Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

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

Additional Tags:

Canon Compliant, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), 5+1 Things, wearing each others clothes, Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, Secret Relationship, Established Relationship, Established Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-15 Words: 5,826 Chapters: 1/1

Keep It

Summary

Four times Shane wears something that belongs to Ilya, quietly and in private. Plus one time Ilya does the same, and everyone at Centaurs practice definitely notices.

Takes place during The Long Game, when their relationship is still secret.

Featuring: A sweatshirt, socks, Irina Rozanov's cross necklace, an Ottawa Centaurs hat, and a Montreal Voyageurs shirt.

Notes

So I've been busy screaming about these boys in discord, so I figured it was time to post something...

I'm still working on my WIPs for RWRB, but I just couldn't resist this. Rachel Reid has delivered a masterful romance, and I'm still in awe of how all 6 books weave together so well.

I hope you enjoy!

• Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 留存（授翻） by SLoan_1007

1. A Sweatshirt

Two hours since the game, and Shane still feels wrong in his own skin. The rink shower helped in theory. Hot water, a quick scrub, the same industrial body wash that smells like antiseptic and disappointment. It never actually makes him feel clean. It does just enough to get him through the drive.

By the time he pulls up outside Ilya’s house in Ottawa, all he wants is heat. Steam. A shower hot enough to scald the day off him.

He lets himself in and the first thing he notices is the cold.

Every window is open.

Not cracked, but entirely wide open. December air cuts straight through the house, crisp and clean and sharp enough to wake him all the way up. It smells like winter and something faintly off. Maybe something burnt.

Shane stops just inside the door. “You've been smoking in here.” he says, toeing off his shoes.

Ilya shrugs, appearing from the kitchen with a bowl of ice cream in hand. “You always think I do crime, yes?”

“You open every window in December,” Shane says. “That’s a crime.”

Ilya doesn’t answer. He takes a deliberate bite of ice cream instead and gestures with the spoon toward the living room.

Shane follows, grinning. “You’re avoiding the question.”

They reach the couch. Ilya sets the ice cream down and lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I do not smoke indoors.”

That’s enough.

Shane lunges.

Ilya yelps, startled, but Shane has momentum and surprise and the certainty of being right. He tackles him into the couch, cushions sinking beneath them, air rushing out of Ilya’s lungs in a laugh that turns into a swear.

“Fuck off.”

“You lied,” Shane says, breathless and pleased.

“Did not lie,” Ilya protests, still laughing, hands immediately finding Shane’s ribs in retaliation. “Said I do not smoke inside. Outside is different.”

Shane grabs Ilya’s hands and holds them above Ilya’s head. He swings a leg over Ilya’s thighs and pins him there, just because he can. Just because it feels good. The cold, the drive, the lingering exhaustion all burn off under his skin.

“Did you watch the game?” Shane asks.

“No,” Ilya says. “Those American footballers were on. Much more exciting.”

“Asshole. I know you watched,” Shane says. “You just don’t want to admit it was a fucking good game.”

“Was fine,” Ilya says.

Shane presses a kiss to Ilya's lips, then flops over so he’s lying next to him, trapped between Ilya’s shoulder and the couch. “Remind me why I love you?”

“Because I am only person who tells you that you are boring,” Ilya says. “Winning is not same as exciting.”

Shane groans.

“We should practice new tricks,” Ilya adds, thoughtful.

Shane shifts, suddenly hyperaware of his own body again. The sweat he never quite washed off. The itch under his collar. The way the cold air from the open windows makes everything worse.

“I need a shower,” he says, pushing himself up and away from Ilya. “A real one. Like, boiling.”

Ilya hums thoughtfully. “You are inviting me, yes?”

“It’s your house,” Shane says plainly. “Your shower.”

“You are not still mad about the smoking that never happened.”

Shane grabs a pillow and smacks him with it, fully standing now while Ilya is still on the couch. “Invitation revoked. I’m showering alone.”

