Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, obligatory side Pikes, WAGs and their men

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs WAGs Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, WAG Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, Jealous Shane Hollander, just a little as a treat, quasi-Shane walks Ilya like a dog, The Plane Scene (reimagined), Established Relationship, Marriage Proposal, Rimming, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, these tags are so obnoxious I'm so sorry, hayden is a centaur

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of i love the players, you love the game

Collections:

:)Absolute Best, 🏒Heated on Ice🏒, Fragments of Ice🤍, In this glass house we are free

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-31 Words: 23,647 Chapters: 1/1

boys only want love if it's torture

Summary

“What’s wrong with the table runner we have now? We like that one. We picked it out together at Pottery Barn.”

Ilya stops his fussing to smile at Shane. They’ve been living together for two months now, but he still melts every time Shane says words like ‘together’ and ‘we’ and ‘us.’ It makes Shane want to throw him down on the table and eat him alive.

“Nothing is wrong with it. I love it, because we picked it out together.”

“Okay… so what’s the deal with finding the table runner my mom got us?”

“That one matches the flowers I bought, and the new blankets on the couch. We cannot have these people thinking we live like divorced fathers.”

“Ilya, no one would ever think that. We’re one of the only couples without a toy pile stashed in the corner of the living room. And we keep this house in top shape, because you know I’ll lose my shit if we don’t.”

“I know that, but they don’t know that! What other conclusion will they come to if our dining room does not match the flow of the rest of the downstairs?”

Or, Ilya's dream of being Shane Hollander's proud WAG comes to fruition

Notes

i pretended i wasn't going to write a sequel to rose garden for approximately 3 minutes before planning this out. i didn't mean for it to be over 20k but the last scene possessed me until it was well over 5k by itself <3 and i only know how to yap anyway. i hope this is an acceptable entry into wag!ilya wonderland :") i had sooo much fun writing every section of this

obvious disclaimer that i myself have never been a wag, so i have no idea where they usually get to sit at games, but my limited research led me to either a private box or a nice section in the lower bowl behind the team bench, so obviously i went with the bench option!!! please forgive me if this is inaccurate, as well as any other part of this fic. i am but a humble fic writer trying her best to make fun content that is not always accurate to real life.

also sorry if ilya uses too many pet names... but i'm actually not. i'm obsessed with them. trying to limit his pet names in this fic felt like that video of the IT cast where they reacted to tweets or whatever per each child and adult actor and finn/bill got "richie tozier holding back from a mom joke after already making 3"

this is the loose inspo for hollanov's ottawa house

usual disclaimers: not beta'd, ai can suck my dick, emdashes have been my primary personality trait since middle school. title once again comes from blank space by taylor bc that song hits every timeeeee

Falling in love with Ilya Rozanov is the easiest thing Shane has ever done. 

His entire life has always revolved around structure and discipline. From his first time on the ice as a child until now, as a first-string professional athlete, structure and discipline have ruled his schedule and decision making: rigorous workouts, hours and hours of training, meal prep to keep his attention sharp and body fueled. He goes to bed by 10 P.M. every night so that he can optimize his sleep schedule, which is always followed by a morning run and a balanced breakfast. When he’s not working through risky moves in the rink, he’s picking them apart in his head to see if there are any adjustments that can be made to improve their success rate in a game. He watches other teams’ games with his teammates, or parents, or Ilya, or by himself, whenever he has a free night so that he can examine their potential opponents’ playing styles. Almost everything he thinks about and does on a daily basis is in the name of hockey and winning cups with the Centaurs. 

Loving Ilya requires little structure or discipline. They’re grown adults who are successful in their careers and learned about the importance of communication and trust well before entering a relationship together. Shane assumes that the hardest part of their relationship—until he retires, at least—is going to be choosing when and how to deviate from his lifetime of structure and discipline. Ilya loves chocolate, and loves licking it out of Shane’s mouth more. Ilya loves to find excuses for Shane to skip his morning run and stay in bed, which are seldom innocent ones. Ilya loves to make Shane almost late for meetings or practice by manhandling him, vocal in his unslakable thirst for sex and making Shane mindless with pleasure, until the only thought left in his head is Ilya Ilya Ilya. 

It’s a good problem to have. The best problem, in fact, when the reality for so many other couples with demanding jobs is less than stellar. If the greatest obstacle in their relationship is Ilya going to extreme lengths to make Shane chill out when he’s rarely been chill in his life, then he is more than willing to live with it. 

Being proven wrong is a hard pill for Shane to swallow. He is absolutely his mother’s child in that way, chromosome by chromosome. Compromise is hard, but worthwhile, and Shane has no doubt that it will continue to be their greatest challenge as a couple once Ilya officially moves to Ottawa, maybe with a side of learning to permanently coexist in the same space.

Hindsight is 20/20, as the philosophers say. 

“Shane, where is the fancy table blanket your mother bought us for the housewarming?” 

“I thought I put it in the linen closet.” 

“No, it’s not there. I already checked twice!” 

Shane, who is wiping down the kitchen counter for the twelfth time that day, blinks at his boyfriend. “What’s wrong with the one we already have on the table? We like that one. We picked it out together at Pottery Barn.” 

Ilya stops his fussing to smile at Shane. They’ve been living together for two months now, but he still melts every time Shane says words like ‘together’ and ‘we’ and ‘us.’ It makes Shane want to throw him down on the table and eat him alive. He knows he acts the same when it’s Ilya talking about them sharing a life after over a year of long distance and heartache. 

“Nothing is wrong with it. I love it, because we picked it out together.” 

“Okay… so what’s the deal with finding the other table runner?” 

“That one matches the flowers I bought, and the new blankets on the couch. We cannot have these people thinking we live like divorced fathers.” 

“Ilya, no one would ever think that. We’re one of the only couples without a toy pile stashed in the corner of the living room. And we keep this house in top shape, because you know I’ll lose my shit if we don’t.” 

“I know that, but they don’t know that! What other conclusion will they come to if our dining room does not match the flow of the rest of the downstairs?” 

Shane puts the cleaning rag on its designated hook under the sink and rounds the counter to where Ilya is standing and staring like Shane told him to walk into oncoming traffic. He’s never seen Ilya this bent out of shape before; he didn’t know that Ilya could get bent out of shape, except for when Boston loses to New York. He’s unsure how to navigate this new challenge, but damn if he’s not going to give it his best shot. 

When Shane gets stressed out, sometimes someone else taking the reins brings him back to Earth. He elects to try this tactic first. 

“I’ll go see if I can find the other table runner. How about you sit down and drink some water? You’ve been running around for hours.” 

“Thank you, I would appreciate it,” Ilya says, kissing him. “But no time for rest. I need to check on the party weenies.” 

He scuttles over to the crockpot, and Shane, knowing he’s the last person in the world who gets to criticize someone for being obsessive, goes to find Yuna’s gifted table runner. 

It’s understandable why Ilya is so frantic—this is their first time officially hosting the team and their families for a get-together, besides their housewarming party. They moved into their new house during the summer, when Shane had plenty of free time to accomplish the task of setting up their new life together, and had everyone over when they’d already spent a week perfecting everything. They also spent a majority of the night outside in the expansive backyard, Bood manning the grill, Shane cleaning up after everyone, Ilya playing the perfect drink fetcher/refiller/bartender. 

Now their house is lived in and less magazine perfect. But Shane loves it that way, loves that all of their belongings are blended together and that they decorated as a team and that their house looks like their house. He loves coming home after practice or a game or a doctor’s appointment and seeing pictures of them on the walls, putting his shoes next to Ilya’s on the rack, smelling one of the candles Ilya picked out burning on the mantel above the fireplace. It fills him with peace in a way that not even hockey can compare to. 

Not to say he’s no longer a Class A Neat Freak. He runs this house like the Navy, and Ilya knows better than to leave a dirty dish in the sink or conveniently forget to put his socks in the hamper. They have a chore schedule and deep clean the house once a week when they’re both available to do so. Which is why Shane is, admittedly, confused by Ilya’s behavior. 

He’s seen some of the Ottawa WAGs group chat texts. Lisa Hayes once made a comment about Wyatt’s thighs that resulted in Shane being unable to meet his eyes for an entire game. Harris, their sunshine personified social media manager, can invent such creative and explicit curses against the Montreal Voyageurs on the fly that they render even Ilya speechless. They are not prudes, and they are not anything close to socialites. They’re probably excited to go to someone else’s house and do nothing but eat and drink and talk for the night, regardless of what it looks like. 

Shane uncovers the requested table runner in the closet of the guest room Yuna and David have essentially claimed as their own. He’s not sure who put it there, or why, but he’s glad to find it if only to ease some of Ilya’s stress. When he returns to the dining room/kitchen area, Ilya is talking to himself in Russian while digging through the fridge. 

“I found it,” Shane says, keeping his voice light. “It was in the guest room.” 

Ilya glances over his shoulder, face lighting up. “Oh, thank fuck, I was afraid it was gone forever! Thank you for looking, sweetheart. I think it is my fault it was in the guest room, I must have put it there after the party for whatever reason.” 

He returns to his fridge mission, and Shane swaps the table runners. The one they picked from Pottery Barn is simple, cream colored with a Herringbone texture, and matches the flowers and general layout of their dining room and kitchen perfectly fine. But he can admit that Ilya is right about Yuna’s matching them just a little bit better once it’s laid out, the tan fabric and tasteful blend of copper, burgundy, and brown stitching making Ilya’s autumnal bouquet pop. 

Shane has made a living off of being observant. Social situations often evade him, but he can pick out a flaw in an opponent from across the rink in one play. He can tell when someone is starting to become frazzled, when a well-timed hit will make their defenses crumble like a sandcastle. 

Ilya is well past frazzled and on his way to manic. Shane pads over and sets his hands on Ilya’s hips, not to pull him away from his task, but simply to remind him that he has another set of hands ready to help. 

“What are you doing now?” 

“Reorganizing the drinks,” Ilya replies. “Should I sort them by color or alphabetical order? Wait, maybe by type? Soda on the left, sparkling water in the middle, alcohol on the right? What do you think makes the most sense?” 

Shane props his chin on Ilya’s shoulder, peering into the fridge. “I think they look fine the way they are.” 

“They should not be just fine, they should be in the easiest place for our guests to find them!” 

“They’re perfect the way they are, baby. All the Coke products are together, all the ciders are together—that’s the way it should be. No one is going to be looking in our fridge to see if it’s organized like the Prime Minister's hard drive.” 

“You don’t know that. There are lots of mothers on TikTok who have a million followers, and they have best fridge in town. Snacks like you would not believe. An organized drink system. The people love them.” 

He doesn’t know what any of this means. He wonders if this is how his parents have had to navigate Shane’s particulars since his infancy, and Ilya since that fateful flight from Ottawa to Boston: rolling with the punches as they come. They all love Shane exactly the way he is. Shane loves them all exactly the way they are.

Ilya has never acted like this before. He thrives on chaos and loves when Shane reprimands him for it. He relishes every time Shane elects to go with the flow and ekes every last drop of relaxation out of him that he possibly can. Ilya says that life is too short to fuss, even though it riles him up when Shane demands he break out the carpet cleaner once a month in exchange for a special reward of his choice. Ilya is possibly the most flexible person Shane has ever met (in every way that it counts). 

This extreme fussing concerns him. Their roles being reversed leaves Shane disoriented and nervous, his least two favorite things to be. He uses his hands on Ilya’s hips to coax him into turning around, so that Shane can see his face when he asks, “Ilya, what’s going on?” 

Ilya mirrors him and puts his hands on Shane’s hips, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “What do you mean? I’m getting ready for our company.” 

“I think you might be freaking out.” 

“I’m not freaking out! I’m cleaning!” 

“Ilya,” Shane says. 

“Shane,” Ilya says. 

“You know I wouldn’t say this unless it was true, but the house is spotless. We’ve been cleaning it for the last three days. It looks clean, it smells clean, it feels clean. There’s nothing else we can do to prepare for tonight except finish cooking.” 

“We could fluff the pillows again so the team does not have to lay against cement when they are here.” 

Shane squeezes his sides until Ilya, finally, looks at him. They say nothing else until he notices that he can see Ilya’s pulse hammering in the hollow of his throat, a sight only seen when there’s hours of teasing before fucking takes place. 

“What’s got you so worked up? The team has been here before and they had a great time. They all said so in the group chat and at the rink. They’ve been asking to come back over since the housewarming party.” Ilya stays silent, so Shane takes a stab in the dark. “Do you not want them to come over? Is it too much stress? I can call everyone right now and cancel. I’ll take the blame and everything, say I’m not feeling well or had a family emergency.” 

“No, no! Don’t! I want them to come over. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks!” 

“Then why are you so stressed out? You haven’t stopped moving since we woke up this morning.” He knows it will make Ilya smile, so he adds: “You made me change the table runner to match the flowers, which is a cry for help if I’ve ever heard one.” 

Ilya does smile. And then he curls into Shane and sighs, arms around his waist, face tucked into his neck. Shane moves them so that he can close the fridge and properly hold Ilya, hands running across his back. 

“Talk to me,” Shane pleads. “I don’t like seeing you this stressed out. That’s supposed to be my job.” 

“I just want tonight to be perfect. The rest of the team are great hosts and we always have such fun at their houses. I want them to have fun at our house.”

“They will have fun here. You’re the dream host—you’re funny, charming, attentive, and know how to make Dirty Shirleys on demand. What else could you want from a host?” 

Ilya leans back to meet his eyes again; the uncertainty there makes his heart ache. “I take being a WAG very seriously, Shane Hollander. I don’t want your team to go home tonight thinking their captain’s partner is an imbecile who sucks at making appetizers or organizing the drink shelf in the refrigerator." 

“Hey, don’t talk about my partner like that. You’re not an imbecile in any way, shape, or form. I’m proud of the home we’ve made together, and you make the best appetizers I’ve ever eaten in my life. If anyone feels differently, my team and their WAGs or otherwise, I hope they’re smart enough to keep it to themselves or I’ll rock their shit.” 

Ilya slumps forward until their foreheads are pressed together. Shane would shoot the moon out of the sky for this man if he asked and hand it to him on a silver platter. 

“You think it will be okay?” 

“I promise it will be okay. Everyone is going to have a blast tonight, and they’re going to eat all of the food you made because it’s fucking delicious, and the guys are going to talk nonstop how awesome you are during practice for the next week, and I’m going to love every single second of it because I love you and wouldn’t want to host a get-together with anyone else.” 

