Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Wyatt Hayes, Troy Barrett, Nick Chouinard, Evan Dykstra, Zane Boodram, Luca Haas, Young (Game Changers), LaPointe (Game Changers), Holmberg (Game Changers), Brandon Wiebe

Additional Tags:

POV Ilya Rozanov, Accidental Drug Use, High Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs as Family (Game Changers), what is a professional hockey team but a group of silly guys, Ottawa Centaurs Find Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Relationship Reveal, but will they remember it the next day? who knows, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Takes Care of Ilya Rozanov, No Angst Only Fluff, this is pretty damn silly, Ilya rozanov is a loverboy and I love him very much

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-15 Words: 6,618 Chapters: 1/1

Here's to High Hoping

Summary

"What’s going on?”

“Not much,” Ilya says breezily. Everything is okay now that he’s talking to Shane. Everything is perfect. “Just hanging.”

“Just…hanging,” Shane repeats skeptically. “Sure, yeah.”

“I miss you,” Ilya says, because this is crucial information that Shane needs to know. Though, there was something else he was supposed to tell him…

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. We’ve been drugged.”

 

Or: The Ottawa Centaurs unknowingly eat laced brownies, and Ilya Rozanov really loves Shane Hollander.

Notes

Hiya! This is inspired by the 9-1-1 episode "Dosed" (2x06) and is quite silly. My only foray into edibles and such was in high school and was NOT a fun experience (I barfed out the window of my mom's rental car) so I do apologize for some very likely inaccuracies. But this is just supposed to be silly fun, so I hope you enjoy!

This is unbeta'd and I didn't do a whole lot of editing, so I apologize for any mistakes! If there's anything egregious feel free to let me know and I will fix it :) And no AI was used at all in any part of this fic. Fuck AI to death!!!!!

CW: Ilya and the Cens are unknowingly drugged by an unknown drug. What it is isn't specified, but they are all okay and safe. (I rated it M just to be safe)

Ilya, for perhaps the first time in his entire MLH career, is the first one to mandatory film in the morning. He walks into the large room across the hall from the locker room that’s lined with cushy seats facing the projector screen (so they can watch their failures in Extra Large viewing) and promptly jerks to a stop when he sees what’s awaiting him: a completely empty room. Well, minus Wiebe and their associate coaches Robertson and Macias, who are sitting by the desk at the front of the room, clearly sharing the donuts in the pink box they’re all gathered around, which Ilya knows for a fact is from that really good French bakery downtown. 

“Wow,” Wiebe says, looking just as surprised as Ilya feels to see him there, his donut frozen halfway on its way to his mouth. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Ilya says airily, making his way to the seats in the front row. He slumps down into one smack in the middle and takes an obnoxiously loud slurp from the travel mug of coffee Shane had prepared him before he’d left that morning. “I am always early. Now, can I have a donut?”

Wiebe snorts, while Macias actually moves the box farther away from him, the little shit.

“Coaches only,” Robertson says. He’s got two sprinkles stuck in his mustache. Ilya doesn’t tell him about them out of spite. 

“How about coaches and captain?”

“Nice try, kid. Not happening.”

“What an awful world we live in,” Ilya grumbles. All he gets are far too smug smiles from the coaches. At least he has his Shane-made coffee, with the perfect amount of sugar and cream that his lovely boyfriend only gripes about a little bit while he stirs them in.

“Did you not go out last night?” Wiebe asks, dusting powdered sugar off his hands. “I heard it was a wild one.”

“Ah, no. Quiet night at home for me.” And Shane, he doesn’t add. It’d been the first time their schedules lined up for an overnight in nearly three weeks, and they’d taken full advantage of it, making a whole home-date night out of it. “Let me guess, whole team is too hungover to get here on time?”

“Bingo. Dykstra had the gumption to text saying he had ‘car trouble’, which is just code for ‘I’m so hungover I don’t want to get out of bed and snoozed all my alarms’.”

Ilya huffs, shaking his head. “Idiot.”

“Twenty bucks on Pointy and Young still being asleep,” Robertson says. 

“Only someone stupid would take that bet,” Ilya says, before testing his luck one more time. He’s got his eyes on that Boston Cream. “I really feel like I should get a donut as reward for being only player here on time.”

All three coaches give him an unimpressed look. Ilya rolls his eyes in response. He sadly watches on as they polish off the last of the sweets, Macias making eye contact with Ilya as he bites into the Boston Cream—that fucker—before breaking down the box and throwing it away. 

“I hate it here.”

Chouinard is the next to arrive (four minutes past their actual call time, Ilya would like to have noted), holding a huge water bottle in his hand like it’s the only thing keeping him alive and wearing large, round sunglasses that clearly belong to Selena. 

