Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Wyatt Hayes, Zane Boodram, Luca Haas, Troy Barrett, Gilbert Comeau, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Team Dynamics, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Shane Hollander Needs Therapy, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, well the aftermath of that, Protective Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), (overprotective actually), Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs being Assholes, they dont mean to but!!! it happened!!!, Guilt, POV Alternating, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Overprotective Ottawa Centaurs, Bittersweet Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/mild comfort, sorry yall I really tried to make it a happy ending but like. oops, Hurt Shane Hollander, Canon-Typical Violence, maybe slightly more than canon bc well. Montreal sucks

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-30 Words: 32,502 Chapters: 2/2

cardiac tamponade

Summary

Cardiac tamponade: pressure on that heart that prevents it from filling and beating adequately.

Shane thought he knew two things: his move to Ottawa would cause chaos, and that the Ottawa Centaurs were nice.

As it turned out, he only knew one of those things.

(Or: the Cens are still a team of professional hockey players. They're going to fuck up.)

Notes

huge shout out to hollanovhaunting for this genius post!! it pulled me out of a 4 month creative rut and fascinated me to literally no end!!!

I'd also like to note that it's been a hot sec since I read TLG so literally 0 promises for characterization accuracy lol sorry.

Really brief warning for Ilya misunderstanding one of Wyatt's comments, so he freaks out thinking that Shane is vaguely suicidal, but there is no self-harm or suicide in this fic! Js take care, the conversation happens at Bood's dinner.

Chapter 1

Shane should’ve known better. The Hollander name wasn’t enough anymore and neither was the Rozanov name and neither was the fact that he was Shane Hollander, three-time Stanley Cup champion and ex-captain of an Original Six. 

How long had it been, Shane wondered absently, since it had been enough?

It wasn’t enough for the Metros, certainly. They still iced him the fuck out, spat on his name, and managed to outdo nearly all of the chirps he’d ever heard thrown at him. And he was their captain, the man who had gone to their weddings and held their babies and drove to bars at three in the morning to take care of drunk rookies and billetted those kids and held his own on the ice when it became clear his team wouldn’t because he still loved them, because he wanted them to win, because—

Because. Because he was Shane Hollander, and he’d given his all to hockey. And for the longest time, hockey meant the Metros. Shane was beginning to suspect that hockey would always mean the Metros, would always mean the frigidity and the isolation and the barely concealed disgust that they leveled his way.

He’d gotten used to it, of course. It was hard not to, when you’d been forcing yourself into a sport not made for you since you could hold a stick. Maybe that was the issue, he mused, letting the chatter of the locker room wash over him as he shed his gear. Maybe he was never meant to be here. Maybe he was never meant to be as fucking good as he was, evey rule and play made to work against him: Asian-Canadian, where the Canadian was never enough; complacent, where all his bravado on the ice dissipated the second he stepped into a locker room; gay, too, apparently, where even his dominance on the ice couldn’t win him respect.

Of course, that was all bullshit. He was Shane fucking Hollander, the best damn player of his generation and the ones after that, too. A champion, a captain, a winner with a trophy room more decorated than anyone could imagine. He was still leading for points, still helping whip the team into shape with sharp looks and nauseating repetition, still dragging them back into the spotlight. He was the best damn asset they had. They knew it, he knew it, and management sure as hell knew it.

Except he wasn’t.

Not off the ice, at least. He didn’t fit in with the “team culture.” Sometimes, when the thought didn’t turn his stomach, he’d marvel at the fact that the Cens had managed to cultivate a locker room that was so… nice. Supportive. Open. They were a scrappy team, underdogs that learned to bite and had only had their fangs sharpened since. Hell, they were downright mean on the ice, all targeted checks and no shame about reopening old wounds.

And despite that, despite all of their violence, they managed to leave it where it belonged: on the ice. When they stepped into the locker room, it was as if they went from coworkers to family. Brothers.

(Shane couldn’t use that word for his— the team anymore. He never thought he’d miss it as much as he did.)

When Hayes said something inane, a non sequitur about a movie or a comic book, the guys would just snort, ribbing him with fond exasperation. When Mitty— Miitka mentioned a new show he was watching, Shane watched Comeau rip into him. The Cens would have a man’s head for pulling that shit. And when Young stubbed his toe, letting out a truly ear piercing shriek, the guys made sure he was okay before devolving into howling laughter. When one of Shane’s rookies—some nameless-faceless kid that he didn’t even remember now, God, what a captain he was—did the same, Andropov had scoffed, telling him to stop being such a pussy and get the fuck up. The kid had ended up spraining his toe, leaving him with a clear limp for the next few games and no teammates to help him out.

All of that to say: The Centaurs were a good team. A good group of guys. Protective, come hell or high water.

And all of that to say: Shane was not a good man.

He was a good player, no shit, and he was the best addition to this team since Ilya, but—

Well. He couldn’t even remember that nameless-faceless-limping kid’s name.

He knew the sort of person he was. Too intense, too cold, too cruel. Antithetical, entirely and unendingly, to who the Centaurs were. So, sure, he got it, the icing out and the cold shoulders and the reluctant passes. He did. He’d lived it, everyday, for ten fucking years. He’d live it for another ten, twenty, thirty if it meant keeping Ilya smiling like that.

It was just that Ilya had promised the Centaurs were nice. Open, welcoming, soft in a way Shane needed after the cruelty of the Metros ground him down to the bone, avulsions and hypothermia and all.

Shane saw what he meant. They hadn’t hazed the rookies, hadn’t said anything about each other’s quirks, hadn’t forced anyone into anything they didn’t want. They just… took it a step further with Shane. They hadn’t done anything with him, to him. A part of him was grateful: he probably didn’t care as much about team bonding as a capt— as he should. He got to stay in, Ilya got to go out, and all was right in the world.

It’s just… Ilya said they were nice. Good people, good men who loved him, who would love Shane.

At least the former was true. The Cens would kill for their captain. Shane was happy that both of Ilya’s teams loved him like he deserved, he really was.

Ilya’s sudden presence next to him shook him out of his thoughts, and he chanced a glance at his husband. Ilya was already smiling down at him, bright and loving and sunny; Shane watched in real time as it dimmed, replaced by creeping concern as his eyes flitted all over whatever stupid fucking expression Shane was making.

“Shane?” he asked quietly, almost a whisper as the locker room quieted down, the adrenaline rush finally abating. “Ty v poryadke?” [Are you okay?]

Shane flexed the muscles in his thighs, the ones that Ilya wasn’t looking at. Once, twice. Hold the tension, let it go. Thrice, four times. Let. It. Go.

He schooled his expression into something he hoped looked convincingly happy, content with the game and them and the team. “Yeah. Ya v poryadke.” [I’m fine.]

Ilya stared at him for a long moment, barely concealed heartbreak in his eyes. Shane ducked his head, slipping his shirt over his head. He couldn’t even do that right. Fuck.

The silence had been immediate in a way that screamed deliberate. This wasn’t just a team adjusting to a new addition, or a group having to shuffle to make room for a new member; this was a concerted effort, designed to keep him quiet and out of the camaraderie. He realized it the moment he stepped into the locker room that first practice, the way Ilya was the only one who looked at him with any excitement. The cross-room chatter had tapered off, and all the guys relegated themselves to smaller groups right next to themselves.

It was Montreal all over again.

He’d shook it off at the time, giving Ilya a small smile back and making his way to his stall. He’d insisted that Ilya and his stalls be separated, lest an, ah, embarrassing mishap occur, but his husband didn’t seem to care all that much, plopping down next to him. Shane shot him a half-amused look, opening his gear bag and methodically taking out his gear. Ilya watched him with the same rapt attention he watched everything Shane did.

“Excited?” he asked, waggling his brows. “We can finally agree on who’s a better captain.”

Shane scoffed, pointedly not acknowledging how Boyle, whose stall was next to his, shot him a dirty look. There really wasn’t any question that it was Ilya, as much as it pained him to admit, but this was an old game. He’d be remiss to not play.

“In your dreams, asshole.”

“Yes, that is—”

“Rozanov.”

Ilya smirked, patting his side and getting up. “Now, now, Hollander. No need to argue with your captain.”

Shane rolled his eyes, shoving Ilya and letting his laughter wash over the old aches, the burns from teams past. Even if the team didn’t like him, he had Ilya, and he knew Ilya would make sure the team acted right on the ice. That was what mattered to them both. Besides, Shane would have his head if he let personal problems dictate on-ice chemistry. He’d been there, done that, and wasn’t looking for a repeat.

And the thing was, Shane was exemplary at leaving things behind when he got on the ice. The only time he remembered his game being off because of something in his life was after Boston, but that had involved Ilya, which didn’t count anyway. Ilya was ice and puck and violence, all the tenets of Shane’s life; there wasn’t a chance his game would be unaffected with what happened between them.

But other than that? A flawless fucking track record. People would be hard pressed to find a correlation between the worst days of life and his picture perfect hockey.

So he knew, he knew he wasn’t to blame for how practice ended up going. It felt like the Centaurs had taken one step forward and a dozen back. They were scattered on the ice, locked into their own cliques. They were reluctant to separate, and even more reluctant to be on the same line as Shane as they practiced new formations. If Shane was any more naive, he’d have blamed it on them being reluctant to change systems that worked. But he’d been involved in this sport since he could hold a stick; he knew damn well what it was.

Still, he said nothing. It didn’t matter. They played good hockey. Not great, certainly, but the Cens had never been great, so it was no real concern.

(Privately and a little vindictively, Shane figured he and Ilya could pull them up to greatness, but they’d never know that with how deadset they were on ignoring him. Fine by him. Their loss.

Still, it did make their losses feel a bit more like his. He could’ve fixed that gap in defense, that hesitation in passing, after all.)

Most importantly, Ilya was ecstatic the entire time, flitting between different groups like a hummingbird doped up on sugar. Shane watched him, smiling slightly as Ilya mussed Holmberg’s hair. He was positively vibrating with energy, enough to excuse them from skating drills. Instead, they scrimmaged.

On Ilya’s team were Barrett and Boodram, while on Shane’s were Haas and Dykstra. The usual arrangement, Ilya had explained one night. Haas played like Shane, apparently, all analysis and calculation. And Dykstra was a tank. He’d been excited to play with them, really; Haas seemed like a quick study, and Dykstra’s laidback attitude reminded him of Hayden, who he missed like a lung.

Of course, Shane had quickly realized that his hopes were misplaced, but that was fine. He still bent over at center ice, tapping his stick against Ilya’s.

“You’re going down, Rozanov,” he muttered. Ilya’s responding smirk sent shivers down his spine.

“Sure,” he responded, faux casual. “On you.”

With a bark of laughter, Shane won the puck and raced down the ice. It was exhilarating, this cat-and-mouse game of theirs. The burn of carbon dioxide in their lungs, the lactic acid in their muscles. He knew the physiology of gameplay by heart, the understanding coming to him as easily as loving Ilya. And this competition was physiological, an innate response to seeing Ilya Rozanov bent over across the ice from him, danger in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. He’d missed it, missed having Ilya as a truly formidable opponent. The Cens had worked magic to make him love hockey again, and Shane would always be grateful for it.

Even when his teammates didn’t pass back to him, scoring and losing and scoring on their own. Shane kept up the pretense, circling the puck and the rink and the men who were supposed to be good to him. But when the puck was, for the fifth time, passed to Haas with an unnecessary maneuver, Shane took the fucking hint. He still circled, sure, but now it was to watch his teammates more than anything.

They played like a machine. Not a well-oiled one, that was still him and Ilya alone, but coherent. The Cens clearly had a system, well-organized and successful and closed to the outside. Shane wasn’t needed here, nor was he wanted.

(At least in Montreal, he was needed. What a low fucking bar.)

The scrim concluded, Ilya’s side having won, and the sudden rush of the team towards their captain knocked the air out of his lungs. He followed at a distance, hovering by the edges of the cluster and just watching. They were all cheering, jostling Ilya like he’d brought both sides to victory. Despite himself, despite the tight knot of something in his chest, Shane found himself smiling as Ilya cheered right back, knocking heads and helmets with his team like it was second nature. He was such a good captain. Shane was so lucky.

Not lucky enough to avoid his gaze, though, even though he’d been trying to avoid getting Ilya’s attention on him the entire practice. He knew his husband saw how practice was playing out, the team dynamics fracturing, but God, Shane didn’t want to be the reason for something in Ilya’s life blowing up again. He already took Russia from Ilya, he took Boston from him, he took a year of his life from him— God forbid he take the Cens from him, too.

He smiled back at Ilya, a brittle thing that was too sharp at the edges. It was a testament to how overjoyed Ilya was that he seemed to take it at face value. Still, he caught Ilya pulling Boodram to the side, the two of them glancing at the team every now and then, their gazes lingering just a little too long on Shane. He bit back a sigh, just stripping and heading to the showers. Even his own husband was seeing the chaos Shane brought with him. So much for a good investment.