Ilya kisses him almost before he’s done speaking. Shane kisses back fervently, hoping he’s said the right words to prove to Ilya how important he is to Shane and how adored he is by their friends. He hopes Ilya knows he’s telling the truth, because if there’s one thing that Shane is worse at than relaxing, it’s lying, both of which Ilya knows for a fact. 

“I love you too,” Ilya says when they part. He looks much calmer than before, face molding into his typical charismatic grin. “You are right, I’m very awesome. The GOAT, as the kids are saying nowadays. The team and the WAGs are going to be talking about this party on their death beds.” 

“Absolutely,” Shane replies. They can discuss Ilya’s hyperbolic tendencies at a later time. Now, he would enjoy kissing his boyfriend some more, preferably away from the smells of barbeque sauce and sliced watermelon. He kisses Ilya again, slow and syrup sweet, and says, “We should go make sure our bedroom is clean before everyone gets here.” 

In the most shocking turn of events to date, Ilya deflects Shane’s advances. “I have to make sure the cookies don’t burn! The recipe said to bake for exactly twenty one minutes and not a second longer or they will taste like sewer. You go check the bedroom and guest bathrooms again. There can never be enough toilet paper stocked.” 

“I think I’m stuck in the Twilight Zone,” Shane states. He’s also oddly becoming turned on by Ilya’s deranged comment. 

“Go,” Ilya says, waving at the stairs. “We can fuck later, when I know no one else is going to be able to inhale our sex particles. I have a reputation to maintain as the WAG GOAT, and I will not let you seduce me at such a critical stage.” 

Shane goes to check on their pristine bedroom and pristine bathrooms. When he catches sight of himself in the mirror, he sees that he’s smiling like a loon, ear to ear and wide enough to flash some of his bottom teeth. 

“I’m going to marry that man,” he tells his reflection. His reflection’s smile widens further. 

Just as Shane promised, their turn at hosting is a smashing success, and they practically have to kick the Pikes and the Dykstras out in the end. Shane congratulates Ilya on his stellar performance and promises to relay the high praises he’s bound to receive at practice tomorrow afternoon. Ilya celebrates by taking Shane upstairs to their pristine bedroom and fucking him so hard and so thoroughly that he screams himself hoarse. It’s a night for the books for sure. 

~.~ 

Falling in love with Shane Hollander has been a dream come true for Ilya. 

Like, a legitimate dream come true. A secret and deeply unrealistic fantasy that he spent years (and many a Bears vs Centaurs game) trying to speak into existence, only for it to happen by pure, random luck. Sure, he could have used the perks of his NHL employment and friendships to arrange an intentional meeting with Shane, but it would have lacked the romance Ilya dreamed of, would have taken the most of the choice out of Shane’s hands and made their connection seem insincere. So Ilya kept going to games, kept watching Captain Shane Hollander’s games and interviews and adorable Instagram stories, and begged the universe for one chance to present himself as a compatible partner to the most gorgeous man alive. 

Getting on that flight to BOS and discovering that the long-term object of his affections was his seat buddy almost made Ilya go up to a flight attendant and ask, “We are awake and living in real life, yes?” But all the longing and hoping for this chance had prepared him to woo Shane, and more importantly, actually fucking worked. 

Ilya is dating Shane Hollander. Ilya is Shane Hollander’s exclusive, public significant other and has been since their first date at his home in Boston. Ilya is planning to become Shane Hollander’s husband someday and remind the whole world of it every single day afterward. 

That’s in the future, though. Right now, he’s perfectly content with being Shane’s boyfriend. He still gets to be his second favorite thing, second only to being a doting partner: he gets to be an Ottawa WAG. 

No one has asked, but if they did, Ilya would willingly tell them he was born to be Shane Hollander’s WAG. He knows exactly who he is outside of being with Shane, and excels in his often complicated and taxing but rewarding career with the NHL. Leaving his country and starting fresh with only a temporary student visa and Svetlana’s encouragement to his name forced him to hit the ground running and figure out how to stand back up when homesickness and difficulties with English and paralyzing doubt tried to decimate him. 

Being devoted to Shane Hollander and spending much of his free time with Shane, thinking about Shane, and showing up for Shane is the same to Ilya as taking long walks or reading for fun after logging off from work. He loves going to Centaurs games and cheering Shane on from the WAGs section. He loves giggling with the other WAGs and corralling their kids in the stands and talking shit about the other teams. He loves being perceived as Shane Hollander’s trophy husband and being told that Shane “walks him like a dog” when photos of Ilya carrying his bags and looking nowhere but directly at him get passed around online. 

He loves all of it. His love for hockey and his love for Shane Hollander are completely intertwined. Outsiders can judge his unwavering dedication to Shane as much as they’d like—Ilya knows who he is, who Shane is, who they are together, and that’s all that matters to him. No one else gets to cook for Shane and work with him to build a home and wake up wrapped around him every morning. No one else gets to see him sink into that sweet, submissive headspace he often goes to during sex, and no one else gets to spend hours and hours taking him apart and putting him back together, the greatest privilege Ilya has ever been gifted. 

Every text from the WAGs group chat immediately brightens his day, even if it’s Selena Chouinard informing them that Nick forgot to pick up their online grocery order again and only has one minute left among the living. Having a bimonthly dinner outing with them helps to soothe the constant ache of missing Svetlana, who is down in L.A. with Rose now. Each and every game, he floats to the WAGs section like he’s Princess Diana, head held high, grin fixed on his face like it’ll kill him to stop smiling once inside of the Centaurs’ arena. This life he’s built for himself is far beyond Ilya’s dreams and deepest longings. 

The world will have to pry the title of WAG out of his cold, bisexual hands, and they will have to completely smite him from existence to remove him from Shane Hollander’s side. 

Tonight, Ottawa is playing against Detroit. They’re scrappy, like Boston, but nothing the boys can’t handle. Ilya knows they all love it when their opponents push them to their limits, especially Shane. He always glows brightest when someone makes him work hard to maintain his title as hockey’s prince, even though he earns his crown every time. Ilya is sitting next to Cassie in the WAGs section; he notices she’s struggling a bit to control Milo, who wants to run up and down the aisle to follow his father on the ice, and their one year old daughter, Kaya, who wants to sleep and can’t with Cassie’s constant moving. 

“Hey, Milo, come here,” Ilya says. “Let me show you something.” 

Milo is energetic like any three year old, but is also extremely cute and gentle. He gallops over and lets himself be scooped up onto Ilya’s lap, eyes moving immediately back to where Bood is trying to steal the puck from the Red Wings. 

“It’s easier to watch Dad from here. See?” Milo is barely tall enough to look over the wall separating the bowl seats from the Centaurs’ bench area, but on Ilya’s lap, he gets a clear view of the ice. “What number is he again?” 

“39!” 

“Good job! Let’s cheer for him to win! Go #39!” 

“Go Daddy!!!!” Milo screams. It’s so adorable that Ilya has to give him a hug, which makes Milo laugh and makes Ilya want to kiss him all over his cute little face. 

Cassie watches the scene with a relieved smile. After her son is settled and content to stay put while watching the game, she drops her head on Ilya’s shoulder and says, “You are my saving grace. Thank you.” 

He rests his head on hers. “Is nothing. I love your kids very much. And I’m glad that they can come and cheer for Bood, I know it makes him happy.” 

“I don’t think Kaya is into cheering quite yet.” They both look down to find her eyes firmly shut, face and noise-cancelling headphones tucked against Cassie’s chest. “Maybe next season.” 

The section is mainly the WAGs tonight, besides Milo, Kaya, and the Pike twins, who are troublemakers in every other scenario except hockey games. Jackie has no qualms about admitting that it’s because they like to watch the guys get into fights, especially fights involving Hayden, and horsing around can mean missing the beginnings of a scrum. They’re Ilya’s heroes. He tells Hayden every chance he gets that his wife is way too cool for him, and his kids should be his role models instead of the other way around. 

While Milo is tracking Bood, Ilya goes back to tracking Shane. He’s racing to beat Detroit’s D-men to their goal, shuffling the puck like it’s attached to his stick by cord. Chouinard is close behind them, aware that his captain is in danger of getting checked or intercepted. Barrett is coming in from the left, waiting to be used for an assist if Shane needs him. 

Ilya watches as Shane hits the puck over to Barrett, and then watches as Barrett hits the puck back to Shane the second the D-men let off his back. Shane angles his stick so that when he hits the puck again, it slides perfectly into the net between the left pole and the goalie’s leg pad. 

He jumps to his feet with everyone else, shouting, “Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah! Beautiful goal, moy lyubimyy!” over the din of the arena and the blaring horn. Then, remembering that he’s holding a three year old in his arms, Ilya says, “You pretend you did not hear me say that, Milo. Uncle Ilya got too excited.” 

“Hear what?” 

“Exactly. I cannot afford to lose access to your mother’s coconut drops.” 

The Centaurs are flinging themselves onto Shane near the goal, patting his helmet and jostling his shoulders. On the jumbotron, Ilya sees that he’s beaming and cheering along with his men. Then, Shane finds the main camera and blows a kiss to it, before mouthing two words: for you. 

Heat rockets through Ilya. Even though Shane can’t see him that well from the stands, he blows a kiss back and yells, “I love you, Shane Hollander!” 

Milo, wanting to be included, yells, “I love you, Daddy!!!” in Bood’s general direction. 

They get resettled into Ilya’s seat, and Ilya finds that Cassie is actively laughing at him. “What is funny?” 

“You two are so cute. I can’t handle it.” 

Ilya lightly pinches Milo’s cheek. “I know it! We are the two proudest hockey fans in the room tonight!” 

“I meant you and Shane,” Cassie says, also touching Milo’s cheek. “But yes, definitely not as cute as my baby.” 

The rest of the second period flies by and ends on a score of 2-0. Ilya notices that Detroit is getting frustrated and waspish, both on the ice and on the bench. It fills him with satisfaction, knowing his darling boyfriend is the reason why they’re getting mad. He’s scored both of the goals tonight so far and successfully evaded more than a few checks from bigger, meaner players. He’s playing at the top of his game and glowing with it for everyone to witness. 

Ilya can’t wait to ravish him tonight, after the game and team celebration are complete (because there is absolutely no way Detroit is beating Ottawa). 

Milo wiggles out of Ilya’s hold when he notices Bood skating over to the bench, calling his name repeatedly and flinging his arms wide. Bood gets his helmet off, blade guards on, and says, “Hey, buddy! Are you having fun?” while working on opening the door to the bench box. Milo shrieks happily when Bood scoops him up and listens with rapt attention as his son talks about how fast he is on the ice and how Ilya helped him to keep track of the game. 

He hopes to have his own version of this scene someday: watching the Centaurs kick ass in the stands with their kid and watching Shane pick them up between periods, larger than life in his gear, reduced to a puddle in the face of their child’s adoration. In the present, the sight of Shane skating in behind Bood and immediately seeking Ilya out is just as profound. 

Ilya steps into the box and meets him halfway. “Sweetheart, you are beautiful out there tonight. Beautiful goals, beautiful plays—my heart can’t handle it.” 

He tips Shane’s chin up for a kiss, unable to keep his hands off of him for another moment. Shane is smiling so hard that it’s barely a kiss. He says, “I dedicated them to you,” as if Ilya, who can’t keep his eyes off the ice when his boyfriend is playing, didn’t see the for you on the jumbotron, as if Shane doesn’t always dedicate them to Ilya when they’re not for his parents.  

“I saw,” Ilya says, kissing him once more. “I’m always watching. I love you so much, Shane.” 

Shane’s eyes are practically closed from how hard he’s grinning. “I love you too, Ilya.” 

Ilya sticks by his side during the intermission and makes sure Shane drinks all of his water. They gossip about Detroit’s rabid D-men and Ilya tells him about Milo’s enthusiastic cheering, which Shane makes him repeat to the rest of the team. He leaves out the part about swearing in front of him and records Bood hiding his teary eyes in Milo’s mop of curls, which he immediately turns around and sends to the WAGs chat. 

He gets so swept up in talking to Shane that he misses the nightly pre-third period game starting. Ilya’s favorite is when Harris is in charge and displays photos of fictional characters or famous celebrities that look similar to someone in the audience. One time he put up a picture of Snoopy from The Peanuts in hockey gear next to Shane and the crowd went berserk. Sometimes, when they leave an intern in charge of announcements and entertainment, they’ll find people in the audience who are willing to try replicating ridiculous 90s photoshoot poses. 

Tonight is the classic, a beloved or despised tradition based on who’s being asked. He’s completely oblivious to it until—

“Holzy! Roz! Your time to shine!” 

He looks away from Shane to Dillon, startled by the use of his team-appointed nickname. Shane, on the other hand, looks at the ceiling of the arena and says, “Oh, we’re so gonna be on Twitter later for this.” 

Ilya looks up to find their doppelgangers waiting for them on the Kiss Cam. The crowd is cheering, “Holl-an-der, Holl-an-der, Holl-an-der!” and the Centaurs and WAGs are cheering, “KISS KISS KISS KISS!” The entire rink is alive and kinetic with the desire to see Shane Hollander kiss his man on the big screen. Ilya is more than happy to oblige. 

“We must give them a show,” he says, wrapping his arms around Shane’s sides. “It’s only fair that they see how the hottest man in the NHL is treated by his hot WAG. Also good for your sponsors to see that their gay superstar is still very gay and in gay love with his boyfriend.” 

Without waiting for a response, Ilya muscles Shane into a dip and kisses him soundly. Shane, knowing better than to protest this treatment, and, frankly, not wanting to, grabs Ilya by his hoodie sleeves and holds on. He gives as good as he gets and kisses Ilya back while everyone else in the arena screams for them. 

After Ilya decides that he’s sufficiently kissed the Centaurs’ captain and proven to the public that they belong to each other, he sets Shane back on his skates. And then, while the camera is still fixed on them, turns around and points at the back of the shirt pulled over his hoodie. The cheers escalate from loud to ear-splitting when the crowd sees him proudly displaying his #24 HOLLANDER jersey. 

Shane is blushing fuschia next to him. The team are falling over themselves laughing at their embarrassed captain and his shameless partner. The WAGs are catcalling Ilya and congratulating him on his historical performance. 

Ilya was born to be Shane Hollander’s WAG. He’s grateful for being given the chance to prove it. He’s grateful that he gets the chance every day to continue proving it. 

