Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Fluff, Attempt at Humor, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Supportive Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Team as Family, Meet the Family, of sorts, Bets & Wagers, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Relationship Timeline Reveal

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-26 Words: 8,182 Chapters: 1/1

after the ending / before the beginning

Summary

With a record-breaking transfer fee in the 2018 off-season, Ilya Rozanov moved to Ottawa and wrecked his entire career and legacy in one go. Three years later, in a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint in Canada, a few of the Boston Raiders reckon with why.

Relatedly, Shane Hollander is getting married.

Notes

the initial hollanov relationship timeline in this fic follows the show's timeline as best as i could get it, but the core premise is compliant to the long game. this scene takes place during the events of that book, in the day immediately prior to the wedding.

also to be perfectly transparent i do not care even in the slightest if it is "realistic" for a team of hockey bros to be this supportive. "reality" is simply nothing to me, especially not in comparison to my need to give shane hollander people who care about his wellbeing.

anyways, with that said, please enjoy!!!

“So,” the man in front of him starts, grinning with all his teeth, both real and fake, “Shane Hollander. You’re the one who locked Rozy down for good, huh?”

Shane stiffens just a little. It’s the day before their wedding, which means that Ottawa is crawling with pretty much every hockey player that he and Ilya have ever liked and who can also tolerate their relationship. It’s a smaller number than in a perfect world, but it’s not an insignificant one—they’re probably singlehandedly providing the city’s hotel ecosystem with the next six months’ worth of revenue.

Of those hockey players attending the wedding, most of them are people that Ilya is close to. Many Shane knows only from the ice; he could tell you their positions and stats but their first names are kind of a 50/50 toss up.

Ilya had wanted him to meet some of those friends they had invited before the day of the wedding, so here they are now: a pizza joint a few minutes’ drive from home with a group of the Boston Raiders slowly trickling inside to join them at their table.

Connors—or possibly just Connor, Shane isn’t totally sure—had been the first of them to arrive at their dinner. Ilya had gotten up to answer a call from someone who had gotten lost, and so now it’s just him and Shane and this question that Shane does not at all know how to answer.

“Um.” Shane looks between Connors and the door and back again, praying Ilya finishes giving directions soon. “I mean. I guess so. Yeah.”

Connors snorts, leaning back in his chair, looking perfectly comfortable. “We never thought it’d happen. Good for you, man. Congrats.”

“Thank you,” Shane says slowly, waiting for the catch.

It doesn’t come. Instead, Connors says, “It makes sense, honestly. Rozanov was never going to settle for anything simple and easy. Shocking the world by figuring out how to do a relationship with his biggest rival is way more his style.”

Shane blinks. That is not where he had been expecting this conversation to go, and he doesn’t really know what to say to any of that.

Luckily, Connors doesn’t seem offended by his lack of response. They fall into silence then, Connors occupied by staring at the very limited menu and Shane staring at Ilya through the glass door, praying for him to come back before Connors tries to start an awkward conversation again.

Here’s the thing: almost every single one of Shane’s friends fucking hates Ilya Rozanov.

It took a lot to get J.J. onto the same page about their relationship, and it took more than it should have to get Hayden to stop trying to suggest other men. That’s not even starting with how badly the general Metros team and management had taken it when they got outed. Even his parents had needed convincing—their first question had been, Weren’t there any nice men in Montreal?

It’s always been Ilya. It always will be Ilya. From the moment that Ilya first smiled at him in that CCM photoshoot—you look pretty—Shane was done for. No one else stood a chance.

He didn’t understand it at the time, but he can admit it now, now that he isn’t afraid of it. No one but Ilya ever would have made him this happy, this settled, this comfortable, this excited to be getting married.

But that’s not what everyone else sees. Shane has had a decade to get used to the idea of him and Ilya. For them, really, the idea existed before the real rivalry did.

They were Shane and Ilya before the words Hollander versus Rozanov became an identity in and of itself. No one else has had that privilege of time. So he kind of gets it, when his friends react badly. He kind of just allows it to wash over him.

He had been expecting everyone from the Boston Raiders to be the same as the Metros. He had been expecting this dinner to be an interrogation of sorts; just a series of questions aimed to prove to Ilya that this is going to be a mistake. It shouldn’t be like that, because Shane shouldn’t have to fight for his relationship at every goddamn step of the way, but still. It’s what he had been expecting. That’s the precedent.

And here Connors—Connor?—is, just plainly accepting it. Just looking at the various toppings he could have on his pizza all while sitting across from Shane Hollander, who is getting married to Ilya Rozanov tomorrow, as if this is all the most normal thing in the world.

It should be. It should be, but it hasn’t ever been before, and Shane cannot figure out why this is different.

Just as Shane is starting to spiral about it a little bit, Ilya slides back into the booth next to him, Cliff Marleau and St. Simon—Victor? Vincent? Hector, maybe?—in tow. St. Simon takes the chair directly across from Shane, while Marleau fits himself into the space next to Ilya.