Ilya stands anyway. He catches Shane’s wrist and tugs him back just enough to steal a quick kiss. When he pulls away, he smiles.

“Is your house too.”

Shane smiles back and pulls Ilya with him toward the stairs, already thinking about hot water and steam and how much better everything is about to feel.

After the shower, they collapse into bed, their bodies warm and loose and spent, the air still thick with steam and soap. Shane notices how their reunions have slowed down, on nights like this, where he had just seen Ilya a week and a half ago, they didn't feel the need to fall into one another the second he was through the door. He likes the variety, the ability to take things slow tonight. Eventually, blissed out and quiet, exhaustion takes them both into a deep sleep.

By dawn, he wakes up cold.

Not the mild, tolerable kind. The kind that sinks straight into his bones and drags him out of sleep all at once. The house is quiet, light just beginning to creep in through the partially covered windows, winter pale and unkind.

Ilya is still asleep beside him. Warm and solid. Breathing slow and even, like nothing in the world could disturb him.

Shane inches closer, careful not to wake him. He presses his feet against Ilya’s calves, then his shins, trying to steal heat. 

When that doesn’t work, he considers tugging the blankets tighter, but they’re already knotted between them, twisted from the night before. He considers waking Ilya, but the thought stops him. Ilya barely sleeps as it is. When he does, Shane hates to be the reason it ends.

So he slips out of bed.

The cold hits him immediately, sharp enough to make him hiss under his breath. He rubs his arms as he crosses the room, bare feet quiet on the floor, eyes scanning for something, anything.

That’s when he sees it.

The hoodie is slung over the back of a chair near the dresser, abandoned and careless, like it was dropped there without thought. It's black, soft, and familiar in a way that makes his chest tighten.

He pulls it on. It’s warmer than he expects, heavier than any hoodie he owns. The fabric is worn in a way that feels lived-in, shaped by someone else’s body. It smells like clean laundry and Ilya and something else Shane can’t name, something grounding.

The tension drains out of him almost immediately. His shoulders drop. His breath evens out.

When he climbs back into bed, the mattress shifts and Ilya stirs. One eye opens. Then the other.

He looks at Shane for a long moment, taking him in.

“Cold?” Ilya asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Sorry.”

Ilya doesn’t respond right away. He reaches out instead, fingers catching in the hem of the hoodie, tugging Shane closer without hesitation. Shane goes willingly, curling back against him until he’s half draped across Ilya’s chest, warmth pressed along his side.

They don’t fall back asleep right away. They talk instead, quietly, faces close enough that Shane can feel Ilya’s breath against his cheek. Nothing important. Nothing urgent. Just the kind of conversation that fills space gently. Ilya’s hands don’t stop moving, restless and curious, fingers tracing the seam of the hoodie, brushing Shane’s hip, tugging him closer whenever he shifts.

Eventually, sleep finds them again.

Shane wakes later to sunlight spilling across the room, the cold a distant memory, the hoodie still wrapped around him like it belongs there.

Ilya is awake, propped on one elbow, watching him with a faint smirk. His hand trails lazily over Shane’s chest, fingers brushing the Ottawa logo on the sweatshirt like it’s something delicate.

Shane smiles back, almost taunting.

“You wear it better,” Ilya says.

Shane laughs softly, warmth blooming somewhere behind his ribs that has nothing to do with the sweatshirt. “You’re biased.”

“Correct.”

As they lay there, quietly kissing as if they plan to stay in bed all day, Ilya keeps playing with the strings of the hoodie, winding them around his fingers, tugging Shane closer just to let him go again. It’s absentminded and constant, like he can’t help himself.

Shane wears the hoodie all day.

When he sits between Ilya’s legs on the couch later, coffee cooling untouched on the table, Ilya slips his hands into the pockets like they belong there. His thumbs hook against the lining, grounding Shane in place while the rest of the world fades out.