Shane goes on the ice and scores two more times, dedicating both goals to Ilya in front of the same crowd who watched Ilya kiss him within an inch of his life. Ilya drives them home after only an hour at Monks and wrings four orgasms out of him, further proving just how dedicated he is to Shane and his success.

~.~ 

For a short while after moving in together, Shane finds himself wondering if their sex life will cool off a little bit. It’s understandably dialed to ten and often frantic while they’re long distance, since their opportunities to see each other don’t come as easily as they’d like, but moving in together should, reasonably, take the frantic edge off of their fucking. He isn’t hoping for this to happen, but he wonders if it will through the natural process of getting used to being together constantly and being busy with their separate work schedules.

In some aspects, it definitely stops being so frantic. But if he thought it would become a less frequent occurrence, future Shane can only point and laugh at past Shane for having the gall to entertain this idea. 

Ilya is a bottomless pit when it comes to his hunger for Shane. Shane feeds off of it like an incubus and readily reciprocates his hunger. It transforms into an echo chamber of constantly wanting each other, regardless of seeing each other every day and fucking almost every single one of those days. Living together has made it worse, like they’re trying to make up for every night they were apart before buying this house in Ottawa. 

And Shane loves it. He has loved the way Ilya takes control in the bedroom and demands Shane experience mind-blowing pleasure in every imaginable way since their first time. Ilya gets better at it every time they come together, after cataloguing the new ways he’s managed to make Shane sing and lose the parts of himself that shy away from attention. Now Ilya is a master at taking him apart, and it gives him a high that Shane can never deny him. 

Since he can hardly be persuaded to miss his morning run, Ilya’s go-to is following Shane into the shower when he comes home. He will either blow Shane or plaster them against the wall under the showerhead and use his hands to simultaneously finger and jerk Shane off, until he’s boneless and spent. Shane has started to have a Pavlovian association with the shower, which is unfortunate, considering he frequently showers with other men who are not his boyfriend. 

Ilya knows his love for routine well. He takes an easy approach to pleasuring Shane in the mornings, and saves the body-wringing sex for night, when they can collapse into sleep afterward. But Shane knows Ilya’s love for spontaneity just as well. Which is how he finds himself getting seduced before meetings or practice. 

Which is how he finds himself sprawled across Ilya’s desk during his lunch hour, one knee braced on the wood, both hands clamped around the side that faces the floor to ceiling windows that look out into the backyard. Ilya is supposed to be eating the pasta salad and turkey wrap Shane oh so thoughtfully prepared for him ten minutes ago. 

“I would rather taste you first,” Ilya says, when Shane brings him the meal. He nearly drops it on Ilya’s expensive desktop computer and rug when his boyfriend grabs him by one asscheek and pulls, so that Shane has no choice but to step between his spread legs. 

Ilya has the forethought to set his lunch off to the side and move his dual monitors before manhandling Shane into his preferred eating position: face down, ass up. Shane gives protesting a half-hearted try, says, “Maybe—maybe in our room instead?” but Ilya yanks his sweats and briefs down with an unconcerned, “No, here. I need motivation to finish my work instead of devouring you all day and getting fired.” 

He extricates Shane’s left ankle from the pool of his clothes and maneuvers his knee onto the desk, which spreads Shane open from the waist down and gives Ilya free range to—

“Ah!” Shane gasps, fingers curling over the lip of the desk. “Fuck, Ilya.” 

Ilya grabs him with both hands, a possessive, tight hold that always makes Shane melt. He licks a hot stripe over Shane’s hole like he’s been waiting hours for the opportunity, and then gives it a sweet, loving kiss. They’ve barely begun and Shane already feels lightheaded. 

“You’re so pretty here,” Ilya rumbles, squeezing Shane’s cheeks appreciatively. “So pretty everywhere. I might have to devour you all day anyway and accept the consequences.” 

“Ilya,” Shane whines again. “Please.” 

“Relax, sweetheart. We have an hour. Let me admire you.” 

Ilya has edged him for longer, until Shane was a drooling, crying mess and incapable of saying more than single syllable words. The thought of being rimmed for an hour both terrifies and thrills him. 

As if being able read his thoughts, Ilya laughs, a low, dangerous sound, and kisses his hole again. Then he takes a piece of Shane’s cheek between his sharp teeth and bites down, hard enough to leave a mark. Precome dribbles down his cock and onto the immaculate surface of Ilya’s desk. 

Shane loves getting eaten out. He loves everything they do, but this—Ilya’s tongue lapping at his hole, his scruff turning the insides of Shane’s thighs pink and hypersensitive, pressing greedy, unashamed noises against the most intimate part of him—there’s nothing like it. This is when Shane is at Ilya’s mercy the most, when he can only lay down and take what he’s given and be grateful for whatever that might be. 

Ilya gets him soaking wet with his tongue, licking harder the more Shane arches and submits to him. Spit drips wet and messy down his thighs and over his balls. Ilya holds him exactly where he wants him, the perfect height to allow him to eat Shane out with ease from his desk chair, but just high enough that Shane can’t rut against the desk or his own shirt for stimulation. 

Ilya leans back to breathe, and Shane knows he’s staring at the mess he created, can visualize the primal, satisfied grin on Ilya’s face even if he can’t see it. 

“I could do this all day.” He uses his thumbs to frame Shane’s dripping hole. “Leave you spread open on my desk for a taste in between my meetings and agent calls. Bring you to the edge until you’re completely gone and then make you come so many times you forget your own name. It would be so easy.” 

Shane’s hips rock forward into nothing. He’s not above begging, and he’s close to it now. 

“Ilya, please, please touch me. Please.” 

“I’ve been touching you. You want more?” Shane nods, then cries out when Ilya gives his hole another hot, covetous kiss. “Of course you want more. You take whatever I give you and then take more. You are so perfect, Shane. I can’t get enough of you.” 

Ilya licks over him again, and then pushes the tip of his tongue against Shane’s rim. His thumbs help to coax it open, along with the persistent push and pull of muscle, until his tongue finally slips inside Shane. The wet heat of it makes desire blossom along every one of his nerve endings like fire. 

He moans deliriously. Ilya praises him by spearing his tongue further into Shane. Where he was teasing and unhurried before, Ilya now moves with a single-minded determination; he fucks Shane with his tongue and squeezes his cheeks like he wants to leave a permanent handprint on each of them. Shane’s cock drips onto Ilya’s desk and down his shaft, adding to the mess of spit on his balls and thighs. He feels filthy and used and absolutely insane with pleasure. 

“Fuck, Ilya, fuck. Let me come. Please let me come.” 

Ilya nips the place where his thigh meets his cheek. “I never said you couldn’t, solnyshko. You can come whenever you want.” 

“I need—” Shane’s not sure what he needs, thoughts in total disarray. “I need you. I can’t—” 

“Yes you can. You can come just like this. I know you can.” 

The petulant, Type A part of Shane’s brain says he can’t. The part of Shane’s brain that belongs to Ilya and listens exclusively to his commands latches onto his words. He wants Shane to come from nothing but his tongue and his direction. Sometimes Ilya nearly makes him come by talking alone, having months and months of practice with saying the right words with the right tone to leave Shane needy and gushing precome. 

“I want to see it,” Ilya insists, kissing Shane’s taint. “Let me see you fall apart on my tongue and nothing else.” 

He fucks back into his hole and works his tongue in strong, confident strokes. Shane’s orgasm is waiting low in his belly for that last push to consume him. He wants to touch himself, but he knows Ilya will pin his hands to the desk and force Shane to take what he gives until he finally comes or taps out. He tilts his hips into Ilya’s touch and sobs pathetically while Ilya feasts, growling against his skin, fingers groping his stretch marks. 

Ilya leans back to say, “I’m going to come all over your lovely tiger stripes once you give me what I asked for. You’re going to look so pretty, Shane. Another pretty piece of artwork for my office.” 

He presses his mouth to Shane’s hole and, after pushing his tongue in again, sucks at the delicate skin of his rim. The image of Ilya’s promise and the dual sensations of sucking and fucking are what push him over the finish line. Shane cries, “Fuck, Ilya!” and comes untouched in hot spurts across his desk, clenching around his tongue. Ilya fucks him through it until Shane is twitching with oversensitivity and mewling into the bend of his elbow. 

Shane hears Ilya stand up from his chair, and hears him shove down his sweatpants and briefs. He jolts when Ilya pushes his shirt up to bare his lower back and the base of his spine, then flushes, knowing Ilya is staring at his collection of stretch marks and the back dimples he’s marked up more times than Shane could hope to count.  

“So fucking gorgeous, Shane,” Ilya groans. Shane can hear the slick sounds of Ilya working his cock with one hand, and arches into the other when it moves back to his left cheek. “So perfect and responsive for me. You get more perfect every time.” 

Shane spreads his legs until his hips ache. “Want it, Ilya. Want you to come on me.” 

Ilya groans louder and grips Shane’s cheek so that his hole, still wet and sensitive, is back on display. It only takes another handful of strokes before he does what Shane asked of him and he comes in stripes across his cheeks, lower back, and directly onto his entrance. Ilya’s come drips fever-hot down his skin in the same places his spit dripped before. Shane revels in it. 

When he’s wrung dry, Ilya leans down and presses a soft kiss to the back of Shane’s neck. The contrast of commanding Shane’s orgasm and gently checking on him after makes his nerve endings burn with a different kind of fire. 

“So beautiful,” Ilya whispers, prying Shane’s hands off the edge of the desk to massage them. “And all for me. No piece of artwork could compare to you, my love.” 

Shane smiles when Ilya kisses behind his ear, sated and spent and so in love he could burst. “Are you going to keep me in your office, then?” 

“My office and everywhere else. I’m going to keep you forever.” 

~.~ 

Ilya’s pride in being with Shane Hollander knows no bounds. This does not exclude his place of work, which he’s incredibly grateful for, because he would hate to have to quit his job with the NHL to become its top performer’s fulltime, live-in house husband. 

…Maybe. 

He has a Teams group chat with some of his coworkers (only the cool ones, of course) and when they’re not bitching about policy changes, the plights of capitalism, or their boss’ boss, who is a complete moron, they talk hockey. Rookies that are either fulfilling their prophecies of greatness or nuking them with a paper umbrella between their teeth for flourish. Possible chirps for what instigated the last multi-player fight during a game. Sometimes, they’ll build their ideal first-string teams and let Ilya judge, since he always claims that the perfect hockey team already exists and he would make no changes (“Except Pike, he should quit hockey and become a telemarketer. Only annoying people can do well in that career.”). 

Today, Ilya gets to talk to them about how Ottawa absolutely annihilated New Jersey three nights ago in a staggering 8-1 victory. They’re supposed to be brainstorming ideas to improve processing times for documentation updates when their players get traded, but came up with a perfect strategy ten minutes into the hour-long meeting block. Other work teams might use that time to sit in silence or exchange loads of laundry at home, but not Ilya’s. 

“I’ve replayed the video of Shane hitting the puck between Martinez’s feet about a hundred times today,” one of the ladies, Odette, says. “It’s soooo fucking funny. Martinez looked like he wanted to break his stick over Shane’s head for the rest of the game. As a matter of fact, I’m going to watch it again right now.” 

Another lady, Rania, giggles on her end. “And did you see when Haas and Dykstra spent almost a minute shuffling the puck back and forth? I thought Jersey’s D-men were going to explode with rage. Amazing, incredible, show-stopping, all around super cunty of them.” 

Ilya loves his work friends because their conversations are like the Ottawa WAGs chat 2.0. They’re fierce and hilarious, just like his WAGs, and know more about hockey than anyone Ilya has ever met, besides Svetlana and Yuna Hollander. If he were a player, he’d want them handling his affairs, no contest. 

There are a few cool guys in the group, too. One of them, Daniel, pipes up from his end in New York. “Ilya, you know I have to ask—any good stories from the games lately? I loved the one you told about the Tampa player calling Barrett a fruitcake a few weeks ago.” 

Ilya recalls this memory with utmost fondness. Some loser from Tampa had thought it wise to taunt Barrett about his latest Instagram post with Harris, and called him a ‘fucking fruitcake’ just as Bood was passing by. Bood had whipped around, dropped his gloves, and punched the left winger so hard that he flew ass over teakettle down the ice until landing in a heap in front of Hazy at the goal. Hazy hadn’t even known what inspired the punch, but had taken the opportunity to laugh in the Tampa player’s face and give him an L to the forehead on live television. 

He racks his brain, then says, “I don’t have any new stories from the games, but I did hear a story about Holmberg running into one of the Voyageur assholes at a hardware store and shouting at him in the lighting section.” 

Everyone gasps in pure delight. Rania says, “Tell us everything right now!” Daniel says, “Ohhh, this is going to be so good.” Jonah, who also lives in New York, says, “I’m gonna go grab a snack real quick, don’t start without me!” and Odette yells, “Wait, me too!” 

They spend the rest of their meeting time listening to Ilya recount Holmberg’s story, and then as many other stories as he can manage in 45 minutes. The last few are centered around things Shane has said recently that he doesn’t realize are genuinely hilarious to Ilya, and his coworkers eat it the hell up. 

“You guys are so sweet,” Rania tells him, right before they’re forced to end the videochat and get back to work. “I know social media talks about you being obsessed with Shane, but he is so obsessed with you, Ilya. That man worships the ground you walk on.” 

“Definitely,” Odette agrees. “You can tell by the way he talks about you in interviews and looks at you in photos. That man loooooves you.” 

Ilya tries and fails to hide a grin. “Oh, stop it. Everyone knows it’s me who is obsessed.” 

Jonah says, “I’ve never had a partner look at me the way Hollander looks at you.” 

Daniel says, “Me either. My boyfriend usually only looks like he wants to ditch me on the curb.” 

“Find a new one!” Ilya replies, distraught. “You are a fucking catch! Any man you date should be kissing your feet each time he sees you. That goes for all of you—except Rania, because I know your wife worships you like the goddess you are and needs no improvement.” 

“Correct.” 

“The world is full of many men,” Daniel laments, “but very, very few Shane Hollanders. You hit the lottery with him.” 

Ilya lets them see his grin this time, unable and unwilling to hide it. “I did. He is my universe.” 

Odette winks into her camera. “And you are his sun.” 

~.~ 

The best part of Shane’s day is the slice of time between dinner and bed. Since they usually save fooling around for their bed, he gets to spend these few hours just being with Ilya in whatever capacity they choose for the night. More often than not, they spend it like this: curled up on the couch together, either reading or watching TV. 

