Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Zane Boodram, Troy Barrett, Harris Drover, Wyatt Hayes, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

BAMF Shane Hollander, Secret Relationship, Established Relationship, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Orgasm Edging, Family Fluff, Team as Family, Bad Friend Hayden Pike, Bad Friend Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, but hinted redeption, Relationship Reveal, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Relationship Timeline Reveal, Coming Out, Blood and Injury, Major Character Injury, Angst with a Happy Ending, ILYA IS FINE i promise, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of What Happens in Vegas

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-20 Words: 7,572 Chapters: 1/1

The Husband's Out Of The Bag

Summary

“Hollander, go back to your bench or—”

And… he just snaps. Throwing away the helmet he wasn’t aware he’s taken off, he barks, his voice booming. “That’s my fucking husband laying on the ice. I have every fucking right to he here. He’s my husband. I make the decisions here. If he…”—he can’t bring himself to complete the sentence, his eyes welling up with unshed tears—“If anything happens to him, all of you, every single fucking one of you, will answer to me. And rest assured, if you fuck up because you are too busy yelling at me to get him the help need needs, I will not be as gracious as I am being right now.”

The uproar in the arena is deafening as the ref finally skates out of his way, but Shane is by Ilya’s side now, his hand clutching his husband's. “I am here, baby,” he repeats over and over again. First in English, then in Russian. “You are okay. You are going to be okay, my love.”

OR

(Secret) Married life has been very generous to Shane and Ilya following a drunken night in 2015. Until Ilya collapses on ice, that is.

Notes

Welcome to the second installment of this series. This fic can be read as a standalone fic, technically. All you would need to know is Shane and Ilya got married in Vegas in 2015. I did try to give info on it a little at the beginning as well, so you should be good. But, obviously, reading the first one would provide a good amount of context.

Also, this, while being a canon-div au, is somewhat both show and book compliant!

I know pics have been a little scarce but with working two and a half jobs and trying to get my master's at the same time have been NOT very accommodation to my fic writing needs. Thank you for all your patience!!

Many fics are coming, but slowly. Please bear with me.

As always, thank you to my lovely gf for her unwavering support.

Ottawa, 2019

Shane underneath him, sweaty and writhing, might be Ilya’s favorite view. But Shane above him, looking down at Ilya is a close second—perhaps a close third behind Shane being on his knees for Ilya.

Relaxing his throat, Ilya lets his husband’s dick further into his throat and hums just once, watching the effects of its reverberations on Shane’s face. As Shane’s brows scrunch in pleasure and frustration, the urge to flip them over and sink in the heat of his tight hole fills Ilya’s entire being. However, he has a goal right now, other than make his husband come; he has a goal that needs to be achieved.

Slowly he releases Shane’s dick until just the tip is resting on his lower lip and licks the tip once. “Say it, Hollander. If you want to come, I need to hear it.”

“Fuck, Ilya.” Shane pushes his hips up, thrusting into Ilya’s mouth, but Ilya’s hand splayed on his hipbone stops the motion. “Please,” he begs.

“You can come now, sweetheart,” Ilya coos, his voice sickly sweet. “You just need to say the words.”

“Please make me come,” Shane pleads.

Ilya clicks his tongue in disappointment. “Those are not the words I’m looking for, dear husband of mine, and you know that.” Using his thumb, Ilya collects the precome gathered on Shane’s tip, and loosely glides his hand down. His head dips lower, circling the tight ring of muscles.

Shane keens underneath him, thrashing on the opulent bed. “Will you- will you let me come if I say it?”

A wolfish grin spreads across Ilya’s face. “What is that saying?”—he taps his chin in mock thought—“cross my heart, hope to die.” Knowing Shane is close to his breaking point, Ilya sucks one of his balls into his mouth and swirls it around. “But you can always deny me, wait until tonight, and see if I’ll feel more generous then.”

“Ilya please,” Shane tries to reason one more time and tugs on Ilya’s curls a little forcefully. His cock is angry and red, another bead of pearlescent precum dripping down.

Ilya flattens his tongue and licks it clean. “I will take you so far down my throat I won’t even taste your come, Shane. Or you can come all over my face and I’ll try to lick it clean like a fucking panting dog. I can open you up and fuck you too, keep you plugged with my come inside of you. You can feel it while we’re having lunch with your parents, a reminder who you belong to. Just say it and whatever you want is yours.” He starts lazily stroking Shane again, keeping eye contact.

“Fine. Fuck. Fine. We can get a dog if my parents agree to dogsit.” Using his grip on Ilya’s curls, Shane guides him back on his dick. “Now fucking make me come, Rozanov.”

“Yuna,” Ilya yells in lieu of a greeting as they walk through the front door. “Why didn’t you warn me about your son hating everything fun before we got married?”

“I didn't even know your relationship was a thing before you got married, Ilya,” she deadpans, yelling back from the patio where she’s manning the grill.

“Oh my god, you are so insufferable,” Shane huffs. “And you knew what you were getting into when you married me, Rozanov.”

