Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Nick Chouinard, Troy Barrett, Wyatt Hayes, Evan Dykstra, Zane Boodram, Luca Haas, LaPointe (Game Changers), Harris Drover, Svetlana Vetrova, Galina Molchalina, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Farah Jalali

Additional Tags:

Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Social Media, Homophobia, MLH League Office Shenanigans, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Therapy, let's call this canon adjacent

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-16 Completed: 2026-06-24 Words: 59,774 Chapters: 8/8

Winner's Curse

Summary

Shane joins the Centaurs and Ilya thinks he’s won the lottery. Maybe he did, but there are repercussions. For one, Hollander is impressive. Hollander wins games. But, he wanted to play with Shane.

Chapter 1: Summer

The hour ticks down to free agency and he holds his breath. Both of them on the couch, staring at Shane’s phone. Shane’s holding his hand hard enough to bruise. He does not let go. “What if they don’t?” Shane starts.

“They will,” he promises.

Shane stares at him for a moment, and then doesn’t fight him. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks, surprised.

Shane shrugs. “Okay.” And then more pragmatically. “Nothing I can do about it now anyway, and either way I get you, so okay.”

He’s laughing when the hour ticks over and Shane’s phone rings. The smile maybe doesn’t meet Shane’s eyes as much as Ilya would like, but then, he doesn’t know what it’s like, leaving the team you built your career around because you have to, because they don’t want you any more.

The Metros GM's office puts out a statement about Shane leaving that's so bland it's actively offensive. The Centaur's GM's office posts a welcome message that very politely manages to suggest that the Metros can go fuck themselves, and that their loss is Ottawa's gain. He snorts when he sees it and retweets it instantly.

Twitter gives way to Reddit threads, spawns think pieces, articles and podcasts. If it had been a decade ago, Ilya thinks they would have had a hashtag or a name, like Bennifer or Brangelina, but luckily they’re saved that embarrassment. The only one.

Reporters ask as many Metros as they can locate mid-summer what they think. Most of them choose no comment. Boiziau and Pike both deliberately comment that they’re going to miss Shane in the locker room and on the ice. They track down a couple of Centaurs, but get bored when they all universally give them the party line the GM’s office sent out – we’re excited, looking forward to a cup run this year, Hollander will be an asset to the roster.

Some wannabe hockey influencer with more guts than brains sticks a tiny, fake mic into the hands of a defenseman from LA who played opposite them in the last All Star game; he laughs at the question and then stares straight into the camera, saying: "May God have mercy on our souls, because the Centaurs with Rozanov and Hollander sure aren't going to." Harris is gleeful – he reshares the post and their follower counts double overnight. Ilya knows because Harris delights in telling everyone he sees, while Troy rolls his eyes beside him.

One enterprising reporter manages to corner Hunter on his way to the gym and point blank asks him if he thinks Shane threw the game so he could sign with Ottawa. Ilya watches the way Hunter's face tightens with irritation.

"Are you seriously asking me if Shane Hollander threw a game?"

"You have to admit it looks questionable," the reporter presses. "We find out he and Rozanov are in a relationship and then he trips at a pivotal moment in the playoff game? Next thing you know he’s signing with the Centaurs?"

Hunter makes a derisive noise. “Nobody who has ever spent time with Hollander or Rozanov, much less played against them, takes that question seriously. They are two of the most competitive players on the ice, and never more than against each other.” Pauses and says off hand, “If the Metros room suggested anything like that about their captain, no wonder he signed with a team who would appreciate him.”

Once Hunter has said the quiet part out loud, it gives everyone license to follow the thread, hoping it unravels.

A Detroit player gets caught on a hot mike at a charity thing, and everyone on the internet hears him saying, "I mean, I get it, I wouldn't want to share a locker room with him either, but did the Metros have to make them everyone else's problem?"

They have a conference call with Farah – him, Shane, and Yuna sitting at the dining room table in the house Shane grew up in. “Let them marinate,” Farah says firmly. “This is your off season, and you have a wedding to plan. Concentrate on that. We’ll do an interview right before the season starts, set the tone then.”

Yuna and Shane trade a look that Farah catches. “Really,” she repeats. “If we engage now we just make it worse. If we respond we just look like there’s fire under all the smoke, something real to uncover. We’re better off just ignoring it. Twitter’s gonna twitter. Let them.”

When he remembers this summer later, he thinks what he will remember most are the good days. There are days when Shane is quiet, days when he opens his phone and then closes it immediately and goes down into their gym to try and outrun the internet on the treadmill, days when Shane starts to say something about Montreal and then stops. But there are more almost perfect days. The kids at the hockey summer camps. Making breakfast with Shane in their kitchen. Reading on the porch in the drowsy heat of summer. Days when Shane smiles more than he frowns at his phone, when he goes to sleep as soon as his head hits his pillow, soft snores rocking Ilya to sleep. Their wedding.

They almost don't have enough chairs, but they do have enough food and enough to drink and that is more important. He cries when he says his vows, but so does Shane, so that's okay. And at the end he gets to put a ring on Shane's finger, and promise himself to Shane for the rest of his life. Hear Shane promise the same thing, as he slides a matching ring onto Ilya's finger. That's all he needed from his wedding day; seeing all their friends mingle is just a bonus. Although, Sveta finally meets Rose, and he worries, a bit, about what the future might hold now that they have each other's numbers.

They have two weeks after they get home from their honeymoon in Spain, before they need to be in Ottawa for training camp. It feels right to go to the cottage – full circle, or something like it. See David and Yuna. Spoil Anya, not that she hasn’t been spoiled by David and Yuna, but he has missed her, his constant companion these last few years when Shane could not be there.

Sveta comes up the last week they are there.

“You are sure you do not mind?” he asks Shane for probably the third time, as they wait in the Ottawa airport parking lot for her plane to arrive. Probably too late if Shane decides he does.

But Shane just says again, “I’m looking forward to it.” Then adds, “I didn’t have time at the wedding to ask her for embarrassing stories about you as a kid, but now I do. She said she’d bring pictures.”

He blinks. “Maybe I should be the one who minds.”

“Too late now,” Shane says and nods at where Sveta is coming out of the terminal, squinting against the summer sun.

He gets out to help her with her bag, because he is a gentleman. “You have been talking to Shane behind my back?” he asks her.

“Hello to you too Ilyusha, yes my flight was good, thank you for asking.”

Kisses her cheek and cedes the front seat to her. “Yes, yes, and I am glad to see you too. But, you have been talking to Shane without me?”

“You sound worried,” Shane says. And then, “Hello Svetlana, we’re really glad you could make it.” Spares Ilya an amused glance, and asks Sveta earnestly, “How was your flight?”

“And I am the asshole?” he asks the air and Sveta laughs at him.

They all hide from the world for one last week. He tries to limit Shane's time on his phone, keep him from doomscrolling through all the toxic takes. He sacrifices himself by putting on last year's Centaurs’ games so that Shane, Sveta and Yuna can dissect them. Lays on the couch, stretched out with his head on Shane's legs, feeling a little like Anya, a fat, content lap dog as Shane pets his hair. Sveta scoops up his feet, rests her hand on him while she focuses on the TV. It feels perfect, bookended between the people he loves most. He sees Yuna look over with soft eyes from her chair, wipe away tears. He understands.

Watches Shane look at his new team with a fresh perspective, as teammates not opponents, have ideas about how to better use everyone's skills. He compiles a long list for Wiebe. Sees Shane rewind his play, lean forward to study it better, and thinks ruefully that he will probably not be exempt, now that they are playing for the same team instead of against each other. It’s a line they always held before – no shop talk at home, or at least no shop talk about each other –that no longer needs to exist, no competitive edge that needs to be preserved. He’s a little afraid, and a lot curious to hear Shane dissect his play, his weaknesses, the way he’s heard him talk about other players. Shane will be wrong – obviously – his game is perfect already, but there’s no harm in listening.

He wants Shane to like them. Wants them to like Shane. Remembers how hard it was for him to go from Boston to Ottawa, and not all of that was about going from winning to losing. It is hard to learn how to play with new people. How to trust them to be where you need them to be.

It's more than that too. The Centaurs aren't just his team; they're his friends. More than anyone except maybe Marly had been in Boston. He's not worried that Shane won't impress them on the ice, but he wants them to see Shane for who he is off the ice too, and that is harder.

He knows Shane is nervous, even if he will not say so out loud. He is too. He is also not willing to say so out loud.

He can't really help Shane with that; his team knows him, his tricks – would see through it, see his fingerprints all over any attempts to be sneaky. He worries though; he's not sure if Shane ever really let anyone in who wasn't Pike. Doesn't know how Pike did it – suspects it was more about being in the right place at the right time when Shane was young and finding his feet, than any deliberate plan – doesn’t think he can replicate that now. Isn’t even really sure how he’d done it, snuck under Shane’s defenses; thinks they made it through those early years on the lure of good sex more than anything else. Does not think that is a replicable strategy either.`

Sveta sneaks up behind him, puts her chin on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. “He makes you happy.” Ilya keeps looking over at Shane, playing cards with his parents. Playing may be a weak term for what’s happening across the room.

“He does.” They’re speaking in Russian, though the volume of the argument breaking out at the dining room table would keep any of them from overhearing.

“I’m glad.” She squeezes his side. “I would not trust just anyone with you.”

“This does not change us,” he tells her. “We are still the same.”

She snorts, but not unkindly. “Of course it does. It should. That is not a bad thing.”

He shakes his head, pulls her around to sit. His oldest friend. The only person left who knew him before – before his mother died, before hockey, before America, before Shane. “No. Nothing changes us.”

She cups his cheek. “Don’t be silly, Ilyusha. You are old and married and boring now.”

“I am not boring,” he protests. “Or old,” he adds a second later.

“Old and married and boring,” she repeats firmly. “And you love it.” He does. He really does. Looks forward to a life of being boring with Shane. He should have put that in his marriage vows.

She leans in to press a kiss to his forehead. “We will always be friends, but not like before. We do not need each other like that any more, and that is a good thing.” Leans back, smirking, “And I will come here when I want to see you frightened of birds.”

He pushes her away. “Where did you hear that? It is not true. Did Shane tell you this? He lies.”

Shane’s laughing, cheeks pink when he walks over. “What are you two whispering about? I heard my name, should I be scared?”

Sveta moves away, goes to pour herself another glass of wine. “Never Shane Hollander. Only good things.” She leaves them to take her place at the table, tucking her leg under her as she sits. Yuna greets her with a grin, full of teeth.

“The two of them could take over the world.” Ilya leans back and Shane wraps his arms around him.

“Maybe they should.”

/ are you settled / Bood texts him early the Thursday before training camp starts. Ilya's lying in bed, luxuriating in someone else taking Anya for her morning run. He should get up soon.

/ at cottage. Back home tomorrow? /

/ the boys want to meet Hollander /

They've all met Hollander, many times. Some of them even came to their wedding. He thinks. He wasn't really paying attention to anyone but Shane.

But, it'll be good to get some of it out of the way before they have to meet Shane-the-teammate on the ice and pretend to be normal about it. Tries to guess how many of them had Shane's poster on their wall as teenagers. Or how many times Shane had been the author of the destruction of their hopes and dreams; they may have sent the Metros packing three months ago, but there were a lot of years before that when the Centaurs had not been so successful.

He grins to himself, imagining the sheer amount of hero worship that is going to happen at that meeting, and exactly how much Shane is going to try and deflect it. Remembers it himself from when he had joined – will be glad to give the rookies another person to fanboy about. Except Haas. Shane is not allowed to steal his rookie.

/ let me talk to Shane / ... / but yes, set it up /

"We should have the team over for dinner," he says as they slowly start to pack up to leave the cottage. “Bood says they want to meet you.”

Shane pauses in cleaning out the fridge. “Oh. Really?” He is constantly surprised by the way that Shane both is and is not aware that he is a big deal. Charmed, but surprised.

He tosses the three toys Anya will lose her mind about if they leave here by mistake in a bag. "You did not do this in Montreal? Team dinner at start of new season? "

Shane turns back to the fridge, and he frowns at Shane’s back. It is harder to read him when he can’t see his face. "Hmm? Oh, Hayden did most of that. I guess, yeah, we did a team dinner out somewhere, and Jackie'd make sure to have the rookies over to the house, make sure they were settling in. JJ had his chef friend open his restaurant late a couple of times, too, I think?”

If he'd thought about it he could probably have guessed this was how it had worked. Shane and Pike splitting captain duties between them – Shane on the ice, Pike off the ice. Can't imagine Shane having the team over to his apartment.

Bood had carried him last year – with team bbqs and invitations out to bars. But he's better this year – medication, Galina, Shane, a real shot at the cup next year if not this year (he's aiming for this year). And he does not have to hide Shane, hide his life, keep secrets from his teammates who he likes more than he would ever admit to their faces. Life feels settled and good for the first time in a long time. Time to reclaim bits of Boston Ilya that he'd let lapse. He'd been a good captain for the Raiders. The Centaurs are different – in good ways – need different things, but he looks forward to bringing Boston Ilya back. There are things he's missed about him.

“It will be nice. Yes? Get to know everyone before the season.”

Shane emerges from the fridge, really looks at Ilya. “This is important to you?”

He hadn’t thought it was until just this moment. But. “Yes, I think so.”

Shane nods. “Okay, then we’ll invite the team over. Do we have time before training camp starts?”

He’s not sure if he’d been expecting to have to try harder to convince Shane, but the easy agreement makes him fumble the blanket he’s folding.

“Yes? I will talk to Bood but probably tomorrow or day after.” Considers. “Is that too soon? Must warn the neighbors. Apologize. Maybe send wine before.”

Shane gives him a mildly alarmed look. “What kind of party is this going to be?”

“Have you met rookies?” he asks.

Which makes Shane laugh, and then look at his watch and say, “Fuck it. We’ve got time,” and push Ilya back, out of the kitchen, onto the cushions of the couch, rocking against him slowly, shorts barely shoved aside, kissing him with soft plush lips, until it is too much and Shane slides down the couch to suck him off. He keeps a hand in Shane’s hair, whispering devotion to him in Russian and English and some mix of both when he loses his grip on language.

They decide on an afternoon bbq. "You can make all the burgers you want." He laughs when Shane pushes him against the wall, bites at his neck, "Do you need help with math? Big boys, should triple recipe. That means–" And shuts up when Shane kisses him quiet.

Day of, Ilya finishes cleaning the house while Shane gets dressed. It took him longer than he expected – they’ve been home for less than two days, how have they had time to generate this much that needs tidying away? – but when he goes looking he finds Shane still standing there, half dressed, in the middle of their giant, walk-in closet (Ilya loves this closet more than the garage that lets him keep his cars in Ottawa, over Shane's unhappy face). He has suit pants on, and a dress shirt draped over the back of the chair. He’s holding two ties.

"We are getting married again?" Not that either one of them had worn a tie at their wedding.

"No, I just wanted –"

"They do not care what you wear." Shane scrunches his nose and it's so cute that Ilya has to kiss it. He goes to his section of the closet, pulls out a shirt. Goes to Shane’s and pulls out the pants that make his ass look good. Though, honestly, every pair of pants that actually fit him make his ass look good.

Shane takes them and holds them up.

"You think too much."

"I just want them to like me."

He wants to promise that they will. That, of course, they will love him because Ilya loves him; because he’s amazing. Ilya married him, after all. But Shane is not a WAG; he is a member of the team. This is not something he can promise; he can not order them to like Shane just because he does. This is something Shane has to do on his own.

Bood shows up early, by himself, handing over a pasta salad. "I got you into this. Least I could do was help set up."

Ilya has no compunction about putting him to work. "Go make sure Shane does not burn food. We are far from nearest pizza." He hears them quietly talking while he putters around the kitchen, throwing Anya's ball when she asks. She likes to play hard to get, a little like the other love of his life.

"Yes, yes, I know," he tells her as she nudges him with the ball in her mouth and then darts away, looking at him with laughing eyes. "No take, only throw."

They are distracted by the doorbell and then suddenly the house is full.

The team has been here before. Not often, but for Halloween last year at least. Sees them cataloging the differences, the ways this house has become not just his anymore.

He’d worried, when they packed up Shane’s apartment in Montreal that the house wouldn’t feel like theirs. Shane had brought so little with him. A few boxes of kitchen things that Shane liked more than what Ilya had in Ottawa, books, clothes, some pictures, sheets and towels. His favorite gear (the stuff held together by tape and prayer, that the Metros’ equipment manager had lovingly kept in working order for him). His trophies, awards and other memorabilia.

Had wanted to say, "Take a moment. You grew up here. You won three cups here. We fell in love while you lived here." Had said instead, "This is all? You lived here a long time."

Shane had shrugged. "A decorator picked most of this. I pointed at pictures on a mood board and told her what I liked and didn't like, and then she did this." Looked around again. "Besides, this way I can rent it as a furnished apartment." He'd have worried that Shane was leaving himself an out, except he's signed in Ottawa, he’s going to be wearing Ilya’s ring on his finger in a few months, and he's more familiar at this point with Shane's diversified investment portfolio than he is actually interested in being.

He cannot relate though. He'd bought his house in Boston with the first real MLH money he had. First space of his own he'd ever had. First thing he’d ever really been able to say was his alone. Nothing had ever belonged to just him before – named for his grandfather, wore his brother’s hand-me-downs until it was so obvious they were ill-fitting that it reflected poorly on their father. Hockey, he did for his father, then for his coach. But the Boston house had been his. New construction; nobody’s memories there but his.

He'd furnished it himself, with Sveta's help. Poured over websites with her, picking furniture that looked as little like what he'd grown up with as possible. His final year in the KHL didn’t pay much; Alexei snorted up his MLH bonus and most of his first year’s pay. Sveta helped him find stuff he could afford. It was like her superpower, finding beautiful things for cheap. Later, he replaced what he could with something new, expensive. Pale wood, steel, and chrome. Clean lines and bright splashes of color. Nothing like the elaborate gilded palaces of old Moscow, or the dark, cramped Soviet-era apartments he’d grown up in, until his father became somebody, moved them into an ornate, modern, high-ceiling apartment that felt as much like a prison as their old place.

Boston was a place all his own where he felt like he could finally breathe.

Shane had interrupted his memories. “Unless there’s something from here you want?”

He hadn’t, not really. The only thing he wants from this apartment is Shane. “No. Nothing.” Pauses. Picks up a pillow from Shane’s bed. “Well, maybe one pillow. As souvenir. Witness to when Shane Hollander was ruined for all other men.”

Now Haas whistles as he looks around, “Nice place, Cap.” He kicks off his shoes. "Looks less like a bachelor pad."

"It was never a bachelor pad."

"Could have fooled us,” Haas says with a laugh, nudging LaPointe.

"Did fool us,” LaPointe agrees with a shrug. He feels Shane’s hand on his back, and Ilya looks back to see him smile.

Haas reaches out his hand and Shane takes it. “I’m Luca Haas.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Like you did not play each other before. Hollander, this is my rookie. Rookie, this is Shane.”

They both look at him affectionately.

He introduces Shane around to the players and their wives – well, mostly wives. Last he heard Cassie was still workshopping what to call the WAGS group chat to be more inclusive. Harris says he doesn't care – but Cassie put her foot down, and Bood had said, "uh, maybe don't argue with her?"

Hayes and Lisa. Chouinard and Selina. Dykstra and Caitlin (He sees Shane's eyebrows twitch up just slightly at Dykstra's apparently unironic camo shorts when he shakes his hand). Barrett and Harris and Chiron.

"Hey," Chouinard says, as he’s petting Chiron. "I didn't know this was a bring the kids thing."

His wife elbows him hard. "Do not jinx our childfree afternoon." She holds her hand out to Shane. "I’m Selina. I love our kids, but they are a lot, and I would not do that to you first thing."

Shane doesn't even blink. "I like kids. Hayden's got four."

He heroically does not make the easy joke, and introduces Shane to the rookies – who are not actually rookies anymore – hovering in a group, vibrating with just a little too much awe.

He points at them in turn. "Young. LaPointe. Holmberg. Haas." Then points a finger at Shane. "You can have any of them except Haas. He is mine."

There's a mild chorus of 'heys' in reaction, but mostly it sounds too eager to be believable.

Everyone mills about, catching up on what everyone was doing over the summer, bitching about keeping kids entertained and out of trouble all day every day especially when it rains, comparing training notes. Downing copious amounts of beer – he always underestimates and doesn’t understand how that’s possible.

The veterans are mostly normal about Shane, sidling up to him one-on-one to really introduce themselves. They all know the same people, at least tangentially, and Shane grew up in Ottawa; the small talk is innocuous. Lisa Hayes picks Shane’s brain about places to take her mother when she comes to visit later this season and he can see Shane relaxing a little bit. This is not his favorite, a room full of new people, but they are all good people so that helps. The veterans just also won a hard fought series against Hollander not three months before. They are magnanimous in their victory and mostly tell him how hard they had to play to beat him, that it was mostly luck.

Except Hayes who says, “Hey, I stopped those shots on goal fair and square. What is this luck bullshit? This is goalie erasure, and I for one, will not stand for it.”

“No,” Dykstra says into his beer, “you’ll do the splits about it.” And ducks the napkin Hayes throws at him.

Not one of them suggests he tripped on purpose.

Not that Ilya was worried, but Shane had finally told him, in the dead of night, about what had happened. "I will kill them," he’d said then. He still feels that in his gut.

"On the ice, Ilya."

"No, murder."

"Not Hayden."

He’d tilted his head in acquiescence. That was allowable; Pike could live.

He counts heads when everyone’s grabbing food – a little more than two thirds of the team is here.

“Mattheson says he’s sorry he’s missing it,” Bood tells him watching as he scans the room, “not back in town yet.”

He looks for who is missing. “Reynolds?”

Bood’s lips purse. “Said he was busy.”

Mattheson, he believes; he always flies back from Vancouver after a break on the red eye, tempting fate and the gods of air travel. The rest of the team who are not here….he believes their excuses less.

He makes a note of the players who are not there, and the ones who came, and introduce themselves politely, but did not bring their wives, and keep to themselves mostly. Doesn’t make a big deal of it, but sees Shane noticing too. He is too attuned to how a locker room works not to; maybe even more attuned than usual this year with a new locker room, and after how the Metro’s room had turned on him. Puts it out of his mind for now. That is a problem for Monday. Now there is food to be grilled, and beer to be drunk, and rookies to tease.

The rookies have about as much chill as he’d anticipated. Which is to say none. Shane holds court on the deck, and Ilya wiggles through the crowd to his side, resting his arm on Shane’s shoulders. Listens for a while, as he finishes his burger.

“Where was this respect for me?” He asks them, wiping a smear of ketchup off his cheek, sucking it off his thumb under Shane’s watchful eye. “I am better player than Hollander. Should have been more in awe.”

“I have more cups than you do,” Shane sing-songs. And then wins the hearts of every not a rookie anymore (they will always be his rookies, even when he is as old as Hunter) by specifically remembering something great they’d done last season and complimenting them on it.

“How long did he spend looking this up last night?” Bood asks quietly.

He smiles wryly. “None. That is just how his brain works.”

Shane probably isn’t even really trying to butter them up. Ilya’d never been in Montreal’s locker room – obviously – has no real idea what Shane was like as a captain, but he suspects it looked a lot like this. Specific compliments. Offers to work one on one to strengthen other areas. Leading by being willing to work just as hard alongside them.

Bood gives a low whistle. “Is it too late to join them? Get in on the Hollander experience?”

Shane interrupts them. “Hey, tell them what you were telling me the other day about Buffalo’s defense. You explained it better than I am.”

The party thins after the food has been eaten – the ones who came to be polite, make their polite excuses and leave. As dusk falls Shane lights the fire pit on the porch that he’d bought last summer – looking around he’s starting to realize how much of Shane had already been here, even before he moved in – he brings out marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers and ignores Shane’s narrowed eyes; the Americans are definitely on to something with s’mores.

“So, I don’t want to be nosy,” Selina says, with a small laugh as she carefully turns her marshmallow – she is clearly a slow toaster, Ilya tends to get impatient and set his on fire – “but also I absolutely want to be nosy? I’ll back off if the answer is no.”

“Nosy about?” Shane says cautiously.

“When this,” she waves between him and Shane, “happened. I mean it felt like it came out of nowhere, but obviously that’s not true.”

He trades a look with Shane, feels Shane press his foot against his, and he presses back. Everyone has been asking this question. All summer.

He looks at Selina suspiciously, and then at the rest of the circle. Chouinard is leaning in a little too curiously. “There is bet about this?”

“I’m not not saying that,” she agrees.

“"You will all lose bet.” Tilts his head. “You do not believe we were friends because of foundation?” The lie they’d told so many times, it stopped meaning anything.

“Enemies to friends to lovers?” She tilts her head. “I mean it’s a good rom com plot, but how’d you even get to wanting to start the foundation?”

He’s trying to think through how much to say when Shane answers. “We were drafted the same year. Had all these crazy expectations put on us. This convenient arch-rivals narrative the media wanted to spin. Just insane pressure when you’re 17.“ Shakes his head. “I had my parents, I don't know how Ilya did it on his own.” Shrugs. “Eventually you start to think. Hey, this is kind of bullshit. I’ve got more in common with him than just about anyone else. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to talk about it? So eventually we did.”

Ilya thinks he’s going to leave it there. And it’s a good answer. A media answer with a slightly more personal spin on it for a more personal audience.

Then Shane flicks his knee, leaving his hand there, burning hotter on Ilya’s skin than the heat of the fire and says, “Also he organized a joint ad campaign to seduce me. So you know, it was kind of game over for me from that point.”

He chokes on the bite of s’more he’d just taken and watches the entire group try and remember any ad campaign they’d both been in together.

Barrett cheats and googles. Says with a strangled voice. “The CCM ad?” Shane nods, apparently unconcerned about the bomb he’s just dropped. “That was before your rookie season.”

Shane nods again. “I mean it took us another seven years to get our shit together. But yeah, that’s when it started.”

Ilya grins smugly when everyone turns to stare at him. “What can I say? I knew what I wanted and I went and got it. When you start with the best it is hard to settle for anything else.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Shane says mildly. And then, “But yeah, what he said.”

“Well there goes that betting pool,” Bood says into the silence that follows. “Nobody had 2010 on their bingo card.”

They stand in the door, like the old, boring, married couple that Sveta called them, waving as everyone drives off. “You did not warn me you were going to say that,” he says to Shane as they’re cleaning up.

“Sorry. Did you mind?”

“No. I just did not think you would. Surprised me.”

Shane stops what he’s doing to come over and loop his arms around his waist. “Ever since the tape came out all anyone’s asked is how and why and when. Like it’s so hard to believe. And fine. I get it. The narrative is – was – a thing. And whatever, it’s not their business. But these people know you and like you, and you like them, and I wanted them to know that I do too. Know you. Like you.”

“You were staking your claim,” he says. “Would you like to leave a hickey next? A bite mark, maybe?”

“Don’t be a dick. I’m serious.“

"Am very serious. Would never laugh about that."

“Just. They were here when I couldn’t be. They deserved something real.”

That night they fall into each other. “One more day,” Ilya reminds him.

He pushes Shane down into the bed and takes a moment to just stare – bulked out summer muscle, just starting to fade tan lines from where he'd been shirtless for most of their time at the cottage, freckles across his cheeks still standing out in high relief.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Shane suggests with the edge of a smirk, but he's also stretching out under Ilya's gaze, unashamed. He drops his hand to palm his own cock while he considers the idea. He could take a picture. Everyone in the world knows they're married, fucking. He probably won't because, even now that they're married, he won't risk someone hacking his phone, seeing Shane like this. This is his, and his alone. But he could. And that's electrifying enough, can feel himself getting harder.

Shane sees it too, licks his lips, mouth opening just a little like he's imagining the taste already.

He holds himself a little more firmly. "You want?"

Shane comes up onto his elbows. "Yes. Always."

And it never stops being mind-blowing how much he means that. Knees his way onto the bed and shifts until he's kneeling over Shane's face. Touches the tip of his cock to Shane's mouth. "Still okay?"

Shane answers by opening his mouth and licking over the head before sealing his mouth over it and sucking. Ilya lets out a sharp grunt of surprise, delirious with sensation for a moment. Shane makes an impatient noise, and he gets with the program – feeds Shane his cock slowly until it's pushing at the back of Shane's throat. Shane makes a noise that could be yes, or could be get on with it, or could be I love you, or could be all of the above. Let's himself go, bracing himself on the headboard and fucking Shane's mouth, sticky clicking at the back of Shane's throat as he swallows, gasping breaths when Ilya pulls out far enough for him to catch his breath.

He runs his mouth, because everything he’s saying is true, and because Shane likes the feedback loop of dirty talk, and because it keeps him from falling over the edge too early. He's got plans for tonight. "You are always so pretty. So ready for me. Do what I ask, so well."

Lets out an unhappy noise when Shane pulls back to say, "Not on the ice, Rozanov." His voice is gravely and there's something primal about knowing that he did that. That Shane let him do that. Wanted it. Wanted him.

Rubs a thumb over Shane's swollen lip. "You are thinking too much."

Shane pinches his hip. "I'm serious, not on the ice."

He sighs theatrically and slides down Shane's body until they are pressed together thigh to chest. "You were never hard on ice before?” Shane glares at him, but does not, he notices, deny it. He bites kisses into Shane’s neck, agreeing, “Yes, yes. Never on ice, Hollander." Emphasizes his name. "This will not change."

Rolls his hips so their cocks catch against each other, and Shane's breath hitches. "But here, yes?" Lips twitch, and he's playing with fire. "Also no change."

"You're a dick," Shane says.

"Hmm, I think you like it."

"Yes," Shane agrees, surprising him with honesty. "You should fuck me now."

He feels himself get impossibly harder, body grinding down on instinct. Shane's legs tighten around him. "What happened to the polite Canadian boy I married?"

"He married this arrogant Russian guy. Maybe some of it rubbed off."

“I will rub off on you,” he says as he presses down. "This is partnership? Marriage?"

Shane kicks his ass. "Yes. Also, I was serious that you should fuck me, so maybe get on that."

He has dreamed about this, not having to give Shane up at the end of summer. Worked hard last year, to get his head on right. It has been so good, together, finally. Nothing will change.

Never.

Ilya can't wait.

Chapter 2: Training Camp

He wakes up when Shane gets out of bed. Peers suspiciously at the window, and then at the clock. "Moya lyubov, is very early, why are you awake?”

Shane puts a knee on the bed to lean over, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Go back to sleep. I"m just going for a run, and then I'll probably head over to the rink."

He tries to do the math on that. "We have practice at 9?"

"I like to get there early," Shane says. "Get some ice time in before everyone else shows up." That is objectively insane enough that he has to roll over and prop himself up to stare at Shane. Shane's mouth quirks. "Gotta work on that weak backhand before my captain calls me out on it."

This has been a point of contention all summer. Shane says he is fine with not being captain, not even being alternate. Ilya can't quite believe him. Shane'd been captain of the Metros for seven years; Ilya can't imagine giving that up – he never had to. He'd gone from captain of the Raiders to captain of the Centaurs, anything else would have felt like a demotion.

"You are not a rookie," he says now.

"Kind of am," Shane counters, but he doesn't look or sound annoyed about it, and Ilya tries to believe him. Shane leans in to kiss him again, more properly this time. "Go back to sleep, I'll see you at the rink."

He gives Shane the alone time he’d indirectly asked for – thinks if Shane needs a moment to himself to say hello to new ice, he can understand that. Remembers what it had been like to skate out onto ice that was supposed to be home, but in a rink that smelled different, echoed different, after so many years at the Garden. Still, he does not give Shane too much time to get into his own head, gets to the rink early enough to watch Shane on the ice already, alone, shooting puck after puck into the goal. Notes with amusement that he is practicing his backhand. His backhand is not actually weak except maybe – marginally – in a comparative way to the rest of his game, which is still so far above what anyone else is playing that it is a difference with no distinction at all. Young and LaPointe are leaning against the boards watching him, awed. As they should be.

He takes a minute before anyone else has realized he’s there to look around the rink, try and see it with fresh eyes, through Shane’s eyes. Is it good? Is he happy? Does he wish he was still in Montreal?

It's not the most modern arena (they'll have to actually win a cup to get the money for that), and it's small, but it's home. At least it doesn't smell bad, like the stadium in Dallas where the away locker room always smells rank, like something died in there.

Makes himself stop catastrophizing. Spinning out is not his style. This is good. They are good. They will win the cup this year, and everything will be perfect.

Skates out to meet Shane, flicking the next puck away from him to take the shot at the empty goal, twists his wrist to aim it at the top left corner.

"Nice," Shane says.

"Good practice?" he asks.

"Nice ice," Shane says. Does not look at where Young and LaPointe have been joined by Hayes and Bood and Haas.

"You done being nervous for no reason? Ready to play some real hockey now?"

It’s not really no reason. He knows that. They're heading into uncharted waters, not just the two of them, but the team, too. Hunter and Barrett and even Bennett and Price may have opened the door, but their happy, little relationships are not between skaters and certainly not on the same team.

Shane lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. The absolute fucker. He grins at Ilya and taps his stick, asking, “What have you, got old man?” Like Ilya isn’t barely three months older than him.

He takes another puck from the bucket Shane has at his feet, starts to skate a standard drill, only to have Shane steal it out from under his feet. “Hey!” he protests, skating after Shane, who is laughing, carving neat lines on the ice, edges pristine, keeping control of the puck with almost lazy grace. Realizes with a start that he’s allowed to openly admire that this year. Then Shane chirps him, saying with mock seriousness, “Real hockey requires keeping the puck on your stick, didn’t you learn that in peewees?”

And oh, that cannot stand, and he puts more power into his chase. They both pull up short when Wiebe clears his throat loudly, although he’s obviously amused. “Ready for practice?”

“Yes, Coach,” they say in unison.

On the ice, his eyes can’t help but follow Shane — Ilya assumes they will be together on the power play, but Wiebe wants to focus early practices on testing out line arrangements. “We have a good thing,” Wiebe had said even before the start of camp, “Hollander just makes it better, strengthens the second line.” He looks openly at Ilya and Shane now, he has pulled them to the boards in the middle of drills. “If you’re ok with that?”

They look at each other. Ilya’s not going to lie, he wants to be on the ice with Shane for as many minutes as he can get. Dreams about it, smooth passes and beautiful goals, blink-of-an-eye movement that only they can predict. But Shane shrugs and Ilya knows what they were always going to say.

“Yes, Coach.”

