it — Yuna and David are coming for dinner, and they don't have a few hours to spare for fighting or fucking. Or, more realistically, both.

Next time, though, he's definitely going to test it.

All of Ilya's socks get shoved to one side of the basket, not bothering to pair them up, since they're all roughly the same anyway. He takes much more care with Shane's, making sure that the dark blue don't end up with the black. Even though the color is so close that Ilya has to occasionally hold them up to the light to be sure, Shane can somehow always tell, and heaven help them all if he ends up out in public with mismatched socks.

Not that they go out in public too often up here, Ilya especially. The optics of Ilya repeatedly appearing in a tiny rural town where Shane Hollander is known to live would be… awkward, to say the least.

Except, they weren't supposed to be worrying about optics anymore. They were supposed to have had their sophisticated, Farah-approved interview already, and the whole world was supposed to know that Shane Hollander was Ilya's. Off the market. Not available. Do not inquire.

And yet, somehow, they're still trapped in the same limbo they've been in for years. It's amazing, frankly, that the secret is still a secret. There have been so many fuck ups and near misses, but somehow they've made it to the other side. To the part where they get to tell the world about their relationship, on their own terms.

If only anyone in the world was listening.

Ilya tries not to be too sour about all the false starts. He doesn't hold any ill will toward Shane about it — he knows Shane is just as frustrated and exhausted as he is. It's obviously not Shane's fault — it's Sports Illustrated's. And Hayden Pike's. And, if he really thinks about it, it's probably Scott Hunter's fault, too. Somehow.

Rationally, he knows there is very little to actually complain about. He gets to marry the love of his life a few short weeks, in the most beautiful place in the world, surrounded by their family and friends. They have a wonderful dog, who likes Ilya to throw tennis balls off the end of the dock for her to swim for. And, maybe best of all, in a few short months, Ilya will be suiting up for his first game of the season with his beloved Centaurs, this time with Shane by his side.

It's technically not confirmed yet, but Farah told them the paperwork that's left is basically just formalities, so Ilya is finally letting himself get excited. He's been doing his best to keep a handle on himself since they first discussed it as a far-off possibility, but as time has passed and they've inched steadily closer to a done deal, it's gotten harder and harder.

Shane had been so fragile in the wake of the fallout with Montreal, so dejected and completely at a loss for what to do next. Ilya, on the other hand, in addition to his blinding, all-consuming rage, had already come up with the perfect plan. But he knew that it wasn't the time to bring it up. They hadn't reached the fix-it stage yet, still firmly caught in the grieving process.

The way Shane had shut down, gone perfectly still and silent in the aftermath had terrified Ilya to his core. The panic attacks still make Ilya nervous, but at least those he has some experience with, both in Shane and in himself. Those, he knows how to handle, to an extent. But this had been… different. Shane had been so completely overwhelmed that he'd just gone blank, and there was nothing Ilya could do but sit by his side and wait it out. Other than the day he'd watched paramedics load Shane's limp body onto a stretcher and whisk him away, out of Ilya's reach, he can't think of a time he's felt more helpless.

Also unhelpful had been the fact that Ilya was so filled with rage that he was sure his blood would actually boil from it. He'd somehow managed to control himself, to stay quiet and calm when all he really wanted to do was hunt down every single Voyageur player, coach, and owner, and scream at them that they were making the biggest mistake of their entire lives. That Shane was the best fucking hockey player of their generation, bar none. And, as if that weren't enough, he was also the best person Ilya had ever known, and how could they not fucking see that? How could they not see the lengths Shane had gone to for his team? Everything he'd sacrificed for them? How could they not see that Shane had spent over a decade thinking he had to tear himself apart, make himself small enough to fit inside a neat little box, just so that he could play hockey?

But they couldn't see it. Instead, they'd just gone and proven him right.

Ilya drops the pair of socks he's tried and failed to fold together half a dozen times, placing his hands flat on the top of the washer. He rolls his shoulders and drops his head, letting the cool metal under his palms ground him as he takes a few slow breaths. It will get better, eventually. Maybe. But right now he's still so angry he feels like he might start screaming and just never stop. He wants to tell the Voyageurs, to yell at them that they're losing something so fucking precious, something that any team would be so fucking lucky to have. But it doesn't matter that so many other teams would kill to have Shane on their roster, because Shane wants that team. For better or worse, that was his team, and they'd just… turned their backs on him. And it makes Ilya so fucking furious that he could just…

Except he can't. He can't do any of that, because Shane needs him to be the rational one, for once. In the days after the falling out, he'd needed Ilya to be calm and clear-headed and all the other things Shane couldn't be in that moment. And so he'd done it. He'd put a lid on his anger as best he could, and gone on with life.

Galina Mochalina had, unfortunately, had to hear about it at length at his next appointment. He hadn't even been able to sit down during the session, instead pacing the room as he unloaded on her. She'd let him spout off until he tired himself out, which was probably the only thing that saved him from blowing a gasket about it in front of Shane. A much needed pressure release, though it hadn't been enough to stop Ilya from texting Pike to demand a list of every player's home addresses. Hayden had gotten it from Jackie and sent it over without any follow up questions. Ilya has yet to do anything with it, but he's keeping it in his proverbial back pocket. For the next time he's having an especially bad day, and Galina isn't available.

It had been weeks before Shane was ready to discuss the future of his NHL career. Management had called Ilya within an hour of the NHL Tracker drama unfolding on Twitter, asking 'privately and off the record' if he thought there was any chance Shane would be interested in coming to play for Ottawa. They had been so excited by the prospect that Wiebe had to step in and talk them down, agreeing with Ilya that this wasn't the time to give Shane the hard sell. Ilya knew Wiebe had run a spectacular amount of interference those first few weeks, in addition to coaching his team through his first ever run at the playoffs, to give Ilya the chance to approach Shane about it first, when he was ready. Yet another thing Ilya was inexpressibly grateful to his coach for.

Because of course Shane should transfer to Ottawa. Setting aside the fact that it is, by far, the gayest team in the league, there's also the fact that they're going to be married by next season. Ilya isn't interested in spending the next decade living two hours away from his stubborn husband, who he already knows will refuse to retire until he's too old to tie his own skates. Plus, Shane loves Wiebe, because everyone loves Wiebe, and he loves what they're doing in Ottawa. What they're building there. A legacy that goes well beyond just playing good hockey.

That had been almost the worst part of it — the bitter contrast. The way Ilya's team had welcomed him with open arms, and all manner of good-natured chirps about being so whipped for a fucking Voyageur. His teammates' reactions had ranged from shocked but happy (most of the team) to yeah, we kind of wondered (Barrett and Dykstra) to wait, did we not all know that already (Wyatt Hayes). Shane had Hayden and J.J. in his corner, of course, but Ilya had wished more than anything that he could have a whole team that supportive.

Except… why couldn't he?

You could come to Ottawa, Ilya had said a few weeks after, when things had started to settle out. When the Centaurs were out of the playoffs, and Ilya's concussion was healed, and Shane's eyes weren't quite so empty anymore. He'd said it offhandedly as they lifted weights one morning, like it was just something he'd thought of in passing, and not a pitch he'd been practicing in every quiet moment for weeks.

I can't take your team, Shane had said, laughing.

Uh, no. Will still be my team. But you can be on it.

How generous.

Third line.

What?!

Maybe second, if you fix your backhand.

Shane had laughed it off, hopping off the weight bench and moving on to his cool down yoga, as if he had already forgotten about the comment, or written it off as one of Ilya's strange jokes. But Ilya knew Shane better than anyone, and so he just waited…

You'd really want that? He'd asked a few hours later, and Ilya knew he could read the answer in every line of his face without him saying a word.

You want to leave Montreal?

Ilya had expected Shane to need time with that question. Time to interrogate and dissect and look at it from every possible angle, to make sure it wasn't worth fighting to stay. Which is why he'd been surprised when Shane had nodded right away. Almost as surprised as Shane had been when Ilya had lost control of his composure, unable to stop himself from lifting a laughing Shane off his feet and carrying him up to bed. In that moment, Ilya could have carried the entire Centaurs roster on his back and not broken a sweat. Because Shane wanted to play for his team. He wanted to move to Ottawa and build a home with Ilya, build a life with him. And maybe a once-in-a-lifetime hockey dynasty, while they're at it.

Upstairs, the front door opens and closes. Ilya hears the sound of too many plastic grocery bags crinkling against each other, and Shane cursing as he tries not to step on an over-eager Anya. He abandons the half-sorted laundry at once, his feet carrying him toward his not-quite husband without conscious thought, the existence of the Montreal Voyageurs long since forgotten.

---

"You're doing it wrong, Hollander."

"How am I doing it wrong?"

"They are too small."

Shane drops the microplaner on the counter with a frustrated huff. "You said shredded carrots! I'm shredding carrots!"

"Don't use that thing. Use the other thing."

Shane glares, probably waiting for Ilya to elaborate, but Ilya has no idea what the tool is called. It's the thing you use to shred carrots properly, and Shane would know that if he ever made anything besides grilled salmon and baked chicken.

"I'm so glad I called," comes Rose's voice from Shane's phone, left abandoned on the counter. Ilya startles — he had completely forgotten she was still on the phone. "It's like re-living my parents' divorce in real time. This is better than therapy."

Rose knows full well that they're not really fighting, even if she seems totally unable to comprehend why they both enjoy sniping at each other so much. As much as it would have once pained Ilya to admit it, Rose is a sweet girl. She's sharp and funny, but she's also unfailingly kind. Which was probably why she had been interested in hockey's most boring good boy, way back when he was still that.

Ilya just knows how to bring out the best in Shane — or, worst, depending on your perspective.

"Sorry," Shane says, abandoning the carrots altogether. "What time does your flight get in?"

Rose gives him the details, Shane carefully writing them down on the notepad that's affixed to the fridge. Ilya considers making a joke about Shane being so exactly like his mother, but Yuna and David will be here any minute, and Ilya doesn't want to say anything that might jeopardize his position as Yuna's favorite son.

"That's perfect," Shane says. "Sveta's flight lands about the same time, so we can pick you both up from the airport."