“Hammersmith took more wrong turns than you can take on the road here,” Ilya tells them all, rolling his eyes. He grabs a menu and passes it to Shane, then motions to St. Simon. “Pass that to Victor. The last two will be here soon. They’re driving together.”

Marleau barks out a laugh. “If they’re together, why the fuck did Ry let Hammersmith drive?”

“He’s the only one of us with a Canadian license, remember?” St. Simon reminds him, taking the menu from Shane with a smile. “We all took cabs but Ry decided to risk it because he was already running late and Hammersmith was the only one who would wait.”

“Idiots,” Ilya says, but it’s fond.

Connors makes an offended noise. “Hey, I got here on time and I didn’t get lost.”

“Oh, yes, Connors, you get an award for that,” Ilya tells him. “First time it has ever happened, after all.”

“Ouch.” Connors snorts, unoffended amidst the others’ laughing.

Shane can’t help but crack a smile. Something about the laughter in this group is contagious, even if he’s still uncomfortable, waiting for the other shoe to drop and the interrogation to start. Under the table, Ilya presses his hand against Shane’s thigh, just a small reminder that he’s there and they’re together in this.

The last two members of their party arrive not too much longer after that; each takes a seat on the opposite side of the table from Shane, both on the other side of Connors. By the time that Ilya is done giving Hammersmith shit about his navigation, Shane is certain that he’s the one with the split lip and Ryan Carmichael is the one who Ilya keeps using a complete full name for while everyone calls him Ry.

The conversation flows quick and easy, with the group of Raiders, both current and former, all falling into what’s clearly a familiar and well-established rhythm. Shane is lost amongst most of the conversation, but Ilya leans closer to him to whisper plenty of explanations of the inside jokes and to give context to the nostalgic storytelling.

For a while after ordering their food, Shane simply focuses on observing the group dynamic. Ilya is clearly the center of this little world, the rest of them in a kind of orbit around their former captain. Shane can understand that well.

They all respect him so deeply that it’s obvious even to Shane, who is well aware that his observational skills off of the ice are somewhat lacking. The respect is there despite all of the teasing and ribbing they get at Ilya with, and despite all of the rolled eyes and amused laughter, but—or maybe it’s not in spite of all that. Maybe this is just how they show that they care.

During the first part of their dinner, Shane is able to exist quietly at the edge of the group without really needing to be drawn into the conversation. This is a group of close friends who haven’t seen each other in a while, he knows—Ilya is now playing for Ottawa; St. Simon retired the previous season; Hammersmith was traded to the Admirals and Carmichael to the New Jersey Angels—and they’re all excited to catch up as one group.

They never seem to run out of things to say or laugh about, and if Shane’s being honest, this is the most bright and alert that he’s seen Ilya in a long time. His every comment is quick and witty, his social skills at their sharpest. He’s practically bubbling over with energy, with the excitement that he’s spending time with these people.

It’s not that Ilya these days with Shane is unhappy, because he’s not. Shane knows him well enough to know that Ilya is happy with where he is in life, and where the two of them are. His depression still haunts, still lingers, but it doesn't define his life. 

This wedding kind of feels like a bunch of rag tag shambles of ideas all thrust together into one last minute party rather than the cohesive, organized wedding his mom tried to make happen, but Ilya has been screaming his joy about it from the rooftops anyway. Ilya is happy with him.

This is just a different kind of happiness. Shane knows that the Centaurs have become a family to Ilya over the past few years, and they’re both grateful for the support they’ve been shown from them. Ilya loves those guys, can be himself with them in a way he can’t be anywhere else. They’ll all be at the wedding too. But the Raiders—

Shane didn’t really realize it before this. He didn’t know.

Ilya had left them practically in a heartbeat, for the sake of being with Shane. And Shane hadn’t known what he was walking away from, hadn’t pushed hard enough about asking. Ilya had always deflected away from that line of questioning, and at some point, Shane decided it must not be worth talking about.

But there is always something to be said for the bond you share with the people who go through the first half of your adult life with you. The people who take you into their family even when you’re a stranger to this country and this language and these customs. The people who keep you standing upright when you have the weight of a dying dynasty on your shoulders. The people who keep with you through every celebration and every loss and every bad night and every good one.

Ilya grew up in the safety of these people. St. Simon is a number of years older; was a veteran teaching him the ropes when Ilya didn’t know how the league operated. Connors was a rookie in his same class; shared hotel rooms and nights out and drunken secrets with him for years. Marleau has been one of his best friends for a decade. Hammersmith and Carmichael were rookies in his first year of captaincy, two boys who practically imprinted on him until they could truly hold their own.

Shane has always known that Ilya is a good player. He’s nothing short of brilliant with a hockey stick in hand and the puck in front of him; he’s the only one who can stand up on Shane’s level and truly give him a challenge. His stats speak for themselves, and that’s not even accounting for the way he seems to stabilize and motivate and inspire his entire team just by being there, whether on the ice or on the bench.

Most importantly, maybe, he’s a fucking amazing captain.