The first day of training camp is always everyone remembering how to skate again – separately and together. It is the air of possibility, and the tension of what will this season be like, how will this year’s team find their groove. It is seeing early where the problems will be, and figuring out how to fix them. This year is no different. Except they have Shane on the ice now, and he thinks everyone is on their best behavior for him. Has a half-hysterical thought that Shane is the strict parent, and he is the fun parent, and Shane’s the one they’re all trying to impress.

Does not say this outloud, because he knows Shane is already nervous about his place on the team. He loves the Centaurs, but for Shane – maybe they are a bit of a consolation prize, the universe telling him, you were rejected by the team you spent a decade building but hey! You get to skate with your husband now! He knows Shane doesn’t want the Centaurs to see him as a door prize either –like they had to take him because he’s married to their star center. Like he is not Shane fucking Hollander. Like half the league didn’t start a bidding war as soon as they realized that he wasn’t going to resign with Montreal. Shane says that too many of them were wary of his relationship with Ilya, too many of them looked too seriously at the trip that cost Montreal the game last year, to put in competitive offers for him. Ilya thinks half the league are idiots, and he hopes that Shane signing with the Centaurs is keeping them up at night. It should.

A few days later, things still aren’t clicking like they expected. Shane is good; no, his Shane is great, but his line isn’t finding the back of the goal like it should. Wiebe, sounding a little desperate, asks, “What if we try Zaitsev?”

One of their actual rookies, Zaitsev’s a tall, rangy kid with a shock of red hair; an invite to camp who probably should have a year in the AHL to adjust to the physicality of the MLH, but he’s fast and he’s older than your average rookie. Ilya pulls up his player sheet to refresh his memory, Shane looking over his shoulder, although if Shane doesn’t already know this kid’s stats, he’ll volunteer to empty the dishwasher for the next week. Grew up just outside of Boston (nobody lives in Boston). Played hockey for BU. Russian of some kind, obviously, Ilya wonders how far back. It will be nice to have another Masshole on the team. Ilya could use the backup.

“What do you think?” Wiebe asks. And this is one of the things he likes about Wiebe, the way he respects his players enough to ask for their opinion and then actually listen to it.

He trades a look with Shane who tilts his head fractionally, and that’s a let’s try it out. He’s seen that look a lot; mostly in bed though, before. Says it outloud for Wiebe’s benefit; not the in bed part.

Zaitsev’s eager, and a little star struck for the first five minutes, but he gets distracted soon enough by the hockey, trying to read Shane and Haas, and it wears off. Ilya leans against the boards next to Wiebe and Barrett, watching.

“Maybe,” he says and Barrett nods. Wiebe grunts. They keep watching. Zaitsev’s keeping up at least.

When there’s just a few minutes left in the afternoon skate, Wiebe calls out, “Time for a scrimmage.”

He skates out with Barrett and Bood. Circles into place across from Shane. “I’ll take it easy on you,” he promises. Shane swipes at his stick and they battle like the old days.

“Don’t do yourself any favors,” Shane shoots back, grinning.

Haas clears his throat. “I wouldn’t mind a favor. Is the offer open to everyone?”

Zaitsev’s eyes are wide, like he’s not sure what he’s doing there, but taps the ice and grins. Ilya wins the faceoff, passes to Barrett only to watch Shane snatch the puck out of thin air, and the chase is on. Shane's behind the goal and, just as Barrett is about to slam into him, whips a no-look pass to Zaitsev behind him. Ilya watches helplessly from the neutral zone as Zaitsev wraps his stick around the post, scoring just out of the reach of Hazy's outstretched hand. Hazy looks as surprised as the rest of them. Looks at the puck like it personally betrayed him. Say reproachfully, "That's just playing dirty pool, we're supposed to be friends."

“How did you do that?” LaPointe demands when the scrimmage is over and they skate to the boards to get Wiebe’s notes and some water – he drinks deeply, and then passes his bottle to Shane, their fingers brushing in the transfer, looks over to catch Shane’s small smile at the contact. He resists the urge to link their pinkies together, mostly because he can only imagine the teasing he’d get from the team for acting like a fourteen year old girl. Focuses back on the conversation because he also wants to know the answer; how had Zaitsev done that first time out?

Zaitsev unaccountably blushes. Sneaks a guilty look at Shane. “I uh, may have studied Hollander’s tapes. A lot? Like a lot, a lot?”

Shane makes an interested noise, and Ilya thinks he’s probably the only person who can hear the amusement underneath it. Zaitsev gains confidence, enough to look Shane in the eye, and that’s good if he’s going to anchor Shane’s left. “You used that same feint when you played Rozanov in Boston in 2017.” Winces. “Uh, before Marleau knocked you out.”

“Aw nice, Cap,” Chouinard says. “Now you’ve each got your own mini-me. You can stop fighting over Haasy.”

“Hey!” Haas exclaims.

Ilya turns on Zaitsev. “You did not worship me?! A Russian! In Boston?

Zaitzev shuts his mouth with a click, then he juts out his jaw. “Have you…seen Hollander play?” Which is fair but still wrong. Ilya sticks out his tongue. Zaitsev just laughs. “You married him!”

He sees Mattheson make a tiny face when Zaitsev says that – not sure if it's the Hollander worship, or the marriage they're objecting to. Either way they're wrong.

Wiebe shakes his head. “Good work today. Keep it up tomorrow, yeah?”

Zaitsev looks shocked. “Wait, what? Really?”

Wiebe claps him on the back. “You scored an assist off Hollander your first time out. Yes, really.”

Over the next few days, they try different combinations but Wiebe keeps going back to Shane, Haas, and Zaitsev. They get better at reading each other by the day; you can actually see the difference from the start of practice to the end, and Ilya feels the excitement build in the pit of his stomach– this is what they’ve been missing. Their top two lines are deadly, going to keep every other team in the league up at night, searching for answers. He watches critically as they run drills. Haas is good. In a few years he will be the name everyone talks about. Playing on the line with Shane will only make him better. Sees Shane come to a stop, talk to Haasy and Zaitsev, gesturing about something. Their next drill is the kind of effortless that takes a lot of work to achieve. The one after that Shane drops a pass to Haasy that he picks up like the puck was magnetized to his stick. Looks to see if Wiebe is seeing what he is seeing. Wiebe is not a man given to being outwardly excited, but he looks more than a little smug right now.

Harris is waiting for them when practice ends.

“Hey, before you leave, I wanted to film something for socials. You know, new player introduction.”

Shane nods. “Sure. Um, can I shower first?”

Harris laughs. “The room we pretend is a film studio is pretty small, so actually, please shower first. It’s just down the hall when you’re ready. Ilya knows where it is.”

Ilya does show him the ‘studio’ Harris and Gen use. And then stays, leaning against the wall. What? He has nothing else he really needs to be doing (a lie – there is always tape he could be watching, but Shane will want to watch it later anyway, and they notice different things, so really it’s more efficient to wait; besides he wants to see this. Absolutely does not think his husband needs protecting from Harris.)

“You planning on babysitting me?” Shane asks. It is not fair that Shane can read his mind off the ice too. He did not agree to that in the wedding vows.

“Maybe I just want to make sure you do not slander me.”

Shane snorts, and Harris gives him a narrow stare from where he’s fussing with the camera. “I know you, Ilya Rozanov. You can stay if you’re quiet.”

He mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key. Harris and Shane both stare at him. Shane finally laughs. “You’ve been spending too much time with Ruby and Jade.”

“Those are Hayden Pike’s kids, right?” Harris asks. “I think I met them at your wedding.”

Probably. They had insisted on being a part of the ceremony. Said they had married them first, so they had to make sure that he and Shane did it right the second time.

The red light blinks on and Harris counts down behind the camera. "So, Shane, welcome to Ottawa. Can you introduce yourself for our fans?"

"Uh, I'm Shane Hollander?"

Ilya can't help himself. "Is this question? You are not sure?"

Shane glares at him and Harris huffs. "If you're going to talk, you might as well be on camera,” Harris offers, and Ilya shakes his head. He wants to watch but Shane should be introduced as him, for himself — not as a part of the Hollander-Rozanov show. He has earned his place here and then some.

Harris snaps his fingers to get them back on track. "Okay, this is rapid fire, no thinking, just first thing that comes to mind." He must catch Shane's slightly alarmed look, and Ilya thinks spontaneous and media are not words that go together in Shane's head, because he adds. "This is not a right or wrong answer kind of thing. Just for fun, okay?"

Shane takes a breath. Centering himself. Ilya watches him very consciously relax. "Okay. Hit me."

"Favorite movie?"

Shane taps his finger. "I feel like I'm supposed to say something like a sports movie, or a hockey movie."

"It's not?" Ilya murmurs, leaning forward, realizes he does not actually know the answer to this. “Is Mighty Ducks, yes? You can admit this. This is a safe space.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “It is not Mighty Ducks. Honestly? I really like Lord of the Rings."

"You cannot tell Hazy this," Ilya says immediately. "We cannot have two of them."

Harris ignores him. "Okay, favorite guilty pleasure food." Holds up a finger. "The answer cannot be salmon."

Shane looks confused. "Who said salmon?"

"Troy," Harris mutters.

"Oh well, I mean, salmon is good.” Harris looks like he wants to despair, and Shane takes pity on him. “There's this ice cream stand, up near where our cottage is, and they make a raspberry ripple fudge ice cream." Shane looks a little dreamy. "I try and go at least once when I'm up there in the summer."

Shane had taken him and Sveta there this summer, and he had enjoyed watching Shane indulge, let go of some of that tightly held control. Had not told him it was his favorite. He makes a mental note to stockpile some next summer.

"Ooh, good answer," Harris says. "There's an ice cream place like that up near my parents, I used to go all the time after school." Looks back down at his list. "Okay, harder question. Favorite hockey player."

"Currently or ever?"

"Both?"

"Hmm, I always loved Steve Yzerman when I was growing up. Watched tape of all his games. Currently?" Gives Ilya a mischievous sidelong look. "I mean it's hard to beat Marie-Philip Poulin."

Harris snickers at the way Ilya narrows his eyes at Shane. "Repping for the PWHL, we love to see it. Anything you want to add, Rozanov?"

Ilya waves a hand. "She is great player. Would be conflict of interest to say me, so yes, this is correct choice."

Shane snorts. "Bold to assume you were my first choice."

Harris sees an opening. "Are you excited to finally play with your husband this season?" And it's like he can see Shane shut down in real time. The answer he gives is media perfect, and says nothing, something about how good they were during All-Star games and he can’t wait to see what they can do in real games. It is a jarring shift from the way he'd been a second ago, and Ilya can see Harris register it too. Scrambling to pivot back to questions that make Shane less uneasy.

"What was it Harris said that worried you?" he asks on the way home.

"Hmm?" Shane says, frowning at something on his phone. "Did you see the email Mom sent this morning? She wants to know if we've thought about the foundation proposal she sent over yesterday."

"Yes, I looked at it. I had a question, remind me to email her when we get home." Taps his fingers on Shane's wrist to get his attention. "But not what I was asking."

Shane clicks his phone off. Looks wary. "About Harris?"

"Yes. You went stiff, and not in a fun way. What was it he said?"

Shane makes a face, but doesn't pretend he doesn't know what Ilya’s talking about. Shrugs awkwardly. “Just the thing about playing together." Pauses. "As hubands." Lifts his phone up, shaking it slightly. "You know, twitter is already having a field day with it.”

“Did no one ever tell you not to read the comments, Hollander?” The worst of it had died down over the summer, but it is unsurprising that it has ramped back up again now that the season is about to start. “Anything we have not seen before?”

“Not really,” Shane admits. “Just questions about if everyone is comfortable in the locker room with a married couple, about whether the rookies are going to be corrupted.“

He rolls his eyes. “At least come up with something new.” Which earns him a reluctant snort from Shane. He reaches out to poke Shane’s leg, reminds him what Farah had told them.. “We cannot control what other people say.”

“No, I know,” Shane says, but doesn’t stop picking at a loose thread on his cuff. “It doesn't worry you?”

It’s not so much that it doesn’t worry him, so much as that it’s out of his control. People are going to think what they want to think, whatever they do, so there’s not much point losing sleep over it.

Knows this is a fundamental difference between them, so says instead, “We have first and second best players in the league on the same team. The only thing that worries me is that I will be bored this season." He couldn't be bored playing with Shane if he tried, but maybe the winning will get boring? Seems unlikely, but it could happen.

Shane narrows his eyes, distracted, just as he’d hoped. “Wait, which one of us are you putting in second place?”

“I am captain, so obviously I am …,”

“I have more cups than you do, asshole.”

He grins and lets the familiar argument carry them home.

They do not share the ice that often, but that does not mean they don’t watch each other — maybe even more now than before. Shane spends car rides dissecting how to react to breakaways; lays in bed, wrapped in dirty sheets talking through trick plays. Watches him from the bench when his line is out, and Ilya feels it like a physical thing.

He’s used to being watched. By his teammates, his coaches, his father. Weighing him up. Always looking for where he’s not good enough, where he’s leaving them open.

Nothing was ever good enough for his father; not Ilya’s mother, not him. He had married her to make himself look good; he had Ilya because it was expected — and then to make him look good. Alexei had been the oldest, and still somehow always an afterthought. In the rare moments he feels sorry for his brother, it is for this.

Shane doesn’t watch him like that. Never has, he realizes. Even when they played against each other, and Shane was looking for a way to break down his game to beat him, Shane had watched him with respect, with understanding, with admiration. Shane’s eyes feel heavy on him now, watching from the bench — but with love, intent, ambition.

Doesn’t stop him from offering suggestions. He raises mock outraged eyebrows at Shane. “Are you trying to fuck up my game? Take first line?”

“First line is a state of mind,” Shane says, circling lazily behind him. “Not my fault if you’re feeling like second best.”

Which is a response that requires capturing the puck from Shane, getting chased up the ice towards the far goal, pushing him up against the boards when Shane tries to steal it back. He flicks the puck into the net with a showy backhand specifically to see Shane roll his eyes, and raises his arms over his head. “He shoots, he scores. The crowd goes wild.” The not-rookies all clap on cue.

“Did you tell them to do that?” Shane says with exasperation.

He grins, delighted. “No. They just appreciate me.”

But, Ilya adjusts his grip on his slap shot, like Shane suggested and it works. Of course it does.

It takes nearly all of training camp to negotiate Shane down from arriving at practice an utterly unnecessary hour early to a still unnecessary but saner 30 minutes early.

They could have taken separate cars. He doesn’t even offer it as a suggestion (although if Shane had argued, he had a list of counter arguments ready – bad for the environment, adding congestion to the roads; Shane had not). But really it was for this – to spend 30 minutes twice a day in the car with Shane to and from practice (45 minutes if traffic is shitty). It's stupid, he's aware, to be this eager for more of Shane's time, when they live together, play together. But, he is comfortable with his desire for Shane's attention, has learned to accept it, and they're married now, playing for the same team, gets to indulge himself as much as he wants.

(The car is also a compromise — one of his sexy babies until the first snow, and then Shane’s boring one through the winter, when his cars huddle in the (too large) garage, blanketed for protection from the harsh elements).

Shane goes to practice. He usually goes to get coffee, or harass Harris. Or get coffee for Harris and then go bug him. Just because he is there does not mean he needs to be on the ice. On the other hand, he may need to rethink that, because he walks into the locker room and almost walks back out because the thing coming from the speakers is an offense to god and man. But he is the captain so he braces himself and says over the din, “I thought we were in agreement, Dykstra does not get the aux cord.”

“Point of order,” LaPointe says, and actually holds up his finger.

“Point of order?” Barrett asks. “What is this Model UN?”

“You were in Model UN?” Hayes asks.

“Looking at the 8th grade representative for Fiji, right here.”

“What is model–?”

But LaPointe clears his throat loudly. “Point of order.”

Barrett waves a hand. “The chair recognizes the representative from the rookies.”

“Not rookies anymore,” someone – probably Holmberg – mutters.

“We didn’t say Dykstra couldn’t have the aux, we said whoever is in first gets the aux, which by default means it’s never Dykstra.”

“Hey!” Dykstra objects. “I am never late.”

“You’re never early either,” Hayes points out.

He holds up a hand. “Okay, earliest here is Shane, yes? So why are we listening to Dykstra’s playlist?”

Shane, who’s been watching with amusement, speaks for the first time. “I wasn’t listening to anything, and Dykstra asked if I minded if he put something on. I didn’t.” Waves a hand at the air. “I still don’t.”

There’s a chorus of, “Hollander,” with varying degrees of reproach and horror. Even from Zaitsev who’s barely been there for a hot minute.

Shane rolls his eyes. “Fine. Fine. I don’t see what’s wrong with what we’re listening to, but locker room rules. I got here first, so I pick the music?”

There’s something about the twist of Shane’s mouth that gives Ilya a second of warning that Shane is about to be a little shit. He contemplates stepping in, but the Centaurs still think he’s nice, they have to learn sooner or later that he’s actually a petty bitch. Now’s as good a time as any.

Zaitsev hands Shane the aux cord and Shane scrolls through his phone for a minute. Ilya braces himself. The sound of a synth and a heavy bass beat fill the room and then staccato French rap. There’s a moment of stunned silence.

And then, “All due love and respect Hollander, but what the fuck?” comes from Bood, but it’s echoed through the room except by Chouinard who high fives Shane and says something in French that makes Shane laugh.

He usually has to stop to talk to Wiebe or the GM after practice about something, and since they drive in together, Shane uses it for more unnecessary practice. Or, he thinks, Shane will stay anyway and unless he wants to get roped into more drills he needs to shower and find something else to do until Shane is ready to leave. It has become consistent enough that some of the not-rookies-anymore have started to get bolder about asking Shane for help – read, they lurk hopefully around the boards (or occasionally on the ice) after practice, ask Shane painfully obvious leading questions until Shane takes pity on them and breaks down their game for them. He's pretty sure this is not how Shane would describe it, but it is what's happening.

"He's good with them," Wiebe says one afternoon, joining him at the boards and watching. He sounds a little surprised.

"You thought he would not be?"

Wiebe shrugs. "Guys that good, can't always think their way back to when they weren't that good, can't explain how to do what's natural to them to someone else."

He is less surprised. Some of that comes from years of watching Shane learn how to coach children at the foundation hockey camps, but the rest comes from decades of work, watching tape, doing drill after drill after drill until everything becomes second nature. He can break down the minutiae of a player better than anyone Ilya has ever met.

Even him. He will never admit that outloud though.

Wiebe waits to practice the power play lineup until near the end of training camp – waits for the lines to settle, find their groove. By the time he calls it it’s obvious to everyone that it’s going to be him, Shane and Haas.

“For the record,” Hayes says as he skates towards the goal, “this feels abusive. I might need to file a grievance with player safety about cruel and unusual working conditions.”

He snorts, and Haas flips him off cheerfully. Shane doesn’t say anything, but there’s a smile lurking as he takes position. Shane’s been waiting for this as much as he has. The chance to skate together. They’ve only ever done it the once, at All-Stars, which barely counts as a game. Except for how it had, that year.

Bood, Barrett, and Holmberg are standing in for the opposing team. Haas says something in German to Holmberg who makes an elaborate face. “Say that again in English, I can’t understand that thing you pretend is German.“

Haas just smiles sunnily, all six foot two and blond curls of him, like the picture in the dictionary next to the entry for Switzerland, all he needs is an alphorn in his hands instead of a hockey stick. Says, “I think you understood me just fine.”

Shane snorts. “And I thought the French were weird about Quebecois.”

Behind them Chouinard makes a noise like he’s dying and Shane grins before he pops his mouth guard in. And then the whistle blows and the puck drops.

Ilya wins the face off, flips the puck to Haas when Bood crowds him who passes it to Shane who takes it up the ice. Drops it back to Ilya before he even checks to see if he’s where Shane expects him to be. Of course he is. Waits a second for Shane to get clear and sends the puck through Barrett’s skates in time for Shane to hook it over Hayes shoulder into the goal.

There’s the barest pause before Hayes says, “Like I said, cruel and unusual working conditions.” And the rink erupts.

He catches Shane’s eye. Sees his own wild joy reflected there. This. This is what he’s been waiting for.

“Again,” Wiebe calls, and they reset and do it again. He can feel it in the air though. They’re not just going to make a cup run this year, they’re going to win, and everyone here knows it. He is going to enjoy cramming it down the throat of every sports podcast and reporter who has speculated about whether he and Shane would be a distraction for each other, in the locker room. This season is going to be fun.

Chapter 3: Preseason

Chapter Notes

We know the chronology for Marie-Philip Poulin and Laura Stacey's careers and relationship do not match to canon timeline perfectly, but the joke was too good to pass up, so we did some handwaving. Work with us, please. :)

You may also notice the chapter numbers fluctuating. It's all written; we're just reconfiguring how we want to break it up.

The first time Shane shrugs on the new, official Centaurs sweater, it’s in the locker room. He rubs his hand down the front, pausing briefly where the missing C would have been.

“Looks good on you.” Ilya thinks Shane would look good in anything, but these colors show they belong together.

“This looks good on no one,” Shane retorts.

“Hey!” Harris pipes up from the corner, “no disrespect. Also Chiron looks amazing,” and they all look over at the dog, rocking his own little sweater, tongue lolling out in a doggy smile.

The first preseason game is usually a nothing game. Half the time he would barely even play in it, too senior, no need to court injury. But this year is different, and everyone knows it. This year, their stands are filled. He does not kid himself that they’re here to see him. They’re here to see Shane. See what their money bought them. Okay, be more charitable. They are here to see their native son come home, play for the team he rooted for as a child. Maybe also see him skating with his arch rival. Who he married. It’s a good story.

When the team skates out, one by one, the roar the crowd lets out for Shane is deafening. He ducks his head, and smiles, and waves at them. Ilya looks around. There are scattered pride flags in the stands, and at least one sign that says Ilya ♥️ Shane. He grins at them, and makes a mental note to ask Gen to find them and give them merch. Shane will hate it, but it is not as if they are wrong.

Looks up when the screen flashes a shot of the family box. Yuna and David are there, standing with Bood’s wife, and Hazy’s sister and her wife. Lisa is working tonight, remembers Hazy telling them she was mad she would miss the opener, even if it was still just pre-season. They wave at the camera, and then at the ice. Has never had family in the stands who were proud of him before.

They win, which feels like a good omen, even if Chicago had really only sent their newer lines on a shake down cruise, and it is not a real indication of anything. Still, a win for their first game on their own ice is a good omen.

Wishes the press had gotten the memo. Harris’s face is a warning in and of itself when he comes into the locker room after the game to collect them for press. Shane winces when he sees Harris.

“Press?”

Harris nods. “There are … a lot of them.”

So, the fans are not the only ones here to see Shane play. Doubts the press will be as kind as their crowd tonight was – stomping their feet, chanting for them.

“You do not have to,” he starts to say to Shane. But Shane just shrugs. “Might as well get it over with. Otherwise they’ll just hang around until we leave and ambush us then. I don’t really want to sleep here tonight, or sneak out in a laundry hamper.”

“I will come with you,” he decides.

“Don’t antagonize the press, Ilya.”

“Where is the fun in that?” Ilya would rather chirp everyone, the press, opponent, teammates, Shane, than the polite, approved things that say nothing.

“We have to be good role models.” And this is the difference, or rather, a difference between them. Ilya was not raised to be a role model — he was raised to be the best, to step on anyone’s throat in his way, if he had to.

“You are weak,” his father spit at him, when he was thirteen, playing on the U-17 team. “Like her, soft.” He vowed then that he would never show weakness again.

He was good at winning, which was good, because his father made it clear when he arrived in Canada for the first World Junior Hockey Championships that he had to win at all costs. It was clear, even then, that he was going to be their meal ticket, the one to make the Show. So, he had to be the big Russian aggressor, show off his ‘big dick energy’ as the Americans now call it. It helped that, even then, he could back it up, on the ice and off. He met everyone’s expectations. Exceeded them. He was good. He is good. But he is not a role model. That wasn’t why Haas had had a poster of him on his teenage bedroom wall.

Shane had seemed soft to him, then, when he still listened to his father. He knows better now. But there is a difference – a price – for being raised to “win at all costs” versus winning “the right way.” Yuna was cutthroat but she had limits. His father did not.

He sits next to Shane at the table, gatorade bottles displayed in front of them, wearing Centaurs-branded shirts. At first, press goes as expected. Harris looks pleased. They answer innocuous question after innocuous question. Shane knocks their feet together. Then:

“How do your teammates feel about having the first out, married couple in the locker room?” He feels Shane stiffen beside him. Sees Harris out of the corner of his eye, glaring murderously at the reporter. He’s a national guy, only there because Shane is in Ottawa now. He won’t be invited back.

Ilya leans forward. “We are not first? Poulin and Stacey have been on same team for years?”

Ilya tries to contain his grin when the reporter takes the bait, “But you are the first real hockey players?” Shane closes his eyes, drops his head and Harris is making desperate slashing motions across his throat. Ilya ignores both.

“You would like to tell her she is not real hockey player? Her three Olympic medals do not count? I do not have one.” He is willing to bring up this embarrassment to bury this reporter.

The reporter has no answer (as he should) and Harris moves the room along. Haas tilts his phone to show him later that he is now part of a meme with Andy Murray. Poulin retweets it. He is satisfied.

One good answer in the press room does not stop the think pieces about two captains in one room (pro – more experience, they’ve won five cups between them / anti – too many cooks in the kitchen, clashing leadership styles causing tension, cliques developing over who follows which captain / one neutral –hey guys how about we wait and see). A few reddit threads about how it’s just typical that when it came down to whether Shane or Ilya would be captain, that they’d gone with the white guy.

He shows them to Shane, although he’s sure Shane has already seen them, who says, “hmm.” And then, “Am I clashing with your leadership style?”

He puts his phone down to give Shane his full attention. “What?”

Shane keeps putting together a smoothie for the morning and doesn’t actually seem upset, so he relaxes a little. “I don’t want to step on your toes. You’d tell me if I was, right?”

Honestly, he’s not sure. Probably. It hasn’t been an issue. Says, “Yes,” firmly. Shane gives him a skeptical look which feels uncalled for. He counters, “Would you tell me if you miss being captain? Honestly?”

Shane’s hands still. “No, probably not,” he admits. “But I don’t.”

“Yes, this is not mixed message at all,” he drawls.

Which earns him a snort of laughter from Shane, and then a more thoughtful, “I don’t though. I thought I might.” Flashes him an apologetic look for a summer’s worth of reassuring him that it was fine. “But I trust you, and honestly it’s kind of nice to just play hockey.” He finishes setting up his smoothie and puts the ingredients away, but pauses. “Rose asked me once if hockey stopped being fun.” Ilya holds back his usual grimace at Rose’s name, he does – reluctantly – sort of like her, even if he wouldn’t actually admit it. “And, it’s not that it ever stopped being fun, but at some point it ended up with all these other strings.” Shane shrugs. “It’s nice to play without some of them again.”

He doesn’t mention all the other new strings, and Ilya takes the win.

Later that night, after dinner, and dishes, and one last turn around the garden for Anya, Shane pushes him down into their bed and rides him slowly, like there is no alarm, no morning practice. Holds Ilya in place with his thighs, and his hand on Ilya’s chest, and his casual expectation that Ilya will obey when he says, “Don’t come yet.”

Ilya's fingers tighten reflexively on his hips, desperate to fuck up into Shane, so close to the edge – and Shane slows down even more, because he's a sadist, cock leaving sticky trails on Ilya's stomach – leans in until they're breathing into each other – "Still think I need a C to be in charge?"

And it takes Ilya a second to make the connection, and then he's tightening his hold on Shane's hips and heaving him up and over until he's under Ilya, and he can hook his hands under Shane's knees, bend him in half and fuck into him the way he wants – the way they both want, Shane making keening noises, head tipped back, and he knows that sound, the way that Shane's face tightens. Shifts his angle just a little, just enough, and Shane comes between them, clenching down on him impossibly perfect and he lets go of the final thread of his control and comes hard. Feels like his brain has been wiped clean, no thoughts, just white static, slumps heavy against Shane who laughs into his ear, giddy and happy and sated.

Harris counters the flood of think pieces with more social media pieces to introduce the new team to the fans on their own terms.

“Just quick Question of the Day type stuff,” Harris assures them as he sets up beside the boards to ask them questions as they come down the corridor to the ice. “Nothing heavy, just to give the public some idea of who you guys are off the ice.”

The question of the day today is apparently, food you miss from home.

“My mother’s lasagna,” LaPointe says to a chorus of ‘awwws’ from Young and Holmberg behind him. He waves at the camera. “Love you, Mom.”

“Well now I have to say my mother’s roast beef,” Young complains, “or I look like a,” he glances at Harris and hastily amends whatever he had been going to say to, “a jerk. Love you, Mom.”

“Holmberg?” Harris asks.

“My mom doesn’t cook, but I’d kill for a good pizza.”

Harris pauses. “You can get good pizza here.”

Holmberg shakes his head firmly. “Not like you can in Vancouver.”

“Ilya?”

“Hmm, good sirniki.” Waves at the camera. “Tell Harris in comments, where I can get sirniki in Ottawa. Must be somewhere, yes?”

“Haas?”

“Rösti.”

“Shane?”

“Umm, I’m from here, so…?”

“Oh, right, I forgot. Okay, dealer’s choice – either something you missed while you were in Montreal, or something from Montreal you’re missing here.”

“Montreal bagels,” Shane says promptly, which makes Ilya side eye him, because since when are bagels on Shane’s diet? Shane catches him looking and says, “Off season, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he echoes.

Harris is about to wave Shane onto the ice, and then holds up a finger. “Wait, St Viatur or Fairmount?”

He can see Shane gear up for a polite non-committal answer and then visibly realize he’s not in Montreal anymore and say firmly, “Fairmount.”

Hazy elbows him. “How long have you been holding that in?”

“Since my rookie season,” Shane admits, to the assembled team’s laughter.

Harris is smiling, this is a good segment. He wouldn’t admit it on pain of Shane threatening to withhold sex (he’d never make it, anymore than Ilya would, but he’d threaten it), but he’s been hovering. Knows Montreal wasn’t good for a lot longer than Shane wants to say. Wants Ottawa to be good for him. He thinks maybe, maybe, Shane’s starting to loosen a bit around them. Let his asshole shine through, just a little. It unknots something he hadn’t quite known was tense.

They play Winnipeg their second game. In the locker room before the game, the music’s pumping but Holmberg and Haas aren’t singing along like usual; they’re staring at one of their phones. He waits until Holmberg finally asks the room, "Did anyone hear about Gatskill?”

Barrett turns the music down, over the groans of the others. "The guy just drafted third?"

"Yea, out of Minnesota. Got drafted by…” pauses and snaps his fingers trying to remember.

“Anaheim,” Shane says without looking up from his own phone.

“Anyway, Man in the Crease this morning had allegations -- said the front office knew, too, before they drafted him." Holmberg looks around the room like one of them is going to know.

"Of course they did," muttered Barrett, and Ilya puts his hand on his shoulder.

"Not doing anything to him though," Haas adds.

Hazy coughs into his hand, "Of course not."

He looks it up himself; allegations of sexual abuse from when he was at college. Wishes just once the press would be honest. Call it what it is. Rape. A violation. Wishes he was more surprised.

The beginning of the game is quiet, but they wouldn’t be professionals if they couldn’t focus on hockey over everything else. They win. Honestly he'd have been worried if they lost. Winnipeg isn't a bad team, but they’re not good either; not good like the Centaurs have become.

Still, it gives them time to work out the last kinks in their lines, time to cement their communication. A good team should feel like a mind meld for 60 minutes. Last year they had been getting close, and he expected to sink into that zone easily this year, but there is tension somewhere that he can't put his finger on. Some lines are changing shifts a little too slowly, not paying enough attention, or jumping the boards too early. He's not worried. They'll get there. That's what preseason is for.

And, when they are all in sync it is glorious. Hockey so easy it feels like a game, instead of a battle.

They get a power play in the second period, and he joins Haas and Shane at center ice.

He wins the faceoff and takes the puck up the ice through the neutral zone, chased by Winnipeg’s first line, but they are too slow. He fakes right and passes left, watches Shane shift into position like they'd planned this (like they are drift compatible; sometimes he wishes he could really be in Shane’s head. It would help a lot), and Haas sends him a pass through traffic that Shane picks up like there's nobody else on the ice with them. Twists to avoid the Winnipeg d-man coming up on his right and shoots at goal. He's too far away, and he knows it, and so does the d-man crawling up his ass. But, Shane's there to pick up the rebound, the way he'd known without looking that Shane would be, and he slides it into the five hole before Winnipeg's goalie can seal it.

He crashes into Shane from one angle, and Haas spins them both when he crashes in from the other side. They're all fucking giggling and giddy with it.

There's a game of half-naked chase going on when they enter the locker room the next morning for morning skate. He glances at Barrett who's sitting there putting on his gear like there aren't three grown men – well, three grown not rookies anymore, adult is debatable – throwing handfuls of shaving cream at each other.

"Umm," he says and stays carefully out of the line of fire.

Barrett nods at him. "Young put shaving cream in Holmberg's helmet."

"Ah," he says.

Shane steps around him. "Classic."

Ilya's watching for it so he catches the face he makes at his locker, there and gone again before you could see it if you weren't waiting for it. "Hollander?"

Shane shakes his head. "It's nothing."

He raises his eyebrow, and Shane huffs a faintly annoyed sigh. "It's nothing. They just hung my gear in the wrong order."

Barrett looks up at that. "You should let the equipment manager know." Shifts like he's going to get up, find Mack.

"I said it's fine," Shane snaps. Which stops the room, and Shane takes a breath. "They don't know me yet. It's fine."

Hockey players are superstitious by nature and nurture, and they're all particular about their gear. It's what makes a good equipment manager great – remembering all the different ways they're particular. But they’re not actually psychic, you do have to tell them what you like.

"Shane?" he asks.

"It's fine," Shane repeats. Looks at Ilya and sighs. "I don't want this to be a story about how I'm being a diva, or picky."

Sees Barrett wince out of the corner of his eye, and wonders how many times Shane's heard that before.

"Okay," he says mildly, then turns to the rest of the room, "Okay, now who is going to clean this up? Because we are not making Mack do it." Pins them with his gaze. "Are we?"

"He called him Princess." Troy tells him when Shane goes to pee before putting on his gear, his mouth twisting and he can't hold Ilya's eye.

"Who?" It's not a question. He will find out and he will murder them. Maybe he should be worried about how much death and destruction he is wishing on others.

"Who do you think?"

Ilya mentally counts the number of days until they play Toronto. Troy shakes his head. "He doesn't need you fighting his battles."