“That house is hideous,” Ilya says. “And they want almost a million dollars for it. Get real.” 

“Why is it so close to their neighbor’s house? Who would want that?” 

“It’s so they can hold hands while taking a shit at the same time. I bet that’s what makes the property value so high.” 

Shane laughs at this, and can feel when Ilya smiles against his chest. He discovered early on in their relationship that Ilya loves to be the big spoon while they’re sleeping, but when they’re on the couch, he prefers to try his best to crawl into Shane’s skin and live there. Under their favorite throw blanket, their legs are completely tangled together, and Ilya has his arms wrapped around Shane’s stomach and head tucked under his chin. Shane has his arms wrapped around Ilya’s back and alternates between keeping his chin on the crown of Ilya’s head and kissing his soft curls. 

He has worked his entire life to be able to enjoy the rewarding burn of a successful practice and the exhilarating rush of a successful game. But lately, when Shane has been reflecting on moments that mean the most to him, that feel the most rewarding, it’s nights like these that come to the forefront of his mind. Holding Ilya tight and breathing him in. Feeling safe and loved and lax beneath the warm bulk of his body. 

Shane pats Ilya’s shoulderblades. “We did a great job at picking out our house. I don’t think our real estate agent wanted to kill us too often while we were looking.”

“Mmm, she might have gotten there once.”

He’s sure it’s because of something he wasn’t willing to budge on. “When?” 

“When I said that I wanted multiple rooms to have floor to ceiling windows, not just our bedroom. I know it is common for only the main bedroom to have those kinds of windows, but I knew if my office did not have them I would go insane while working. It had to be like my house in Boston.” 

Shane thinks of Ilya’s house often and with immense nostalgia. It was a truly remarkable piece of architecture, with a perfectly decorated interior to match. The office had beautiful floor to ceiling windows that brought warmth and serenity to the space, making it the ideal room to work in for hours at a time. Ilya loved and lived in each room of the house to its fullest capacity, but Shane knows he had a special attachment to his office, like Shane had a special attachment to his kitchen. 

He felt calm and without burden each time he sat at the island, both the privacy of the house and its owner allowing Shane the freedom to do so. Ilya bought that house as a physical symbol of his hard work paying off. Ilya kissed and took him apart in every single room of that house. Shane fell in love with Ilya in that house. He cried harder than Ilya did when he officially transferred ownership to the new buyer after committing to moving to Ottawa. 

The enormity of what Ilya has done to be with Shane hits him at random moments. Not just moving to a different city, but moving to an entirely different country. Saying goodbye to a house that he loved and loved him in return and starting from scratch. Trading the exciting, lively environment of Boston for the quieter, softer environment of Ottawa, and consequentially, trading his beloved Bears for the Centaurs. 

Shane has never felt even a millisecond of doubt about Ilya’s dedication to making their relationship a healthy and prosperous one. The evidence is everywhere he looks and speaks for itself. What he does worry about, each time he’s reminded of what Ilya has sacrificed for him, for them, is Ilya not believing that Shane would do the same for him, or doesn’t recognize all that Ilya has sacrificed. 

He moves a hand to Ilya’s cheek and says, “Hey.” 

Ilya turns and sets his chin on Shane’s chest, blinking sleepily. “Hi, malysh.” 

Shane bets if someone cracked open his sternum, it would be bruised black and blue from how viscerally he feels love for this man. 

“I’m sorry about your house. I loved that place so, so much. If it was possible, I would’ve hauled it up here for us to keep.” 

Ilya melts into him, right into his open palm. “I know. But I love our house now, because we chose it together, and made it ours right from the start. I would not trade this house for any other house in the world, even mine from Boston.” 

“I just want you to know that I know it wasn’t easy for you to let it go,” Shane says, hoping that Ilya understands exactly what he’s trying to put into words. “To leave your house or Boston. That it cost you everything to move to Canada to be with me. I work hard every day to make sure your sacrifices weren’t for nothing.” 

Ilya’s brows furrow, and Shane’s hand falls from his face when he pushes onto his elbows, so that he’s looking down at Shane instead of the other way around. 

“Sweetheart, I didn’t lose anything by moving to Ottawa. I still have a home, I still have my job, and I still have you. That is all I care about. The rest of it is just…fluff. Not necessary.” 

“You had to move away from the places and people you built your life with. That kind of sacrifice is enormous. I want to make sure I never take it for granted, all the things you’ve done and continue to do for me.” 

He gets a soft sigh in return. Ilya lowers himself until all they can see is each other. “Stop making it sound like I locked myself in a prison. Yes, I loved living in Boston, and I loved my home there. I love my friends and coworkers who lived there with me. But there is nothing in the world that I love more than you, and I will do whatever I must to be with you as much as possible for as long as possible. I love living in Ottawa, and I love our home, and I love our team. I love being twenty minutes away from your parents and eating dinner with them on Sundays. I love going to Centaurs games and spending my nights booing the other teams with the WAGs. I love our life here, and I would not trade it for anything or anyone else. I can call my friends and make plans to see them whenever I want. Svetlana and I text constantly, and she is three hours behind and on the complete other side of the continent. I did not sacrifice anything to build a life here with you. I would say that I upgraded.” 

Shane is afraid that if he tries to speak, he’ll burst into tears. He gives it a shot anyway. “I wake up and go to sleep every day being grateful that you’re here building a life with me. I would do anything for you, Ilya. Anything.” 

Ilya presses their foreheads together. “Oh, my Shane, you do not see how much you already do. I have struggled with darkness my entire life, even after moving to Boston and finding my wings. But with you, darkness cannot win. You bring nothing but light and joy into my life in everything you do. It does not cost me anything to leave the darkness behind for light. I would choose it every single time.” 

Shane pulls him the rest of the way to his mouth and kisses Ilya like someone’s trying to force them apart. Ilya holds on and allows Shane to drive, making pleased noises low in his throat, settling back where he loves to be: pressed along every square inch of his boyfriend’s body. 

When they part, Shane whispers, “I love you. I love you so much.” 

It’s not enough, but somehow, Ilya deems it to be. “I know you do, moy lyubimyy. You show me in many ways. I love you, too, and I will follow you anywhere.” 

Ilya curls up on his chest again and they finish the episode wrapped in an aura of impenetrable tenderness. When the time where they usually shut the TV off and head upstairs comes around, Shane does the first part, but doesn’t move to get off the couch. He keeps holding Ilya in the shadowed silence of the living room, breathing in his shampoo and their laundry detergent. His sternum feels like it’s cracking wide open for Ilya to see its bruised, gouged interior. He wishes he could stay in this moment for eternity, wishes he could put into exact words all the ways Ilya has changed him for the better. 

After several minutes, Ilya murmurs, “This is the only kind of darkness I want in my life with you,” and Shane, near mute with overwhelming emotion, takes a shaky breath and manages to say, “Me too, Ilyusha.” 

~.~ 

It’s not very often that the Ottawa WAGs can gather at a bar to watch their men play, but when the opportunity arises, there are no lengths to which the members with kids will not go to find a sitter. Everyone’s parents and siblings and neighbors get called up, and rideshares get figured out, and the night unfolds like the yellow brick road. 

Ilya is not a huge drinker in situations like these, preferring to nurse a beer or two while the others let loose if they choose to do so. They have way more responsibilities than he does on a daily basis, and he wants them to be able to relax to their fullest knowing he’s there to watch over them. 

Tonight Ottawa is playing Columbus, and the group is posted up in their preferred sports bar. Monks is their chill, post-game tavern location, but The Chase is where the WAGs go to watch games so they can act like degenerates without distressing the staff at Monks. 

“Oh my God,” Jackie groans loudly. “These guys are such a-holes. Can’t make a clean pass to save their fucking lives.” 

Lisa says, “It’s because they’re embarrassed to be playing against Ottawa when they suck so bad. They’re trying to start a fight to overcompensate.” 

“I would advise against that,” Selena says. “Nick is worked up tonight and ready for a brawl.” 

Jackie asks, “What? Why?” Selena smirks smugly, and then Jackie laughs. “Oh, you’re incredible. I love you so much, Lena.” 

“I wish that Zane let me wield that kind of power over him,” Cassie sighs. “He’s so strict on game days. Which is super hot, but also agony, ya know? Because he gets so hyperfocused on performing and winning and I just want him to pin me against a wall.” 

“We don’t have to ask Ilya about Shane’s stance on sex before a game,” Caitlin says, giving Ilya a shit-eating grin. 

“Or after,” Harris adds. “What’s the longest they’ve lasted at Monks? Two hours?” 

Lisa nods. “I think two hours and seven minutes once, and only because Ilya got into an argument with Evan and Hayden about which one of them would last the longest on a mechanical bull and wouldn’t stop arguing until Shane threatened to leave and lock him out of the house.” 

Ilya knows all of this already, but when Jackie leans over and fake-whispers, “Shane loves watching you get into arguments,” he can’t help but say, “Yes, that’s why I get into them so often. Especially with your husband—he is very easy to aggravate." 

“That’s just a talent you have, Ilya.” 

“And is my most impressive!” 

On the flat screen TV in front of their excessively large, circular booth, Pike does a fancy move that sends the puck from one of Columbus’ players over to Barrett’s waiting stick. The WAGs fall silent, watching with bated breath as he flies down the ice, expertly maneuvering around his opponents without losing the puck, and advances on the goal post. Chouinard keeps one of the other D-men off Barrett’s trail, and Dykstra makes sure that Barrett has a clear, wide-open path to hit and— 

The goal horn blares through the speakers, and their booth starts cheering, along with the other masses of Centaurs fans in the bar. Harris shouts, “My man, my man, my man!” and blows several kisses at the screen, where they can see Barrett mouthing, “Fuck yeah!” as the other Centaurs dogpile onto him. 

Ilya, who is sandwiched between Jackie and Selena, leans over Selena to grab Harris by the head and kiss him there. “Pass that along to your man for me when you see him next. What a fucking goal!” He does the same to Jackie, kissing her loudly on the temple. “That one is just for you for that beautiful interception. Pike can have a handshake for all I care.” 

Jackie giggles and throws an arm around his shoulders. With her other hand, she raises her beer and says, “To our Centaurs!” 

The WAGs echo, “To our Centaurs!” and everyone clinks glasses before taking a long, victorious drink. 

Caitlin drains her mojito and wriggles to the end of the booth. “I’m gonna go get a refill since they’re going to commercial. Anyone else need one?” 

“Meeeee!” Cassie trills. “I’ll do another Sunrise, please and thank you. I’ll fetch refills next time.” 

Caitlin sashays over to the bar, and the rest of them go back to talking about inappropriate topics involving their significant others. Cassie asks, “Harris, what’s Troy’s opinion?” 

“On Columbus? He thinks they’re ass.com.” 

“No, we already know that. I meant his opinion on sex before a game.” 

“Oh!” Harris replies, lighting up. “He’s a fan.”

After a few minutes of this, Ilya asks to be let out of the booth so that he can use the bathroom. “I know Mrs. Dykstra is already getting refills, but does anyone need anything else while I’m up?” He gets a round of negatives and makes his way to the back of the bar. 

En route, Ilya realizes that Caitlin has actually been gone for a while, and decides to make a detour to see if she needs help carrying her spoils. He finds her on the side of the bar that’s closest to the bathrooms, and as he’s approaching her, a friendly greeting on the tip of his tongue, he notices that there’s already another man standing next to and trying to converse with her.

Ilya clocks the situation in a series of rapid snapshots: the way the man is leaning into her personal space, the way the man is leering at her without shame, the way that Caitlin is leaning away, the way that Caitlin’s posture is ramrod straight and is clearly screaming get the fuck away from me while she stares pointedly at the shelf of liquor over the bar. All the blood in his body goes ice cold, and then volcanic hot. 

He’s at her side in a split second, not touching, not crowding what’s left of her personal space, but in a place that allows her to notice his presence. “Have they taken your order yet? Do you need me to help you carry it back to the table?” 

Her panicked gaze jerks to him. “Ilya!” 

Ilya lowers his voice and asks, “Okay?” while glancing at the weird man trying to talk to her. 

The man takes this as an invitation to speak. “Who are you?” 

“Who the fuck are you? She knows me, she does not know you. I get to ask the questions here.” 

The man sneers at Ilya. Ilya wonders if The Chase will call the police if he punches him once, a single, clean throw to knock him unconscious. 

“I was just trying to get to know her, that’s all. Make some friendly chit chat while we wait for our drinks.” 

“You don’t need to get to know her. She’s married, asshole. You did not notice her ring while you were staring at her like a fucking creep?” 

“Ilya, it’s okay,” Caitlin says, touching his arm. “I think the drinks are almost done, and then we can go back to the table and be done with this.” 

“Ilya,” the guy repeats, pronouncing the vowels with disgust. “I don’t see your ring. Are you her fucking husband or something? Because that’s a lot of talk coming from a man that doesn’t own her.” 

“You are goddamn lucky that I’m not her husband, or you would be on the way to the hospital. And you are lucky that I respect her enough to not ruin the rest of her night, or else I would consider sending you there anyway.” 

The bartender either has impeccable timing or noticed the rising tension between the two men, because she sets down Caitlin’s mojito and Cassie’s Tequila Sunrise before Ilya can say fuck it and beat the shit out of this guy. “So sorry about that wait! Enjoy!” 

Ilya scoops them both up and says, “Go in front of me, angel. Let’s head back to the others and watch your husband destroy Columbus some more.” 

Caitlin steps around to Ilya’s front with a grateful squeeze to his arm. The man, after hearing Ilya’s comment, glances up at whatever TV over here is showing the game.

“Some friendly advice,” Ilya says. “Learn what the word ‘no’ means, and stop flirting with married women, because you never know if they might be married to professional athletes that get paid to punch teeth out of other men’s mouths for making jokes about their wives or mothers.” The man tries to stutter out a reply, and Ilya can’t help but add: “And you never know if they might be friends with someone who trains with professional athletes, too.” 

With that, Ilya follows Caitlin back to the booth and does his best to radiate guard dog energy for the entire bar to perceive. Before reaching their friends, he asks, “Are you okay, Caitlin? Do you want to step outside for a bit?” 

She sends him a shaky but sincere smile. “No, I’m okay, babe. Thank you for coming to the rescue. I thought I was going to have to knee him in the balls and that would’ve ruined the whole night.” 