Ilya smiles to himself as he digs through one of the messier utensil drawers. The first time they met, Shane, prim and proper Candian politeness written in his very DNA, had been so hesitant to call Svetlana by anything other than her full name, even though Ilya had explained the commonality of Russian diminutives to him several times. It wasn't until Sveta had started calling him Mr. Hollander in response that he'd finally gotten the message. Since then, Shane has even started calling Ilya the more affectionate Ilyusha sometimes, albeit usually only when teasing him. It never fails to bring a goofy smile to Ilya's face anytime he does it.

"How do you know what time Sveta's flight gets in?" Ilya asks, and Shane rolls his eyes.

"Because if I left the planning to you, she'd spend half a day sitting in the Ottawa airport waiting for you to show up."

"Well, if you had let me keep the Porsche, I could make it to the airport in under an hour."

"The fact that you'd actually try is exactly why you shouldn't have sports cars."

"So I'm gonna go," Rose says, amusement audible in her voice. Shane is distracted from the familiar lines of one of their favorite arguments, and by the time Rose hangs up his sharp edge has dulled to something softer, at least for the moment.

"You still will not tell me what you planned for me and Sveta?" Ilya asks for easily the dozenth time.

Shane grins, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. "Nope. I told you, it's a surprise."

Ilya sighs, painfully curious, but also amused by how pleased Shane is over his little secret. All he knows is that Shane has planned something for the two of them. Something to keep them busy while he and Rose indulge in the pre-wedding spa day that is Rose's wedding gift to Shane. Neither Shane nor Ilya had wanted a traditional bachelor party, but it will be nice to spend some alone time with their friends they so rarely get to see. And it's cute, how secretive Shane is being when he usually can't keep anything from Ilya. It would be kind for Ilya to leave him alone, to just let him keep his little secret, and not try to pump him for information at any given opportunity.

"Pleaseee," Ilya whines, because he's not and never has been kind. "Secrets are bad for marriage, all the magazines say so."

"What magazines are you even reading? Playboy?"

"Also Cosmo. Many interesting articles. 'Twenty new ways to please your whiny bottom'."

Shane opens his mouth to retort, but is interrupted by the sound of the front door opening, and Yuna and David calling a loud greeting from the entryway — they've unfortunately learned their lesson about the risks of making a quiet entrance, even at a prearranged time.

Yuna sweeps Ilya into a tight hug, her kiss on his cheek still making him flush with pleasure, even after all these years. David's greeting hug is more of the back-slapping, hockey player variety, but Ilya appreciates it all the same. Conversation bounces around at the speed of light, now that Shane and Yuna are in the same room, moving from dinner plans to the summer training schedule to what do you mean you didn't rent chairs for the wedding? in under a minute. David and Ilya do their best to keep up, though the other two clearly do not require their input.

Dinner preparations mostly forgotten for the moment, David collects four stemless wine glasses from a cabinet, pouring everyone a good measure of pinot gris from the bottle they'd brought with them. Ilya continues systematically searching the drawers, determined to prove himself right to Shane. Perhaps even more so now that he can do it in front of an audience.

A minute later Ilya crows in triumph, finally managing to extract the tool he'd been searching for from the back of one of the bottom drawers. "This thing!" He says, interrupting the discussion of a potential joint brand deal with Armani and holding it up to Shane.

Shane snatches it out of his hand. "It's called a julienne peeler."

"Yes. That."

"You said shredded, not julienned!"

"Is not my fault that English has too many words for the same thing!"

"If it's the same thing then why can't I just use the shredder?!"

On the other side of the kitchen island, David and Yuna share an amused look. As Shane and Ilya continue to argue, David quietly slides the chef's knife Ilya had been using to chop zucchini out of reach. Just in case.

---

"You know," Shane says as they stand side by side at the sink, rinsing the dishes and loading the dishwasher while Yuna and David set up a board game in the living room. "People are probably going to notice when everyone starts flying in for the wedding."

Ilya hums — he'd had the same thought the night before, but hadn't wanted to bother Shane with it before bed, knowing it would probably keep him up half the night. "Yes, will probably look strange when all the gay hockey players start showing up in the middle of nowhere." Then Ilya straightens, struck with delight by an idea. "Maybe they will think you are hosting gay hockey orgy at your secret sex cottage."

"No one will think that."

"They will. I will leak it to Twitter."

Shane snorts, shaking his head. "That's another thing. I don't want to like, ban people from posting photos at the wedding."

"Of course we would not ban photos. I will look too good. People will cry if you do not let them take pictures."

"Someone would cry," Shane mutters.

Ilya laughs, letting a few seconds pass in comfortable silence before answering his concern. "You are right, people will probably find out."

Shane exhales, long and slow as he turns off the water. "Well, that will certainly make the wedding interesting."

"We will drop our phones in the lake."

Shane smiles, bumping his hip against Ilya's. "Deal."

Yuna appears in the doorway before they can discuss it any further, coming to collect them for game night. The soft, comfortable atmosphere between them melts away at once, replaced by the familiar, hard edge of competition. They're no longer Shane and Ilya: soon to be married couple. They're Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov: fierce rivals, both in hockey and in Risk.

Ilya sticks his foot out as they round the island, attempting to trip Shane. Shane sees it coming, shoving Ilya's shoulder while he's off balance, causing him to stumble sideways into the counter. Ilya's mouth hardens into a thin line, Shane darting out of reach before he can retaliate, but it doesn't matter. He'll get him back.

This is going to be a fucking bloodbath.

---

As they lay in bed that night, Shane on his back with Ilya draped half over his stomach, Shane picks up the thread of their earlier conversation, as if it had not been interrupted by several hours and an absurdly competitive game of Game of Thrones themed Risk. The game had indeed been a bloodbath, though neither of them had emerged as the victor. As is so often the case, Shane and Ilya had been laser focused on beating each other, which had allowed Yuna to hand them both a shocking and embarrassing defeat.

"I mean, the trade to Ottawa is all but finalized," Shane says in his thinking out loud voice, his blunt fingernails scratching absentmindedly over Ilya's back. "It's going to get reported, what, week after next at the latest? I think people are definitely going to notice that."

"You think everyone will say 'Wow. Shane Hollander has joined best up and coming hockey team that knocked his team out of playoffs this year. Must be because he is fucking the captain'?"

Shane laughs. "Probably not, but I think they might say something."

Ilya sighs, still unsure where Shane is going with this, if anywhere. "So? What is plan?"

"I don't have one, really," Shane says. Ilya gasps, rolling onto his back so he can clutch his chest in mock-horror, and Shane smacks his arm. "Shut up. I just mean… everyone we care about knowing already knows, we're getting married in less than three weeks. We can probably, like… stop being so careful?"

Ilya considers this, trying not to let the little spark of hope in his chest burn too brightly. "Like what? I can change your name in my phone to Shane?"

"I was thinking something a little less subtle."

"Like?"

Shane tucks his arm behind his pillow, propping his head up so he can look down at Ilya where he's laying across him. "Like what are you doing tomorrow night?"

Ilya shrugs. "Destroying you at Mario Kart, probably."

"Well, maybe you could let me take you out to dinner first?"

The question hangs in the air between them for several seconds, Ilya waiting for Shane to somehow walk back the suggestion, to say that wasn't what he meant. But he doesn't. Time ticks by, and Ilya realizes belatedly that he hasn't given an answer.

"Unless…you don't want to?" Shane continues, his tone suddenly dejected, and Ilya manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"Of course I want to," Ilya assures him hurriedly. "I just… that would be okay?"

Shane smiles down at him, just as heartbreakingly beautiful as the first time Ilya laid eyes on him. In a freezing, bleak parking lot in Saskatchewan that had suddenly been graced by the sun.

"About time I take you on a proper date," Shane teases. "Might get you to finally put out."

Shane is probably expecting some sort of snarky retort to that, but instead he lets out a low groan as he's flattened by all six feet of Ilya Rozanov. Ilya loudly kisses every inch of his face he can reach, until Shane is laughing and half-heartedly trying to push him away.

"A real date," Ilya muses between kisses. "Should I bring you flowers? Pick you up on my Ducati?"

"Your Ducati is two hours away."

Ilya waves a hand, dismissing the argument. "I will get you on it eventually. Condition of marrying me."

"I'm having second thoughts."

Ilya kicks Shane's foot under the blankets, leading to a small scuffle before Shane is able to pin him down at the ankle. Before he gets the chance to gloat over the small victory, Ilya asks, "Was that a yes to flowers, then?"

"I like lilies," Shane says, pushing back Ilya's unruly curls where they've fallen across his forehead.

"I know you do."

Ilya feels hot under his skin, buzzing at the prospect of a real date with Shane. He's almost giddy with excitement, but even that isn't enough to negate the last decade of practiced paranoia.

"There might be pictures," he says, voicing the concern not to deter Shane, but in hopes that Shane might soothe it for him.

"There might be," Shane agrees. "Would you mind, if there were?"

Ilya thinks it over for a long moment, attempting to silence the ever-present voice in the back of his mind. The one that's been there since he was a teenager, and first realized that he noticed other boys in a way that boys weren't supposed to. Weren't allowed to. The one that, even now, warns him to tread carefully, to keep that part of himself hidden behind anonymous hookups and locked bedroom doors.

He and Shane have spoken a few times about Ilya making one final trip to Russia, before that becomes impossible. So he can visit his mother's grave one last time. Shane had been supportive, if terrified by the prospect of Ilya taking that risk. He'd even offered to accompany him, which was a terrible idea for about a hundred reasons, but ultimately Ilya had decided against it. The thought of visiting her grave no longer brings him comfort, as it once had when he was a child. She had never belonged there, in that cold, awful place, lying beneath the ornate headstone she would have despised. The most expensive slab of rock his father's money could buy, identifying her only as a loving wife and mother, as if that was all she was. Not a beautiful singer, or a terrible cook, or the funniest person Ilya had ever known. Not his favorite person, his best friend.

She's not there, under the frozen ground, and she never has been. She's with Ilya. In everything he is, and everything he does.

"No," Ilya says finally. "I would not mind."

