Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Harris Drover, Troy Barrett, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Domestic Fluff, Comedy, Shipping, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, brief firstprince mention

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-19 Words: 5,130 Chapters: 1/1

Ship It

Summary

Ilya learns what Shipping is and proceeds to be a menace.

 

That's it. That's the fic.

Notes

Sooooo many thank yous to the Hockey Gays discord for practically writing this alongside me, as I asked for so much help with ship suggestions. Thanks to Mik, Fern, Brittany, Amanda, Ishie, Bec and anyone else that chimed in who I missed. 🖤

This was originally pure comedy. Then it became a bit cracky. Then somehow the end got a bit emotional. Idk, enjoy!

Practice ends without ceremony. Half the team is already in the showers while the rest linger in the locker room, talking over the low hum of exhaustion. Ilya peels off his gloves, tired but steady.

He checks his phone because it’s there, and because, like everyone else, he’s slowly grown addicted to the scroll.

Instagram opens.

He scrolls.

Stops.

Scrolls back.

He stares at the reel for a long moment, brow furrowing.

“What the fuck,” he says aloud.

He tilts the phone, as if the angle might fix it. It doesn’t.

He’s on his feet before his brain fully decides how upset to be about this. Shane isn’t going to think it’s a big deal, which is precisely why it’s Ilya’s job to make it a big deal. It is a big deal. Shane deserves to feel like he fits here, like he belongs as a Centaur, and this is not helping.

He doesn’t slow as he moves down the hall, past the trainers, and past a player asking if he’s coming to the gym.

Harris’s door is already open so Ilya doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the room and shoves his phone directly into Harris’s face.

“Fire the intern,” he says.

Harris startles, nearly knocking over his coffee. “What?”

“Look,” Ilya says, jabbing the screen for emphasis. “Is idiot. Deserves to be fired.”

Harris squints at the phone, then pulls back slightly to focus. “Ilya, I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

“That,” Ilya says flatly, “is the official team account.”

Harris looks again. His brow furrows, then smooths. “Okay.”

“And this,” Ilya continues, tapping the caption, “is not Shane’s name.”

Harris reads it carefully.

#1 HOLLANOV FAN

“Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” Ilya mocks. “Exactly.”

Harris exhales, long and slow. “It’s not his name.”

Ilya stares at him. “Da. Because it is misspelled.”

“It’s not —”

“Shane is important to this team.” Ilya interrupts, folding his arms. ”You cannot let little idiot intern turn him into joke.”

“It’s not a joke,” Harris says.

“Then why is it posted?”

“It’s a repost from a fan account.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow. “A real fan would know how to spell Shane’s name.”

“Have you heard of shipping?”

Ilya blinks. “When you mail something, yes?”

“No,” Harris says. There’s a smile creeping onto his face that Ilya doesn’t understand. 

“Okay,” Harris continues. “So. Shipping is when fans take two people and—”

“I do not care what fans take,” Ilya cuts in. “I care why we are posting it.”

“I’m getting there,” Harris says. “The point is the name. The combined name.”

Ilya’s expression doesn’t soften.

“People do this,” Harris says, “by merging last names. Or parts of them. It’s shorthand.”

“For what?” Ilya asks, annoyed at the lack of clarity.

“For the idea of the two people together,” Harris says.

Ilya exhales sharply through his nose. “So you put names together and it means what? Romance?”

“Basically,” Harris says. “It means you’re a fan of their relationship. Or you want them to be in a relationship. Honestly, I bet there was a small group of Hollanov shippers before you even came out.”

Ilya processes that in silence. “So this,” he says slowly, “means people like Shane and I. As couple.”

“Yes,” Harris says. “They’re fans. This is how they talk about you.”

Ilya frowns. “But ‘Ilya and Shane’ is already correct.”

“Sure,” Harris says. “But shipping isn’t about efficiency. It’s about fun.”

Ilya looks unconvinced.

“There have been a lot of these,” Harris adds. He taps the desk, searching. “Think… Brangelina. Kimye.”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “What is that?”

“They’re ship names,” Harris says. “Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Kim Kardashian and Kanye West.”

Ilya considers this. “They are all divorced, yes?”

Harris winces. “Yes. But that’s not the point.”

“That seems important,” Ilya says.

“Not to shippers,” Harris replies. “They care about the idea of the relationship.”

Ilya opens his mouth, closes it.