“That would have been the best night. I love seeing terrible men get what they deserve.” Carefully, so as not to spill the drinks she went through Hell to get, Ilya presses his wrist to her shoulder and says, “I will always be here for you. Seriously—one word and I will drop my gloves before the creeps have time to blink.” 

She reaches back and pats his side. “I know, Ilya. You’re like the personal D-man for the WAGs. We love you.” 

“I love you all more. I am but your humble servant.” 

Though they’re laughing when they get back to the table, the other WAGs pick up on the energy immediately. Ilya thinks they should be the hockey players or their coaches instead, eyes and minds missing nothing. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Jackie asks. “You look a little pale, Cait.” 

“There was just some asshole at the bar trying to talk to me that wouldn’t take the hint. Ilya had to set him straight.” 

“I was not allowed to send him to the hospital, so I mostly barked at him. Compromise is important and all of that responsible adult shit.” 

Everyone immediately begins asking if she’s okay, if they need to go beat his ass, if they need to ask the staff to escort him out. Caitlin reaches across the table and pats everyone’s flailing hands, trying to calm them down. “My amazing, beautiful WAGs, I love you all so much. I would die for each and every one of you. Thank you for being so worried about me, but I’m over it now. I just want to watch my sexy husband make Columbus regret ever setting foot on the ice.” Here, she waggles her eyebrows at Ilya. “Also, I think Ilya made that fucker pee a little while he was glaring at him. He will not come back for seconds unless he wants Shane Hollander’s massive boyfriend to dislocate his kneecaps.” 

Ilya makes prayer hands. “Please, please come back for seconds. Please. I would love to end up on the news.” 

“To Roz!” Selena declares, holding up her drink. “For protecting our Caitlin from a fucking loser!” 

The WAGs repeat, “To Roz!” and take a drink. Ilya, whose drink is still across the table between Selena and Jackie, settles for hugging Caitlin and kissing the top of her head. 

When he doubles back to actually use the bathroom, he’s pleased to find that the man is gone from the bar. The same bartender from before catches his eye and says, “I kicked his ass out, cutie. He was ruining the vibes.” 

Ilya stuffs $20 into the tip jar for her excellent customer service skills. And then he buys a round of shots for the WAGs to celebrate Caitlin Dykstra’s sexy husband sending Columbus’ useless captain into the boards. 

~.~ 

Ilya picks Shane up from practice one night the following week so that they can go out to a nice restaurant for dinner and grocery shopping afterward. While he’s waiting, he chats with some of the other guys and asks about their upcoming game against Toronto. As he’s listening to Bood and Hazy rant about this brewery near the arena, Dykstra pops out into the hall and says, “Hey, Roz, can I talk to you real quick? It’s nothing bad.” 

“Of course.” 

The others depart, saying goodbye to both of them, until it’s only Ilya and Dykstra in the hallway. Evan stares at him for a beat, then says, “I wanted to say thank you in person. For the bar. For Caitlin.” 

Ilya chose to forget about the man as soon as they left The Chase that night. Ottawa had won, and Caitlin was all smiles on their way out the door, and he didn’t matter a single bit in the face of their boys securing such a great win. But Ilya remembers now, the way he kept trying to force his way into Caitlin’s space, and the way Caitlin had pushed herself into Ilya’s to get away from the man, and fury rips through him all over again. 

“She told you what happened?”

“Yeah.” Ilya knows his fury is microscopic compared to Dykstra’s. His expression now could turn that creep into nothing but ash. “She said that he wouldn’t leave her alone until you stepped in and told him to fuck off. And as fucked up as that it, she’s grateful you were there to help her, and so am I. It tears me up that she was put into a position like that and I couldn’t be there for her. I owe you a big one, man.” 

“You owe me nothing. I would gladly threaten the life of any man who makes anyone else uncomfortable, especially our WAGs. I take the responsibility of their safety very seriously when we’re out together. Besides—he was more scared when I told him Caitlin’s husband is a hockey player who gets paid to fuck people up on the ice. All I did was tell him the facts. You come to Shane’s rescue during every single game, so really, I owe you a big one.” 

This makes Dykstra laugh. He pulls Ilya in for a tight, slappy man hug, and says, “Dude, you’re the best. Hollander’ll keep you forever if he knows what’s good for him.” 

As if Ilya would ever willingly part from him. “I know. I cannot be separated from my WAGs or I’ll die.” 

~.~ 

There’s nobody else on the Centaurs’ roster who takes interviews as seriously as Shane. It’s probably a combination of being the captain and taking anything related to his career in hockey seriously, but he gives it his all during every interview, even the ones after a loss, even the ones after a win that barely feels like a win, when he just wants to go home and crawl into Ilya’s arms and sleep for twelve hours. He is hockey’s Prince Hollander, the player who has a diplomatic answer to any question imaginable and showers his team in praises without bestowing any upon himself. The player who gives journalists and social media managers thoughtful answers to their sometimes thoughtful questions because he knows how important it is for both his team and all of his intersectionalities to see him put his best foot forward. 

About a month ago, he’d received an email from a social media manager at OutSports requesting his participation in a segment on queer athletes and their partners. He knew Ilya would be all over it, but asked anyway to make sure, and his boyfriend had practically written the damn email himself confirming their involvement. On their way to the studio today, Ilya blasted love songs in the car and sang them at full volume while driving, much to Shane’s amusement. Shane asked, “Are you excited for the interview?” and in response, Ilya rolled down his window and yelled, “I love Shane Hollander and the whole world is going to know about it!” in the middle of an intersection. Which prompted Shane to grab his arm and say, “Ilya, knock it off before we get into an accident! The whole world already knows you love me!” 

And they do. Shane and Ilya’s Instagram accounts are flooded with pictures of each other and the pieces of their life they elect to share with the public. Ilya waited all of five minutes to change his bio to say SHANE HOLLANDER’S WAG after they decided to go public. Shane put his big boy pants on for their one year anniversary and both of Ilya’s birthday posts and wrote thoughtful paragraphs proclaiming his love for him that made Ilya cry in his arms and then post dramatic photos of himself actively crying to his story. 

They were invited to this interview for this purpose. Because Shane is an openly gay professional athlete with a partner, of which the whole wide world already knows exists. So why the interviewer, some tool named Joshua, decided to flirt with Ilya in front of Shane’s face throughout the entire circus, he has no fucking idea.

Shane, obviously,  knows that Ilya is exquisite in both looks and personality, so it’s common for people to flirt with him in front of Shane before they know he’s taken. And then they back off, which is the normal response to this revelation. Shane doesn’t get mad or jealous when people flirt with Ilya before finding out they’re dating, because Ilya has to deal with people frequently flirting with Shane and him not noticing until they put a hand on his arm or ask him point-blank for his number. They’re secure, mature adults and can talk through any bouts of jealousy or insecurity and put them to rest.

But this dude Joshua was blatantly flirting with Ilya in front of him, in front of the camera that recorded the entire interview, and Shane goes from being annoyed to fucking livid by the time they’re released to go home.

He started the interview by asking Shane normal questions, them as a pair normal questions, and then asking Ilya a few add-on questions, which didn’t raise any eyebrows, since Ilya is his own individual with his own personality and aspirations outside of their relationship. But then the questions changed from being worded like, “Shane, you said you enjoy doing yoga as part of your regular workout routine to help with flexibility and strength training. Ilya, is there anything special you like to do in yours outside of cardio and lifting weights?” to being worded like, “Ilya, do you focus on your glutes a lot? Because they are fantastic, if I do say so myself. I can tell that you’ve put a lot of work into perfecting them.” 

The comments might’ve been harmless coming from someone else, or if Shane also got asked invasive but humorous questions, too. But Joshua barely took his eyes off of Ilya the entire hour of filming and only asked him the weird, invasive questions. Shane thought about saying something more than once, but Ilya had been electric with joy at getting to talk about their relationship and how they met and how they’ve grown together, and it would’ve ruined that joy if Shane said anything and made the atmosphere weird. So he forced himself to answer the questions and not let Ilya see the ugly, unfamiliar jealousy growing in the pit of his stomach. 

Now, in the car, Shane can’t stop thinking about it. The way Joshua’s eyes kept trailing over Ilya like he was visually undressing him. The way he kept asking Ilya follow-up questions that were borderline inappropriate for the PG video they were filming. The whole situation was bad enough for Shane to notice, so he wonders if Ilya noticed, if he was uncomfortable at all, or if he was only focused on the joy of the interview process. 

“Did you have fun?” Ilya asks, when they’re almost home. 

Barely, Shane thinks. “Yeah, did you?” 

“Of course.” Their joined hands are resting on the middle console, and Ilya brings them to his lips. The kiss he brushes to Shane’s knuckles puts a lump in his throat. “I love talking about you. It’s my favorite activity, so the interview was easy for me.” 

“Your favorite activity.” 

“Okay, maybe second favorite. First is making sweet, sweet love to you.” 

Shane snorts. “My Prince Charming.” 

While turning a corner, Ilya looks away from the road long enough to wink at him. He’s beautiful in the golden hour light, ringlet curls and hazel eyes and perfect, freckled skin all formed directly from the touch of King Midas. Shane loves him so profoundly that it knocks the air out of his lungs, leaves him winded and reeling. This man, who knows every part of him and loves them all the same, who has brought immeasurable, incandescent joy into his life, is his and his alone. Ilya treats Shane the same way most parishioners treat their god. His attention and devotion have grown a hundredfold since their first date, since the first time they said ‘I love you,’ since announcing their relationship to the world. He should be laughing at the idea of Joshua trying to swoop in and steal Ilya from under his nose.

Shane tries to laugh it off, but instead, he stays livid. It’s the audacity that lingers—audacity to flirt with his partner in front of him, while filming a fucking interview celebrating their relationship and the evolution of queer spaces in professional sports. It disrespects both of them. The thought of the entire world watching that interview and listening to Joshua tell Ilya his glutes are fantastic makes him want to punch a hole through the windshield. 

He should know better than to think he’s successfully hiding any of this from Ilya. His boyfriend is thoughtful enough to let them get home and in their safe space before confronting him. Shane tries to go upstairs and change into comfortable clothes, but Ilya catches him around the waist before he can climb the first step. 

“Shane,” he drawls, “tell me what’s going on.” 

He should know better, but he tries to play dumb. “Nothing’s wrong, Ilya. Why do you think that?” 

Ilya passes his thumb over Shane’s lips. They are, unfortunately, frowning. “Because I know you, and I know you’re upset about something. Tell me what it is so I can fix it.” 

Shane wants to go back to the studio and strangle Joshua with his stupid YAY FOR GAY tie. “Ilya, you don’t need to fix anything. I’m not upset with you, I promise. I’m fine.” 

“You’re upset about something, though. I can tell. You were quiet in the car, and now you look the way you did when the team decorated the locker room for your birthday with glitter and balloons. Tell me what it is so we can fix it before it gets worse.” 

How does Ilya keep all this love inside of him without exploding from it? How does he love Shane so completely and honestly every day without turning himself into an empty, charred husk? 

“You didn’t like the interview?” Ilya guesses, quiet, crestfallen. 

“No, Ilya, I loved doing an interview with you!” Shane rushes to assure him. “I love getting to talk about us and how we get to watch hockey change from the front lines. It was just… the guy.”

Ilya puzzles through this response. “The interviewer? Joshua?” 

Embarrassment and fury wage a war inside of him. “He kept flirting with you during our interview. Our interview about our relationship. It just left a bad taste in my mouth, is all. I’m sorry that I’m upset about it, I didn’t want to say anything and ruin the mood since you had so much fun. And I promise I had fun, too, but—he was flirting with you so fucking much, Ilya. I thought I was going to snap and throw my chair at him.” 

“Ah, I see,” Ilya says, touching his lips again. He looks apologetic and highly amused by the image of Shane, Prince of Ottawa and Prince of Hockey, throwing his chair at anyone, much less an interviewer. “Yes, he was being weird, but I was hoping you did not notice. I didn’t want to say anything and disrupt the interview because I loved getting the chance to talk about us.” 

“I didn’t want to say anything either. I just focused on you until the end of filming.” Fury edges in front of embarrassment. “That question about your glute routine pissed me off. And the one about your ideal type if you weren’t dating me. He should have been asking questions about dates you want us to go on or your favorite memory with me or something. Not if you had a six or eight-pack.” 

Ilya’s eyes are flitting across Shane’s face, as if viewing him in an entirely new light. “You’re upset because he was asking me private questions.” 

“You don’t tell someone during a professional interview that they have a fat ass, regardless if their significant other is there. That’s fucking gross.” Shane touches Ilya’s chin, and feels his own face pinch into an angry expression. “He had the opportunity to ask you about the NHL’s queer culture behind the scenes or your favorite queer places to hang out in Ottawa. He shouldn’t have been spending that hour checking you out in front of me.” 

Unnecessarily, Ilya says, “You have nothing to worry about, Shane. I’m yours. From now until death.” 

Shane knows that. People who know them know that. That’s why he’s so motherfucking livid, because Joshua knows that, and he still chose to flirt with Ilya. He feels possessed, like every slight any interviewer has ever made against him and any dumbass comment made by a podcaster are amassing in this moment. They all know Shane is the Prince of Hockey, the talented but boring star player who moves with grace in every aspect of his career. They do not know what Shane is capable of when his loved ones are disrespected or put in harm’s way, that his methodical, calculated gameplay can be flipped on its head and used for destruction instead of winning gold. 

In their nearly two years together, Ilya has seen fractions of this alter ego, but never its full face. He stares at it now with astonishment and naked hunger. 

“Yeah, you are mine,” Shane says. He takes all of this burning anger and residual frustration and turns it to devotion. Ilya worships him the same as a god, and Shane worships Ilya as his most cherished believer, his most precious token of gratitude, because a god is ultimately nothing without love and trust. “That’s why I’m upset. Because the only person who should be looking at your glutes is me. The only person who should care about your abs is me. The only type you have is me, because you’re with me and no one else. I can’t believe that asshole had the nerve to ask you those questions in front of me, and in front of the camera, like the public setting would make it okay or make him more enticing to you. Anyone with half a brain would know that you’re mine.” 

Ilya is leaning into him, pupils dilated. Shane bets, in this very moment, if he snapped his fingers, Ilya would fall to his knees and do anything he asked without hesitation. Fury and love and jealousy send him leagues away from Prince Hollander’s realm. 

“Everyone will see that I’m yours when the video releases,” Ilya says, trying to be reasonable. “The media already says I’m ‘whipped.’ I didn’t look away from you a single time during our interview.”