Chapter End Notes

No chairs at the wedding was an affront to me, personally, and I'm still not over it

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Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Ilya wakes late in the morning, sunlight already pouring in through the gaps in the curtains. Usually that would mean Shane is already long gone, out for a run or doing yoga before Ilya is awake to tease him about it. But this morning is especially gratifying in that Shane is still in bed beside him, breathing evenly in sleep. Ilya wonders how late he stayed up, thinking through every possible what-if scenario. He wonders if now, in the light of day, Shane will have changed his mind. Ilya prepares for this, tells himself he won't be angry with Shane if that's the case. Disappointed, maybe, but really, it had been a terrible idea, and—

"Good morning," Shane murmurs, stretching where he's laid out halfway beneath Ilya. His eyes are unfocused and dim with sleep as he pulls Ilya in closer, arms tight around his back.

"You slept in," Ilya observes.

Shane glances at the clock, squinting to read it without the benefit of his glasses. "Oops."

Ilya hums, making no move to free him from the bed. "What's first on agenda? Long run where I beat you, or long swim where I beat you?"

Shane chuckles, tugging at Ilya's curls. "No time. I need a haircut."

Ilya frowns, displeased both at the prospect of Shane cutting his hair, and that he might ever actually have to leave their bed. "Do tomorrow."

"Can't. I have a date tonight I have to look good for."

Relief washes over Ilya like a balm. Something of it must show on his face, because Shane smiles knowingly at him.

"Thought I would change my mind?"

"Maybe," Ilya says, aiming for nonchalance. Not that it matters — Shane can read him much too well.

"I won't," Shane whispers, his lips brushing over Ilya's forehead. "Not about this, and not about you."

Ilya considers making some kind of quip about that being part of what marriage usually entails, but there's a lump in his throat he can't quite swallow down to get the words out.

Shane allows Ilya to keep him in bed for a good half hour before he complains that he really needs to get up. Ilya has decided he's not doing anything at all this morning, so he stays in bed, propped up against the pillows as he watches Shane search for something to wear.

"Where will we go for dinner?" Ilya asks, watching Shane in the closet as he decides between two nearly identical black shirts.

"There's a nice French restaurant the next town over," Shane says, grinning at Ilya over his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll read you the menu."

"I know plenty of French," Ilya lies. "Besides, is a date. You order for me."

"How traditional."

"Is a test. You will be graded."

Shane shakes his head, an amused smile playing on his lips as he finally chooses a shirt and tosses it on the bed. "Should I pick your outfit for you, too?"

"Kinky."

"Just want to make sure you look good in the pictures," Shane says casually, as if the prospect of being photographed together in public doesn't terrify him. Maybe it doesn't anymore, or maybe some stronger desire has just won out over the fear.

"And what if you get another call from your good friend Roger Crowell?" Ilya asks tentatively, the loudest of the concerns that had occurred to him in the quiet minutes before Shane had woken. The plan they had worked out with Farah had always relied on their coming out with a definitive, public statement. That way, the league would have to think twice about the optics of any punitive measures taken against them. But if they let this thing come out in bits and pieces, through rumor and speculation, they lose that protection.

Shane shrugs, sifting through the basket of clean laundry Ilya never got around to finishing with, in search of a matching pair of socks. "New York is a long way away, maybe he won't even hear about it. Besides, I don't think Wiebe will be on board with benching us."

Ilya can't disagree with that. Given that Wiebe's first question, after Ilya had told him he was engaged to Shane Hollander, had been when is the wedding?, and the second was do you think Hollander would be interested in coming to Ottawa?, Ilya is sure their coach is firmly on their side.

"And Farah has a statement all prepared that we can put out anytime we want," Shane continues, his tone casual, as if they're discussing something as inconsequential as the weather, and not the complete and total upheaval of their lives. Although — is it really all that monumental anymore? Shane is right — everyone they really care about telling already knows, so what do a few hundred thousand nameless, faceless people on the internet really matter?

Shane smirks, exhaling a soft laugh. He's beside the bed now, clothes laid out atop the blankets Ilya is still stretched out under as he checks his phone. Ilya sticks a foot out from the warm cocoon of bedding, poking Shane's thigh with a toe. "What?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking — if we were really trying to piss off Crowell, we should have just sent him an invitation to the wedding."

Ilya's mouth drops open, cold horror sweeping over him at this egregious oversight — how could he not have thought of this before?!

"Can we still?!" Ilya doesn't wait for an answer, already hastily kicking off the blankets, upsetting Shane's clothes as he leaps out of bed. "I have extras in the closet! What is his address? Stop laughing, Hollander, this is important!"

---

Bleacher Report:

Ottawa's Ilya Rozanov Photographed in Québec Restaurant with Montreal Captain Shane Hollander

Ottawa Captain Ilya Rozanov was spotted in public for the first time today after suffering a season-ending concussion in May. Proof of his recovery is surely a relief to Ottawa's fan-base, but the surprising details of his return to public life will likely leave many scratching their heads.

Rozanov and Hollander were seen today in Saint-Michel-des-Saints, reportedly sharing an amicable meal not far from where Shane Hollander is known to own a remote summer home. It appears the two rivals-turned-friends have been able to set aside Montreal's recent playoff loss to the Centaurs, and are enjoying a much needed summer respite ahead of their upcoming charity hockey camps.

Montreal was heavily favored to steamroll Ottawa in the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs last month, but the Centaurs managed to shock sports fans everywhere, advancing after a thrilling seven-game series before eventually losing to Scott Hunter's New York Admirals…

(Read More)

kaz @shaneageurs
noooo shane don't fraternize with the enemy

chels @shanehollers
i keep forgetting they're like….actually friends? they look so cute in these pics tho

hollzee @champayneproblems
replying to @shanehollers
right?? look at roz cheesing

chels @shanehollers
replying to @champayneproblems
no one can resist the charm of that goofy little canadian angel

cj🦇 @themontrealcentaurs
hollander-rozanov bromance is my superbowl actually

court ✨ @chiron4president
replying to @themontrealcentaurs
cj. you can't have that handle. baby. they'll kill you.

Shane's Ginger Ale @hollanville
[Image Description: grainy, zoomed-in screenshot of a photo from the article, appearing to show Ilya Rozanov's hand on Shane Hollander's back as they exit the restaurant]
is that…what i think it is??? explain???

argyle @i-suggest-hollanov
replying to @hollanville
i have a suggestion

in mourning 💐 @paydenhike
replying to @hollanville @i-suggest-hollanov
shocking

pike's #1 opp @hollanovtruther
replying to @hollanville @i-suggest-hollanov @paydenhike
girl (gn) you're speaking my language

kjay | spn rw s3 @hologrammar
replying to @hollanville @i-suggest-hollanov @paydenhike @hollanovtruther
oh my god you people are fucking delusional. are we seriously saying it's gay now to…what? possibly touch your friend on the back as they walk by you? no wonder there's a male loneliness epidemic. touch grass. y'all are insane.

Ilya can't remember a time he's ever felt quite so light inside. Like he's at risk of floating away when they return from their very first, very public date. Maybe it's silly, to be as affected as he is over something as simple as dinner when they're just a few weeks away from being married. But it's not really all that simple, is it? It hadn't been just dinner, it had been… everything. Everything he's wanted and waited years for. Shane across the small table, sharing smiles and a bottle of wine, their ankles pressed together under the table.

They kept it very PG — no kissing or hand holding, nothing that was really even out of the realm of possibility for just two friends sharing a meal. But there had been candles and good food that Shane had, in fact, ordered for him in flawless French. And Shane had looked so good in his dark button down, blushing so sweetly when Ilya told him how beautiful he was. He had accepted the compliment without even glancing around nervously to see if anyone had overheard, and Ilya had been this close to knocking the table aside and crawling into his lap.

All in all, it had been a very nice dinner.

By the time Ilya finishes showing Shane exactly how much he appreciated the night out, and the two of them are showered and collapsed on freshly changed sheets, they're both trending on Twitter.

Ilya pulls up the article, reading it aloud to Shane, who's still a little dazed after the three orgasms Ilya had wrung out of him. It's fairly innocuous, just a quick paragraph stating that they were photographed having dinner together at a restaurant near where Shane is known to own property. It goes on to speculate that Ilya might be visiting Shane at his home in Québec, before devolving into a recitation of their hockey credentials and a timeline of their friendship.

The article itself is bland and boring, but the pictures are of much more interest to Ilya. Even now, after so many years, he still doesn't have too many pictures of the two of them together. Most of the ones he does have are stiff and posed, from games and award shows and camps where they had to pretend like they were just acquaintances. Maybe friends, at best. But these…

Ilya is starting to think Hayden Pike may have undersold it when he said Ilya looks at Shane with heart eyes. The carousel of photos accompanying the article automatically cycles to a new image every few seconds or so, and Ilya looks completely besotted in every single one. Shane isn't much better, his eyes are bright and he's wearing that silly little lopsided grin that never fails to make Ilya's heart race.

Other than their love-struck expressions, the photos are innocent enough. There are a few of the two of them at their table, talking and laughing over their meal. The stealthy photographer had luckily missed the moment when Ilya had asked Shane how his food was and, as usual, instead of answering, Shane had just offered him a bite. As he always does in the privacy of their own home, Ilya had taken it without thinking how it might look that Shane Hollander was literally feeding him in public. The photographer had, however, managed to catch the moment where Ilya had opened the door for Shane, his hand resting on the small of Shane's back for the briefest of moments, now memorialized forever on some sports gossip Twitter account.

"What do the comments say?" Shane asks once Ilya has saved the pictures to his phone and closed the article.

"Do you want to know?"

"No. Yes? I don't know," Shane sighs, turning his face into Ilya's shoulder. "Give me the highlights."

Ilya scrolls through the most popular comments, seeing similar sentiments expressed amongst most of them. "They say how cute that we are friends. And that the Centaurs are best team in the league. Much better than the Voyageurs."

"Well, they are now," Shane says, and Ilya pokes him in the side in retaliation.

"No one knows that yet. They just know I am the best."

"Sure."

Ilya reads over a few more comments. "This person says you are very sexy and they want to have your babies. Should I retweet that?"

"That would certainly send a message."

"Would not be true, though. I want you to have my babies," Ilya says, earning himself an annoyed nip on his shoulder from Shane. He hisses dramatically, though it hadn't hurt in the slightest, then holds out his phone to Shane, pointing to an unfamiliar word he's seen repeated several times in the comments. "What is this word?"