“I am never drinking ever again,” he announces as he drops into the seat to the left of Ilya, then looks at the coaches sheepishly. “Sorry ‘bout being late.”

Wiebe waves his words away, a small, amused smile pulling at his lips. “It’s what I expected. I think how your stomach and head must feel is punishment enough.”

Chouinard groans while Ilya grins brightly at him. “Cheer up, Nicky,” he says, “At least you look most dashing in those incredibly fashionable shades.”

“Roz, shut the hell up.”

Bood and Boyle come in next, Bood looking suitably embarrassed about being late while Boyle looks like he’s about five seconds from throwing up. 

“Looking great this morning, boys,” Robertson crows, looking far too happy to see his players in such a state of disarray. 

“Yeah, totally feeling great,” Bood replies. Boyle opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it, settling for the barest of nods. “Tottally not feeling like my brain is about to burst out my skull.”

“I’m having a lovely morning,” Ilya adds in unhelpfully. 

“Fuck off,” Bood says, while Chouinard kicks at his ankle and Boyle swats at his upper arm. 

A minute or so later Dykstra comes in on a half jog, looking slightly panicked before looking around the room and seeing that he’s not the last one there. He lets out a huge breath, rubs at his forehead, then drops into the chair behind Ilya with a loud squeak of its hinges. He must be really out of it if he voluntarily sat in Squeaky Chair; they all know better than to choose that seat.

“How’s the car?” Robertson asks mildly.

“Still giving you trouble?” Macias adds on. 

Dykstra blanches, eyes flickering between the coaches faces, who give nothing away. “I, uh…It’s…”

Wiebe is the first to break, the softie that he is, laughing at Dykstra’s clear distress at having to come up with a suitable explanation. “I didn’t believe you even for a second. Car trouble? That’s the best you could come up with? Do you think I’m stupid?”

A chorus of oohs follow from Ilya and the other guys, while Dykstra fishmouths for a moment. “I, um. Sorry about that, Coach.”

Wiebe lets him sit with it for a moment longer before laughing again. “Don’t worry. But you will be on clean up at training this week, for thinking I’d fall for something so stupid.”

“Ah, you’re too nice to them, Brandon,” Robertson gripes. “Shoulda made him run suicides for attempting that lie.”

“Like you never lied to your coach about being hungover,” Wiebe quips back. 

Robertson shrugs with a sly smile. “Perhaps.”

The rest of the team continues to trickle in, all sporting gnarly undereye bags and pretty much looking like death has warmed over. Ilya is going to hold this over them all forever. 

“Did you not get your beauty sleep last night?” he asks Troy when he takes the seat to Ilya’s right. His hair is as messed up as Ilya has ever seen it, and looking down, he’s wearing mismatched socks—one of them, Ilya notices with no small amount of glee, is covered in little wiener dog cartoon drawings, which he distinctly remembers complimenting a certain social media manager on when he’d worn them not too long ago. 

“I hate you,” is all Troy has to say in response.

Wyatt and the rookies are the last to arrive, Wyatt herding them through the door and into the room like they’re little lost sheep. Young immediately veers too far to the left and bumps into the wall, which leads to LaPointe running into him from behind, while Holmberg holds onto his stomach with both hands and Haas looks like he’s on the verge of tears. 

“Jesus Christ. How much did you guys drink?” Ilya can’t help but ask, looking over his team in disbelief. 

“I think it’s best if we just don’t try and remember last night,” Bood says, running a hand down his face. “Or, like, talk about it. Ever.”

“Oh, we will be talking about it,” Ilya assures them. “I am never letting you all forget this.”

“Shut up, Roz,” nearly everyone says in unison, with varying levels of awakeness.

“Now, what did we learn here boys?” Wiebe says, only slightly patronizingly, as he starts getting the projector ready. “Maybe…don’t be idiots? Don’t be stupid? I’m not sure, I’m still workshopping it.”

“How about don’t be stupid idiots?” Robertson adds with a smirk. “Rolls right off the tongue.”

“How about be like Ilya and don’t get wasted the night before film,” Ilya says.

“Troy, smack him for me,” Bood says from one row back, and Troy immediately complies.

“Okay, children. Settle down,” Macias sighs.

“Uh, Coach?” Wyatt calls out from the back, raising his hand like he’s in school. “I, uh, well I brought some sweets for everyone. Figured it would cheer everyone up.” 

Nearly everyone’s heads whip around to look at him as soon as he says the word “sweets”, Ilya included. 

Wiebe laughs. “Go ahead. But don’t spread any crumbs, please.”