If he took a bit longer than necessary in the showers, zoning out under the spray and the too-harsh soap, that was between him and the tile walls. He returned to his stall, pulling on a fresh change of clothes as the conversation around him stuttered, paused, restarted at a new frequency. One he couldn’t attune to, no matter how much he tried.

Ilya siddled up to him, freshly washed and dried himself. Shane glanced at him, giving him a smile that immediately softened the last hard lines of captaincy. All of a sudden, he was talking to Ilya, not Rozanov.

“Give them time, moy penal,” he murmured, smoothing a hand down Shane’s shoulder. “Is been some time since we’ve had to adjust for a player like you.”

Shane stiffened involuntarily as Ilya’s hand rested on his elbow, casting a glance around the room. No one would care, of course, that Ilya was touching him. They’d expect it, even. But Shane just— he couldn’t. Not yet. Ilya knew this, like he knew everything about Shane, and dropped his hand with a sad smile. And then Shane caught Hayes’s glare, and everything clicked into place.

“Pencil case,” he whispered back, automatic. Ilya grinned.

At least Shane wasn’t being ignored on the ice anymore. He handled the puck about as much as he used to in Montreal, and Haas and Dykstra, for all of their reluctance to be around him, were good lineys. It probably helped that, with Shane, they’d managed to keep their win streak going and going and going. And really, that should’ve been enough for him; it had been, for a decade.

It’s just that— fuck. Ilya said the Centaurs were nice, and they were.

They were more than happy to let Shane stay back during post-game celebrations and commiserations, whereas the Metros would’ve forced him out, exhaustion and neglect and resentment be damned. The Cens didn’t pretend with him, and, for what it mattered, he appreciated it. He just wished his husband got the message.

“Shane,” Ilya whined, draping himself across Shane’s back as he rubbed cologne on his wrists. “Come out with us! You’ve been here for weeks and you haven’t joined us at all!”

Shane huffed quietly, shaking his head. “I’m tired, Ilya, and the bar isn’t my thing anyway. You go have fun, okay?”

Ilya pouted. Honest to god, in the middle of the guest locker room in New York, pouted. “We win, you stay home. We lose, you stay home. When will you come out, hm? Even Dinosaur Hunter will be out!”

Shane snorted. “High bar, Roz.”

“You’re being more old than Hunter,” Ilya groaned. “Just once, Shane. And then you can stay home next time.”

“Ilya—“

Just then, for the first time in nearly two months, a teammate spoke to him directly. It was Boodram, brow raised and a cold glint in his eyes, even as his posture was relaxed and open.

“Come on, Hollander—“

And that was another thing. Hollander. That’s all he was. Hollander. Even the Metros had a nickname for him. Hollander.

“—don’t leave Cap hanging. It’s the first time he’s offered to go out with us in ages, you know.”

He did know. He was why Ilya used to refuse in the first place. Fuck.

Shane sighed, closing his eyes. “Fine. I’ll probably head back a little early, though.”

Ilya positively beamed, winding Shane with the force of his hug. “Yes! We can come back whenever—“

“No, Ilya, it’s fine,” Shane cut in, eyes flitting away from where Boodram had caught them, a challenge in the cruel twist of his mouth. “You can stay out as long as you want. I will head back early.”

“What, you don’t want to come home with me?” Ilya teased, a stray curl falling into his face. Shane reached up, tucking it back into place. “Finally got sick of me, Hollander?”

Shane dropped his voice to a whisper, private and just for them. “Fucking never, Ilya. I’m never getting sick of you. But Boodram’s—“

“Bood.”

“He’s right. You haven’t gone out properly in ages, and I want you to have fun.” Shane gave him a smile, doing his best to crinkle his face right. “Let’s not forget why you loved Boston. You should stay out if you want to.”

“But you—“

“Me nothing, baby. You wanna go and stay out, we’ll do that.”

Ilya frowned at that, but, at a pleading look from Shane, dropped it. And Shane meant it, he really did. If needed, he’d just sneak out into an alley for a breather, or find a quiet booth to put his head down. No need to spoil Ilya’s fun.

No need to acknowledge the glares boring into his back, either. They’d get Ilya for as long as he wanted tonight. Ilya finally relented, giving him a quick peck on the lips before turning back to the locker room. Instantly, the mood shifted, and the guys were cheering, thumping Ilya on the back and joking about how married life made him boring.

That was… interesting. They never made jokes like that to each other, only to Ilya. Shane would’ve assumed it was homophobia, but Barrett wasn’t getting those jokes either, so that clarified what they meant: married life to Shane made Ilya boring. He would disagree, they both would— married life made Ilya happier, not boring. But he also knew what it looked like from the outside, especially last year, with Ilya sneaking away every last chance he got, all for Shane.

Ilya just grinned, all white teeth and crinkled eyes. “Yes, yes, my boring life with my boring husband.”

Barrett scoffed, eyes flicking to Shane. “Maybe loosen the leash, Hollander. You got him where you want.”

Shane bristled slightly. Who the fuck did Barrett think he was talking to? For all of his “commitment” to becoming better, he sure as hell hadn’t put himself through any sort of hell for it. What did it matter, that he’d “changed,” if he didn’t fucking work for it? If Ilya was there, helping him like the amazing man he was, while Shane… fuck. And now he was talking about “loosening the leash,” like he had any fucking idea—

He inhaled deeply. Looked at Ilya, aglow and elated. He exhaled.

“The leash is as loose as it’s ever been, Barrett,” he replied, tacking on a polite, press-ready smile at the end.

And to be fair, it was. Shane sat in a booth in the way back of the Kingfisher, nursing a ginger ale as Ilya, Barrett, and the rookies tore up the dance floor. Some of the others—the married men, the vets, the ones scouting the scene before siddling up to their pick of the night—were scattered around his booth as well. No one made an effort to talk to him. In fact, Hayes and Boodram kept glancing at their watches, then at him. As if he was fucking blind. Somehow, someway, even the goddamn Metros were better about him going out with them than the Cens. At least they weren’t betting on when he’d go home.

Shane picked at his can, the stuffiness of the bar slowly getting to him. It was past midnight, and Ilya had asked a few times if he wanted to go home; he did, God, he just wanted to cuddle up with his husband in their bed, but then one of the guys muttered something that sounded like “controlling motherfucker,” and Shane just grinned and shook his head. Now his head was hurting and his t-shirt felt too scratchy and his throat was tight, but Ilya looked so happy and good under the lights. So Shane just grinned and bore it.

He even tried to eat some of the fries Ilya bought for him, accompanied with an earnest plea to eat, Shane, I’m worried about you. He hadn’t meant to make Ilya worry, honest, and he thought he was doing better about eating properly, so he just nodded, stuffing a few into his mouth. They were good, like always. And, like always, indulgent; Shane wasn’t much in the mood to indulge. He just sat there, picking at the fries and watching them go soggy. A waste of Ilya’s time and money.

He must have looked really awful if Hayes’s glances were anything to go by, disdain slowly being replaced by concern. He shoved another fry into his mouth, wincing at the oil and the salt and the toomuchtoomuchtoomuch—

“Didn’t think I’d see you around, Hollzy,” a new voice said, sliding into the seat across from him.

Shane’s throat tightened further, something terrible like tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. How long had it been since he’d been called that? With affection, no less? He blinked once, hard, and looked up. Scott Hunter was sitting across from him, a cool bottle of beer sweating onto the table and a teasing grin on his face.

He felt something in his chest break.

“Hunter,” he said, instead of doing something stupid like breaking down and hugging the man. God, he was excited to see Scott Hunter? He really was hitting new lows this season. “Ilya wanted to go out, and since I hadn’t gone out with the team yet…”

Hunter raised a brow, glancing back at the dancefloor, where Barrett and Ilya now had their hands on each other’s shoulders as they jumped up and down. “Didn’t think you’d care much about ‘team bonding’ and all, now that you’re not captain.”

Shane scoffed, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. For all of his annoying tendencies, Hunter was good company. And he was right, because he knew Shane. Not just Hollander. And, miracle of miracles, he liked Shane well enough, too.

“I’m the captain’s husband,” he retorted, rolling his eyes. “I owe it to him to occasionally go out.”

“Even if it interferes with your bedtime?” Hunter teased, tapping his bottle against Shane’s can.

It was Shane’s turn to raise a brow. “And how much did you pay the nursing home to let you out past eight?”

Hunter laughed, loud and boisterous in a way he only got when he was at the Kingfisher and tipsy. Shane hid a smile behind a sip of his ginger ale. He could feel the eyes on him again, the silent judgement about him enjoying something he’d denied his husband for the past season. It was fair. It didn’t matter that he was tense, wound up in a way that was painful, in a way that he’d nearly forgotten after free agency.

“You still sound like him,” Hunter chuckled. “No wonder you tried to fight me on the ice. It was so obvious, in hindsight.”

At that, Hayes leaned over, brows raised. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, Hollzy’s infamous fight with me a few years ago,” Hunter said, waving his hand dismissively. Shane clenched his jaw hard enough that he felt his teeth grinding; the team would have his fucking head after this. “He tried to chirp me—”

“Tried?” Shane cut in, offended.

“—using one of Rozanov’s favorite lines. I called him out on that, and, well, suddenly we were throwing down gloves. After the game, no less.”

Hayes’s eyes flicked to him, assessing and cold, the previous flicker of concern gone and buried. Shane shrunk into himself, just slightly, just enough that he could blame the ache in his ribs on the way he was sitting. The man hummed, nodding like that made all the sense in the world.

“He’s always been a bit… secretive,” Hayes offered. Hunter snorted, shaking his head.

“Understatement of the fucking century, man. I don’t know how those two did it.”

“Mm. Yeah. I wonder.” Hayes turned away from him, looking at Hunter with an openness that he’d die before offering to Shane. “Rozy’s got a way of making the best of the situation.”

Shane got up, hand curled so tightly around his can that he was denting it. He offered Hunter a smile and a clap on the shoulder. He couldn’t do this. He needed air, and he needed it now. He needed space, goddammit, and he needed, for one fucking second, to not be the object of ridicule. At least Montreal had the decency of calling him a cocksucking fag, rather than whatever bullshit the Cens were pulling.

“It was great seeing you, Hunter. You and Kip should visit next time you’re in Ottawa,” he said, starting to pick his way through the crowd.

Hunter raised a brow, but nodded. “Sure thing. You two leaving?”

The eyes. The fucking eyes, always, voyeuristic and hedonistic and judgemental. “No, I just need some air. Ilya will tell me when he wants to go home.”

With that, Shane excused himself to the alley beside the Kingfisher, wrestling with the tangled knot in his chest and the slick feel of oil on his tongue.

It was getting better. The guys were talking to Shane now. Hockey felt like hockey again, which really meant that hockey felt like Montreal, but it was almost… comforting, in a way. These were dynamics he was familiar with. He knew how to handle the passive-aggressive comments, the unimpressed looks whenever he tried to speak in the locker room, the jokes made at his expense. He just kept his head down, responded with the nicest smiles he could muster, and stuck close to his husband.

He couldn’t even be upset about the remarks because it was so, so much easier to act normal around Ilya. He had stopped asking if he was okay, if he was adjusting fine, once the Cens and Shane settled into that preestablished pattern: Shane did what he had to on the ice and kept his mouth shut off of it. The guys would have nothing to say if he didn’t give it to them; if the guys in Montreal couldn’t come up with anything new on their own, the Cens certainly wouldn’t.

That was how Shane had navigated hockey for a decade, and he thought it was working. He thought they were fine, that they were finally to the point that he could just be Shane Hollander— not one, not the other, but the conglomerate. As with all good things, though, those few weeks of sensibility came to an end. Ilya was stuck in a press scrum, and most of the other guys had already showered and dressed. Shane was in the process of finishing up himself, towelling his hair as he thought about what to make for dinner. Ilya had been on his case about his eating habits again, and, though Shane hated to agree with him, he was right that it was getting bad again.

(But he just— he needed the familiarity of it. It was how he ate in Montreal for the past decade, and it had never hurt him. He’d played some of his best hockey there, eating like that, and he had to bring that here. It was fine. It was good, even.)

As he wandered towards the locker room, the guys’ voices floated out towards him, cruel and callous in a way that meant they were talking about Shane. Fuck. He bit back a sigh, stopping and leaning against a wall to listen. He knew, to some extent, their gripes with him. They hated him for making Ilya miserable last year (he hated himself, too), for being oblivious to his suffering (he hated himself, too), for living his best life while the love of his life was falling apart (he hated himself, too). But he wanted to hear them say it, too, to know that he wasn’t deluding himself into thinking he was a better husband than he was. A better man than he was.

He registered Haas’s words first. “I can’t understand why he told Ilya to not come out. We were good with Troy, and we would’ve been good with him too.”