“He’s got you there, son.” David joins them in the living room on his way out to the patio with plates and cutlery in his hand.

“No,” Ilya whines like a petulant child, making Shane want to kiss him. But, no matter how much he wants to kiss his husband’s pout away, Shane will not budge this time. “Your son is being so cruel to me.”

“Stop throwing shade at me,” Shane quips back, knowing it’ll annoy Ilya to no end.

Ilya exaggeratedly shivers. “It is so unsettling when you use queer slang, Hollander. Is like watching a horror movie and your body is possessed. I regret ever watching the Drag Race with you.”

“Stop fucking lying. For the past four years, Hollander-Rozanov Drag Race fantasy leagues have been the highlight of your fucking life.” Shane is not having this argument again.

“He did read you to filth.” Yuna snickers.

After correcting the placement of a fork, his dad looks at them both. “So boys, what’s the tea?”

Okay, hearing his parents utilize queer lingo they’ve learned through watching the Drag Race is, kind of, unsettling. Shane’ll give Ilya that. When his mom suggested the "Familiarizing Ourselves with Each Other’s Culture” initiative, he was high off of the newlywed hormones—turns out, Ilya and Shane can, and will get hornier once they are offered the luxury of time and space instead of settling down—and learning about Russian culture, teaching Ilya about Japanese culture, and all together dipping their toes into queer culture seemed like a good idea.

Four years, endless seasons of queer shows, countless Russian lessons, and their weight in Japanese food later, Shane can admit, not all parts of this initiative was well thought out. While he has rejoyed in shedding some layers of internalized homophobia, learning about the history of queerness, and basking in the utter acceptance of his parents, he does not need to hear his father say “slay” to feel validated in his relationship.

While Shane is lost in his thoughts, his husband has taken it on himself to explain their ongoing argument to his parents, animatedly gesturing as he pleads his case about getting a dog. For a moment, Shane soaks in the peace without arguing against the idea. The wrongness he has always felt deep inside of him while navigating the world, the need to have someone or something guiding him through this place that does not always make sense in his mind, it all seems to dissipate in the presence of Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya is there to chat with his parents when Shane needs a moment to just feel. Ilya is there to block out any unwelcome stimuli when Shane just feels too much. Ilya is there to find him texturally safe foods when they are traveling to yet another country where no one gives a fuck about hockey so they can just exist without the scrutiny. Ilya is there to hold his hand when his mom gets too ambitious about her itineraries and they are scrambling to find a ride between two cities in Spain. Ilya is there to turn the AC on when Shane’s body overheats but his mind is not catching on quickly enough so he gets irritated. Ilya is there to beg his parents to take over responsibilities when he is on the road with the Centaurs so they can get a dog.

Ilya is always there; and when Ilya is not there, more often than not, Shane feels like he’s going to die. Which is exactly why keeping their super-secret marriage a secret keeps getting harder and harder by each passing day. Sometimes Shane thinks he will implode, leaving behind a splatter of blood and muscle and hockey knowledge and immeasurable love directed at Ilya Rozanov-Hollander. But he can not even do that. Not when he needs to be okay. Not when he needs to get through one more season, grit his teeth and suck it all up. And if he’s feeling like he doesn't have it in him to do this any longer, and if he’s talking to his agent about signing with Ottawa once he becomes an unrestricted free agent at the end of this year, it is no one’s business.

He just has to hold it together enough to see through this season. He can’t run out of steam this close to the finish line. He needs to hold it all together so that he can play for the Cens, and between being teammates and having the foundation, no one will question them being together all the time. So, he shoves everything down, ignores the stinging in his chest at the mere thought of leaving his husband once again right after their game tomorrow, and does what he does best: bicker with the love of his life. “Ilya, you cannot be thinking of bribing my parents into taking care of our dog when you are on roadies.”

“Is not bribing Shane. Is giving them the gift of practice. I am just saying that, when we have kids, our babies will stay with their grandparents when we are away winning cups, no? So when we get our dog-hter, is only natural that she will do the same. It is an opportunity I am giving them.” Ilya then cocks his head to say, ‘see, I made a good point.’

“It’s bullshit, what it is,” his mom responds dryly. “But I will do it on one condition. When you boys come out, I’m posting the video of you from two Christmases ago, trying and failing to keep up with Eminem during the chorus of ‘Rap God.’”

“Deal,” Ilya responds immediately, his head whipping back to her from Shane. They swiftly shake hands.

“Oh my god, you are so fucking easy.” Shane shakes his head smiling at the absolute satisfied expression on his husband’s face.

Ilya just shrugs. “She could have asked to post the video of me belting ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ from when we went to the karaoke bar in Korea. I got off easy.” He turns to his mother. “And, for that, I will bring your favorite white for our ‘Thirsty Thursday’ gossip sesh this week.”

They delve into a rapid discussion about the woman working the counter at the local spirit shop, his mom occasionally checking on the chicken breasts on the grill.