Being on rival teams, it’s something that Shane has never really had the privilege of seeing before. They made him captain at age 23 for a reason, Shane knows, but now he can see it happening right in front of him. Even years after walking away from them, even after the reveal of their relationship, the Boston Raiders love him.

How could Shane have not understood that before? How dare he have ignored that? He wasn’t willing to leave the Metros because he cared so deeply about the franchise he carried on his shoulders; the same one that tossed him to the road as soon as things got hard. Even knowing the Metros would do that one day wasn’t enough to stop him from staying as long as he could.

And the whole time that Shane was busy with that, Ilya was sacrificing all this for him. The distant thought of how could anyone love Shane so deeply as to make that feel worthwhile is brushed aside when Ilya squeezes his thigh again and Shane realizes that he’s zoned out.

Ilya is giving him a questioning look, the set of his lips asking if he’s okay. Shane loves that he knows him so well; is so grateful that he’s been allowed to know Ilya Rozanov in this way.

Now, he’s getting to witness this other side of him, and there’s something very special about that, too. Whatever Shane’s own insecurities, isn’t he lucky that Ilya wants him to be here right now, to be a part of this? Shane will be worried about everything else later; right now, he will give himself to this one dinner that Ilya is asking for.

He puts a hand over the hand Ilya has on his thigh, interlocking their fingers. Ilya smiles at him softly, and it’s that expression that Shane’s seen so often in recent weeks. The pure devotion that Ilya loves him with is written plainly over his entire face, blooming from his eyes outwards as the most adoring and most honest look that Shane’s ever seen on him.

Then— “There it fucking is, holy shit!”

Shane tears his eyes away from Ilya, tensing immediately when he sees the way Hammersmith is looking at him with some unreadable emotion. Some kind of humiliation is already boiling in his stomach at the feeling of being caught.

Even if they all already know, this is them seeing. This is visible and tangible and obvious and it’s been made very clear by the Metros that knowing and seeing are two different feelings. This could ruin the entire dinner, just because Shane needed to hold Ilya’s fucking hand for a second.

He rips his hand out of Ilya’s and opens his mouth to defend them both, but nothing comes out. Before Ilya can say anything either, Connors is knocking his fist against Hammersmith’s shoulder and Carmichael is slapping a hand over his mouth while St. Simon leans over to hiss, “Shut the fuck up, Smithy,” in a way that isn’t a whisper at all.

“What—” Ilya’s voice is carefully measured and controlled, and he presses his palm against Shane’s thigh firmly, even as his face shutters closed and cold— “is happening?”

Marleau looks between Hammersmith—still with Carmichael’s hand over his mouth—and Ilya, and then drops his head into his palms, elbows on the table. He mumbles something that’s too muffled by his hands for Shane to catch.

Ilya turns between each of his former teammates, pausing on each of them with a sharp look that screams disappointment and frustration. Only Shane gets to know—felt in the way Ilya has withdrawn his hand entirely away from him—about the fear.

He had gone into this dinner so confident and excited, giving Shane all the reassurance needed that these were good men. These were good men, who had already sent messages of support, who wouldn’t ever hurt them intentionally.

“It’s not—” St. Simon groans, glancing at the others for help. Carmichael has dropped his hand, leaving Hammersmith looking somewhat embarrassed and definitely admonished, and shutting the fuck up. “Marly?”

Marleau lifts his head, glaring at him. “Why me? Connors, you take this one.”

Connors grimaces, but before he can even try to explain, Ilya turns sharply to Marleau—the one he likely will feel the most betrayed by if this dinner were to go in the wrong direction; the direction that Shane has quietly, subconsciously been anticipating since the start. 

“No, I want to hear it from you,” Ilya says. He’s still speaking in that careful way he only does when he’s overwhelmed but needs to get all his words right, so as not to give anyone else the room to hurt him. It’s the same way he talks with J.J. still. Baring his own teeth before letting himself show fear.

Marleau slumps backwards against the booth. He looks at Ilya for a long, silent moment. Ilya doesn’t break eye contact.

“So, uh.” Marleau sighs again. “You remember back when you played with us? And we sometimes, uh. Well, I mean, pretty much for most of that time—”

“2012 to 2018. Ish,” St. Simon cuts in.

Hammersmith adds, “But not that couple of months in 2016 when—”

“Can you guys shut the fuck up?” Marleau snaps. “You are not helping.”

“Sorry, Marly,” Hammersmith says. His face is now just that much more red.

Shane looks around the group, his fight or flight response still pounding in his chest, telling him there’s only two options to get out of how badly this conversation is going to hurt Ilya in the end. Neither of those options involve hearing them out. His eyes dart to the door.

Marleau takes a breath, grabbing Shane’s attention again. “Well, uh. You remember how whenever we were playing the Metros we would make fun of you about…and you refused to ever tell us anything…”

He trails off, as if waiting for Ilya to connect dots that aren’t there. Then Marleau’s gaze trails over from Ilya to Shane, on Ilya’s other side.