Shane knew that. He was just, as he so often is, scared. He could recognize it now, his husband having named the feeling of his all-consuming panic and tense muscles. Ilya didn’t have citizenship, and if it went south with management… he shook himself. He didn’t want to think about the alternative. And, after how the Metros reacted— God, he couldn’t have lived with himself if he let Ilya walk into that same hell with his bleed heart. He was just trying to protect him.

A new voice joined in, not one of the players.

“He’s selfish, Luca,” Harris sighed. “Why couldn’t he have moved to Boston, hm? Or even to New York? He made Ilya uproot his whole life just for a few measly hours a week. It’s ridiculous.”

Shane wasn’t sure if he was breathing, to be frank. Selfish. Yes, that was the word. Shane was a selfish, selfish man. He wanted Ilya and hockey and his parents and Rose and the Pikes— he wanted it all. Ilya hadn’t. He had just gone along with what Shane wanted, because all he wanted was community and love. And Shane, blind and selfish and too intense, had denied him something that simple.

He could throw up.

“Isn’t he a pain during social media stuff, too?” another guy asked. Dykstra.

“God, yeah. He can’t give the camera a smile for anything,” Harris sighed. “I mean, that’s fine, I guess. Everyone still loves him because he’s Shane Hollander, but, like, after realizing what he’s like… I don’t know. Mrs. Hollander worked magic for his PR image, that's for sure.”

“It’s all a PR image, honestly,” one of the rookies chimed in. Some nameless-faceless kid, and he was going to read Shane to filth. It was almost enough to offend him, if he hadn’t quashed the feeling right as it started.

He didn’t have the right to get upset. Not about this, not when it hurt Ilya.

“Have you seen how worried Cap always is for him? It’s always Shane seems sad, Shane isn’t doing well, sorry, Shane is tired so I will stay home. Like, fuck, what more does Hollander want?” he snapped. “He’s got the guy, the team, the parents, the sponsorships. Fucking hell.”

Oh. He didn’t mean to do that.

(He’d do better. He had to. He had to. He had to. He had to. He had to.)

Hayes cut in then, the first one to have something more than pure resentment in his voice. “Hey, uh, I don’t mean to dull the mood or anything, but hearing all of that laid out is… kinda concerning, actually.”

Concerning? It was fine. It was normal. It was a return to form.

“Like, are we sure he’s… okay?” he continued. The frown was clear in his voice. “Because if I told Lisa all of that, she’d tell me to tell him to get checked for depression or something similar. And he never eats with us at restaurants, which….”

Shane rubbed a hand over his sternum. Ilya would be finishing up soon. He wouldn’t stress his husband out even more.

“We’re treating him better than Montreal,” the rookie defended. “He’s probably just sad about his fucking legacy or something.”

Hayes hummed, unconvinced. He’d just started speaking again when the door slammed open, Ilya’s excited chirping filling the room. Shane released the breath he was holding, blinking back the tears that had gathered. When did that happen? No matter. He was fine, just bruised and sore and sleepy and whatever else he’d tell Ilya to convince him to go out and have fun. Shane needed some time to think.

“The best Centaur is back!” Ilya crowed, laughing loud and bright at the roaring cheers. Shane smiled slightly. The guys loved their captain so much. “Now, now, settle down! You are all very welcome for me carrying your sorry asses during press. Now—”

Ilya’s voice had become singsong. One of the guys groaned loudly, and, sure, it was a joke but—

“Where’s my Shane?”

The hesitation in the response was slight, not enough to notice unless you were really listening. And Shane knew, he knew Ilya wasn’t, not in the post-game afterglow. He took a deep breath as one of the guys said “showers,” wiping his eyes and dragging a hand down his face. Ilya yelled a thanks to the guy, and then there were footsteps.

His hopes that he looked presentable were dashed almost immediately, the gorgeous smile dropping from Ilya’s face faster than he could blink. Slowly, Ilya raised his hands, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear (and, oh, that was the feeling of heartbreak, got it), and cupped his face. His eyes were wide, impossibly blue under the fluorescent lighting of the showers and brimming with concern. Shane smiled at him, something small and real. His Ilya, always so caring.

(Always so worried).

“S toboy vso v poryadke? Chto sluchilos', solnyshko? Tebe bol'no?” [Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt?] Ilya asked quietly, placing a kiss on Shane’s forehead before pulling back enough to let him respond. 

“Net, net, so mnoy vso v poryadke. Dumayu, ya prosto ustal,” [No, no, I’m fine. I think I’m just tired.] he said, shaking his head. “Mne segodnya vecherom nikuda ne khochetsya idti. Khorosho provedi vremya s rebyatami, ladno?” [I don't feel like going anywhere tonight. Have a good time with the guys, okay?]

Ilya frowned at him, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. Shane leaned into his touch with a little sigh. “Ya ne ostavlyu tebya odnu, kogda ty budesh' vyglyadet' tak, budto vot-vot rasplachesh'sya.” [I won't leave you alone when you look like you're about to cry.]

“I’m not,” Shane huffed, gently nipping at Ilya’s thumb. “You’ve been looking forward to Monk’s all week. I’ll just go home and relax a bit.”

“I can help you relax.”

Shane chuckled lightly, patting Ilya’s arm. His husband didn’t have that proud glint in his eyes that he usually did after making Shane laugh; instead, he just looked even more concerned, hands moving down to brush over his sides and waist. Shane sighed.

“Seriously, Ilya, it’s okay. It’ll be like old times, yeah? I stay in, you go out, we both have fun.”

“Like old times?” Ilya parroted, brows raised. He seemed… disappointed, almost, that Shane was encouraging him to go out and have fun. “I don’t want old times. I want husband times.”

“You’ll get plenty of husband times whenever you want,” Shane assured him, “but you don’t need to change your plans on my account.”

Ilya still didn’t look convinced, a frown tugging at his lips as he began to gently massage Shane’s shoulders. He almost melted into it, but that would cut into Ilya’s time, and that— that was unacceptable. He stiffened again, nearly missing how Ilya’s face fell.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

The apologies were on the tip of his tongue, but Shane Hollander was a terrible man, an awful husband, and he swallowed them back.

Please, he added silently, eyes wide and pleading, Don’t let me hold you back.

Shane saw the moment Ilya relented, gaze still brimming with concern. It should have felt victorious, securing his husband some fun and time with friends. Instead, all he felt was devastated, adrift of the only thing that could anchor him, hold him down. But this wasn’t about him. Enough of their life had been, and letting him go and enjoy himself was the least he could do for Ilya.

“Call me if you need anything, da?” Ilya said, insistent. “Anything at all, Shane. I’ll be home immediately.”

Shane nodded, kissing Ilya softly. His husband sighed contentedly, leaning into him for just a moment, arms circling his waist possessively. “Everything’s fine, baby. You need to relax, okay?”

“Says you,” Ilya grumbled. “Promise me, sweetheart. You’ll call or text if you need anything. Even if is just, I don’t know, apples.”

“I will. Promise.” He leaned back, schooling his face into something playfully judgemental as he looked Ilya up and down. “I need you to change, though. You look like a middle aged man. This isn’t exactly an outfit for a bar.”

Ilya snorted. “Okay, thank you for your input, Mr. Fashionista. I will call your stylist immediately to tell her she is unneeded.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane said, syrupy sweet.

He could live in this moment forever, he thought, his teammates’ words in the back of his mind and Ilya’s smile and kisses at the forefront.

As Ilya watched his team laugh and play and enjoy at Monk’s, Coke in hand, something sour curdled in his stomach. Whatever the fuck the Centaurs were doing to make Shane act like he did with the Metros, Ilya would put a stop to it.

Ilya wasn’t blind. He saw how his team was treating his husband, and it made him want to break something. His father’s instincts, maybe, but he’d do far worse for his husband. He saw how Shane had withdrawn into himself, his smiles dull and empty, picture perfect in a way only he could manage. The last time Shane had smiled like that was in Montreal, where the team hated him and made sure he knew it. He didn’t even smile as brightly as he used to around Ilya. And what a tragedy that was, that his husband was so exhausted that even Ilya couldn’t make him feel better. He saw how Shane started controlling his diet more, his routine more, his exercise more— just. Like. Montreal. It wasn’t affecting his hockey, it never did, but it was affecting him. Hockey could, at that point, suck a fat one, as Cliff had liked to say; hockey was not worth his Shane’s joy.

He just hadn’t said anything because he knew Shane would hate to “cause a problem.” As if icing out someone was ever acceptable, much less the captain’s husband.

It came to a head when Shane was quieter than usual one night, even as Ilya rocked into him with a rhythm he knew Shane liked. He was quiet, eyes hazy with tears that didn’t look like they were from pleasure. That was when Ilya, as he finally managed to get Shane to come hard enough that he cracked a fuck-drunk smile, decided that he’d deal with whatever was happening, team dynamics be damned. They didn’t get to strip Shane of his love for hockey, his love for laughter, and now, damningly, his love for pleasure.

Ilya grabbed his keys.

Shane couldn’t sleep. He’d showered, eaten (something that Ilya would approve of! He was doing so well!), read his book, stretched, everything and anything he could think of to tire himself out. The worst part was, he was tired— just not mentally. Physically, he could feel every creak in his joints, every twinge and ache.

But his mind just wouldn’t quiet down.

He laid in his bed, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, imperceptible in the dark. How had he let it get so far? Why had he let it get so far, that Ilya was now willing to forgo an outing he’d been looking forward to for weeks?

(He knew why. He was selfish.)

He had lied, back then, when he said he wasn’t in the mood to indulge. He was, he always was, this fucking glutton in his soul— it was just that he wanted to indulge in Ilya. He wanted to have him always and forever, unendingly and inseparably. He wanted to keep him safe, tucked away from the world that wanted to hurt him. He wanted to see him smile and laugh, sun-drenched and sleep-warm and sex-drunk. If Shane Hollander could fight the world for Ilya Rozanov, he would.

It hurt, loving him so much, and at some point, that hurt had spilled over to Ilya. Shane’s sharpness had cut him, the pressure on his shoulders had crushed him, the pedestal had isolated him. Shane had done all of those things, and even though Ilya insisted he hadn’t caused his misery last year, he knew better. Ilya loved him too much to say anything else; Shane hated himself just enough to realize that.

If he was any weaker, he might have believed Ilya’s words.

At least now, Shane mused, letting his eyes slip shut even though sleep would not be coming, he knew what he needed to fix. The off-ice silence was working fine. He’d need to figure out a way to not be so sad (read: needy, pathetic) because Ilya didn’t need to be concerned about him, not here; maybe more time in the gym would help with that. He could tire himself out enough that he didn’t even have the energy to be “sad” anymore. It’d help him get it together, at least.

And the selfishness. It was a core tenet of the Hollanders, of Shane specifically. He wanted and wanted and got. He wanted the trophies, and he got them; he wanted the captaincy, and he got it; he wanted the husband, and he got him. Everything he’d done, he’d done for himself, his own benefit. Sure, loving Ilya made him happier than anything in the world, and Ilya seemed better for it, too, but it was still, fundamentally and at its core, a selfish act.

What kind of love would tear a man away from the life he built, the people he loved, to come to the middle of nowhere just for one person, if not a selfish love?

It was certainly too late to backtrack, retry, restart. Ilya loved it here. He loved his team, the quiet bustle of Ottawa, living near Shane’s parents, having endless parks for Anya to play in. Shane would just have to make sure that he had every reason to keep loving it here. It was the least he could do.

Number one of that priority list, then, was making sure Ilya didn’t see how needy he was, how pathetically he wanted him.

Loosen the leash, Barrett had said. Shane hadn’t even realized it was too tight.

Downstairs, the door opened. He heard Ilya’s muffled voice greeting Anya, shushing him, and his heart swelled with love. Oh God, loving this man would be the death of him. He laid still, quiet, as Ilya padded upstairs and into their bathroom. The shower turned on, just a quick in and out; before he knew it, Ilya was curled up behind him, warm and present. His leg was thrown over Shane’s hip, a hand curled over him possessively, resting right on his heart.

Shane snuggled into his warmth, sighing contentedly. “You’re back early,” he murmured, turning his head to kiss Ilya’s shoulder.

“Missed you,” came the reply, soft and careful.

The butterflies in his stomach dropped dead, and, before he could stop himself, Shane blurted out, “Sorry.”

Ilya stiffened for a long moment, before pressing harder into Shane, pulling him closer. It was times like this, where Shane couldn’t tell where he ended and his husband began. He loved it.

Did Ilya?

“What do you mean, ‘sorry’?” Ilya finally said after a tense silence. All the honeyed softness from before was gone. “Sorry that I missed you? Missed my husband? Or sorry for something else?”

Now what? He didn’t want to lie to Ilya. He never did, not after doing so for the better part of a decade. Horrifyingly, he felt tears well in his eyes. He squeezed them shut. No, no, no. He wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t make this about himself. No.

He wracked his brain for an answer, something honest but not too revealing. He eventually settled on: “I don’t know why I said that.”

Ilya grunted discontentedly, pressing a kiss to a knob of his spine. “Shane. Don’t lie.”