Later, when Shane gets up to rinse their mugs, Ilya catches the hem as he passes, stopping him just long enough to press a quick kiss to his hip before letting him go again. The fabric stretches under his fingers. 

Shane forgets it isn’t his until he catches his reflection in the mirror.

It hangs differently on him than it ever has on Ilya. The sleeves hit wrong. The shoulders sit just a little too wide. The weight of it feels borrowed in a way that makes his chest tighten.

And he loves how Ilya can’t stop touching him.

Brushing past, grabbing fabric instead of skin, tugging him back when he wanders too far. Sometimes it’s deliberate. Sometimes it’s so casual Shane almost misses it.

When it’s time to head back to Montreal, Shane takes the hoodie off without comment. He folds it neatly and sets it back over the chair where it was before, smoothing the fabric once, carefully.

Ilya watches him do it, expression unreadable.

2. Socks

Shane learns quickly that Ilya's house is always cold. He thought as a Canadian he'd be fine, it couldn't be that different from Russia, but clearly Ilya's body temperature is significantly different.

The next time Shane finds himself freezing in Ilya's bed, he's barely awake enough to surface and it takes him awhile to register what woke him. His body reacts before his brain does, shifting closer on instinct, pressing his cold feet against something warm and familiar. He sighs and starts to drift again.

A minute passes.

His body won't settle, so he finds himself doing it again.

This time, Ilya makes a noise.

Not sharp. Not fully awake. Just a low, irritated sound. His eyes are still closed, his arm still wrapped around Shane, his breathing mostly even as if he's decided it's not worth opening his eyes. Shane’s feet push back against Ilya’s shins for a third time, seeking heat like they know exactly where to go.

“Jesus,” Ilya mutters in his ear.

Shane hums something that might be an apology. Or it might just be acknowledgment.

He feels Ilya move away, hears the sheets rustle. A wave of cold air sweeps in from behind, then something soft hits his thigh.

“Put them on,” Ilya says, voice thick with sleep. “You are impossible.”

Shane blinks, finally awake enough to understand. He reaches out without looking, fingers closing around fabric. Socks. Thick, warm ones.

He pulls them on automatically, still mostly asleep. The relief is immediate. Heat sinks into his toes, spreads upward, loosening everything all at once.

“Better?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs.

He presses his feet back against Ilya, slower this time, deliberate. Ilya doesn’t complain. An arm comes around Shane’s waist, heavy and certain, drawing him closer until there’s no gap left to fill.

They fall back asleep like that.

In the morning, the light is already up, pale and thin through the windows. Shane rolls onto his back and stretches, feet brushing the sheets.

He doesn’t think about it at first.

It isn’t until he’s halfway dressed that he looks down.

The socks are still on.

They’re not his. Dark, worn thin at the heel, but thick everywhere else. He stares at them for a moment, the quiet hum of the house settling around him.

He should take them off.

The thought occurs cleanly, reasonably. He even shifts his weight, toes curling like he’s about to bend down and peel them away.

He doesn’t.

He leaves in them instead.

The drive feels longer than usual. Shane keeps glancing down, irrationally aware of his feet, like the socks might give him away somehow. Like anyone could see through the floor of the car. He knows that’s stupid. He knows no one is looking.

Still, his chest feels tight with it. This small, unspoken thing he’s carrying.

When he gets home, he takes them off carefully.

He doesn’t toss them in the laundry. He doesn’t shove them in a bag. He folds them neatly, smoothing the fabric like it matters, and sets them in the back corner of his drawer, somewhere safe.

Somewhere they won’t get lost.

3. Irina Rozanov's Cross Necklace

Two days. Two nights.

It’s a small miracle of scheduling. They never have this much uninterrupted time together during the winter months, but Shane stayed behind after the Ottawa–Montreal game last night and skipped an optional practice today. Ilya has to leave for a few hours for his own practice, but Shane will still be here when he gets back. That part feels almost unreal. It almost never happens.