Ilya turns to Macias and Robertson when Wiebe’s back is turned, making eye contact to mouth players only. They roll their eyes in synchronized exasperation. 

“Hayes, I love you,” Bood says as Wyatt pulls out a massive Tupperware out of nowhere, opening it to reveal a mix of brownies and chocolate chip cookies. “Where did you even get these? Did you make them?”

“No, I—”

“Oh my god, are those brownies?” Dillon, the actual last to arrive—Ilya admittingly feels a little bit bad that he didn’t notice he wasn’t there—says as he walks into the room, still in plaid pajama pants and holding a cup from Starbucks that Ilya just knows contains the most diabolical coffee-like concoction known to man. “And cookies?”

“None for you, man,” Bood says around the half of a cookie already in his mouth. “They’re only for people who were less than twenty-eight minutes late.” 

Dillon checks his watch and groans. “Aw man.”

Ilya takes both a brownie and a cookie when Wyatt comes around with the Tupperware. Next to him, Chouinard takes a brownie and shoves the entire thing into his mouth.

“You are a gross man,” Ilya tells him, taking a normal sized bite of his brownie. And—shit. He turns to Wyatt, who’s now back in his seat after handing out all the sweets. “This is the best brownie I have ever had. What is your secret ingredient?”

“Oh, I didn’t make these. A woman at the barricade gave them to me after the game yesterday.”

Troy freezes with his cookie halfway to his mouth. “Hold up. You gave us cookies made by a completely random stranger?”

“I mean, aren’t cookies bought at the store made by random strangers too?” Luca asks. 

Troy narrows his eyes, and takes a hesitant nibble. “I guess…”

“Okay, enough cookie talk,” Wiebe cuts in as the projector whirs to life, a still shot from their last game against the Admirals lighting up against the screen. “Put on your studious hats, because if we want to win against Montreal this weekend, you’d better pay attention.” 

“Yes Coach,” they all echo, and finally start their meeting, nearly thirty-five minutes late. 

Thirty minutes later, Ilya is feeling…weird. 

Wiebe is talking, something connecting quicker, shorter passes to make their breakouts more effective, but Ilya is too distracted to listen carefully. Because as he watches the team skate across the ice on the big screen in front of him, each player doubles, triples, then goes back to normal again. At first he thinks the projector is glitching, but when he glances at Chouinard to his left, the other man doesn't show any indication that he’s seeing the same thing, though his eyes are at half-mast like he’s about to fall asleep.

So it’s all in his head. Great. 

He didn’t get a lot of sleep last night—occupied as he was with his insatiable, completely irresistible fiancé—but he doesn’t think he lost enough sleep to be this out of it. Though his head does feel a little foggy, his thoughts slowing down half a pace from normal. 

Something strange is definitely going on, which he’s able to confirm when he lets an embarrassingly loud giggle when they watch as Dykstra trips over his skates and takes a particularly dramatic swan dive onto the ice from their last game against the Sharks.

Ilya doesn’t do that. He doesn’t giggle.  

“Dude,” Young says around a laugh. “Dude.”

“You flew!” LaPointe crows, laughing too. Turning back to look at them—which fuck, why is his head spinning?—Young and LaPointe are beside themselves in a fit of laughter, bent over each other and trading slaps to each other’s knees. “Like—like a fairy!”

Young snorts. “Dykstra the fairy!”

Wiebe stares at them, frozen in the middle of his sentence. He pauses the clip. “Are you guys…okay?”

“I’m great!” Young says, before giggling again. “Feeling amazing, coach.”

Ilya blinks slowly. It takes a second for his eyes to adjust when he opens them. 

“Can you hear me?” Troy says all of a sudden into Ilya’s ear at a volume that is just short of shouting. He visibly panics when Ilya just stares at him, taking a second to try and get his thoughts in order and figure out what the hell is going on. “Ilya!” He scooches closer. “Can you hear what I’m saying? Can you—”

“I can hear you. Please stop shouting.”

“When’s this meeting over?” Bood voices from behind them. “Because I want to go home.” He sniffles once. Then twice. “I miss Milo.”

“I don’t feel so good,” Luca says quietly. 

Troy pokes Ilya’s shoulder. Hard. “Can you see me?” he hisses.

“I really don’t feel so good,” Luca says again.

“Okay.” Wiebe raises both hands up in the air, looking increasingly alarmed. “What the hell is going on?”

Robertson, who has fallen asleep leaning back in his chair with his mouth wide open, lets out a particularly loud snore. Ilya swears the walls rattle with the force of it. 

Wyatt, who Ilya never saw get up in the first place, is suddenly standing in front of the screen, so close that his nose bumps against where Bood’s back is projected. “Coach? I don’t think the movie is working.” He’s bouncing on his toes. “Coach? It’s not moving.”