Ilya's not sure he agrees with that, but nods anyway.

Troy rolls his eyes. "You wanna get a head start, you can take a shot at me."

Which makes Ilya give him a startled look. "What?"

Troy shifts on his feet. "You forget who Kent’s loyal sidekick was?"

"You said ....?" He remembers Barrett and Kent, but still can't quite believe it.

Troy shrugs. "No. But I didn't stop him either. Never gave Hollander a reason to think I didn't agree. He's being nicer to me than I think I would be."

Shane has three years of listening to Ilya talk about Troy, knowing that Troy's become probably his best friend other than Sveta. If Shane has feelings about Barrett when he was part of Kent’s entourage, he's processed them and neatly locked them away in a box. Ilya doesn't tell Troy that, because just because Shane has decided not to be petty doesn't mean he can't be a little bit on his behalf.

He never said anything; for the first time, Ilya wonders what else Shane's heard on the ice that he never tells Ilya about.

"Does it bother you?" he asks on the way home.

"Does what bother me?" Shane asks absently, smiling at something on his phone, and starting to respond to whatever meme Ilya's guessing Rose or Hayden have sent him.

"That Barrett and I are friends."

That gets him an absolutely baffled look from Shane. "No?" Looks back down at his phone for a second and then, "Why would it?"

"He reminded me this afternoon, that he used to hang around with Kent."

Shane goes still for a breath and then deliberately loosens. He's spent too many years watching Shane not to notice the effort he puts in to looking relaxed. "Ah."

"Does it?"

Shane shrugs. "I mean, I don't think he's going to be my best friend, but that was years ago. People change. He was scared and hiding. I get that."

Ilya refrains from pointing out that Shane had also been scared and hiding and he'd managed to do it without being an asshole to everyone else, because he figures Shane's already had that thought and doesn't need to be reminded. Says, "No, because you insist 15th best Metro player will be your best friend."

Shane's mouth twitches. "14th best now that I'm in Ottawa. Besides, you love Jackie and the kids."

"He does have cute kids, and married up," Ilya concedes. "You are avoiding my question."

Shane tips his head back against the headrest and sighs. "I don't have the energy to hate everyone who said something shitty to me on the ice once upon a time. He apologized to me." His beautiful mouth twists wryly, "Which honestly is novel, so points for creativity."

Ilya hadn't known that.

Shane touches his hand on the gear shift. "I didn't like Barrett much for a lot of years, and then I spent a couple of years being a little jealous of all the time he got to spend with you, and a lot glad that you'd found someone here you could talk to. It evens out. We're fine."

Sveta calls as they are finishing dinner – he is still adjusting to being able to play a game with Shane, and then come home and eat dinner with him, no hiding, no sneaking around, no excuses to his team for where he’s going. He would text her that he’ll call back later, but she has just been in Russia, and promised she would check in on his niece. He does not care about Alexei or his wife. They have made their beds, as the Americans say, now they must lie in them. But his niece is different, and Sveta stays in contact with her because he can’t – Alexei would never allow it, or would use it to his own ends. But he wants her to know he still loves her, that he will help her if she ever needs it.

Shane knows this, knows that Sveta has just returned, and waves him to take it. Gets up to do the clean up while Ilya talks to her. Ilya watches him step over Anya who wants a treat, and knows she will probably get one, because they are both push overs.

“Katya is doing well,” she tells him. Does not make him wait, or ask for the reassurance. “I took her out for tea.” He would ask why Alexei let her take Katya out, but he knows it’s because Alexei still hopes that Ilya will come to his senses, remember his duty, and he is perfectly happy to use his daughter to do it. “She told me about school, and a boy she has a crush on.”

“No, she is too young,” he protests.

“We were not too young, or do you not remember promising yourself to me when we were 10?”

His mother and Sveta’s mother had been friends. Maybe. In retrospect he thinks that probably his father had told his mother to be friends with Sergei Vetrov’s wife, does not know now if his mother had actually liked Sveta’s mother or not. They had both thought it was cute, that he and Sveta were friends, and his father had smiled approvingly when he said grandly that he would marry her some day, and his father’s approval had always been hard to get.

“Were we ever that young?” he asks.

“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe not. But it is a good thing that Katya is still.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Thank you for checking on her.”

“You do not say thank you to family,” she reminds him. And then shifts the conversation to lighter things, and he listens to her talk about the new stores in Moscow, the ones that have gone. The clubs of their childhood that have closed, and the new – worse – ones that have opened. Listens to her gossip about people they both know, complain about the immigration and customs lines at Logan airport.

“I think my Russian is getting better,” Shane tells him when he hangs up. “I understood bits of that.”

“Oh yes?” He asks. “Which bits?”

Shane’s face scrunches in thought. It is adorable, although Ilya does not say that. “Something about cake and a wedding?”

He can’t help it, he snorts. “Those were words I said, yes.” Not in the context Shane is thinking, but credit for vocabulary, he supposes. That Shane is learning Russian is alternately amusing (his accent is terrible, and somehow bafflingly, French), and so heart-stopingly generous that he doesn’t know where to put the emotion.

“I speak as much Russian as Anya,” Shane says with an attempt at being affronted. At her name, her ears perk up where she’s lying at the end of the couch.

Ilya considers several responses before he grabs hold of Shane’s ankles and tugs him over into his lap, ignoring his sputtering. “You think?” Pats his lap. Tells him, “Sit.” Shane perches on his lap, while Anya puts down her bone begrudgingly and sits. He does not laugh. He would like to get laid tonight, and does not think Shane will appreciate knowing this.

“Stay.”

Shane nuzzles his neck. “Okay. But don’t tell me to beg.”

He’d do that anyway. Instead he describes, in great detail, exactly what he’s going to do to Shane. What he wants Shane to do to him.

Shane whispers into his ear, “I hope Anya does not know those words.”

Ilya swats him. Tells him, “Be good.”

Shane’s reaching inside his sweatpants, pushing his own down, wrapping his hand around both their cocks. “Make me.”

Curls his fingers into Shane’s hair, holding tight, gets a hitched gasp from Shane in response, and bites his lip before he kisses him, moans into it. This is ending in orgasm, but he’s not in a hurry to get there, not yet. Pushes Shane back just a bit so he can twist them both, fall back into the deep cushions, Shane’s weight on top of him keeping him anchored. Shoves impatiently at Shane’s shirt until he gets the hint and sits up enough to strip it off, and then there’s bare skin pressed against his, and he feels drunk on it, like he’d had half a bottle of good vodka with dinner instead of ice tea, blood heated, pushing everything higher.

Later, lying in bed with Shane, sated, and muscles loose and heavy with it, he thinks about Alexei and his wife, Sveta. Katya. He twists his wedding ring absently on his finger.

From the moment Shane slid the ring on his finger, Ilya hasn't wanted to take it off. He always wears his mother's cross, as a tribute to her, a reminder of how much she’d loved him, how much he still misses her. He wants Shane’s ring always on him too.

It’s the last thing he takes off before he gets on the ice – slides it onto the chain next to his mother’s cross, kisses first one and then the other for luck – and the first thing he puts back on after he showers and dresses.

He knows why he can’t wear his ring on the ice – he’s heard horror stories, doesn’t want either of them to be a cautionary tale. Still hates it. Feels naked without it, even though he has a lifetime of not wearing a ring, and only a few months of wearing it. He wishes he didn't ever have to look down and not see Shane's claim on him; to rub his fingers over Shane's hand and not feel the bump of his ring. Even when he's got his gloves on, he wants that reminder there.

He is not the only married man on the team, Hayes puts his wedding ring in a carved wooden box in his locker that Lisa had given him for their fifth anniversary. Chouinard tucks his into the inside pocket of his game day suit. Bood does the same thing he does, kisses his wedding ring as he takes it off and then trades it for a plain black silicone band. He makes a note to ask Bood where he got it. Unlike everything else, this is a problem he can solve.

Ilya starts calling Zaitsev Z, because Zaitsev is a mouthful, and also he's tired of listening to everyone butcher the pronunciation.

"Point of order, Cap,” LaPointe starts.

“Okay, no,” Chouinard stops him. “We are not making that a thing.”

“Stop trying to make fetch happen,” Shane murmurs, which earns him a startled bark of laughter from Dykstra.

“Point of order,” LaPointe repeats.

He sighs. Some days being captain is like herding cats. “Yes?”

“Shouldn't that be Zed?"

"What?"

Does not expect the enthusiastic agreement from Shane. "LaPointe’s right, this is Canada."

"What?" he says again. Looks at Haas for back up on this.

Haas is no help. Says, "In German we would say Ts."

"I keep telling you, Schweizerdeutsch is not ..." Holmberg starts.

Zaitsev sighs, "Do I get a say in this?"

"No," Dykstra tells him, slapping him on the back and wandering over to Shane. "Holzy, you are funny man... You need to sit next to me more often!”

And Ilya very privately fist pumps when Shane just smiles and says, “You know what they say; if you can’t say something nice, come sit next to me.”

Dykstra stares at him open-mouthed for a moment, and then turns to shout over his shoulder, "Rozy, did you know your husband is funny?"

"Why do you think I married him?"

“Because he’s good at hockey?” Z says immediately.

“And hot, don’t forget hot,” Holmberg adds. A pause. “Not that I would know anything about that personally, but you know, I’ve been told.”

"I mean," Bood says, "I always assumed it was because he was the only person who could beat you on the ice." And ducks the dirty sock Ilya throws at him, laughing.

Preseason is exhausting and exhilarating by turn – remembering the rhythm of games, of packing and traveling. The logistics of boarding Anya, of making sure they don’t leave food to go bad in the fridge. Honking at the sign the kids next door put up wishing them luck. Shane talks about and around the idea that they shouldn't room together on the first roadie. Clearly thinks that somehow rooming together will be more scandalous than not rooming together, or lead the team to think that the captain is playing favorites (he is – obviously – but for skill, not because Shane is his husband. Mostly). Ilya disagrees.

Stands up in the middle of the locker room three days before their first roadie. "Shane wants to know who wants to room with him in Buffalo."

The entire room looks at each other, and then almost like they'd choreographed it, take a step back and say, "Not it."

He looks at Shane, smug. "Guess you are stuck with me."

Shane looks exasperated. Looks around a room of twenty men conspicuously minding their own business (he sees Bood kick LaPointe until he obediently fusses with something in his locker). "Nobody minds?"

He feels a little murderous at what this suggests about Montreal's locker room last year, wonders if anyone except Pike was even willing to room with Shane after he came out – Shane Fucking Hollander, their captain .

Still, he also sees a few guys in his own room look grateful when he says, ‘you're stuck with me’, clearly uneasy about the possibility of rooming with him. Or Shane. Probably both.

He sees a flash of sympathy on Barrett’s face that he tamps down, hopefully before Shane saw it too, and he says gravely, "I think we might insist on it. Nobody wants to deal with a pining Rozy."

He throws his towel at Barrett. "Russians do not pine." Thinks if Marly was here that he would have words to say about that. Probably profane ones. As it is half the room gives him a skeptical look, including Haas, who is too young to inflict that kind of judgement on his elders.

Shane snorts. Murmurs, "Rose," under his breath. Ilya scowls at him theatrically.

When they get to the hotel in Buffalo, Wiebe hands out keys. Chouinard and LaPointe end up next to them. Chouinard points a finger at them. "You fuckers are sharing a wall with us. I do not want to know more about you tomorrow than I know right now." LaPointe looks vaguely terrified, and vaguely intrigued. The first is appropriate, he decides not to think about the second.

He would tease, but Shane just says seriously. “You absolutely will not.”

"We are doing silent yoga retreat?"

Shane pushes him with a laugh.

He does suck Shane off that night, not to prove a point, but because he’s played some of the best hockey of his career on days after he’s sucked Shane off. Maybe it’s correlation, maybe it’s causation. Either way it seems stupid to tempt fate when Shane is right there, and they’re married now, and he can. Goes down on him slow and wet and sloppy, while Shane bites his hand, and twists fingers deep in Ilya’s curls and comes with a muffled shout.

They win the game. Because they had sex last night? Who can say. But it certainly didn’t make their game worse. So the press can chew on that, not that he will phrase it quite like that.

There’s press waiting for them after the game. “Like death and taxes,” Bood mutters, and then plasters on a media smile for the reporter.

Shane worries about how much attention the press is giving him – not for a change because he’s worried about public opinion– but because he doesn’t want Bood to resent him, doesn’t want the team to think he’s pulling focus. Which is a valid thing to be worried about, except that Bood would rather carve his liver out with a rusty spoon than do press if he doesn’t have to, and is perfectly happy to let Shane smile blandly at the cameras and give tight one sentence sound bites about the upcoming season.

“You’ve been looking good in the preseason,” a reporter from one of the cable networks says. “What do you think the secret is?”

He is very obviously angling for Shane to say he is the secret sauce, so he can make a story about it.

Shane nods and looks thoughtful, like he’s taking the question seriously. “I think we have a great team, some new really exciting talent working with the team veterans, and we’re all clicking. I think you’ve seen that in the goals we’ve been able to put up in the games we’ve played so far, and we’re really confident that we’re going to continue to do that.”

“So you’re saying,” the reporter tries again, leaving it dangling.

“That we’ve scored more than the other teams? Yes.” Smiles blandly.

Over Shane’s shoulder Ilya can see Bood blink, rewind what Shane just said, like he can’t quite believe what he heard. The reporter is having the same problem. The reporter looks at Ilya, hoping for him to expand on Shane’s answer. Or just say something remotely interesting. But Ilya just shrugs, and points a thumb at Shane. “What he said.”

The reporter looks around for a more cooperative subject and lands on Bood, who had paused to listen to Shane and did not escape fast enough afterwards. "What's it been like playing with the first husbands of hockey?"

Beside him Shane freezes. Bood mulls the question over. "If you're asking what it's like to play with Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, I'd have to say that it's a privilege. Not many people get to play with players who are as skilled and as generous on the ice as they are."

It is very clearly not what the reporter was asking, and Ilya makes a mental note of his face so he can ask Harris about him later.

Bood's not done though, and his tone gets markedly colder. "But that's not what you're asking. You're asking for locker room gossip, looking for a headline or a quote, and I got nothing for you. They're professionals, just like every other guy in that locker room. We all want to win the cup this year, and we're all working our asses off to do that for our fans and our city. And that's all I have to say about that."

He thinks that whether Bood wants to be a pull quote or not, he just gave the reporter one, if not the one he was looking for.

"Thank you," he hears Shane say quietly later. "You didn't have to do that."

"Tell the truth?" Bood plays dumb really well, and Shane flounders a little. Bood punches him lightly in the shoulder. "Seriously, don't sweat it. They're vultures. Ignore them."

"We got your back, Cap," Holmberg says. "And Mr. Cap," he adds with a wink. Ilya can't keep in the snort. Fist bumps him and goes back to unlacing his skates.

Shane looks faintly embarrassed – Ilya's not sure if it's because someone has acknowledged they're married, or because he doesn't like that anyone felt like he needed rescuing.

Before they told the team, very few people knew exactly how long they've been something to each other, even when the something was just fucking in hotel rooms and pretending it didn't mean anything. Even fewer people knew when that changed. Maybe just him and Shane. Maybe Sveta too. Not because he's told her, but because she's annoyingly sharp that way about people. He plans to keep it that way. They've shared enough of their relationship with the public; this is theirs to keep. He hopes the team realizes not to share.

Twitter has been speculating about their timeline since the video. Everyone wonders when they became a thing, pour over their play, their goals. Says here. This is when they started. Depending on which side they're on, they either say - here is when they got better, or here is when they got worse. Everyone's an arm chair critic. He wants to say, there is nothing to find, because there is no game we've played when there was not some version of us. Fucking each other, loving each other, has not changed our game, because it has always been true. Since the start.

But he can't say he isn't tempted sometimes. To say, "We won three cups while we were fucking each other on opposite teams - what do you think we can do now we are on the same team?" Or, "We spent nearly 10 years without anyone knowing we had ever said more than hello to each other, you think we don't know how to be professional?"

Just to shut them up. Just to wipe that blank expression off of Shane's face.

Farah had held to her opinion that doing interviews this summer would just add fuel to the fire.

“You got married,” Farah said firmly. “That isn’t news, that’s just a totally ordinary life milestone. Congratulations, by the way.” They’d both given her cynical looks, and she’d smiled and hadn’t budged. “Trust me, you pay me a lot to know what I’m doing.”

But that just means that who they do give an interview to as the season starts holds more weight. She cherry picks a list of three journalists for them to decide between – sends them sample articles and interviews they’ve done. They decide on Ethan Carmichael. He is legitimate. Will ask hard questions, but not stupid ones.

He's nervous, but not as nervous as he could be.

It goes well. Carmichael asks them about hockey, only touches on their relationship where it touches hockey. That was unavoidable. He doesn’t hate him.

"You both lost sponsors," Carmichael says.

Shane is no longer the face of Reebok. Chanel told him they wanted to go in a different direction this year.

Ilya’s never had the image Shane did – more bad boy than boy next door. But gay (never mind that he isn’t), married, settled doesn’t match the carefree (straight) playboy image some of his brands liked. Knows it’s the married to a man that is the bigger stumbling block than the married, whatever any of them say.

"Do you have anything you want to say about that?" Carmichael presses when neither one of them responds immediately.

Ilya tells him the same thing he'd told Sveta. "I am old, and boring, and married now. I do not want people to see me as a playboy anymore."

It’s fine. They have more money than they could need for three lifetimes. Yuna already has other sponsors lined up. Ones with more imagination.

It still stings.

Carmichael looks about as convinced as Sveta had been, although polite enough to not make the same pfft noise she had. "Ilyusha, lie to your husband if you must – although I don't recommend it. But do not lie to me. You're bad at it."

"Rude," he'd told her. "It is… whatever. We knew this would happen. It is worth it." More fiercely, "Shane is worth it."

Feels Shane knock his foot against his under the table, presses back. And then Shane does a thing he's never done before and puts his hand over Ilya's on the table top, in full view of Carmichael's interested gaze. "We can't control what other people think, all we can do is be honest."

Carmichael nods. “Can we talk about the Game Changer camps?” He asks about the foundation, about how the camps expanded this year, if they’re thinking about expanding again next year, about who they’re hoping to tap to come in as coaches. They’re good questions, but he knows what they’re leading up to. Braces for it.

“There was a very public letter posted this summer, from a parent withdrawing their son from the camp.”

They'd lost a couple of kids this year from the camps. Not many, and they have a waiting list three deep for every spot, but he’d felt bad for the kids who didn’t get to come because their parents are bigots. But that’s not what Carmichael is referencing.

He’s talking about the father who posted the letter he’d sent them to his facebook page, and because they are them, and the internet is the internet, it had gone viral right before the Montreal session.

It wasn’t anything they hadn’t heard before – that he’d trusted them, he’d thought they were doing something good for the sport. But that was before he knew, and he couldn’t expose his son to that kind of environment, can't risk his son's safety like that. He thinks the worst part about the letter was how polite it had been. It’s easier to dismiss the people who are rude – call them slurs and try to get under their skin. It’s the ones who are nice about being cruel who are harder to handle.

Shane's face had gone white when he read the letter. Felt his own lips go numb with how hard he pressed them together against the words that wanted to spill out when Shane passed him the letter to read.

“All we did was fall in love,” Shane had said helplessly.

He leaned his forehead against Shane’s shoulder, murmured, “moya lyubov'” and, “it will be okay.”

He wants to say, the sins of the father are not visited upon the son. He has to believe that, or else he thinks he's doomed. But that would invite questions about his own father that he has no interest in answering.

He gives the answer they’d workshopped with Farah and Yuna.

Carmichael gives them a sardonic smile that suggests he hears the careful PR that went into that answer. It isn’t anything they hadn’t said earlier that summer, and he can’t have expected a different answer now.

Carmichael is ready to move on, but Shane says suddenly, “I think it’s also important to talk about the about the kids who came back. Who felt welcome for the first time.”

They’d had a couple older kids who had dropped out of the hockey camps when they were 11, 12. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, kids age out. Get new hobbies, realize they don’t want to dedicate their lives to hockey. But some of them had come back this year. Swallows around a sudden lump in his throat. The idea of what it would have meant to him when he was 13, and first realizing he looked at boys the same way he looked at girls.

Picks up where Shane left off. “I love Shane. I love hockey. Is good for kids to see that they do not have to pick.” Leaves unsaid the, 'like we did for so many years', but sees Carmichael nod that he heard it anyway.

As they wind down the interview Carmichael asks Shane how he feels about playing for Ottawa after so long in Montreal.

"I grew up rooting for the Centaurs," Shane says, media perfect, but also true. "The first MLH hockey game I ever went to was at the Tire Center. This is seven year old Shane's dream come true."

"Did they win?" Carmichael asks with interest.

Shane laughs. "No. But, they didn't have Ilya Rosanov playing for them yet."

“Or Shane Hollander," Carmichael points out. "Some people have suggested that having you both on the same team makes the league unbalanced. What do you say in response to that?"

Shane looks at him to see which one of them wants to answer this. He shrugs. "Seems like a them problem."

He looks over the rink to see Shane messing around on the ice with Z and Hayes in something that might be called training, but looks a lot more like doing trick shots for shits and giggles.

He tries to name the feeling. Pride maybe? Feels a little condescending, like Shane needs help to find his place on the team. He doesn't, but it’s nice to see Shane relaxed enough to fuck around for fun. Shane looks over from across the rink, like he can feel Ilya watching. Quirks an eyebrow. And then calls across the rink. “Grab Barrett, we’ll go two on two.”

“Cocky,” he shouts back. And swallows back the very obvious joke.

Shane leans on his stick. “Want to make it interesting?”

He narrows his eyes. “What kind of interesting?”

“Loser buys drinks tonight.”

Hear’s a whoop from the other side of the rink and looks over his shoulder to see the half the team leaning against the boards, watching. There’s money changing hands.

He collects Barrett with a nod. Calls out, “You had all better be betting on me and Barrett.”

“Yup.”

“Of course Cap.”

“Uh huh.”

“You are all traitors. Dead to me.” Is met with laughter. “Where is the respect?”

Bends down for the face off with Shane. “You realize we share a bank account?”

Shane shrugs. “Bragging rights then. Drinks for the team either way.” Battles with Ilya’s stick, grinning. “Afraid you’ll lose?”

Shane takes the puck and they’re off. Ilya wonders if this was what it is like to play hockey for fun, because you could, because you were good, not because you had to. He could do more of this.

He and Barrett win, but only because Zaitsev hasn’t managed to hide his tells yet, not enough for MLH players. His hips shift with his eyes, giving himself away just a bit – and it’s enough to make up the difference.

They do let two pucks through, though. It’s a close game.

By the end of the preseason games, it's clear that the second line, with Shane, Haas and Z is what they had been missing last year. Coach calls Zaitsev into his office after practice; his face is white as a sheet as he goes.

"Will be good news," Ilya tells him, squeezing his shoulder. He can tell Z doesn't believe him.

He comes back 20 minutes later with the world's biggest grin.

"Ok?" Ilya asks.

He nods, a wide grin spreading across his face. "I made the roster."

Ilya holds out his fist and Z bumps it. “I told you.”

They go out to celebrate.

“First round is on me,” he calls to general shouts of approval. He keeps an eye on Z because he wants to know how he’ll fit into the team dynamic. It isn’t enough to know that he can keep up with Shane. The table orders go around – beer, cider, vodka, martini, tequila shots for Young, Holmberg and LaPointe because apparently they hate themselves – Z orders beer, but when the waitress comes back to take second orders he’s barely drunk any of it. Eyes him thoughtfully and raises his voice slightly to say, “Another vodka for me, and ginger ale for Shane.” Sees Z look at Shane’s empty glass surprised, clocks that no one comments at all, and when the waitress gets around to him he orders a coke.

Looks at Ilya and winces. “I uh, don’t actually like vodka?”

Ilya stares at him. Has no words. “I do not understand. You are Russian, yes?” He’d thought it was an in season training diet thing.

Z flushes. “I know, I know, I bring shame on all the generations of my family. But, I don't? There was uh, a punch? At the hockey house?”

Ilya still doesn’t understand.

“My roommate helped me home but I– was uh. Up all night? I can’t even smell it without–”

"It's fine," Shane says. "I don't like vodka either.” Glances at Ilya, who is still staring, shocked. Says dryly, “He'll get over it."

He might not. Shane is Canadian, that is one thing. But, Zaitsev is Russian. It is in their blood. Might actually be their blood.

Z looks uncomfortable, and Shane kicks him under the table. Says more firmly. "It's fine."

“Yes, of course. Of course is okay,” Ilya says and thinks, he can not go out with the other Russians in the league. Glad he is Shane’s rookie. Would make Sveta laugh at him.

Not that the other Russians in the league have spoken to him much recently. He doesn't blame them. They still have family back in Russia, they can't afford to be seen talking to him.

Z looks at him closely for a second, and then appears to decide to believe him, and relaxes, sitting back a little more comfortably in his chair and joining in the heated discussion about which is the best brand of tape.

Young is arguing for a brand called Lizard Skins, which apparently offends Shane enough that he has to join in. Ilya has used the same brand for ten years, and thinks it would be bad luck to change it, no matter what arguments anyone makes. But it is amusing to watch, and he leans back in his chair, enjoying the evening – the team coming together, being here with his husband.

They get home late. Not late late, but late enough for Anya to have words for them. He crouches to appease her, “Yes, my angel, I am sorry. We were so mean, leaving you all alone.” Looks up at Shane’s soft huff of laughter to see him looking at them both with an impossibly soft expression.

They do the usual evening chores in quiet tandem – last walk for Anya, coffee and smoothies set up for the morning, bags emptied and filled again so they are ready to grab on their way out the door. He turns out the lights and follows Shane up to their bedroom, still gets a quiet thrill from flossing his teeth next to Shane, bumping shoulders and making silly faces at each other. Quiet kind of domesticity he’d never even known to dream of when he was 22.

He'd talked to Bood and ordered silicone rings for them both. Shane had been the one to ask the first time, in a room filled with candles. Maybe it’s just that he wants the chance to hear Shane say yes too. Which is silly – Shane said ‘I do’ in front of all their friends and family. He has said yes in every way that matters, but this still feels important.

"You okay?" Shane asks, when he fusses with the covers, and then the pillows, and then the covers again.

Ilya stares at the ceiling and then rolls over, pulling the box out of his drawer. Sits up and holds it out to Shane. Thinks he should have wrapped it. Or gotten a velvet box for it. Shane had. To go with the candles and the champagne. Shane laughs softly when he holds the box out to him. “What kind of toy did you get for us now?”

He cringes a little. “Not a toy.”

Something in his voice gets Shane to sit up, really look at him, push himself up against the pillows and pay attention. “Okay?” Looks back down at the plain box. “Should I open it?”

“Yes.” And then contradicts himself by putting his hand over Shane’s. “I love you.” Shane’s eyes go wide, and a little alarmed. He shakes his head, he’s not doing this right. “No, is a good thing. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Shh. Let me finish. I love you, and I spent many years thinking I would never have this.” Thinking he could never have this. “That this annoying Canadian with beautiful freckles and weak backhand could be mine. So now, I do not want to have to forget, or pretend, even for 60 minutes.” Takes a breath, and opens the box. “So. Will you marry me? Again? For ice?”

Shane’s, “oh shit, you asshole,” is not quite the response he’d been waiting for. But then Shane’s hand is there, tilting his head up so he has to look at him, kisses him even as he’s saying, “Yes. Obviously yes. Always yes.” And when Ilya slides the silicon band next to the gold one he’d put there a few short months ago, he says, “I love you so much.”

Turns Ilya’s hand over to look at the matching set of bands on his hand.

"You fucker, this–" he waves hand a little, "is not the silicone toy I thought you'd be getting me."

He considers. “Better or worse?”

“Better, oh my god. How is that even a question?” And then Shane’s using his leverage to push Ilya down in the sheets, using his weight to hold him there, like Ilya ever wants to be anywhere else. “Though I wouldn’t turn down another type of ring.” Ilya stares at him. Is he– Shane grins. Ilya wraps his legs around him and rolls him over. “Tell me more.”

Chapter 4: October 13-28

Chapter Summary

The season starts. The plot thickens.

Chapter Notes

We would be remiss if we did not thank Screamlet for the invaluable read through and hockey-picking. Any mistakes are our own; they tried their best.

(2) Away Games - Oct 13-15

The article drops two days before the season starts. They’d read the advance copy but seeing it in print was something different. They read it over lunch, Shane’s chin on his shoulder. It’s good. Balanced. Not tabloid trash. Not hagiography. Carmichael did a good job.

But the photographs; Ilya was not expecting those. He can’t look away. They found one from their first face off rookie year; Ilya had sent them the selfie from the MLH awards presentation.

“You kept that?” Shane had asked, a little shocked. Ilya could only shrug because, yes? For so long, it was the only photo he had of them together.

But they’d also sent a photographer a couple of days after Carmichael interviewed them. Other than their wedding, it’s almost like their first family photos – them, in their element. At their house, laughing in the kitchen; running in the woods with Anya. On ice, Ilya can see the joy as they battle for a fake face-off, so much bigger and older than the first time.

“We are fashion models,” Ilya tells Shane, satisfied that no one can deny they belong together. They look too good. Brushes off the vague worry that everyone can see how he feels; it’s there on his face for anyone to read. No matter what his father would have said, this is not a bad thing, for his husband, for the world, to know Ilya loves Shane.

“This is what you're basing our marriage on? That we look hot together?” Shane looks down and then up at Ilya through his lashes. Uh oh, he thinks. He is right to be worried. “I looked good with Rose, too.” That little shit. His little shit.

“Ah no, we do not speak her name.” Ilya goes back to staring at the spread.

“I can leave you alone with it, if you’d like?”

Ilya wavers.

“Seriously?" Shane asks, incredulously. “Well, I guess I can go do yoga in the living room while you stay here.”

And that is not playing fair, Shane in tiny shorts being bendy is maybe his second favorite thing (Shane in nothing at all, being bendy in their bed, is obviously his first favorite thing). “No, no, is just—“ Ilya touches the tips of his fingers to the page, tracing their faces. For so long they hadn't had any proof that they existed – to see it now, how they want the world to see them, not splashed across a tabloid. They are real.

Shane climbs into his lap, carefully putting the magazine on the table, kissing him softly. They rest their foreheads together until Shane’s nap timer dings.

Because the season waits for no one, does not allow for luxuriating in press – positive or negative – the article is forgotten in a rush of afternoon skates, tape reviews, and last minute strategy sessions with Wiebe and Bood.

He and Shane are making dinner, focused on picking apart New Jersey’s defense, when he answers Farah’s call a day later.

"I'm guessing neither one of you has checked your email this afternoon." She sounds annoyed, but he doesn't think it's at them.

He glances at Shane, who shakes his head. They've been enjoying the last free evening they're going to have in a while. "No. Why?" Although he's clicking over to his email even as he asks the question. Scrolling down the page of spam, news alerts, note from the vet about an appointment for Anya, email from the pest control people for the house, something from Yuna about the foundation. And there it is. Email from Crowell.

He clicks on it, and makes a face.

Shane has also found it on his phone, and is reading it. He's tempted to let Shane's reactions tell him what he needs to know, but Farah is waiting so he reads it. Skims it and then goes back to read it more slowly, to make sure he is not missing something.

"He wants a meeting? Tomorrow? We are traveling."

"He says at our convenience," Shane mutters. "Can it be never?"

Farah called them. "What do you think we should do?" he asks.

"Well," she says, "I don't think we can avoid it indefinitely. But, he says at your convenience and I suggest we take him literally about that. If you don't want to do it until you get home next week, then I’ll tell him that. I’ll tell him that you’re focused on your games . He can’t exactly argue about that."

He looks at Shane. "What do you want to do?"

Shane scrubs a hand across his face. "I don't want to talk to him at all," he admits. "But I also don't want to spend the next week trying to guess what he wants to talk about. I'd rather get it over with." Reaches for Ilya's hand. "What do you want to do?"

Like Shane he doesn't want to talk to Crowell at all. Unlike Shane he'd have put it off as long as he could. Crowell has less leverage on him right now than he's ever had – he's been in Canada three years, he's married to a Canadian citizen, his citizenship paperwork is in progress and it's no longer exclusively tied to his job. Still, Shane's right, they probably can't avoid it forever, might as well get it over with. But, he doesn’t want that man in their house, even over a computer screen.

"Fine," he says. "Set it up for tomorrow. Before afternoon skate." Looks at Shane. "Yes?"

Shane nods. "Yes."

"Okay," Farah says. "I'll set it up."

"You'll be on the call with us?" Shane asks.

Farah makes a rude noise. "I'm pretty sure Crowell doesn't want me to be, but yes, I am absolutely going to be on that call."

"Good," Ilya says. And then, "Thank you."

"It's what you pay me for," Farah says lightly. "Do not," she orders them, "spend the rest of tonight thinking about this. Dealing with Crowell and the league bullshit is literally why I’m here. I've got this. Enjoy your last night before the season starts."

"Yes, ma'am," he tells her.

"Thanks, Farah," Shane says.

Shane's quiet after the call. Neither know what to say. It's not the first time he's been threatened – his brother, his father, taught him well to stand up to bullies. But it is not just his fight.

They finish cooking dinner mechanically, have an intricate dance already established as they work around each other, chopping, dicing, stir frying. They settle on the couch after, the cool glow of ESPN lighting up the room but neither of them are paying attention. Shane's scrolling on his phone, biting his lip.

Ilya doesn't know if he should leave him to it, or try to get him out of his head. Shane needs sleep though; they both do – they fly out to New Jersey for the first game of the season early tomorrow. He pulls his tank top over his head, crawls over Shane's legs – he continues to studiously ignore him, but Ilya sees his lips twitch.

"You can't just distract me with sex," Shane says, but he's shifting down the couch, spreading his legs wider.

"Not distracting," he promises. "Just helping you get to sleep."

Shane kicks his thigh. "Seriously? That's what you're going with?"

"Hmm," he says, nosing at Shane's cock, which is interested, no matter what Shane is pretending. "Read study; good sleep hygiene is important, orgasms help you relax. Makes sense."

"Oh, well, if it's for my health," Shane says, lifting his hips when Ilya tugs at his briefs.

"And mine," he says seriously. "Is very important for both of us, so we can play at our best."

"Such a dick," Shane says fondly, but gestures at his cock, red and hard against his abs, “well, get to it then.”