“Okay,” Harris says. “You combine names of people who are together, or who fans want to be together. Real people. Fictional people. It doesn’t matter. It’s like cheering for the relationship. A nickname.”

“So first names or last names,” Ilya says.

“Usually,” Harris says. He hesitates. “Sometimes neither. Or both. There’s Larry Stylinson.”

Ilya recoils slightly. “That is terrible. Who is Larry?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harris says quickly. “Trust me.”

Ilya scowls, but allows it.

“It can be any part of people’s names,” Harris continues. “Sometimes they smooth it so it sounds nice. Sometimes they let it sound grating.”

“That is chaos,” Ilya says.

“Yes,” Harris agrees. “It’s the internet.” He gestures to the phone still clenched in Ilya’s hand. “Hollander. Rozanov. They took part of each.”

“They took the wrong part,” Ilya says instantly.

Harris raises an eyebrow. “According to who?”

Ilya frowns. “Hollander is okay name. Rozanov is good name. This is awful name.”

“Fans decided otherwise,” Harris says mildly. “It’s Hollanov.”

Ilya looks down at the screen again.

Hollanov.

He turns the word over once, like something loose in his mouth.

He grimaces. “Sounds like mistake.”

Harris snorts. “You’re arguing with people who make video edits at three in the morning.”

Ilya straightens.

“They could still do better,” he says.

He leaves before Harris can respond.

- - -

The idea doesn’t leave him.

It shows up later, uninvited. In the quiet stretch between drills. On the plane to an away game when he starts scrolling social media again. And late at night, when Shane’s asleep in a different hotel room down the hall, entirely unbothered by the internet.

Ilya doesn’t bring it up, but he does think.

Ilya finds himself outside Harris’ office mid-afternoon. He stops in the doorway, hands loose at his sides, waiting.

Harris looks up from his computer and squints. “What’s up?”

“I understand shipping now,” Ilya says.

Harris blinks. “…You do?”

“Yes.”

Harris exhales, already smiling. “That feels dangerous.”

“I have been thinking about it,” Ilya adds.

Harris leans back in his chair. “Okay.”

“So,” Ilya says, nodding once, as if this follows naturally, “you and Troy. That would be Trarris, yes?”

Harris recoils. “Oh my god, no.”

Ilya frowns. “Why.”

“Because that’s terrible.”

“It follows the pattern,” Ilya says.

“Yeah,” Harris says. “And it’s still terrible. And for the record, we don’t need one.”

Ilya tilts his head. “Why not?”

“Because,” Harris says, already weary, “we’re not famous. No one’s making edits of us. We’re just two guys who love each other and own a dog.”

“Troy is famous,” Ilya says.

“It’s not the same.”

Ilya considers this.

He thinks of grumpy Troy joining the team last year. Of how he’d only ever genuinely smile around Harris. Of the way Troy flirted unconsciously, while insisting he wasn’t interested in Harris. Of Harris, equally blind, taking it all at face value, assuming Troy was just friendly and straight.

And how they’d still be circling each other, oblivious and hopeless, if it wasn’t for Ilya. How he’d been the one to bring them together.

He crosses his arms. “Any important relationship should have one.”

Harris exhales. “Fine. But it doesn’t even have to be a name mash-up.”

Ilya’s focus snaps back. “What?”

“Yeah,” Harris says. “Sometimes it’s not names. Sometimes it’s, like… a concept. A vibe.”

“Like who,” Ilya asks.

Harris squints up at the ceiling. “Okay. Think FirstPrince.”

Ilya blinks.

“Alex Claremont-Diaz,” Harris says. “First Son of the U.S. Prince Henry. First…Prince.”

Ilya turns that over. Slowly.

“Or IneffableHusbands,” Harris adds, already regretting it. “It’s from Good Omens. It’s hard to explain, which is kind of the point. They’ve got this old-married-couple thing, but also—”

“So they don’t fuck,” Ilya says. “Another miserable couple.”

Harris jerks upright. “What? No. Ineffable, not in-F-able. It means beyond explanation.”

Ilya nods. “So, Hollanov is not the only option.”

“No,” Harris says flatly. “It’s not.”

“It could be BoringSexy.”

Harris closes his eyes. “Why did I explain any of this to you?”

“Because,” Ilya says, already standing, “you love me. I am your favorite. And someone needs to fix it.”