His father places a gentle hand on Shane’s shoulder, both of them enjoying the view of them going ‘oh’ and ‘uhhh’ as they trade gossip. “You know, your mom doesn’t even tell me some of the things they talk about during their ‘Thirsty Thursday’ wine nights.”

“Does it bother you?” In addition to the joy of his mother’s tight relationship with his husband, knowing Ilya will drop his “your mom told that to me in confidence” attitude in seconds if Shane bats his eyelashes, spilling all the juicy details, keeps Shane pretty unfazed about being excluded from the Thirsty Thursdays. But he doesn’t know how his dad feels about their little exclusive hangs.

His dad lets out a soft, warm laughter. “Oh, no, it doesn't bother me at all. Your mom might be a tough nut to crack, but on Mondays, when she’s at the pottery studio, Ilya comes over to do puzzles and tells me all about it. Your mom knows all about it too; we debrief about what Ilya spilled on Wednesdays during our weekly grocery trips.”

On one hand, Shane feels like he could burst into tears any minute with happiness. On the other hand, jealousy rises in his throat like bile. There’s this perfect life built in front of him. A life filled with all of his favorite people. A life filled with weekly routines and parent-son activities and spontaneous dinners and Great British Bake-Off watch parties where his father bakes goods based on the theme of the week. And there is a hole in that life, he knows this. A Shane shaped hole. An empty spot on the couch. An unfilled place at the table. An unused mug on the shelf. And he is not fucking there to fill it. Never. Always held back.

Sometimes it’s his schedule that’s holding him back. Last month, he couldn’t do the camping trip with his parents, Ilya, and Svetlana, because Montreal scheduled a pre-season mandatory meeting for their captain and his alternates, even though he specifically said that weekend did not work with his schedule.

Sometimes it’s his awful team that’s holding him back. His entire body aches with how hard he’s working, trying to earn back their respect and acceptance after being iced out for coming out. He drains himself mentally for accepting every invitation because with how sparse they’ve become; he doesn't have the luxury to turn them down. He can’t lead a room that despises him to victory. And with that much accumulated exhaustion, he finds himself declining plans where he can. No dinners disguised as foundation meetings with his parents and Ilya because he won’t be able to handle being out in a restaurant. No barbeques with Ilya’s team because making small talk feels impossible.

And sometimes, the worst of it all, it’s his own fears and anxieties that’s holding him back. Even though they are publicly friends now—something else his team holds against him—he can’t bring himself to be out and about with Ilya in hockey-adjacent settings. It still feels impossible to Shane that people can see them next to each other and not see how in love they are. When people do indeed see, see the love in their gaze and lust in their touch, it only serves to validate his fears. It attests to how easy everything can snowball: being found out, getting outed, losing their careers, putting Ilya in danger.

Strong, calloused fingers intertwine themselves with his own, reassuringly squeezing three times in rapid succession. “Are you going to come back to me,” his husband asks directly into his ear, bringing Shane out of his own head.

“Always.” Taking a few grounding breaths, Shane forces himself to stay in this moment. The season has started. This, having dinner with his parents and husband, will become a rare luxury for him soon enough, and he will be damned if he will let anything ruin it, even himself. He just needs to make it through this season.

In the past two years, since Ilya signed with the Centaurs, Shane’s favorite thing, surprisingly, has become playing against Ottawa. And it’s not just playing against Ilya that he’s enjoying—it has always been the best thing in Shane’s life, to play against Ilya, someone who can keep up with him, who can challenge his skills, who can predict his moves: a worthy opponent for Shane—it’s also witnessing how Centaurs have evolved as a team after Rozanov joined them. Rozanov-Hollander, his mind supplies, your fucking husband.

A feeling akin to pride, yet much, much more pure and potent fills every inch of Shane upon thinking of their marriage. He feels his heart squeeze, then grow, with the amount of love he carries for this man. This man who moved across the fucking continent to a different country to be with him, who willingly got traded to one of the worst teams in the leage, then helped fucking shape it into something much better than anyone thought it ever could be. He can’t wait to go on the ice tonight and give it his all, and win, or lose but still feel proud—nowadays watching Ilya win feels almost as good as winning, almost.

Then, out of nowhere, a pang of guilt sours his mood, the weight of having to hide their relationship—their marriage—crushing his spirits. It’s only until the summer, he reminds himself. Once he gets traded to Centaurs, they can slowly start announcing things; talk about their relationship and softlaunch, mention that they’re living together, and eventually that they’ve gotten married in a private ceremony.

Besides, he tries to reason with himself, repeating Ilya’s words in his mind, people who matter know. People who matter have come to their house for dinner parties, for playstation tournaments, to watch the playoff finals or some blockbuster movie. His parents, their friends—Rose, Svetlana, Hayden and J.J, albeit very reluctantly, all the Centaurs, Marlow and a few other Bears, Ryan Price, even Scott Hunter and his husband—they all know. Closing his eyes, Shane imagines Ilya talking to him, his accent wrapping around boxy English words. “it is equally wrong to force you into the closet as forcing you out of the closet.” This is a matter of privacy, he concludes, for the millionth time, not cowardness. When their time comes, they’ll step into the sun together, basking in the warmth.