Wiebe does a slow scan of the room, hands still up. “Is everyone is experiencing some sort of mass, fucking, hysteria or something?” He turns to Macias. “Am I going crazy?”

Macias takes his time as he examines each of their faces, brow furrowed. When he gets to Ilya his eyes narrow—and Ilya, before he can get control of his body, waves at him. 

“I think…I think they’re high.”

Chouinard giggles. “Hi high, I’m Nick—wait…that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Booooo.” Young throws half a cookie at the back of Chouinard’s head.

LaPointe pouts, sadly muttering, “My cookie,” when it falls to the floor. He turns to Wyatt. “Can I have another one?”

“Ye—”

“No!” Ilya jumps in his seat at the vehemence of Macias’s exclamation. Robertson snores away. “I think it’s the sweets. They must be laced with something.”

It takes a moment for Ilya’s brain to process all those words. Troy, whose mind is apparently acting a bit faster and entirely too paranoid, shrieks, “We’ve been poisoned?!” 

“Oh god, we’re going to die,” Dykstra says, and promptly starts crying. 

The room is chaos for a few minutes after that. 

Young and LaPointe are beside themselves with giggles, while Dykstra is beside himself in tears. Wyatt is buzzing around the room, talking both to teammates, the walls, and even the fake fern in the corner. Boyle is bent over with his head between his knees, while Bood is scrolling through pictures of Milo on his phone, repeating, “Isn’t he the cutest ever?” over and over again between wet, rather pathetic sniffles. Holmberg, lounging casually in his chair, keeps insisting: “I feel fine, honestly,” while next to him, Luca looks like he’s going to vibrate out of this universe and into the next. Dillon keeps slurping loudly at his drink while Robertson keeps doing his best impersonation of a faulty lawnmower. Chouinard is going through his extensive catalog of dad jokes to an audience of no one. Troy is sitting in his chair, back ramrod straight, eyes darting all over the room while he mumbles about how capital T They are out to get them. 

Ilya can only think of Shane.

The softest, most gorgeous brown eyes he’s ever seen—the way they light up when he laughs; the sparkle at the corner of them when he’s being all smug. His freckles, creating the only constellation Ilya has ever cared to learn, spread across perpetually rosy cheeks, so beautiful it makes him want to bite. The grumpy kitten look he gets when his things aren’t put away the way he likes it, and the subtle tilt of his head when his wonderful, stubborn mind is busy attacking a problem he refuses to let go unsolved. And, god, the way he skates? He glides across the ice like it’s his, fast and strong so fucking competent it makes Ilya proud and horny in equal measure. 

Shane fucking Hollander. Ilya’s fiancé. Ilya’s fiancé.

They’re going to get married this summer. Ilya is going to be Shane’s husband. They’re going to be together forever.

He wishes Shane were here. 

He finds the ring on his chain next to his mother’s cross, bringing it out from where it’s been hidden beneath by his shirt. He presses it to his lips, smiling. It’s not Shane, but it will do for now. 

Ilya giggles again. He really loves Shane. 

A shrill whistle brings him out of his love-fueled daydreaming, instinctively turning his head to where Wiebe is trying to get everyone’s attention at the front of the room. His vision doubles at the movement, settling only after a couple deep breaths.

“Okay.” Wiebe’s got his hands up in the air again. Chouinard copies the motion, laughing at himself. He’s the only one who does, except for Dillon, who snorts. “We,” he gestures to Terry, the team doctor, who Ilya hadn’t even noticed was in the room, “think that there was something in the cookies and brownies.”

“What, like…butter?” Young says, which makes Bood reach back and slap the side of his face. 

“No, you dumbass. They mean drugs.”

“Oh no,” Luca whispers miserably. “I don’t do drugs.”

“I didn’t taste any drugs,” Holmberg says. Ilya rolls his eyes, which was not a good idea. It makes his vision spin dangerously.

Wiebe sighs. “I’m going to ask that if you can, please call someone to come pick you up and take you to a doctor. We don’t know what was in the cookies and brownies, so we want you to be safe and get checked out. Does everyone understand?” 

“Yes Coach,” most of them answer. Ilya giggles. 

LaPointe raises his hand. “I don’t know where my phone is.”

“It’s in your hand, dude.”

“If anyone needs any help, or starts feeling sick, please let one of us know,” Wiebe says, pointing to himself, Terry, and then Macias, who’s blocking the door that Wyatt is trying to dart out of. “Okay,” he says, sounding exhausted. “Get to calling.”