He turns toward the door, then pauses, thoughtful.

“And Trarris,” he adds, “is still better than Drorret.”

Harris groans.

From the hallway, Ilya hears him mutter, “I hate the internet so much.”

- - - 

They’re on the couch with the TV murmuring low. Shane insists he’s watching, yet very clearly isn’t. His eyes are closed, head heavy in Ilya’s lap, loose in a way he only ever allows at home. Ilya’s fingers move through Shane’s hair in slow, deliberate passes, just enough pressure to keep him relaxed. Shane hums softly, barely awake and breathing even.

“Have you heard of shipping?” Ilya asks softly.

“Mmm?” Shane hums, barely stirring.

“Shipping,” Ilya says. “When names are combined for couples.”

There’s a pause. Shane shifts, cheek pressing more firmly into Ilya’s thigh, like he’s settling in rather than waking up. “Hm. Yeah. Kind of.”

Ilya’s fingers slow. “You have.”

“Rose tried to explain it to me once,” Shane says.

Ilya’s hand pauses.

Shane opens his eyes, just a little. “It wasn’t like— I mean, people kept calling us Hollandry and I didn’t know what that meant.”

Ilya straightens. Not fully. Just enough that Shane has to look up at him.

“You have ship name with Rose.”

“Had,” Shane corrects.

Ilya looks down at him, considering. “Why is Hollandry so much better than Hollanov?”

Shane laughs under his breath. “I don’t think it’s better. It’s just… different.”

“It sounds stupid,” Ilya says.

Shane smiles, tipping his head back so he can see Ilya properly. “I don’t mind Hollanov. Sounds strong.”

He reaches up, fingers hooking lightly at the back of Ilya’s neck, and pulls him down just far enough for a quick kiss that’s warm and familiar.

“And it’s better,” Shane adds, “because it’s you.”

Ilya accepts the kiss, but grumbles when Shane lets him go. “It could be better. It should be better.”

Shane sits up, turning so they’re face to face now, knees brushing. He studies Ilya carefully for a second. “What are you thinking?”

“I will tell you when I decide,” Ilya says. “Possibly I will tell the internet first.”

Shane snorts. “Please don’t do that.”

“And,” Ilya adds, “I am telling Svetlana our ship name is Svetya.”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“You had ship name with Rose,” Ilya says, reasonable as ever. “So I get ship name with Svetlana.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it really isn’t,” Shane says. “You and Svetlana were never actually a couple.”

“We were close enough.”

“You were not,” Shane says. “And even if you were, you don’t—”

Ilya leans in, close enough that Shane has to lean back against the couch cushion. Not aggressive. Just present. “You are very jealous of Svetya.”

Shane exhales, smiling despite himself. “No. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

Shane doesn’t answer. He reaches up instead, fist closing briefly in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt, tugging him closer. “You’re going to piss off the few fans we have.”

“They love us,” Ilya says.

“Not for long,” Shane replies, kissing him slower this time.

Ilya lets himself be pulled in. The argument dissolves the way it always does, into the familiar weight of Shane leaning into him like this is where he belongs.

- - -

Troy still has his gloves on when Ilya catches up to him a few days later, helmet hooked loose in one hand, hair damp and darkened with sweat. He’s relaxed in that post-practice way, already halfway out of the rink.

“Barrett,” Ilya says.

Troy glances over. “What’s up?”

“What do you think of shipping?”

Troy slows, then stops. Not abruptly. Just carefully. “Uh. Like Bennifer?”

Ilya squints. “Who?”

“Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston.”

“Bennifer.”

Troy shakes his head. “No. Sorry. Ben Affleck and J.Lo.”

Ilya’s expression clears. “Ah. Yes. They are still together.”

“I mean,” Troy says, shifting his weight, “I think so? They break up a lot.”

Ilya waves this away. “So. You and Harris.”

“What about us?”

“Trarris,” Ilya says, pleased. “Yes?”

Troy blinks. “What?”

“Your ship name.”

“We don’t have one.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, we don’t,” Troy says, getting more stern.

“All the famous ones break up,” Ilya says calmly. “You and Harris will not break up.”

Troy opens his mouth. Closes it. “That logic makes zero sense.”

“Trarris,” Ilya repeats.

“That’s awful.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. “Harris told me it does not have to be names.”

Troy blinks. “Why is Harris telling you this?”