They’re on the couch, Shane curled against Ilya’s side, head resting on his chest. The TV murmurs low and forgettable in the background. Their coffees sit untouched on the table, long gone cold. The morning has been quiet in a way that feels intentional. Having the extra time has taken the edge off everything. There’s no pressure to say it all at once, no urgency to make every moment count.

Ilya’s hand rests on Shane’s thigh, thumb moving in slow, absent circles that feel practiced now. They're quiet, enjoying one another's company with the shared understanding that being here, like this, is enough for now.

Shane isn’t watching the TV.

He’s watching the chain at Ilya’s neck.

It catches his attention suddenly, like it’s new, even though he knows it isn’t. The necklace is always there. The thin chain rises and falls with Ilya’s breathing, glinting faintly when it catches the light. Threaded onto it are two familiar shapes: the ring, and the cross.

Shane reaches for it without quite realizing he’s going to. His fingers brush the ring first, thumb circling it slowly. For a fleeting moment, his mind jumps ahead to the matching one he still needs to pick up for himself. Then his hand drifts to the cross beside it, thumb tracing the worn metal.

Ilya takes a slow breath beneath him, deep and steady, and Shane feels the calm of it radiate outward. Ilya’s hand slides from Shane’s thigh, up his arm, until his fingers close gently around Shane’s wrist. He presses a quiet circle into the skin there, grounding, reassuring.

Shane exhales.

“I wish I’d met her,” he says.

Ilya stills. Not completely, but enough that Shane feels it. His fingers squeeze briefly around Shane’s wrist, a silent encouragement to go on.

Shane keeps his voice gentle, careful not to make it heavier than it needs to be. “Your mom,” he adds. Then, after a beat, “I wish I could’ve asked for her blessing.”

He doesn’t look at Ilya when he says it. He isn’t asking for reassurance. He isn’t fishing for absolution. It’s just something that’s been sitting with him, quietly, ever since he proposed.

The room settles into stillness.

When Shane finally shifts and looks up, Ilya is staring straight ahead, jaw set, expression unreadable. After a moment, his hand lifts to the chain at his throat. He unclasps it in one smooth, practiced motion.

He slides the ring off first and settles it onto his finger, where it belongs now that it's been resized.

Then he places the chain and the cross into Shane’s hands.

“She would have loved you,” Ilya says softly.

The words land like a simple fact.

Shane closes his fingers around the chain. It’s warm from Ilya’s skin, the weight of it more than he expects. Not heavy, exactly. Just significant. The cross rests smooth against his palm, worn down by time and touch.

He swallows.

“Thank you,” he says, and means more than he knows how to say.

He wears it for the rest of the day.

At first, he tucks it into his shirt without thinking, protective by instinct. He’s acutely aware of it there, resting over his heart, each movement a reminder. His fingers find it often, twisting the chain slowly, rubbing the cross with his thumb. It steadies him when his thoughts wander.

When Ilya leaves for practice, he kisses Shane goodbye and slips the ring from his own finger. He takes Shane’s hand without ceremony and presses it onto his ring finger instead, warm and deliberate. It's a bit loose, but Shane doesn't care.

“Keep it safe,” Ilya says, quiet but certain.

Shane looks down at it, then back up at him, and they both smile at the small, private weight of it before Ilya leans in for one more kiss and leaves.

After the door closes, the house feels too still.

It feels like home, but Shane hates how close Ilya is while being just out of reach. He wanders from room to room until he finds himself standing by the window, looking out at the backyard and distant trees. His hand comes to the chain at his chest. Holding the cross between his fingers, he speaks softly.

It’s more a conversation than a prayer. He stumbles through some Russian when he can, but uses English when he wants to say something just right.

He tells her about Ilya. About the way he laughs, the stubbornness that defines him, the way he’s grown into a man she would be proud of. He talks about the Irina Foundation and how deeply Ilya wants to help people, how his loyalty runs fierce and unyielding. He speaks of Ilya’s kindness, of the boyish joy that still surprises him, how someone who has endured so much can still create so much light.