There’s a long moment of tense quiet, while Marleau studies Shane carefully. Ilya has talked about how he’s the dumbest person in the league, but Shane isn’t so sure of that right now. The way Marleau is looking at Shane now makes him feel all too seen and acknowledged, in a way he hasn’t been paid attention to yet today.

“We were kind of betting on it,” Connors says, wincing as Ilya turns his attention to him when it becomes clear that Marleau isn’t going to continue. “On if it was the same person. And you, um. You had the same look just now as you used to get while texting back then.”

“Oh,” Ilya says, sounding a little faint. He doesn’t look at Shane, but he’s returned his hand to Shane’s leg. He rubs his thumb in a short, light line against the top of Shane’s thigh. It’s okay, he’s saying, but his face is getting steadily more pink. “Who was betting what?”

“Marly and Connors said definitely yes, Ry said he’d have to flip a coin to decide his opinion, and St. Simon refused to guess,” Hammersmith tells him, looking somewhat sick with worry over the fact that he’s telling Ilya this. “I said there’s no way at all, and, uh. Started the bet. Sorry.”

Ilya glances at Shane, just a split second glance before he’s turning to his former teammates and looking around at them in a slow circle. Probably subconsciously, Ilya taps out a short rhythm on Shane’s thigh, just fidgeting while he thinks, and then he nods shortly. “Ah. I understand now.”

Carmichael leans forward a little. “So?”

“How much are you putting on this bet?” Ilya asks, not answering Carmichael’s question. “If I tell you the answer, I want a cut.”

“We didn’t put money on it.” Connors sounds somewhat like he’s regretting doing this at all now. “But the losers are responsible for figuring out what our joint from-the-Raiders-and-the-former-Raiders wedding present is going to be.”

At that, Ilya laughs out loud, bright and full and genuinely entertained, and some of the tension in Shane’s shoulders releases. Even if he still isn’t entirely sure what’s going on, Ilya does know, and he’s okay, and so it’s probably going to be fine. The others at the table, however, still look like they’re waiting to be chewed out for whatever they’ve done.

“You do know the wedding is tomorrow, yes?” Ilya asks, now sounding mostly amused.

“Which is why we really need to know who won,” St. Simon tells him. “You two didn’t make a registry so someone—”

Carmichael coughs into his fist. “Smithy.”

“—Someone is gonna have to brainstorm some ideas super quickly,” St. Simon finishes.

Ilya hums, thinking about it. As confused as he is, Shane has no idea what’s going through his head right now. Then Ilya turns to him. “They are assholes. What is the most expensive thing you want? For the wedding.”

“Uh.” Shane turns to stare at him. On his other side, he can feel eyes boring into him, waiting on edge for his answer. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I didn’t really expect presents.”

I know you were confident but I didn’t expect any of these people to actually show up, much less bring gifts, Shane doesn’t say. Ilya must hear it, though, because his eyes soften a little from amusement to gentle understanding.

“Okay,” Ilya says. He makes a show of thinking for a moment, then looks back at his friends. “Shane makes protein shakes every morning. They are gross and green, and they are also hard to make because his blender is shit. I’d like a very nice blender. It must be able to do ice but still be as quiet as possible. It must be easy to clean. And also must do multiple servings. With speed control.”

“Done,” Connors says instantly, motioning for Ilya to continue on to the answer.

Carmichael grins, leaning in towards Ilya in anticipation of the answer to their bet. “So? Is it true? Is Shane Hollander your Montreal Jane?”

Shane’s jaw drops open. That’s what they were betting on? On Jane?

There’s a beat of silence, where Ilya looks to his left to see Shane. He has a small smile dancing on his lips, but he’s clearly waiting for Shane’s permission before giving the affirmative. He reaches out to take Shane’s hand and squeeze gently, a slow pulse of comfort.

The corner of Shane’s mouth quirks up slowly. They’re going to be okay here, with these people. These are people Ilya trusts. People he cares about, and who care about him.

Yes, there’s something to be said for the people who shape you as a person all through your adult life—and for Ilya, Shane is one of those people, consistently and terribly and beautifully; but so are these men, just as firmly and with a different but equally important influence.

Ilya loves these people, in the way he cares so deeply and truly about all his friends. He says sometimes, somewhat self-critically, somewhat bitterly, somewhat just plain sadly, that he doesn’t have any family left. But Shane thinks about himself and his own parents, and he thinks about the Centaurs, and he thinks about Svetlana, and he thinks about these Raiders, and—and he thinks that Ilya is probably wrong. His family is right here, and loves him so much.

Ilya is still looking at him, one eyebrow raised. So? Are you Jane, then?

For some reason, Shane can’t help but laugh. A light, breathy, amused laugh; not boisterous and loud like Ilya’s and not a bark of a sound like Marleau’s and not the bright sound of Connors’ laugh. One that, usually, just a select group of people get to hear. But Ilya trusts these people, and so Shane must be safe here.

“Yeah,” Shane says, a small smile tugging at his lips. He looks between Ilya and the rest of the table, suddenly filled with a rush of love. “Jane from Montreal looks forward to that blender, Hammersmith.”