They find an empty conference room at the arena to take Crowell’s call, carving it out of time when they should be eating lunch. Shane is fidgeting right up until the second that the zoom call connects, and then he goes still, face set with the bland smile he gives particularly stupid reporters in the press room, but under the table he's holding Ilya's hand tightly.

Crowell's face fills the screen. "Ah, there are our favorite franchise players." His smile thins a little, "Ms. Jalali."

"Commissioner," she says.

There's an awkward pause where none of them offer small talk, and Crowell finally says, "Right, well, down to business. So, big year for the two of you. Shane, I know this must be a big change for you, with the move, new team. How are you settling in?"

Shane's hand tightens on his, but he just says, "I grew up in Ottawa. It's been nice to come home. Really looking forward to playing for the team I grew up rooting for."

"Right. Right. Of course." Crowell clears his throat. "And, of course, I hear congratulations are in order."

Does not, Ilya notices, actually say congratulations. Farah notices it too, because on the table his phone lights up with a text from her that is just / 🙄 / He stifles a smile. Is glad she's on their side.

"Yes," he says. "We're very happy."

Crowell's smile looks forced. "Right, of course."

There's dead air, and Ilya is tempted to ask if that was all this call was for, to not-really congratulate them on their marriage. He knows it's not, but Crowell brings out the worst in him. Like he knows what Ilya's thinking, Shane's hand tightens on his again, in warning this time.

"So," Crowell says after a moment. "I wanted to discuss with you how we want to approach this season. Make sure that we have a unified message."

"We?" Farah asks.

"The league, and the players."

Farah makes a note about something. "So, this is a call you're having with all the players in the league?"

Crowell regroups. "I'm sure we all share the same concerns about hockey's image: wholesome, clean, honest."

"Hmm," he says neutrally. He loves hockey, but isn't sure wholesome is the word he'd use to describe it.

"And," Crowell says, "we want to make sure that stories about the players' personal lives don't overshadow the game."

And there it is.

He's not sure Shane has blinked since the call started. He squeezes his hand, but Shane doesn't look over at him. "No one wants that, Commissioner," he says through his teeth.

"Good, good, glad we're on the same page."

He waits for the other shoe to drop, for the threat that is coming with this warning. He knows bullies, and Crowell is not done. He is not subtle enough to leave the consequences of stepping out of line unvoiced.

"There was a lot of talk when Hollander signed with Ottawa," Crowell says. He braces himself. "Chatter about tampering, or collusion."

On his screen Farah's face goes perfectly still.

"Oh?" Shane asks, and slides his hand out of Ilya's, rubs them on his legs.

"Of course we said that was nonsense, that Hollander is known for how clean he plays. Always admired that about you," he says directly to Shane. "Always appreciated the kind of example you were setting for younger players."

"Thank you," Shane says stiffly.

"But," Crowell continues, "I have to think about my responsibility to the league, my duty to investigate all allegations."

It's marginally more subtle than Alexei's threats had ever been, but not by much. Ilya suspects that Crowell would probably enjoy the chance to make his point with his fist if he could get away with it.

On the screen Farah's eyes have narrowed. "It's good to hear that the league is taking its duty to investigate all allegations of misconduct so seriously." Wonders if that kid out of Minnesota had gotten a call like this. Or if his call had been more ‘tell me you didn’t do it’ and ‘stop fucking up.’’

For the first time Crowell looks uncertain, like he's not sure what Farah might know. "I assume we'll be seeing the league make a statement about," she pointedly looks down at her notes and flips a couple of pages, Ilya wonders what else she's heard, or what Crowell is worried about what she might have heard.

"Of course we're not looking to single out individual players," Crowell says hastily.

"That's good to hear," Farah says, and Ilya hears that is more promise than threat.

He loves her. Being with Shane is its own reward, but getting Farah as his agent is a really close second.

"Just setting expectations for the upcoming season. We want good clean games, good clean players, hockey is a family friendly sport."

It is? Ilya thinks, scrubbing his hand over his face. He doesn’t say anything, just bites his lip and stares forward, remembering what happened with Barrett his first year on the Centaurs. Wishes he didn’t have something else to commiserate with him about, like a hot partner and a dog that sheds in his bed.

Farah calls him as soon as the zoom call disconnects. “You are on speaker,” he tells her, phone on the table between them.

“I just wanted to touch base with you after the call.”

“That was a threat,” Shane says immediately. “To what? Fine us? Investigate us?”

“Yes,” Farah agrees. “Nothing I didn’t expect, and nothing you need to worry about.”

“Really?” Shane sounds dubious.

“Really,” Farah says firmly. “They have no leg to stand on, and Crowell knows it. He’s just hoping you don’t, and he can intimidate you. The only thing you need to do is not let him.”

She hesitates, and Shane hears it. “But?”

“But,” she says reluctantly. “It will make all our lives easier if this is a really uneventful season.”

“Does that include not winning the cup?” he drawls. “Winning the cup for Ottawa would be an event, no?”

Farah lets out an exasperated breath. “That kind of event is fine. Encouraged, even. Just focus on that, and let me worry about everything else. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees.

Shane’s, “Okay,” is a little longer in coming, and it’s a sign of how well Farah knows her clients that her sign off to him is, “Keep it clean, Ilya,” and her sign off to Shane is, “Just concentrate on the season, everything else will work itself out. That’s what you pay me for.”

He wants to talk to Shane about it, see where his head is at, but Barrett sticks his head through the door. “Wiebe says, team meeting. If you’re done here?”

Shane’s pushing back from the table, saying, “Of course." So he guesses they’re done for now.

He tries to bring it up before they leave for the rink. Asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

"What is there to talk about?" Shane says, mouth twisting slightly.

Ilya thinks maybe a lot, but also – there is not anything they can do now. Farah has it handled.

New Jersey is loud, but it is no New York. The fans hate him slightly less. There is no Hunter on the ice to mercilessly chirp; no Kip and Kyle in the stands to point to and taunt. He would like them to be; the distraction would be nice. Crowell’s call has left a sour taste in his mouth, even a day later, but he refuses to let Crowell affect his play. He uses the lingering irritation instead to give an inspiring speech (if he does say so himself), in the locker room before, and then trails Zaitsev back to the toilets as the others stream onto the ice, hooting. Finds him leaning against a stall. “You okay, Z?”

Z shakes his head and dives towards the toilet. Ilya wrinkles his nose. At least Anya is cute when she pukes after eating something she should not. Z finishes, and sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth, looking very green, in all the ways that matter.

Ilya runs a paper towel under the water and hands it over, squeezing Zaitsev’s shoulder as he does. “It gets easier,” he tells him even though he cannot remember the last time he got nervous about hockey. Only thing that makes him nervous now is Shane. “And we have your back out there.”

Zaitsev nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“You’ve done this thousands of times before. You will do it another thousand times.”

Z waves in the direction of the stadium; the roar of the crowd is audible even here, buried in the depths of the building. “I can’t imagine that being–”

“Is boring.” Ilya sniffs. “Wait until you hear New York crowd.” Z’s face pales. “We just have to make them shut up.”

They do not. They lose. 3-2. Which is close, but still a loss. Not the ideal start to the season, but the new lines played well, Hollander’s particularly, however nervous Z felt before the game. He did not play scared. They will get better.

He stands at the (door) off ice, like he always does, holds out his fist. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He does. They tried so hard. In Boston, he only did it for wins. In Ottawa, they did not win enough at first for how much he loves them. Traditions change.

The vibe in the locker room is morose. Hazy’s angrily yanking off his pads; Dykstra’s grumbling under his breath. Haas tentatively comes over, down to his under armor. “I’m sorry, Cap, I should have—“ And it had not been Luca’s best game but it was no one’s fault.

“No, no. Whole room needs to hear this.” Shane looks up from where he's unlacing his boots. “Is no one’s fault. We tried hard. Is new team, new season, we will get them next time.”

“That’s right, Cap!” someone yells out and everyone stomps until the floor shakes. The music is turned up.

He wishes he could say the same about the press room, because the first question he gets is, “Do you think playing with your husband is a distraction? Do you think it means the team lost focus, cost them the game?”

He stares them down. “Is the first game of the season. Next game will be ours." Doesn’t even bother to address the idea that Shane is a distraction. Whatever is happening between them, the idea that Shane has ever done anything except sharpen his game, make him bring it all to the ice to beat him, is so ludicrous it’s not worth the effort of explaining.

They finally talk about Crowell’s call that night, in the privacy of their hotel room, curtains closed against the world.

"We need to be professional," Shane says halfway through his night time stretches, in a way that suggests he’s spent half the day thinking about this.

“Yes,” he agrees. Because of course.

“I mean it, Ilya,” Shane says, like he’d argued the point. “Everyone is going to be watching us this season. We cannot give them any ammunition.”

"They all know we are married," he points out. "They were at our wedding."

"Yes, I know, but we need to make sure nobody is uncomfortable. We don't want to make it anyone else's problem."

"You are having panic attack, Hollander, we will win cup, and everything will be fine." Pushes down the way it feels to hear Shane call their marriage a problem. Because it's not what he'd meant, not like that. Probably. It's not. He knows that. Just, wishes Shane had picked a different word. All those words at his command – English is his first language, after all – and that's the one he'd picked.

They win the game against Philly, a hard fought back and forth that goes into overtime. With time ticking down (no one wants this to go to a shootout), Chouinard picks up the puck behind their goal, whipping it to Barrett. The Philly player overcommits to Barrett's deke and he passes to Ilya. He barely feels the puck against his stick before he shoots. He hears the goal siren at the same time Bood slams into him, tackling him to the ice, Barrett joining not long after. The rest of the team streams out as time runs out. Ilya can’t breathe with the crush of bodies on top of him but he doesn’t care, can’t stop smiling, hard enough to hurt his cheeks.

Shane is leaning against the boards when he emerges. “Good game, Cap” and Ilya is incandescent.

They send Haas out with him for post-game press scrum. The press manage to ask about three minutes of relevant questions about the game before someone in the back pushes their mike up over the crowd and calls out, “Haas, is having two captains in the room too many cooks in the kitchen?”

Haas frowns. “Sorry, English is not my first language, I do not understand the question." Ilya suspects he’s playing for time, because Haas’s English is arguably better than half the guys on the team who grew up speaking English.

The entire room has turned to look at the reporter now. “Is having two captains confusing for the team? Some people might say splitting the team’s focus is distracting and lead to losses.”

Haas, he knows, frequently weaponizes the way he looks barely legal and too innocent for hockey, but this time Ilya thinks his bewildered expression is unfeigned. “We won?”

“But you lost last night in your opener against New Jersey.”

He starts to respond, it shouldn’t be on the team to deal with these kinds of questions, but Haas beats him to it. “I still do not understand the question. You are asking if having more experience in the room, on the ice, is a bad thing?" Doesn’t wait for the reporter to clarify. “New Jersey played well last night, and they won. Tonight we played better than Philly and we won. This is how hockey works." Flicks Ilya an unreadable look, and adds, “Playing with Hollander and Rozanov is like taking a master class. It is not distracting. It is inspirational. Makes us all work harder. I think we will give you beautiful hockey this season.”

Shane pulls Haas aside in the locker room after, and Ilya lingers to hear when he has to say. “I’m sorry you got asked that question,” Shane says.

Haas doesn’t play dumb this time; looks at Shane thoughtfully. “Do you think I lied?”

It catches Shane off guard. “What?”

“I said we would play beautiful hockey this season. Do you think it was a lie?”

He smothers a smile at how flustered Shane is. “…no?”

“No,” Haas agrees. “We have two captains who have won five cups." Waves a hand at Shane’s chest when he opens his mouth to correct him, “Whether you wear the C or not. We will win the cup this year, and it will be beautiful." Gives Shane a sunny smile. “And rubbing it in everyone’s noses will be fun. Yes? Yes.”

“Yes,” Shane agrees when it seems like Haas is waiting for a response. “You shouldn’t have to defend us, the room,” Shane tries again.

He swoops in, draping an arm over each of them. “Hollander, we talked about this. No stealing my rookie.”

Haas gives him an annoyed look. “I am not a rookie anymore.”

He gives him a noogie. “You will always be my rookie.”

Haas narrows his eyes. “I had Hollander’s poster in my room too.”

He clutches at his heart. “Haas, you are cheating on me? Bood, do you hear this? My own rookie. Cheating on me.”

Bood looks at them. “Uh huh. Mostly what I’m hearing is that you’re old, if Haas had posters of both of you on his teenage bedroom wall.”

“Ouch,” Shane says. “I liked this better when it was just Ilya getting roasted." But he sounds amused, and not like he’s actually worried about his age, which after last year is a relief.

The moment passes, but he catches Shane stopping by Haas’s locker to say quietly, “I am sorry about the question. You shouldn’t have to get dragged into that.”

Haas waves him off. “You worry too much, Hollander.”

Haas and Bood both said versions of the same thing, but he notices the members of the roster who do not join in the denouncements of the press, the ones who stay quiet, or worse, nod along. He’s not naive. He knows not everyone on the team is happy with how queer their locker room is. He’s just counting on them enjoying the novel experience of winning to outweigh whatever other opinions they might have. Knows Shane has noticed and catalogued them too. Barrett as well. Isn’t sure if anyone else has noticed. Holmberg. Hayes maybe. Goalies see everything. Hopes they haven’t, doesn’t want this to become a thing any more than Shane does. Thinks Shane is taking it to an extreme, but also isn’t looking to start making people pick sides by asking anyone point blank whether they are happy or not.

He doesn’t really want to know the answer.

(5) Home Games - Oct 18-27

He sucks water down, breathing heavy, watching the next group run through a drill under Wiebe’s watchful eye at morning skate.

Shane says something to Haas and skates over to the boards to join them. Ilya holds his water out for Shane to take some, surprised when Shane glances at Wiebe and Barrett, and then shakes his head. He shoves his hand out emphatically; Shane takes it like it’s a bomb, careful that his fingers don’t touch Ilya’s. Sees Barrett’s eyebrows go up in surprise.

Feels like he’s time traveled back to 2009, watching Shane look at him, embarrassed. Seeing him for the first time, really – wanting to fuck up that quiet, serious kid until he was just as much of a mess as Ilya. Knows now what he didn’t know then – they’re both a mess, just messes that compliment each other.

Wouldn’t go back to being 17 again if you paid him.

Shane tips his head back to drink, and Ilya absently tracks the bead of sweat that slides down Shane’s neck – he’s allowed to do that now. He’s always been hot when he’s sweaty, and Ilya’s a simple man sometimes. Their fingers brush together when Shane hands the water back, and he has to juggle the bottle to keep it from falling when Shane jerks back like he’s been burned. Barrett’s watching them, head tilted just a little in confusion.

Doesn't let himself react to Shane's flinch, just pushes the water bottle at him again. Hadn't thought Shane meant this when he said professional – that professional meant cold.

They run scrimmages late in the afternoon, trying to iron out the lines, find the plays that will suit their personalities. Haas scores a beautiful goal off an assist from Shane, and he pulls Haas in for a sweaty hug, kisses his head, grinning when he pushes Ilya away with a laugh. Barrett slams him into the boards to celebrate. And from Shane — he gets a fist bump. Less than he got at the All Star games half a decade ago.

Hadn’t thought professional meant touching Shane less than he touches everyone else on the team. Feels like he's been relegated not just to teammate, but something less than that – teammate Shane doesn't like very much, instead of the one he goes home with every night.

Leaves marks on Shane that night. Lush bruises sucked into the thin skin of his inner thigh. Not public, but not hidden either. They'd spent so many years being careful, he revels in being a little reckless now, and here at least Shane doesn’t mind being touched. Thrives in it actually, blinking eyes desperate to stay open, small moans escaping his lips that Ilya knows he would try to swallow if he knew they were happening. Shane digs his fingers into his back, leaves crescent shaped marks. Not the first time he's done it, although he's not sure if Shane knows how many times he'd walked into the Raiders locker room with evidence of Shane on his body. There'd been a running joke about what a wildcat Montreal Jane was. He'd never corrected them, because apart from the name they hadn't really been wrong. Had liked wearing the marks on his skin, missed them when they faded.

Gets a low impressed whistle from LaPointe when he strips off his shirt to change the next day. "Get some, Cap."

Sees Shane’s stutter stop of embarrassment out of the corner of his eye, and the sound of someone slapping LaPointe behind him. A hissed, "Dude."

Refuses to be ashamed of this.

They’d split their first two games of the season, off to a .500 start. Not good enough. He wants to annihilate the league, make Crowell eat all his words. They must be better; It will not be easy but they will show them. He and Shane and his mighty pack of Centaurs will show everyone what they can do.

They win the next game in a shut out.

He believes in rewarding success (plans to reward Shane liberally for his sick top-shelf wrister later), so he stands up on the bench after the game and says, “Joe’s? First round is on me." Listens for the whoops of approval, the quieter grunts of appreciation, the pockets of silence. He can feel something starting to fracture in the room, a sour note under the harmony. He wants to get ahead of it – you can win a season with a team that keeps to their own corners of the locker room as long as they don’t bring it to the ice, but it is harder, and it isn’t as much fun. There’s nothing he can point to, nothing he can call out, but he can feel it. The room is different this year than it was last year.

They descend on Joe’s like a horde, but they come here often enough that the bar just shifts to make room for them. A couple of puck bunnies try their luck with the unmarried members of the team (one of them tries with Chouinard, and Ilya watches with amusement as he whips out his phone to show off pictures of his wife and his girls at the first opportunity). Haas joins them at the table they’ve claimed after a few minutes.

“Don’t want to try your luck?” Dykstra asks, nodding not at all subtly towards the bar.

Haas takes a second to look, then shakes his head. “Not my type.”

Ilya pulls his attention back from where he’s been watching a group of the team veterans clustered at the pool table, trying to remember the last time they’d come over to sit at the table with them instead of keeping to themselves. Looks at the girls – “women” Sveta says severely in his head – at the bar, and then at Haas and tries to think if he’s ever seen Haas go home with a woman from a bar. “No? What is your type?”

Haas gives him a dry look. “Someone who will talk to me about something other than hockey.”

He gasps theatrically. Bood snorts. “That’s your entire relationship told then, Rozanov.”

He laughs and drapes his arm over the back of Shane’s chair, hand coming up to cup Shane’s neck. Isn’t expecting Shane to twist, to shake his head sharply before going back to the conversation he’s having with Hayes. Like Ilya should have known better, but he doesn’t know what he did wrong. Shane had said professional at work, which he gets. Maybe not to the extent Shane seems to want, but he understands. But they’re not at work. They’re at a bar, and he’s still supposed to act like they don’t go home to the same house every night, sleep in the same bed? He moves his arm, awkwardly pretending to reach for his drink, only to realize it's empty. Uses it as an excuse to get up and get another round for the table. Watches them from the bar, and everything is talking and laughing the same way they had a minute ago, but Shane had shrugged off his hand, and the evening abruptly feels less warm, less easy.

He tries to ask Shane on the way home. “Tonight, what was that?”

“What was what?”

He feels like an idiot, like he imagined it? Does not want to have to actually say it out loud. “When I put my arm on your chair?”

Shane frowns. “And?" And you acted like I was radioactive, he thinks. Shane shakes his head before he has to say it. “We talked about this. We need to stay professional at work.”

“At work, yes; this was a bar?”

“With everyone we work with." Shane is looking at him like he should have understood this. “Ilya, we’re already the story; I don’t want us to make headlines.”

He can’t actually argue with the logic. But, not at the rink, not out with the team. That is their entire life during the season.

He doesn't meet with Galina every week anymore, had felt like an achievement when she suggested they could drop to once every two weeks. But, it also means he hasn't talked to her since the season started. She has learned enough about hockey over the last few years to know that preseason both does and does not count. He wonders sometimes if she watches hockey now in her down time, or if she would consider that unprofessional. He's not sure he wants to know, and has never asked.

"How has it been, playing with Shane?" she opens their session.

He glares at her. "Not you too."

"Me too?" she asks.

"It is all anyone wants to ask – what is it like being on the ice with your husband, being in a locker room with your husband, is everyone okay sharing a locker room with husbands. Like Shane and I are going to fuck on center ice, or in the showers."

He doesn't actually want to fuck Shane on center ice. For one thing, it would be gross – sweat and spit and blood – and cold. For another, he's not actually an exhibitionist. Wanting his husband to fucking hold his hand in public is not the same as wanting to give anyone a window into their bedroom.

She raises an eyebrow at his vehemence and he sighs. "Sorry, not your fault that the press are all idiots.”

She makes a thoughtful noise. "What questions do you think they should be asking instead?"

He spreads his arms out wide on the couch cushions. "Do you think you will win the cup this year? Yes. How is the team shaping up this year? Excellently. What is it like playing with Shane Hollander?" He looks at her sharply to make sure she understands the difference between playing with Shane Hollander and playing with my husband. She nods, that she heard the difference, and he relaxes a little. "Answer, it is beautiful. Like good sex. Everyone should be so lucky, but only one team can have him, and it is us."

She folds her hands. "Okay. Now I want to ask what it is like playing with your husband. For you, specifically. It’s a big change for both of you, and I know you've been looking forward to it, so, how has it been?"

His first instinct is to say it's amazing. And it is. He gets to play with Shane. Gets to go home with him. Just gets to have him. In a way they've never had before. No rivalry. No playing against each. No need to hide. No need to steal time, sneak in and out of hotel rooms.

Galina waits patiently. "It's good," he says. "A–" he pauses looking for the right word. "A relief. Like a weight is gone. Like now I have time to think about other things." The future. What that looks like. He's starting to have dangerous dreams, ones he never let himself have before.

She nods. "That's great. What's the part you're not saying?"

He resists the urge to make a face at her. This is what he pays her for, to make him look at the parts he doesn't want to talk about, so she can give him ways to face them instead of running away.

"I said the media were asking stupid questions." She nods. "Not just the media. The Commissioner talked to us too."

"Asking stupid questions?"

He waggles a hand. "More making stupid allegations. Threats."

"And you are worried?"

"No. Yes. Shane is worried enough for both of us." Grimaces. "He wants to be professional at work."

She frowns. "And you don't?"

"No. Yes. Sorry, what is the right answer here? No, I don't want to make out with Shane in the locker room. But hockey is not a regular job. If we were, I don't know, accountants, we would go to work at 9am, go home at 5pm. But hockey is not like that. We travel with the team, we go out to dinner with them, bbqs at team houses. When we are on a roadie, we are always together."

Her face clears. "Ah."

"I don't want to make out with Shane in the locker room, but hold his hand? Put my arm around him at a restaurant? Kiss his cheek? This is off limits too?"

He doesn't want to drape himself over Shane in a club. Okay, that's a lie, he absolutely wants to do that, to grind up against and put a proprietary hand on his waist, looking hard at anyone who deigns to get too close. But that's never going to happen. Not because of Shane’s new rules, it’s just not Shane. And, that's fine. He does want to touch his husband, his lover, in public like they're more than colleagues.

"How does it make you feel that Shane is drawing these boundaries in your relationship?"

"Shitty." Like he's climbing back inside a box he'd thought he'd finally escaped.

"Tell me more about that."

He scrapes absently at the knap of the couch fabric with his nail while he thinks. They're married, and things were supposed to be different now – but this feels like last year when no one knew that he had a boyfriend he loved that he was going home to – and he thought he was done with that.

"Shane is scared of losing hockey," he says finally. "He will twist himself into a pretzel to avoid that."

"And you're not?"

"Scared of losing hockey?" He shrugs. He is, and he isn't. He likes playing hockey. Likes winning. Likes the physicality of it. But it has always been a means to an end as much as anything else. A way to make his father see him, love him. A way to support his family. A way out of Russia. Doesn't love it the way Shane does. Has never loved it that way, it was always too bound up with other things to be that pure. If Crowell did – well, whatever it is he is threatening – and he lost hockey, he would be sad, probably a little bored for a while. But he would find other things to do – there is always the foundation, they could start a family. He has enough money. He is this close to Canadian citizenship, and the likelihood of deportation at this point is slim enough not to factor in. He could live without it. He does not think Shane could. Has always known that everything else is secondary to hockey on Shane's list of things he loves, including him.

Galina pushes, because she always pushes (because he pays her to do this, because he knows he won't). "Have you talked to Shane about how this is making you feel?"

He scowls at her, because obviously she knows the answer is no. Her lips twitch. "No," he admits, reluctantly.

"Hmm," she says.

And this time he does roll his eyes at her. "Yes, yes. I should talk to Shane. There are two of us in the relationship. He is not psychic, except on the ice, he can't know what I don't tell him."

She smiles. "It's almost as if you don't need me anymore."

"Bah," he tells her.

There’s a message from David on his phone when he comes off the ice after practice. Presumably on Shane’s too, but he hasn’t looked at it yet – still talking to Z and Haas about how to refine the play they’d smoked the other side with just now. He waits until Shane sits down to start taking off his gear to flop down next to him, meaning to relay the message. Is learning to expect the way Shane shifts away. Refuses to let it bother him.

"Yes, yes, I know, I have not showered yet. I stink." Elbows Shane. Again, same joke he would make with any of the guys. "You do not smell better." Shane rolls his eyes, but doesn’t shift further. He’ll take the win.

“David asked about dinner tomorrow? He has a new recipe he is trying." They’re home for an almost unheard of ten days. They’re going to pay for it in the back half of the season when they’re scheduled to be on the road for two weeks straight, but he’ll enjoy it for now. Not that Yuna and David are indulgences, but time for anything personal is.

Shane's is quiet when he responds, barely a murmur, hard to hear over the noise of the locker room, the music – someone let Dykstra control the music again, he assumes they lost a bet. "Yes, dinner with my parents." Gets up like his ass is on fire. "I need to talk to Harris about something." And Ilya is left staring at his back as he vanishes out the door.

"Something you said, Roz?" Dykstra asks.

"Apparently?" he says, annoyed. At himself? At Shane? At the room? All of the above?

He does not talk to Shane about it. Part cowardice. Part desire to enjoy the sheer domesticity of being at home during the season. Doing laundry, having sex in his own bed (which does cause more laundry, but for a good cause).

Comes to a head two days later anyway.

"I'm not ready to stop playing," is what Shane says when he comes through the kitchen door from taking Anya out for a morning run. Half apologetic, half defensive, like they are in the middle of a conversation.

He takes his ear buds out and stares at Shane. "Uh. Okay?" Takes the water Shane hands him and takes a second to regroup while he drinks. "Did I miss something?"

Shane slides the ipad over to him. There's an article on screen, some bullshit sports site that's more gossip than sports. "Tensions in the Locker Room" is the headline, with a pull quote below it saying, "Sources in the Centaurs locker room confirm rising tensions as the season gets underway.”

"Doesn't surprise me," an unnamed Metro player says. "Being in the locker room with Hollander was weird, can't imagine being in one with him and his husband. Can't believe the Player's Union allows it. Feels like a workplace safety violation."

"I really love teaching at the camps, I like coaching" Shane is saying, "but I'm not ready to retire."

"Hollander. Shane. What?" He keeps his phone on silent when he runs – something Galina suggested, and has helped. He has four numbers programmed to ring through no matter what – Shane, Yuna, David, and Sveta. None of them had called, so he has to assume that whatever it is that Shane is spiraling about cannot be that dire.

He skims the rest of the article, and then pushes the ipad away. "This is bullshit." There are no sources in the Centaurs locker room who would say this. Even the guys who are reticent, who he thinks do not love that Shane has joined the team, would not say this to the press.

Shane waves a hand. "Yes, obviously." Which is reassuring. "Doesn't matter if they're true or not." Which is not.

"Okay, why? If you know it is not true, then why does it matter?"

"When is public perception ever about truth?" Shane says sharply.

Rubs his forehead, he'd been having a good morning. "Okay. Fair. How did we get from shitty article on shitty sports blog to retirement? We have not won cup yet."

They've killed this homestand and it has everyone riding on a high. Z has stopped throwing up before games, and started to look excited. He thinks he saw Mattheson crack a smile the other day; he’d been in Ottawa two years before he realized Mattheson had expressions other than scowl. Dykstra’s musical choices have gotten more cheerfully offensive the more they win – upbeat audio crimes. Even Wiebe was actually smiling at their last practice. It's not a historic start, but it's still blistering. They’re going to win the cup.

“I just want to play hockey.”

Ilya stares at him. What else would he be doing? “Yes, Hollander, you are hockey player.”

“I’m also—“ he waves a hand between them.

“You have been—“ Ilya mimics him, “for a decade. Why would this change now?”

“I’m not just Shane Hollander, two-time cup champ, rookie of the year anymore. I’m…” he trails off and Ilya wishes he didn’t know where this was going. They will never be separate in stories any longer. And he doesn’t want to be separate from Shane; he always wants Shane as close as he could have him, would burrow into him if he could but, Shane is not him. He still feels like he has to prove this – he – is worth it.

"I need this to work, Ilya." Which doesn't really answer the question. "I don't have a Plan B if this doesn't work."

Feels like if he wasn’t tied to hockey, inextricably linked, if it wasn’t one and the same to Shane, he doesn’t think he’d get to keep him.

"Shane, what are you talking about?"

Shane scrolls through the article again, too fast to really be reading it, but Ilya would bet he's already read it more than once. Internalized it in a way that it does not deserve. "I know they're your friends. I know the locker room is good now. But we're winning now. It's easy when we're winning. It's when we lose that people start to point fingers."

"Shane."

He doesn't look at Ilya. "Montreal was fine until we lost."

He gives Shane a hard look. "Was it? Really?"

Shane shrugs. "It wasn't perfect, no. But it was getting better." Until Shane tripped and lost them their spot in the playoffs. Montreal always built too much of their season on Shane's back. Never gave him room to be human, to trip, to have a bad day.

He tries to think his way through Shane's logic. "Okay. So if Ottawa doesn't work – which is stupid, because we will win cup – then we go somewhere else." Technically he's leaving out a step. They're going to win the cup and then they're going to gloat and rub it in everyone's face. And then they're going to do it again the next year.

Shane stares at him like he's stupid. "Where else do you think would take us?" He opens his mouth, but Shane's still talking. "Nowhere would take both of us together, even if they had the cap space, nobody would risk the same problem repeating. So, we get traded to separate teams. Worse teams. Because nobody wants the PR headache, we're liabilities. And we're doing long distance again. I don't think I can do that again, give you up." Gives Ilya a helpless look. "I'm not ready to retire. So this, here, this has to work."

He’s still a little baffled. “It is working, Hollander. We do not need to,” Ilya bites his lip, frustrated and English slowing. “Buy trouble?”

Chapter 5: October 28 - November 19

End of the homestand

Now that the article has named the elephant in the room he can’t stop noticing it. Or, it’s not that he hadn’t noticed it before, but he’d been able to ignore it, and now he can’t. Now the problem is there every time he looks – after a morning skate which hadn’t gone well, everyone’s timing off just a little bit that led to missed passes, and unforced errors, everyone is taking off their gear in a kind of uneasy silence, maybe waiting for Wiebe or Ilya to yell at them to do better, get their shit together. And he would, but he can’t get his attention away from the knot of guys angry whispering in the corner of a locker room and he’s on the verge of going over to check on them, see what they’re huddling about, when Bood puts a hard hand on his shoulder, stopping him. "I got this, Cap?" and wanders over.

One of the guys looks over his shoulder and Ilya, then at Shane and. Oh.

"Don't beat yourself up," Barrett tells him, over lunch later when he flat out asks because he can’t stop thinking about that look, about the way Bood had said he’d take care of it. "It's a good locker room. There's always going to be–"

"Did they say something to you? Last year?" Ilya hand balls into a fist reflexively, and Barrett nudges him.

"No." he shrugs, and Ilya hears the but they might as well have, and the, but I am not Hollander. "It's a good group, Cap."

Just not good enough, apparently.

What irritates him most is that he hadn't noticed last year; hadn’t noticed until it was about him.Them. Shane, who has always told him he stands out in a room. Knows he was in his own head a little, but he thought he was a better captain than that.

"But you and Harris –" Can't quite find the question he's trying to ask. You don't hide, he wants to say. You don't care? is closer. Wants to ask how. Wants Barrett to tell him how so he can tell Shane, figure out how to make this work. For both of them.

Barrett shrugs. "Fuck 'em. I'm happy for maybe the first time in my life, and it took a really long time for me to get here, and I was really shitty to a lot of people along the way." Leans over the table. "Nobody here is like Toronto. And most of the guys are really good. This room is better than I had any right to expect." Looks at him contemplatively. "You're part of that, you know that, right? LIke you set the tone for the room, and everyone falls in line."

He's not sure that's true. Or maybe he's less sure about that than he was before.

In the car on the way home, Shane says, “Montreal was like this when I came out. Maybe the whispers were a little louder, a few more guys who kept to themselves listened to me less, but it didn’t get bad until the video leaked.” His mouth tightens, “Until the playoffs.” Fidgets with his phone. “JJ said he didn’t care about the gay. It was hiding the relationship he couldn’t handle.”

“Did not help that it was me,” he says neutrally.

Shane snorts. “Definitely not. But,” pauses and thinks for a second, “I think finding out you were anyone. That I’d been hiding any relationship for that long would have been hard. JJ said it felt like I’d been not just hiding something, but like deceiving them? Said he kept thinking about all the shit he’d told me, all the private shit I knew about him and he’d thought he knew me too and turned out he didn’t.”

Ilya hasn’t really talked to anyone from Boston since the video went public. Wonders how many of them feel the same way. Just because there was a good reason for the lying doesn’t make being lied to feel better.

Haas's shot on goal clangs against the top bar. Again.

"Reset, go again," Wiebe calls out.

He sighs in irritation. Going again will not fix the problem of Haas dropping his shoulder. It has been a long practice and his jersey is stuck to his skin with sweat and starting to become cold and itchy, the longer they stand here. He wants a shower, a gallon of water, and to not have to think about any of this for a few hours, but it does not look like Wiebe has any intention of letting them leave until Haas gets this right.

Haas runs the drill again, he can see his shoulder start to drop and snaps out, "Shoulder up. You are hockey player, not street sweeper, act like it. We want to win the game, not clean up after it."

Can feel the way the ice goes silent in surprise. He does not do this. Had promised himself a long time ago that this was not who he was – he yells at teammates all the time, but in encouragement, never to break them down, and never in public like this.

Mutters, "blyat," to himself.

Haas corrects his form, takes the shot, and he notes unhappily, it goes in.

"Okay, that's a wrap," Wiebe calls. "Good practice today everyone."

Haas gives him a big eyed look and starts to skate over, and he waves him off. He will apologize to him later. In private, where he should have worked with him on his shot in the first place.