Shane takes the phone from him, holding it closer so he can read it, his glasses discarded somewhere on the nightstand in the midst of the marathon post-date sex. "It's bromance," he explains. "It's like when two guys are really good friends. It's a portmanteau."

"A what?"

"Like a word that's two other words. Like breakfast and lunch is brunch, bros and romance is bromance."

"Ah, yes," Ilya says, taking the phone back and tossing it somewhere behind him on the bed. "My bro, Shane Hollander."

Shane wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Please never say that again."

"I like it. Cannot just say we are friends, have to make up silly fake word," Ilya says, already forgetting the fancy name for it that Shane just told him. "English is very stupid."

"You're one to talk."

Ilya slaps at his chest. "Hush your stupid English mouth. Russian is perfect language. You just don't like it because you are bad at it."

"I am the best at Russian," Shane says in a terrible imitation of Ilya's accent.

The two of them dissolve into laughter, warm and comfortable in their bed. Outside this room, maybe people are seeing the photos of them from tonight and drawing conclusions. Maybe they're fascinated by their rivalry-turned-friendship. Maybe they're disgusted and are calling them terrible, hateful things online. Or maybe they don't care at all, and aren't giving them a second thought once they've scrolled past the article.

Ilya can't really bring himself to care either way. Here, curled up together in the safest place he's ever known, the rest of the world seems a million miles away. None of it feels real to him. There may as well be nothing else in the entire universe except Shane's bright laugh, and the smell of his warm skin.

---

Over the next few weeks, the two of them are spotted in public together a couple more times. Once at a coffee shop, Ilya looking as grumpy as Shane has ever seen him as he waits for a much needed caffeine infusion. And once at a flower shop, hastily ordering several bouquets for the wedding — a chore they had forgotten about until it was much too late, but Ilya had managed to talk the florist into putting a rush on their order with some sweet words and a small fortune in bribes.

The second outing in particular seems to confound the internet — what on earth are Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov doing together, buying flowers in Lanaudière? A rumor emerges that Ilya may be dating the sister of one of Shane's Montreal teammates, and by the following afternoon, the rumor seems to have become fact. Several more articles are published by some of the less reputable sources of hockey gossip, speculating as to which Voyageur might soon be calling Ilya Rozanov brother-in-law.

Shane watches this unfold across Instagram and Twitter with equal parts confusion and annoyance. He finds himself thinking of that old adage, about hearing hoof beats and thinking Zebras — apparently, the internet hears two men are shopping for wedding bouquets together and invents a nameless, faceless woman from mid-air. He has no real reason to be as annoyed as he is — it's not like they've done anything to clarify the situation. Shane barely has one toe out of the closet, and the world still thinks Ilya is the womanizing, straight man he has always presented himself as. But still, he had thought more people would have worked it out by now.

"I think we tried too hard," Ilya says from the opposite end of the couch, probably scrolling through the same articles as Shane. "Was easier to keep secret than we thought. I could have fucked you on center ice, and everyone would say aww, I love their…what is word again?"

"Bromance?"

"Yes. That."

"I don't think public sex is part of the typical bromance arrangement."

"Boring," Ilya says, pushing against Shane's foot with his own until Shane gives him his full attention. "Last night in empty house."

It's true — they're picking the girls up from the airport first thing in the morning. They'll have a couple of days alone with them before the rest of the guests start to roll in. An alarming number of which, upon receiving Shane's carefully researched list of nearby hotels, had responded with that's okay, we'll just stay with you. He thinks it can mostly be blamed on Troy Barrett, who apparently started telling everyone who would listen that the night before the wedding was a mandatory team sleepover. Which means their living room floor is going to be taken over by a bunch of terrified, gullible rookies.

"I lost you," Ilya says, sitting up and crawling across the couch until he's looming over Shane. "Are you worried we need to buy more pillows and blankets again?"

"How many total people do you think—"

Ilya cuts him off with a kiss, slow and deep and filthy enough that Shane forgets to worry about anything that isn't Ilya's mouth on his, or his warm hands sneaking up under the hem of Shane's shirt.

---

Half an hour later, still breathing heavily on the newly stained couch cushions, he remembers to worry again.

"Hollander. Are you really ordering more air mattresses right now?"

"Maybe."

---

The traffic outside the Ottawa airport is never ending. It's gridlock on the road that encircles the terminal, cars moving at approximately one foot per hour. Shane drums his fingers on the steering wheel, absently bouncing his left leg until Ilya stills him with a gentle hand on the back of his neck.

"Is okay," Ilya assures him. "We are here early. And even if we are late, it does not matter. They will just drink coffee and gossip about us."

Shane wants to argue that of course it matters if they're late, but really, it doesn't. It's just the years of hockey coaches punishing tardiness with bag skates, and even more years of living with his mother that make his skin crawl at the mere thought of being late. He's pretty sure Rose isn't going to tell him to drop and give her a hundred push-ups for every minute he's late.

Svetlana might, though.

Shane's phone, discarded in one of the cup holders when Ilya decided his playlists weren't sufficient for the drive, buzzes loudly with an incoming text. Then another. Then another.

"I think Rose landed," Shane says, too intent on attempting to shift lanes to check. She's the only person he knows who texts like that — one sentence per message, often sending him a dozen messages at a time to get her entire point across. But as he finally manages to merge into the lane that leads to the short-term parking lot, his phone doesn't stop vibrating. And something is wrong about the pattern — just one short burst, instead of the two longer ones that signal a text message.

Shane tries to reach for the phone, but Ilya beats him to it. He thumbs the screen, scrolling through the notifications for a moment before his eyebrows shoot up.

"What?" Shane asks, jerking them to a stop as he notices a little late how close they are to the SUV in front of them.

Ilya continues tapping away at Shane's phone, doing god knows what. "I think the trade has gone public."

---

ESPN ✅ @ESPN

BREAKING: Anonymous inside source reports Shane Hollander has signed to the Ottawa Centaurs (full article at espn.com)

kaz @shaneageurs
oh we are so fucked

rip voyageurs @montrealunoffical
FUCK

kaz @shaneageurs
replying to @montrealunofficial
your user is too real now

rip voyageurs @montrealunoffical
replying to @shaneageurs
IT WAS ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT THE PLAYOFFS. I NEVER WANTED THIS.

kaz @shaneageurs
replying to @montrealunofficial
something something apollo's dodgeball of prophecy

chels @shanehollers
hollzy joining the gayest team in the league….okay….sure

cj🦇 @themontrealcentaurs
replying to @shanehollers
now we just have to get scott hunter off the admirals

admirals 2k21 🏆 @itsmeyagirl
replying to @shanehollers @themontrealcentaurs
don't even put that out in the universe

argyle @i-suggest-hollanov
the ottawa centaurs huh… i wonder who else plays for that team

pike's #1 opp @hollanovtruther
replying to @i-suggest-hollanov
and if i speak!!

in mourning 💐 @paydenhike
replying to @i-suggest-hollanov @hollanovtruther
you're literally never not talking

NHL Follow Tracker✅ @NHLFollowTrack

shanehollander24 (Shane Hollander) started following 0 and unfollowed 4:
❌ gilcomeau (Gilbert Comeau)
❌ mv_drapeau (Patrice Drapeau)
❌ rrenaudhockey (Ryan Renaud)
❌ Montreal Voyageurs (mtlvoyageursofficial)

REALLY in mourning 💐 @paydenhike
replying to @NHLFollowTrack
oh my sweet summer child

chels @shanehollers
replying to @NHLFollowTrack @paydenhike
waiting to unfollow until the news went public is so hilariously shane hollander. never change king

REALLY in mourning 💐 @paydenhike
replying to @NHLFollowTrack @shanehollers
Yuna Hollander really raised the goodest good boy in all of Canada

REALLY in mourning 💐 @paydenhike
replying to @NHLFollowTrack @shanehollers
holy shit i didn't get a screenshot in time but you guys i swear ilya rozanov liked that tweet for like half a second

chels @shanehollers
replying to @NHLFollowTrack @paydenhike

---

Shane had done too good of a job cleaning out his car in anticipation of picking up Rose and Sveta, which means neither he nor Ilya are able to locate a spare baseball cap before they hear the first too-loud call of is that Shane Hollander?

"Do you want to stay in the car?" Ilya asks, glancing nervously over Shane's shoulder at what Shane sincerely hopes is just a fan or two, and not a gathering crowd.

"It's fine," he says, rolling his shoulders and wondering if he actually means it.

"Do you want me to stay in the car?"

The idea of leaving Ilya behind — ever, but especially right now — feels wrong to him. So even though it's probably the wise choice, a way to avoid even more people wanting to take their picture, Shane shakes his head.

"Of course not," he says, his fingers encircling Ilya's wrist, squeezing once before letting him go. "It'll be fine. I'm sure not that many people will even notice us."

---

Every single person who has ever seen a hockey game seems to be at the Ottawa airport today, and they all recognize Shane and Ilya.

Usually when Shane is in public for some mundane reason not related to hockey, people are at least discreet about the fact that they're taking pictures of him. Shane can still usually tell — the awkwardly positioned phone, the hunched shoulders and intense expressions always giving them away. But today, people aren't even bothering to pretend to hide it. Every which way he looks, phones are being pulled out of pockets and backpacks, pictures taken with flashes and audible shutter sounds.

"And we haven't even found Rose yet," Shane grumbles, making Ilya's practiced, unapproachable expression falter for a moment, the corner of his mouth curving briefly into a grin.

Buried in the never-ending Twitter and Instagram notifications, Shane had found a few messages from Rose, letting him know first that she had landed, and then that she had found Svetlana, and then that they were stopping for coffee just past baggage claim. They walk quickly through the check in area, dodging other passengers and attempting to keep a pace that will dissuade anyone from actually trying to stop them.

Shane doesn't miss the way Ilya walks tight to his side, half a step in front of him. He's in protector mode, the same way he used to get when he and Hayden were in the same room — like he was daring him to say something disparaging about Shane, to see what would happen if he did. Shane isn't quite sure what Ilya thinks he needs protection from, given that Shane is just as strong and physically imposing. Plus, they're in Ottawa. Surely Centaurs fans should be happy about the trade?

He certainly hopes so, anyway.