Unable to resist the temptation, Shane checks his phone one last time before stepping onto the ice.

Lily: Goals you score = how many times you come tonight.
Lily: Make them proud HollandeR.

With a pink tinge on his cheeks he hopes no one notices, Shane places his phone on the top shelf of his locker in the visitors locker room and leads his team to the rink. He’s going for a hat-trick tonight.

Halfway through the game, already two goals in, Shane takes the center ice for the face-off. His helmet slightly taps Rozanov’s as they lock eyes. “Shane Hollander,”—he smirks—“will you keep your promise?”

“Will you?” He asks his husband, his smile probably giving away more than he’s willing.

“I never disappoint." Ilya presses the ‘r’. “You should ask my husband.”

Next thing they know, the puck is down and Ilya’s flying away with it. He slightly turns back to see if Shane’s still on his tale, a smug shit-eating grin on his face. He’s going for a score. Shane’s peripheral catches the movement and his stomach sinks, the eerie feeling already spreading through his body before his brain can register what the fuck is actually happening.

Three things happen in quick succession: Ilya’s skates speed up, his stick making the puck fly; Shane falls behind, eyes focused on the puck rather than Rozanov; and Comeau appears out of nowhere, slamming Ilya against the boards.

A cracking sound reaches Shane’s ears before Ilya collapses. Then everything slows down to a syrupy pace. Ilya lays on the ice, crumpled and motionless. Shane, frozen in time and space, just stares at the unmoving body on ice. His husband's unmoving body on ice. Medics rush to Ilya’s side, all the while Shane waits for a single sign of life. Something. Anything.

He faintly registers that people are trying to pull him away, even yelling his name even, but as if his skates are glued to where he is, he just watches, helpless. Hayden is clearly there, trying to get his attention, and Shane’s brain knows he should just go with Hayden, but nothing works. He needs to see Ilya move, he needs his husband to get up, show any sign of life.

As if answering his silent prayers, Ilya’s bare hand moves on the ice, supporting his upper torso and relief floods Shane’s body immediately. Momentarily. For a fraction of a second. Ilya coughs, and splatters of blood paint the ice red. Then he collapses back, and Shane’s entire world crumbles.

His feet start moving toward Ilya on their own accord, because that’s Shane’s other half laying there unmoving, his fucking blood on the ice, and like the two sides of a magnet, Shane’s drawn to him, unable to keep away. He hears medics say something about broken ribs and feels J.J. and Hayden pulling him from both of his arms. He faintly registers some of the Centaurs circling him, blocking him out of the view. “Hollander, step back!” Someone orders. “Shane, move away,” another commands.

He gets close enough to hear “lung,” followed by a word he can’t understand. Something changes in Ilya’s condition drastically, suddenly paramedics are uncaring that Shane is right there, and they’re cutting into Ilya’s jersey, ridding him of his gear carefully but deftly. There is a copper-brown liquid being plastered on Ilya’s chest, right below the bear tattoo Shane always claimed to hate. A scalpel touches Ilya’s skin, blood trickles out of the wound, and his face scrunches with pain.

Shane’s eyes quickly dart to his husband’s face: bruised under eyes, possibly-broken nose, and blood stains dried on his lips. Ilya is heaving. Collapsed lung. Something clicks in Shane’s hazy brain. Ilya can’t breathe. “Help him,” he orders, with the last drop of his strength—he’s momentarily the captain of the fucking Montreal Voyageurs again, commanding and assertive, not a helpless man watching strangers cut through his husband’s chest.

“Hollander, go back to your bench or—”

And… he just snaps. Throwing away the helmet he wasn’t aware he’s taken off, he barks, his voice booming. “That’s my fucking husband laying on the ice. I have every fucking right to he here. He’s my husband. I make the decisions here. If he…”—he can’t bring himself to complete the sentence, his eyes welling up with unshed tears—“If anything happens to him, all of you, every single fucking one of you, will answer to me. And rest assured, if you fuck up because you are too busy yelling at me to get him the help need needs, I will not be as gracious as I am being right now.”

The uproar in the arena is deafening as the ref finally skates out of his way, but Shane is by Ilya’s side now, his hand clutching his husband's. “I am here, baby,” he repeats over and over again. First in English, then in Russian. “You are okay. You are going to be okay, my love.” He watches them cut open Ilya’s chest and insert a fucking tube, and rapidly blinks to keep the tears away. He has to watch them help him, he has to see with his own eyes that Ilya is going to be okay.

His eyes don’t leave Ilya until his attention is absolutely needed elsewhere. “Mr. Hollander, my name is Terry. We have to get Ilya to the hospital as soon as we can. He has a broken rib which punctured one of his lungs.” The Centaurs team doctor speaks to him. “We’ve already notified Mr. Rozanov’s emergency contacts, they’ll meet us at the hospital.”