Ilya ignores that. “It can be description. A theme. Harris is apples.”

Troy exhales, long and resigned. “Sure. Okay. Apples.”

“Good,” Ilya says. “So. Grumpy Apples.”

Troy straightens. “Hey. I’m not grumpy.”

“You were grumpy when you started dating Harris,” Ilya says. “All the time. Except with Harris.”

“That’s—” Troy cuts himself off, rubbing a hand over his face. “You are not calling us Grumpy Apples.”

“Fine,” Ilya says generously. “I will try something else.”

Troy nods, relief immediate.

- - -

Ilya finishes his workout late, the rink mostly emptied out by the time he’s done. His arms feel loose, pleasantly heavy, the kind of tired that narrows his focus instead of dulling it. He pulls a sweatshirt over his head as he steps into the hallway outside the offices, sweat cooling along the back of his neck.

That’s when Troy comes out of Harris’s office.

He looks relaxed. Happy, even. Phone in one hand, keys in the other, already angled toward the exit.

“Troy,” Ilya says.

Troy doesn’t stop. “No more ship names.”

He keeps walking.

Ilya lengthens his stride and catches up without effort. “I have been thinking.”

“That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”

“Apples on Ice.”

Troy stops and turns slowly. “You’re kidding.”

“It is good,” Ilya says. “Sporty. You are the ice. Harris is the apples. It makes sense.”

“It sounds like a cartoon.”

“Harris would like that,” Ilya says, confident.

Troy groans and rubs a hand over his face. “We’re not calling ourselves Apples on Ice.”

Ilya tilts his head. “Okay.”

Troy exhales, relief immediate.

“Frozen Apples,” Ilya offers.

“No.”

“Frozen Cider.”

“Absolutely not.”

Troy points at him once, sharp. “I’m telling Harris he’s created a monster.”

“You should,” Ilya says. “He will want to vote.”

Troy mutters something under his breath and turns toward the doors, pace quickening as he heads for the parking lot.

Ilya watches him go, thoughtful.

Apples on Ice, he decides, has potential.

- - -

Two games run back to back.

The first ends badly, it’s not a complete flop, just a grind that never tips their way. It settles heavier on Shane than it does on anyone else. Ilya sees it in the way Shane stays standing a beat too long after the final horn, helmet still on, jaw tight. In the quiet that follows. In how he doesn’t complain, which seems worse.

Shane had seemed sure the season would start clean. Ilya remembers the way Shane talked about camp, about lines, about how easy things should be now that they were finally on the same team. Instead, the lines keep shifting, chemistry is still forming, and Shane is slowly learning how to exist somewhere other than the first line.

Ilya doesn’t take the loss with him when they leave the rink.

He takes Shane.

That night, Shane is quiet, coiled tight in a way Ilya recognizes. Ilya presses him back into the mattress, into the familiar language of weight and heat and breath. No reassurances are shared out loud, just hands, pressure, and closeness to remind him what hasn’t changed.

By morning, Shane is steadier. Still irritated, but steadier.

The second game ends differently. A win that builds instead of explodes. It’s earned and satisfying without being loud.

The days between fill themselves: video, gym, long practices that aren’t cruel, just repetitive. It’s the slow work of finding rhythm. Ilya shows up, works, leaves it at the rink. He heads home loose, laughing easily, content to let the day end where it should.

He doesn’t think about names or the internet or couples that may or may not have broken up.

He thinks about Shane’s weight across him in the dark. About the rookies starting to keep up. About the spark in Wiebe’s eye that wasn’t there last year.

By the time they’re back at the rink after the long week, everything else has quieted.

Which is why it catches him off guard when Harris walks straight toward him.

“Ilya,” Harris says.

Ilya looks up from taping his stick. “Yes.”

Harris holds something out.

It takes a second to register.

A solid button, heavy in his palm.

APPLES ON ICE
#1 FAN

The noise of the room drops away. Ilya’s smile grows wide without permission.

“You made this,” he says.

Harris grins.

Ilya takes it carefully, like it might disappear if he’s careless. He turns it over a few times, it’s heavy and pristine a way that couldn’t have been achieved at home.

“This is excellent,” he says.

Harris laughs.

Ilya pins it to the front of his warm-up jersey, just under the ridiculous logo. Adjusts it multiple times until it sits just right.

He skates with it on. Stretches with it on. Forgets it’s there until Troy skates past and shoots it a look sharp enough to register even in passing.