Shane wants to do something drastic, like post a picture of Ilya kneeling at his feet, or post a picture of himself with his hand wrapped around Ilya’s throat. A clear, direct message of MINE. He settles for using his grip on Ilya’s chin to pull him the rest of the way down, lips close enough to touch when he speaks, and tells his boyfriend: “I’m only pissed because he tried to steal you when he knows you’re mine. I know it never would have worked. No one else can make you feel the way I do, can they?” 

Ilya groans, “Shane,” like the syllable is dragged out of his body through the darkest part of his soul. 

His blood feels like it’s made of kerosene and matches. This is all fury and jealousy with none of the self doubt. A dragon unwilling to give up even a single coin of its hoard. A god willing to destroy the world to protect its most loyal devotee. 

“I was yours the second I laid eyes on you. And you were mine the second you laid eyes on me. He’s a fucking idiot if he thinks he could ever challenge me for your love.” 

Ilya’s hold on his waist goes vice-tight. Shane guides him into a hard, loving kiss, effectively sealing their fate. No one else could ever be enough for them but each other. No one else could possibly compare. 

He gets lifted into Ilya’s enormous arms, hands spread under his thighs, and keeps kissing him on their way into the living room. Ilya tries to lower them onto the couch with Shane’s back to the cushions, but Shane says, “No, like this,” and uses his weight to throw Ilya down first instead. It ends with Ilya propped up on an elbow, his other hand still wrapped around Shane’s thigh, and Shane perched in his lap. 

“Shane,” Ilya says, apparently unable to say anything else. 

He slinks backward and undoes the snap and zipper of Ilya’s jeans. Ilya watches with wide, dazed eyes as Shane pulls them down to his thighs, then shoves his shirt up to his chest, until he has clear access to Ilya’s rigid cock. 

“No one else can make you feel the way I do.” This time, he says it as a statement instead of asking it as a question. 

Ilya’s hips kick off the couch. Shane sees a beautiful pearl of precome well up at the head of his cock. “Only you.”

Shane rewards him by taking the head into his mouth and sucking hard. Ilya collapses fully onto the couch with a strangled cry of his name. He says it like a reflex, like it’s the only word he would think to speak at the end of the world, where only darkness waits. Shane gorges on this man who, impossibly, belongs to him, on his one and only dream. He takes Ilya deep and ferociously, making sure to wipe his mind clean of any other thoughts than ones about him, about them. 

He knows when Ilya is getting close without having to be told. Ilya’s breathing goes sharp and high, and his thighs tremble under Shane’s commanding palms. He pulls off before Ilya comes, letting him catch what little breath he can. Shane yanks his jeans and underwear off the rest of the way and tosses them on the floor, a problem for later, when he can think straight again. While he’s stripping himself, he demands, “Get the lube, Ilya,” and Ilya hurries to pluck it out of their hidden spot in the back of the coffee table’s main drawer. He pulls his shirt off with one hand while opening the cap with the other, which would normally make Shane laugh, but tonight, makes him want to take a picture to send to Joshua that says: he’s only like this for me. 

He crawls over Ilya when his socks are off, kissing his thighs, stomach, solar plexus, throat, and finally, his desperate mouth. Shane kisses him while Ilya coats his fingers in lube, kisses him as Ilya’s fingers graze his taint, his hole, and then forces his head back when his middle finger breaches his body. He holds Ilya right where he is while he opens Shane up, allowing him to share the same air as Shane but not allowing him a centimeter closer. 

Shane, possessed, high off the power of belonging to gorgeous, wickedly smart Ilya Rozanov, maintains eye contact the entire time. Lets Ilya see how fucking good he makes Shane feel with only his fingers, the way Shane loses his mind over Ilya’s intimate knowledge of which buttons to press to make him scream. Ilya looks near tears when he adds a second digit into Shane’s body, and then a third, neck straining forward for a kiss that he knows he won’t get until Shane chooses to give it to him. 

“As if I would ever let him have you,” Shane says, moaning when Ilya drags the pads of his fingers over his prostate. “Have this. All of you belongs to all of me.” 

“Shane, please,” Ilya whimpers, clean hand clamped around Shane’s hip. “Please, moy lyubimyy, let me have you then.” 

“Like this,” he replies, indicating that he wants to stay on Ilya’s lap. 

“Yes, whatever you want. I’m yours.” 

Ilya pulls his fingers out and slicks himself up with more lube. Shane holds his head right where it is, until the head of Ilya’s cock presses into him, and then he gives Ilya the kiss he worked so hard for. He sinks down with Ilya’s frenetic kissing to soothe any residual sting. He grips his King Midas curls and kisses him the way Shane knows he loves, wet and messy and a little mean, while Ilya fills him in every way possible. They giveth and they taketh, the sun and the moon, each a god and each a parishioner. 

When he’s ready to move, Shane pushes Ilya flat to the cushions again and says, “This is me having you.” 

He twines his fingers through Ilya’s and presses both sets of hands to his thighs. They hold him while Shane rides Ilya with practiced, sure rolls of his hips, relishing the long, endless drag of his cock and the bright starburst of heat that comes each time Ilya hits his prostate. Ilya’s fingertips touch his stretch marks with piety but his eyes never stray from Shane’s face, unwilling to miss even the smallest expression of pleasure. 

“So perfect, so gorgeous,” Ilya babbles. He makes an aborted thrust upwards that pushes him further into Shane’s body, and Shane gasps, clenching around his cock. “Fuck, Shane, you are stunning, and you are all mine. I still can’t believe it.” 

Shane moves faster, allowing Ilya to meet him on the downstrokes. “Say it again, Ilya.” 

Ilya’s abs ripple like he’s barely subduing his orgasm. “You’re mine, Shane Hollander. You’ve always been mine and will always be mine.” 

He moves Ilya’s right hand to his cock and closes it around the base. He keeps his hand wrapped around Ilya’s wrist and says, “Together, dusha moya.” 

Ilya goes feral over the use of the Russian term of endearment. He takes Shane the rest of the way apart with precise flicks of his wrist and the dexterous roll of his thumb over the head of his cock, all while meeting Shane halfway each time he drops back onto his heels. When it’s Shane’s turn to breathe sharp and high, Ilya echoes him, and says, “Together, dusha moya.” 

Shane keeps his eyes wide and pinned to Ilya’s as he comes, sobbing out a combination of expletives and “Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.” His entire body contracts with pleasure, almost like he’s coming a second time, and Ilya buries himself all the way inside as he orgasms seconds after Shane. He never looks away, either, letting Shane call the shots until the very end. 

Shane is full of come and dripping sweat over Ilya and their expensive couch. He feels like the most beautiful, powerful man alive. And this time, when Ilya begs for a kiss, Shane goes willingly, readily, no longer able to fight his orbit. 

“I love you,” Ilya says, kissing his sweaty, grinning cheeks. “You are magnificent.” 

Shane knows it to be true. “I love you, too. You’re magnificent and all mine.”  

~.~ 

“Does your heart do cartwheels every time you get on a plane?” 

Jackie asks Ilya this as they’re walking down the jet bridge toward said plane. The boys are in Nashville for the end of their latest roadie, and instead of playing and coming right back to Ottawa, Hayden convinced Shane to ask their significant others to come down to Nashville and spend a few free days there doing some sightseeing, which Ilya and Jackie had jumped on without hesitation. Besides Harris, there are no other WAGs in attendance, so they’re treating this like a besties double date vacation.

“Uh, no, not really. I’m not a nervous flyer.” 

“I meant because this is how you met Shane. Do you think about it when you fly still? Does your heart get all fluttery and shit?” 

He laughs, understanding. “Oh! Of course it does—I’m almost always thinking about Shane, but while I’m flying, I think about him and that flight to Boston the entire time. It was such a perfect first meeting. Except for the lady who tried to steal our seats, she was annoying as fuck, but made for a good conversation starter.” 

They greet the flight attendant and head to their seats in first class. A vision of a slightly younger Shane appears before Ilya while hefting his and Jackie’s carry-on bags into the overhead compartment. He can remember in exact detail the wide-eyed, prickly expression on Shane’s face while he argued with that woman wanting their seats, and the way it went slack with astonishment when Ilya appeared and told her to hit the bricks. He can remember in exact detail the moment he realized his seat partner was really, truly the Shane Hollander, and can remember telling himself: I’m not leaving this plane without getting his number, no matter what it takes. 

Ilya motions for Jackie to take the window seat and he takes the aisle. This sight always brings back that morning, the soft, unsure cadence Shane spoke to him with, the way he kept looking at Ilya and looking away and back again rapidly, caught between not being able to make eye contact for too long and (per Shane) desperately wanting to memorize every part of Ilya while he could. The way Shane opened up like a flower after some coaxing and answered every question Ilya asked him with complete sincerity. 

Ilya misses him like a limb, though they’ve only been apart for a week and a half. He can’t wait to walk off this plane and into Shane’s waiting arms, to see his smile in real life instead of over FaceTime, to feel the warmth of his skin and smell their shared detergent on his clothes. 

But for now, he’s going to enjoy this flight with one of his best friends, and probably gossip about the Centaurs the entire time. 

“Do you think the other WAGs want to murder us?” he asks conversationally. 

Jackie cackles. “100% they do. I’m only here with you because Hayden’s parents insisted on watching the kids so we could have some alone time. I feel kind of bad for the others, but…” 

She trails off, and Ilya knows where the thought is heading. “But, it’s kind of nice that it’ll be just us. We are going to have so much fun taking pictures in front of every Dolly Parton sign we see and forcing the boys to barhop. The only way it could be better is if Hayden were not there and Harris came instead.” 

This earns him a slap on the leg, but Jackie laughs harder, so Ilya knows she’s not offended. She thinks his rivalry with Hayden is cute, and Ilya knows that Hayden thinks so too underneath his posturing. 

“Hey, speaking of barhopping, there’s this place that Cait and Ev said we have to try if we have the time.” 

Ilya settles in and listens as Jackie tells him about The Dykstras’ recommendation. They devise vacation plans throughout the boarding process, and Ilya makes sure that they both buckle up when the seatbelt sign turns on, a habit that he will readily admit he adopted from Shane. And when they take off down the runway, Ilya and Jackie hold hands and quietly cheer together, and Ilya knows they’re both thinking the same thing: I’m coming back to you, lover. 

~.~ 

“What time are you guys picking up Jackie and Ilya again?” 

“Their flight gets in around 3,” Hayden tells Bood. “We’re gonna get cleaned up some more at the hotel before grabbing them.” 

“The team was thinking about going to this BBQ place for dinner. I heard they have kickass brisket and a mechanical bull, so we can finally see who will last the longest between you, Roz, and Dykstra.” 

Shane groans into his cubby. “Absolutely not. Ilya will get whiplash and a concussion trying to beat the entire team at bull riding. Also, I can’t believe that you’d eat BBQ anywhere else but your own house, Boodram.” 

“I consider it furthering my education. Food labeled as ‘Nashville Hot’ is usually pretty fucking tasty. Also, Hollander, I can’t believe you don’t want to watch your man ride a bull. I thought you’d be all over that.” 

He feels the tips of his ears burn. “Not in front of you freaks.” 

Bood laughs and hits his arm. “Meet us there at 6. I’ll put the address into the group chat.” 

While pulling on a clean shirt, he asks Hayden, “6? Does he think it’ll take us three hours to get back from the airport? I know Nashville is crazy busy, but three hours seems excessive when it’s, like, forty minutes tops roundtrip.” 

“I think he’s accounting for the fact that when Rozy sees you again, he’s going to throw you down on the nearest surface and maul you for at least an hour.” 

“Dude!” The burn travels down to the rest of his face, which cracks Hayden up. “Like you can talk, asshole. We’re not the ones with 4 children under 6!” 

“Touché.” 

Shane finishes getting dressed and says, “Let’s go before I leave you here and take Jackie and Ilya out by myself.” 

“Ilya would probably love that.” 

He smiles to himself as they walk through the visiting rink and out to the parking lot to find their rental car. Partially because he thinks the weird beef that Ilya and Hayden have is funny, but mostly because he’s excited to see his boyfriend again. They’ve barely been apart and have texted and FaceTimed the entire roadie, but it’s never the same as being in Ilya’s space and being able to kiss him whenever Shane wants and falling asleep wrapped in his arms. He keeps thinking about what Ilya’s face is going to look like when they find each other at the airport and touch for the first time in ten days. 

“Shane, you’re skipping through this parking lot right now.” 

“Fuck off, I am not. You’re skipping.” 

3 P.M. cannot come fast enough. 

~.~ 

Just over halfway through the flight, Jackie gets up to use the bathroom, and Ilya orders them a new round of Cokes. He’s antsy with anticipation of seeing Shane again, and keeps catching the reflection of his wide, goofy grin through his seat’s IFE screen. All he can think about is spending the first part of the night getting loose with the Centaurs and then spending the rest of it taking Shane apart in their hotel room. Watching his skin flush everywhere, listening to him whine for Ilya, kissing him over and over and over again—

The plane hits a rough patch of turbulence, forcing Ilya from his daydream and forcing him to brace a hand against the seat in front of him. Startled chattering fills the cabin, along with some nervous laughter. As he’s settling into his seat, they hit turbulence again; it rattles the luggage in the overhead compartments and sends their seasoned flight attendant lilting against a doorframe near the cockpit. 

More people start chattering and looking around. Ilya sees the bathroom door slide open, revealing a concerned Jackie. She hustles down the aisle to their seats, and says, “Damn, this is the worst turbulence I’ve ever—” 

The plane jolts hard enough to throw everyone against the seat in front of them. Jackie shouts, pitching backward, and Ilya acts quickly, wrapping his arms around her waist to make sure she lands in his seat and not on the ground. 

“Holy fuck,” she swears, “what the fuck is going on?” 

The plane’s speaker system crackles to life, and their pilot announces: “Folks, we’re having difficulties with one of our engines. We’ll need to make an emergency landing as close as possible to Louisville SDF and disembark. Please stand by and follow all safety instructions from your flight attendants.”

The seatbelt light dings, and the flight attendants call out, “Seatbelts on! Everyone put your seatbelts on!” Ilya sets Jackie in her seat and helps her get buckled before buckling himself in, trying not to let his hands shake. 