He tells her he loves him. That Ilya is his whole world.

He promises to take care of him.

He thanks her for making him who he is.

The words come easily, respectfully, like they’ve been waiting for him.

When he’s finished, Shane presses the cross flat against his chest and closes his eyes. A single tear slips free, warm against his skin.

Later, he curls up on the couch, pulls a blanket over himself, and lets something aimless play on the TV.

He wakes to the familiar weight of Ilya’s presence, fingers combing gently through his hair.

Shane hums, eyes still closed.

“Hey,” Ilya says softly, bending to kiss his forehead.

Shane pushes himself upright, blinking. “Hey. How was practice?”

“Was good,” Ilya says. He settles beside Shane and leans in for a real kiss, slow and unhurried. When he pulls back, he smiles. “This is better.”

Shane laughs quietly. “Go take a real shower.”

“Only if you come,” Ilya says. “Otherwise I stay fake showered.”

Shane laughs and follows him upstairs.

Later that night, as they’re getting dressed for bed, Shane unclasps the chain and holds it out.

He returns it carefully, reverently, placing it back into Ilya’s hands the same way it was given. Ilya watches him closely, something sharp and searching in his eyes, but he doesn’t stop him. He threads the ring back onto the chain without comment and lets it settle once more against his chest.

“Thank you,” Shane says.

Ilya leans in and kisses him.

4. An Ottawa Centaurs Hat

“You remember seeing my hat?” Ilya asks, like he already knows the answer.

Shane leans back against his kitchen counter, phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear. He pictures it immediately. Black with the centaurs logo, worn soft at the brim, shaped to Ilya’s head in a way that makes no sense on anyone else. The number 81 sits just above his ear when he wears it.

“Which one,” Shane says.

There’s an expectant pause.

They both know Shane has it.

Somewhere along the way, Shane has gotten into the habit of leaving Ilya’s place with something that isn’t his. It’s never planned. It just happens. A T-shirt tossed into a bag. A pair of socks—or two—that never quite make their way back. Lately, it’s been Ottawa gear more often than not, which Shane pointedly does not think too deeply about.

Sometimes he returns the things. Sometimes he doesn’t.

The socks, he doesn’t. Those have become a ritual now, worn every time Ottawa plays Montreal, both a private joke and comfort that lives entirely in Shane’s head.

“I might’ve seen it,” Shane says, deliberately vague.

“Hm,” Ilya says, which is as close as he ever gets to calling bullshit.

Shane changes the subject before either of them can push. “Three days. And I think I can make it for dinner.”

“You think,” Ilya repeats. “Your schedule is shit.”

“I love my schedule.”

“My team finishes practice when we say we finish,” Ilya says. “Always on time. Only late if people are dumb. My team is not dumb.”

“My team works harder,” Shane says. “We’re not afraid of extra time.”

Ilya sighs, long-suffering.

“If you are here for dinner,” he says, resigned, “you eat carbs.”

“Great,” Shane says. “I’ll stay late at practice, then.”

“Let me feed you normal food,” Ilya says unapologetically. “I promise you will still be second best hockey player, even without diet.”

Shane laughs, the sound easy and warm. “Second best?”

“Yes,” Ilya says.

They argue about it for another minute, looping in familiar ways, neither of them trying very hard to win. By the time they hang up, Shane is already smiling, phone warm in his hand.

He wanders into the bedroom without really thinking about it.

The hat is where he left it. On the bedside table where Ilya usually sleeps. As if holding his place.

Shane picks it up and turns it over in his hands.

On his way to practice three days later, Shane tosses the hat into his bag.

After practice, he texts Ilya that it ended on time and he’s on his way.

He lingers in the locker room longer than necessary, then reaches into his bag and pulls the hat free. He turns it over once, then puts it on.

It feels loud in the same way Ilya's ring did at first.