By the time the room empties, Ilya is tired in the good way, the kind that settles into muscle and leaves everything else quieter.

When he pulls the jersey off, the button knocks lightly against his chest. He removes it, pauses with it in his hand, then clips it to the outside pocket of his bag.

He heads for the showers, clocking that Shane is nearly ready to leave. He doesn’t want to make him wait.

Later, as he’s gathering his things, Harris passes by again. His eyes flick to the bag.

He shoulders the bag, then pauses. “I will need another one.”

Harris laughs. “For what?”

“For Shane,” Ilya says. “He should match.”

Harris is already pulling his phone out.

Ilya leaves satisfied.

- - -

Ilya does not knock.

Harris looks up anyway, fingers still on his keyboard. “Hey, Ilya.”

“Yes, yes, hello,” Ilya says, already halfway into the room. “Scott and Kip need ship name.”

Harris blinks. “Okay.”

“They are together,” Ilya adds, as if that clarifies everything. “This is established.”

“It is,” Harris says. “And they already have one.”

Ilya stops, halfway lowered into a chair. “What?”

Harris nods. “Yeah. Scott and Kip already have a ship name.”

“But Kip is not famous,” Ilya says, slow and careful, like Harris has misfiled a key detail.

Harris leans back in his chair. “When you’re kissed on national television during a hockey game, you become a little famous.”

Ilya considers this. “But not more famous couple than Shane and I,” he says.

Harris smiles, placating. “Totally. You win.”

Satisfied, Ilya nods once. “So what is their ship name?”

“Skip.”

Ilya stares at him. “Hunter would break a hip,” he says. “He is too old for skipping. Makes no sense.”

Harris laughs. “It’s Scott and Kip. Skip.”

“That is lazy.”

“It’s also already a thing.”

Ilya sighs, glancing away then directly back at Harris. “I can change it.”

Harris straightens. “You can’t just change an existing ship name.”

Ilya’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I can.”

Harris exhales, eyes narrowing. “Ilya—”

“I will change Hollanov,” Ilya continues, undeterred. “And I may also change Skip.”

Harris drops his head back against the chair. “You can’t just,” he gestures, “decide this.”

Ilya tilts his head. “Why not?”

“Because,” Harris says, choosing his words, “there are already edits and usernames and fandom communities dedicated to skip.”

“You don’t have to help,” Ilya says reasonably. “I will manage.”

Harris pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need you to leave my office.”

Ilya nods with a grin and leaves without another word.

- - - 

The movie has been on long enough that Ilya’s grown bored.

Shane is leaned back against him, legs stretched out neatly along the couch, weight settled like he’s made a decision to stay exactly where he is. Ilya’s hand rests at Shane’s waist. The other holds his phone.

Ilya scrolls.

Not aimlessly, but with purpose.

“Ilya,” Shane says, his eyes still on the TV, “what are you doing?”

“I am researching,” Ilya replies.

“Just watch the movie. I don’t want to answer 100 questions when you decide to focus again.”

Ilya scrolls once more, then stops. “Ancient History.”

Shane shifts slightly. “What?”

“Kip and Scott,” Ilya says. “Their ship.”

Shane props himself up on one elbow now. “What about it?”

“I fixed it.”

Shane sighs, resigned. “You fixed it. I didn’t know anything was wrong.”

“Yes.” Ilya turns the phone toward him. “Kip studies history. He posted this.” He taps the screen once, there’s a graduation photo of Kip with a detailed caption about his graduate degree. “Scott is old man. Very old. So old. Together they are Ancient History.”

Shane stares at the phone. Then at Ilya.

“You’re not going to post that anywhere,” he says.

Shane rubs a hand over his face. “You know you actually like them, right. Same way you like Hayden.”

Ilya ignores this entirely. “It would be good for Game Changers camp marketing.”

Shane looks at him closely. “In what way?”

“Harris will figure it out.”

“No,” Shane says immediately. “We are not making Harris do all our marketing again unless you’re paying him.”

“I volunteer,” Ilya says. “You volunteer. Troy volunteers. Why cannot Harris volunteer.”

“Because Harris already does everything,” Shane says. “And even if he helped, you’re not turning camp into a relationship thing.”

Ilya waves this away.

“People already call us the gay hockey camp,” Shane continues. “I want them to take us seriously.”