Shane forces himself to resist the urge to reach out and take Ilya's hand, to tangle their fingers together and reassure him that he's right here with him, safe and sound. The temptation is so strong he curls his hands into fists, tucking them into the pockets of his jacket. As a compromise, he bumps his elbow against Ilya's lightly, making the other man look back at him. Something softens in his eyes, tiny lines appearing at their corners, the barest hint that he's no longer the cocky seventeen year old Shane couldn't resist seeking out in a deserted parking lot.

He's never told Ilya this, but he'd spent that entire day watching him, eyes constantly drawn to him across a crowded rink. Ilya had driven him to distraction, so much so that even his teammates had commented on it, wondering aloud what was wrong with the great Shane Hollander, who was usually annoyingly laser focused. And he had been laser focused, to be fair — just… not on hockey.

From the stands across the rink he'd seen Ilya slip down a service hallway while glancing over his shoulder, making sure he was alone. It was too good of an opportunity for Shane to pass up, so he'd made his excuses to his teammates, abandoned his half-packed bag of gear, and followed after him.

Thirteen years have passed, and he still hasn't stopped.

"There they are," Ilya says, catching Shane by the elbow before he can speed past the cafe, lost in his reverie. Sure enough, Sveta and Rose are waving to them, seated across a small table from each other, each with a coffee in hand and way too many suitcases piled around them.

"Hello, I love you, we have to go," Ilya says succinctly, kissing the crown of Sveta's head in greeting. Shane is already gathering Rose's things, ignoring the three women at the table next to them, who are all nudging each other and staring in their direction.

"What is happening?" Sveta asks no one in particular.

"Oh, shit," Rose mutters, clocking a small group of people starting to gather near the entrance.

Sveta follows her gaze, coming to a slightly wrong conclusion. "Hazards of traveling with a movie star."

Shane grimaces. "Unfortunately, I think this is at least partially about me."

"You know Shane," Ilya says, taking Sveta's backpack from her hand and looping the straps over his own shoulders. "He is so jealous when paparazzi take pictures only of Rose, so he decided to leak his trade to Ottawa today."

"Yes, of course," Shane deadpans, dropping a hand to Rose's back and leading her out of the cafe, the two of them falling in step behind Ilya and Sveta. "That's me, always looking for more media attention."

They make it through the small throng at the entrance, Ilya using Svetlana's oversized roller bag as more of a battering ram than a suitcase. People back away, grumbling as they rub at freshly bruised ankles, and they take advantage, pushing through the gap.

"I'm so sorry about this," Shane says, finding himself next to Svetlana. "I know you're not used to all this."

Sveta smirks at him, a mirror image of the expression Shane is so familiar with on Ilya's face. "Good thing I look hot today."

"You always look hot," Rose says, offering Sveta her arm.

Sveta hums in agreement, winking at Rose as she links their arms together. "Move over, boys. You are ruining our glamour shots."

The pair walk along ahead of them, speaking to each other in hushed tones, and Ilya digs his elbow into Shane's ribcage.

"You see? I tell you."

Shane rolls his eyes. "They've been in the same room exactly twice before today. I don't think they're madly in love."

"They will be," Ilya says sagely, tapping his temple with a finger. "I always know these things."

"You do not."

"I predicted every single gay hockey player before they came out!"

"Not Scott Hunter."

Ilya scoffs. "Because Hunter is too boring. When we are not on the ice with him, I forget he exists."

Shane doesn't even bother pointing out how wildly untrue that statement is. "I don't believe you knew about all of them."

"Ask them!"

Shane gives his fiancé an incredulous look. "You told them you knew they were gay?!"

"Of course not. I got them all alone in showers and then I—"

"Alright," Shane interrupts, shoving Ilya away from him. Ilya laughs, loud and bright, and Shane wants to kiss him right there, in the middle of international baggage claim. If he couldn't actively feel the heat of dozens of pairs of eyes on him, he probably would.

Ilya seems to realize in the same moment that they're still surrounded, his posture becoming subconsciously defensive once again. His eyes scan back and forth, watching for anyone brave or stupid enough to get too close to their little posse. Shane is grateful that Rose and Sveta had decided to fly into Ottawa — most everyone here is keeping their distance, but he has a feeling it would be a completely different story in Montreal.

No sooner does Shane have that thought then he feels a hand close around his upper arm. He jerks away instinctively, a lifetime of hockey conditioning him to never let himself be pinned.

"What the fuck, Hollander?"

The words are so filled with venom Shane is half expecting to come face to face with one of his former teammates, but it's just a stranger in a Voyageurs t-shirt. His eyes look a little glassy, like maybe he's been drinking away the lonely hours of a flight delay. He can't be more than twenty, filled with the kind of youthful brashness that tends to fade with age, making him bold enough to grab a professional athlete that has six inches and fifty pounds on him. And that's not even to mention—

Before Shane can even begin to think of a response, Ilya is there. He steps neatly between Shane and the other man, effectively shielding Shane with his body. Which is stupid — this kid couldn't be less of a threat to Shane if he tried, but Shane certainly isn't going to tell Ilya that, lest he get his own head bitten off in the process.

"Back off," Ilya says quietly, though his tone is icy enough to bring even Shane up short. He can only see Ilya's side profile, but even from this angle he looks fucking terrifying. The tension in his shoulders, the sharp cut of his jaw, the blazing heat in his eyes.

The Voyageurs fan shrinks back as if Ilya had slapped him, taking a few stumbling steps before regaining his composure and quickly disappearing into the crowd. Ilya watches him go, one hand extended halfway behind his back, fingers outstretched, as if he had started to reach for Shane before thinking better of it. He's still standing sentinel when the girls reappear, looping back once they realized Shane and Ilya were no longer following. Rose shoots a curious glance at Shane, who shakes his head minutely.

"Come on," Sveta says, linking her free arm with Shane's. "I am excited to see this cottage I have heard so much about."

The sound of her voice startles Ilya back into motion, and he walks a few steps ahead of them the rest of the way to the car. Shane can't see his face, but judging by the distance the nosy passengers are suddenly giving them, it probably isn't too friendly.

At the car, Shane sweating a little with the effort of cramming their bags into the trunk, Ilya tries to offer Rose the front seat. Sveta loudly declines on her behalf, insisting she wants to hear the rest of Rose's story. The two girls settle themselves in the back, Rose continuing to regale her with tales of the terribly pretentious film she just finished shooting. Shane has already heard about it at length — Rose had called him most mornings from hair and make up to complain about what a narcissistic douchebag her co-star, Adrian Dela Cruz, was.

"It's not just that he's a fucking prick," Rose is saying now. "It's that he can't even fucking act!"

Shane lets her voice and Sveta's answering laughter fade into calming background noise as he pulls out of the parking garage and back into the traffic loop. Traffic has cleared somewhat, but it's still slow going, their desired exit clear on the opposite side of the airport.

Shane glances at Ilya out of the corner of his eye, cataloguing the tightness of his jaw, his ramrod straight posture, his hands balled into fists in his lap. He's not even attempting to join in the conversation, which is strange — he usually delights in Rose's Adrian Dela Cruz bashing, though Shane isn't quite sure why. Instead, he just stares straight out the windshield, his eyes not really seeing.

Shane reaches out, brushing his fingertips over the back of Ilya's hand, feeling the taut muscles relax minutely under his touch. Ilya lets out a harsh breath, finally turning to look at him, and Shane gives him a small smile.

"It's okay," Shane tries to assure him, keeping his voice low enough that their friends won't hear. "We're okay."

Ilya nods jerkily, though he doesn't look like he means it. He rolls his shoulders a little, though very little tension seems to actually leave his body. Shane pulls his hand away from Ilya's, laying it instead on Ilya's thigh, palm up, fingers outstretched, and waits. Ilya stares at it for a long moment before finally unfurling his fingers, like the straightening of each knuckle costs him something. He slides his hand into Shane's, tangling their fingers together as Shane pulls onto the entrance ramp, merging onto the highway that will take them home.

Behind them, Rose and Sveta burst out laughing over something Rose has pulled up on her phone. Ilya closes his eyes, letting his head tip back against the backrest, something like a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Shane watches him more than he should, given that he's driving, but he can't help it. He watches the tension slowly melt away as the miles roll by, Ilya's hand still in his, and doesn't mind that he's holding on too tight.

---

Ottawa Centaurs ✅ @OttawaCentaurs

Shane Hollander is coming home!

We are thrilled to officially announce that the three-time Stanley Cup winning Center is returning to his hometown, and suiting up with the Centaurs this fall! Make sure to tune in this October, hockey fans! It's going to be one for the books.

Ilya Rozanov ✅ @rozanov81 🔁 Ottawa Centaurs ✅ @OttawaCentaurs

Shane Hollander ✅ @shanehollander24 🔁 Ottawa Centaurs ✅ @OttawaCentaurs

Troy Barrett ✅ @tbarrettofficial 🔁 Ottawa Centaurs ✅ @OttawaCentaurs

Harris Drover 🍎 @harrisdrover17 🔁 Ottawa Centaurs ✅ @OttawaCentaurs

Luca Haas ✅ @lucahaasnhl 🔁 Ottawa Centaurs ✅ @OttawaCentaurs

(+14 more)

Chapter End Notes

Nothing like surprise ao3 downtime to keep you on your toes!

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Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Page Six:

X-Squad Star Rose Landry Spotted at Ottawa Airport with NHL Ex Shane Hollander

Could love once again be in the air?

Rose Landry was photographed in Ottawa early yesterday morning with NHL-star and former beau Shane Hollander. The two were also accompanied by Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, Ilya Rozanov, and an unnamed, mystery woman. With rumors flying recently that wedding bells might soon be ringing for Ilya Rozanov, could this be the lucky lady who has finally tied down the NHL's most notorious playboy?

Speculation arose earlier this month that terminal bachelor Rozanov might be engaged to someone tied to the Montreal Voyageurs organization. Rozanov and Hollander, former rivals turned unlikely friends, have been photographed together several times in the last few weeks, which has only been fanning the flames. But another shocking twist in this already compelling saga was revealed just before the star-studded foursome was sighted…

Shane Hollander, who has led the Montreal Voyageurs to three Stanley Cup victories during his tenure, has been traded to the Ottawa Centaurs.