Shane remembers the first press conference he watched of Ilya where he could see the glint of his chain. The ring wasn't visible to him, but he knew that meant Ilya's had worn it openly in the locker room when he'd changed. They haven't talked about it much, but Shane knows Ilya's teammates have seen it. He hopes Ilya would tell him if someone says something outright, but they haven't talked about it, about the visibility of it, and the possibility of people interpreting it correctly. Instead it exists in a narrow space between visible and unnamed.

Shane hasn't gotten his ring yet. Part of him has been relieved, he isn't sure he'll be able to wear it without calling attention. But he also somehow feels bare without it, a ghost of something he never had. When he sees Ilya, he wishes for the same constant, physical reminder. He decides he's going to check on the status of the order when he gets home.

In this moment, the hat holds a similar place—a physical reminder of Ilya.

It sits low over his eyes, familiar, weight wrong in a way that still somehow grounds him. Wearing it in the car feels like the same quiet rebellion, sharpened. 

On the highway, under the harsh white lights, doubt creeps in. He reaches up, fingers brushing the brim.

He could take it off.

No one would know. He’s still alone. But he feels embarrassed for thinking it. If he can't manage to keep a hat on alone in a dark car, how will he keep a ring pressed against his chest.

He leaves it on.

When he gets to Ilya’s place, he lets himself in, keys familiar in his hand. Ilya looks up from the kitchen, expression shifting as recognition hits.

Then he laughs.

“I should buy you your own, yes?” Ilya says, eyes bright.

Shane shrugs, easy and deliberate. “I like this one.”

Ilya crosses the room in three steps and kisses him, quick and warm and unapologetic. His hand reaches up and adjusts it like it belongs there.

Shane doesn’t plan on taking it off right away.

+1 A Montreal Voyageurs Shirt

It’s too early.

That’s Ilya’s first thought, groggy and staring up at the dark ceiling like it might offer an explanation. The room is still, heavy with sleep, the kind that presses down instead of lifting.

Then his body catches up.

He reaches for his phone and checks the time.

4:07 a.m.

“Fuck,” he breathes the word, barely a sound.

He isn’t catastrophically late. Not yet. But close enough that the margin is gone. Close enough that he won’t have time to go home first. Practice is at six. Ottawa is not Montreal, no matter how much he wants it to be.

They had the day. Just a day. That was the plan. He was supposed to leave last night, drive back, sleep alone in his own bed like a responsible adult with a career and a schedule and a team that expects him to show up on time.

But Shane had looked at him like that.

One thing had led to another. And then, not for the first time, Ilya had fallen asleep with Shane in his arms and forgotten every plan he’d made.

Shane is warm and solid against him now, breathing deep and slow. Dead asleep. The kind of sleep you don’t interrupt unless something is on fire.

Shane has a game in less than twelve hours.

Ilya can’t wake him.

He slides out of bed carefully, easing Shane’s arm away a fraction at a time, moving like the smallest mistake might shatter something fragile. The air bites immediately, cold in that pre-dawn way that feels sharper because the world hasn’t woken up yet. Usually Ilya appreciates the morning cold, he finds it a comforting cleanse to the air. But today it hurts.

The lights remain off and he moves by memory. The floorboard creaks once beneath his foot and his heart stutters. He freezes, eyes fixed on Shane’s face.

Shane doesn’t stir.

Ilya exhales slowly and keeps going.

It feels safer to grab clothes from the floor than to open drawers, to avoid the quiet clatter of hangers and wood. He finds a T-shirt and a sweatshirt near the bed and pulls them on quickly. The fabric is soft, familiar.

Keys. Phone. Shoes.

At the door, he hesitates.

He looks back at the bed. At Shane, still asleep, face turned into the pillow, unguarded and peaceful. Ilya turns around, crosses the room again, and presses a brief kiss to Shane’s forehead, barely there.

Then he leaves.

The door closes softly behind him. Outside, the cold feels cleaner. He takes a breath, gets into the car, and pulls away.

The drive is quiet.