“Wai- Who?” Because Shane knows it can’t be any of his teammates, or Svetlana—either option wouldn’t be practical. They have never talked about Ilya’s emergency contacts. Why have they never talked about Ilya’s emergency contacts?

They place Ilya on the spinal board, a neck-brace and a tube attached to some sort of cylindrical device coming out of his chest creating the most gruesome image. Primal instinct begs him to tune out anything that isn’t his husband, but he forces himself to hear what the team doctor is explaining. “His parents, well… your parents. Yuna and David Hollander are listed as his emergency contacts under parents. We’ve contacted the hospital’s trauma unit as well, given his condition; unless he drastically worsens on the ride there, he’ll be taken to an emergency operation on our arrival.”

“Okay.” Shaking his head, Shane tries to keep up with what’s happening around him. There are blade guards handed to him by a man in Centaurs uniform, and people escorting him off the ice as the doctor explains what will follow.

The ride to the hospital is a blur of murmured Russian sweet nothings to Ilya and staving off a panic attack. Shane watches everything EMTs do with rapt attention. On the ride to the Ottawa Hospital, Ilya speaks, well, tries to speak a few times. Mostly, it comes out as mumbles of Shane’s name, and once, as blood splutters out of his mouth, he tries to ask what happened. The blaring of the ambulance still rings in Shane’s ears even as they walk into the building, mixing into the ringing of his ears.

His parents are already at the hospital, greeting them at the entrance of the ER among a swarm of medical personnel immediately surrounding them. They take over from the EMTs and push Shane to the side as they keep rolling the stretcher Ilya’s on further into the hospital. Three doctors walk alongside the stretcher while they explain the extent of the operation they’re about to perform on Ilya to Shane, asking questions about his chart and history. He does everything he can to listen, but after a while, words meld into one another, becoming meaningless jumbles.

His mother places a hand on his shoulder and grips strongly, seamlessly taking over the conversation with the doctor. “He is taking 300 mgs of Wellbutrin, 150 in the morning, 150 in the evening. He is allergic to…”

Relieved of the outside word, Shane directs his entire focus on Ilya, who is looking back at him with worry-filled eyes, trying to get words out. “It will be okay, baby. You’ll be okay. Don’t worry about anything, alright?”

Ilya sadly shakes his head no, a streak of blood on the corner of his mouth. “I am sorry, Hollander” he lets out hoarsely. “You had a plan for us and I ruined it.”

“No, Ilya. Fuck.” Shane grips his husband's hand with as much strength as he can muster, shaking his head and trying to stave off tears. “Fuck the plan, okay? You are all that matters.”

A sad smile blooms on Ilya’s face. “But you love plans.”

“I love you more, Ilya. Do you hear me? I love you more.” In his hand, Ilya’s one goes limp. He watches Ilya’s eyes glaze over then close. Doctors start to shout around them hurriedly, but everything goes completely silent in Shane’s head except the scream of fear. Belatedly, he realizes the scream he’s hearing is tearing from his own throat—Ilya’s name over and over again. A woman in scrubs loosens his grip on Ilya, telling him they have to take his husband in. He faintly registers his mom holding him back, her voice coming out broken and strained as she keeps telling him that it’s going to be okay and that he has to let Ilya go.

Amid everything, Shane keeps repeating one thing like a prayer. “Ilya, I love you more than anything. Please come back to me. Ilya, I love you more than anything. Please come back to me. Ilya, I love you more than anything. Please come back to me.”

The next time Shane becomes aware of his surroundings, he’s in a generic, sterile waiting room with his mom’s hand on his back.

“-what do you think? Shane?”

“I’m sorry, what?” For how long she’s been trying to talk to him, he has no idea.

“Do you want to talk? To Ilya’s teammates?” Without stopping the soothing motion of her hand in his back, she adjusts herself to look him in the eye. “I think it’ll be good for you, to get out of this small room and talk to people. Ilya won’t be out of the surgery for at least another hour. Your dad and I will still be here if someone from his family is needed. Go and talk to Harris at least, or Cassie if you don’t want to deal with players.”

“Why are they here?”

“They came in with Troy and Zane.” The expression on her face tells Shane she’s not giving him the full story. Maybe, another day, he would have pushed, asked questions and demanded to know everything. But today, he lets it go.

Truthfully, Shane gives the idea an honest chance. He weighs it, having a familiar face, a friend to support him. It feels wrong to share the burden of his worries. When the weight of Ilya’s condition is pressing down on him, constricting his breathing, it feels like a palpable proof of the love he carries; having someone to share it with, alleviating some of it, feels like letting go of that love too. Just as he’s about to say no, stew in his own agony, five people filter in, quietly but hurriedly.

The first one to push through and come in is Barrett with Harris in tow. He looks calm in a way Shane has come to learn means he is exercising extreme self control to look composed despite his internal turmoil. He’s supporting a black eye and a cast over his nose.