Fuck. Damn him, for knowing Shane so well.

“...Would it have been better if I stayed in Montreal?” he asked in lieu of answering. His voice was whisper-quiet, thready and wet in a way that terrified him. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t make Ilya comfort him now! It was late!

Ilya pressed so hard against him that he was sure he’d have a hand-shaped bruise right over his heart. He didn’t hate the idea. It was a claim, a marker of territory, an assurance that Ilya wanted him for at least his body, even if he was frustrated with everything else.

Shane was an athlete. What could he even offer, other than his body?

Ilya exhaled roughly, blunt nails curling into the skin of his pec. “What?”

“I just— never mind. It was stupid.”

“Yes, it was,” Ilya growled, pausing for a moment to press a series of kisses over Shane’s shoulder and neck. “Montreal made you miserable. Shanya—”

Oh God. He could cry.

“—I have never seen you more miserable than in that last season with the Metros. I hated it, hated feeling like I couldn’t do anything for you. I was watching the man I love fall apart right in front of me, and I was two hours away. I couldn’t do anything for you.”

Funny how the world worked. Shane could say the exact same thing about Ilya and the Centaurs.

“You loved me,” he whispered back. “That was enough. It would still be enough, if you think I should’ve stayed there.”

Ilya was silent for a long moment, just breathing heavily. Shane jumped as something wet landed on his shoulder, a needy, possessive hum coming from Ilya.

“Why are you saying this, Shane?” he finally asked, voice wet and wrecked. Fuck. Shane was such an idiot.

“I— I just…” he trailed off, a lump in his throat. “I didn’t want to mess this up for you. Hockey, the Cens. I know me being here is a complication, but—”

“A ‘complication,’” Ilya scoffed, squeezing Shane’s pec. “Fuck the team, Shanya. I see how they treat you, and I hate it. I want to yell at them every single day, but I know you will feel guilty for ‘disrupting team synergy’ or something stupid. But I am your husband before I am the Centaurs’ captain, moya lyubov. Just say the word, and I’ll talk to them.”

At that, Shane twisted himself around, grabbing Ilya’s face with both hands and staring into his eyes.

“Please don’t,” he begged, sniffling. “Please, just— please. Don’t. I’ll figure it out, I’ll work through it. It’s normal. This is how the Metros were before everything, and it was good. We were winning. You don’t need to do anything, baby.”

Ilya stared right back at him, eyes wide and shiny, his lower lip quivering as he pulled Shane against him, tucking his head under his chin and wrapping his arms around him. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Shane let out a quivering breath and fell apart.

After that night, Ilya did his level best to stay by Shane’s side during practices. Shane couldn’t say he minded, even if Ilya’s hovering was bordering on concerning now— his constant presence was helping with team synergy. The guys were less chilly with him now, Ilya softening their demeanours enough for Shane to finally fall into place on the ice. He wasn’t just an extra variable to account for anymore, a temporary addition; Shane felt, before he saw, how he had finally become an irreplaceable cog in the machine that was the Centaurs.

They were winning more than they were losing, nowadays, and Ilya had managed to raise the Centaurs from a league-wide joke to a team worthy of consideration, and Shane’s addition took them from worthwhile to truly formidable. That, too, must have worked the wonders he saw in the team dynamic over the next few weeks.

Haas could look at him for more than seconds at a time, and the team was finally taking Shane’s critiques more seriously, rather than making Shane pester Ilya into giving individual feedback to everyone. The rookies were—and here is where Hollander showed up, proud and arrogant and right—finally looking at him with the awe he used to inspire in the Metros’ rookies. The older guys were talking to him now; it was only about hockey, straying away from any personal topics, but frankly, Shane preferred that. As captain, he had to care about his teammates’ personal lives; as just another player, he was afforded the luxury of not giving a shit. 

Shane had finally found the rhythm that worked with the Cens: He kept his mouth shut during casual conversation, spoke freely when it came to hockey, and sent Ilya to team events in his stead. He was even seeing what Ilya had meant when he said that the Centaurs were nice; they were. They didn’t give him shit to his face or call him slurs, acted professionally, and took responsibility as a team, rather than loading it all onto his or Ilya’s shoulders. That was the kind of nice that won games, and it was the kind of nice Shane cared about.

He always did his best teamwork when he was winning them games.

Ilya seemed calmer too. The few times Shane managed to take a lap or three alone, he’d pass by Ilya and the guys in intervals, and though Ilya still didn’t seem happy with them, he wasn’t as snappy as he was when Shane was around. That was another easy fix: Shane would just do whatever he was asked. If Ilya didn’t have to defend Shane and the guys had Ilya’s presence to fall back on while Shane was there, it’d all sort itself out. Ilya could go back to having the easy camaraderie he saw in the first month or two, and Shane could just— he could just take his place on the silent pedestal of the team, like he always had.

(Never mind the fact that he was feeling lonely. That was a new feeling, loneliness. It was profound enough that he’d had to take a step back, using his morning run to think about what it was that he was feeling. He thought, distantly, that this is what he felt with Montreal, too, but that was just as well. He was never much of a teammate anyway.

The Centaurs were just kinder about it than the Metros. He couldn’t complain about that. It was soft, like Ilya had promised, sustainable and comfortable in its familiarity).

As with everything in his life, though, the Cens had suddenly decided to make subtle changes to their careful routine. Shane couldn’t even find a trigger point, couldn’t figure out which buttons he’d pushed to make them go from ignoring him to sniping at him in smirks and scoffs. He remembered the first time that had happened, unprompted and to his face.

The team was having a small party at his and Ilya’s place, something for just them and to give their WAGs a break from them. The atmosphere was relaxed, everyone sprawled out in their yard. Haas, Holmberg, Young, and LaPointe were playing cornhole, jeering at each other and laughing. Dykstra was deep in conversation with Dillon, who looked completely unenthused to be on the receiving end of whatever Dykstra was ranting about.

(Shane thought he should know what he was talking about by now. He didn’t.)

Boodram, Hayes, and Ilya were entertaining the rest of the guys on the porch, with them dramatically reenacting some sort of story. Inside, sitting in the sunroom-turned-vestibule, Shane let his gaze linger on Ilya for a bit, heart swelling with so much sudden fondness that he couldn’t breathe. What he wouldn’t do to protect Ilya’s smile. In his lap, Anya snuffled, nosing at his palm. He huffed out a quiet laugh, pressing on her head and dragging his hand down her fur. She sighed contentedly, putting her head on her paws.

“You’d do the same, wouldn’t you, sweet girl?” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching as Anya’s ear flicked in response. “Promise you’ll take care of Ilya even if I can’t.”

The door to the vestibule opened, and Shane’s mouth snapped shut. He glanced up, expecting Ilya or maybe Hayes. He’d been a little nicer to Shane recently, which was weird, but it seemed to make Ilya happy. Instead, though, it was Barrett. Fuck. Shane couldn’t shake his dislike of Barrett even now, even after seeing how much Ilya clearly enjoyed his company. When he looked at the man, all he saw was that cruel twist of his mouth, the sharp glint in his eyes as he spat insult after insult at Shane. It was one thing for Ilya to forgive Barrett, because he was far too good to really hold grudges; Shane, though— Shane would hold the grudges for both of them.

They didn’t say anything for a long moment as Barrett settled into one of the cozy chairs they had set up in the sunroom. Shane bit his tongue to keep himself from chiding him about getting grass on his seating; that would just give Barrett more ammunition.

In his lap, Anya huffed again, and he smiled slightly, scratching behind her ear. He could feel Barrett’s eyes on him, assessing even though he was on his third beer. Finally, after a tense silence, Barrett let out a long breath. Shane heard, more than saw, him shifting, leaning back in the chair.

“Y’know,” he started. Shane immediately got pissed off. “You don’t have to hide anymore. It’d probably be good for you two if you didn’t.”

From anyone else, those words would probably be sweet.

Shane gave him a tight smile. “I’m not hiding. I just needed some air.”

“Inside? I’m sure,” Barrett sniped, brow raised. He took a sip of his beer, gaze drifting over to the porch, where Ilya and Boodram were now getting the grill ready. “At least you’re here. Roz is happier for it.”

Sometimes, Shane wished people would just tell him to fucking kill himself. That’d be easier than this shit. He looked at Barrett, his annoyed smirk and faux casualness. Took a deep breath, let it out with another smile.

“Can I help you with something? More beer?”

Barrett raised a brow, scanning over his face like he’d somehow understand why Shane was the way he was. Why he was so paranoid, so tense, so much— and why Ilya put up with him, why he chose the hardest path with the worst option, why he loved him at all. Shane wished he could help him find the answer, because he sure as hell didn’t know. It wasn’t like Shane had much to be scared of anymore; the worst had happened, and he’d gotten past it.

(He lost the team, sure, and nearly lost himself, but it was fine. It was worth it.

It had to be, because if it wasn’t—

No.)

After a long moment, he shook his head, getting up. “Nah. Keep it up, Hollander.”

From anyone else.

The next time it happened was when Hayes siddled up to him after a Friday evening practice, uncharacteristically… nervous? Shane blinked at him, folding Ilya’s undershirt and tucking it into his husband’s gear bag. It was the first time since the last game that any of the guys had tried to initiate conversation with him. No surprise that it was Hayes; he was the nicest here.

“Hey, uh, are you and Ilya free tomorrow?” Hayes asked, watching him carefully. “Bood’s hosting dinner for the team.”

Shane hummed. Dinner would probably… not go too well, if the party last time was any indication. Plus, he didn’t want to eat anything outside of his diet right now; the thought of anything that wasn’t rice-meat-broccoli just made his stomach turn. That said, Ilya had been wanting to hangout with the guys for a few days, and he just hadn’t found an excuse… Well, that was settled.

“I’ll tell Ilya. He’d love to come,” he said, phone already in hand. “He’s been wanting to spend some time with the team for a while anyways.”

Hayes nodded slowly, still watching him like he was a particularly risky play. “What about you? You’re team too.”

Shane almost laughed. Not meanly, really, but it was just… funny. Here was Wyatt Hayes, inviting him to Boodram’s dinner like that was something they did. Shane knew his place on the team, and it certainly wasn’t at anyone’s dinner table, where they all pretended to like him for Ilya’s sake.

As it was, he could hardly stop his lips from twitching upward. Hayes was looking more and more disconcerted as the conversation went on. Shane knew he wasn’t a great conversationalist or particularly enjoyable to be around, but surely he wasn’t that bad?

“I’m okay, thanks.”

Hayes frowned, leaning forward just slightly. “Are you sure, Hollander? You haven’t come out with us in weeks. It could be good for you two.”

There it was. They were trying to make sure Ilya actually went out and didn’t isolate himself with Shane again. They were late to get the memo, though; Shane had been working on that already. He pushed Ilya to go out with the guys whenever they made plans, making up sudden, boring chores to convince the man to go have fun.

Besides, the Cens were nice. Ilya didn’t need to hide from them for Shane’s sake anymore.

“No, really. I’ll make sure Ilya comes, since he’ll enjoy it, but I have some chores I need to get done.”

LaPointe spoke up then, shouting from across the locker room. “Chores can wait, Hollander! Don’t keep leaving your man alone!”

The others tittered, and Shane did his best to meet the laughter with a smile, a quiet huff of his own. He didn’t mean to leave Ilya alone, but he just… he couldn’t spend another night out with them again, not when they were just counting down the minutes until he forced Ilya to go home.

Loosen the leash, Hollander.

He shook his head. “He’s not going to be alone. He’ll have you guys. Besides, I won’t be much fun with chores on my mind, anyway.”

Hayes nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. Somewhere down the line, he’d stopped looking so resentful of Shane and started seeming a little more… concerned. Shane didn’t like that shift; it felt too much like pity, and if there was one thing Shane Hollander wasn’t, it was pitiable. Either everyone hated him, or they tolerated him. That was the order of operations, and Shane was very comfortable with them.

This concern, coming from anyone that wasn’t Ilya or Rose or Hayden or his parents, was unfamiliar and unwelcome. He didn’t know why Hayes was trying to make any of this out to be more than what it was, but Shane had a feeling it was some covert hazing ritual. He was too fucking experienced for that, though, so the next course of action was to shut that shit down.

He offered Hayes a tight smile. “I appreciate the invitation, Hayes. Ilya’s going to be happy. Let me know if you need me to send anything with him. Drinks or something.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hayes responded, but he seemed distracted, a furrow between his brows. “We can send some food back with Rozy, if you want.”

There was the nausea again, the thought of eating something that wasn’t his. He didn’t know what Boodram would put in the dinner, what it would do to his body, to his performance. He couldn’t afford that, not now, when he’d finally started reestablishing equilibrium with the team. He couldn’t do that to them, not when his joining caused such upheaval and controversy. Not when Ilya committed career suicide for him.

“I appreciate it, but I’m good. I’m on a, uh, diet. For optimization.”