Ilya stalls for a moment. He knows who he needs to call, but calling and asking his very famous and very recognizable fiancé to come and pick him up from work sounds like it would be going directly against the secrecy they’ve been maintaining for the past eleven years. He wants Shane here—he wants Shane always, wherever he is—but he isn’t sure if he gets to have him here right now. 

He must be taking too long to get his phone out, because between one blink and the next, Wiebe is crouching down in front of him, a far too gentle smile on his face. 

“Do you have someone to call?” he asks softly. 

Ilya blinks at him. Looks one way, at Chouinard laughing into his phone; the other way, at Troy covering his mouth with his hand like he’s afraid someone’s going to read his lips; then back to his coach. He leans forward to whisper, “I have someone,” as quietly as he can.

Wiebe gives him a bemused smile. “So why don’t you get your phone out and call them?”

Ilya glances around them again. No one seems to be listening in. “It’s a secret.” He brings a finger up to his lips. “Very shhhh.”

“Well, I’m sure, um, they would appreciate getting a call from you and knowing that you’re alright. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, I’m sure he would.” Wiebe’s eyebrows raise, but only for a split second before his expression settles. Ilya frowns. “He worries a lot. I don’t like making him worry.”

“It’s good to have people to worry over you, kid,” Wiebe says, patting Ilya’s knee before standing back up. “Why don’t you go and call him now, alright?”

Ilya hums. “Alright,” he echoes in his best approximation of Wiebe’s Canadian accent. Wiebe chuckles, then hurries off to help Macias deter Wyatt from his latest escape attempt. 

Ilya fumbles through his jacket pockets for his phone, grinning when he finally finds it and puts his passcode in. It’s Shane’s birthday, and when Ilya’d shown him how to unlock his phone after changing it Shane had blushed beautifully, grumbling something about how that’s awfully sappy, Rozanov, but he’d been not so secretly pleased, given away by the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

Gosh, Ilya loves him. 

He goes to his contacts, scrolling down till he gets to the J section, clicks on Jane, and puts the phone up to his ear.

“Rozanov?”

Ilya pauses. “You’re not Jane.”

He takes his phone away from his ear and looks down at it. James Mateta is the name that greets him. They’d played at the Bears together for two years—three? Maybe? Ilya can’t quite remember—and they haven’t spoken in years. 

Well, shit. Definitely not Jane. He brings the phone back up. 

“No…why, um, why are you calling?”

“My mistake. Whoops. Well, goodbye. Hope the wife and kids are doing well.”

“Well, actually Melissa left me so—“

Ilya hangs up. 

“Jane. Shane. Jane Shane Jane. Not James,” he mutters under his breath as he scrolls to the next contact, bringing the screen up to his face close enough that the letters blur to check that he has indeed clicked the right contact this time. Shane answers after one ring. 

“Hey? Aren’t you at film right now?”

Ilya can’t help the giddy smile that takes over his face at the sound of Shane’s voice. 

“Sh—oops! I mean Jane!”

There’s a pause. “Ilya…?”

“I’m here,” Ilya says happily. “How’s your morning going?”

“It’s…good. Just got out of the shower.”

“Oooo.” Ilya waggles his eyebrows. Troy looks at him suspiciously—though it’s not too different to how he’s looking at everything suspiciously right now. “I miss you.”

Another pause. “I, well, I miss you too?” Ilya can picture Shane’s expression: his furrowed brows and questioning eyes, head tilted adorably to the side like he does when he’s confused. “It’s been like…two hours?”

“Two hours too long,” Ilya harumphs. 

“Are you okay?” Shane asks. “You’re being weird. Weirder than normal.”

Ilya giggles a little. He really loves Shane, he thinks, then says, “I really love you.”

“I love you too. But—What’s going on?”

“Not much,” Ilya says breezily. Everything is okay now that he’s talking to Shane. Everything is perfect. “Just hanging.”

“Just…hanging,” Shane repeats skeptically. “Sure, yeah.”

“I miss you,” Ilya says, because this is crucial information that Shane needs to know. Though, there was something else he was supposed to tell him… 

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. We’ve been drugged.”

There’s a muffled crash from the other side of the line. “You’ve been what?!”

“Drugged, did you not hear me? But—you have to come pick me up! So I get to see you soon!”

“You—what—fuck—I don’t, what?” Shane’s voice is shrill. Oh no. That’s what it sounds like when he’s panicking. Ilya doesn’t want that. “Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine, Shane. I mean Jane.” Smooth. “I feel great actually. Not bad drugs.”

“That doesn’t really make me feel better. Like, at all.” It sounds like he’s rushing up the stairs. “You said—we? As in the team? Is, shit, Anya, no, no belly rubs right now.” 