Snapping at Haas feels like kicking a puppy. He knows Haas is a grown ass adult, professional hockey player, etc etc etc, but he’s still his rookie. Also, he looks exactly like Anya when he has to tell her no.

He's not good at that either.

Shane skates over and stops with a spray of ice. "What the fuck was that?"

"He was dropping his shoulder."

Shane makes an annoyed noise. "Yes, I know. I've been working with him on it. You don't call him out about it in front of everyone."

"Ah yes, Hollander knows best."

Which pulls Shane up short and he stares at Ilya in shock. "What the fuck. If you've got a problem with me you talk to me about it, you don't take it out on my liney."

"Of course, Hollander. As you say." Shane starts to say something and he cuts him off. "Go shower. I will talk to Haas." Gives in. "Apologize."

Shane comes a little closer. "Ilya?"

He closes his eyes. Just for a second. To see if it helps the headache beating at his temples. "Later."

Shane looks conflicted, but seems to remember they are in the middle of the rink and he doesn't want to air their dirty laundry there and leaves.

He keeps to himself in the locker room while he takes off his gear, but has too much irritation crackling under his skin to shower and change. Stalks off to the weight room to work it off, like he should have done in the first place.

And then doesn't.

He's self-aware enough to know that this has very little to do with Haas, a lot to do with Shane, and maybe a little bit to do with Bood.

He's grateful to Bood, for stepping in where he can't, where he would just make things worse if he tried to say something. He can also resent a little that the room isn't his anymore. Barrett said he sets the tone, but he's clearly not if Bood has to talk to some of the team instead of him.

Texts Sveta, who calls and says, "Ilyusha," with such a disappointed tone his toes curl in shame.

"Yes, I know. I will apologize to him before I leave today."

"You are not actually angry at Haas," Sveta points out.

"Of course I am not angry at Haas. I have already said I will apologize."

“And it is good that Bood can talk to the boys.” Ilya nods even though Sveta can’t see him, because she’s right. It is good, but does not make it less frustrating. "Have you talked to Shane?" Because Sveta is too observant for his own good.

He slumps back against the wall, "Who can talk to Shane? Shane has decided and that is that. End of discussion."

He can hear her eyebrows go up. "And this is okay with you?"

"Obviously not, but what can I do?" They talk a little longer until he feels a little less murderous.

He finds Haas and apologizes. He takes it with more grace than he deserves. In an ideal world he would avoid Shane for a little while longer, but they drove in together so he has no excuses. Sits in uncomfortable silence while Shane keeps giving him sideways looks he thinks are subtle.

"Did you eat this morning?"

Ilya takes his eyes off the road just long enough to glare at Shane. Tightens his hands on the steering wheel, 10 and 2, like a good little boy. "Yes, mother, I ate this morning." Both Shane’s gross but nutritious smoothie, and then a granola bar that Shane always says is more sugar than protein, but does clear the lingering taste of the smoothie from his mouth.

"You just–" Shane rubs his hand across his mouth, looks out the window. "You don't yell like that, at him."

"Headache." It's not a lie, but it's not the truth, and he silently begs Shane not to push.

He doesn't. "Oh. I'm sorry."

“Yes. I apologized to him.”

Shane shifts to look at him more closely, one hand coming up to rub gently at the nape of his neck. “That’s good. I’ll, ah, work with him more on not dropping his shoulder.” He nods. Shane keeps looking at him. “I can rub your head when we get home. If you want? Or if you just want to sleep, I can take Anya out.”

Reaches for Shane’s hand to press a kiss to his palm. “Yes, that sounds nice.”

They are scheduled for a community outreach thing at the tail end of their home stretch. He’s always liked doing those events, never had patience for the guys who complained about doing them. They are rich, famous and, inexplicably, people listen to what they say even when they are not talking about hockey. If they can lend their voice to a good cause, or if showing up to talk to sick kids can help, can make someone’s day, why would anyone not want to do that?

But, it is fair to say that he is even more excited by this event than he usually is, because Harris clearly loves him and has arranged for them to go to a local animal shelter. He gets to play with dogs, which is a thing he’d do anyway, and he gets to promote a local non-profit.

“We are not leaving here with another dog,” Shane says firmly as they get off the bus.

“Hmm,” he says, neither agreeing or disagreeing.

“Ilya, I’m serious.”

He grins. “I know you are.”

The reality is better than he even imagined. Two separate areas, one for dogs, one for cats. Harris plans to ask them questions as they play – yes, it’s stealing from Buzzfeed, but Harris says it’s okay, and they will generate so much publicity for the shelter.

Holmberg looks hysterically nervous as a puppy tugs at his laces. “You did not have a dog growing up?” Movies and TV have lied to him, they said all American families lived in suburbs and had dogs.

“I have a pair of bearded dragons,” Holmberg says with as much dignity as a man having his shoe attacked can.

Who the fuck knew. Ilya peers dubiously at the picture Holmberg shows them on his phone. "They are pets? That you cannot pet?"

"You can absolutely pet them. They like to hang out on my lap while I watch TV."

"Uh, sure?" Says under his breath to Shane, "We are never having lizard children."

Chouinard ends up with three dogs sleeping on him. Looks in despair at the promo shot Harris shows him, "You realize this will not help at all with how much my kids want a dog? Right?"

"They should have a dog. All children should have a dog," Ilya says.

"Because Selina needs another thing to take care of when I'm on the road, on top of three kids."

That's a fair point.

"What about a cat?" Shane suggests. "Lower maintenance. Still pettable."

"Also, your wife is named Selina, it's practically required," Hazy says. Gets blank looks. Sighs. "Selina Kyle? Catwoman? Seriously? None of you?”

Ilya lets the rest of the conversation swirl around him, focused on the dog currently leaning hard against him, like Ilya is the only thing holding him up. Every time he moves his hand away, the dog paws it back. Shane looks over at Ilya with the teenaged black lab with floppy ears. “Ilya, we cannot adopt another dog.”

He holds the dog’s paw out to Shane. “But I have been telling him about Anya, and he says he wants to meet her.”

Shane’s trying to look stern, and failing miserably. “Oh, so you speak dog now?”

He grins. “Fluently.” Shane looks skeptical. “You do not speak dog? Only loon? Is fine, I will translate. Anya has been saying she is lonely, that she wants a little brother or sister.”

“Careful,” Chouinard says dryly from the gated area with the cats, one of them perched on his shoulder. Ilya thinks the Chouinard household may be one larger by the time they leave for their next roadie, “That’s a slippery slope. That’s how we ended up with three kids.”

“Really? That’s how that works?” Z says. “This explains so much about how I’m the oldest of five.”

His hands still for a moment in petting the black lab, whose name is apparently Midnight, and wonders if he needs to explain the birds and the bees, if American sex education really is that bad. He’s done it before in the name of rookies not getting entirely preventable diseases, or even more preventable accidental children, but it’s not his favorite part about being captain.

“Wait,” Barrett says, holding his finger up, "Point of order.”.

"Criss, not you too," Chouinard objects and then, "sorry, children, that is not a word you should say," at Harris's hissed, "I’m recording this.”

Barrett clears his throat, and LaPointe looks delighted. "Yes? You had a point of order?"

"Hollander speaks loon?"

The room’s attention swivels to Shane. “Hollander talks to birds? Like a Disney Princess?” Young asks.

“Yes,” Ilya says seriously. “Just like Disney Princess. He calls and they come.”

“You are such a dick,” Shane says helplessly.

“I am going to have to cut so much of this,” Harris says, but Ilya thinks he’s mostly mad he won’t be able to share it.

“Where is the lie? You speak loon.”

“Wait, like for real?” Young asks.

“I mean,” Shane says, “Dad taught me loon calls. So, I guess?” Spares a glance for Ilya. “They don’t actually, like, come visit.”

Harris plants himself in front of Shane. “New video idea. Hollander shows us loon calls.”

It’s a good day. They do not go home with Midnight; he thinks Anya is too used to being an only child to take well to having to share them.

(3) Away Games - Oct 29-Nov 3

Ilya worries the team got complacent at home, surrounded by their fans who jeered the refs enough to take the edge off bad calls. Back on the road – everything seems worse. The first game, Dykstra takes a late hit into the boards; a defensemen taunts Z until his face is so red it matches the curls of hair poking out of his helmet. Ilya figures they're just getting their blades back under them. But they lose the next two games, and he cannot say that all of it is because the other teams play better hockey. It is starting to feel like the deck is being stacked against them.

They play Toronto at the end of the roadie. Normally he would prepare the team for an ugly game with even uglier chirps, and bad ref calls because they are playing in the Guardians’ house tonight. But, every game this season so far has been rough, calls that go against them more than they go in their favor, and the chirps have felt like they have more of a razor edge to them, pointedly personal. He’s not sure how much uglier the Guardians can get.

He shouldn’t have underestimated them.

Aucoin looks like he’s spoiling for a fight from the first face off. “Can't believe they let faggots like you on the ice,” he snarls. He is tempted to say, ‘don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it’, but opts to win the face off instead. He thinks Shane will appreciate that more.

Wins the snap clean, passes to Barrett who takes it up the ice. Barrett gets crowded by Toronto’s defense, but he manages to kick the puck free to Bood before he is trapped against the boards. Toronto seems more intent on targeting Barrett than they are on chasing the puck, which seems like a stupid strategy to him, but works in their favor. He takes a run at goal, pings it off the post right into Barrett’s stick where he slid into place like it was a strategy they’d planned. He’ll take the credit anyway, just for the look of disgusted outrage on the Toronto goalie’s face.

At the second face off Aucoin tries harder. “Guess you can still skate, wasn’t sure if you’d be too sore. Guess we always knew Hollander was the girl.” Which also makes no sense, because Shane had won the face off, and scored a point during his shift. And also, is not how that works at all.

He can’t ignore it. It is too easy. “This explains why you are not married.” Grins at Aucoin’s outrage and wins the puck.

During the second line’s next shift, Haas gets slammed against the boards and held there. Ref should call a penalty for that, but of course he does not. Ilya watches Haas’s face tighten at whatever the Guardian’s player is saying, but all he’ll say when Ilya asks him about it is, “It’s just hockey.”

He glances at Shane to see if he knows more, but all he gets is a tight shake of his head. Later. He will deal with this later. Now they have a game to win. If they can crush the Guardians’ spirits at the same time, all the better.

They are all bruised by the time the first period ends. Series of bad penalty calls that leave him jittery with frustration, and Wiebe arguing with the ref with sharp gestures. Holmberg’s tripped and Haas throws up his hands, gesturing wildly at the ref, who skates by, shaking his head. Shane pulls him back, talking to him quietly. It is not the only time this happens during the game, Shane and him and Bood all talk down teammates. Arguing with the refs changes nothing.

The second period does not get better. He steals the puck from under the nose of the Guardians’ right winger and takes it up the ice, flipping it to Bood at the last minute before he is boxed out. Gets free, but only just, uses the distraction to give Barrett an opening. He takes it, the puck clips the edge of the post and is out again.

He trades places with Shane when his shift ends, and watches the Guardians hunt him. There is no other word for it. They are crowding him out, trapping him against the boards. Sees the defense trip Shane a second before it happens. The ref turns a blind eye. Again. Their bench is fuming.

But Hazy is a wall in the goal, knows he prides himself on denying his old team, has his own scores to settle, and the score is still 1-0 at the end of the period in their favor.

He corners Shane as he goes down the hall to the locker room. “What did he say to you?”

Shane looks at him blankly. “Who?”

“Who? The D-man who tripped you. Who do you think?”

Shane’s mouth tightens, and says flatly, “He said I look pretty on my knees.”

He swears. Shane sighs. “This is why I wasn’t going to tell you.”

He grabs Shane’s arm. “I am your Captain, of course you should tell me.”

He looks around the room when he gets there. His team looks tired, but not defeated.

“They are saying some shit out there,” Holmberg says, breaking the silence.

"They always say shit like that out there," Barrett mutters, angrily retaping his stick with harsh movements. Hazy's lips twist.

“Ostie de criss de tabernacle qu’ils m'énervent,” Chouinard mutters, which makes Shane snort.

“So, what do you want us to do, Cap?” And they’re all looking at him.

He taps the back of Holmberg’s head. “Win. Like always.”

“What do you want to do tonight, Pinky?” someone mutters, he thinks it was Hayes. It pulls a laugh from the room, and breaks the tension.

“We have one more period. They are losing, and they know it. It makes them angry. It also makes them sloppy. Every one of you is worth fucking more than all of them. And they fucking know it. Our job is to remind them, and make everyone who came to watch them tonight know it too.”

There’s a clatter of sticks tapping against the floor. He makes a point of bumping every helmet as they file out. Holds Haas back for a second. “I do not need to know what he said to you, but you tell me if I need to make him regret it.”

Haas pauses, and then his gaze slides behind Ilya to where Shane is standing just in the doorway. “Do not worry, Captain. Hollander and I are going to take care of it.”

He stares after them. “What does that mean?”

It means, apparently, a slick assist from Shane to give Haasy the second goal of the night. He is going to jerk off to watching tape of that pass later tonight. Or maybe have Shane jerk him off while he gives him a play by play of it, in his ear like his own dedicated phone sex line.

Haas’s goal seems to make the Guardians belatedly remember that the point of the game is to win, and they manage to pick up two points in quick succession. He can see Hazy’s frustration with himself, can feel it in the rest of the team as well. Everyone is on edge on the bench, watching the game, waiting to switch shifts, go over the boards. Desire to win over the Guardians uniting them whatever anyone’s opinions about who goes home with who at the end of the night. Does not, unfortunately, translate to picking up another goal, and they are tied coming into the end of the third period.

He does not want this to go to overtime, just wants this game over and done. Wants to win this game against Toronto. Partly because the Guardians are dicks and deserved to be humiliated in their own house. But also because they lost the first two games of this roadie and three in a row is bad energy; starts to create its own self-fulfilling prophecy.

The Guardians have the puck and he fights to regain control. Manages to steal the puck from their third line center behind the net and passes it to Barrett before he can get cornered against the boards by two of Toronto’s d-men. Three minutes left and he just wants to score and be done with it. Sees Barrett get targeted by Toronto’s center who looks like he’s got an axe to grind, and wants to use Barrett’s face to do it. He’s not in a useful position for Barrett to pass him the puck, but Holmberg is, circling high and wide near the crease, being conveniently ignored by the Guardians who are too fixed on pursuing a grudge match to pay attention.

Sees Barrett see the same thing he does and shoots Holmberg the puck. Almost laughs when the Guardians notice that neither he nor Barrett have the puck and they’ve lost sight of it, wheeling like startled geese to try and find it again. Holmberg shoots; it hits the crossbar and kicks out, but he’s there to catch it before Toronto can claim possession and he circles back and shoots again, clipping the goalie’s skate at just the right angle to tip in.

Thirty seconds left in the game and Holmberg’s put them up by a point, which means that unless the Guardians get lucky, they’ve won. Holmberg looks as startled as the Guardians goalie.

The Guardians do not get lucky.

He drags Holmberg out with him to do post-game press. He’s earned it. It was his goal that cinched them the win. He should get to take the credit.

“Looked like a chatty game out there,” one of the reporters says. “Can you tell us anything about what was being said?”

He’s about to give a non-answer, when Holmberg gets there first. “I’d get fined by the league, and you’d have to bleep my answer if I repeated what was being said on the ice tonight.”

Which was very much not the answer the reporter had been expecting, and Ilya can see him revising his next question in real time.

“Can you tell us what you mean by that?”

Holmberg raises his eyebrows, “ What part of you’d have to bleep my answer was confusing?”

“So, swearing?”

Holmberg cocks his head, evaluating the reporter, and Ilya’d never given much thought before to what Holmberg thinks about the press or about the press this season. He’s thinking about it now. “Chirping is part of the game. Nobody who plays professional hockey has thin skin. What was being said on the ice tonight.” Shakes his head. “Maybe I should repeat it. So everyone can hear what we were hearing.”

That would definitely make the evening news. Probably not in a way Farah had in mind. He can’t decide if he cares. Takes a breath to say something, and Shane taps his foot. He glances at him, Shane shakes his head slightly, and he subsides. It feels like a badly fitted suit to sit quietly, let Holmberg take the heat from the press, even if he’s doing it well, and started it. This is his job, to protect his team, his rookies. He is the captain, and instead they have to do it for him. First Bood. Then Haas. Now Holmberg.

The reporter is still pushing Holmberg, wants a quote that he won’t be able to print. “Are you saying–” trails off, hoping Holmberg will fill in the blank.

Holmberg gives them an impatient look. “I’m saying that some of the things said on the ice tonight..." he trails off. Sets his jaw, "Refs should put in hearing aids so they stop missing it. And yes, you can quote me on that."

He's fined $1000. Ilya writes him a check.

(2) Home Games - Nov 5-8

On the flight home from Toronto, Shane dozes next to him, head tipping at an angle that is sure to make him wince when he wakes up. He carefully slides a pillow against the headrest and rearranges him a little, not a thing he would do for any team mate, but Shane is not awake to stop him, and it will be worth it not to watch Shane rub at his neck all evening when they get home. He has a movie on his phone he could watch, but he can’t focus on it, mind keeps drifting to the pattern that is emerging from their games this season. The Guardians were more aggressive than other teams they’ve played so far, but only by a degree or two, not by an order of magnitude. There’s nothing specific he can point to, nothing actionable. But he doesn’t think it’s all in his head.

They aren't getting the calls that other teams are; they have the lowest percentage of power plays in the entire league. Wiebe even sent in a formal request for review of the Toronto game. The league responded before they’d even gotten on the plane, too fast to have actually looked at tape. "The Centaurs are not getting fewer calls than other teams in the league. The refs did their job."

"Did they?" Ilya thinks, when he reads it. Maybe at a pitch only dogs can hear. Certainly nobody on the ice heard them.

It's getting clearer and clearer that teams can get away with whatever they want against the Centaurs with little to no consequences.

Everything the league doesn't say feels like tacit permission for people to come after them, on and off the ice. And it would be one thing if the hits were just on him and Shane. Not ideal, obviously, but at least they’d done something (fell in love – they just fell in love and wanted a life together, he has lived in hockey his entire life and still does not understand why this is such a sin). But, the hits come for the entire team. They are all bruised and tired. It is not fair, but he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Before their last home game Wiebe stands in the room, reminds them to play clean. Not safe, not scared, but clean.

He hears someone behind him mutter that they’re getting a reputation for being too soft to fight. Chooses not to try and identify the voice. Chooses not to turn around to look, to see who said it, who is nodding in agreement.

He feels it though.They're not so quick to say ‘yes Cap’, they won't always hold his eyes, he says something and they don't change whatever they're doing until Wiebe or one of the assistant coaches says it too. Not everyone. Not even the majority. But enough. Enough to be starting to cause a problem, a bad vibe in the room, translating to a bad vibe on the ice.

He knows Shane sees it too in the way he goes perfectly still for a second before deliberately finishing taping his stick. Glances at Barrett to see if he heard. The set of his mouth says he had.

They win – clean. Mostly. It’s still hockey. They go out afterwards to Joe’s, but Reynolds and some of the fourth line guys only stay for one beer – sit at their own table, and leave early.

Bood comes to lean beside Ilya at the pool table. “Reynolds got drafted by Buffalo, played there for a couple of years before he was traded here; he’s still got friends there.”

“Hmm,” he says. “Is good to have friends across league.” Smiles a shark’s smile. “Is how I met my husband.”

Bood snorts.

Pike gets side swiped in the game against Tampa Bay and goes down hard, wrenches his ankle badly enough that the Montreal team doctor benches him for two games.

“They want me rested for the Boston game,” Ilya overhears him telling Shane. “We’re going to lose, But at least they want it to look like we think we might win.”

“Are you sure you should be telling me this?” Shane asks.

Pile makes a disparaging noise. “You can read a scoresheet like the rest of the league.” A pause, and then. “I miss playing with you. Not just because we used to win, but the guy they called up to replace you has no fucking sense of humor. It’s like playing with a fucking mime or something.”

“Two dollars for the swear jar,” Shane says.

“Fuck you, I’m not at home. No small ears can hear me. “

“I’m sorry,” Shane offers.

Pike snorts. “No you’re not, and you shouldn’t be. Doesn’t mean I can’t miss you.” Shane makes an uninterpretable noise but doesn’t argue. “Actually,” Pike says, “Jackie and I were thinking, you’ve got a couple of home games, and I’m benched, and it’s been a minute since we saw you. Road trip?”

Shane stares at his phone, eyebrows drawn together. Ilya deliberately makes enough noise to draw Shane’s attention. Then says loud enough for speaker phone to pick up, “Pike, you want to come see real hockey? Maybe take notes?”

Shane gives him a surprised and then grateful look.

Pile groans. “Fuck you, Rozanov. But yes. We’ll bring the kids. Actually get to watch a game with them for a change.” Adds hastily. “We’ll get a hotel room.”

He and Shane overlap in their, “You will stay here, has been too long since I saw best Pike and little Pikes,” and “Hayd, don’t be stupid.”

Pike calls him a few days before the visit to confirm that they have honeynut Cheerios and pasta shaped like little circles because Arthur is fussy about eating anything that isn’t round this month. Pauses awkwardly at the end of the call. Ilya waits, curious if there is another circular food that Arthur likes or if this is yet another round of Pike falling on his sword.

“You know I’m really sorry about the video, right? Like all the time Jackie and I spend making sure the kids don’t end up on social media and then I do it to you because I was in a hurry and an idiot.”

“You have said this before. Many times. Is getting boring now, no?”

He’d never admit this to anyone but he’s not actually mad about the outcome of the leak. Yes, hates that it happened, that they didn’t get to pick when they came out, that Shane had another choice taken from him – sometimes wonders if he is the only person Shane has had the chance to come out to on purpose and because he wanted to – but he doesn’t hate where it got them.

He hates that it cost Shane the Metros, and the respect of people he’d fought so hard with and gave so much to. But if he lost it so easily, he thinks they’d never really respected him at all. But, he can’t hate that Shane is here. That they play on the same team. That they go home together every night to the same house. That he can claim Shane as his, out loud and in public. Even now, even with the way this season is shaping up.

Pike makes a frustrated noise. “Well, one more time for the record then.”

“Yes yes, 15th best Metros player. Apology is entered into the books. “

“Look,” Pike says with less irritation than Ilya thinks he’d have had last year, “you wouldn’t have been my pick for my best friend, but you are his and he deserves to be happy.” Pauses and amends, “You both do. You went through some shit to get here, but you make each other happy so I’m happy. Also,” he adds candidly, “if we weren’t coming up to Ottawa this weekend Jackie’s brother Mark would want to come stay with us and I cannot hear any more about the futures index. At least here I know we’re going to spend like 70% of the time talking about something I understand.”

“So we will not be talking about hockey then?”

Unexpectedly Pike laughs. “You are such a dick. I’m starting to see why Shane likes you.”

He would have said yes to the Pike invasion no matter what, because he knows Shane misses them, and he remembers what that was like, his first year in Ottawa, starting over from scratch on the ice and off. Thinks he’d been more resilient at 17 when he’d done it in Boston. But also he likes Jackie, who never once questioned why Shane picked him, unlike just about everyone else in the world, including her husband, Shane’s parents, and Sveta. Plus, the kids are coming too and he loves those children, likes watching Shane with them too. Knows that at some point this weekend Jackie will lean against him and tell him he cannot get Shane pregnant no matter how hard he tries.

What he’s not sure about is how Shane will be around him in a houseful of other people. Their house has become a safe space where he is sure of Shane’s affection, is not sure how he will cope when it is breached, even with people he likes, and Shane retreats to pretending like they are good roommates instead of husbands.

Except Shane curls against him on the couch after the little Pikes are asleep – or pretending to be – and fastidiously dissects the raw red onions out of the salad they order to go with pizza one night and dumps them on his plate and steals the extra olive off his pizza instead. Won’t have anything but the quietest sex while they are here, but there are six year olds two doors down from them and this is a boundary that at least makes sense.

Hayden Pike – first line left wing for the Montreal Metros, arguably one of the best players on the team now that Shane is not there (not that he’s planning on admitting that to Pike – ever) – at a Centaurs game makes news. There are pictures of Pike and Jackie and the kids in the family box with Yuna and David before the puck drops for the first period.

The press corners them as they’re leaving after the game, shouting questions.

“You looking to trade, Pike?”

“Checking out the competition?”

“Do the Metros know you’re here?”

“Just here to watch the game like everyone else,” Pike says easily.

“The Metros have been suffering without Hollander. Do you resent him for moving away from the team that signed him? Do you think his personal life contributed to the Metros losing the playoffs last year?”

Watching the coverage later Ilya can see his jaw tighten, but Shane’s not the only one with iron clad media training. “Just here to watch an old friend play some great hockey.”

“There have been rumors about tension in the Centaurs locker room, care to comment?”

“No.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

Pike’s mouth tightens. “I’m not in the Centaurs locker room so what would I even have to say?”

“What about the Metros locker room last year? You can comment on that can’t you?” Pike narrows his eyes and the reporter presses what they see as their advantage. “How did you feel about showering with a gay man, did you worry at all about—“

Pike interrupts the reporter before they can finish whatever that question was going to be. “My kids are here. And that’s an offensively dumb question. We’re done here.”

The reporter must have a death wish, because that’s the only explanation Ilya can come up with for why they try and get a quote from Jackie. “Mrs Pike, how do you feel about the kind of example Hollander and Rozanov are setting for young players?” He looks pointedly at Amber, asleep on Jackie’s shoulder.

Pike looks like he would be dropping gloves if he had any on, and Ilya thinks the Centaurs bench would back him up – even the ones who don’t like him and Shane all that much. Wives and kids are not fair game. Fuck, he’s going to come out of this having to like Pike. Publically.

Jackie puts a hand on his arm, stilling him, and Ilya can see the reporter suddenly realize that he’s antagonized a 200lb pro athlete who fights people for a living, and the only thing saving his ass right now is a 5’6” woman carrying a three year old. If he’d asked, Ilya could have told him Jackie is significantly more terrifying than her husband.

“I think,” Jackie says precisely, “that the League should consider themselves lucky to have examples like Shane and Ilya, and maybe spend more time promoting them than covering for rapists and abusers.” She smiles sweetly. “You can quote me on that by the way.”

The reporter looks at Pike for a follow up, or a retraction. Pike just shrugs. “What she said.” And then uses the moment to slip away.

(2) Away Games - Nov 10-12

First game of the next road trip is against the Admirals.

Skates by Hunter during warm-ups, can’t help saying, “Going to be glued to bench whole game? Coaching career start early?"

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Hunter says. And then, “Come by the Kingfisher tonight? I’ll buy the first round.”

“You own the bar,” he points out, “you can buy all the rounds.” Is looking forward to finally introducing Shane to the Kingfisher. And then the puck drops, and they’re off.

It's a fair game for a change. They lose, but they lose because the Admirals played better (he is never saying this out loud where Hunter could hear him), not because every call went against them, or because the other team spent more time fouling them than playing hockey. It is depressingly refreshing for this season.

He feels good as they head out to the Kingfisher, muscles heavy and sore from a hard fought game, but without the restless tension that lives under his skin after so many of their games this season.

“So, how’s married life?” Kip asks as soon as they sit down.

He stills, waiting for Shane’s answer, because he’s still not clear on the boundaries Shane has set. Not at the rink. But also not out with the team. But at home with Pike had been okay. Where does this fall? Hunter is part of hockey, but not their team. Kip is only hockey adjacent. Vaughn and Bennett are there too. Does that change the calculation?

Feels something loosen when Shane takes his hand, turning it to look at the ring in his finger, rubbing his thumb against it. “Really great.”

He sucks in air, which must be louder than he thought because Bennett, sitting next to him, looks over, asking quietly if he's okay and he nods.

He's heard all their stories, before – been out with them but Shane never really has. He listens with half an ear as they try to one up each other, with shit people have said to them on the ice, but doesn't really contribute. Didn't realize how much he needed to hear Shane say that they were okay until he did.

Someone must say his name, because Shane squeezes his thigh. "–Ilya?"

"Sorry, just tired. Sleeping with eyes open. What do you fuckers want, besides keeping me from my beauty rest?"

‘Old age comes for us all, Rozanov,” Hunter says.

“Take that back. I am not old.” Waves a hand, “You are dinosaur. Did you play on glaciers as a child?”

Hunter snorts. “Not so old we didn’t beat you tonight.”

Which is a fair point he’s not planning on acknowledging.

Kip leans in to whisper something in Hunter’s ear that makes him flush and also twist to catch Kip’s mouth in a kiss. He wonders if Shane would let him get away with that here. Doesn’t test the theory.

“Did Crowell talk to you?” He asks Hunter, after Bennett's boyfriend (? boytoy? Ilya can never figure them out) brings them a second round. “After,” he waves a hand to suggest the dramatic coming out kiss.

Hunter’s gaze sharpens. “No.” Looks between the two of them. “I’m guessing from the question that he did talk to you?”

He nods.

Hunter taps his fingers on his glass. “Morality clause?” he guesses.

"Morality clause?" Kip asks, appalled. Looks around the table and says slowly, "None of you are surprised."

“Not directly,” Shane tells him. The table. “Talked a lot about the league's image as family friendly, instead. About being role models.”

Hunter makes the face that deserves.

Ilya makes a dismissive gesture. “He does not want to be sued. Morality clause is too obvious.”

"Fuck," Kip says. Hunter reaches for his hand absently.

“So what was his angle?” Bennett asks.

He trades a look with Shane. “Suggested there was maybe tampering with Shane moving to Ottawa. Or collusion in the last game.”

“Ah,” Hunter says.

“It’s not true,” Shane says.

Vaughn snorts. "Of course it's not true. Nobody who has ever played with or against the two of you thinks you're anything but the most competitive assholes on the ice."

It's stupid that that is so reassuring to hear.

“Of course it’s not true," Hunter reiterates. "But, it's just slightly plausible enough to be leverage.” Looks at Kip. “I’m always grateful Kip doesn’t play. Just me coming out was hard, I can’t imagine both of us having to do it.”

Shane reaches for his hand. “It was worth it.”

They win the second of their away games. There is no reason for him to feel so melancholy as they fly home. Their flight has been delayed twice now. In theory they're supposed to take off in 45 minutes, but he's dubious because there's no plane at the gate yet. The TV in the lounge is playing some story about a player in the Western Conference getting into a bar fight. He listens long enough to hear the name – he knows of them, but does not think he has ever met them – and that the victim isn’t pressing charges. Ilya figures Crowell is making the bad press go away, uncharitably thinks they're probably paying off the victim – and then tunes it out. He glances around to check to make sure nobody's wandered off. The not-rookies anymore are .... playing what sounds a lot like Never Have I Ever. Which is a game he'd never heard of before he got to Boston, but everyone here seems to think is culturally universal and are shocked when he says he never played it in high school. But then, he never really went to high school when he was in high school.

He is going to actively try not to hear anything coming from that corner, because he feels like he would either be scarred, or feel like he has to give them a lecture on how to have better sex. Maybe both. He doesn't have the energy for either. He wants to curl into Shane and go to sleep. Use his shoulder as a pillow. But they're in public. With the team. Settles for stealing his hoodie and wadding it up under his cheek. It smells like Shane. Not as good as the real thing, but what he can have for now.

Shane has a bubble around him, and Ilya's learning the dimensions, where he can push things and where he gets firmly bounced back.

He wakes up some indeterminate amount of time later, Shane crouched in front of him, faint worried frown. “We’re finally boarding,” he says.

He tries to force himself awake, scrubbing at his eyes. “Okay.”

Shane doesn’t move to let him stand up. “You okay?”

“Just tired,” he tries to reassure Shane, and thinks he didn’t quite succeed.

“Okay,” Shane says softly. “We’re home in a few hours.”

Yes, home sounds good. He takes the hand Shane holds out to him to pull him up, resists the urge to tangle their fingers together, and is surprised when Shane holds on to it longer, hidden between their bodies, thumb rubbing at the palm of his hand.

“I am fine,” he promises.

He’s not sure if Shane believes him; he’s not sure if he believes himself.

(3) Home Games - Nov 14-19

The game against Washington is good. The team is clicking tonight, and Washington is feeling the pressure. Tries to start something and ends up just giving them the power play. Gives Dykstra the chance for a one in a hundred shot – slapshot from the blue line that whips past three defenders and clangs off the post, and he’s in position to swoop in and clean it up. He gets the credit, but it's really Dykstra's goal. Feels like a team should; working together, backing each other up. Nobody’s miss is a mistake, only an opportunity.

He carries that feeling home with him. Tumbles Shane down into bed, slow and easy mid-season sex. Still revels in having this, in not having to count every second before one of them would have to get up and leave. Have time for slow and easy. He lies in bed – after – vaguely wishing for a cigarette, can feel the cigarette between his fingers, the smoke in his lungs, like a phantom limb. He misses cigarettes sometimes, but not as much as he’d miss Shane all the time. Watches Shane get up, brush his teeth, find pajama pants to wear.

He has never worn anything to sleep in himself, cannot understand the point. Strips off the day and climbs into bed, or can’t be bothered to get up to put clothes back on if he has tumbled into bed with someone – with Shane. But, Shane sleeps badly if he is naked. “You never know, Ilya.” No, he doesn’t; no one’s going to burst in before he can put pants on.

Looks up to find Shane studying him. “Are you okay?"

Ilya is going to brush him off, lie and say he's fine. This has been a good day – everything clicked in the game, the kids next door have put up a new sign showing their record (9-6 – they are on their way), Anya greeted them at the door when they got home, – he doesn’t want to ruin that. But – he hears Shane in his head, "here, let's always tell each other the truth," and this is not the cottage, but it's home and that deserves the same respect.

Does not know how to say, I am worried that there is no happily ever after for us. That no one will never leave us alone, let us live our lives like we’re normal hockey players. That you will never–

He knows he has always wanted more than other people could give him. He is needy — swallowing up everything around him like a black hole, starving and never satisfied. He had thought that this, Shane coming to his Centaurs, was — divine fucking providence or something, the world giving him, them, what they deserved for working so hard, giving up so much, dedicating their whole lives to this pursuit. Making up for taking his mother, and his father, and Russia — for never really having a brother.

But he has just been fooling himself. He shouldn’t have asked any of this of Shane. It was too much.

But he can’t say any of that.

"I was worried." Considers how to phrase it. "That you were mad at me? That you did not want–" to be married to him? Is not correct, never got that far. Still, he knows that he should not have said yes, when Shane asked, not with how they got there, scared and alone, clinging to each other.