Somehow, Hayes looked even more displeased about that. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, vulnerable in a way that Shane hadn’t heard. Hadn’t wanted to hear. “Hey, Hollander—” 

He was cut off by the locker room door slamming open. Ilya scanned the room, brows furrowing at the quiet chatter before landing on Shane and Hayes. His eyes narrowed.

“Stop bothering my husband,” he laughed, a tightness around his eyes betraying his irritation. “Chto oni skazali? Oni snova zhestoko s toboy obrashchayutsya?” [What did they say? Are they being mean to you again?]

Shane shook his head, smiling at him to try to defuse the tension that suddenly thickened the air in the room. The eyes, the fucking eyes, God, he was always being watched, judged, stay controlled stay poised don’t let them see anything.

“Oni nichego ne skazali, ne volnuytes.” [They didn't say anything, don't worry.] He nodded at Boodram, who was frowning slightly at Shane. “He’s hosting dinner tomorrow. You should go.”

“You won’t?” Ilya asked, irritation clear in his voice. “Shanya, ser'yozno, chto za chertovshchina? Oni chto, tebya ser'yozno ne priglasili?” [Shane, seriously, what the hell? Did they seriously not invite you?]

“Menya priglasili, no ya prosto ne khochu idti!” [I was invited, but I just don't want to go!] he huffed, crossing his arms. “Besides, like I was telling Hayes, I have some chores that are gonna distract me the whole time.”

“Chto imenno? Chto nastol'ko srochno, chto eto nel'zya otlozhit'?” [What exactly? What's so urgent that it can't wait?] Ilya demanded, carefully picking up his and Shane’s gear bags.

Shane slapped his hand away from his bag, giving him a quick peck when he looked all sorts of offended. Ilya was so cute. “Mne nuzhno propylesosit', pogladit' nashi rubashki, postirat' bel'ye, nayti buket dlya godovshchiny svad'by Jackie i Hayden—” [I need to vacuum, iron our shirts, do the laundry, find a bouquet for Jackie and Hayden's anniversary—]

“Fine, fine, okay,” Ilya groaned. “Zachem vy togda otpravlyayete menya v Bood? Ya mogu vam pomoch.” [Why are you sending me to Bood’s, then? I can help you.]

Shane snorted. “Potomu chto vsyu etu nedelyu ty khotel provesti vremya s komandoy.” [Because you wanted to spend time with the team this entire week.] “Ya tvoy muzh prezhde, chem tvoy tovarishch po komande, Ilyusha. [I'm your husband before I'm your teammate, Ilyusha.] And I’m telling you to go as your partner.”

“My own husband, pulling rank,” Ilya grumbled, though the effect was slightly ruined by how soft his voice had gone. Maybe using the diminutive was a dirty play, but all’s fair in love and war.

Shane grinned, the expression making his cheek twinge slightly. “You know it, baby.”

How’s that for a loose leash? he thought, almost vindictive, as he gave Boodram and Hayes a nod.

Ilya was going to kill his team. He really, genuinely was. They seemed to think he was stupid or blind or maybe both. He was none of those things. What he was, was a man whose husband was being broken down, bit by bit, right in front of his eyes. He’d heard a lot of it, the not-insults and passive aggressive comments thrown Shane’s way about how he treated Ilya.

(As if Ilya wasn’t right where he wanted to be, in Shane’s arms and life.)

He’d heard more in what they hadn’t said, though. No one told Caitlin to “loosen the leash.” No one talked to Selena harshly enough to make her sit outside of Monk’s, zoned out and breathing shallowly. No one made fun of Harris for wanting to spend time, alone, with Troy. No one scoffed at Lisa when she spoke up about something that wasn’t her job, shutting her down before she could even believe.

But they did all of that to Shane.

What made them think they had the right to treat Shane like that, he wondered. Was it that Shane was quiet, that he’d take it without a complaint because he valued the game more than himself?

(No, because, despite how the Centaurs had made a liar out of him, he knew they were good men. They wouldn’t exploit him like that.)

Was it because he was another player? The captain’s husband? 

(Maybe, because they had always been protective of Ilya. He wasn’t sure how Shane factored into that, though, since he was the only thing keeping Ilya sane.)

Was it because Montreal had done the same to him for the past decade, numbing him to this sort of treatment? Was it because they didn’t even want to try to make hockey good for the best player in the league?

(Maybe. Probably. Ilya knew how others talked about Shane, the envy and the idea that because he was hockey royalty, he was untouchable. Ilya knew better, even if Shane refused to talk about Montreal outside of ‘it was fine, Ilya. That’s just how hockey is for me.’)

He glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. Shane would’ve been asking to go home an hour ago. Ilya was going to go home in another thirty minutes, empty handed because he couldn’t bring his Shane any food, since he had fallen back into that stupid fucking performance diet that just made him miserable. He was probably awake, too, overthinking and wondering how to do better when he hadn’t done anything wrong. That’s just how his husband was.

How dare his team hate him for it?

Ilya smiled blandly as Dykstra made another incomprehensible joke. It was what he did, as captain. He kept the peace, the jokes, the dynamic. Even when Shane was miserable at home, betrayed by a team that flipped on a dime, becoming the resentful, scrappy version of themselves that they were two seasons ago.

Next to him, Wyatt tapped his arm. Ilya’s gaze flicked towards him, brow raised. Wyatt looked nervous, the same type of nervous he had seemed in the locker room yesterday. So he wanted to talk about Shane, then.

“Can we talk, cap?” he asked, just as Ilya predicted. “I’m just… I’ve noticed some things. And I’m getting a little worried.”

Ilya bit back the mean curl of his mouth, the disbelieving scoff. Shane would kill him for starting a fight with his team because of this. But Wyatt seemed to pick up on it anyway, a sheepish look crossing his expression.

“Deck,” Ilya said simply, getting up. Wyatt nodded.

The night was nice. The fall chill was finally setting in, the skies clearer and the stars studding the sky. Shane would have liked to sit out here for a while, guiding Ilya’s hand as they looked at constellations David taught him as a kid.

He missed his husband.

“This is about Shane, yes?”

Wyatt winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. He just… seems in a bad place.”

Ilya didn’t bother holding back the sharp laugh this time. “No shit, Hazy.”

“Yesterday,” Wyatt continued as if Ilya hadn’t spoken at all, “when I was inviting you two here, he said something like ‘Ilya won’t be alone, he’ll have the team,’ and earlier, Troy heard him saying something to Anya that was like ‘take care of him when I can’t’? Or maybe it was ‘if I can’t.’ I’m not sure."

Ilya stared at him, wide eyed, nausea crawling up his throat and horror seeping into his blood. Shane, his Shane, was thinking— what? What did this mean? Shane wouldn’t. Not after everything. He never gave any indication he was… Ilya would have noticed. He knew he would have. Oh, God, how had he missed it, if it was true? Surely, surely there was some other explanation.

His hand flew to his mother’s cross, the edges of it cutting into his skin as he squeezed, relaxed, squeezed again. A heartbeat found in the constant prick-and-pain, because he wasn’t sure his heart was currently beating. Shane couldn’t. Ilya didn’t think he’d survive it, if Shane did.

“Whoa, Rozy—” Wyatt started, putting his hands on Ilya’s shoulders to steady him. “Hey, hey, deep breaths, man. I don’t think Shane’s actually—”

“Keep his name,” he wheezed, jabbing an accusing finger into Wyatt’s chest, “out of. Your. Mouth.”

Wyatt blanched, but nodded. “Sorry, sorry. I just— I don’t think Hollander’s going to do anything, but I wanted to bring it to your attention. Just in case.”

Ilya felt near hysterical. The cause of his husband’s misery was now concerned about him. It was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, how anyone could even think to hurt Shane, much less act like they weren’t doing anything wrong. Wyatt was guiding him down to the floor now, squeezing his shoulders. It was grounding, but it also made the rage in his chest burn brighter.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, baring his teeth. “How fucking dare you all?”

Wyatt blinked. “Cap—”

“I don’t think you understand, Wyatt. I have been watching the love of my life push himself away from me because of the bullshit you guys are saying. He doesn’t smile anymore. Even during sex, he is in his own head.” Ilya pushed Wyatt away, watching coldly as he stumbled, righting himself. “The one thing I can do for him no longer works. I need to— I’m going home.”

“I—”

“I’m leaving.”

Wyatt frowned, nodding. “Okay. Drive safe, Rozy.”

Ilya just huffed, stalking towards the house, ignoring the calls and questions. He grabbed his keys.

This ended tonight.

Shane looked up from his book with a frown, listening to the front door being opened rather… aggressively. He glanced at the bedside clock, brows rising; it was barely ten, and Ilya wasn’t supposed to be home for another half hour. Stranger still, he only spent a minute or two greeting Anya, when his normal was at least five minutes.

Carefully, as Ilya’s steps got louder and louder, Shane tucked a bookmark into his book and set it aside. He was not going to panic or nag or worry— not unless Ilya needed him to. He would not ruin his good mood after hanging out with his friends. He took a deep breath, schooling his face into a smile—rather than the scrunch-frown he did when he was worried—as Ilya let himself into their bedroom.

“Hi, baby— mmph!“

He’d barely gotten the words out, before Ilya slammed into him with a kiss. It was a little heated, a little desperate, and a lot possessive. It tasted like fear.

His first instinct was to pull back, force Ilya to tell him what was bothering him; that’s what he had done for months now, something he realized made Ilya feel better. But maybe, Shane considered, if he greeted him with a kiss like this, he needed something else first? If even the guys could see how bad he was at reading Ilya despite everything, how could he even know what Ilya needed? How could he take care of him?

After a second, during which Ilya had pulled himself into Shane’s lap, jeans and all, Shane kissed him back with equal fervor. He snaked a hand into his soft curls, trailing the other down his stomach in a question. Ilya paused then, pulling away just enough to speak.

“Not tonight,” he murmured. “Tonight, I want to talk.”

Shane raised his brows. Ilya never refused sex (unless they really had to wait, but then he complained the entire time), and he definitely didn’t choose pillow talk over sex.

He must have seen the thought process play out in Shane’s eyes, because he shook his head. “No, not like that either. I want to talk about the team. And something Hazy told me today.”

Of course. Even when he removed himself from the equation, it wasn’t good enough. Though, Shane mused, as Ilya quickly stripped and crawled into bed next to him, since when had he been good enough for anything but actually playing the sport? He’d blown up his mom’s plans for his future, thrown the Metros into disarray, forced Ilya to stay silent about something he clearly wanted to share with the world— hell, he’d even managed to deprive Hayden and Jackie of their free babysitters. Somehow, someway, he’d ruined everything except the actual gameplay. He couldn’t even fix most of it; the least he could do was keep bettering himself for Ilya and the team.

“Is everything okay?”

Ilya took a deep breath, silent for a long moment, as Shane tugged him into himself. Ilya immediately rolled on top of him, cradling him like he wanted the world around them to disappear. He hadn’t done that since they were long distance. Shane waited, gently running his nails up and down Ilya’s bare back in the way he knew he liked. He was shivering slightly, a fine tremor that extended all the way to where his fingertips were curled into Shane’s shirt. He glanced down at Ilya, frowning.

“Ilya?”

Another shivering breath. Then: “I am sorry.”

“What?”

Ilya looked at him then, really looked, eyes rimmed red and furious. “I am sorry that my team is treating you so terribly. I am sorry I did not realize. I am sorry you did not say anything. Shanya, Hazy said that you said that I won’t be alone, I’ll have my team. He said that you told Anya to take care of me when you couldn’t.”

He stopped then, cutting himself off with a sharp inhale. Shane blinked, tilting his head as he parsed through Ilya’s words, brows furrowed. None of that sounded like anything he needed to apologize for; it was on Shane, in the end. The team was just doing what everyone did, and Shane didn’t really mind, not when Ilya was so happy with how everything turned out. He thought Ilya knew that, knew that he was fine. He was used to this rhythm, this playbook he’d been reading since he was in peewee. It was just the last thing that Ilya rambled out that didn’t make sense to him.

“It’s fine, Ilya. I don’t mind it,” he hedged, bringing a hand up to gently tug at Ilya’s curls. That usually calmed him down. “And, I mean, what I said was true. You have your team, Anya— you’re not alone.”

That only served to make Ilya look even worse, tears beading on his lashline as he pushed himself up, straddling Shane. He only had a moment to mourn the loss of warmth before Ilya was gripping his face between both hands, face twisted in between something like agony and desperation.

“Shane. How long have you felt like this? Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, voice cracking. “What can I do for you, malysh? You can’t— I don’t— Shane.”

“Whoa, whoa, hey, it’s okay,” he said frantically, cupping Ilya’s face. “I feel fine, baby, promise. You don’t need to do anything, you’re perfect.”

Ilya laughed bitterly, the death grip he had on Shane’s jaw loosening just a fraction. “I didn’t even realize how sad you are, and you call me perfect? Ya tebya ne zasluzhivayu.” [I don’t deserve you.]