Too quiet, maybe, but he doesn’t have the energy to question it. The highway is nearly empty, streetlights stretching into long, pale streaks as he passes beneath them. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around the coffee he picked up at McDonald’s, letting the caffeine seep in slowly.

He’s tired.

But he knows it would have been worse if he’d gone home last night and slept alone. A few hours with Shane is always better than a full night without him.

By the time he pulls into the rink parking lot, the morning feels almost ordinary again.

Inside, everything clicks into place.

The smell of ice. The low hum of the building waking up. Someone arguing loudly about music down the hall. Ilya nods to a few people as he passes and they nod back. Nothing feels off. No one looks twice at him. If his morning was chaos, it doesn’t show here.

He’s late, technically, but not enough for it to matter.

The locker room is already loud when he walks in.

Bood is chirping someone about their haircut. Dillon is complaining about needing to break in new skates. Someone laughs too hard at a joke that isn’t that funny. It’s the same noise, the same rhythm, the familiar comfort of routine.

Ilya drops his bag by his stall and starts to strip out of his clothes, movements automatic. He barely listens to the conversation around him, mind already shifting into practice mode.

When he pulls his sweatshirt over his head, cold air hits his skin.

The room goes quiet.

Wyatt stops mid-sentence. His gaze lingers a second too long.

Bood squints at him from across the room. “Why the fuck are you wearing Voyageurs shit?”

Ilya blinks.

“What?” he says, genuinely confused.

He looks down.

The shirt is red.

Not Ottawa red. Not even close.

Montreal red. Tight across his chest, sleeves hitting wrong, the fabric stretched in a way that feels suddenly, unmistakably familiar. Recognition lands in pieces, slow and inevitable.

Of course it's Shane's.

He stands there for a beat, bare feet on cold concrete, the shirt loud against his skin.

For a moment, he considers changing. Pulling it off. Laughing it away. Pretending it’s nothing. That option still exists. No one has said anything else yet.

Then Troy snorts. “Man, you lose a bet or something?”

Ilya opens his mouth.

Closes it.

He looks around the room. There's familiar faces all with waiting expressions. The is moment hovering loose and uncertain, waiting on Ilya to guide it.

He shrugs.

“Today,” he says slowly, accent thick with sleep and something like amusement, “we practice… what is word?”

He looks around. “Troy. When you pretend to be someone else.”

Troy raises an eyebrow. “Acting?”

“No,” Ilya says. “In their head.”

Wyatt tries, helpful. “Like walking a mile in someone else’s shoes?”

Ilya stares at him. “What? No. The fuck is that?”

Bood snorts. “Perspective.”

Ilya points at him. “Yes. Perspective.”

Dykstra groans immediately.

“We must understand enemy,” Ilya continues, deadpan. “So today, I am Montreal.”

Someone laughs. Someone swears under their breath.

Bood shakes his head. “You’re an asshole.”

Ilya grins.

He doesn’t change the shirt.

Practice is about to start, and he has committed.

Ilya skates hard, edges biting sharp into the surface like he has something to prove. The red of the shirt flashes every time he cuts across the rink, the wrong color in a familiar place.

So he leans into it.

He chirps wrong on purpose, tossing out lines he’s heard a hundred times from the other side, cadence exaggerated just enough to be recognizable. He skates cleaner, holds onto the puck a beat longer than usual, rolls his shoulders in that particular way Shane does before a hard stop.

Someone yells, “You serious right now?”

Ilya grins and keeps going.

He commits fully. Overdoes it like the bit is the point. He exaggerates habits he knows by heart, like the fake left before the cut right, and the lazy confidence of a no-look pass. He knows the smug little tilt of the head that J.J. gives after a clean play. He even channels Hayden and spends a solid ten minutes only passing, never taking a shot. 

It’s ridiculous.

It somehow works.

Someone laughs. Someone groans. Someone inevitably calls him an asshole, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Ilya doesn’t correct them.

He skates harder instead.