Shane looks confused. "I have never been mad at you – or, I mean, when you don’t rinse out the sink after you shave, or that time you left the chicken out when you pulled me into the bedroom and Anya got it. But, not for anything real. Why? What did I say? That made you think?"

"No," Ilya shakes his head, twists his cross between his fingers. "It was – you told them – Hunter and –” waves his hand to encompass the whole group, “you said you were happy to be married to me."

"I am?" Shane reaches out, takes his hand and holds him still. "That was a question?"

He feels stupid now. “No. Of course not.”

But Shane’s like Anya with a squirrel when he gets an idea in his head “Ilya. Of course I’m happy to be married to you.”

He closes his eyes, cannot say this and look at Shane at the same time. “I think sometimes I ruined your life.”

Feels Shane sit down hard on the bed. “What?”

He tugs on his ear, absently. “All the media, the bullshit with the league, you lost your team. Would be easier, no, if it was not me you were married to?”

Shane doesn’t say anything, and when Ilya opens his eyes because he is worried, Shane is staring at him, stricken. “Do I make you feel like that?”

“No, of course not,” he tries, rubbing his nose and looking away.

But Shane is occasionally, inconveniently, good at reading people. Or maybe he’s just good at reading Ilya. “I do. Shit. I’ve been so, I don’t know, worried about twitter, about Crowell. I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. Ilya, you have to tell me these things. I’m not good – this isn’t an excuse, but I’m not good at guessing?”

He knows this. There is very little subterfuge in Shane. He’s always found it soothing. No double meaning to try and guess at, find the true intent behind the facade, always waiting for the worst.

Shane crawls across the bed now to perch on Ilya’s knees, hold his face between his hands so they have to look at each other. Ilya can count those beautiful freckles. “There are two things in the world that have ever made me feel like I made sense. You and hockey. And I get to have both now. You didn’t ruin my life. You are my life.” Ducks his head to catch Ilya’s eye. “Yes?”

“Yes,” he agrees.

“I love you,” Shane says firmly. “So much.” Wraps his arms around Ilya and lets Ilya bury his face in his shoulder, and cry. Repeats. “I love you,” over and over until Ilya tilts his head up to catch Shane’s mouth in a kiss, swallowing down his words like an antidote to what he’d been feeling.

After, he tries to leave the emotion at home, which sometimes works. They win all three of their home games – this is becoming a trend he does not love. Win at home, lose the away games, or win them in a way that leaves them bruised and battered.

Chapter 6: November 21 - December 7

Chapter Summary

The calm before the storm.

Chapter Notes

Many thanks to Screamlet for hockey-picking this story, but the next few chapters particularly. Any mistakes that remain are our own; they tried their best.

(4) Away Games - Nov 21-27

He and Shane fall into a kind of detente. He is Hollander at rink, on ice, and only Shane at home, but Shane is– trying. They both are. It helps that the team is playing well. Their first and second lines are so strong that he hears exhausted groans from the opposite bench when they trade. And their power play is unbeatable (“fucking psychic shit,” he hears Dykstra say to Hayes, and sounds smug about it).

But, there is still a sour note ringing under the harmony of the locker room. They're all still adjusting to the frustration of the games, the refs, the lack of calls (or too many calls). Shane gets more focussed on the ice. Gets a hat trick in their game against Detroit with a goal that seems to defy physics to wrap around the defender’s stick and slide neatly into the five slot. Dykstra crashes into him, shouting in his ear, “Hollzy is on fire.”

Ilya watches the room after the game – and thinks Shane looks like an island in the middle of the jubilation, even though he’s the cause of half of it. Haas and Bood tiptoe around him, like he doesn't notice. The balance of the room is – not off, but not what it was last year. Shane's face gets more and more pinched with each passing day; he's not collapsing into himself, hiding – but he's not... Shane. Ilya's Shane. He's Hollander.

And, Dykstra is not wrong. Hollander is impressive. Hollander wins games. But, he wanted to play with Shane. His memories of that first All Star game together burn bright.

When they go out after the game Shane presses close to Ilya in the booth, but looks awkwardly around when he does, like he’s waiting for someone to say something, to question it. He loves Shane for being willing to try, but Shane is so tense that he pulls back, puts space between them, just so that he can feel Shane unclench, just a little? Being that on guard, strung that tight cannot be good for him, or for his game, whatever Dykstra thinks.

He is quiet when they get back to the hotel room. Quiet enough that he knows he is worrying Shane.

“Have you talked to Galina recently?” Shane finally asks.

Shane knows his therapy schedule as well as he does, and he reaches out to catch Shane’s hand, press a kiss to his palm. “I am okay. Just thinking.”

The frown line between Shane’s eyes does not smooth out. Cannot answer Shane honestly, isn’t even sure he could answer himself honestly right now. Shifts to teasing to distract Shane. “Really, zaychik. I promise.”

Shane opens his mouth, then purses his lips. “Wait, I know that one. Did you just call me a rabbit?”

He laughs. “Small rabbit.”

“Asshole.” But he’s smiling now, at least, more relaxed. Goes to brush his teeth, then wanders out of the bathroom a minute later, floss in hand. “Wait, is that the same as Zaitsev’s name?”

Shane is so cute murdering Russian. He looks up from his phone. “Da. Well, same root.” Looks back down; his next appointment with Galina isn’t until they’re home again. Wonders if he needs to schedule something sooner.

Shane considers that. “So we could have been calling him bunny this whole time?”

He barks a laugh. Shane disappears back into the bathroom to rinse his mouth, and comes back out a second later, clearly going to ask more questions. Ilya puts his phone away and then pulls him down onto the bed, goes down on him and while he's still shockey, he grinds his dick into the sharp cut of Shane's hip, wet with Shane's come. He looks up to see Shane, mouth slightly open, lips red and wet, where he's been licking them, eyes soft.

They win against Nashville, but against the odds, and to the stadium’s vocal displeasure. He skates 22 minutes and comes off the ice with muscles screaming at him, and new bruises from where the Nashville d-man had slammed him into the boards and held him there for an interminable ten seconds before he broke away.

He refused to wince when he came off the ice, but he does when he has to take off his pads and jersey in the locker room. He stretches carefully, twisting to check his range of motion. Nothing is really damaged, just bruised and sore. So status quo for in season. Stands and feels a pull in his hip, rubs at it absently.

“You headed for an ice bath?” Bood asks. “I’ll join you. Hollander, you coming too?”

He's never spent so much time in the ice bath as he does this year, muscles aching, blue-purple bruises mottled all over his skin.

Shane makes an absent agreeing sound, and he glances at where Shane is stripping down across the locker room, his own collection of bruises and strained muscles. “Ah, no.”

It catches Shane’s attention, and he frowns. “You should. You’re favoring your left side.”

He rolls his eyes. “I am fine, Hollander. Pay attention to your backhand.”

Shane lets out a puff of air. “You can’t just say I have a weak backhand every time you want to change the conversation.”

Bood’s head swings between them like he’s watching a tennis match.

Shane comes over to stare down at Ilya, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason you don’t want to take an ice bath? Are you hiding an injury?”

He lets out a groan. “Oh my god, Hollander, you ask too many questions.” Shane just raises an eyebrow. He hears Bood smother a laugh in a cough. “You are not trainer, you have no say in my treatment.”

“I’m your husband, I have a literal piece of paper that says I do.”

Bood has abandoned all pretense of leaving to go take his own ice bath.

“Is a private thing,” Ilya insists, for lack of a better argument, although he’ll admit it’s pretty weak when Bood’s standing right there, waiting to go with him. “Between a man and his trainer. Maybe not a thing a husband should see.”

Shane opens his mouth. Then closes it. Says with forced patience, “I know what your dick looks like. I am also familiar with the effect of ice on dicks. If I promise not to, I don’t even fucking know, judge your manhood when you get out, will you go be a responsible hockey player and take a fucking ice bath?”

Bood coughs another laugh, and he can see Shane realize in real time that this is not a private conversation, and flush a deep red. “Shit. Bood. I am so sorry. That was unprofessional. Won’t happen again.” Turns on his heel and vanishes down the hallway towards Ilya’s not even sure where, they are guests here. He’ll be back, he hasn’t showered yet, and in a minute he’s going to remember that. Ilya figures the least he can do is have gone to take an ice bath by the time he does, give him the room to come down off his embarrassment. Although, Ilya’s not exactly sure what he’s embarrassed about; it wasn’t his dick they were discussing.

Bood follows him, submerges himself in his own ice bath and doesn’t say anything. Ilya stares at the ceiling, letting the cold sink into his muscles, trying not to think about Shane and his boundaries.

Bood’s the one who breaks the silence. “This season is different isn’t it.”

He makes a face at the ceiling. “Yes.”

“We’re getting hit more. The games are rougher.”

“Yes.”

“The refs keep making calls against us.”

“Yes.”

Looks over and sees Bood looking at him with exasperation. “Talk to me.”

He looks at the timer and heaves himself out of the ice bath. “Is a conversation we should have with Wiebe too.” And he doesn’t want to have to have it twice.

Bood makes a thoughtful noise, but just follows him out of the baths to the showers and then down the hall to Wiebe’s office.

They have all adjusted to the hits, the defensemen do their job, and deliver their own – and to the refs small benefit, they at least are even here and do not call these fouls. They're still adjusting to the refs, but Bood and he do not argue; "head down on ice," they tell the locker room. "Do not show frustration. Take frustration out by skating hard, clean hits. We are still winning."

He’d hoped that would be enough, to play through it. That they could keep what Crowell had said to themselves, but if Bood is seeing it, bringing it up with his captain, the ways that it is very clearly (and statistically) affecting the team, then they cannot stay silent about it any longer, at least Wiebe and Bood need to know.

Wiebe's face shutters, and he really really doesn't want to have been wrong about him. He'd promised Shane.

"The fuck?" Bood says. "That why Hollander–" doesn't even finish the question. "Of course it is. Dumb question. Ignore me."

He spares him a smile, more focused on Wiebe. Wiebe steeples his fingers. "Bood's right, that's horseshit."

He relaxes fractionally. "And GM's office?"

Wiebe's eyebrows lift. "We talked about it before the season. I'm not saying it won't change our play strategy–” pauses and looks thoughtful, “maybe something that keeps the puck moving more, less isolation so they have a harder time targeting one player.” Pauses again. “Push harder for tape review on ref calls, ask for formal justifications. But," he pins Ilya with a look, "what it does not do is change your position, or Hollander's position on this team. The GM has your back, and Crowell's a dick who never played a decent game of hockey in his life."

He snorts.

"You will tell Shane this too?"

He’s not sure it will change anything for Shane – he still has to put his head down and do his job, will come in early and stay late, watch tape when he could be doing literally anything else. But, maybe it will make him feel a little less isolated, maybe they can have the chance to prove that the Centaurs are not the Metros. The bar is in hell, as far as he’s concerned, but that just makes it easier to clear.

They step off the plane in San Francisco into fog dense enough that he thinks it should just give up and admit that it is rain. He shivers.

"You should know better." Shane's not wrong, Ilya thinks, as he rubs his hands up and down his arms. "It wasn't even that warm when we left."

No, but Ilya is a) Russian and b) determined to hold onto Fall as long as possible. And, also c), he's in fucking California. All the pop songs have lied to him. He probably still should have put his jacket in his carry-on, but will never tell Shane that. "Fucking fuck San Francisco," he mutters and tries not to smile at Shane's laugh.

Shane unwraps the scarf that’s around his neck and hands it to Ilya. He tucks his nose into it gratefully. “Thank you.”

“What’s mine is yours, right?” Shane says, quiet enough that no one can overhear them. Wishes for the thousandth time that he could take Shane’s hand, although possibly slightly less this time for romantic reasons, and slightly more because Shane runs hot and his hands would be warm.

But honestly, San Francisco is a breath of fresh air after Detroit and Nashville (someday he is going to have words with whoever it is that schedules the season). The fans may be in San Francisco colors but there's plenty of rainbows to be seen. He's learning to appreciate them. Their young (so young, practically a baby – god, is Hunter right? Is he getting old?) wunderkind skates over before the game, the C fresh on his sweater, to say hello and congratulations. The game is fun and the refs are the refs, no different in SF than anywhere else apparently, but Ilya doesn't mind his time in the penalty box because it brings him closer to the fans, and it’s not like he hasn’t earned it. For a change.

They are on a six game winning streak, and he refuses to break it here. It takes a period of overtime, but they manage it, all of them exhausted but the locker room is raucous with laughter. Seven games in a row. They are twelve and eight for the season so far. Not a historic record, but really fucking good. San Francisco’s infant captain knocks on the door to ask if they want to go out. It’s generous given that they’d just beaten them in their own barn, and he says yes. He even refrains from making a joke about the name of their rink, and not only because the Cow Palace is only marginally worse than the Canadian Tire Centre they call home.

(1) Home Game / (1) Away Game - same team - Nov 30-Dec 2

He's never slept with Shane during the season, not for more than one, maybe two nights if they tested their luck. He hadn't realized how much summer-Shane was relaxed; sprawled across the mattress, taking up enough space that Ilya has to shove his knee between Shane's, Anya huffing at his feet, relegated to the bottom of the bed, not stretched along his back like she normally is – until he has in-season Shane, tucked neatly into his side of the bed, snoring softly as he flips back and forth, eternally restless.

He falls asleep before Shane most nights, glasses still on reading his book ("does the light bother you? " he'd asked and Ilya had to laugh, because what kind of professional hockey player would he be if he couldn't fall asleep on cue in any situation?) or scrolling through his phone – even if Ilya was still slightly trembling from a good orgasm, it didn't seem to affect Shane – or knock him into sleep.

Morning-Shane is still his favorite Shane, maybe because it's the rarest. Even now that they live together, Shane is still usually up before he is – to go for a run, do yoga – slides out of bed with a kiss to his shoulder that he sometimes sleepily wakes up for.

But when he can see him rumpled, hair pointing every which way with sleep lines etched into his skin, he's beautiful. He will never get enough.

He's woken up with Shane more in the last few weeks than he has any time since this summer. He thinks it's because Shane knows Ilya wants them to be more open, and feels guilty that he can't give him that, so he's compensating. He's not wrong, and that makes Ilya feel guilty. But not guilty enough to give up the pleasure of waking up to Shane. In the measure of his sins, this is small and understandable.

Now if only he could convince him to sleep without pajamas, the striped ones that he knows Yuna gave him. He refuses to start having a pavlovian reaction to striped pajama bottoms and glasses. Refuses. Those are fantasies for old men.

But there is a clear demarcation these days – Shane and Hollander, and he spends his morning shower preparing himself –

Much as he likes the aesthetic appeal of wet naked Shane, he hates watching the transformation, the way Shane locks parts of himself away, sands down his edges. By the time they're in the car (Shane's now that winter has set in) he has his mask in place, and the unwritten rules are in effect– no unnecessary touching, or looks, or commentary, hands to himself, like there's a line down the middle of the car.

He hates it, even if he understands it. Maybe hates it more because he understands it. Understands it, but doesn't agree with it.

He turns on music in the car, Russian rap that Shane won't turn off because he knows Ilya likes it, even if he can't understand a word of it. Gives him time to put his own game face on, until it feels natural to open the door, sling his bag over his shoulder and holler at Dykstra and Chouinard across the parking lot like he doesn't have a care in the world. He slings his arm around Chouinard, nattering about the day while Shane trails behind them, in his own untouchable bubble. He laughs at something Dykstra says and tells himself he does not care as Shane scurries inside, away from him, game face fully in place.

“I thought it would be different this season,” he tells Galina.

She tilts her head. “What does it mean in this context?”

He pick at his jeans as he thinks it through until the words are in order in his head. “That it would be easier. That I would be less,” he makes a vague gesture near his head.

He should be happy. He has Shane, he has his team, he has Anya for endless cuddles – they're even winning more than he thinks they should be.

It’s not like last year, or it’s not as bad as last year. He can get out of bed. but some days he's on all day for the team, and when he gets in the car he's done. Can't make any more decisions, doesn't have an opinion about dinner.

Shane says he understands, but he knows that he doesn't really get it. Can't. And he knows Shane doesn't do well with a problem he can't fix. But this isn't something where Shane can study game tape, figure out the angle, figure out how to beat it.

But he's trying. To figure out when to give Ilya space, and when to sit there with him, even if Ilya doesn't say much. When he needs to push, and when he needs to let it lie.

He just wonders when Shane's going to get tired of doing that. Of the constantly shifting balance of what's going on inside his head.

He's still not sure, sometimes, what's him, what's his fucking brain chemistry, what's the drugs. Would he be thinking this without the drugs? Is he falling into a dark place? Is this just his normal now and he needs to adjust accordingly? He's made adjustments before for worse things.

He lies awake at night sometimes, Shane curled into him, his hair tickling his skin, and worries that he is like his mother. Or, he knows he is like his mother, but he does not know how he could leave Shane, even on his worst day, even when everything seems impossible.

He desperately tries not to blame his mom. He does not begrudge her. She was sick and she got no help – she got the opposite of help.

He looks up at Galina and she does not look at all exasperated, which he thinks he would in her place. Which is probably why he pays her and not the other way around.

“Yes, yes, I know. It was a stupid thought.”

“Not stupid. Understandable. But unfortunately not usually how this works. So now we work with what we have, like before.” Lets him sit with it for a minute before she asks, “Have you talked to Shane about what you are feeling?”

“Yes.” Sort of. Mostly.

She looks pleased. “That’s good.”

He’s not so sure – so they can both be unhappy, and aware of all the places they’re failing? It would be easier if he was the only one who had to live with that understanding.

They play Montreal in back to back games. One away, one at home. He thinks someone in the league enjoyed scheduling that a little too much.

The press has been having a field day with it. Half of them are predicting a blood bath. Half of them think Shane is going to have some kind of nervous breakdown on the ice the first time he has to play his old team. All of them are waiting for something to happen.

Bood holds him back after practice with a nod. He follows Bood into the small conference room down the hall. “Everything okay?”

“Games with Montreal are coming up.” He is aware. “How do you want us to play this? We’ll follow your lead, Cap.”

He wants to say play rough. Play dirty. Make every hit count. Treat Montreal the way every other team has been treating them this year. It is possible he has not reached either the forgive or forget stage of his feelings about Shane’s former team.

What he says is, “Talk to Shane. Is his choice, not mine.”

In the locker room he cedes the game speech to Shane. Shane scratches his jaw and says, “Hang on, it’s been a minute since I’ve done this,” which gets a laugh. “Okay, okay. I know these players. I know their tactics.” Smiles, thin and a little mean. Ilya tries not to have an inappropriate reaction to that. “I helped write most of their plays.”

He’s been spending extra time with Wiebe and Ilya and Bood before practice in the conference room going over plays, watching new film to assess how they’ve changed without him, and put in extra time with Haas and Z after practice on the ice doing drills. Watching game tape of Montreal’s games this season at home.

“We are better than they are,” Shane says now. “Pike’s good, but they relied too much on using me. They’re still playing down, trying to find new lines that don’t count on that.” Thinks it’s probably the first time the team has heard Shane be this unapologetic about being Shane fucking Hollander. It is doing nothing to help his ill-timed arousal. Well, won’t be the first time he’s been hard in his cup because of Shane. “I know some of you don’t love playing clean, but they’re going to try and goad us into unforced errors, force us to give them power plays. I don’t want to let them. I want to beat them. But I want to beat them fair and square because we’re better than they are.” Looks around the room to catch everyone’s eyes. “Am I clear?”

He’s magnetic. Ilya wants to give him this game exactly the way Shane wants it, because he’ll be disappointed otherwise. He’s never seen Shane wear the mantle of captain this easily, and understands how the Metros had made it to three cups. Cannot understand how the Metros screwed themselves over so hard and let him go. Also contemplates what it will take to get Shane to use that voice at home. In their bedroom.

Catches Barrett’s eye across the room, and knows Barrett can see exactly what he is thinking and winks, because he would bet money that Barrett is also a little hard right now.

Shane says play honest, and like themselves — beat Montreal because of who we are, not who they are.

Ilya thinks this is all well and good but digs in sharp elbows in scrums. Has words for Comeau when he slams him into the boards.

And he chirps Pike, but that is just normal and he laughs in Ilya’s face.

With 40 seconds left in the second period, the game is tied. First line is on the ice, and Montreal has possession. He fights Montreal’s new left winger for the puck, and wins it, sees Pike coming almost a second too late, but that second counts and he scoops the puck up off the ice to skip over Pike’s stick, and then slams it home over the goalie’s left shoulder off his backhand.

“Oh come on,” Pike complains. “How was that even possible?” He grins and catches Shane’s eyes when he skates back to the bench. Shane leans into him for a second as they walk back to the locker room at the end of the period, pretends like it’s just a game note, and says, “That was so hot. Anything you want tonight.” And then catches up to Z like he hasn’t just left Ilya half-hard in his cup. Again.

The press tries to turn their win into a narrative about Ilya avenging his husband's honor – which, he gives them points for novelty, but is also insulted on Shane’s behalf, that they think Shane can't defend his own honor.

They ask permission not to travel with the team the next day, and drive to Montreal on their own so they can have lunch with the Pikes before the game.

Jade launches herself at Shane when the door opens, and drags him down the hallway so he can see what she and Ruby have done to their room before he can even say hello to Jackie.

"The girls are excited you're here," she says dryly.

"Well, excited one of us is here," he notes.

All of the Pike children hang on Shane. On Ilya too, particularly Artie, who has no real memories of Shane before Ilya. For him they have always been a package deal. He feels briefly guilty that he took Shane away from this – this place where he is welcomed as family.

Shane sees him looking as Ruby hangs upside down off his arm showing off her new gymnastic skills, and frowns, mouthing "what?" at him.

He shrugs. "You are happy here."

Jackie calls, "Lunch" and Ruby untangles herself with a frankly terrifying dismount and runs off. Shane holds him back.

"What do you mean?"

"They are family for you."

Shane nods slowly. "Yes. They're my godkids, and Hayden's like a brother."

"You do not have this in Ottawa."

Shane gives him an annoyed look. "Yeah, but I have you." Looks at him for another moment then kisses his cheek. "Stop worrying so much."

He stares after Shane as he goes out to lunch. Calls after him. "Do not steal my lines."

By tacit agreement they do not talk about the game last night, or the one they will play tonight.

They skate out to boos and jeers at the Bell Center when they take the ice for warm ups. He’s not sure what to expect from this game – if it will be like playing Toronto because the grudge is personal here. Montreal had played fair last night, but last night they had been at home, now they are in the Metros’ house and the rules are different.

The stands are filled with signs saying Go home, Hollander and Leave Our Kids Alone and Shame Not Pride. He catches a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a scuffle in the stands and turns to see what it is. Manages to read Je me souviens d’un Québec blanc on a banner before the fans sitting nearby tear it down . Doesn’t need to speak French to understand it. Hopes they’d gotten it down before Shane had to see it. Notices that nobody goes after the anti-gay signs. Racism is out, but homophobia is in. That checks out There is one large sign that stretches across a whole row of seats that says Welcome Home, Cheater, which makes him laugh.

Haas skates up next to him, following his gaze, although honestly the sign's hard to miss. "Is that good or bad?" he asks dubiously.

"Not sure," he admits. "At least they are being funny about it though."

Both of Montreal’s games have been cleaner than he expected. Aggressive, physical, but not outside the bounds of regulation. He is surprised. He had been waiting for worse from them. He thinks maybe JJ and Pike are holding them back, but they are barely on the leash, he can see the fight leaking around the edges, in bared teeth, and small trips, and when Comeau slams Shane into the boards he immediately pulls back holding his hands up like, "my bad," but laughs as he skates away.

It is the fans that make the case for them – they have not forgiven Shane for whatever transgression they think he has committed , and Ilya can see his face get blanker and blanker, disappearing into hockey robot because – this was his house. For a decade. He gave them blood and sweat and tears and three cups. They are jeering him, in his own home.

He wants to put a hand on Shane, to hold him back, to let him know he is there, when a whistle is called and he sees some of the Metros chirping Shane. Bood shakes his head and skates over, does it for him, and that's shit, but he's glad– Shane does not need protection, but he should not have to hear whatever they are saying.

He just wants to win this game. They do.

He’s glad they have their own car on the way home, because on the team bus Shane would not have talked to him about the game. It’s a two hour drive home from Montreal if Shane drives it, an hour forty if he is driving and Shane is not in the car with him. He drives the speed limit and uses every minute to get Shane to talk to him.

“What was it Comeau said to you?”

“It doesn’t matter, Ilya.”

Which is as clear an indication that it very obviously does. He waits out the silence.

“Fine. If you really want to know.”

“Always.”

“He said he always knew I was a needy cocksucker. Asked if you’d gotten tired of me yet, or if all you needed was someone who’d roll over for you.”

He considers that. “One out of three is better average than I would have expected from Comeau. If he scored that well in a game the Metros would be doing better in the standings than they are.”

Shane stares at him. “What?”

He grins at the road. “Well, I will never get tired of you, and the only person I want to fuck is you. But,” he shrugs, “you are a greedy cocksucker.”

Shane starts at least two responses before he finally says, “He said needy, not greedy.”

“Is my cock you are sucking, I get to pick the word.”

Which gets Shane to laugh, and the line of his shoulders is less tense. It’s a start. He can fuck the rest of the tension out of him when they get home.

"I never understood when people used to talk about married sex," Shane says later, mid-fuck.

He pushes in, and hold, grinding in for the pleasure of hearing Shane's breath hitch, for the way he reaches back and clutches at Ilya's thigh. "What?"

It takes Shane a second, and he feels smug about that. "Guys in the locker room, complaining about married sex. I never got that."

He pauses, propping himself up on an elbow to stare at Shane. "What?"

Shane makes an unhappy noise. "What, what?"

"You didn't understand, but now you do?" He punctuates it with a thrust that makes Shane keen.

Shane's fingers knot in the sheets. "Fuck, do that again."

He holds himself up, not moving. "No. Explain what you meant."

Shane's head turns. "Fuck, Ilya, what? Explain what?"

Another time he'll be smug about the way that he can fuck brain cells out of Shane, but right now he wants the answer. Lowers himself down against Shane, so they're plastered together from chest to thigh. Doesn't move. Ignores Shane's attempts to push back against him. He has the leverage here. "You said you didn't understand when the Metros used to complain about married sex. Like now you do. Could make a man insecure."

Shane snorts. Which, fair. He shakes Shane. "Tellllll me."

"I didn't mean it like that." Rewards Shane with a slow roll of his hips that grinds his dick against Shane's prostate.

"So what did you mean?"

Shane pants into the pillow. "Fuck. I didn't get it. You're talking about your wife. The person you married. Wanted to spend the rest of your life with, and you're talking about it like it's a chore."

"Not making it better," he warns.

Shane snorts, pushing up under him, which is a display of strength that whites his brain out a little. Lets Shane manhandle him until they're rearranged, Ilya on his back, and Shane sinking down on him, starting to move again, taking what he needs. "Didn't get it then, get it even less now. I get this for the rest of my life? Why would I ever complain about that?"

He fits his hands to the curve of Shane's hips, aligning his fingers to the silvery stretch marks that always seem to him like they were left there like guideposts for him. "Hmm, good answer." Pulls him down close enough to kiss, can't not, and it changes the angle enough to make them both moan. "You will still want this, when I am old and grey?"

Doesn't mean to sound quite so desperate, and before he can cover it, make it a joke, Shane's pausing, hand over his heart, looking at him with serious eyes. "For better for worse, in sickness and in health, ‘til death do us part. You're the love of my life." Rolls his hips in a sweet wicked figure eight. "Yeah, we're still gonna be doing this when we're 80."

And he doesn't know how to answer that level of sincerity, that much love. Holds Shane close enough to twist them both, so he can fuck in to the heat of his body, bury his face in Shane's neck so he doesn't have to meet his eyes.

Except Shane pulls him up, makes him look, while Shane wraps his legs around Ilya's hips, heel digging into his ass. Makes him watch when Shane's head tips back, and he comes hot and messy between them, ass clenching around him until he can't hold back anymore and he ruts in and in and in. Comes like a knot giving way, sweet release of tension, and Shane wraps arms and legs around him to hold him in place, like he was in danger of going anywhere, whispers, "I love you. So much." And then in Russian. "Ya tebya lyublyu. Ya vlyubilsya v tebya s pervogo vzglyada. Ya lyublyu tebya navsegda."

His accent is for shit, and Ilya has to hide his face in Shane's chest for the way it makes him feel to hear Shane say it in Russian. Mean it. And this time Shane lets him, just holds him tight and doesn't let go.

(2) Home Games - Dec 3-6

They play the Admirals again. At home this time, and at the puck drop he invites Scott out to drinks at a local bar they like. Pretty much exactly like the Kingfisher, just less queer. Although, if Hunter comes out with them, and Troy and Harris join them, it won’t be much less queer. Maybe next time he can make sure that Price and Fabian are in town, really make a statement. He is quietly amused by this thought.

“What are you grinning about?” Scott asks suspiciously. And then the puck drops, and Ilya wins the face off, and he’s grinning for a different reason.

They win, but the Admirals make them work for it. Force the game into overtime.

“Okay,” he tells the team. “I will buy drinks all night for whoever scores first. Yes? Let’s do this fast and fucking send them home where they belong. We do not lose to fucking grandpas in our house. Understood?”

Haas scores them the winning goal, and gets mobbed by the Centaurs like this was a playoff game. He leans against the boards after he separates, watching the celebration. Feels more than sees Shane skate to a stop next to him. “He’s really good.”

“Yes,” he agrees. And, in another lifetime he might have felt crowded out by that, the next generation nipping at his heels. But, he’s going to retire from Ottawa. Some day. Eventually. Not any time soon. But, when he does – in the far future – he will leave them better than he found them. Leave them with a bench of people he has skated with and trained. He’d never really thought about what legacy he’ll leave when he retires before this year., but he's starting to think about it now, and he likes what he’s seeing on the ice. Changes the subject before he gets maudlin. “I invited Hunter out for drinks.”

Shane nods. “Joe’s?”

“No. Martine’s, more private.”

Shane nods, understanding.

Hunter brings Vaughn with him, but nobody else from the Admirals. He wonders if that is just a marker of friendship, or if the Admirals locker room is like theirs – split into factions no captain wants.

“How’s it going?” Hunter asks many hours later, two beers down, and a plate of wings neither he nor Shane have touched. Holds up a hand to forestall Ilya’s brag. “Not your season. I can read the league tables just fine.” Waves a hand more vaguely. “Just, the rest of it?”

He considers. The press is getting better, mostly because they are winning and everyone is realizing they will make a cup run this year and it’s hard to spin a story about distracting locker rooms when they are putting up point counts like this. One commenter had actually said, “Whatever else you think of them, you have to admit that Hollander and Rozanov are magic on the ice. This is once in a lifetime hockey we’re seeing.” He wonders if it had hurt him to have to admit that. On the other hand, it means the press has started to shift to an even more ludicrous angle about unfair advantages – like every team in the league isn’t trying to build a bench that gives them the edge – Ottawa is not special like that, only special in that they succeeded.

The podcasts who do not like them continue to not like them, continue to pretend that liking dick means they cannot handle a stick. Despite all evidence to the contrary. Call them DEI hires. Or worse. Of all it, that bothers him more than it bothers Shane. Shane just shrugs, “They’ve been saying that my whole career. I never understood how they figured I was scoring, unless somehow they thought the other teams were told to let me? Out of pity?”

But on the ice, the league? That is getting worse. He knows that Wiebe has spoken to the league about the series of bad ref calls, ones that even fans of the other team are starting to call out as biased, unfair. The league keeps repeating the party line that hockey is a physical sport, that refs make independent calls, that rules are rules. He wishes that rules were rules, but lately it seems like the rules apply only to them, and only when it is convenient.

Hunter’s looking at him like he knows all of this. He probably does. “I’ve caught some of your games on TV.” He snorts, if the Admirals aren’t watching game tape of the Centaurs this season then their coach is incompetent. “Crowds are starting to get loud enough to hear even on TV.”

He trades a look with Shane . They get chirped with slurs by the team they’re playing, and they get echoed by the fans. The league says nothing. Or says they can’t police what the fans say. Which is both true, and bullshit. If fucking soccer can at least make the attempt, then so can the league. Their unwillingness to even try says all it needs to. Hunter knows that too.

Shane rubs his eyes. “Unless the league wants to actually say something there’s not much we can do. We bring it up in post-game press and we just look like we’re complaining because we lost, or like we’re gloating because we won. Security is watching the stands at home games, and kicking people out when they have to, but we don’t have a lot of say when we’re traveling.”

“The league is hanging you out to dry,” Vaughn points out.

He shrugs. “We will win the cup, and then see what they have to say.”

“Not that you’re cocky about it,” Hunter mutters, but Ilya notices, does not disagree with him.

Troy comes in to practice the day after the Admiral’s game wearing a Drover Farm sweatshirt. “New endorsement deal?” he asks.

“How sweet would that be?”

He gives Troy a sidelong look as he changes. “You are favorite son-in-law, you are worried they will not endorse you?”

“We’re not actually married,” Troy points out.

“Hmm, maybe this is problem. You should ask.”

“Noted,” Troy says dryly. “In the meantime, the Farm does a Winter Lights Festival every year, and Harris’s mom said to let you know that the team is invited. I know it’s short notice, but ….”

He looks around the room. The thing about the season is that it's unforgiving. Unrelenting. Their bodies could use a break. The locker room is fraying at the seams. Even when they're home – there's not really a day off.

A good bonding experience, Ilya thinks. Sends a text to the group chat for mandatory meeting to drink cider and pet dogs.

The team arrives in clumps, cars disgorging families, and not-rookies who car pooled together.

“Has anyone seen LaPointe yet? He said he was actually bringing his girlfriend.” He hears Holmberg ask.

In Boston people would say, ‘Oh, your girlfriend in Canada.’ Which Marly had tried to explain to him and he’d never really understood. Asks Shane now. “What do Canadians call made up girlfriends?”

Shane looks at him blankly. “What?”

He snaps his fingers. “LaPointe’s girlfriend, the one who is always traveling and can never come to games. In America they would say, oh your Canadian girlfriend, but we are in Canada, so what do you say here?”

Shane blinks. “Oh, um? I don’t know? But also LaPointe’s girlfriend is here.” Points at a tall woman with red hair and wearing glasses standing across the farm yard, LaPointe is looking at her like she is a tall glass of water, another English expression that makes no sense. Wonders if he should just start dropping Russian idioms into conversation. Z would get them. Could be fun to confuse everyone else.