The trade deal was leaked by an as-yet unnamed, inside source early yesterday morning, before being officially confirmed by the Centaurs later in the day via social media. This trade has come as a shock to many, and seems to be yet another devastating blow to the Montreal Voyageurs, who recently lost to Ottawa in a heartbreaking 7-game playoff series.

Is Shane Hollander jumping a sinking ship in Montreal? Is he abandoning his former team in favor of the one that knocked him out of playoff contention this year, perhaps at the urging of his on-again, off-again movie star girlfriend? And how does Ilya Rozanov's mystery partner, likely the woman pictured with him here, fit into all this? Many questions remain, but we know one thing for sure — it's going to be an interesting fall in Ottawa!

(You May Also Like)

cj🦇 @themontrealcentaurs
hollander-rozanov bromance alive and well 💕

argyle @i-suggest-hollanov
replying to @themontrealcentaurs
or....

cj🦇 @themontrealcentaurs
replying to @i-suggest-hollanov
it's 7am. don't piss me off.

court ✨ @chiron4president
so rozanov is hollander's new teammate and bestie do we think hayden pike is seething with jealously rn or??

Ilya Rozanov ✅ @rozanov81
replying to @chiron4president
@haydenpike yes?

NHL Follow Tracker✅ @NHLFollowTrack
haydenpike (Hayden Pike) started following 0 and unfollowed 1:
❌ rozanov81 (Ilya Rozanov)

Ilya Rozanov ✅ @rozanov81 🔁 NHL Follow Tracker ✅ @NHLFollowTrack

REALLY in mourning 💐 @paydenhike
this is literally psychological warfare

Hayden Pike ✅ @haydenpike 🔁 REALLY in mourning 💐 @paydenhike

ilya's favorite voyageur @pikanovstan
cathedrals everywhere for those with eyes to see 👀

cj🦇 @themontrealcentaurs
replying to @pikanovstan
NOT YOU TOO

"Stop harassing Hayden," Shane says, startling Ilya and causing him to drop his phone into the footwell of the passenger seat.

"I was not," Ilya grumbles, groping around his feet for the device.

"You were. You always make that face when you're chirping him."

"I am not chirping!" Ilya insists. "I told him his wife is hot! Is not a chirp!"

"He's right, is just the truth," Svetlana pipes up from the backseat. Rose hums in agreement and Ilya shoots a glance at Shane out of the corner of his eye, trying to silently express his I told you so.

Shane purses his lips, clearly still disbelieving, but Ilya is certain he's right about this. The subject of Rose's dating life had come up at dinner the night before, the four of them sharing a couple of bottles of wine on the patio, and giggling over the ridiculous tabloid articles that had popped up everywhere after their little trip to the airport. Shane had asked Rose if she was seeing anyone that would be upset by the article, and there had been a not-insignificant glance at Svetlana before she'd said no.

There's also the fact that, over the last few months, Ilya has heard Rose tell Shane no less than three times that she's given up on dating men. Not that he had picked up on the hint at all.

Poor Shane, as perceptive as a brick. Good thing he has Ilya around to keep him in the loop. If only he'd actually listen to his wise counsel...

Shane seems to feel Ilya's eyes on him, glancing up as he rolls to a stop at a red light, lips curving into a slightly embarrassed smile before he looks away. It's sweet, like sugar on Ilya's tongue, the way he can still make Shane blush under his attention, even after all these years. Lucky for him, because Shane Hollander blushing is a sight he will never be able to get enough of.

Ilya feels a little better this morning, most of the tension in his body leached away by the wine and the company and a night spent holding Shane too tightly in his arms. But he can't deny that what happened at the airport yesterday rattled him.

It was stupid, probably, to have gotten as upset as he did over what really amounted to nothing, but it had shaken him. That split second of awareness that Shane was no longer beside him. The cold rush in his chest when he'd heard someone yell what the fuck, Hollander?!

It had taken the better part of the two hour drive home from the airport for Ilya's blood to stop pounding in his ears, for his tongue to unstick itself from the roof of his mouth. And logically he knew, he knew Shane wasn't and never had been in any real danger. He knows that Shane can more than handle himself. He knows that Shane is just as strong, if not stronger, than Ilya is physically. He doesn't think Shane needs Ilya to protect him from anything, he just…

It's never occurred to him before that their relationship could put Shane at risk in that way. That someone could be so angry that they could just grab him and—

Shane knows, because Shane always knows, that Ilya is starting to spiral again. He drops a hand to his thigh, squeezing once before running his thumb back and forth in soothing, even motions. His fingers are warm, even through the crisp fabric of Ilya's linen pants, and he closes his eyes, allowing his world to narrow down to that single point of contact.

For as long as he can remember, Ilya has always been prone to bouts of manic energy. When he was younger, it made him feel hot under his skin, like he might shake apart with it, and he'd need a drink or a fight or a fuck to take the edge off. But now…

It's no secret to anyone that Shane has Ilya wrapped around his finger. But what only he and, to a lesser extent, Shane, know is that it's always been that way. From the very first day they met. Shane has always been able to settle him, to make everything inside Ilya go quiet with nothing more than a look or a brush of his fingertips.

The first time Ilya touched him, hidden away behind the solid wooden door of a Toronto hotel room, everything had gone perfectly still. Everything inside of him that had been roiling and furious for as long as he could remember had just…stopped. He hadn't even realized, before then, what taking a real breath felt like. And he'd been doomed, in that moment, to spend the rest of his life chasing it.

Luckily, Hollander's a nice guy, so he'd let Ilya catch him after a decade or so.

Ilya tunes back into the conversation in increments, aware of Sveta chirping Shane about some terrible play he'd made in a game years ago. Something probably only the two of them would even be able to remember at this point — his favorite walking, talking hockey encyclopedias. Shane doesn't seem to mind, and Ilya's heart is achingly full as he listens to his fiancé tease his oldest friend right back, completely able to hold his own. Something Ilya probably would take credit for, if he wasn't feeling quite so warm and soft inside at the moment.

"How much farther, Hollander?" Sveta asks, changing tactics at the speed of light the moment she senses she's losing the battle.

"Not far," Shane answers simply, not giving her anything else to go on. Sveta huffs, as painfully curious as Ilya, although probably less amused than he is with how pleased Shane is about the whole thing.

It's another ten minutes before they get off the highway. Ilya joins Sveta in her whining, both of them hoping to irritate information out of Shane, but no such luck. Until finally, finally, they turn onto a dirt road.

"We're here, children," Shane says, pushing down on the gas to get them up the sharp incline ahead of them. Sveta sits forward, resting her arms on the back of Shane's seat as she leans over his shoulder to get a better look.

They crest the small hill, and a wide expanse of fields opens up in front of them. It takes Ilya's brain a moment to produce the English word for them — vineyards. A little further ahead on the dirt and gravel path is a building that looks like a small church, forest green siding over stacked stone and big, rounded doors with inlaid stained glass windows.

"You decided you wanted proper church wedding after all?" Ilya teases. Shane exhales a soft laugh, creases appearing around his eyes as he shakes his head.

"It's not a church."

"What is it?"

Shane pulls to a stop in front of the entrance, putting the car in park. "You'll see."

---

The first time Shane had come across this place, it had been completely by accident.

It had been years earlier, back when Ilya was still playing in Boston, and Shane was counting down the days until his move to Ottawa. On a lonely weekend — Ilya had been in the middle of a long string of games on the west coast, making it hard to even FaceTime, given the time difference — Shane had busied himself with finding a birthday gift for J.J.. His friend has always been easy to buy for, a fan of whisky and wine and the other finer things in life, and Shane had spent a practice-free morning searching for nearby distilleries and wineries, eventually coming across a glowing review for a place not too far outside the city.

Looking back, maybe it had been divine intervention after all.

Shane had only been there for a few minutes, chatting to Kelly, the owner, about the relative merits of a few of the bottles on offer, when he'd been startled by a deep voice, hollering to her in a strange language that was becoming more familiar by the day.

"My husband," she'd said, giving him an apologetic look before shouting something back to him, Shane only managing to catch a couple of words.

"Are you Russian?" Shane had asked, interrupting before she could get them back on the topic of whisky.

Kelly had paused, taken aback by Shane's sudden interest. "My husband is," she said, leaving the unspoken why in the air between them.

"My, uh— my friend is Russian," Shane hurried to explain, hoping his face didn't betray the abject terror he felt at even that minor admission. He and Ilya still were far from even being able to be friends publicly… but Kelly hadn't given any indication that she knew who he was, so maybe it didn't have to be the disaster his brain was warning him it was.

The Russian husband had appeared moments later, the two of them happily telling Shane the story of how they met with very little prompting on his part. Kelly had gone to Moscow for a study abroad program, met a cute bartender who told her all about his dreams of becoming a chef, and never gone back home. Not until half a lifetime later, when her mother had gotten sick, and they'd moved back to take over the family business. Shane had neatly dodged their questions about his 'Russian friend', redirecting the conversation back onto the two of them each time they tried to detour.

He'd left the tasting room that day with far too much whisky for J.J., and a vague, half-formed plan starting to take shape. Something that became a little more concrete each time Ilya complained about the lack of halfway-decent Russian food in Boston and, later, Ottawa. Or when he threatened to ditch his team when they were playing the Admirals, in favor of spending an afternoon in Little Odessa.

Shane had known, even then, that there would come a day when the door to Ilya's homeland would close forever. And when it did it would be, at least in part, because of Shane. Even if he couldn't claim to truly understand it, he knew Ilya's relationship with his country was complicated, to say the least. But he missed Russia, no matter how much he claimed otherwise. Shane could see it sometimes — a flicker of sadness in his eyes when Yuna would tell him stories about Shane's childhood, or a tightness to his smile when Sveta would call him from Moscow to ask if he wanted her to bring him back anything besides vodka.

And so, years had passed, but Shane had never quite forgotten about this place. He'd made a return visit a few weeks after Ilya had said yes to his proposal, his newly purchased ring still an unfamiliar weight on a chain around his neck. He has to bite back a laugh now, remembering the inelegant way he'd tried to dance around the question he'd wanted to ask as Kelly had carefully packed up two bottles of whisky for him. Still referring to Ilya only as a Russian friend of his as they discussed arrangements, but she was much too sharp to be fooled by him.