Right behind them, Bood comes in, one of his hands tightly wrapped in a half-cast, the other firmly in Cassie’s. “Hollander, how are you holding up?”

For a moment the question stumps Shane who was ready to methodically and mechanically list off everything they knew about Ilya’s condition. “Me?” he can’t help but ask sheepishly.

“Yeah, bud.” Harris chimes in, his hand on Shane’s shoulder a grounding weight. “You watched your husband go down on ice. It must have been horrible. Hell, I’m traumatized and my boyfriend only got punched.” His warm smile frames the last sentence like a joke, a very Harris-way of bringing lightness and levity into a heavy situation, but Shane sees the same worry he felt mirrored in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he eventually concedes. “But…”—Shane’s voice cracks—“it’s him you should worry about. It’s him who’s in surgery right now. It’s him who’s your captain.”

“Hollander, he’s our captain but we’re not worried about the captain of the Centaurs and captain of the Voyageurs. We’re worried about our friends.”

Just when Shane thinks all of his tears have dried, new ones gather in the corner of his eyes at Hazy’s words. “We have good friends,” he croaks out.

Once all the Centaurs leave with the promise of being kept updated, Shane finally feels everything crushing down on him: watching Ilya go down, outing himself and his husband to the world, not receiving even a single text from his teammates…

He is so drained, he doesn’t even realize when a nurse enters the private area. “Mr. Hollander, there are two visitors asking for updates on your husband or access to the waiting area to see you.”

Before Shane can muster the energy to respond, his mother cuts in, saving him once more. “Who are they, if I may ask?”

“Mr. Pike and Mr. Boiziau.”

“Do not let them enter the private area, please,” his mom answers sternly. “They can wait in the main area with the rest of the Centaurs if they are not breaking any hospital rules.”

While Shane is not a vindictive person, or one to hold grudges, he appreciates his mom’s ability to do so on his and Ilya's behalf. If they did not want to get on Yuna Hollander’s bad side, they shouldn’t have messed with her sons. Either of them. Ilya might have long forgotten the punch Hayden threw his way, but Shane doubts his mom ever will. And as for J.J., Shane is not sure if he himself has forgiven being accused of throwing games. They both have a lot to redeem for, and now is not the time nor the place for that redemption. The only reason Shane acquiesces to seeing them at the lobby is tiredness— and perhaps having an outlet for his fears to project in the form of rage if they piss him off.

The general waiting room is, simultaneously both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, filled with hockey players and hockey adjacent people. Centaurs and their WAGs—Harris included in both categories for all intents and purposes—are huddled in a corner, listening to Lisa with rapt attention. From what Shane gathered, it is par for the course with their team whenever a player gets injured on the ice. What is unexpected though is Hayden and J.J. also occupying the same space. Well, not the same space exactly, they seem to be purposefully and considerably away from the Centaurs.

Upon coming closer Shane takes in Hayden’s black eye. The distance must be really needed then. “I thought you were smarter than to walk into the lion’s den,” Shane jokes, unable to stop the bitterness and indignation bleeding into his voice, sucking out all the levity the joke might have brought.

“Well, the lions might give me a pass for once considering I fought alongside them in the battle. Hyenas got me good tho.” He gestures to his puffy eye.

“What? A Centaur didn’t do that?” Shane gestures wildly toward the black eye he’s sporting. Shane’s money was on either Barrett or Bood. Ilya’s boys don’t play about him.

“No, capitane.” J.J. chimes in.

“You threw a punch at me defending Rozanov’s honor the night of Dinner Gate. It was only fair I did the same.” Hayden rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Pike got his after he landed a beauty on Comeau when he was pulling him off of me.” Wyatt supplies. “Which is a shame. Lisa usually likes it when I get roughed up during a game.” His eyebrows wiggle suggestively, making his wife scoff before disappearing behind the ER doors. How close the Centaurs have gotten catches him off guard.

“You guys are so freaky, Hazy. If I get into anything on ice Cassie doesn’t even let me touch her. She is strict.” From his peripheral, Shane catches Cassie nodding and agreeing.

“Well…” Shane can feel his cheeks heating. What he’s jerking off to is between him, God, and his husband.

“Bet Hollzy gets off to ‘Rozanov dropping gloves compilations’ on YouTube.” Hayden jokes, completely oblivious to the fact it is indeed what Shane does.

And he is not about to tell all of his friends he once shot his load under 3 minutes when he watched Ilya deck a very stunned Dallas Kent. And at the time, he didn’t even know his husband told Kent he would play batter than he ever did even with a plug up his ass after Kent called him a fag. That knowledge made him shoot instantly.

But his silence must not be working in his favor either judging by the expressions of horror and amusement around him. So he just shrugs and says, “Well, I did not marry the Russian Terror for his politeness. Asshole’s say ‘get on your knees’ with a fervor polite boys could never.” Shane knows if he were any less tired, he would have freaked out over his lack of filter, but right now, all his caring energy was in an operating room somewhere in this hospital.