The table bursts into a crowing of laughter and hollering as Ilya grins, wide and bright and full of teeth, and then kisses Shane deep and hard. When Ilya pulls away, Shane is left reeling just a little. He tugs Ilya back in by his shirt for another light kiss before gently pushing him away again. Ilya hasn’t stopped smiling.

When the laughter finally calms, Marleau turns to Ilya with a wolfish smile. “So, Roz. All these years?”

Ilya shrugs as nonchalantly as possible. “Not exclusive for most. But it’s…it’s always been Shane, yes. All these years.”

St. Simon let out a low whistle. “That’s, like, over a decade. Jesus Christ, Rozanov.”

“I guess we knew you could keep a secret,” Carmichael says quietly, seeming to think very hard about his words. “But this is…I mean, that’s your whole career, isn’t it? For both of you.”

“Longer,” Shane says, mostly because he knows that the technicality is important to Ilya. Not many people know the details of their relationship timeline, but still, correcting people on that specific detail has always brought Ilya some kind of pride and joy that Shane doesn’t entirely understand. “Our first, um, meeting was the summer before our rookie season.”

Ilya grins at him, wide and happy and prideful, just as Shane knew he would be. He likes being able to finally—finally—tell people that he’s wanted Shane, loved Shane, had Shane all for longer than anyone in the league has ever known him. The novelty of “he was choosing me before he ever stepped onto Montreal Metros ice” probably won’t ever wear off for him.

In an ideal world, Shane personally would never have to explain to anyone that, for years, their relationship had been limited to really good, really intense, sometimes terrifyingly intimate sex a couple times a year. That part tends to make people either frown at them a little in judgement, or get otherwise uncomfortable. But it’s also the truth, and Shane has recently decided that he’s going to stop lying about all the things that are important to him.

So, summer before rookie season it is. The journey has been long, and it’s been worthwhile.

“So the rivalry was…what?” Hammersmith asks, nothing but genuine curiosity in his eyes, and Shane tenses again. “Just a cover, or?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but it’s clearly practiced and not as casual a dismissal as he’d like it to look. “C’mon, Smithy. You were a fanboy for many years, no? You should know better than to ask if it was all fake.”

“I was not—” Hammersmith cuts himself off, eyes darting around the group; Shane is the only one not badly hiding his snickering. “Fuck off. Whatever. Don’t answer that.”

“It wasn’t really fake,” Shane says, taking pity on him. Hammersmith’s not a bright-eyed, youthful rookie anymore, but something in his general demeanor makes Shane feel a captain-like responsibility. “It just wasn’t…the full story. On the ice, during games, during practices, against each other, we gave hockey everything. Off the ice, we’re just…just us.”

Connors has dropped his hand from over his mouth, done laughing and now looking much more thoughtful. “I mean, that timeline adds up, I guess.”

“It does?” Shane asks, brow furrowing.

Of all the things that have been said tonight, Connors' comment has made the least amount of sense to him—it feels much too good to be true for these Boston players to just accept it all. To just take in what Shane had just exposed, and to just accept it at face value. Nothing more, nothing less than what it sounds like.

Marleau hums. “Roz from day one had a whole thing about Montreal games that he didn’t get with any other team. Something that didn’t quite fit into the rivalry. Add in Jane and his whole magic Montreal disappearing act—”

“My what?”

Connors doesn’t bother to hide his teasing laughter this time. “That’s what we called it whenever you disappeared after Montreal games to go see your Jane, whether they were at home or away. We’d all go celebrate and you’d do your magic Montreal disappearing act.”

Ilya gapes at him, looking between all his former teammates, speechless. He looks incredibly offended for someone who definitely did exactly what they’re saying he did.

“You know,” St. Simon says slowly, as if just now coming to the conclusion, “we really should have figured this out much earlier. Were we just fucking dumb? Did anyone else guess? Did the fuckin’ Metros?”

“Oh God.” Marleau groans, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “If the motherfucking Metros guessed and we didn’t, I think we’re all going to have to retire right now. Victor’s gotta do it a second time.”

Some sharp, bitter feeling digs a knife into Shane’s chest at the mention of the Metros. So, he thinks vaguely, that wound hasn’t healed at all yet, then. The only former teammates who will be coming to this wedding are Hayden and J.J., and Shane can only do so much to pretend that that doesn’t hurt.

He’s so grateful for the Centaurs, and while these Raiders have entirely surprised him, he’s now so grateful that Ilya has had them in his life too. But some part of him—a small part, and one that he feels terribly guilty for—wonders why the fuck he didn’t get that and Ilya did. Why didn’t he deserve a team that stood by him, too? That loved him despite it all, or with it all? That didn’t drop him to the wolves as soon as things got hard? A team that truly cares for you unconditionally is clearly possible, so what the fuck did Shane do wrong?

He knows that he didn’t actually do anything wrong. He knows that there was no horrific betrayal involved in what he and Ilya are. He knows—really, truly, deeply knows—that the Metros hating him isn’t a question of what he does or doesn’t deserve. It’s just what they chose. It says more about them than him; everyone who actually loves him has assured Shane of that a thousand times.