He'd almost choked on his own tongue when she'd given him a conspiratorial grin and said, "I can't believe I'm going to have Ilya Rozanov here in my tasting room."

Horrified couldn't even begin to cover the way Shane had felt when he realized she knew not only who Ilya was, but more importantly, who Ilya was to Shane, and probably had all along. He'd gone beet red, stammering and unable to form words, but she'd just winked at him, squeezing his hand in silent assurance that their secret was safe with her.

"We should probably get going," Rose murmurs to Shane, careful not to interrupt Kelly and Sveta, who are engaged in a discussion about flavor profiles that is already well beyond Shane's admittedly limited whisky-related knowledge.

Ilya, still hovering close to Shane's side, looks up when she speaks, his eyebrows drawing together slightly, the smallest hint that his concern from the day before hasn't completely dissipated. Shane gestures for Rose to go ahead of him to the car, taking Ilya's hand in his and squeezing gently.

"I'll be fine," Shane says, resisting the urge to add there probably won't be too many Montreal fans in a spa in Rawdon. They're definitely not to the point of being ready to joke about it yet. "Knowing Rose, she probably booked out the entire spa just for us."

Ilya doesn't quite laugh, more like a sharp exhale, but some of the tension in his shoulders settles. "Okay, if you insist on leaving me."

Shane rolls his eyes. "I do. Have to go get pretty for the wedding."

"You are always pretty," Ilya says, pulling Shane to side and pressing a kiss to his temple. It still feels strange, a falling sensation somewhere behind his ribcage, to have Ilya touch him so openly in public, but it's not accompanied by heart-stopping terror anymore. More like nervous excitement at the promise that they get to have this — not just hidden away in hotel rooms and stolen moments, but for the rest of their lives.

By the time Shane makes it to the car, Rose is already in the driver's seat — windows down, sunglasses on, and radio turned up.

"Absolutely not."

"Come on! I never get to drive!"

"That's exactly why not," Shane says, opening her door for her, but she refuses to yield her seat. "Fine. I'll let you drive if you can tell me the French word for stop."

"It will be a big red sign."

"Not good enough. Do you even have a driver's license?"

"You're such a killjoy," she complains as she climbs out, rounding the car and flopping dramatically into the passenger seat.

"So I've been told," Shane says, biting back a grin as he turns down the volume on the radio. He puts the car in gear, executing a tight turn in the narrow mouth of the driveway before tapping one of the presets on the dashboard, switching them over to a talk radio station just to annoy her.

Rose groans loudly, pretending to pull at the door handle. "Take me back! I want to stay with Ilya and Sveta!"

"Too bad."

---

The grand tour of the tiny church-turned-tasting room doesn't take too long, and Sveta is still peppering their host with questions as she leads them outside to an expansive patio off the back of the building. The vineyards stretch to the north and south, row after uniform row of plants already visibly heavy with fruit not yet ready for harvesting. To the east the ground slopes down, wild and untamed, the greenery mixed with patches of wildflowers, leading to a crystalline blue lake in the distance. Everything is such a riot of color that it looks fake, like something out of a painting.

Kelly leaves them to get settled, slipping back inside with a promise to bring them a couple of flights and something to eat, and Ilya turns his attention to his friend.

"Since when do you know so much about whisky?" He asks, slipping back into Russian without giving it too much thought. For Rose's sake, and a bit for Shane's, he's kept conversation to English as much as possible, though it feels more than a little unnatural to speak to Sveta that way.

"I know so much about everything," Sveta retorts, and Ilya grins, inclining his head in agreement.

"I know better than to argue with that."

"Smart man," says a voice behind them.

Says a voice behind them… in Russian?

Ilya and Sveta are like mirror images, both of them whipping around in their chairs, twin expressions of surprise and interest on their faces.

An older man grins back at them, somewhere around Kelly's age, with a kind face and short hair that has long since gone grey. He approaches their table with a tray balanced on one arm — upon closer inspection, Ilya realizes it's heavily laden with syrniki. The real kind, too, with tvorog. Not the ugly flat ones made with cottage cheese that he used to get from the international bakery back in Boston sometimes, when he was missing home more acutely than usual.

The tray is laid in front of them, the still-warm pancakes artfully laid out around small pots of jam. Ilya looks up at Svetlana, only to find her already watching him, both of them too startled to speak. The man takes pity on them, still smiling warmly despite their shocked and probably rude silence.

"It's very nice to meet you."

---

Once they get past the surprise, the four of them get along like old friends, conversation eased with whisky, wine, and enough food for a small army.

The hours pass with no room for silence, everyone reminiscing about the Moscow of Ilya's childhood, when possibilities were endless and the first winter snow always felt like magic. They drink too much, and eat even more. Jakob tells them about his bartending days, the restaurant he'd opened with his wife just days after their wedding, the years they'd spent working all hours of the day and barely scraping by, all without even the slightest hint of regret.

They talk about hockey, of course, and Ilya finds himself unusually self-conscious when Jakob admits that they've been following his career since before he even left Russia. Kelly, a Montreal native is, of course, a Shane Hollander fan, and tells him she felt the urge to pinch herself the first time he'd wandered into her life. Something Ilya can easily relate to.

The three native speakers tease Kelly for her accent, still imperfect even after the decades she spent in Moscow, though it's very, very close. Much more natural than Shane's, though Ilya would never say so. Quips about his well-intentioned but often incorrect pronunciations are for Shane's ears only — even Sveta had learned the hard way that jokes at Shane's expense are only permissible when they're coming from Ilya. And besides, maybe he's not the most objective judge in the world, but he finds Shane's terrible accent incredibly endearing.

At some point, Kelly brings them some golf balls and a club, pointing out a bucket about halfway down the hill with a red flag stuck in the ground behind it. Some long-standing challenge to entertain their drunken guests with the promise of a free top-shelf bottle to anyone who makes the shot. Ilya, who's almost as competitive with Sveta as he is with Shane, goes through half the bucket of balls, not even coming close. Sveta chirps him with every miss, until he eventually hands over the club.

"If it's so easy, then you do it!"

And because Sveta is who she is, she takes the club, gracefully lines up her shot and, on only her second attempt, sinks the ball perfectly in the bucket. Kelly and Jakob cheer, and Ilya shoves her away as she musses up his curls with a hand.

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

Eventually the heat of the afternoon sun, combined with the alarming amount of whisky they've consumed all day becomes a bit much for Kelly, and she retreats to the back office for a bit of quiet and air conditioning. Jakob doesn't mind the two of them hovering in his kitchen, watching intently as he continues to prepare food for them to try, taking requests and sharing tips and old secret family recipes. He makes food like Ilya hasn't tasted in years. Things he had forgotten even existed in the intervening years, taking him straight back to his favorite days growing up. When his father would travel for work, leaving for days at a time and usually taking his brother with him. It was always intended as an insult, leaving Ilya behind with his mother. Yet another way to silently say that Ilya wasn't like them, and didn't belong in their world. That he was better suited to the daily proceedings of mothers and housewives, not those of well respected men.

But in truth, they had thrived without him. Irina would call a taxi to take them to some random corner of the city, and they would spend hours exploring, wandering up and down the streets, visiting every store or cafe that caught their eye until they were too tired to take another step.

He wonders if they ever came across Jakob's restaurant on one of their adventures. Those days all blur together now, their memory hazy with the years, and everything that's happened in between, so he has no idea if they'd ever visited little restaurant proudly displayed in the pictures on the walls around them.

He can picture how it would have been, though. Jakob would have served them with the same kind smile and easy banter. His mother's laughter would have filled the room, bright and booming when she wasn't wearing the mask of perfect society wife. She would have ordered her favorite pelmeni — the measure by which she always judged any restaurant — and offered Ilya the first bite.

What do you think, Ilyusha? Will I like it?

Yes, Mama. I think you would have loved it.

---

Shane ends up enjoying the spa day far more than he would have anticipated. Given the amount of time he spends getting massages and soaking in hot tubs during the season, he hadn't expected it to be all that different, and had mostly just been looking forward to spending time with Rose. But as it turns out, he doesn't mind being pampered. The full body massage had been so relaxing it had nearly put him to sleep, and his skin feels exceptionally soft after his facial. Rose had also managed to talk him into a manicure and pedicure, which had been the right call — he hadn't even realized how disgusting his feet actually were until one of the pedicurists had taken what looked like an industrial cheese grater to his heels.

Rose had also, with Shane's permission, posted a selfie of the two of them to her Instagram story, in matching fluffy robes and mud masks. The picture was, of course, garnering a lot of attention, especially with all the wedding chatter lately.

"You know, you could hire someone to manage stuff like that for you," Rose says as they drive back to collect Ilya and Svetlana, nodding to Shane's phone, which is lighting up in the cup-holder with a near constant stream of Twitter mentions.

"Harris tells Ilya that every day," Shane says, flipping the phone backwards so they won't have to see the notifications continue to pile in. "I think he's just hoping Ilya will hire a professional, and then Cens management won't call him every time Ilya stirs up shit on Twitter anymore."

"Smart man, that Harris," Rose says, offering Shane the cardboard sleeve of fast-food fries she's been munching on. He waves her off, but she shakes the container at him until he relents and takes a few, popping them into his mouth. Given that Ilya and Sveta have been eating and drinking the entire day, Shane had come to the unfortunate conclusion that they were going to have to grab a quick bite somewhere on the way back to the winery. Shane had chosen the healthiest thing on the menu — a sad, wilting salad that really hadn't been all that healthy — and picked away at it while watching Rose demolish three orders of chicken nuggets. He's not quite as strict about the performance diet as he used to be, though, which means he actually enjoys the salty crunch of her french fries without an aftertaste of guilt and shame.

The sun is setting when they make it back to the winery, the sky a riot of pinks and oranges reflecting off the lake at the bottom of the hill. Shane hears Ilya and Svetlana before he sees them, the two of them bickering in animated Russian. He pulls into the empty parking lot, rolling forward until he catches sight of his almost-husband, loudly explaining something to Svetlana while gesturing wildly with a golf club in one hand.

"Should we rescue her?" Rose asks.

"I think she can hold her own," Shane replies, watching as Sveta easily snatches the club from Ilya's hand, Ilya pausing to look down at his suddenly empty palm with a bewildered expression.