That gets Ilya’s attention.

He looks down at Shane properly now, taking in the crease between his eyebrows.

“Shane,” he says. “You are proof that you can be gay and serious.”

Shane exhales, the fight leaking out of him. “That’s not—”

“You are sometimes too serious,” Ilya adds. “Very serious. Especially about hockey.”

Shane laughs despite himself, leaning back into Ilya’s chest. “You’re impossible.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But I am correct.”

Shane tilts his head back, eyes narrowing. “You’re not posting Ancient History.”

Ilya hums, thoughtful.

“I will,” he says slowly, “consider posting it anonymously.”

Shane groans and buries his face in Ilya’s shoulder. 

Ilya smiles, already filing the idea away. He picks up the remote and rewinds the movie.

- - - 

The plane has settled into a quiet rhythm.

Ilya is comfortable with his headphones on and knees angled just enough that his leg stays pressed to Shane’s. Shane doesn’t move away. They exist side by side like this easily, separate but connected, each absorbed in their own screen.

Ilya scrolls.

At first it’s habit. Something to do while the plane hums and half his teammates nap. Then a word slides past his screen that makes him stop.

#Hollanov

He scrolls back.

Taps.

The first video loads.

It’s them as stuffed animals. Round heads, stitched jerseys, little felt skates. Someone has set it to dramatic music, swelling like it means something important.

Ilya smiles.

He angles the phone toward Shane. “Look.”

Shane glances over. Pauses. “Oh my god. What is that?”

“They made us soft,” Ilya says, pleased. “Very accurate.”

Shane shakes his head, already turning back to his own phone.

Ilya returns to scrolling the Hollanov tag.

Ilya nudges him again. “Look.”

A sigh. Shane looks.

This one is a compilation of faceoffs, cut tight and fast. A decade collapsing into seconds. The music is strangely romantic. The last clip is practice footage that lingers on screen longer than the rest. It’s recent, they’re in centaurs practice gear and set up for a faceoff. It looks almost the same as all the others, except they’re laughing, and there’s a different kind of passion in their eyes. Harris must have posted it.

Shane exhales sharply. “I’m not doing this.”

He unbuckles, stands, grabs his bag, and slides into an empty seat a row up, next to Wyatt.

Ilya watches him go, mildly surprised. Then shrugs and looks back down.

The next video starts automatically.

Old game footage.

“This is when I beat him four–one,” Ilya says aloud.

Luca, stuck in the aisle seat across from him, looks over. “What?”

“They think he cried that night,” Ilya continues, scrolling. “But the tears were not sad.”

Luca blinks, eyes wide.

“He was fine,” Ilya adds. “Very good night for all.”

Luca turns bright red and looks away.

Another edit loads, this one has been slowed down and is lighter than the others. Ilya recognizes it instantly.

He taps Luca’s arm. “Look. That’s our first commercial.”

Luca looks up. “Roz.”

“That is when it all started,” Ilya says.

“Wait, what? Started?” Luca says, confused.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “We were hot. Very sexy. No wonder Shane could not keep his hands off me.”

In front of Ilya, Shane groans loudly.

Ilya smiles and keeps scrolling.

The algorithm has decided it understands him.

He watches two Skip videos out of politeness. They’re fine. Acceptable. But they lack substance.

Back to Hollanov.

He holds his phone up between the seats behind him. “Troy. Look. Someone animated our first fight.”

“I’m not looking at that,” Troy says instantly.

“Shane looks like angry kitten,” Ilya adds, delighted.

Troy puts his headphones on.

Ilya continues, undeterred.

A shadow falls across him.

Before he can look up, a hand closes gently but firmly over his mouth.

“Stop,” Shane says, low and urgent. “Stop traumatizing the team.”

Ilya blinks up at him, eyes bright. “Mmmph.”

Shane drops back into the seat beside him, hand shifting to Ilya’s jaw. “You are not allowed to narrate fan edits.”

“They are very good,” Ilya says. “The creativity—”

“No.”

“They understand our story.”

“Absolutely not.”

Troy snorts somewhere behind them.

Shane presses his forehead briefly to Ilya’s shoulder and exhales. “You cannot show people that.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t want to see it,” Shane says. “And because I don’t want to hear about the time I cried over a four–one loss again.”

“You did not cry over the loss,” Ilya says. “You cried because I—”

“No,” Shane cuts in, eyes wide. “Do not finish that sentence.”