The coach blows the whistle, barking instructions, but even that doesn’t break the rhythm. Ilya listens, nods, adjusts, all without changing the shirt. Sweat darkens the fabric at his collar. It clings to him, stretched and familiar, and he makes no effort to hide it.

By the end of practice, his legs burn and his lungs ache, and the joke has worn thin enough to leave something else behind.

He still doesn’t take the shirt off.

Not yet.

Because somewhere along the way, it stopped being a joke.

Practice breaks the way it always does: loud, loose, bodies slumping, gear coming off in practiced motions. The joke lingers in the air even as everyone moves on to the next thing.

“Next practice,” Bood announces, “I’m going to be the Bears.”

Ilya groans immediately. “No, no, no. Bears are not option.” He waves a hand. “You want to be me. Not Bears.”

“But we play the Bears next week,” Bood argues.

“Be Admirals,” Ilya says. “We play them after Boston.”

“They’re boring.”

“Exactly,” Ilya says. “Perfect.”

That gets a few laughs.

Ilya finally peels the shirt off and swaps it for his own. The fabric clings for a second before coming free. He doesn’t look at it for long. Folds it once then tucks it into his bag.

Troy looks at him. “Do we get to burn that thing at Bood’s next BBQ?”

“Absolutely not,” Bood says.“I don’t want it infecting my grill.”

“I will keep it,” Ilya says, shrugging. “Was educational.”

That gets another laugh. It feels over.

At home, sprawled on the couch, he finally checks his phone.

There are more notifications than usual.

He scrolls.

Of course Harris has posted.

It’s a story. Shot from the bench, and clearly thrown together quickly. Ilya mid-stride, sweat darkening the collar, red and blue unmistakable even through the motion blur. He makes the shot. Wyatt blocks it. As Ilya skates past the camera, his mouth moves, the words lost under the music, but the Voyageurs logo is clear.

The caption reads:

Sometimes you have to think like the enemy. 😈

There’s a tag. Not of Ilya.

Of Montreal.

Ilya exhales slowly through his nose and laughs, shaking his head. Harris has always been like this—sharp, observant, skating the edge of what’s acceptable with practiced ease.

His phone vibrates almost immediately.

Shane.

“Hey.”

There’s a pause on the other end.

“Did you,” Shane says carefully, “wear my shirt to practice?”

Ilya leans back against the couch. He can picture it already: Shane scrolling, thumb freezing, heart jumping straight into his throat.

“Yes,” Ilya says.

Another pause. Heavier.

“Okay,” Shane says. Then, quieter, “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.”

“You are not imagining,” Ilya says. “Was accident.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It was very early,” Ilya says, smiling despite himself.

“People are already speculating,” Shane says. He doesn't sound entirely panicked, just alert. Any maybe a bit controlled. Shane in risk-management mode.

“They love their stories,” Ilya says.

“You could’ve changed.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t.”

“No.”

Silence settles between them. Not awkward, but weighted.

Finally, Shane asks, “You okay?”

Ilya thinks about the ice. The laughter. The way it felt to leave the shirt on. “Yes,” he says. “Are you?”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t know yet. I think so.”

“Good,” Ilya says, then softer, “Will bring it back.”

“I know,” Shane says. He hesitates. “Just—”

“Bood wants to be the Bears next week,” Ilya adds.

“What?” Shane says, clearly thrown.

“Let them speculate about him instead. Maybe secret relationship with Marleau.”

Shane snorts. “You really don’t think this is a big deal.”

“No,” Ilya says. “Is fine. Ottawa does enemy training now.”

“Enemy training?”

“I will tell you nothing else,” Ilya says. “Do not steal my idea, yes?”

Shane laughs. “Only if you promise to only ever be a Voyageur.”

Ilya hums thoughtfully. “Then I keep the shirt. Might need another one too.”

Shane laughs again. “Deal.”

As they hang up, Ilya is already thinking about where he can keep the shirt, somewhere safe.

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