LaPointe catches them watching and brings her over to meet them. “Alicia, this is my captain Ilya Rozanov, and,” he visibly hesitates when he looks over at Shane, like he doesn’t know whether he should introduce Shane as Ilya’s husband, as if he does not also play hockey, or as a teammate, and possibly insult them by not mentioning that they are married. He is curious to see which LaPointe will decide is less offensive.

Shane ruins his game by holding out his hand, “Shane Hollander. Nice to meet you. LaPointe has told us a lot about you.”

“It’s great to meet you.” She looks around the orchard, “Meet everyone actually. François talks about you all the time too.”

François? He mouths at Shane who shrugs and looks equally surprised. As far as he knows LaPointe doesn’t speak any French beyond swearing. “Most of it is lies,” Ilya says, holding out his own hand. “Unless it is that we will win the cup this year, and I am hockey god. Then it is all true.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “He’s modest, as you can tell.”

“If I could play like the two of you can, I would be modest like that too.”

“You play?”

She shakes her head. “Not me. But my little sister does. She’s gonna lose her mind when I tell her I met you both.” She looks around the farmyard again. “Actually, that I met all of you.”

He can see Shane falling into polite for the public Shane, but not in time to stop him from saying, “Do you want a picture to send her?”

She looks like she’s about to say yes, and then surprises him by saying no, and he decides that LaPointe is never allowed to break up with her. “No. But, thank you. Cady can just live with me telling her about it. I’ll bring her to a game sometime.”

“Let us know when you do, we will hook you up with the good tickets,” Ilya promises her. “Let her meet all the players herself. Better than a picture.”

It’s nice to watch Shane relax again, the line of his shoulders loosening. They're under the watchful eye of the press and... everyone else all the time. Ilya always loved his phone; it kept him connected to Shane, made him only a text away, even at the worst of times. But a camera in everyone's pocket can be his worst nightmare. Or more accurately, it is Shane's.

But the Drovers are protective of their future son-in-law, and his friends, and on a late Monday afternoon the orchard is mostly empty, and the few other people who are there seem to be politely ignoring them. It is a respite he hadn’t known he needed until he has it.

He gets treated to Shane making snow angels with Chouinard's girls.

"He wasn't kidding about liking kids," Selina says, startling him, he hadn’t realized she was there.

“Yes,” he agrees. Thinks he probably wanted a little brother or sister, once upon a time. Can only imagine what a little Hollander would look like.

Little Pikes will have to do for now.

But, it's a vision of a future after hockey. He'd never really pictured his life after hockey before. His father hated him; Alexei resented him. He had never planned to grow old; figured one day he would go – if not like his mother, then from hockey. Never pictured himself old.

But he'd also never pictured himself married. So maybe it is time for new dreams. Galina would be so proud of him.

Raises his voice. “Who will teach me how to do this strange Canadian thing? Is important for passing my citizenship test.”

Gets buried in snow and laughing children, all intent on teaching him how to stand up without disrupting the pattern.

“You’ve done this before,” Shane accuses him.

He winks. “Yes. But do not tell them.”

There is an outdoor pizza oven, and a fire pit, and as the afternoon turns into evening a band sets up. Okay, a fiddler. He takes requests. Does a mean version of WAP – he sees every parent’s head snap up when they realize what is playing and then relax when nobody starts singing –which segues into Celine Dion, because this is Canada and he is a little convinced there’s a law nobody has told him about that requires Celine Dion to be played at least once at every event with music.

Shane lets Ilya talk him into one cider. "Is just apples, fruit, practically good for you."

"Oh well, if it's good for me," Shane says, and takes the bottle Harris hands him.

Z gets drunk on cider. Ilya didn't even know you could do that. He’s starting to think Z is lying about being Russian.

"There must be Russians who don't drink," Shane says.

"Children?" he says dubiously.

Shane looks at where the not-rookies are starting a snowball fight. "I mean ..."

He snorts. "Smaller children than that."

Shane leans into him a little, perched on the log, and doesn’t look to see who is watching. “Are you drunk too?” he asks, amused.

“No! Just, you know, this is nice.”

He shifts a little closer, Shane’s thigh a solid line of heat against his leg. “Yes, it is.”

Chapter 7: December 8-15

Chapter Summary

The inevitable happens. We had to do it. It is hockey after all.

Chapter Notes

Warning: very brief mention of sexual assault that occurred previously off screen.

(2) Away Games - Dec 8-10

In hindsight, talking to Hunter about it feels prophetic in the worst way. Like he manifested every nightmare he’s had in the last five years, every worry that’s kept him awake at night this season.

He sees Shane get boarded, sees him break loose, kick the puck free, and then he sees him go down. Doesn’t actually realize what happened until he watches replay footage later. Shane broke free, kicked the puck loose, and Minnesota’s veteran defenseman tangled his stick with Shane’s skates. He went down hard. He doesn’t get back up.

Game play stops. Ilya feels like his heart stops.

It doesn’t start again until Shane moves, tries to push himself up and can’t.

Hops the boards without really realizing he’s moving. No one stops him. “Shane.” Shane’s eyes are focusing. He’s trying to sit up. This isn’t like last time.

“I’m okay.” He drops to one knee and strips off his glove to reach for Shane’s hand. “Ilya, I’m fine. I swear.”

“Stay down, wait for the medics.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Just help me up. I’m fine.”

“Shane.”

Shane looks over his shoulder. “Haas, help me up?”

He twists to glance behind him. Haas and Chouinard are hovering, keeping the space around them clear. Haas looks concerned, but also amused. “Yeah, no, I’m gonna go with Cap on this one. Let’s wait for the medics. You went down pretty hard.”

“Traitor,” Shane mutters, but by then the medics are there. They say there’s probably no concussion, but they want to err on the side of caution. And either way he definitely needs x-rays before they let him back on the ice.

Shane gives in with ill grace, but fast enough that Ilya thinks he’s probably hurting more than he lets on.

It’s not like last time. He gets to escort Shane off the ice. Gets to hear the prognosis. Gets to hold his hand. Gets to feel the solid reassurance of Shane’s silicone wedding band.

He wants to go with Shane to the hospital, but Shane insists he has to stay. “Win for me.” Don’t let them think that if they take one of us out that they take both of us, he hears. You wouldn’t follow another teammate to the hospital in the middle of a game, you can’t follow me. We’re not husbands on the ice, we’re teammates. Hates it, even if he mostly agrees with it.

“Yes, okay.” They’re up 3-2 in the third period, he can win this for Shane.

“Actually,” Shane says, “send them home crying for me.”

He carefully cups the back of Shane’s neck and kisses him. Doesn’t care who’s watching. “Okay, moya lyubov’. Anything you want.”

He waits until the medics help Shane down the hall before he turns back to find Wiebe there, waiting.

“They assessed the penalty on Ellefson.” He knows before Wiebe says it that it’s going to make him angry. “Two minute minor.”

“He tripped him.”

“I know. Ref says the footage is unclear. Says it could have been accidental.”

“Blyat.”

“Yeah.”

“He is lying. Or blind.”

“I don’t disagree, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now, and Hollander gave the team marching orders. So, let’s not disappoint him.”

Lets the anger that’s been building under the fear find an outlet. The team clusters around him close enough that he does not have to raise his voice. Does anyway, hopes everyone in the rink can hear him. “You heard Hollander, we send them home crying.”

Ellefson tripped Shane on purpose. He can’t prove it, but he knows. He spent two periods listening to Ellefson chirp him, fouling him every chance he got.

The refs do not want to make him pay. That’s fine. He will do their job for them. But first he will win the game for Shane.

Goes out and skates with cold, burning anger that makes him faster, sharper, more precise. Nothing in his vision except the next goal and the one after that.

He scores a goal, and gives Barrett an assist on another. They’re up 5-3 with six minutes left in the game when he skates over to Minnesota’s captain and very deliberately drops his gloves. This will take him off the ice for the rest of the game, but he has faith in his team; they will not let their lead slide. They will not disappoint Shane.

“The fuck?” Campbell says.” I didn’t do anything to Hollander.”

“No,” he agrees, “but you are the captain, da? You set the tone. In the room. On the ice. If Ellefson thinks what he did is okay?” Ilya shrugs. And then he punches him.

It’s a brawl instantly.

"You're an idiot," is Shane's greeting when he walks into the hospital room. Sveta had agreed; when he checked his phone after, she had called him a lot of names.

“Thought I was asshole.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You got penalized”

“We won first,” he says automatically. Then, “What is the damage?” They’d told him in the car on the way over, but he needs to hear it from Shane.

Shane’s expression softens. Reaches out a hand. “Nothing bad. Severely bruised ribs, broken pinkie finger. No concussion.” Shows Ilya his right hand, pinkie and ring finger taped together. “Won’t even stop me wearing my wedding ring.” He lets out a breath he hadn’t really realized he’d been holding, reaches into his pocket for Shane’s wedding ring and slides it on when Shane holds his hand out, bends his head and presses a kiss to it

Shane gives him a moment, then notes, “Unlike you. You know Crowell’s going to use it as an excuse to fine you, maybe suspend you for a game.”

“Worth it,” he decides after a moment. Won’t really make a dent in their standing. “And, did you notice, we won,” he repeats with a grin.

“Is that supposed to make it better? Starting fights is not your job. That’s what Reynolds is there for.”

Ilya would disagree. It was what he’d told Minnesota’s captain – he sets the tone. That is his responsibility, and not one he’s willing to delegate to their enforcer. If he decided to set the tone with his fists today, well Shane is his husband and he does not regret it. Also, he is not 100% sure Reynolds would have done it for Shane.

“They hurt you,” This is not a point he’s willing to concede on.

“It’s hockey.”

“That was not hockey,” he says flatly. “That was hunting. That was an ambush under stadium lights. And the league was going to say nothing. Again. So I took care of it.”

“By getting fined? How does that help?”

“It helped me. I had to do something.”

“Did you go after Marlow like that?”

He sighs. “No, because Marley did not mean….”

“Because you know it’s hockey!”

“Is not the same, and you know it,” he snaps back. “Do not play naive.”

There’s a knock on the door and Haas pokes his head around. “Uh, is this a bad time? Z and I can come back? We just wanted to check on Hollander.” Peers back over his shoulder. “Um, maybe not just Z and I. But we can come back. Really.”

He can hear the muffled chaos of hockey players trying to be quiet outside the door. Considers telling them to go away, but they’d come to check on Shane. And he approves of that. And if he’s keeping track of who isn’t there, that’s his business.

Reynolds slips in last and says defensively at Ilya’s raised eyebrow. “Dude, it’s not personal. I just wanted to play hockey, not be a poster child for anything. But that doesn’t mean I wanted him to get hurt. Either of you. What Ellefson did tonight was fucked up.”

Yuna would probably tell him that allies are made not born, but he’s not feeling that generous standing in the door of Shane’s hospital room. But, lets Reynolds stay without comment.

He holds Shane’s hand as the team cycles through, linking their fingers when Shane went to pull away before Haas came in. It’s awkward but he needs this.

He thinks Shane does too.

The hospital wants to keep Shane overnight. Ilya thinks they want to keep him mostly because he is famous and they are covering their asses, more than because it is medically necessary.

Shane obviously agrees, and politely, but firmly requests his discharge paperwork.

“I have bruised ribs,” he reminds the doctor. “I’ve had them before, and I know how to take care of them.”

The doctor gives in with repeated instructions that all Shane is to do at the hotel is sleep. Ilya blames playing a full game and watching your husband go down on the ice for nearly a minute before getting up again, for how long it takes him to realize that the doctor is telling them not to have sex tonight.

For the sake of Shane’s dignity he does not laugh, just reassures the doctor, again, that Shane will do nothing more strenuous than take a shower, and that they have team medics on call if anything about his condition changes.

Sleeping with bruised ribs anywhere is easier said than done. But, someone has called ahead to the hotel, because when they open the door to their room, what looks like every additional pillow in the hotel has been left on the bed for them. “Do you think they use the same decorator you did?” he asks, because he has to be funny or he will cry and he does not think either of them are up for that tonight.

If he cries a little in the shower, carefully washing sweat and hospital smell from Shane’s skin, until he smells like nothing except himself and the lime-ginger bodywash he likes, well the water covers the evidence, and Shane does not say anything. Just slumps against him and lets the hot water leech some of the aches out of his bones.

Wiebe asks formally for a meeting before the team flies out the next day. In a hotel conference room, instead of his usual more casual approach over a meal. Which tells Ilya that even if Wiebe maybe sympathizes with his motivation, he does not sympathize with Ilya's actions.

He is not wrong about that. Wiebe is .... unimpressed, shading into annoyed.

“I will pay the fine for you,” he says immediately. Him stepping up for his husband should not impact Wiebe, it was not his fight.

Wiebe crosses his arms and stares at Ilya. "I asked you before we signed Hollander if you were ready for this. If you'd really thought through all the repercussions it would have. You said you had. You," he shifts his weight, "promised me this would never be a problem." He pauses. “And I can pay my own damn fine. Although if you could limit the number of times you do this, my bank account will thank you.”

"They have been targeting us."

Wiebe gives him an exasperated look. "You think I don't know that? You think this is going to help?"

He doesn't have an answer that Wiebe won't have already thought of and dismissed.

"You're the captain, you have responsibilities." And Ilya feels a pang of 'oh. this is what Shane hears in his head every day'.

He sets his jaw and takes the dressing down, even if he does not regret what he did to earn it, even if he would do it again. At least unlike his coaches in Russia, his father, nothing that Wiebe's saying is untrue, or unrealistic. There is no unattainable goal, and he trusts that Wiebe will not move the goal posts later on. It makes it easier to listen.

Before Wiebe lets him leave, he asks “Has Crowell…” Lets Ilya fill the rest.

“I am waiting to hear.” As if on cue his phone dings with a message. He glances at Wiebe who nods. He thumbs it open. Winces.

Wiebe sighs. “How bad?”

He reads the message from Farah. “One game suspension. Waiting to see if Player Safety will open an investigation.”

Wiebe’s eyebrows go up. “I didn’t think you hit him that hard.”

“I didn’t,” he says sourly. “Now maybe I think I should have.”

He needs to talk to Farah, find out how bad this actually is. He can feel the anvil waiting to fall. Can only hope that Farah can make him the roadrunner, not the coyote.

Wiebe rubs his eyes. “We’re sending Hollander home today. You should go with him if you’re suspended for this game anyway.” Rubs his eyes again, already rejuggling lines to try and salvage something out of both of them being out. They both know he could have insisted that Ilya stay, watch the game from the stands; it’s a kindness he hasn’t earned today to let him go home with Shane. Thinks maybe it’s an indication that Wiebe is as pissed at the league as he is at Ilya right now. “Let me know what you hear, and we’ll adjust.”

"Yes, Coach. Thank you."

"Get out of here before I change my mind."

He goes.

Shane’s on the phone when he gets back to their hotel room. At first he thinks it’s with Yuna, or maybe Rose. But then he hears Pike say, “What the fuck was that?

“It’s just hockey.”

“Shane, buddy, do not bullshit a bullshitter.”

“It was just hockey,” Shane repeats firmly, and Ilya’s not exactly sure who he’s trying to convince at this point. Himself maybe. “You know, that game we play that’s famously violent.”

Pike makes a rude noise. “I watched that game. Don't get me wrong, what Rozanov did to them after you got pulled off the ice was kind of hot as hell, but there's no way that was just normal hockey.”

“Pike, did not know you felt that way about me,” he drawls.

There’s a loaded silence from the phone. Then, “Fuck you very much Shane, you couldn’t have told me Rozanov was there?”

“Ilya’s back. You’re on speaker.” Shane says blandly.

Nobody ever believes him when he says Shane is a little shit. Well, maybe Pike.

Pike lets out an exasperated breath. “Whatever. I’m secure in my masculinity. It was fucking sexy hockey. I’m not ashamed to admit that.” He snorts and comes over to drop a kiss on Shane’s head.

Shane tips his head back. “Wiebe?”

“Later,” he promises. “Was okay.” Shane eyes him narrowly, but appears to accept it for now because he turns his attention back to Pike. He’s guessing Shane has not seen the news about his suspension yet or there would be more yelling.

“How long has this been going on? And don’t tell me it’s nothing. I played on your right wing for a fucking decade.”

“It’s fine, Hayd. We knew not everyone would be okay with it. Us. Hockey didn’t magically change overnight just because a couple people came out.“

Four people. Five, if you count Price, but he’s retired. Six, if you include Bennett although that’s not really public knowledge. Out of how many hundred hockey players?

“Ottawa was supposed to be better,” Pike is saying, and he can’t help but hear it as an accusation.

“Ottawa is better,” Shane says instantly, and looks at Ilya directly. “I have Ilya.”

“God, I feel like I should say ‘dollar for the swear jar,’ except for being sappy.”

"Like you are any better about Jackie."

"Point," Pike concedes. Then. "Call us if you need anything. Character reference for when you assassinate the next team on the ice."

"You would give me character reference, Pike?"

"Eh. You're growing on me." A beat. "Like fungus."

He's pretty sure that Ruby had used the same joke on him the last time they'd seen the Pikes. He'd laughed then, and laughs again now.

But Shane’s face when he hangs up reminds Ilya that is not a laughing matter. He is, predictably perhaps, not thrilled that Ilya is suspended.

“I would do it again,” he says stubbornly.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Shane snaps. “You can’t hit everyone who knocks into me. We play fucking hockey for a living.”

“I can if they do it on purpose.”

Shane glares at him, but he doesn’t back down. Will not back down on this. Shane is the first to give in. “Fine. Fine. But you’re carrying my bag at the airport.”

“Of course, moya lyubov'.”

They watch the last game of the roadie from their couch. He sips morosely from the glass of vodka and watches the Centaurs lose. Badly. Worse than they should have lost.

It’s like Shane can read his mind. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking. Vancouver is a decent team. They played a good game. The team is down two centers, there’s no way the lines can adjust that easily, not with one day’s notice. We were never going to win this game.”

He could have not started the fight. Not gotten himself suspended. Except he’s been doing that all season. Holding himself in. They’re winning, but he feels it eating at him.

Shane curls a hand around his wrist. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

“I am very sexy nurse,” he agrees.

“Don’t be a dick. I’m trying to say something real.”

He slumps down on the couch, puts his head in Shane’s lap and unsubtly puts Shane’s hand in his hair. Shane takes the hint and starts to absently card his hand through Ilya’s curls and switches over to a replay of the Boston game against Tampa rather than listen to the commentators dissect the Centaurs losing to Vancouver 5-2.

He knows how much Shane just wants to play hockey, how much he hates being the center of attention for anything except his skill on the ice. And, he feels guilty, because he still wants to ask Shane for more. Needs more from Shane.

There’s a message from Shane when he gets off the ice after practice the next day / Mom kidnapped me / … / says she doesn’t trust me alone with my ribs / he snorts. Shane had lobbied hard this morning for coming to practice – no contact, but still skating. / she says she’ll release me to your care if you pick me up / … / she also said she’d feed us /

So, he goes directly from the rink to the house Shane grew up in. Yuna answers the door. Behind her he can see Shane propped upright in the recliner that Yuna hates, but David loves (and she loves him, so it stays), with Anya in his lap.

"Those fuckers fucking deserved it," she says pulling him in tight.

"Mom!" Shane admonishes.

“What? Someone needed to put them in their place.”

Shane gives her an exasperated look. “How does that fit in with controlling the narrative and keeping our heads down?”

He hates that word.

Farah calls him while they’re eating dinner. He sees her name and tries to keep his sigh inside. He's not sure he's successful. Holds up a finger and walks onto the porch. It's cold in Ottawa and he did not grab his coat, but he deserves this, for letting Shane down.

"You're an idiot." Not the first time she’s told him this.

"This seems like common conclusion. You talked to Crowell?"

“For my sins,” she agrees.

“And?”

“$10,000 fine.” For a second he thinks that will be it. Expected. A slap on the wrist. “And, Player Safety is opening a formal proceeding and will schedule a hearing.”

“What? I barely touched Campbell.” He’d probably knocked out a tooth, but they are hockey players, who hasn’t lost a tooth?

"You played into Crowell’s hand, Ilya."

"He does not make refs stop. He does not protect players. Who does he think is going to?"

"Literally anyone but you," she says with a deep sigh. "They’re saying out of an abundance of caution, and player safety has to be their highest priority.”

He makes a rude noise, which gets him an indelicate snort from Farah. “I know, but they’ve opened the proceeding, we just have let it play out at this point. They don’t have a case, everyone on the Minnesota team was dressed for their next game. Just,” she sighs, “keep your head down until the hearing. Don’t talk to the press. Don’t discuss it with the team.”

Conversation stops when he walks back in. “What did Farah say?” Shane asks, breaking the silence.

“$10,000 fine.”

“Accepting the fine is admitting you did something wrong,” Yuna says, finger tapping on her wine glass.

He and David and Shane all turn to look at her, and he finds himself in the novel position of saying, “I mean, I did punch him. The fine is,” waves a hand, “whatever.”

Ten thousand dollars is nothing relatively speaking, he would pay more to have made the point he did. Takes a breath, “And, Player Safety is calling a hearing.”

“The fuck?” Shane says. “You didn’t hit him that hard.”

He snorts without amusement. “No. They are making an example.” He has the email from Player Safety in his inbox now and opens it to let Shane read.

“Out of an abundance of caution?” Yuna says, reading over Shane’s shoulder. “What kind of bullshit is that? Where was that abundance of caution when Shane got tripped?” She pauses and looks thoughtful. “Actually, if we play this right it could backfire on them.”

“Mom?”

“I’m not the only person who’s going to read that and think it’s bullshit. It's just Crowell putting his finger on the scale and hopefully," she shrugs, "people will start paying attention to the way the refs are calling your games.” He figures she thinks it’s as unlikely as he does.

“Or not calling them,” David mutters.

(2) Home Games - Dec 12-14

He looks up at the team box when he skates out for warmups. Shane is sitting there with Yuna and David. He waves at them. Knows the press is watching.

They manage to eke out a win, almost despite themselves. In Shane’s absence they moved Haas to center second line, and pulled Holmberg up to play right wing. He loves them all, but the line is a mess. Their styles do not mesh, and they haven’t had enough time to work out the kinks. Still, a win is a win.

He stands at the front of the tunnel, just out of camera view, bumps fists with each man as he comes off the ice. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” Has never meant it more.

Wiebe doesn't send him out to do press after the game. He would be up for going, dare the press to ask questions he would be more than happy to answer. This is probably why Wiebe is making Bood do it instead.

"I will cover for you one more day, Rozy," Bood tells him with a scowl, then marches, head down, like a martyr. Gets asked out of the gate how the team is holding up without Hollander. Bood stares them down. "We hope Hollander recovers quickly; we play our best with everyone on the ice."

"Do you resent Rozanov for starting the fight that got him suspended?"

The room goes breathlessly quiet. He feels a little like he is holding his breath as well. They'd asked a variation on this at the last game too and Bood had deflected. Wonders if he has reconsidered with time.

“I think,” Bood says levelly, “that Rozanov did what any of us would have done for a teammate who was targeted the way that Hollander was targeted. He just got there first.” Quirks a small smile. “If there’s anything I resent him for, it’s getting to throw the first punch.”

“What do you think about the Player Safety hearing?”

Bood looks at the reporter who throws the question about there for a long moment. The camera swings back to show him. Ilya squints at the screen trying to identify them. “ESPN guy,” Yuna says. Cocks her head. “Interesting.”

“I think,” Bood finally answers, “that it’s about time Player Safety got involved this season, but if they’re really concerned about player safety then they’re looking in the wrong place.”

The ESPN guy looks like this is the exact quote he’d been hoping for, and Yuna starts typing rapidly on her phone.

He does not deserve this team.

"Why am I like this?" he asks Galina.

"Like what?" she asks, instead of giving him an out.

He makes a face at her. "Selfish."

She makes a humming noise. "Unpack that for me. Why do you think you are selfish?"

The instinctive answer is, because I am. Because that's what he's always been told. He's lazy, and selfish. Like his mother. Good for nothing but the money he can provide.

Forces himself to think past his father's voice, his brother's. "Because all I do is make everyone else’s life more difficult, making them clean up my mess.” Is not the captain his team deserves, instead makes them carry him. Galina stays quiet, waiting for him to finish his thought. So he does. Says out loud the secret shame he has been carrying inside for months now. “I want something that will make Shane unhappy." He has Shane – ring on his finger, in sickness and in health, forever and ever amen – and he still wants more.

He wants Shane unapologetic, proud, in the open.

She makes another humming noise. "What do you think Shane would say if you told him that?"

He gives her an annoyed look. "That he doesn't want me to be unhappy either."

She smiles brightly. "Look at how much progress we've made, it would have been like pulling teeth to get you to admit that a year ago."

He snorts. "I don't think I like you."

"Do you think it's selfish for Shane to ask you to do something that makes you unhappy?"

He starts to say something and stalls. Narrows his eyes at her. "I see what you did there."

Her mouth quirks. "Well, I wasn't trying to be subtle."

He wants to say it's different, but she'll just ask him why, and he doesn't actually have a good answer to that. Yet.

The internet endlessly dissects the trip, the punch – everyone’s got an opinion – most of them aren’t flattering. It does nothing to improve his mental equilibrium. He thinks it would be easier if he could just play, but he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting to see if Crowell has found a way to take him off the ice.. Thinks he understands for the first time the way Shane said he was not ready to retire yet. He had been sanguine about it in theory; in practice, he finds it harder.

Some people say – finally, that punch has been coming all season.

Some people think it was hot. There’s a meme that goes viral of side by side stills of Ilya cuddling Anya in a promo photo from earlier this season, and Ilya the moment after he decked Campbell. Caption: Get you a man who can do both.

Other people say – this is hockey, if they can’t handle the heat they shouldn’t be playing.

The words they use are less polite than that. Harris has turned off comments on all Centaurs social media.

“Don’t read the comments,” Farah reminds them wearily.

He talks to Wiebe who says, “This is what teams have been angling for all year. You had to know this was coming, and you walked right into it. Talk to me when you’re cleared by Player Safety.”

Shane gets angry on his behalf, but Ilya waves it away. Wiebe is right, and right to say it.

He wishes Shane was angry on his own behalf. They did as they were told, they kept their mouths shut. Shane imposed rules he thinks even Crowell wouldn’t have imagined. And none of it had mattered. Shane still got hurt. It was inevitable that one of them would, with how the league has silently allowed the players to declare open season on them. And Shane still wants to toe the impossible line that Crowell has drawn, and he does not understand why. What it would take to get Shane to say enough is enough, if this isn’t it?

They read the comments anyway. Nothing anyone says is unexpected. Somehow that makes it worse. That they have become used to this. Numb to it.

Shane stays after practice to work with the physical therapist. Normally he would wait, today he goes home and takes down the keys to one of his pretty sexy babies. It’s late enough in the year that he knows it's not sensible – there is fresh snow and ice on the ground – but he grew up in Moscow, this does not scare him (never mind that he left Moscow long before he got a drivers license, has only ever driven there in the summer). Takes the Ferrari out, drives too fast, feels free (feels like he's trying to out run his thoughts).

Shane is waiting when he gets home. Standing in the garage doorway when he parks. Looks small against the oversized garage.

"I went for a drive," he says into the silence.

"I see that," Shane says. Stands aside so Ilya can step into the house, strip off his coat and gloves.

Shane doesn't say anything and even though Ilya did nothing wrong he finds himself talking, defending himself. “Was just a drive. Do not have panic attack.” Shane flinches, and he feels instantly guilty. Can feel Shane's judgement and he's a grown man. “Hollander, I just needed–”

“To clear your head?” Ilya shrugs. Shane bites his lip, guesses, “You’re in your own head again.”

He is. Should be honest however much he wants to deflect. “Da. Yes.”

“Don’t go somewhere I can’t follow. Please,” Ilya does not know how to reassure him, not when his problems are as much like last year as frustration with the league. With himself. With Shane.

He nods anyway.

The hearing is a farce. He knows five minutes in that they’re going to rule against him; the rest of the ninety minutes he spends on the call is just window dressing, a way to make them look like they were taking it seriously, that they hadn’t made up their minds before they started.

They ask him to take them though the game leading up to him dropping his gloves, and he clamps down tight on his emotions and relates the game like it is tape he is reviewing. “Hollander got boarded. The refs did not call it. He broke free, and then was tripped.”

“The ref called a penalty on that,” one member from Player Safety notes, he should remember his name and does not.

“A two minute minor,” he agrees. “For tripping. Hollander was not even in possession."

“You keep calling him Hollander.”

He stares at the other member from Player Safety, Samuels, he thinks. “Yes? Is his name.” Bites his tongue. He always loses his grip on English when he is upset, does not want to give them this tell.

“You call your husband by his last name?” The question is arch, condescending.

“I call my teammates by their last names.” Like fucking everyone in hockey.

“Are you saying you would have acted the same way if it was any of your other teammates who had gone down during that game?”

“I think,” Farah interrupts before he can answer, “that we are maybe getting off track. The question is whether Mr. Rozanov’s actions created an unsafe work environment. And seeing as Mr. Campbell played 22 minutes in Minnesota’s game against Tampa the following day, I think we can agree that–”

“I think determining Mr. Rozanov’s motivation is relevant,” the Player Safety man whose name he does not remember cuts her off.

“Yes,” he says abruptly. “I would have done the same for any team member.”

Nobody looks like they believe him. He is telling the truth. Maybe would not have done it quite the same way, but he would drop his gloves for any of his team.

“I think,” the Centaurs GM, who hasn’t said anything so far beyond hello, says suddenly, “that we should be asking why Rozanov felt like he had to take action to defend his teammate, why he didn’t think the refs or the league would penalize Ellefson for tripping Hollander.” Pauses and then adds, “And, why he was right.” The rest of the room shifts in their seats. The GM is an ally he hadn't expected; neither had anyone else. Isn't sure if it's simply because the league is fucking with his profit margins with their shitty calls, or if he genuinely thinks he and Shane deserve better. Supposes it does not really matter.

In the end, none of it matters. Nothing he, or Farah, or anyone else might say would have mattered.

The ruling comes down. One game suspension.

“Is bullshit,” he tells Farah when she calls him back afterwards. “Gatskill rapes a girl, and still gets drafted third. Moore breaks someone’s jaw – not even on the ice, in a bar. He gets a fine. But for this? I get suspended for two games? Is bullshit.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I’ll file an appeal, but my guess is they’ll slow walk any review.”

She’s not wrong.

He needs to work out the tension; lift weights until his mind goes blank and his arms don’t feel like his anymore. But first he needs to tell Shane, waiting patiently in the living room.

Shane can tell the second he opens the door. Is grateful he doesn’t have to say it.

“How many games?”

“Just one. Farah says she will file an appeal, but…”

Shane makes a face. "You did drop gloves on the ice with no provocation," Shane reminds him.

Ilya raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, not none but..." Sighs, as helpless as Ilya feels.

Gets a call from Hunter as he's running on the treadmill – tries not to feel like it's a metaphor for his life, running as fast as he can and going nowhere.

"Hunter."

"You got suspended for another game? On top of the fine and the first suspension?"

He hadn't realized the news had gone out yet. Slows the treadmill to cool down. "Yes."

"That's a crock of shit, you know that, right?"

He snorts. "Yes. Obviously. If you know something I can do about it."

Hunter sighs. "No. I don't. But, I can tell you it's raising eyebrows. My phone's been blowing up since the news went out."

"Good or bad?"

"Mostly in your favor. People are starting to go back and look at your games again, ask questions."

He eyes his phone. "People like players, or people like press?"

"People like the assistant coaching staff, the guys who watch a shit ton of film for their job."

He raises his eyebrows at his phone. “And they are telling you, why?”

Hunter sounds impatient. “Because they know I know you? Or because, I don’t know, the gay mafia is actually real? The fuck should I know? Either way, some reporter is going to get there eventually too.”

"Huh," he says. Maybe Yuna was on to something. He should stop being even a little surprised. "Let me know if someone interesting starts asking the right questions."

"Will do," Hunter says, and Ilya thinks that's going to be the end of it, but Hunter says, "How are you doing?"

"I am not the one who was tripped."

"Rozanov."

He makes a face at his phone. "I do not like seeing Shane hurt. I do not like that I can do nothing to stop it." He doesn't like that he's the reason, but doesn't say that. Not to Hunter.

"Yeah," Hunter says tightly. "I couldn't do it. With Kip." Ilya stares at his phone. Is this an elaborate joke? Hunter taking the piss? They do not have this kind of relationship, usually. Is he waiting for Ilya to spill his guts, as Marley used to say? "I've said it before but...I couldn't be on the ice with him. I don't know how you do it."

He is silent for a long moment, the soft whir of the heating system kicking on the only sound. “We found each other on ice. It is–home?” Even if it does not love them sometimes as much as they love it.

Hunter makes an indeterminate noise. “Better you than me, I guess.”

They hang up, and Ilya ramps up the speed until his legs shake when he steps off.

“Idiot,” Shane tells him, when he comes upstairs. “Feel better?” Not really, but he nods anyway.

Farah was right – normally this is a thing he likes about her, but just this once he would have liked her to be wrong – Player Safety says they’ll take his appeal under review, but in the meantime his suspension stands, which means Shane’s going to push himself to play in the next game, whether he should or not.

He frets about Shane’s injuries. “You're ribs, moya lyubov'.”

“Like you have never played with a bruised rib.”

Shane’s ribs are wrapped, and his pinkie is splinted to his ring finger. They’ve both played on worse injuries than this. They are hockey players. But, he also knows that if he wasn’t suspended, if he was playing, that he’d probably be able to talk Shane into staying on I/R for one more game, give his ribs just a little more time.

Ilya's face twists. He would like to never see his Shane hurt but that is not the career they have chosen. He understands. Can't remove the hockey from Shane. Would never ask that. Would never want him to. Has always loved watching Shane skate. Can remember the first time his coach in Russia showed them tape of this Canadian kid. Told them he was the one they had to beat. Ilya watched to learn his plays, but also for the sheer pleasure of watching him play. This has never changed. Shane is his most beautiful on skates; even when everything else is going wrong, he still somehow finds joy and peace there. Even now; Ilya is reminded of how he first fell in love with him. Does not mean he wants to see him in pain.

He can’t say that though. It touches too close to the live wire of why Ilya did what he did that they’re not talking about. So instead he says, “Score me a hat trick.”

He dresses in his game day suit to go watch the game from the team box. He resigns himself to having to play polite politics with the GM and his staff, much harder than if he could have just watched the game from the stands like any other Centaurs fan.

He is surprised when they get there to see the first row of the box occupied not by GM staff, but by Cassie, and Selina, and Caitlin and Lisa, and Yuna, and David.