Ilya hums. Then leans in and kisses Shane’s cheek—soft, quick, private. He murmurs, just for him, “Was good night, yes?”

Shane gives him a look that says everything.

He reaches over, takes the phone, and powers it off. “No more scrolling.”

Ilya allows it. For now.

He leans closer to Shane, voice lowered. “Later, I will show you the stuffed animals again. There are more.”

Shane closes his eyes. “I know you will.”

Ilya smiles, already planning it.

- - - 

The kitchen is quiet and Shane is at the counter in his socks, sleeves pushed up, sorting the mail with the same care he gives to everything else. It’s domestic yet focused. It’s the feeling that Ilya has come to call home, no matter where they are.

Ilya waits.

He watches Shane’s shoulders loosen as the routine settles him. The way he makes small pleased sounds, almost without realizing. 

When the moment feels right, Ilya slides a folded piece of paper across the counter.

Shane glances down. “What’s this?”

“List,” Ilya says.

“Of what?”

“New ship names for us.”

Shane raises an eyebrow at Ilya. “Why are you still stuck on this?”

“Hollanov,” Ilya says, “is almost entirely your name. I am like a mistake.”

Shane exhales, slow. “I didn’t pick it. I don’t want a ship name.”

“Just read the list,” Ilya says, patient.

Shane hesitates, then unfolds the paper.

His mouth twitches almost immediately.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs. “ ‘Jily.’ ”

“It is combination,” Ilya says with a goofy smile.

“It sounds like a cartoon pig. And no one else would understand it.”

“Still combination.”

Shane shakes his head, smiling despite himself, and keeps reading.

Another line.

Then another.

The smile fades.

He stops. Lowers the paper slowly.

He looks up at Ilya. “ ‘The Ass and the Hole?’ ”

“Yes,” Ilya says.

“That’s—” Shane gestures helplessly with the page. “That’s obscene.”

“It is accurate,” Ilya says reasonably. “I have nice ass. You have nice hole. It works.”

Shane makes a strangled sound and rubs a hand down his face. “You cannot say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we are adults. With jobs.”

“We are hockey players,” Ilya counters. “This is fine.”

Shane points at him. “Keep being an ass and you will not get to touch any holes tonight.”

Ilya considers this.

He reaches out, takes the paper from Shane’s hand, and folds it neatly, returning it to his pocket. “Okay. I will remove that one.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” Ilya adds, slipping the list into his pocket, “the logic is still strong.”

Shane laughs despite himself, stepping closer, his forehead brushing briefly against Ilya’s shoulder as his arms settle around Ilya’s waist. “You are unbelievable.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, his arm sliding around Shane’s shoulders, holding him there. “But you smiled.”

“Against my will.”

“Still counts.”

Shane exhales, then pulls back just enough to look at him properly. His amusement has slipped into a serious curiosity now.

“Why is this so important to you?” he asks.

The teasing lifts from the room and something steadier settles in its place.

Ilya doesn’t answer right away.

His arm stays firm across Shane’s shoulders, thumb resting at the base of his neck. The contact is automatic now, it’s a muscle memory built over years.

He feels the tension anyway.

Not in Shane’s grip, but in the way his shoulders hold. In the care with which he carries himself, even here sometimes. Like he’s always aware of how he’s being seen. Like he knows how quickly admiration curdles. How easily affection becomes spectacle. How a small joke turns into a headline.

Ilya tightens his arm, just a fraction.

“All these ships,” he says finally. “They fail.”

“We’re not a ship,” Shane says, brow furrowing. “We’re real people. We’re not going to fail.”

“I know,” Ilya says softly. “But they look at us. They expect it. Like it proves something.”

Shane doesn’t look away.

“I want to be a good example,” Shane says. “I don’t want to make our relationship into a bigger spectacle just to give it a name.”

Ilya leans down, resting their foreheads together. “I don’t want us to be a joke either.”

Shane exhales, something easing.

They stay there, close and steady, neither of them letting go.

“I just want us to be taken seriously,” he says.

Ilya nods once. “We will be.”

He releases Shane long enough to reach into his pocket. The folded paper comes out between his fingers. 

He doesn’t open it, instead, he drops it into the trash beside the counter.

Then he steps back in, arms settling around Shane’s shoulders. They stay there, close and steady, the future unspoken but understood.