“I can never wrap my head around how eerily similar you both are, Hollander. Or how you managed to fool everyone into thinking you are the polite, perfect Canadian Golden Boy.” Bood’s face looks serious, but the lightness in his tone makes Shane feel comforted in a way his teammates have never made him feel.

Shane watches Hazy come close enough to offer physical comfort but far enough to provide a sense of personal space. “And now, his son is following his footsteps.” He pulls out his phone, holding it up for everyone to see.

On the screen, a part of the scrum that broke out after Ilya got injured plays out with subtitles running. Drapeau yells “Rozanov’s bitches” as Young and Holmberg pull Haas back. Haas just smiles with blood still dripping on his face, his teeth red, then yells at the direction of his teammates, eyes still locked with Drapeau. “We should fucking go by Ilya’s dogs or something. Cooler than a Centaur, huh?”

“I know you were ten, dude, and it's biologically impossible. But, Haas has to be the Hollaov child.”

The laughter following Bood’s joke makes Shane feel lighter than he felt since he watched his husband go down.

“Hollanov?” J.J. asks, heart wrenchingly unfamiliar with Shane’s life.

Before Shane can spit a biting remark, Hazy nods at him once and takes over. “Yeah, that’s what we call the first husbands of hockey. We tried a few different nicknames bu this one out voted ‘hockey terrors’ and ‘dual menaces.’”

J.J. claps Shane’s back once, familiar and comforting, the way he used to, before he found out about the Rozanov of it all, before both Hayden and he decided Shane owed them his truth. “We’ve been missing out,” he declares. “We need to get to know this version of Hollzy. The menace who can out-chirp Rozanov.”

“You should come to one of my legendary BBQ parties,” Bood offers. “But, before you do, you gotta prepare yourselves for-” Whatever Bood was about to say dissolves at the sight of Yuna.

“He’s out.” Shane’s legs carry him to Ilya’s room with his mom in tow, the rest of the world disappearing.

As soon as they enter the room, Ilya spots Shane. His husband, the center of Shane’s universe, his sun, lights up like the brightest star in a night’s sky. “Shanya!!! David, look, my husband’s here.”

Shane watches his dad tapping Ilya’s shoulders, a sheen in his eyes. Seeing the same worry and relief reflected on his dad’s face, someone he always believed to be unshakeable loosens and simultaneously breaks something in him. His dad gently pushes back a stray curl away from Ilya’s face. “Yeah, buddy. I can see.”

“This is amazing.” Ilya’s tone is closer to a child who got told he could have ice cream for dinner than a grown man who had his insides stitched together. “My best friend and my husband are here.”

David laughs at that, discreetly wiping a stray tear. “I didn’t know Svetlana was coming.”

Ilya then looks around. “Sveta? Is she here?”

“No, son. I was just joking. She’ll come and visit in a few days though. Until then we’re all here for you; Shane, Yuna, me…”

“You are a great dad, David.” Then he turns to Yuna, finally realizing she’s in the room with them. He makes grabby hands at her, gently cradling her hand in his. Closing his eyes with a softness in his features, he whispers. “I have the best family.” Completely oblivious to the emotional bomb he just dropped, Ilya lets out a contended sigh.

Everyone pretends to not see the others wiping their eyes. Clearing his throat, his dad finally speaks. “And you're a great kid, Ilya.”

Ilya then opens his eyes with a mischievous glint in them, complete one-eighty to how gentle and emotional he was. “See, Shane. Is why I’m telling you I’m the favorite.”

“Yes, baby. You are everyone’s favorite.” Ilya beams at the compliment. Fuck. Shane loves his husband. They’re getting a dog as soon as doctors clear Ilya. In his pocket Shane feels his phone vibrate. He slowly pulls it out, sees his coach's contact on the screen and pushes it back in.

“Give me.” His mom’s tone is stern but gentle. It offers Shane no room for arguments, which he’s glad for. She activates the recording feature and answers swiftly, walking out of the hospital room, taking all the stress of hockey and Montreal with her. “I hope the only reason you are calling, Coach Teirault, is to offer well wishes for my son and his husband or to let him know about the duration of his family responsibility leave…”

Ilya giggles in his bed. “Yuna is scary.” Then he closes his eyes, falling asleep.

The next time Ilya wakes up, a few hours later, his hand in Shane’s he declares he’s bored within ten minutes. “Show me what the internet is saying about the best, sexiest hockey player getting injured, Shanya.”

Honestly, Shane has not looked at what the internet is saying. He has not checked his messages, emails, calls, or social media. The dread he’s been suffocating with worry and exhaustion claws itself to the surface, wrapping around his throat like a snake, squeezing tighter and tighter until he can’t breathe, until he’s gasping for air–

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice cuts through the fog. “Breathe, sweetheart. And tell me what’s wrong.”