Well, it seems like the whisky tasting, at least, had been a hit.

Ilya looks up at the sound of the car door closing, his confused expression melting into one of pure delight when he sees Shane. Shane is pretty sure his heart melts right along with it.

"Moya lyubov!" Ilya shouts, gesturing furiously for Shane to join them. "Come see me be very good at golf!"

Sveta mutters something in Russian that Shane can't quite make out, but the disparaging tone is hard to miss. Ilya snaps something equally unintelligible back to her, and they start to wrestle for the golf club, Ilya lifting Sveta off her feet while she shrieks with laughter.

Ilya insists on making Shane try the putting challenge a few times — he's never been much of a golfer, so he doesn't even come close to hitting the target — and darkness has begun to fall by the time they've said their goodbyes and are ready to leave. Jakob hands over several large containers of leftovers for them to take, Ilya and Sveta loudly singing his praises in a mix of English and Russian. Rose and Shane take possession of the food, Shane's half-empty stomach already growling at the smell, and shoo their two companions toward the car. Sveta jumps on Ilya's back, one of her shoes falling off as Ilya gamely carries her to the car.

Shane shoots an apologetic look at Kelly. "At least they're happy drunks."

"They were wonderful," Kelly assures him. "Sweet as anything." Then, her tone takes on a slightly more teasing note, the corner of her mouth turning up into an amused grin. "That boy loves you very much. Hardly stopped talking about you all day."

"I know," Shane says, his cheeks heating in a pleased flush as he watches Ilya carefully settle Svetlana in the backseat and click her seatbelt into place. "I'm a lucky guy."

---

"Your shoe, Cinderella," Rose says to Svetlana, offering the forgotten sandal back to her as she slides into the car.

"My hero," Sveta says with a bit more heat to it than Shane would have expected, and in the rearview mirror he catches Rose grinning as she turns away. Fuck. Maybe Ilya was right after all… At least he's too drunk at the moment to gloat.

That doesn't mean he isn't finding other ways to be a problem, though.

"Look at you," Ilya croons, his hands sneaking up over Shane's chest as he turns onto the main road. "You are so beautiful, radost moya. You should get facial everyday, makes you glow like the sun."

Shane laughs, pushing Ilya away as he tries to kiss his face repeatedly. "Quit!"

"I cannot help it," Ilya insists, slid over as far as he can get in the passenger seat, his body turned entirely to face Shane. "You are so pretty and soft. I want to touch you."

In an attempt to mollify him, Shane takes his hand, letting their intertwined fingers rest on his thigh, but Ilya isn't satisfied.

"Move seat back, I sit in your lap."

"I'm fucking driving, Ilya!"

Ilya makes an exasperated sound, somehow managing to shift even closer, letting his chin rest on Shane's shoulder. "You should not be," he whines, letting go of Shane's hand in favor of running his palm up his thigh. "You are too pretty to be doing anything. Make Rose drive so we can go in backseat and—"

"No!" Shane laughs, swatting Ilya's hand away, not that it does much good. Ilya's fingers disappear under the hem of Shane's shirt instead, seeking warm skin. Shane is distantly aware that Rose is entertaining Sveta with Hollywood gossip in the backseat, the pair giggling with their heads close together, but Svetlana's next question catches his attention.

"Who is best and worst celebrity you've had sex with?"

Rose gives an answer for best instantly — a musician Shane has never heard of, earning himself a disgusted groan from the other three when he says as much.

"I guess worst would be…" Rose says, trailing off as she considers her answer.

"Rose, if you say me I swear I'm going to make you walk home."

There's a long moment of silence, and then the girls burst into laughter in the backseat. Rose doesn't bother to deny it, which is answer enough. Shane sighs, wondering why he ever thought staying friends with Rose was a good idea. And also if he should be issuing her some kind of formal apology for those two disastrous encounters. What would be appropriate in such a situation? A fruit basket? Or maybe new car?

Ilya leans into his space again, turning his head so he can speak directly into Shane's ear.

"Would it help if I tell them you are best sex I ever had?" Ilya murmurs, the heat of his breath making goosebumps rise on the back of Shane's neck. He makes another attempt at running his hand up the inside of Shane's thigh, and Shane shoves him away before he can cause him to accidentally slam on the brakes.

"This car ride was such a mistake," Shane complains, hoping he doesn't sound as breathless as he feels. "This is chaos."

"Is true, though," Ilya says, ignoring him. "No competition. You have best mouth. And your ass is like—"

Ilya starts extolling in Russian on the virtues of Shane's body, which Shane allows for a moment before suddenly remembering Svetlana is also in the car, and is perfectly capable of translating every horrifyingly filthy word. Shane covers Ilya's mouth with a hand, which is a huge mistake as Ilya immediately tries to suck Shane's fingers into his mouth, causing him to drift enough that the tires meet the rumble strips on the shoulder of the road.

Ilya makes a tsking sound as Shane rights the car. "Not paying attention. Very bad, Shane," he says in a low rumble, his hands already disappearing under Shane's shirt again. "Will have to punish you when we get home."

"Promises, promises," Shane mutters. "You're going to pass out the second you lay down."

"Will not!" Ilya says indignantly, pinching Shane's bicep. "I would never. Whisky makes me horny."

"Everything makes you horny."

Ilya's wicked smile turns to something smaller and sweeter, his eyes going soft in the glow of the dashboard light. "No, is just you."

---

Against all odds, they manage to make it home in one piece.

Svetlana has mostly sobered up on the drive, her eyelids heavy and accent thicker than usual as exhaustion catches up to her. Ilya, on the other hand, is still flying, though his good mood is just as likely from the company as it is from the alcohol.

"Goodnight, I love you. Goodnight, I love you," Ilya says, kissing both Sveta and Rose on the head in turn before wandering toward their bedroom, one of the to-go containers of blinis still in hand. Shane tries not to wince, imagining he's going to soon find Ilya half-asleep in their bed, surrounded by crumbs and unwilling to move to let Shane change the sheets. He's trying to relax a little about the cleanliness — really, he is…but crumbs in bed?

Shane makes sure both girls are settled in their rooms with water and painkillers, actively trying not to notice that Rose's bed doesn't look like it was slept in the night before. He can only hope that Ilya will be too distracted with the impending wedding to gloat too much about being right.

Shane climbs the half-staircase to their bedroom, flipping off the lights in the hall as he goes. The moment they're off the back wall of the house transforms from a distorted mirror back into windows, the light of the nearly full moon spilling in across the floor to meet his socked feet. The door to their bedroom is pushed most of the way closed, but he can tell the lights are off inside. Anya lays at the door, her nose pushed into the narrow gap, as if to ensure it doesn't close without her. She gets to her feet as soon as she sees Shane coming, yawning and shaking her head enough to make her collar rattle. Shane slips it off for the night, taking a moment to knead his fingers into the scruff at the back of her neck, in that exact way that makes her small frame wiggle with delight. Once she's had enough he pushes the door open for her, letting her pad inside and jump softly onto the bed.

Ilya is already asleep, as Shane suspected. He's halfway down the bed, his feet still dangling to the floor, like he really hadn't planned on falling asleep at all. Awash in the glow of the moonlight, he lays sprawled atop the blankets, still in his clothes. Like he had settled there to wait for Shane to join him, until he had inevitably lost the battle and fallen asleep. He's on his back, arms folded behind his head, a small, dreamy smile on his face, lighting him with happiness even in sleep.

Shane can hardly believe he gets to have this, those messy curls and sweet smiles, every day for the rest of his life. What has he ever done to warrant such good luck?

He studies Ilya for a long moment before he can tear himself away to get ready for bed, drinking him in like they'd been apart for weeks, instead of for a few minutes. Sometimes, he still has no idea how either of them survived it — all the days and weeks and months spent apart from each other.

When he returns from the en suite, clad in black boxer briefs and a threadbare Boston Bears t-shirt, Anya is pacing on the bed, disgruntled that her usual spot is currently occupied. She sniffs at Ilya's face then looks up at Shane with an expression that clearly says are you going to do something about this?

Shane sighs, his lips still curved up into a small smile as he sinks to his knees on the floor. Ilya is wearing loafers, so they're easy to slip off and set aside. Shane rubs a gentle hand over his feet, his skin cold to the touch. Ilya's feet are always freezing, and he loves nothing more than getting into bed at night, crawling under the covers next to Shane, and pressing his freezing toes to the warm skin of his thighs or the backs of his calves. Shane pretends to be exasperated by this routine, but really, it couldn't be further from the truth. He loves to be Ilya's warmth.

Despite Shane's best efforts, it proves impossible for him to remove Ilya's pants without jostling him. There's a soft hum he feels rumble through Ilya's body as he wakes, blinking down at Shane blearily.

"You will have to do all the work," Ilya says through a yawn, raising his hips so Shane can rid him of his pants.

"Shut up," Shane murmurs, the words coming out much more affectionate than they have any business being. "We're going to bed."

"Nooo," Ilya whines as he squirms out of his shirt. It gets caught somewhere around his elbows, his head trapped beneath the fabric. "I want to fuck you, Hollander," he says, voice muffled.

Shane frees him from his cloth prison, dropping a kiss to his forehead as he tosses his shirt in the general direction of the laundry basket, almost managing to convince himself that it won't bother him to leave it there until morning. Despite his proclamation, Ilya makes no move to so much as sit up. Shane gently nudges his side several times before he gets the message, eventually half-crawling, half-wiggling into a more appropriate sleeping position.

"Lucky for you, we've got our whole lives for that," Shane says, flipping off the light and tucking himself in under the blankets Ilya is holding back for him.

Eyes still closed, Ilya's face splits wide in a grin as he lets the blankets fall over them, his arm coming to rest around Shane's waist. "Lucky, yes," he agrees. "I get to marry you. Makes me the most lucky."

Shane's heart gives a funny little stutter, and he curls himself closer into Ilya's side. Ilya gives a contented a little hum, turning his face to Shane's neck and breathing deeply. He murmurs something in Russian against his skin that Shane thinks is the beginning of an I love you, but he's asleep before he can get the words out.

Chapter End Notes

There's a decent chance this is going to end up being six chapters total instead of five - the last chapter is already long and I haven't even finished it yet lol

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