Still, though—it hurts, in a way that he doesn’t know how to talk about.

“The Metros didn’t guess,” Shane mutters, looking down at his hands.

He curls hands into fists and then splays his fingers out wide, trying to ground himself in his body. These hands have done nothing wrong, nothing evil, nothing traitorous. These hands just play hockey, and love Ilya Rozanov. There is nothing contradictory about these things.

Taking a breath, he continues with a shrug. “Well, Hayden did. Hayden Pike, I mean. Obviously. But the rest of them didn’t know, not really.”

A strange silence has fallen over the table, and when Shane looks up, he sees that they’re all staring at him with unreadable looks. Concern, almost; but that doesn’t make enough sense to even be a possibility. Under the table, Ilya squeezes his thigh gently. Just a small reminder—I’m here—that Shane desperately needs.

“There were rumors though,” St. Simon starts, slowly, “about you being gay. Did you…tell them? Or…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and doesn’t seem to even really know how to finish it. Shane hesitates for just a moment, eyes flicking to Ilya for any kind of reassurance. Years since accepting it, and he still really, really doesn’t know how to talk about being gay.

Ilya clears his throat. “We can talk about something else, Shane.”

Shane bites down hard on his lip, studying his hands again for a half-second before he lifts his head to face St. Simon. “No, it’s…it’s fine. I did come out to the Metros. It, uh, it didn’t go well. The season was weird even before they found out about Ilya. And it was all really over once they did.”

There’s a heavy intake of breath from Carmichael. “And when you say it was over…”

Shane runs his tongue over his teeth, considering how much he wants to share and how much should be kept private, for his former teammates’ sake and for the team reputations’ sake. Then he decides he doesn’t really give a fuck, which is a new feeling, and he’s kind of reveling in it now.

“Their trust in me was gone,” Shane says, entirely and heartbreakingly honest. “There was the usual, you know, homophobia. Racism. Stuff that they didn’t bother to tamper down around me. 

“Then after the playoffs, they thought I was cheating somehow, trading team secrets and strategies, or I was throwing games for him, or he was throwing games for me. Then there was everything they said about Ilya that would’ve gotten them beaten to a pulp if they were talking about someone’s wife. That kind of thing—there just wasn’t any trust, or respect. Not like—” 

Not like there had been, is what he was going to say, but he’s starting to realize that even that isn’t true. The Metros had never truly had trust or respect in their locker room. Not in the ways that matter.

They had a star player, and they believed in his ability to win, and they revered his skill, and they boasted of his achievements. They did not trust him, and they did not respect him. Not in the way that each of the Boston Raiders trust every last one of the team members. Not in the way that each of the Ottawa Centaurs respect every last one of their own. Not like how a team acts.

No one seems to know how to reply to that. Ilya has his eyes on Shane, as if unwilling to ever look away from him when he’s needed now that he’s allowed to let his stares linger. Shane turns over to him, and offers only a helpless shrug. This is the truth, and they both know it, however much they’d both rather things had been better, easier for him. Ilya swallows hard, and then looks around the table.

Marleau opens his mouth to say something when Ilya’s searching gaze finds him, and then Shane jumps in his seat as a large meat lover’s pizza clatters onto the table in front of him. He manages to bite back a surprised noise, but Ilya feels him flinch under his hand. He can’t say shit about jumpiness though, because he flinches at the waiter’s sudden appearance too.

They all manage a chorus of thank yous as the waiter unloads another large cheese pizza onto the table. Shane’s heart is still skipping beats, and he’s not sure if it’s the surprise or the conversation still running haywire in his head. He doesn’t know if he’s hoping for the subject to be dropped and forgotten or picked back up for a resolution once they’ve all gotten themselves slices of the two pizzas.

Once the commotion is through, though, Shane doesn’t get the chance to steer the conversation in either direction, because Marleau is saying, mouth full of pizza, “The Metros are fucking idiots for letting you walk, you know, Hollander. They’re never gonna win again without you.”

Shane blinks, a thin slice of the vegetable pizza, grease already patted off with a napkin, halfway to his mouth. He’s pretty sure that was a compliment, but not actually sure enough to really reply.

“But more than that,” Marleau continues, oblivious to the way Ilya is staring at him so intently waiting for a real point. “More than that, they’re fucking cruel for what they did to you off the ice.”

And Shane really doesn’t know what to say to that. He sets the pizza back down, swallowing hard as he tries to find the words to respond to him. This is one of Ilya’s closest friends, and Shane is starting to see the reason why.

“Like, the racism and homophobia are shitty enough already,” Connors says, picking up without missing a beat when Marleau stops to take a drink of his soda. “Just to be clear. Like, there’s already no coming back from that.”

“And,” Carmichael adds, “accusing both you and the most competitive, prideful motherfucker I know of cheating for each other is just plain stupid.”