“Yuna? David?”

They stand up to hug him. “We never get to watch a game with you. Thought it might be fun.” Ilya gives them a long look, but doesn’t call them on their obvious bullshit.

Cassie waves at the seat next to her. “I saved you a seat.” Stands up to give him a hug hello, and murmurs in his ear where internet lip readers can’t see her, “If you really wanted to fuck with them, you should have worn a Hollander jersey.”

He barks a laugh. Farah would kill him.

He leans over Cassie to hug Selina when she stands up in turn, then Lisa and Caitlin. “What are you all doing here?” It isn’t that they don’t come to games, but they do not usually sit front and center to do it; chasing small children is better away from the prying eyes of… everyone.

Selina shrugs. “My mom is babysitting the kids, so we thought we’d come see how the other half lives.”

They are there for him, and Shane. He has to fight down a lump in his throat at their show of support.

Waves at the press he knows are watching as he takes his seat. Hopes they take the right message from this. That the team stands behind them.

The rink is a wall of sound when Shane skates out for the game. Ottawa at least loves its home town boy, and do not care who he is married to because it brought them two star centers and the first chance at the cup in 15 years. He appreciates their priorities.

He leans forward in the box to watch the game – watch Shane. This game should be an easy win, but Shane is skating cautiously, babying his ribs where he can, and Columbus is smart enough to take advantage of it.

They are down 2-1 at the end of the first period.

He itches to go talk to Shane, and can’t. Wants to slump in his seat and brood. Can’t do that either, everyone is watching.

Yuna curls her hand around his wrist, so much like Shane it makes his breath catch for a minute. “He’s doing fine.”

He’s playing his B-game and they both know it. Shane’s B-game is still higher than most players’ A-game, but that’s not enough when they need him to anchor the team. Although just having Shane back out on the ice has helped, has given Z and Haas the center of gravity they need to orbit around, and has shored up the confidence of the rest of the team. They’ve moved Holmberg up to first line to play left wing for Bood. It is not ideal, but he plays better with them than he had with Haas and Z. They should experiment with that maybe. Later.

He holds his breath when Shane gets slammed into the boards minutes into the second period, but he shoves the Columbus d-man off and kicks the puck back into play, shooting it up the wall towards Haas. Yuna’s hand tightens on his wrist. Wonders if he’ll be wearing bruises from two Hollanders by the end of this evening.

He can’t hear what the Columbus player is saying, but he can read Shane’s body language. Has spent too many years tracking every shift of his weight to try and predict where he is going to go, so that he could get there first, stop whatever play Shane was trying to set up, to not understand that whatever the Columbus center is saying to Shane at the puck drop is making him angry.

They tie the game in the second period and hold it there. Shane is tired and hurting, he can see it. Hopes no one else can.

Third period starts with Columbus sliding a goal past Hazy in the first minute. Shane’s line comes out fighting for repossession of the puck at line change. Z gets it and passes it to Shane. Shane fakes a shot on goal and back hands it to Haas instead. Haas shoots, but it bounces out, and Shane is there to tip it back in. Neat as they’d drilled. 3-2 for Ottawa. Twelve minutes left in the period.

Columbus borrows a play from – well, from everyone’s playbook this season – and targets Shane. If he was feeling more generous he’d say they were targeting the best player on the ice, trying to eliminate the competition. He’s about 27 games past ascribing generous intent to anyone they play.

The Centaurs have adapted their play to this though, and learned to use it to their advantage. He does not understand why the rest of the league has not figured this out yet, but their stupidity is not his problem. Haas fakes a pass to Shane and he watches Columbus’s first line all turn to block Shane instead of following the puck, which Haas feeds up the wall to Z who shoots from the edge of the crease. Unfortunately their goalie has been paying attention to the puck and is expecting the play and blocks it.

Their goalie passes the puck behind him and Shane chases Columbus’s center. He is fast, but Shane is faster, and snags the puck out from under his stick and Ilya wishes he was close enough to see the look of surprise on Columbus’s center’s face at the move. Shane’s done it to him, and it’s never not annoying. Columbus’s d-line is converging on Shane, and he sits up straighter when he sees Reynolds engage them. It’s not that Reynolds isn’t as interested in winning as any of the rest of them, but he has maybe not been quite so proactive about opening up lanes for Shane so far this season.

He sees Shane’s weight shift and sees the opening Shane found a second later. Feeds a pass to Haas through traffic that is legitimately hotter than half the porn he’s watched. Next to him he hears David whisper under his breath, “c’mon, make them eat shit” and lean in a little more to follow the play. He laughs silently. Everyone knows Yuna cares a little too much about hockey, but forgets that David played, understands viscerally exactly what magic Shane is doing on the ice.

Shane tears up the ice, trailed by Columbus’s line, in time to be in position for Haas to pass the puck back to him, and then he pauses for a split second, before he almost lazily backhands the puck into the net over the goalie’s right shoulder.

Shane goes out to do press after the game. Ilya’d like to take him home, take him apart with his teeth and tongue to reward him for each of the goals he’d scored tonight and/or wear him out enough to sleep. He believes in multitasking.

But the press are hungry tonight, and will not be ignored. It’s their first chance at Shane since he was taken off the ice, since Ilya started a fight. The press hasn't been that ugly at home before – their press is friendly (generally) – the local/regional press anyway; they don't want to fuck with their access. But Ilya made it a Story with a capital S, and their press room is filled with unfamiliar faces. He watches in Wiebe’s office since he’s not allowed back in the locker room until the next game. Had sent David and Yuna home, although he knows Yuna will watch the scrum later.

“Hollander, how does it feel to be back on the ice?”

“Like every MLH player I’ve been arguing with my doctor about when I’m cleared to be back. So I’m thrilled. Honestly, she’s probably thrilled I’m back too so I can stop calling her about it.” Shane says with a smile that looks almost relaxed. It gets a round of low laughter in the room.

“Lots of people have been discussing the game when you got injured.” He squints at the screen, trying to see who’d asked that. Laurent, he thinks. Too pretty for his own good, likes Shane a little too much in Ilya’s opinion, but not strictly speaking a bad reporter.

“It’s hockey,” Shane says a little more warily. “People get hurt.”

“Some people are suggesting the interference was deliberate. Do you have a comment on that?”

“Ellefson got a minor penalty. The tape was reviewed by the league and they decided that nothing else was appropriate.” It’s a very careful answer, says exactly what happened and gives no indication of Shane’s opinion about any of it.

Laurent has been around the block too and smells blood in the water at the non-answer. “Do you agree with the league’s assessment?”

Shane’s expression doesn’t waver. “The league reviewed the tape. The incident review has been closed.”

Laurent didn’t get where he is by being shy. “Rozanov was fined by the league, and then suspended by Player Safety for a second game as a result of the incident. What are your thoughts on that decision?”

Ilya is sure that Shane’s hands are clenched together under the table, tight enough to dig his nails into his palms, bloody little crescent moons, but his voice is level. “Rozanov is appealing the decision, but in the meantime is abiding by league rules.”

Laurent tips his head. “Interesting. Not what I asked, but interesting.”

There’s a murmur of reaction in the room, and a reporter Ilya doesn’t know leaps into the pause to say, “Some people are saying that Rozanov punched the Minnesota captain to defend you. There’s discussion about whether this was inevitable, that it was only a matter of time before the lines between personal and professional got tangled.”

Shane waits a beat. “Sorry, was there a question?”

The reporter gives him a falsely apologetic smile. “Would you care to comment?”

He can see Shane’s temptation to just say no and move on. But he swallows it down. “Hockey is a high intensity team sport. We play 82 games in the regular season, more if we’re lucky enough to make the playoffs. You rely on your teammates, you spend most of your time with them. I’m not sure there are any lines between personal and professional left by the time you get halfway through the season.”

“Yes,” the reporter agrees, and there’s something in his voice that makes the hair on the back of Ilya’s neck stand up.

He looks at Wiebe. “Do we know where he is from?”

Wiebe scrolls through something on his phone. “New kid from one of the nationals I think?” Watches for another second. “Trying to make a name for himself.”

“Hmm,” he says and narrows his eyes at the screen. Their story has broken containment, a quarter of the reporters in the room aren’t even sports reporters, and he can see Shane’s impatience at them in the way the lines around his mouth deepen. He thinks this guy is one of those, there for the clicks, not the hockey.

“But,” the reporter continues, “you are married to your teammate. Some might say that your personal and professional lives are almost incestuous.”

His eyebrows go up and he mouths ‘incestous?’ at Wiebe who rolls his eyes.

“To the best of my knowledge,” Shane says tightly, keeping a reign on his irritation, “Rozanov is my husband, not my brother.”

The room laughs with him, but there’s an edge there. The reporter pushes. “You don’t think that it’s a problem to have players being so intimately involved? Aren't Rozanov's actions proof enough of the potential conflicts? I know I wouldn't be able to focus if my wife was getting slammed into the boards.”

He sees the flicker of sharp dislike in Shane's face, but his voice is perfectly neutral when he replies, "I'm assuming neither one of you are hockey players."

It garners him another low round of amusement in the room -- Ilya thinks the sports reporters don't like the nationals honing in on their turf for gossip any more than he does.

“And that was our last question,” Harris says briskly.

Shane’s quiet on the way home, picking at his nails until Ilya puts a hand over his before he makes himself bleed. Shane sighs, but stops picking.

“You are okay?” He thinks he’d meant that to be a statement, but it comes out a question.

Shane rolls his head on the seat rest to look at him in the light from the street lamps. “Feels like a fixed game. It’s a conflict of interest when we play for different teams. It’s a conflict of interest when we play for the same team. Not sure what they want from us.”

They want us to have never happened, he thinks. Doesn’t say it outloud. It feels dangerous. Like he could manifest it by accident.

There are reactions to the game, to the post-game interview already up by the time they are getting ready for bed.

Everyone is reading their own opinion into Shane's answers to the question about Ellefson, the league, his fine and additional suspension.

"We saw very careful answers from Hollander tonight," the SportsNight anchor says. "Obviously trying to take the temperature in the room down."

"He didn't have a lot of lanes open to him," the other anchor agrees. "But I think some of the fans would have liked him to push back a little more."

"And if he had, you would be saying he was complaining and should just play hockey," he mutters at the TV.

Flips over to a different channel that is showing footage of the game. "You can see here where Hollander looks towards the boards to switch shifts with the first line, and very visibly remember that Rozanov is benched."

"Yes, the Centaurs have struggled to adjust their game play to having both their centers out, and Hollander seems to be a little at loose ends without Rozanov there to anchor him."

"You could almost say he was pining for him."

He looks over his shoulder at Shane, "Were you pining for me?"

Shane lets out a small grunt. “In your dreams.”

Yes, he thinks. Always.

There is endless internet speculation about them – if this conflict is fracturing the team, the organization, their marriage. He goes out to get milk, and the internet decides it is proof that he is cheating on Shane. He cannot follow the logic of that argument, but the internet has never been logical.

There are reddit and twitter threads proclaiming to know the mood of the Centaurs locker room (bad). The mood of the Centaurs management (nervous). The sports betting sites open pools on who Ilya will fight next. Whether he will keep his C when he comes off suspension, or if they will give it to Bood. Or Shane. If the Centaurs will try to trade one or both of them (a few valiant souls point out that they both have no trade clauses in their contracts, but this reality does nothing to curb the speculation). If the Centaurs made an expensive mistake signing both of them. If Shane encourages him to fight because he gets off on it. Ilya snorts at that one. He wishes.

There are rumors that the league is going to extend Ilya’s suspension – discussion about whether that would be merited (“violence,” one person opines, “is never the answer, and the repercussions of Rozanov’s unprovoked attack should be severe, to make sure that this kind of ugly incident is not repeated. We cannot condone this kind of action.” He wants to know if this person has ever watched a hockey game before).

Sees Shane pause in his scrolling and reads over his shoulder. Raises his eyebrow. Did not know you could publish that, even online. Wishes someone was moderating the comments. Children should not see this. No one should read this.

He takes the phone from Shane, turns it off. “I think that is enough for tonight, yes?”

Not the first time he’s seen a comment like that, doubts very much it will be the last. This is why Farah tells them not to read the comments.

There’s a slightly frantic edge to Shane’s kisses that night, like he is trying to prove something. To himself. To Ilya. He’s not sure what, but meets Shane’s urgency. Fucks him hard enough to drop them both into sleep after.

Shane's been up for long enough that the sheets are cold when he wakes up the next morning, but when he gets downstairs Shane is still in his pajamas, half drunk smoothie on the counter in front of him sweating a ring of condensation.

He presses an absent kiss to the top of his head on his way to the coffee maker. "No run this morning?"

"What if I was wrong?"

"Hmm?" he asks, still mostly asleep. "About the smoothie, definitely. I knew you would finally see the light. Give me a minute and we can go to get McGriddles."

"What? No. Eww."

He sighs dramatically, leaning back against the counter to watch Shane as the coffee does its thing. "No McDonalds? Fine. Timmy Hortons. If you insist."

"Nobody calls it that. Also. No."

The coffee beeps and he retrieves his cup. "Okay, so what are you wrong about?"

Shane sketches a shape in the water left on the counter by his smoothie glass. "My whole life I've always been," he flails for a word, "the good boy. The safe bet. Don't get angry. Don't get frustrated. Ignore the things that people say, pretend you don't hear them. Definitely don't hear the things they're not saying." He looks up at Ilya. "What if I was wrong?"

He puts his cup of coffee down very carefully. "Shane?”

“I tried so hard, so fucking hard, and it did not matter. It wasn’t enough. I gave Montreal everything, did everything right until that one thing and they — “

Ilya wants to wipe it all away, the tears dripping down Shane’s face now, the shame, the fear, the abandonment he felt when Montreal, when his brothers, his fans, the people he dedicated a decade of his life to, kicked him to the curb without a care. He can’t, and Shane powers on, anyway. It’s what he does.

“And then I came here and— nothing changed. I did the right thing, I did what everyone asked, I put my head down and worked hard, didn’t make waves. And it didn’t matter.” His voices rises at the end, and Ilya just wants to pull him in for a hug, to take all the pain away.

“It didn’t matter and it made you— I wasn’t— we aren’t. I’m losing you anyway.”

Ilya can’t not touch him, gripping his wrist tight. “No, no— never.”

But Shane’s shaking his head. “Don’t lie.” His eyes bore into Ilya, digging into the black heart of him. “So, fuck it.”

Ilya stares at him. Shane laughs, wildly, wiping his hand across his face and Ilya doesn’t know what’s happening right now, where his Shane is, his perfectly odd, always put together husband.

“Fuck it. If I, if we do — everything they ask, everything right, if they — fucking hunt us for sport anyway, want to force us out. Fuck them.” He has steel in his eyes. “We do this our own fucking way.”

“Shane?” And he ignores the way his voice shakes a little. “What do you want to do?”

“I'm not saying we should make out on center ice." He shoots Ilya a warning look, and he grins. "But maybe we worry a little less about what they think of us, and make them worry a little more about what we think of them."

He tries not to fist pump. Tries not to get his hopes up. Says mildly. "That could be fun."

Shane rolls his eyes. "I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like I didn't love you, or like I didn't trust you."

He gentles his hold on Shane, takes his hand, turning it over so their wedding rings clink together softly. "I never thought you didn't love me."

Shane smiles, thumb rubbing over Ilya's ring. "That's good. I'm glad. Because I do. More than anything. We're going to win the cup this year, and if they don't like that two men who are married to each other did that well," he pauses, thinking, "Well, they should learn to play better hockey."

He snorts. He adores this man.

Chapter 8: Dec 16 - ??

Chapter Summary

Life without brakes.

Chapter Notes

End of the homestand

Gets his first inkling of what Shane deciding to not care looks like the next morning when they park and Shane shifts his bag to his other shoulder so he can reach for Ilya’s hand as they walk in. Stares at it for a beat too long, and Shane waggles it impatiently until he takes it, threads their fingers together and continues their conversation from the car about the new Raider’s left winger and his tendency to telegraph when he’s going to deke left and if that’s a weakness they can exploit, like he hasn’t shifted Ilya’s world on its axis.

Spends all of practice waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Shane is utterly normal. Chirps him on the scrimmage line, gloats when his line wins, makes a face at the gatorade Ilya takes from the fridge – “You don’t love me anymore?”

He almost drops the gatorade in shock. “What?”

Shane nods at the bottle in his hand. “You know that strawberry is empirically the worst flavor, right?” closes the gap between them, whispers in his ear, “Do you not want me to kiss you?”

He is still staring at Shane while the locker room devolves into a debate about how to rank the flavors of gatorade.

Tunes back in when he hears Z say, “Point of order.”

“Christ, not you too?” he bemoans to the air.

Dykstra says seriously, “We failed in our duty as parents.” He snorts.

Waves a hand at Z. “Yes? You had a comment?”

“Actually, pedialyte is superior to gatorade, and the tropical fruit flavor slaps.”

Which is sufficiently heretical to stop all conversation in the room for a solid 30 seconds, before Holmberg manages to regroup enough to explain to Z why he’s wrong in extreme detail.

Harris waylays them all as they're getting ready for practice the next day. "Social media time," he announces. "New challenge for you. Who can open velcro the fastest and quietist."

Shane gives him a sidelong look under his lashes. "Ilya can't do anything quietly."

Holmberg hoots and Bood gives him a startled look, and looks at Ilya to see if he read that right. Ilya gives him a small nod, and Bood grins. "So, when I room next to you, you're saying Ilya's calling out his own name?"

Shane flushes, leaning down to stuff something into his bag so he doesn’t have to look at the others, but doesn't shut down the laughter or leave the room.

"I mean," Barrett says thoughtfully, "that would track. Rozy is just that conceited."

He glances automatically towards the other side of the room where Reynolds and Mattheson have their lockers. Mattheson is shaking his head, but Reynolds surprises him by joining in the laughter.

Harris tries to regain control. Hands the strip of velcro to Dykstra and waves the rest of the room quiet.

Dykstra tries for slow and steady, tongue poked out in concentration as he tries to separate each tiny hook one at a time.

“Did you miss the part where Harris said quick?” Hayes teases.

Dykstra holds out the velcro in response. “You think it’s so easy, you try it.”

Hayes flexes his fingers. “Let the goalie show you how it’s done.” He tries running his thumb nail in between the velcro hooks. It is noticeably louder than Dykstra’s attempt.

He crosses his arms. “You were saying?”

The strips of velcro cycle through the team. Z coughs loudly during his attempt to cover the sound. Haas tries to hide it behind his back, like if they cannot see it they cannot hear it. Holmberg has the best idea and bends over to muffle the sound in his stomach.

“That is cheating,” he objects.

“No, it’s not,” Holmberg objects. “Harris didn’t put any conditions on how we did it.” Looks at Harris for validation.

Harris cocks his head to the side. “He’s right.”

Ilya intercepts the velcro. “Is unsportsmanlike.” Studies the strips carefully, and then grips the edges and tries to yank them apart forcefully only to lose his grip on one edge and achieve nothing.

Bood makes a loud error buzzer noise. “Nice try, but no cigar.”

Shane smacks a wet kiss to his cheek. “I love you honey, really, even if you can’t open velcro.”

There is a moment of startled pause in the room where he can feel everyone stare at Shane in surprise, after months of barely touching Ilya. And then Barrett clears his throat loudly and says, “My turn.” And the room moves on.

He mouths, “thank you,” at Barrett, who nods like it was nothing and focuses on opening velcro silently. He does not succeed any better than the rest of them. Shane pretends like he does not notice, head down, that small smile Ilya loves just creeping across his face.

(3) Away Games - Dec 17-20

The first game they’re both back on the ice together is against Boston, which feels like fate, or kismet, or something. In front of their family, friends, even the front office, is one thing. There has been explicit support there, now, especially. But, will things change when they get on ice?

He strings his wedding ring onto his necklace next to his mother’s cross, kisses it and tucks it inside his jersey against his skin. Shane is already dressed and waiting, reaches out to tug him in by the edges of his jersey and fishes his wedding ring out and kisses it for luck too. Ignores Shane’s squawked protest of, “a little warning next time.”

Everyone in the room ignores them, intent on their own pre-game rituals.

Releases Shane and drums his hands against the side of his locker to get their attention. “Listen up. Do not dishonor me in front of Boston tonight.” Waits for the noise to die down to a dull roar. “Let’s fucking go!”

The first strains of Sweet Caroline filter down to the ice, there are pride flags in the stands because not every Bostonian is a Masshole, and the People’s Republic of Cambridge is right across the river, and Ilya feels the grin stretch wide across his face. Finds Shane, who's staring at him like he's a loon. He waits, listening. He’s played a lot of games at the Garden, knows what’s coming.

Throws his head back, shout-sings along, "TOUCHING ME – TOUCHING YOU."

His eyes are drawn back to Shane, who’s circling around him, laughing. "You're such an asshole." But he’s grinning when he says it and skating backwards from Ilya, inviting him to follow.

It takes him a second to react, and then he’s catching up to Shane, takes the hand he has held out and uses it to spin them around, for a second, like characters in the old musicals his mother had loved.

Shane holds onto him for a beat longer than he expects, and then the music cycles back again and Shane pushes off him, grinning, blowing him a kiss, singing, “Good times never seemed so good.”

The crowd goes wild. Echoes Neil Diamond back to them, sound bouncing off the rafters of the Garden.

“What did you feed him this morning?” Bood asks as they skate to dot for the initial face off. Ilya can’t help the eyebrow raise. “Uh, no, never mind,” Bood says, neck turning red.

This isn’t a life he could have imagined for himself when he landed in Boston a decade ago, isn’t a life he could have had if he’d stayed here. As much as he’d loved Boston, grown up here, he will never regret leaving.

Nostalgia has its moments, but not enough to make him feel bad about beating them.

Boston is only the beginning. Shane with the brakes removed is a sight to behold.

Not skating better (he is always great), but looser, happier, like he is actually having fun. Z and Haas are benefitting greatly; Ilya is not envious of the points their line is pointing up but finds himself pressing more, on the ice, unwilling to come off when Wiebe switches lines.

Shane lets the team see who he is more and more; no longer holds back so much from touching Ilya in all the small casual ways he hadn’t let himself before, and that loosens something in him, too. Feels like he’s taking his first deep breath in months. This is what he’s been waiting for. Skating with Shane is as easy as flirting. Skating with Shane. Not Hollander. It’s just different.

He doesn’t see him, but Harris must catch them messing around on the ice before practice starts one morning. He posts a video where they're both laughing. They're both deadly focused. They're both calling out the score after each shot, chirping each other mercilessly. Famed rivalry still fully on display. But, intimate too. Does not think either one of them plays like this against anyone else.

Yuna texts him when Harris posts the video / now you boys are just showing off / He can only heart it. She is not wrong.

Their last game before the Christmas break Harris calls out as they’re passing his office on their way home. “Do you have a minute?”

He trades a look with Shane who nods and follows Harris into his office. He has a video cued up on his screen. “I, um.” Fidgets, his fingers twisting into the hem of his shirt. Ilya has not seen him so uncomfortable in years. “Okay, so I was going through old footage to put together a mid-season highlight reel and I noticed.” He stops. Sighs. Ilya looks over at Shane who just shrugs at him. “Look, I don’t want to be intrusive, but I got the feeling that maybe you might be okay with this? Now? Like maybe something changed? If you’re not, that's fine. Obviously. And I would never post this without your permission.”

“Harris,” he interrupts. “Maybe we watch before we decide?” Can’t imagine what Harris has noticed in old practice and game footage that has him this nervous.

Harris laughs. “Right. Yes. That would make more sense.” Closes his eyes for a second and then hits play.

It’s not long. 30, maybe 45 seconds max. But it is telling. Ilya looking at Shane when Shane doesn't realize it. He hadn’t realized anyone had noticed, and how much he loves Shane is painfully obvious, written across his face for the world to see. Has no idea how he’d kept it a secret for so many years. The last frame flips the narrative. Shane from a warm up for some game earlier this week (he can tell by Shane’s hair -- he’s starting to grow it out), looking at Ilya, just as obvious, just as in love. Harris has set the whole thing to “I do be nosy,” the soft, southern voice a counterpoint to the hockey on screen. He’s about to become a meme. He can just feel it.

He sneaks a glance at Shane, who's watching the footage through a second time with an unreadable expression. Shane looks up from the screen to find both of them staring at him. “What?” Flicks his gaze back down to the screen. “You should post it.”

Harris looks dubious. "Are you sure? I post this and–" he waves his hand to encompass the world, which yes, will probably arrive on their doorstep for this.

He glances at Shane again, who gives a tiny quirk of his lips. And Ilya knows they agreed to stop being so cautious, stop giving as much of a fuck, but he’s still shocked when Shane shrugs. “I have no problems with the world knowing my husband is in love with me. Ilya?”

It takes him a second to find his voice. “This is secret? My husband is hot.”

He watches the progression of expressions across Harris’s face with amusement – shock, confusion, concern, and then absolute delight. Holds out his hand to Shane. “I look forward to breaking the internet with you.”

Shane laughs, shakes Harris’s hand in agreement, and then, as they leave, reaches for his hand, which still feels – novel. And he’s trying not to be the kind of person who keeps a tally of things like that, because he’s an elite professional athlete, but he thinks he’s going to be keeping count for a while.

“Ready to go home?”

“Yes.”

The internet loses its collective shit. It’s Scott Van Pelt’s best thing he’d seen all day. Man in the Crease drops a special edition, just to talk about it. Haas and Hazy delight in sending their favorite fan-edits; Hazy somehow cons Bood into recreating a few of their favorite moments; Barrett just shakes his head while they’re filming. Harris reposts it, because of course he does.

It’s not all positive, but Shane lets Harris filter and mute comments and only reads the ones he forwards. The ones that say things like “where do I find a man who looks at me like that?” And, “goddam, I’m surprised the ice doesn’t melt with how much heat they’re generating.” And, “hockey husbands FTW … literally, have you seen their season?”

Crowell also – predictably – loses his shit. Bypasses Farah to yell at them directly. Calls Shane who listens for half a minute and then interrupts to say coolly, “I think before you say anything further that you should know I am recording this, and I have conferenced in my management.”

Ilya has to press his hips into the kitchen island to temper his reaction to that. Mouths, “so hot,” at Shane who licks his lips and mouths back, “later.”

Farah takes over at that point, and he knows he should be listening, but she’ll tell them later whatever is important for them to know, and he stares at Shane instead. Much better use of his time.

Tunes back in to hear Farah say crisply, “Feel free to try that, but I don’t think you’ll like the consequences.” Which cuts Crowell off mid-word.

It's not that Crowell, or the league, or the fans change overnight. Some don't change at all. But he watches Shane learn to thrive, to swallow past his initial reactions and continue reaching for Ilya. Choosing who he wants to be.

Ilya had spent years wishing things would change. Watching. Wanting. Waiting. A life lived in texts, late night phone calls, and odd-angled videos that never captured the totality of Shane. Now, finally, he can touch, they can thrive under the bright lights.

Epilogue

“Carmichael called today,” he tells Shane when he gets home.

“The writer?” Like they know another Carmichael.

Nods. “He is writing an article about the season.” About us, he does not have to say.

Shane tenses and then Ilya watches as he deliberately makes himself relax, his shoulders dropping and his hand flexing. He bends down to pet Anya. “What did he want?”

“Background,” he says, still a little bemused himself. When the name popped up on his phone, he had considered ignoring him, but Ilya’s curiosity got the better of him. It usually did.

Shane looks up from where he’s pretending he’s not giving Anya a treat. “Really? He didn't want a quote?"

"I mean, I think he would not have objected to a quote, but no."

"Huh." Shane buries his face in Anya’s fur and then looks up at him. “You good?”

Ilya hears what he does not ask, are we good? He nods to answer both. He calls Farah to let her know, and figures it’s her problem. He has better things to do with his day. Like Shane.

Carmichael’s article drops in the dead week of the Winter Classic, when everyone’s busy trying to meet their New Year’s resolutions but with residual hangovers. A slow news week anyway, and Shane and Ilya are a hot commodity, as much as anything hockey-related hits the mainstream.

Carmichael is thorough, which Ilya appreciates. And truthful. Everything he asked Ilya is cited to an unnamed MLH player.

His on the record quotes are more than interesting enough to make up for it, he can see why Carmichael did not care if Ilya gave him a statement.

Ryan Price:

"I mean, there's a reason I didn't come out until after I retired."

"You're saying you were concerned for your safety?"

"Yes."

"Can you elaborate on that?"

"I mean, you're asking me this question now because of what happened to Hollander, so I don't know how much you need me to elaborate."

Vincent Holmberg:

“It’s messed up. We’re being targeted because what? Two guys got married? Why is that even news?”

Carter Vaughn:

“Yeah, we got some blow back too. I mean, I’m sure I didn’t see half the shit that Hunter did. But, I took a couple of extra jabs that first year, some no-calls I wish I'd questioned more. The whole team did. It was worth it, for Hunter to win the cup, get to kiss the person he loved on the ice just like all the rest of us. I thought it’d be easier for them the second time around. Really wish I’d been right.”

Luca Haas:

“I had Rozanov and Hollander’s posters on my wall in Zurich. I looked up to them – wanted to be like them – because of the way they played hockey. Getting to know them, working with them, just makes me admire them more. It is not easy to have every moment of your life looked at, picked over. But they are still kind, and honorable, and playing the best hockey I have ever seen. One day I hope I can live up to their example.”

Ilya looks up from reading the article. “Do you think Haas?”

Shane has gotten to the same part. “Is coming out?” Frowns. “Has he said anything to you?”

He shakes his head. If he is, does, he hopes Haas gets to do it on his own schedule and because he wants to, not because anyone or anything forces him to. Hopes that if nothing else they can give him the space to do that – not be another MLH dramatic coming out story, they have enough of those, and not enough (any) quiet choices.

Maybe most importantly Carmichael backs up his quotes with statistical analysis, and if there is anything sports nerds love, it is a good statistical analysis. There are a few other unnamed front office sources (Ilya thinks maybe Hunter's little birds), who calculate the calls they should have gotten and the ones they got that they shouldn't have. It's even worse than he expected?

Yuna was right. Again.

Even Stephen A. Smith pipes up on the morning show (normal), and very seriously asks, “Does the MLH have a homophobia problem?” Which is such a ludicrously obvious take, even for him, that Ilya has to laugh.

Carmichael’s article finally forces Crowell’s hand – he submits to an internal review of league refereeing (“crock of shit,” Ilya can’t help but spit when he reads that). It is half-hearted at best. But the ref calls get maybe a little less obviously terrible. And when they play Dallas their captain apologizes to him at the face off for the fans in the stadium. "I told my guys to play clean, and I'll be watching. But, uh, I can't do anything about the stands."

As the season winds on, and it becomes clearer and clearer that they will make the playoffs, will probably make a cup run (they are going to win, he can feel it in his bones), Shane takes to using his post-game press to talk statistics, to call out refs (never by name, but he doesn’t have to; the press does it for it, now). Always numbers, so that people cannot say he is overreacting,

The first time Shane does it, Ilya thinks Wiebe writes it off as a moment of pique. The third time he does it -- straight faced and baiting the press -- Wiebe must concede it's a feature not a bug. Watches the press conference with his head in his hands, turns to look at Ilya balefully. "You, I expect."

Ilya laughs, because his husband is fantastic, and also he is no longer the problem child.

People are paying attention. Over at ESPN, Pablo Torres digs deeper. Releases a story. Then a podcast. The wind is shifting, Ilya thinks. Finally.

And, after the final game of the regular season – in Montreal, because the universe loves dramatic irony –, Shane shakes him awake in the dead of night to say, "I want to tell my story."

He thinks it means something that Shane wants to do this now, as they gear up for the playoffs. Even at the beginning of this season, Shane would never have allowed himself to possibly distract the team – or himself. But Shane has nothing else to lose and so much to gain, and Ilya thinks he finally recognizes that. All he can do is support him.

Ilya helps (he does not; he offers terrible suggestions) and Yuna comes over, standing over his shoulder. She spends the entire time discreetly wiping away tears and gifts Ilya a watery smile when he nudges the box of kleenex closer. Shane works with Farah to release it on the Players' Tribune.

He only let Ilya read the final version when it was live. He reads, but can’t take it all in -- gets snippets before he reaches out and presses his face into Shane. Is overwhelmed – Shane putting himself out there, vulnerable in a way he is so rarely -- in public, on ice. He is brave. The bravest person Ilya knows.

My mom always told me that I was special. That people would look up to me, because of who I was, what I did. Living up to that has always been important to me. Some people have tried to tell me that because of who I love that I’m no longer a role model. But they’re wrong. I want to show kids what is possible – that you can have it all. You don’t have to choose.

We’ve seen players come out after they retire like Price, and we are starting to see players in the prime of their careers come out like Barrett and Hunter. And come out because they want to, because they feel safe doing that and not because not doing it felt worse than losing their career.

I hid for a lot of years; because I was afraid: of letting people down, of what people would say, what they would do. They did it all anyway and all I did was hurt the people I love?

I did not get to choose to come out. I did not get to choose for people to know about me and Ilya. But I am choosing this now because we deserve more than the shadows. We thrive when the stage is biggest, when the lights are brightest. If any part of my legacy in this sport can be that I made it easier for the next player to choose to come out, to not feel like they have to hide, I will feel lucky. Fulfilled.

I told Ilya that I couldn't say that we were going to win the Cup, that it would be a curse, a jinx, but I lied. There is nothing that we, me and him and this team, cannot do.

On the day that Shane’s essay goes live, they’re out in the woods with Anya, her paws covered in dirt and tongue lolling out of her mouth. It’s been a late spring this year, and last week there had even been a dusting of snow on the ground. Shane looks cozy in plaid and a puffy coat, the cold making his cheeks red and his freckles stand out. They leave their phones at home. Shane didn’t write it for anyone except himself, and the kids out there like him. Like them. The internet’s reaction is not part of the equation.

Later, Shane makes dinner and Ilya reaches for his phone.

Galina answers warmly. It is not their scheduled time, but he appreciates that she is flexible and always makes time for him. They’ve talked about his suspension, about everything that came before and after it. But, for the first time he really feels like he has enough distance from it to really talk about it with perspective, to have begun to work through how it makes him feel.

"Is it different?" she asks. He nods where she cannot see him. "Is it better?"

It is not maybe what he dreamed of when he was alone and could only fantasize about a life with Shane, but, it’s real, and it’s his, and that is not just better, but best.

Chapter End Notes

We could not have written this without Screamlet's help. Thank you! Any mistakes that remain are our own.