“You do not give our daughter belly rubs?” Ilya gasps. “What kind of father are you?”

“Are you sure you’re feeling fine?” Shane asks, ignoring him. Rude. “What even happened?”

“Coach thinks it's the cookies. And the brownies. They were very yummy.”

“Where did they come from?”

“Oh, Hayes brought them in. He says a woman gave him them yesterday after the game.”

“You ate something from a completely random stranger?” 

“It is okay! I promise.”

Shane takes an audible steadying breath. “Okay, sure. Great. That’s just great.” Ilya hears the garage opening, then the beep of Shane’s boring car unlocking. He frowns. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m coming to get you, of course.” The background noises of the call change as it switches to the car’s Bluetooth. “You’re still at the arena, right?”

“You are coming?” Ilya asks, forgetting a second too late to mask the disbelief in his voice. 

“Of course, Ilya,” Shane says, like it’s completely obvious. 

“But…they will see you. My team.”

Shane sighs, but it doesn’t sound angry, or irritated. It just sounds kind of sad. Which makes Ilya sad. “It’s okay, Ilya. What I care about is that you’re okay. And…and we’re getting married this summer, so they’re going to know soon. So—it’s okay. It’s all okay. I promise.”

A warmth that has nothing to do with the presumed drugs spreads from his chest all the way to his fingertips and toes. “You promise?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Ilya ducks his head, smiling at his lap. “Okay.”

“I’ll be there in like, twenty minutes. If this—Jesus Christ, it’s a stop sign not a park sign!”

“You sound like your mother,” Ilya laughs. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane grumbles. “I’ll be there soon, alright?”

“Okay.” Ilya presses his ring to his lips again. “I love you.”

“I love you too. So much.”

Ilya giggles again. He can’t help it. “Bye bye.”

Shane laughs a little bit too. “Bye.”

Troy is all up in Ilya’s face the second he hangs up the phone. “Love?! You’re in love? I heard you say I love you.”

Ilya pushes him away with a palm to the face. “Mind your own bee wax, Barrett. Don’t you have your boyfriend to call?”

“Shut up. And it’s beeswax.”

“You shut up.”

“Cap is in love?” Bood asks as throws his arms around their shoulders from behind, bonking all their heads together. “Did I hear that right?”

“Ugh. Can you not be nosy for once, please? Go back to crying over pictures of your son.”

“Cap is in love?” Young shouts, and…shit. Now everyone is looking at him. Except for Robertson, who is still happily sleeping away. He probably snuck some of the players only sweets, Ilya is only just now realizing, the asshole. 

“Don’t you all have something else to be doing other than bothering me?” Ilya says, trying to put on his very best stern Captain voice. It doesn’t deter anyone, judging by the way no one leaves him alone, instead leaning in closer and looking at him expectantly. 

“Dude. You have to tell us,” LaPointe says. Luca looks to be on the verge of throwing up, but he still manages to nod enthusiastically. 

“Nope.” Ilya crosses his arms, fully aware he’s acting like a petulant child. “I don’t have to tell you a-ny-thing.”

Bood groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “Why do you always insist on keeping your girlfriend a secret, man?”

“I do not have a girlfriend, I have a fiancé,” Ilya is quick to correct, because it’s a very important distinction to him. He realizes his mistake a second later. “Shit.”

The room erupts, loud enough to have Robertson blinking awake. “Fiancé?!” Bood shrieks, while Troy slaps a hand to his forehead like a stunned old lady. Boyle, who’s had his head between his legs this whole time, finally sits up to look at Ilya, gobsmacked. Dykstra is crying again, muttering about “young love” in between heaving sobs, while Chouinard is grinning so wide Ilya is pretty sure he can see his back molars. Wyatt, still standing but no longer trying to escape the room, is jumping up and down, cheering. 

It’s all completely ridiculous, but Ilya can’t help the happiness that swells inside him. His teammates, his friends, are excited for him. They’re excited that he’s in love, and that feels pretty damn great.

“Yes. I have a fiancé,” he says to the room, somewhat bashfully. He’s never gotten to say that before. He feels like he’s on top of the world. 

“Holy shit!” someone is saying, or probably multiple someones. “Holy shit!”

“Congratulations, dude!” Bood says, giving his head a rough shake. It makes his vision swim for a moment, but it does nothing to dampen the happiness he feels. 

“Yes. Yes, is amazing,” he says. “Wedding is this summer, you’re all invited.”

“Hell yeah!” 

“What’s the date? So I can put it into my calendar," Chouinard says. He’s taken his phone out of his pocket and is trying to tap the screen to turn it on, but he’s holding it backwards, tapping stubbornly at the back of his phone case. Wiebe reaches out and gently turns it the right way before smiling at Ilya. 