Hammersmith snorts. “And fucking insulting. Do they really think we couldn’t pummel them into dust without you throwing games? What the fuck? We could’ve beaten you in our sleep.”

Shane opens his mouth to protest that, then closes it. The Metros don’t need his defense. They don’t need his loyalty. Ilya Rozanov—his husband, as of tomorrow—needs both of those things infinitely more, and has earned them infinitely more too.

He has already given the Metros enough of himself. It is time to give everything he has left, and everything still waiting to be gained, to himself and to the man he loves. To the life that he’s choosing, the one beyond the rink, again and again and again.

St. Simon huffs a laugh. “We lost just as much as we won, technically. But then again, that means the Metros also lost just as much.”

“As they deserve!” Hammersmith crows. “Fuckin’ assholes.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table. Then Connors says, carefully, “No team is perfect. I mean, even with us, a…not insignificant number of the Raiders are, um. Not thrilled about all this. But driving their fucking captain off the team is…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t seem to have the words to, instead turning his gaze down to his uneaten food. Shane swallows hard, feeling the same loss for words.

“However not thrilled people are about, like, the Shane Hollander of it all, talking real shit about Roz was still practically grounds for death penalty in the locker room in Boston last I heard from Marleau,” Carmichael points out. Then he grimaces a little. “Sorry, Hollander.” 

Shane has to bite back a small smile as Marleau nods very seriously. “No, I understand.”

He glances at Ilya for a half second, who looks plainly shocked, speechless, at what his former rookie had said. Ilya manages to choke out only, “Oh. Wait. What—really?”

Hammersmith laughs, grinning directly at Ilya. “Years of bragging and boasting and getting us to feed his ego, we finally do it willingly and now he can’t take it? What, did all that losing you do at Ottawa make you humble?”

“Oh, fuck you too,” Ilya says loudly, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t fuck older men,” Hammersmith says, not missing a beat. Ilya gapes at him, jaw dropping in offense, and Hammersmith takes the chance to then carefully focus his attention on Shane.

For a moment, he suddenly no longer seems like the carefree, wild, youthful man he had been the rest of the night. He says, honestly, “Really, though, Hollander. All seriousness now. You should have gotten better than what they did to you. You’re such a great player—”

Connors coughs into his fist, muttering, “Fanboy.”

Hammersmith shoots him a glare, already opening his mouth to presumably argue in his defense. Before he can get a word out, though, Marleau cuts in.

“It’s not even really about hockey,” he says roughly. “They were cruel to you for no reason, and then they were cruel to you for falling in love with the best guy I know. He’s an asshole, yeah, but he’s the best fucking man I know and that includes everyone at this fucking table. The Montreal Metros decided to hate two people they’ve fucking made up in their heads for crimes they’ve also made up. It’s bullshit.”

“You didn’t deserve to take the hit for that,” St. Simon adds, quieter. “You don’t even have to be the best player in the league—not counting Rozy, obviously—to not deserve that. You, Shane, didn’t deserve that.”

Shane swallows hard, something lodged in his throat and choking back any words he might have once been able to come up with. There is a very real risk of crying if any of them say another word.

This, then. This is why Ilya had been so willing to come out and yell from the rooftops how deeply he loves Shane. This is why Ilya had been so certain that they could survive anything if they were together. This is why Ilya was willing to say fuck all the consequences and all the people who would hate them and all the threats they could make to them and their careers.

This—for all the people who would hate them, Ilya felt a trust, one foreign to Shane, that there would still be someone who didn’t. Even if just each other, there would be someone.

Ilya Rozanov is a man with so much love in him that he doesn’t always have somewhere safe to put it all. There is a kind of care in him lodged so deeply in his body that it is what defines him, most days. His care for his friends, for his family, for his teammates, for his dog, for the stray cats on the street, for the birds at the feeder, for Shane Hollander.

And this: friends that take all of that, and give just as much in return. Not people who just pull what they want until it’s drained out of him.

Shane is well aware that Ilya’s blood family had done the latter. He’s well aware of how the love that lives so deeply in Ilya’s heart can be taken advantage of. He’s well aware of the cruelty committed by people who take and take and take, until there’s nothing left to give, and then who ask for more.

He feels like a complete dick for it now, but he doesn’t think he really understood until now that while Ilya’s blood family had done the latter, Ilya has since found refuge in hockey teams that do the former. Shane has known for a while that Ilya doesn’t care about hockey in the same way he does, but his reasons for loving hockey, if not all-consuming passion, have remained somewhat nebulous. But this—this is why, then.

Ilya has by no means had it easy. Shane knows that better than anyone. Some days, he thinks he probably knows that better than Ilya himself understands.

But Ilya also has a tendency to see the best in most people. He has this ability—one that constantly and consistently astounds Shane in its accuracy—to see all the things that could go right rather than all of the things that could go wrong. He has seen humanity at its worst and at its greatest and, fucking somehow, he has chosen to believe in the best of people.