Shane’s chest squeezed painfully. He hated hearing Ilya talk about himself like that, and he hated even more that he was the cause of it. One day, he would learn to stop fucking up with his husband, but clearly today was not that day.

(Maybe staying in Montreal would have been better. They could’ve been out, and Ilya wouldn’t have been so desperate to meet with him whenever possible. He could’ve gone out with the team without having to come back home to the mess that was Shane.

It wasn’t like Shane’s experience was any different in Ottawa. The Cens were just nicer.)

“Ne govori glupostey. Ty zasluzhivayesh' samogo luchshego,” [Don't talk nonsense. You deserve the best.] he snapped, brushing his thumb under Ilya’s eye to catch the few tears that spilled over. “And I’m not sad, Ilya, I promise. I’m so… it’s better here. I’m good with this. And I’m happy that you’re happy.”

Now Ilya was glaring at him. Fuck. Shane took a deep breath, doing his best to keep it the fuck together. It was bad enough that Ilya was in such a state, so worked up that he was angry at Shane. He was never angry at him, not anymore. He thought he’d been doing better.

(Better, better, but never good enough. He’d try again tomorrow.)

“Then what was all of that, hm? I won’t be alone, Anya will take care of me— none of that matters if you are not there, Shane. You could give me the world, and I would give it back for another day with you.”

Even while he was upset, Ilya had such a way with words. Shane gave him a watery smile and a kiss that tasted like salt and mint, quiet as he parsed through Ilya’s words. The realization hit him like a truck. He pulled away roughly, leaving Ilya grumbling and chasing his lips, eyes wide and jaw slack.

“Oh my god, Ilya, no. I’d never do that to you. No, no, I didn’t mean it like that at all. I just meant that even if I didn’t go to, like, outings or anything, you’d have your team for company. And Anya for— for, like, support. No, baby, I’m never leaving you,” he rambled, crushing Ilya to his chest. His husband let out a slow, shaky breath, arms coming around to squeeze him. “Never, Ilya, I’m never going to do that to you. Fuck. I’m sorry I—”

“Stop,” Ilya begged, voice ruined. Shane stilled for a second, staring down at the crown of his husband’s head. Ilya didn’t beg, not like this. “Stop saying sorry. I am sorry, that I did not— Shane. I did not realize what they were doing.”

He swallowed. “The team? They’re not doing anything, baby.”

“They ignore you. They do not invite you without insulting you. They— they’re so fucking… they talk like they are being nice, but they are not.”

“Passive aggressive?” Shane supplied quietly.

“Yes. That.” Ilya inhaled deeply, pushing off of Shane again. “They cannot do this. To anyone, but especially not to you. Fuck, Shane, they don’t see that you’re the best thing to happen to this team in years. You’re the best thing to happen to me, ever, and they cannot treat you like you are not. I will talk to them.”

“What? No! Ilya, there’s no need, seriously,” he cut in, shaking his head emphatically. “I told you, this is normal. I’ve always played hockey like this, with the same style of locker room dynamics. It’s never been an issue before, and it’s not an issue now. And I’m serious about them being better than Montreal. No slurs, no real insults, they don’t force me to participate in gross conversations— I really can’t ask for much more. They’re nice, like you said.”

Ilya’s jaw dropped, and he gaped at him with equal parts disbelief and revulsion. “Shane. Shane, when will you learn to respect yourself?”

It was Shane’s turn to stare at him, a white hot anger blooming behind his ribcage. He pushed Ilya off of him, glaring at him as he settled next to him anyway, glowering right back. How fucking dare he?

“The fuck does that mean, Rozanov?” he spat. “If I didn’t respect myself, I’d have stayed with the Metros, forced a rebuild, and kept my fucking legacy. But I do respect myself, so I fucking left! They didn’t treat me well, so I left! Is that not self-respect?”

“Are you fucking crazy? No, Shane, they forced your goddamn hand!” Ilya snapped back, waving his hands wildly. “I know damn well you would have just fucking taken it if they were even slightly less terrible—”

“You don’t know anything about what it was like, Ilya,” he cut in coldly, crossing his arms. “They were manageable. The bigger issue was that my presence was affecting team dynamics. We wouldn’t win if I was there, so I left. I wanted to keep winning.”

“Shut the fuck up about team dynamics for a second, Shanya! This isn’t about that! This is about the fact that you let everyone walk all over you because— because what? You care about the game more than you care about yourself?” Ilya groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You keep saying they ‘weren’t that bad,’ but everything you say about them—”

Shane scoffed, getting off of the bed with a huff. Ilya watched him go, brows drawn low and something like worry pooling in his beautiful blue eyes. “Seriously? This is why I don’t tell you about them! About what it was like! Because all of a sudden, it’s my fault that I left, that I stayed, that I did anything at all! Staying wasn’t self-respect, leaving wasn't self respect— so what is? What do you want me to do, Ilya?”

“I didn’t say that it was your fault, goddammit! It’s— The blame is on fucking Montreal and your shitty teammates and your stupid coach! Don’t put words in my mouth, Shane,” Ilya growled, dragging a hand down his face. “I just— fuck. I want you to make the best decisions for yourself. Because you fucking don’t. You let the team treat you however they want, and I don’t understand why. You are Shane fucking Hollander, but they barely treat you like—”

“They treat me like a teammate,” he interrupted, beginning to pace. His limbs felt staticky, tense, and he needed to loosen them. It felt like his bones were going to break, everything pulled so terribly tight. “I don’t get special privileges just for being your husband.”

Ilya scoffed, muttering something about him not accepting—something—anyway. Shane ignored that, both for his sanity and the point of the argument. Ilya needed to understand, he needed to, that this was fine. The team could treat him however they wanted (which wasn’t that bad anyway) as long as they were winning. Shane could take a hike, for all he cared, as long as Hollander kept showing up. But Ilya, sweet, darling Ilya, wanted to share Shane with the world. And the world hated ‘Shane.’

He let them hate it. Ilya would understand it one day.

“They don’t even treat you like a teammate, Hollander,” Ilya finally said, chest heaving. “They treat you like a machine, like something to score them goals.”

Wasn’t that all he was, anyway? He was an athlete. His body was for the game, his mind for the team.

Shane sighed, rubbing his eyes. “That’s pretty much how all teams treat me, Ilya. They don’t need to think about me outside of hockey.”

Ilya opened his mouth, as if to argue, before snapping it shut again. He visibly bit his tongue, glowering at Shane, his eyes tracking his every move. By now, Shane could figure out when Ilya was mad at him, and when he was mad about something else. But right now, right here in their bedroom and on their marital bed, Shane couldn’t tell the difference.

“Fine. But even in hockey, they barely treat you right. They don’t respect your skills. They don’t value your advice, even though you are a better player than everyone on the team.”

Shane raised a brow, grinning slowly, and Ilya’s lips twitched up into a reluctant smirk.

“Except me, obviously. I’m still better.”

“Sure, baby.”

“It’s why I have the C.”

Huh. That stung. Shane paused, blinking into the middle distance. He hadn’t had very strong feelings about losing captaincy in the months that followed. It felt better, honestly, not having to worry about bonding with the team and caring about their personal lives and going out with them all the time. There were no expectations tied with his place in the team anymore, and it was—

It was strange. Shane did not know how to live without expectations.

Ilya was a fantastic captain. He loved his team. He deserved the letter on his jersey, right over his heart. Shane really, truly, did not want the C back. He just wanted to play hockey. But he wanted the authority back, the rulebook backing his expertise. He wanted the codified respect because he was one of the best players of the generation. He deserved it. He knew he did, and it was one of the few good things he felt he deserved.

Ilya, like always, seemed to pick up on this to some extent, because the anger in his eyes softened just a bit. “You don’t need the C to ‘earn’ the team’s love. They should love you like they love each other, and I hate that they do not.”

“They love you because you have the C,” Shane said slowly, thoughtfully. “At least initially. You earn the team’s respect, then you earn their love. Without that C— I mean, the Cens respect me. I know they do. But they don’t have to love me, because I’m not captain.”

“You think they love me because I am their captain? Because they respect me?” Ilya clarified, brows rising. “That is not true. Not here, and not in Boston either.”

He was happy for Ilya. He really was. He’d quash down the anger coursing through his veins for Ilya, even though he didn’t seem to understand. “That’s how it worked in Montreal.”

Ilya swore, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fucking hell, Shane. What the fuck did they do?”

He shrugged. “They respected me, so they loved me as captain. Then they lost their respect for me, and they hated me. It’s simple.”

“It’s terrible! Awful! We’ll destroy them when we play them!”

“We’d do that anyway,” Shane pointed out, “and it’s normal. The team deserves a hierarchy they love.”

Him not fitting into that hierarchy went unsaid. Ilya picked up on it anyway.

“Fine. Okay. Let’s say you have not made it to step two—only because the guys are idiot morons who do not know what is good for them—, so you have their respect without their love,” Ilya said, wincing at his own words. Shane wanted to hold him tight and never let him go. “And you think respect is… what?”

He shrugged again. “Not telling me to retire or kill myself—”

Ilya sucked in a harsh breath, hand shooting up to hold Irina’s cross.

“—calling me slurs, listening to me if I correct them. Not flat out ignoring me or insulting you. The usual things. They treat me like a teammate, Ilya. Just not a friend, and that’s fine. I don’t need to make friends on the team.”

He thought, briefly, of the time he had. He’d kept Hayden and JJ from back then, of course, but making ‘friends’ on the team just ended up being a headache and a half, and the fallout of everything was worse for it.

“But… they’re my friends. Boston were—are—my friends,” Ilya said slowly, watching him with the fresh sheen of tears in his eyes.

Shane sighed, throwing his hands up. “Good for you, Ilya! My teams never were, and that’s fine! We’re coworkers! As long as we can get along on the ice, it’s all okay.”

“Because that’s how it was in Montreal.”

“Yes.”

Ilya was silent for a few minutes, gaze fixed on the floor as he chewed his lip. It gave Shane enough time to get his breathing under control, to get his skin feeling less restrictive. He slowly walked over to Ilya, kneeling in front of him and tugging his lip out from between his teeth. Ilya glanced up at him, eyes narrowed.

“So. When you were on that terrible diet—”

“Ilya—”

“—and overworking yourself. That’s how it was in Montreal, too.”

Shane furrowed his brows. “Yes. Obviously. They were a lot more demanding than Ottawa is. You know this.”

Ilya hummed. “And when you were in your head all the time, hardly smiling unless I was there. That was Montreal, too.”

“What the hell are you getting at?” he sighed. “Montreal sucked. We established this before I came to Ottawa. Why are you bringing all of this up again?”

“You’re dieting again. Not as much, but enough that you keep getting headaches. And you’re the first to arrive, last to leave. Always in the gym, too.”

Shane bristled. “I’m just dedicated. It’s not like Montreal.”

“Mm. I’m worried about you.”

“Sorry. You don’t have to be. I’m fine. The team’s fine, too.”

“Yes, I know.” Ilya had gone quiet, still in that way of his that meant he’d figured something out that he didn’t like. And, given this conversation, he wouldn’t be telling Shane. “You don’t want me to talk to the team.”

That wasn’t a question. Shane still nodded, leaning up to plant a small kiss on his lips.

“No, I don’t. It’s fine. I’ll tell you if something’s bothering me, okay?”

“Hm.” Ilya patted the bed, and Shane pushed himself up to sit next to him. “Why shouldn’t I? What if I’m worried about team synchrony?”

“Synergy.” Shane paused, grabbing Ilya’s right hand to toy with his wedding band. It had become something of a habit over the past few months, a small act of comfort. Ilya did the same thing, and Shane loved him all the more for it. “And you can obviously talk to the team about whatever. Just don’t make me the focal point, because I’m not. I shouldn’t be.”

“You’re Shane fucking Hollander,” Ilya pointed out, squeezing his hand hard. “The trophy room will prove it.”

Shane scoffed lightly, heat crawling up his neck. “Not right now, dipshit.”

But Ilya was right. He was Shane fucking Hollander, and he kept stealing the limelight. The only person who could keep up was Ilya, and the rest of the team was simply… left behind. It was the least he could do to let them have something, even if it was just off the ice and at his expense. He would give up anything and everything for Ilya, and if keeping the team happy meant staying away from them, that was fine. He could be the superstar on the ice, and the random teammate off of it, captain’s husband or not.

And, if that kept the team happy with Ilya’s impartiality, then that was just an added bonus.

He slumped into Ilya, nuzzling his neck and breathing him in. He smelled like warm spices and sharp cologne, the distinct smell of just him underlining it all. Ilya let out a soft breath, turning to kiss the crown of Shane’s head.

“Can we just go to bed?” he whispered against Ilya’s neck. “I’m so tired.”

“Yes, moy pomidor,” Ilya said after a long moment. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you too.”