“They all know,” he croaks, his throat dryer than a desert. “They all know. Because you were… You were laying there, Ilya. Unmoving. And they– they tried to keep me away from you. Because they didn’t know. I couldn’t– I needed to get to you. You could have… So, I told them. I told them everything, then you apologized. You fucking apologized, Ilya. You couldn’t breathe and they were taking you to cut you fucking open. And you apologized for ruining the plan when I had already ruined everything…”

“Shane. Shanya. You did not ruin anything. Sweetheart, look at me.” He holds Shane’s chin in his fingers, gently forcing eye contact. “I’ve been ready. We’ve been ready. To come out. To let the world know, yes? Nothing is ruined. Is just early. Your plan worked. I am boring Canadian now. I am safe. You will be Centaur. We are safe.”

“You are safe. We are safe.” Shane repeats like a mantra. They were going to come out in June. It’s April. He will take family leave until his season is over. Ilya’s season is already over. They will be fine. It’s just earlier than planned. He can just post their planned coming out video a few weeks early.

His husband’s fingers scratch his scalp, moving down and rubbing his nape. “We don’t have to look. Is okay. Stop thinking so much. Give me kiss. I am injured. You should only think about how much you will kiss me.”

And that’s exactly what Shane does until Ilya is discharged from the hospital, finally heading home with Shane and the rest of the Hollanders. He helps his husband into the makeshift bed on their couch and plays with his curls until Ilya’s breathing evens out.

“Are you ready?” his mom asks. “I’ve got everything ready to go.”

He takes his phone from his mom and watches the video one last time before sharing it with the world. It opens with him and Ilya on his parent’s couch, a quiz video on YouTube playing. “It’s ‘The Dirty, The Fugly, and…’ I don’t know. ‘The Good, The Dirty, and The Fugly?’” Video Ilya asks more than answers. The video announces the soundtrack playing in the background belongs to “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly,” as video Ilya shouts in delight, declaring his victory.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not, Rozanov.” Video Shane rejects. “I win. Your ‘The Fugly’ response does not count.”

“He did know what movie it was. He just didn’t know the full title. I say it counts,” video David chimes in off-camera. Ilya gets up, high five-ing David as the video pans out, showing both of them.

Then, the video cuts to the first All-Stars they attended, rookie Ilya breaking Scott’s record, then Shane breaking his seconds later. It shows Shane win “Rookie of the Year,” before switching to a clip of them in Hollander’s cottage, both of them trying to carry more grocery bags than reasonable.

“C’mon boys, I think you both can carry one more at least,” video Yuna goads them.

David walks in front of the camera as vide Shane and video Ilya try to push each other away as they fight for the last bag in the trunk. “Does everything have to be a competition in this family?”

“Yes,” three voices agree simultaneously.

Then it features a clip of Ilya winning MVP following his cup win, only to show Shane winning the same the following year.

The last clip belongs to the same night, right before they got married, video Shane holding the camera in selfie mode as they bicker. “I will marry the fuck out of you Shane Hollander,” video Ilya yells before lowering his voice. “I love you more than anyone loved anyone in human history.”

“You cannot measure love, Ilya,” video Shane slurs in response. “But if anyone loved anyone the most, it’d be me loving you. I loved you when you kissed me in hotel rooms in secret. Take that.”

“I loved you since Saskatchewan. I win. Because I loved you since the beginning.” He places an obnoxious kiss on Shane’s cheek.

Video Shane visibly blushes. “You did not love me since 2008, Ilya. Stop cheating so you can win at love.”

“I already won at love, lyubimyy. I have you and your freckles. I loved them when I first saw them. I fell in love with you and your freckles then and there.” His face turns soft, hands wrapping around Shane’s waist. “So, I win.” Then he takes off running, video Shane following suit as the camera starts shaking. The video cuts to black.

Shane looks at his own reflection on the screen, a lovesick smile on his face. He quickly rereads the caption too.

“I want to start by thanking everyone who sent well wishes our way as my husband @TheRealIlyaRozanov is recovering from his surgery following an on-ice injury. We see and appreciate all the love. Rest assured all @OttawaCentaurs fans, he will be back at the beginning of next season.

To address the elephant in the room: Ilya and I have been in a committed romantic relationship for the past few years and have been involved in some capacity, since before our NHL careers have begun. The reason why we have not disclosed our relationship beyond the necessary paperwork to our teams’ managements and HR is not shame, secrecy, or deceit. It is privacy. We have not been hiding. We have been living our lives and sharing what we felt comfortable with, with those closest to us. Although having the decision to disclose our relationship made for us wasn’t ideal, in that moment, being there for my husband outweighed our desire for privacy.

Now that the proverbial cat is out of the bag though, I can freely wish my husband a very public (and early) four year wedding anniversary. Ilya, you are my favorite person to compete against. The privilege to have you by my side at every turn is one I will never take for granted. I love you. я тебя люблю. Je t’aime.”

“Let’s go.” Shane nods once, hitting post, then tossing his phone away.