He did it with Troy Barrett, who Shane had written off as an asshole years ago, and who is now an advocate and a feminist and a cornerstone of the Centaurs offense and happy. He found friendship and gave solidarity to Ryan Price, who the rest of the league called weird and nervous and weak. He managed to worm his way into Scott Hunter’s heart even before Hunter figured out how to be outwardly lighthearted.

Shane isn’t like that. Shane came out to a team that decided they couldn’t love him for it, and that thrust him so far back into the closet that he nearly lost Ilya over it. Shane told a singular friend about his relationship, and that reaction made him so terrified of telling anyone else that he might as well have pushed Ilya deeper into the closet too. Shane had been burned by the Metros and lost any hope that the rest of the world wouldn’t be made of fire.

But Ilya. Ilya hadn’t ever lost that belief. He hadn’t ever lost track of the long game, of what actually matters. Is this why? Is it something about the environment with the Raiders, with the Centaurs? Is it in spite of the environment that he grew up in back in Russia? Is it because he just loved Shane with so much certainty that a belief in a gentle future was built into him permanently?

Above all else, Shane wonders: was Ilya’s belief in their future built out of desperate survival or reckless faith? Was his belief in their happy endgame a comforting daydream, or was it just that he could accept and survive no other option?

He isn’t sure which answer haunts or reassures him more. He looks at St. Simon, and past Ilya’s shoulder at Marleau, and their eyes meet ever so briefly. Thinking about his words again, about the rough admission of the best guy I know, Shane knows then that they both understand something that Ilya, despite all his abilities to read others, will never understand: Ilya Rozanov himself is the best of people.

Ilya Rozanov is the best of people, and through some cosmic red string of fate, he has chosen to love Shane Hollander. And Shane—Hollander, former Montreal Metros captain, four-time league MVP; reluctant dog lover, less reluctant dog owner, avid reader, email-writing expert, living and breathing hockey statistic encyclopedia—did not deserve to be hurt and ridiculed and betrayed just for loving him back.

Neither of them deserved to be hurt for this. This moment of support is what they should have had the whole time. For so long, Shane has pictured the concept of their relationship as him and Ilya versus the entire fucking hockey world. But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let some other players onto their team.

Because this group loves Ilya and seems to always want him to be their friend, despite him choosing to leave them—a choice that Ilya has not let them understand until now. Shane meanwhile was forced out of a team that didn’t want him anymore, and that shattered something in him—something that he thinks is maybe healing right now, a little.

And with all of these years under their belts—through the draft, through harsh training and bag skates, through barbecues and playoff match watch parties, through bar crawls and club nights, through hockey and hockey and hockey, through heartbreak and healing and hockey again—there is something that everyone at this table knows well, and feels deeply: Ilya Rozanov has loved them, and that makes it all worthwhile.

“Thank you,” Shane says quietly, heart lurching into his throat. “For saying all of that.”

“It’s all true.” Next to him, Ilya has been so still that Shane was almost worried about what his reaction to all of this would be. When he speaks now, it’s with such love and care that it grabs Shane’s attention instantly. He looks over, and Ilya is staring blankly at some indeterminate spot on the table. “You deserve better than them. Than what they did. And I hate that I could not keep it away from you.”

Shane swallows hard, tilting his head a little to try to catch Ilya’s eye. “Hey. It’s not your fault.”

A small shrug. “It’s not yours either, sweetheart.”

“No,” Shane concedes, and Ilya finally lets their eyes meet. It’s rare that Shane wants eye contact with anyone, but this is Ilya, and he’s been letting Ilya see right through him since he was seventeen. “And it isn’t, like, okay that it happened. But we’re here now. And your old team is here. Your husband is here. We’re good here. We’re good now, I think.”

Ilya lifts his head to smile a little at Shane; something small and private and meant just for him. He remembers the words Shane is echoing, then. Shane smiles in return, and the small curve to Ilya’s lips widens to a grin. “We’re not married yet, Hollander.”

“Technicalities, Rozanov.”

At that, Ilya laughs—heartily and free and happy. Before he can turn away or say anything else, Shane puts his fingers lightly against Ilya’s jaw. The ring on his left hand glints in the light, and Shane can’t help but kiss him.

In the background, just beyond the haze of Ilya Ilya Ilya Ilya that always seems to cloud over him when they kiss, Shane distantly hears someone say, “Jesus. The whole damn time.”

There’s a moment of silence just as Shane pulls away from Ilya. Ilya has that soft look on his face, the adoring one, the one he’s been letting show more and more often these days, now that they’ve emailed out all their wedding invitations and laughed so hard they practically made themselves sick at his mother’s indignant horror that she was receiving an email invitation to her only son’s wedding.

Shane isn’t looking and so he isn’t expecting anyone to talk, but before either of them can say anything, one of the other men at the table huffs a laugh. “The magic Montreal disappearing act…secret trick finally revealed.”

“Hammersmith, I will uninvite you from my wedding right now.”

The bite in his words has no teeth, but Shane is certain Ilya will never admit to that. He was still looking at Shane when he replied, and so only Shane got the privilege of seeing the wide joy of his teasing smile, but he’s pretty sure that they’re all in on the secret.