“We have to text the boys,” Jackie says, her eyes wide with thinly-veiled terror. “Let them know what’s going on, that we’re arriving in SDF instead—” 

A horrible, cacophonous bang! echoes throughout the plane. Ilya has a split second to wonder if the faulty engine just exploded, or if the wings have suddenly disappeared, before the plane falls vertically through the air and keeps falling. 

People start screaming and sobbing hysterically. The vests and oxygen masks drop from their hidden compartments, and the flight attendants continue to call out safety instructions over the chaos. 

“Ilya,” Jackie cries, clinging to him. “We have to text them, we have to let them know what’s happening. Oh God, what the fuck are we going to say? Hayden—” 

She sobs her husband’s name and clutches the locket around her neck. Inside, Ilya knows there’s a photo of Hayden on one side, and their four children on the other. His mother’s cross rests against his twisting heart like a brand. He thinks, Shane, my Shane, moy lyubimyy, I’m so sorry it ended like this. 

More screaming comes from the back of the plane, and the sound of someone yelling, “There’s a fire! The plane is on fire!” 

Ilya gets Jackie into her oxygen mask and vest, trying not to break down until she’s taken care of. “Honey, you need to put these on. I know it’s all going to shit, but these will keep you safe, okay? And I am here to keep you safe. Hayden will be waiting for you once this is over.” 

Jackie complies, and then, through her oxygen mask, says, “Put yours on too, or Shane is going to beat your ass after we land.” 

He puts his safety gear on while tears flow freely down his face. The plane is flying at a crooked angle instead of free falling through the sky, but with a fire burning in the engine, Ilya fears it won’t be enough. Jackie pulls her phone out and unlocks it, trying to send Hayden a message or call him, but the plane jerks sideways at the wrong moment and sends it tumbling out of her hands. She tries to tumble after it, screaming nonsensically, and the plane jerks the other way, throwing her into Ilya’s arms. 

Ilya pins her against his chest with a hand to the back of her head so that she won’t crack it open on anything. He fishes for his phone, still safe in his pocket, and manages to get it unlocked without dropping or throwing it. 

“I’m texting now,” he tells Jackie, voice muffled by the mask. “I will tell them we love them. They will know, no matter what.” 

Jackie wraps her arms around Ilya and keens. “I’m so sorry, babies. I’m so sorry.” 

The wifi is weak, but present. Ilya hears the plane make another terrible noise and braces himself, white-knuckling his phone, the last lifeline to his one true love. He takes his hand off of Jackie only long enough to open their group chat with Shane and Hayden and type: You are our hearts. We love you more than words can say. We will be together always. 

The plane drops vertically again. Ilya’s message fights to send, but manages to read ‘delivered’ just before the lights in the plane go completely out, and the wifi blips off. Ilya shoves his phone back into his pocket and wraps himself around Jackie, arms covering her head and neck entirely to protect her from impact. 

“It is sent,” he tells her, voice cracking on a sob of his own. “We will see them soon. I promise that we will make it through this.” 

Jackie grips his jacket and presses her cheek to his neck. “I can’t leave my babies, Ilya. I can’t leave Hayden like this.” 

“You won’t, you won’t. It will all be okay. We’re going to land safely and go back to them.” 

Ilya weeps silently into her hair. The pain is indescribable, thinking about leaving Shane so soon after finally getting his happily ever after. All the darkness, all the hardship, all the longing, and as soon as he finds the light, he has to let it go. Ilya can only hope that if their plane crashes, Shane and Hayden will at least have each other, and their team, and their families there to support them. They will be broken, but they won’t be alone. 

Ilya would choose to love Shane and lose him a thousand times. He wishes he had more time to tell Shane this in every way imaginable. 

Ilya wishes desperately that it were only him on this falling plane, that only his life was at stake. He speaks to his mother daily, but now, he prays and pleads to her. Mama, if you can hear me, keep her safe. She has a husband and children who need her. I will come to you willingly, but please keep her safe. Her life is more important than my love. 

The plane falls and careens through the sky. At one point, it jerks forward, pushing the nose of the plane semi-perpendicular to the ground. Ilya squeezes Jackie to his chest and makes sure her head is covered when they get jerked forward as well. His forehead strikes the IFE screen he saw himself grinning into before, and something warm runs down his face, but Ilya keeps his arms around Jackie and keeps praying to his mother. 

A loud but decidedly less horrible noise echoes through the cabin as the plane pulls up. The falling sensation levels into a controlled coasting. Ilya strokes Jackie’s tear-damp hair and prays hard, thinking of her twins cheering Hayden on at Centaurs games, thinking of Shane’s freckles and the way they bunch up when Ilya tickles his sides during play-fights in bed. 

The plane levels out almost completely parallel to the ground. A flight attendant calls out, “We’re preparing to land! Everyone stay in your seats and brace for impact!” The flight attendants in the back of the plane relay this message to economy class, and some of the hysterical sobbing and screaming quiets in favor of preparing for the hard landing. It feels like Ilya can’t breathe the entire waiting period between descending and actually landing. Air stays trapped in his diaphragm like a stone until, out of an open window, he sees the familiar, gorgeous sight of asphalt rising up to meet the plane, and he feels the familiar, exulting sensation of plane wheels touching down on the runway. He doesn’t care if they’re in Louisville, Kentucky or Barren Wasteland, Kansas. All he has left to give is, Holy fuck, we’re alive. Thank you, Mama, I won’t waste it. 

Jackie pulls away from his chest to look at him in shock and relief. Ilya rips off his oxygen mask and kisses her soundly on the head. 

“We’re safe,” he assures her, body flooding with endorphins. “We’re going back to them. Is all going to be okay.” 

Jackie rips hers off, too, and pulls Ilya into a proper embrace. She manages to say, “Thank fucking God,” and “I love you, Ilya,” in between her relieved weeping and muttering the names of her husband and children. Another shitshow is about to begin, now that the worse shitshow is over, and Ilya takes this moment to hold his friend and be grateful that they’re alive. That he has another day on Earth to spend loving Shane Hollander with every molecule of his body and soul. 

~.~ 

There’s still over an hour left before they need to drive to Nashville International Airport when the group chat text comes through. Shane, who is watching YouTube to pass the time, smiles warmly when a message from Hollander’s Dream Man appears at the top of his screen. The warmth curdles, though, when he reads it. 

You are our hearts. We love you more than words can say. We will be together always. 

“What the hell,” he mutters. It’s an odd text, to say the least. The phrasing implies that the message is from both Ilya and Jackie; why Ilya sent it in the first place, and why he sent it on Jackie’s behalf, as well, is weird as fuck. 

Shane rolls out of bed, grabs his wallet, room key, and car keys, shoves his feet into his sneakers, and goes down to Hayden’s room. He barely puts his knuckles to the door before Hayden is yanking it open, phone in hand, expression bewildered. 

“Hayd,” Shane says. 

“What the fuck,” Hayden says.

“I’m gonna try calling.” It’s iffy on whether or not the call will go through the plane wifi, but he has to try. His stomach turns with the beginnings of nausea and anxiety. The call goes directly to Ilya’s voicemail, so he tries calling Jackie, which also goes directly to voicemail. He tries Ilya again just to be sure. Then he texts, What’s going on? which goes unanswered for ten seconds, twenty, thirty. “Why would he—what does that even mean?” 

Hayden stares at him. He looks like he’s going to puke or pass out. “Shane. You don’t think…?” 

Shane doesn’t know what to think, until he does. He remembers, with sudden clarity, that their partners are on a fucking plane together. They are flying on an airplane, and Ilya just sent their group chat a joint profession of love for unknown reasons when they’re expected to reunite in a few short hours. 

“No,” he says, hurriedly pulling up Safari. “No, no, no, no. There’s no way.” 

Air Canada has no notable updates on their official Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter accounts. Shane plugs their flight number into a live tracker and sees nothing but an empty grid where there should be a bold, green line bringing them toward BNA. He’s searching for live news updates next, breaths coming in rapid, short pants, when his phone rings with a call from his mom. He declines it and flicks back to the news outlets. 

Hayden’s phone rings. He answers and says, “Yuna, I’m sorry, but now is not—” 

He stops abruptly, and Shane looks at him, afraid and desperate to know what made him choke. He can hear the kind but firm cadence of his mother talking down the line. She knows, Shane understands, she wasn’t calling to chat, she knows, she knows. 

Hayden hands him his phone after they both hear Yuna say, “Let me talk to Shane.” 

“Mom, Ilya just send this text, him and Jackie are flying—” 

“Listen to me,” Yuna interrupts. Shane shuts up immediately. “You know I track all your flights because I get worried, and now I track all of Ilya’s, too. After their flight status went offline, I called BNA to find out why and they told me that something happened with one of the engines on their plane.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Shane whimpers, swaying against the wall. “Oh fuck.” 

“Stay with me, Shane. They made a safe emergency landing at SDF in Louisville. They couldn’t confirm if there were any casualties yet, but I know they landed safely and got all the passengers off. Everyone is going to be there for a while getting assessed for injuries. That’s all I’ve got right now, but it should be enough to get you in the door.” 

His eyes fall shut. A safe landing, thank fucking God. “We’re leaving now. I love you.” 

“I love you too. Drive safe and let me know when you see him, okay? I’ll call if I hear any updates.” 

They hang up. Shane hands Hayden his phone back, then yanks him down the hall to the stairwell. “They made an emergency landing in Louisville. We’re going to get them.” 

He explains what his mother said while they sprint down four flights of stairs and out into the parking lot. It’s probably unsafe for Shane to be driving in his current state of mind, but he doesn’t give a fuck. All he cares about is getting them to Louisville and to their partners, who are probably scared out of their goddamn minds right now. 

Hayden calls Wiebe while Shane plugs in directions to SDF, and then they’re peeling out of the hotel parking lot and racing toward the expressway that will take them back to Ilya and Jackie’s sides where they belong. Ten minutes in, Hayden lets out an abrupt, gut-wrenching sob. He grabs Shane’s right elbow and squeezes, hunching over his own lap. “Oh, fuck, they could have died. Oh my fucking Christ.” 

His wedding ring is cold against Shane’s sweaty skin. Shane is holding onto sanity by the skin of his teeth and years of compartmentalization, but hearing Hayden, who has weathered Shane through his worst storms, fall completely apart nearly does him in. He moves his arm until they’re clasping hands, and Shane pours as much strength into his best friend as he can spare. 

“They’re fine,” he promises, because any other option is unacceptable. “Jackie is totally fine, Hayden. I know Ilya will make sure of it.” 

Hayden coughs out a laugh. He’s holding onto Shane so hard it hurts, and Shane welcomes it, welcomes the stark pain against the numbness trying to seep in. “I know he will. He’s so good to all of our girls and keeps them safe when we can’t.” He heaves out another painful sob, right hand pressed to his eyes. “I know I never say it, but I really love that motherfucker. I’m glad you have him, and he has you. I’m glad Jackie is with him right now. I’m glad they’re not alone.”  

Shane forces the tears out of his eyes only so that they won’t blind him from the road. He lets them drip down his cheeks so that he won’t crash the car and keep them from their partners for a second longer. "I’m going to marry him.” 

“Buddy, you’d better,” Hayden laugh-sobs. “I’m gonna marry Jackie again when I pick her up. I’m never letting her go again.” 

~.~ 

Time passes in a daze while the passengers get shuffled off the plane and toward the emergency vehicles parked along the runway. It’s recommended that everyone get checked out for injuries, and lines are formed between the array of ambulances. Some people are concussed from the jerking and dropping of the plane, and one passenger has a fractured arm, so they’re assessed first.

Ilya and Jackie wait for their turn without speaking. Her phone is lost in the bowels of the plane, and Ilya’s doesn’t get service out on the runway, so they pass the time in an exhausted silence. He’s relieved, at least, to learn from other conversations that they did end up in Louisville, and not a random place in Indiana or Virginia. He holds Jackie while they cry, and continues to hold her after the tears stop; he knows they both want to be held by someone else, but must be content with each other until those people arrive. 

Eventually, Ilya gets escorted over to a medical professional. Her eyes are kind, and her touch is gentle. She asks if Ilya is hurt anywhere; Ilya is numb everywhere except his heart, which throbs and bleeds like a bullet wound. He tells her he feels fine.

Her index finger hovers over his forehead. “You’re cut here. Do you remember how this happened?” 

Ilya recalls the IFE screen. “I think I hit it against the seat in front of me when plane was falling. I’m not sure. There was a lot going on.” 

The EMT’s expression is apologetic. “I’m so sorry you went through this. We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can. I just have to ask a few questions as part of our concussion protocol, if that’s okay.” 

Ilya doesn’t have a concussion, but he does have a cut wide enough to require Steri-Strips be put over it. The EMT cleans his wound, dresses it, and lets him go with a few packets of ibuprofen and advice to go to the ER if he starts to feel dizzy, nauseous, or loses consciousness. 

After being assessed, Ilya and Jackie are allowed to approach the group of people working to get their carry-on luggage off the plane. They’d been forced to flee without it since there was an active fire upon landing, but the fire is out, and their luggage is safe. Ilya finds their bags while Jackie asks about her phone. They have to wait a while longer, but one of the guys comes off the plane holding it triumphantly. Jackie cries some more when she gets it back and thanks him profusely. 

And then they get to take a ride from the outskirts of the runway to the actual airport with other passengers who have been given a clear bill of health. Ilya keeps their bags safe and puts an arm around Jackie’s weary shoulders, encouraging her to relax against him. 

“Rest for a moment,” he says softly. “Take a deep breath. We will call when we get inside.”

“They’re probably freaking out. If they even know. Fuck, what if they have no idea?” 

“Yuna Hollander tracks my flights. I’m confident that she knows, and so Shane will know, and Hayden will know.” 

“Yuna should work for the CSIS. She’s scary.” 

“I know it. Did I tell you she got me a pair of shoes for Christmas that I’ve always wanted but have never spoken to her about? That I know of? I asked her how she could have possibly known I wanted them, and do you know what she said to me?” 

“What?” 

“‘I have my ways.’ That’s all she said. She is a goddess.” 

Jackie giggles into his shoulder. His sudden, aching longing to see Yuna and be held in her arms hits Ilya like another bullet to the heart. He will call her and listen to her parental fretting as soon as he gets to Shane. He looks forward to it just as much. 

The airport’s floor to ceiling windows grow from big to gargantuan as they approach the terminal. Ilya misses his home. He wants to go home with the love of his life and be safe. 

But first, he has to make it through SDF. 

~.~ 

The drive from Nashville to Louisville is supposed to take them about two hours and forty five minutes. 