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Warning for some slurs and a few death threats; fuck the metros

Also I dont know jackshit about hockey or sports culture and I intend to keep it that way. conversely, I know a bit too much about team dynamics and intend to expand my knowledge there.

Entaurs

Wyatt Hayes: Hey does anyone have Hayden Pike’s number? I have a question for him

Nick Chouinard: Yeah, I think Selena has his wife’s number. I’ll give it to you if I get it. Why, what's up?

Wyatt Hayes: Just wanted to check something with him about MTL and stuff

Nick Chouinard: Ok… well, here’s his number: +1 514-xxx-xxxx

Nick Chouinard: Let us know if it’s something we need to be worried about.

Nick Chouinard: Since he’s Hollander’s best friend and all.

Tanner Dillon: Which seems like its own personal hell tbh

Charlie Boyle: lol

Troy Barrett: Don’t know how anyone does it

Troy Barrett: Definitely not Roz lol

Evan Dykstra: Being his liney is bad enough 🤣 guy barely looks at me and Haasy. Don’t know how we’re supposed to work on “team dynamics” or whatever if he’s gonna be so arrogant

Evan Dykstra: Like, he’s the one who came here. He can’t act like he’s better than us LMFAO

Luca Haas: To be fair, he was kinda forced here… He definitely would not have left MTL otherwise.

Evan Dykstra: That just makes it worse Haasy

Luca Haas: lol yeah

Troy Barrett: He barely looked at his line in MTL as well honestly

Troy Barrett: Not even Pike, who was probably the only other decent player there

Troy Barrett: He for real thinks he can do everything and anything lol

Everyone reacted with ‘laughing’

Hayden Pike (MTL)

Wyatt Hayes: Hey, this is Wyatt Hayes from OTT! I got your number from Selena Chouinard

Wyatt Hayes: I have a question about Hollander for whenever you’re free

Hayden Pike (MTL): Sure

Hayden Pike (MTL): Is he ok? Rozanov?

Wyatt Hayes: Yeah, they’re both okay

Wyatt Hayes: Well actually. Okay, hold on

Hayden Pike (MTL): What

Hayden Pike (MTL): Hayes you can’t just say that and dip. What happened to my best friend??

Wyatt Hayes: Sorry, sorry, my wife needed help with something

Wyatt Hayes: He’s fine, I didn’t mean to worry you

Wyatt Hayes: It’s just

Wyatt Hayes: What was he like socially in Montreal? Like the dynamics, how much he went out, stuff like that

Hayden Pike (MTL): ???

Hayden Pike (MTL): I mean he was never huge on going out, even when he was a rookie but he’d come out with us at least twice or three times a month. Or whenever we really insisted

Hayden Pike (MTL): He kinda just kept to himself when we went to bars or clubs, usually sat with the older or married guys (that cared about being married, at least). But he’d talk, get non-alcoholic drinks, stuff like that

Hayden Pike (MTL): He treated clubs more like bars honestly LOL

Wyatt Hayes: So he never made up like… ridiculous excuses to skip team outings?

Hayden Pike (MTL): Not unless it involved “Lily” (the codename they made for Ilya). He was pretty up front if he really didn’t want to go out

Hayden Pike (MTL): We just stopped inviting him out whenever we played Boston. Obviously we didn’t realize that that’s what the pattern was but ya

Hayden Pike (MTL): But he never missed team dinners, parties, etc. He’d even host them a few times, but we usually let the wags handle that

Wyatt Hayes: Replying to ‘Not unless it…’ Wow that’s a terrible codename

Hayden Pike (MTL): IKR

Wyatt Hayes: But okay, he wasn’t like super social but he didn’t avoid everyone at every opportunity. What about in the locker room? Did he talk a lot or..?

Hayden Pike (MTL): ? I mean no, he never talked much anywhere. After he came out to the team, he went basically radio silence for a few weeks until it blew over and then he basically never talked after the video. But before all of that he’d make rounds sometimes, ask how everyone was doing and stuff. He was a good captain

Hayden Pike (MTL): If that’s what this is about

Wyatt Hayes: Fuck Brad, yeah.

Wyatt Hayes: No, it’s not about him being captain or anything. We just wanted to get a feel for his baseline of normal behaviour and stuff

Hayden Pike (MTL): ???

Hayden Pike (MTL): Hasn’t it been like two months since he signed to you guys

Hayden Pike (MTL): How the fuck do you not know his baseline

Hayden Pike (MTL): The Metros figured it out within like two weeks dude, and they kinda hated him back then too

Wyatt Hayes: We do know! I was just talking to Lisa (my wife) about it, and she said that his “reclusiveness might be because of how everything turned out, maybe it’s some residual trauma”

Wyatt Hayes: Her words, not mine

Hayden Pike (MTL): Fuck

Hayden Pike (MTL): Well, I wouldn’t be surprised

Wyatt Hayes: What do you mean…?

Hayden Pike (MTL): Oh he didn’t talk to you about it

Hayden Pike (MTL): Well it’s not my place to give all of the details, but after he came out, it wasn’t… great. The guys started avoiding him in the showers (despite literally NOTHING happening for all the years), he wasn’t invited out at all, and they stopped asking him to handle their kids. They’d say horrible things behind his back and then get on my and JJ’s case for standing up for him. Homophobic fuckers

Hayden Pike (MTL): Not letting him babysit is fucking crazy BTW because he’s the best babysitter I know. Other than roz i guess

Hayden Pike (MTL): And then after the video (agreed, fuck Brad) it got even worse because now dmen weren’t protecting him, he was basically carrying the whole game on his own, theriault would rip into him for the smallest mistakes and honestly I think some of the guys straight up hurt him during practice

Hayden Pike (MTL): Always when I wasn’t there BTW. Fucking cowards

Hayden Pike (MTL): They vandalized his stall too. Made sure to call Roz as many slurs as they could think of as well :/

Wyatt Hayes: Holy fuck

Hayden Pike (MTL): Oh yeah and they’d cold shoulder him all the time, or if they needed his attention, they’d always call him a slur or something. Even theriault, and sometimes he’d call Shane to his office to like rip into him

Hayden Pike (MTL): Only time I ever saw Shane look like he didn’t want to be at the rink BTW.

Wyatt Hayes: They got HOLLANDER to question if he wanted to be playing hockey???

Hayden Pike (MTL): Basically

Hayden Pike (MTL): Oh but you CANNOT let Shane know that I told you all of this. He doesn’t want anyone to know

Wyatt Hayes: WHY NOT??

Hayden Pike (MTL): It’d mess with his integrity

Wyatt Hayes: Jesus fucking Christ bro MTL sucks

Wyatt Hayes: You seem like a good guy, Pike. You should get out too

Hayden Pike (MTL): 🤣 That’s the plan. I just need to get a bit more into the college fund for my youngest, then I’m going to start shopping around for teams

Hayden Pike (MTL): I fucking miss Shane. He made it all bearable

Hayden Pike (MTL): Take care of him (and roz I guess) for me

Wyatt Hayes: Yeah of course man

Entaurs

Wyatt Hayes: Holy fuck

Wyatt Hayes: Guys we fucked up BAD

Wyatt Hayes: Attached: [screenshot_1] [screenshot_2] [screenshot_3] [screenshot_4]

Wyatt Hayes: No wonder he didn’t want Cap and him to go public

Troy Barrett: Jesus fucking christ

Troy Barrett: They’re worse than Toronto

Luca Haas: Oh my god

Zane Boodram: Oh

Zane Boodram: Okay so at least we’re not that bad. But we need to get our act together

Zane Boodram: In my official capacity as AC, I am laying three ground rules: absolutely NO slurs or cruel insults, defense is NOT allowed to not protect him (what the fuck??), and Wiebe needs to be brought into the loop if anything aggravated happens at games or practices

Zane Boodram: Because all of that is fucking awful, and we are NOT going to stoop to that level

James Young: No yeah 100% we’re going to be better

James Young: I’m just still bothered by how he didn’t even let Rozy come out to us bc like Rozy knows us and trusts us. Why did Hollander keep him in the closet, yknow??

Gabriel LaPointe: Yeah I mean Bood didn’t say be all buddy buddy with him. We’re just not going to be shitty players or teammates

Wyatt Hayes: Yo did you idiots skip over Pike saying that his team completely iced him out after he did things they didn’t like

Wyatt Hayes: What the fuck have we been doing

Gabriel LaPointe: Did you skip over the part where he kept OUR captain in the closet?? Even when he was completely miserable??

Gabriel LaPointe: You can do whatever you want hazy but I’m not making friends with the guy

Gabriel LaPointe: He’s fucking annoying and neurotic anyway

Zane Boodram: What the fuck did I just say LaPointe

Gabriel LaPointe: Sorry sorry, I didn’t mean that I swear. I just get mad thinking about how cap was last year. I was so fucking worried for him bro

Zane Boodram: You and me both, but we aren’t going to say shit like that about our teammate behind his back

Troy Barrett: Harris said that he just talked to one of his socmed contacts in MTL, and that she confirmed that they were told to cut down Hollander’s appearances on socmed because of “team concerns”

Wyatt Hayes: I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to start inviting him to more chill stuff

Wyatt Hayes: This is fucking horrible

James Young: Yeah you do that bro

Shane must have missed yet another chapter in the Centaurs social dynamics playbook, because all of a sudden, they were inviting him out and trying to make casual conversation. Well, some of them at least. The rookies still avoided him like the plague—fine by him, honestly, considering how they followed Ilya around—, but the rest of the guys seemed more amiable to him. Hayes was constantly chattering about his plans or his shows in Shane’s direction, Haas had started looking just a little starstruck around him, and Boodram and Barret were constantly trying to get him to stick around for team lunches. Hell, even Harris was trying to get him more involved in social media stuff.

Shane hated it.

He knew Ilya hadn’t talked to them because he’d snapped at him about it, had sex with him about it, and cooked for him about it. Every time, Ilya’s answer was that he hadn’t talked to the team about their “behaviour.” After all of that, Shane was inclined to believe it.

That left two options, then: One, they had somehow had a sudden change of heart and decided they liked him.

(He’d been in the MLH for over a decade, at this point. He knows hockey players. They don’t fucking do that. They pretend to like you, maybe, to make their captain happy, though.)

Or two, the hazing ritual he suspected had just been revamped and it unclouded constant team-wide mood swings.

(They would be fucking stupid to try and haze Shane. And they were meatheads, sure, but they weren’t career-suicidal meatheads.)

It was getting harder to avoid going out with the team, even if all he did was sit there silent and bored. He did acquiesce sometimes, though, because it was clearly making Ilya feel better about everything. He wasn’t so harsh with the guys anymore, and he was starting to talk to them with the same friendliness as before. Ilya was so happy again, having his team and his husband and his best friend all getting along; Shane would be damned before he let himself become a damper in that again.

He did, however, limit it to dinners and lunches. They didn’t need to be around him for more than the few hours those took, and, frankly, he didn’t need to be around them for longer than that, either. It was just that they didn’t seem to get the memo.

“Hollywood!” Boodram called from across the room, waving wildly.

Shane bit back a flinch at that; he didn’t think he’d ever get used to being called anything other than ‘Hollander,’ with the cold, impassive intonation the Metros had introduced and the Centaurs had carried forward. He didn’t even like Hollywood, but saying anything about it… God, he couldn’t be any more ungrateful, could he? At least they’d moved past just snapping at him to get his attention.

He cleared his throat quietly, looking at Boodram with a stiff smile. “Yes?”

“We’re having a game night tomorrow at Funhaven! Are you coming? Roz already said yes, and it’d be great if he actually came out with us for once.”

Barrett chuckled next to him, ducking his head as Shane’s eyes cut to him. He couldn’t stand the guy, no matter how much Ilya promised he’d gotten better. Ilya flashed him a smile, bright and cheery and excited. Shane held back a grimace, already feeling the tension that Ilya had so thoroughly worked out earlier in the morning return. Literally nothing sounded more unpleasant than being stuck in a too-shiny, too-loud arcade with his teammates, but he couldn’t say that. It was ungrateful, and he was boring; he’d ruin the outing anyway.

He shook his head. “No thanks. Ilya can go, but I’m not, uh, great at games.”

Ilya frowned, somehow completely missing Shane’s desperate glances telling him to not say anything. “Lie. You are too competitive to not be good. You spent three hours beating me up in video games yesterday.”

“No, I mean, like, arcade games! I’m not good at them, seriously!” Shane insisted. “I’ll just frustrate you guys.”

“S kakikh eto por vy govorite lyudyam, chto chego-to ne mozhete sdelat'?” [Since when do you tell people you can't do something?] Ilya asked, brow raised. Shane pressed his lips into a thin line, suddenly annoyed with himself for not being the tiniest bit more humble. That would make it so much easier to get out of this shit. “S komandoy opyat' chto-to sluchilos'? Mne kazalos', dela shli luchshe?” [Did something happen with the team again? I thought things were going better?]

“Whatever he said,” Young chirped, grinning a bit wildly. “Or are you just scared of losing?”