“I’m happy for you, kid,” he says, eyes twinkling. It’s enough to almost make Ilya tear up. Almost. He will not let himself cry right now. 

“Well, we don’t exactly have a set date yet. Just…this summer. Probably July,” Ilya says, to a chorus of boos and groans. He holds his hands up in defense. “Hey! We have been busy! And anyways, his mom is doing a lot of the planning for us.”

This time, the room goes silent. It takes a moment for Ilya to register why. 

“Shit,” he says again. He doesn’t look at anyone, and no one says anything. Shit. 

A loud slurp interrupts the silence, the ice in Dillon’s cup rattling as he shakes it then says, “We are definitely the gayest team in the league.”

Chouinard is the first to break, doubling over at the waist as he bursts into laughter. LaPointe and Young are next, back to their cackling and slapping at each other, and it doesn’t take long for the whole room to descend into laughter, even including Terry. 

“You’re insane, Roz,” Holmberg says. Ilya shrugs. He can’t stop smiling. 

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him,” Bood tells him earnestly. There are tears sparking at the corners of his eyes. Ilya can’t wait to blow all their minds.

“Well, you have already met him,” Ilya says, trying his best to go for casual. It’s a little bit hard when he’s feeling so floaty.  

“What? I have?”

Ilya smirks. “Yes. You all have.”

“What?!” several people shout. Various guesses are thrown out, all overlapping over each other, and Ilya can only sit through it and smile. He fucking loves this team.

Unlike her husband, Caitlyn Dykstra is the first to arrive. She takes one look at him, the way his face is red and splotchy from crying, and laughs. “Aw, babe,” she says, coming over to give him a consoling pat on the head. “Bad day at work?”

“I want ice cream,” Dykstra whines, leaning into her and wrapping his arms around her waist. 

“Mhm. I’m sure,” she says, obviously trying not to laugh again. “How about after we go see a doctor.”

Dykstra sniffles. “O-kay.”

Lisa Hayes and Selena Chouinard come in next. Ilya cranes his neck to see down the hallway behind them when they walk through the door, looking for Shane, but he’s not there. Ilya pouts. He wishes Shane was here now.

Wyatt nearly tackles Lisa with a hug as soon as he sees her. They don’t topple to the ground only thanks to Wiebe and Macias steadying them.

“Lisa!” he yells. “I gave everyone drugs!”

“I heard! I had no idea I was married to a criminal. I’m actually here to take you to jail.”

Wyatt freezes. “Really?”

Lisa snorts. “No, you goof. I’m taking you to the hospital to get checked out, and then home for a nice long nap.”

“I would like a nap,” Chouinard tells his wife.

Selena sighs, pulling at both of his arms to get him to stand. “That can be arranged.”

The sight of the three women half-carrying their over six foot tall, heavy, hockey player husbands to the door makes Ilya giggle embarrassingly loud. Young and LaPointe are laughing too, but they haven’t actually stopped in quite a while. They just about make it to the door—it’s taking a while, due to Dykstra blubbering that he’s lost his ability to walk and Wyatt’s inability to stop jumping—when it opens, revealing the most wonderful sight Ilya has ever seen. He swears he’s hearing angels singing, and there is definitely golden light coming from somewhere, bathing Shane in a soft, warm glow.  

He pops out of his seat, veering slightly to the right at the sudden bout of lightheadedness and the fact that he’s not entirely sure where his feet are. He only makes it two stumbling steps forward before Shane is there, hands on his forearms to hold him up, brilliant, beautiful face finally, finally in Ilya’s line of vision. 

“Hey,” he says softly. His eyebrows are pinched with worry, eyes flickering over Ilya’s face. “You okay?”

Ilya grins. “I’m perfect. You’re here.”

“Holy shit,” someone from behind him says. He doesn’t know who, and couldn’t care less—because Shane is right in front of him; Shane is here.

“I missed you,” he tells Shane. 

“I missed you too,” Shane says, and Ilya feels like he’s melting. But in a good way. A great way.

“You did?”

“Always.”

“Dude, that’s Shane Hollander,” Troy says in what was probably supposed to be a whisper, but is audible to everyone in the room. 

Ilya pulls Shane into his side, half hugging him, half using him as a crutch to stay standing. “I know! Isn’t he great!”

“Jesus, Ilya,” Shane sighs, bonking his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder. 

Dykstra, who’s now laying on the ground with Caitlyn trying to haul him up by the armpits, says, “Why is Shane Hollander here?”

“Is Shane Hollander joining our team?” Young asks excitedly. 