Shane does it in two flat. 

He parks in the first short-term spot he can find at SDF and hustles after Hayden to the Air Canada departure terminal, hoping that TSA will let them through without tickets. He thinks of the possible excuses Yuna might say to get them through to where Ilya and Jackie are supposed to be, and knows that he’ll have to be direct and confrontational without pushing the envelope of being detained. 

Hayden goes through the automatic door first and beelines for a solitary security guard. The woman, alert but unconcerned, visibly startles at the sight of two hockey players barrelling toward her in obvious distress. 

“Can I help you gentlemen?” she asks, hand hovering over her walkie talkie. 

Hayden says, “We got a call that our spouses were on the Air Canada flight that had to make an emergency landing. They were supposed to be going to Nashville and had to land here instead. Please, we have to find them. We have IDs, we have their flight information and copies of their tickets, you can call our coach to confirm who we are, whatever you need. Please just let us go to them.” 

She eyes him, then Shane. After a moment, where Shane thinks he might have a genuine breakdown and risk getting arrested, she says, “Give me a minute.” 

The security guard steps away to make a call. Shane forces himself to inhale for four beats and exhale for eight to avoid having a panic attack. When she returns a few moments later, she asks Hayden, “What are your spouses’ names?” 

“Jacklyn Pike and Ilya Rozanov. They flew in seats 8A and B.” 

She repeats their names and seats down the phone, and after another agonizing moment, nods. “Got it. Thanks.” To them, she says, “I can take you to their gate after I scan your IDs and pass you through the security screenings.” 

“Thank you,” Hayden gasps, near a sob. “Thank you, thank you.” 

She fasttracks them through TSA security and escorts them to the gate. “They landed just a bit ago. No casualties, only some injuries. They might still be out on the runway getting checked by the EMTs, so you’ll have to wait at the gate if they’re not back yet.” 

“That’s okay,” Shane says, forcing himself not to sprint ahead of her. “Thank you for the information.”

“Seriously, thank you so much for helping us. We’ve been freaking the fuck out for three hours.” 

“I can imagine. But don’t worry—we’ll get you to your honies, no problem.” 

The walk down to gate H5 is formidable, but Shane keeps putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that Ilya is at the end of the journey. When they round the corner to the H gates, he looks for 5 immediately, and is relieved to see that there are people sitting there already, talking on the phone or talking to airport staff members. He searches for Ilya through the mass of scared, battered strangers, looks high and low for those golden curls and listens for that rolling Russian accent like they’re the Holy Grail—

“Jackie! Oh my God, Jackie!” 

Hayden flies over to the gate and toward a woman who Shane now realizes is Jackie. He watches Jackie jump and turn to locate the source of her name, and watches as her face cracks wide open upon seeing her husband running to her. She stumbles to her feet, cries, “Hayden, Hayden!” and then he’s on her, pulling her right off her feet and into his arms. 

Someone gets to their feet behind Jackie. Someone tall, and muscular, and plucked directly from Ancient Greece. Shane sees the curls first, his guiding light, and then sees the distraught expression, so beautiful despite its jagged, horrified edges. 

Shane makes it to the carpet before he collapses, only a few strides away from Ilya. His legs simply refuse to hold his weight any longer, knowing that Ilya is okay, that he’s safe, that he’s breathing and moving right the fuck in front of Shane. He can only kneel there on the carpet, look up at the man of his dreams, and sob out: “Ilyusha.”

Ilya, as always, meets him in the middle. He walks the few feet Shane could not physically cover and falls to his knees, too, just in front of him. And then he crawls forward and scoops Shane up into a tight embrace, strong arms a band across his back, face buried in Shane’s stress-messy hair. 

“Shane,” Ilya croaks, entire body shuddering. Shane winds his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and crushes him close, until they’re pressed completely head to thighs. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” 

They break down together, right in the middle of Air Canada gate H fucking 5, in the middle of a crowd of shellshocked strangers. Ilya holds Shane so tightly that the ache of it is going to linger for days afterward. Shane puts his lips to the spot on Ilya’s neck where his pulse is thundering, a livewire underneath the tender skin of his throat. He wants to bite down and taste blood, to feel Ilya’s beating heart against his tongue and teeth and feel how alive he is. Instead, he kisses the skin protecting his carotid, purposefully gentle instead of vicious in his love for Ilya. 

“I love you,” Shane manages to say, kissing Ilya’s throat again and again. “I love you so much, Ilya.” 

“Ya tebya lyublyu. You are my heart, Shane Hollander.” 

When Shane can bear to put any space between their bodies, he leans back to look at Ilya’s face. His cheeks are wet and pink from crying, and his exhaustion is prominent in the tired lines around his eyes. There’s a cut near his hairline covered in Steri-Strips and a clear bandage that’s bruising purple around the edges. He’s the most glorious, perfect sight that Shane has ever had the privilege of looking upon; he would cross galaxies to find Ilya and look upon his glorious, perfect face. 

He grasps that face and says, “I’m so, so sorry you had to go through that. It must have been terrifying. I know you were brave for Jackie and for us, but I’m here now, okay? I’m here to be brave for you.” 

Ilya rests their foreheads together, crying quietly. “I prayed to my mother to keep Jackie safe. I was ready to go as long as she was safe and could see her babies again. But I kept thinking about never seeing your beautiful freckles again or waking up in your arms and it felt like I was already dying. I didn’t want to lose you, malysh. I didn’t want to leave you like that. We are just getting started.” 

Shane closes his eyes, unable to stop another ragged sob from leaving his mouth. He can’t let himself imagine a possibility of this future, of having to go his entire life without Ilya by his side, of losing his soulmate after spending two years falling madly in love with him, of everyone else he loves falling in love with him, too. If he lets himself walk down that path, his sanity will dissolve before the nightmare does. 

“I came to find you and take you home. We’re going to have a lifetime together, and nothing is going to keep us from that, not even a shitty Air Canada plane and its shitty engines. Nothing could keep me from coming to save you.” 

Ilya kisses the corner of his mouth. “You’ll be glad to know that we were wearing our seatbelts. I knew you would yell at me if I didn’t put it on. You have changed my life in the smallest of ways, my Shane.” 

He laughs, coarse from crying and trembling everywhere and helplessly endeared by his dream man. He is dizzy with relief and love, love, love. “I love you so much, Ilya.” 

“I love you, too, zolotse,” Ilya says, kissing him fully. “My light. My safe place.” 

They’ll have to gather themselves eventually and head back to Nashville. Shane has no intention of playing their game tomorrow, and he knows Hayden and Jackie are going to book the next possible flight to get to their kids, so there are tasks to handle before he can take Ilya home and recover with him. But for a while longer, he intends to sit and breathe him in, remind him that he’s safe and loved, and that Shane will fight anyone or anything that tries to disrupt his long game plan of growing old and wrinkly with this man. The world can wait, but Ilya will never have to wait for Shane’s devotion for as long as they live. 

~.~ 

It’s near dawn by the time they arrive in Ottawa. Ilya wanted to get home as quickly as possible, even though that meant getting back on an airplane; Jackie agreed and said that seeing her babies was more important than agonizing over their failed flight to BNA. Shane and Hayden make it happen with Yuna’s help, and the entire team’s blessings, who vow to hold down the fort and give Nashville hell in honor of their Captain, their A, and their shaken partners. 

Ilya spends the initial hour of the flight holding both of Shane’s hands and listening to him ramble about one of his hockey books, until he gives into his exhaustion and falls asleep with his head on Shane’s shoulder. Shane stays wide awake until they land in YOW, one hand in Ilya’s, and the other curved protectively around the back of his weary head. 

The four of them collect their belongings after a thankfully uneventful flight and follow Ilya to his SUV, where Shane ushers him to the passenger seat and tells him to continue resting. Ilya climbs in without a fight. He dozes as Shane guides them out of the garage and takes everyone in the direction of Hayden’s parents’ house. 

Ilya wakes up to hug both Jackie and Hayden and to pass along his love for the kids. He stays awake while Shane drives them home, eyes half-mast, Shane’s right hand clasped between both of his against his stomach. Shane tries to keep his eyes on the road, but it’s empty at almost 4 A.M., and Ilya is alive and breathing next to him, and he can’t loosen his grip on that suffocating fear he felt when Yuna said: something happened with one of the engines on their plane. He glances at Ilya every chance he gets. When they’re at the stoplight before their neighborhood, Ilya meets his eyes and murmurs, “I’m okay, Shane.” 

Shane is fraying at the edges under the weight of his own exhaustion and terror. He closes his eyes and sees that text meant to be Ilya and Jackie’s last words. He opens his eyes and has to find Ilya immediately or he’ll start hyperventilating. He needs to get them home. He needs to make sure Ilya understands the bottomless pit of Shane’s love and adoration for him.

When they pull into their driveway, Ilya sighs, his entire body going limp with relief. Shane closes the car in the garage and doesn’t bother taking anything out of it before guiding Ilya inside and up to their bedroom.

“We’re not getting the bags?” 

“No,” Shane says, holding his hand all the way up the stairs. “Tomorrow.” 

“Is tomorrow,” Ilya teases, voice scratchy with fatigue. 

Shane had plans. He spent weeks making them and remaking them, wanting everything to be perfect. But all he cares about now is Ilya, and being with Ilya in every single way that is humanly possible. 

In their bedroom, Shane plants his boyfriend at the foot of their bed and requests, “Stay, please.” 

He kisses Ilya’s hand before crossing the room to their bookshelves. They’re mostly full of Shane’s hockey biographies and memoirs, which makes it the perfect hiding spot. Ilya only really likes to read fiction and leaves the hockey nonfiction alone since Shane will likely end up rehashing the entire book for him at some point. He pulls two of his older books off the shelf and collects the small, black box that has been tucked behind them for the last month. 

Ilya stays, even though he’s basically asleep on his feet. Shane wants to hold him for the next twenty four hours. Shane wants to collapse before him and kiss those exhausted feet and promise to keep him safe from any kind of harm that may come his way. 

“I was so fucking scared, Ilya,” is what he begins with, because he needs to get it out of his system. “When I got that call from my mom, after getting your text… I’ve never felt that kind of fear before. I couldn’t think about anything except coming to find you.” 

Ilya touches his face. “I’m so sorry, solnyshko. I did not mean to frighten you.” 

“Don’t be sorry, Ilya. You used your last words to tell me that you love me,” Shane’s voice breaks on the word ‘love’ but he presses forward. “I would have done the same. I would’ve done anything to tell you that I loved you one last time.” 

A tear slips from Ilya’s eye. “You were all I could think about. You were all I wanted to think about. The only regret that came to me while the plane was falling was that I didn’t get enough time with you, to love you like I’ve always wanted.” 

Shane is crying, too, thinking of the ways today could have gone wrong, thinking of the ways he’s going to love Ilya to his fullest starting today. “I want a lifetime with you. I want to love you and be with you and live with you always. There’s no one for me but you, Ilya.” 

He holds up the black box in the space between their bodies. Shane lets Ilya see it, hazel eyes teary and stunned, and then opens the box and gets down on one knee. 

“Shane,” Ilya breathes. 

“I wanted this to be romantic,” he tells Ilya, crying harder. “I wanted there to be candles and flowers and wine and laughter and romance. But I can’t wait for that a second longer. I need you to know now how much I love you, Ilya Rozanov, and that I plan to love you until the day I die. That I am wholly, completely, entirely in love with you and ready to love you more every new day we get to be with each other.” 

Ilya’s knees are shaking. He has both hands covering his mouth to muffle his weeping, but his eyes never leave Shane’s. 

Shane touches his leg, grounding them both. “I’m sorry it’s not romantic. I hope it’s enough that I love you and don’t want you to ever leave my side again without knowing just how much. Will you marry me, Ilya?” 

Ilya says, “Oh, Shane,” and crumples in front of him, so that they’re both kneeling on the floor of their bedroom. He only spares a glance for the ring before cupping Shane’s face and reeling him in for a hard, desperate kiss that is wet with their combined tears. “You ridiculous, exasperating man. That was the most romantic proposal I’ve ever heard. It was beautiful. Everything you say to me is beautiful and romantic." 

“Is that a yes?” 

Ilya laughs deliriously. He kisses Shane’s damp cheek and says, “Of course I will marry you, Shane Hollander. I would have married you the first day I knew you.” 

He lets Shane slide the ring onto his finger. It fits perfectly. Shane can’t help but lean down and reverently kiss him, both his finger and where the ring circles it. He presses his lips to the warm metal and Ilya’s warm skin and thanks who or whatever is listening that this man is in his life and came back home to him after his brush with death. 

Ilya cups his face again and guides him into another real kiss. Shane thrills at the feeling of Ilya’s ring on his cheekbone. “I love you, Ilyusha.” 

“I love you more, moy lyubimyy.” 

He grins against Ilya’s mouth. “Impossible.” 

“I have a lifetime to prove it. You will concede to me eventually.” 

“It might take you the entire lifetime.” 

Ilya grins back. “I cannot wait.” 

~.~ 

When Ilya wakes up later that day, it’s mid-afternoon. Shane is still fast asleep, face smushed to Ilya’s chest, arms and legs completely wrapped around his body. 

He drags his hand up the column of Shane’s spine, just wanting to touch, and catches sight of the new ring on his finger. A symbol of Shane’s love for him, a symbol of his commitment to Ilya and continuing to build a life with him. Ilya thought he might be nearing the limit of the amount of love his body can withstand for Shane Hollander, but this ring proves that a limit will never exist. He will love Shane Hollander an excruciating amount forever, and he will find ways to keep loving him more and more every day. 

Without dislodging Shane, Ilya reaches back and grabs his phone from the bedside table. He holds his left hand up to his face, opens the camera app with his right, and snaps a picture as he beams proudly. 

He clicks on the WAGs group chat and attaches the photo to a text that reads: GUESS WHO GOT UPGRADED TO WIFE!!!! 💍💍💍💍💍💓💓💓🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥😋😋 

After it sends, Ilya puts his phone on silent and sets it back on the table. Reading the replies will be his treat when he wakes up again. He imagines the WAGs losing their minds over his drop and dash announcement, and how Shane will squirm and blush when Ilya reads them out loud later. He presses a goofy, grinning kiss to the crown of Shane’s head and slips back into sleep a few minutes later, feeling safe and content down to his bones. 

He has a lifetime of harassing his fiancé ahead of him. He wants to enjoy some peace and quiet first.