Luca gasps. “Shane Hollander is joining our team?!”

“Wait, Shane Hollander is here?” Boyle says, head back between his legs. 

Shane cringes. “Just Shane is fine.”

“Hold up.” Troy stands, wide eyes bouncing back and forth between Ilya and Shane. “Is Shane Hollander your fiancé?”

Ilya beams at him. “Yup!” He leans in to place a loud, smacking kiss to the side of Shane’s head. “I’m going to be his husband!” 

Ilya didn’t think the room could get any louder, but apparently, it can. 

Shane stays right by him despite how Ilya can tell the sheer amount of voices is grating on him, and Ilya loves him so, so much. He rests his forehead against Shane’s temple, breathing in the familiar scent of him. “I love you,” he whispers. 

Shane’s hand has found its way into Ilya’s hair, scratching softly. “I love you too.” 

“Oh my god, this is the best day of my life!” Wyatt squeals, somehow jumping even higher. Lisa looks at him with a raised eyebrow, hands on her hips.

“Better than the day we got married?” she asks.

Wyatt’s jumping falters slightly. “Uh…”

“I knew it. I totally fucking knew it,” Troy is saying over and over again, while Bood is once again crying, saying, “Holy shit?! I never would have guessed!”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Luca mumbles from the back row, and that gets people in motion in an instant, Terry diving in with a trash can just in time. 

“Holy fuck, you’re all a fucking mess,” Macias sighs, hand running down his face. 

Shane squeezes his hip, bringing Ilya’s attention back to him. “We should go get you checked out,” he says, nodding towards the door. “Do you have everything?” 

“You’re everything.”

“Oh my, Ilya.” Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. He begins guiding Ilya towards the doors, steadying him when he stumbles. It’s getting harder and harder to correctly evaluate where his feet are going to land with each step. 

“This is too hard,” he whines. “Carry me?”

“Rozanov. You can walk.”

“But it’s so hard.”

“You’re such a big baby.”

“I love it when you call me baby.”

“I’m calling you a baby, not baby,” Shane says exasperatedly, but still shifts to stand in front of him, bending his knees slightly and holding his arms out behind him. “Jump on,” he says. 

Ilya maybe, perhaps, takes the direction too enthusiastically, nearly mowing down Shane with the force of his leap onto his back. 

“Fucking hell, asshole,” Shane says, staggering forward for a couple of steps before stabilizing. “Are you trying to take me out before the playoffs?”

Ilya giggles. “Oops.”

Wiebe holds the door open for them to step out into the hallway, exchanging a few quiet words with Shane that Ilya is too busy burying his face into Shane’s soft, citrus smelling hair to register. He can’t believe Shane is here. He agrees with Wyatt, this might just be the best day of his life. 

He doesn’t bother to try and process the trip out of the building and into the parking lot, just happy to swing his legs back and forth and smile into Shane’s neck, occasionally pressing soft kisses to his warm skin there. He lets Shane maneuver him into the passenger seat of his car, only complaining briefly about being put down until Shane stops him with a kiss to his forehead, nose, then mouth as he buckles him in. 

“There’s going to be a lot of questions for you tomorrow,” Shane says as he slides behind the wheel. “Well, assuming any of your teammates actually remember anything.”

Ilya lets his head loll across the seat’s headrest so he’s facing Shane. “Yes. Probably. But…I think it will be okay.”

Shane takes a deep breath, holding it for a second before letting it go slowly. “Okay,” he says, voice soft. “I believe you.”

Ilya reaches his hand out, finding its destination on the second try, cupping Shane’s cheek. He kind of feels like he’s about to start crying. “Thank you.”

Shane frowns. “For what?”

“For…just being you. For coming to get me.”

“Always.” Shane places his own hand over Ilya’s, squeezing. “I’ll always be there for you. No matter what.”

Ilya starts to feel tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He sniffs, shaking his head in an attempt to get rid of them—which he should have known would be a bad idea. He groans as his vision doubles, triples, and blurs, and a ringing sound bounces back and forth between his ears. “Ouch,” he grumbles.

Shane squeezes his hand one more time before turning on the car and beginning to pull out of the parking spot. “Let’s get you to the hospital.” He flicks the turn signal on, turning onto the street, and huffs a laugh of disbelief. “Laced brownies,” he says under his breath. “I can’t believe it. Who would’ve thought that’d be how we came out to your team?”

Ilya giggles, and then Shane is giggling too and grabbing Ilya’s hand to lace their fingers together. 

I love you, Ilya thinks for what must be the millionth time today, but Shane beats him to actually saying it out loud. 

“I love you.” 

Ilya grins. “I love you, too.” He can’t wait to say that for the rest of his life.