Wasn’t that the thing? Shane couldn’t afford to lose. Ever, not in anything. His whole identity (PR image, a voice in his head said, sounding suspiciously like the rookies) was built around being a winner. 

Ilya glared at him, slashing a hand across his throat. Young looked chastised, mumbling out a ‘sorry’ that Shane hardly heard.

“I don’t care about losing at video games,” he said stiffly, then glanced at Ilya. “Nichego ne proizoshlo. YA prosto ne khochu idti, no oni vso vremya sprashivayut.” [Nothing happened. I just don't want to go, but they keep asking.]

“No pochemu ty ne khochesh' idti?” [But why don't you want to go?] Ilya pressed. Shane saw the flex of his hand, the aborted step towards him. 

Ilya was such a physical person, always touching Shane, whether it be for fun or comfort. He hated that Ilya still denied himself that, just for Shane’s sake. He’d have to tell him that he was fine with being touched in public now. He was fine with it. His body would just have to catch up with the change.

With a sigh, Shane pulled out a trump card he kind of hated using. It made him sound so pathetic. “Arkady dlya menya slishkom shumnyye i yarkiye. Mne oni ne nravyatsya.” [Arcades are too noisy and bright for me. I don’t like them.]

Just like that, Ilya’s face softened, his desire for Shane to join him choked out by his concern for him. It was kind of stunning how much of a shit person Shane could be, using that against his husband.

“Ah, okay. I’ll pick up takeout on my way back, then?”

Shane shook his head. “I’ll make something. You just have fun.”

Ilya stared at him for a moment, clearly displeased about Shane eating his meal prep again, but the idea of eating takeout, something tasty and indulgent, was just— he couldn’t do it. It was too much too suddenly, not when he was still reeling from having Ilya and a nice team all the time.

“Okay. Actually make something, though.”

He rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. “Fine, fine.”

Boodram’s eyes flicked between them, something confused and annoyed in the set of his mouth. “So you’re not coming? Why not?”

“I—”

“Because he doesn’t have to, Bood,” Ilya cut in, brow raised as if he was daring anyone to challenge him. “Let it go. And for the record, he would destroy you all in the arcade.”

“No way!”

Shane really didn’t like this nicer version of the Centaurs. He knew he wasn’t the greatest at reading people and undertones, but even he could pick out the fakeness now. They were too invested in having him around, in finding things they could all do as a team. It was starting to piss him off; if he wanted to go out, he would have said yes. But a ‘no’ had never been enough, and it clearly still wasn’t.

“Hey, there’s this sick museum opening about the history of Canadian sports,” Hayes announced to the team as they sat in Barrett’s living room. Haas glanced up from next to him, making eye contact with Shane.

“We should go,” Haas added, glancing around. “Do something quiet for once.”

He held back a groan. This was another one of their plots to get him to come out. What even was the point? It wasn’t like Shane was going to be fun, all of a sudden, and who the fuck planned a team outing to a museum anyway? The Metros would’ve had his head if he suggested something that inane. If they wanted to drag him out just to ignore him and force him to be Ilya’s arm candy, they didn’t have to do anything so elaborate; all of the questions he got nowadays were about his marriage, his husband, everything except fucking hockey.

Ilya, though, positively lit up. Surprisingly enough, Ilya loved the arts and humanities. Shane didn’t really get it, since his clearest memories of the humanities were him falling asleep at his desk trying to read Shakespeare for his literature class in high school. Ilya, on the contrary, was slowly making his way through a thick stack of Russian literature, reading whenever he had the spare time, or if Shane was reading his own books.

He’d confessed to Shane, on one of the rare nights he talked about Russia and home, that he missed the galleries and museums and performance halls that were scattered around Moscow streets. Shane made it his mission to, whenever possible, take him to plays or concerts or art exhibitions. And now here was this opportunity, perfect and inescapable. He could handle a few hours of being relegated to an escort.

But still. A museum. What the fuck. He knew they weren’t choosing it for Ilya, either because he rarely talked about his appreciation of the arts, even to Shane.

“You wanna go?” he asked, knowing the answer anyway. He smiled as his husband nodded eagerly. “Let’s go, then.”

“With the team or just the two of us?” Ilya whispered as the team cheered. He paused.

“What do you want?”

Ilya smiled bashfully. “Team?”

Right. They weren’t on a hunt for time anymore, fighting the clock for just an extra second with each other. Ilya could spend time with him and the team now. Why make him choose? He nodded.

“Okay.”

The museum was fine. Nice, even. The lighting was bright but soft, scattered over the wall like spray paint. The glass was shiny and the paraphernalia on display were interesting. Old jerseys, newspaper clippings, and sports equipment littered the walls and glass cases. Despite himself, Shane did end up liking all of the sections, not just the hockey ones; he even stopped at a few of the plaques, reading them with the same care as Ilya. He wouldn’t mind visiting again, just him and Ilya so that he wasn’t obligated to stay silent.

Like he’d suspected, as soon as they got to the museum, all chatter and friendliness with him were off. It wasn’t like everyone was in their own world, either. The guys all stayed together, whispering and giggling and laughing with each other and Ilya. Just not with him. Part of him was grateful, really, because he didn’t want to keep getting interrupted as he read the plaques. The other part of him, the one that spent a decade and some with the Metros, thought this was ridiculous, gaudy, and boring even by his standards, and that it was a stupid fucking bonding activity when no bonding was being done.

But he was just being bitter. It was nice enough. And they were bonding. This was the first time they’d done something Shane wouldn’t be overwhelmed by, after all.

Not that it was for him. They’d probably just figured out that the most surefire way to get Ilya to come out with them was by doing something that Shane couldn’t get out of without raising red flags. A museum, quiet by design and geared towards the interests of athletes, was the perfect place to try that idea. And, damn him, it worked.

It was fine, though. He thought Ilya needed to hang out with the team more anyway, making up for the lost time that Shane kept him isolated and hurting. He could handle being the proxy if it meant Ilya could have fun without fear of upsetting Shane.

It wasn’t like he was alone either, really. Ilya’s check-ins were constant, a squeeze of the hand whenever someone got too close or a kiss on the cheek if he looked too lost in thought. It was the assessing looks, though, that worried Shane. He, frankly, had no idea what his face was doing, so he pretended to be enthralled by the nearest plaque until Ilya’s gaze was off of him.

Barrett joined them, next in the rotation of teammates vying for their captain’s attention. He was just speaking to Shane this time. For whatever goddamn reason. “Is this to your liking, Hollywood?”

Shane’s eye twitched as he gave Barrett a tight smile. “I’m just happy the team’s enjoying it. Ilya loves museums.”

“Ah, is true,” Ilya admitted, sighing dramatically. “In another life, I am a literature student. Who still gets the second best—”

Shane slapped a hand over Ilya’s mouth, barely holding back a laugh at the mischief sparkling in his husband’s eyes, only brightened by the soft yellow-white lights. Oh God, he was so in love. He pointedly avoided looking at Barrett, who he could see was making a face at Shane’s roughhousing.

“No way! You’d have to catch me first!”

Ilya waggled his brows, licking the palm of Shane’s hand. He was so immature. When he spoke, his voice was muffled, his breath warm and damp against Shane’s skin. “I’d be faster than you in that life too.”

“We need to race again,” Shane said, narrowing his eyes, “because last I remember, I won.”

“Ah, no, was tie. Clearly. Barrett, it was tie, no?”

Barrett eyed the two of them warily, brow raised. “I’m not getting involved in whatever weird… foreplay this is.”

“Next practice,” Shane decided. “We race first.”

Ilya grinned, eyes scrunching up even as his mouth remained covered. “Winner gets what?”

Barrett rolled his eyes, backing away with his hands raised. “I don’t think I want to know the answer to that.”

Shane ignored him. “Winner gets to decide three of the drills for practice.”

“Not all of them?”

“Oh, baby, my drills would make them cry,” Shane said, smiling sharply. “I told you about the rookies who passed out, right?”

Ilya laughed, the competitive edge creeping into his voice. “I see. You are coming for my letter.”

“Maybe.”

It was a joke. They both knew it was a joke. Shane hated the politics of captaincy, and Ilya was a natural at it. There was no reason for Shane to make grabs at the C, even if the empty space on his jersey felt weird, a constant, stinging reminder of what he’d lost. No, been forced to give up. It wasn’t a loss. Montreal’s mistakes gave him this: Ilya, laughing and secure. It wasn’t a loss.

It wasn’t.

Fucking Barrett, though, he didn’t know it was a joke. His bored gaze turned sharp, an attempt at being menacing. It wasn’t particularly effective, though, because Shane was better than him, and Ilya would kill him for trying anything funny.

“You were a good captain for the Metros,” Barrett grit out, “but maybe leave the C to Rozy here. We had him first.”

That was funny. Laughable, really, but Shane wasn’t laughing.

“Sure thing, Barrett. The Cens would crumble if I had the C, anyway. I’d have you doing lightning drills ‘til you dropped,” Shane said, grinning coldly. “It whipped the Metros into shape, though.”

Ilya chuckled, shaking his head. “Is true, Barrett. He’d be an evil captain. You are so lucky it is me.”

“Until I win next practice and make them do suicides until the vets pass out.”

Barrett glared at him, walking away as Ilya laughed again, bright as the sun.

Hayden Pike (MTL)

Wyatt Hayes: Does Hollander not eat around people or something?

Hayden Pike (MTL): ?? What

Wyatt Hayes: We got him to come out to lunch with us (which was really hard BTW for some reason) after morning practice, but he only got a salad with dressing on the side and a lemon water?? But I know for a fact he was hungry because he was asking Rozy what they were planning for lunch before we invited them out

Wyatt Hayes: So I was wondering if he just doesn’t like to eat around people or eat out or something

Hayden Pike (MTL): Fuck

Wyatt Hayes: ??

Hayden Pike (MTL): Did roz seem upset about it

Wyatt Hayes: I guess?? He kept giving Hollander pieces of his chicken

Hayden Pike (MTL): Fuck ok

Hayden Pike (MTL): And Shane hasn’t like felt sick during practice or passed out or anything right

Hayden Pike (MTL): He’s eating a protein bar after or something, right??

Wyatt Hayes: No protein bar but he hasn’t passed out. IDK if he feels sick, he doesn’t talk about that.

Wyatt Hayes: You’re worrying me dude

Hayden Pike (MTL): What the fuck are you people doing to my best friend

Hayden Pike (MTL): I told you to fucking take care of him

Wyatt Hayes: We are! We’re treating him better than MTL ever did, apparently!!

Wyatt Hayes: Did this happen before or something

Wyatt Hayes: Is he ok

Hayden Pike (MTL): I dont fucking know Hayes, he doesn’t tell me anything about ottawa, but I can guess you’re all being shitty and don’t even know it

Wyatt Hayes: Fuck you dude what the hell

Hayden Pike (MTL): No, fuck YOU. Fix whatever the fuck you’re doing to my best friend because I refuse to see him that miserable again

Hayden Pike (MTL): Assholes

Hayden Pike (MTL): I better not see any news about him in the hospital or anything, otherwise I’ll drive to Ottawa to put all of your heads on a stick

Hayden Pike (MTL): And get roz in the loop

Wyatt Hayes: ?? YKW I’m just gonna make a groupchat…

Cens + Pike

Wyatt Hayes: Okay, explain

Zane Boodram: ?? Why is Pike here

Zane Boodram: Is MTL planning something or what

Hayden Pike (MTL): Not yet, but if I don’t get an answer, we sure as hell will start planning

Hayden Pike (MTL): @Ilya Rozanov Are you there

Ilya Rozanov: wtf r u screaming for

Ilya Rozanov: u r worse than youre children

Hayden Pike (MTL): Your*

Hayden Pike (MTL): Hayes just texted me asking about Shane’s eating habits

Ilya Rozanov: ah

Ilya Rozanov: not great, but not as bad as last season

Ilya Rozanov: i am watching him

Hayden Pike (MTL): Text me or Jackie if you ever need any help with it. Roz I swear I’m about to kill your team

Hayden Pike (MTL): What the fuck are they doing to Shane

Troy Barrett: What the hell is going on. Why is Pike here and threatening us

Hayden Pike (MTL): Fuck you Barrett, I know what you said to Shane every fucking time you played against him

Ilya Rozanov: we will circle back to that l8r

Ilya Rozanov: @Hayden Pike (MTL) i will text you, yes. it was rough for the first few weeks but it has gotten better

Ilya Rozanov: “team synergy” shane says

Hayden Pike (MTL): Oh naturally. Fuck I miss him, tell him I say hi. Hopefully his team synergy gets better

Troy Barrett: @Hayden Pike (MTL) What did you mean by “what I said to him”

Troy Barrett: I’ve said a lot of shit that I regret. What do I need to apologize for

Hayden Pike (MTL): Holy fuck you really are stupid

Hayden Pike (MTL): @Ilya Rozanov This is your best friend??

Hayden Pike (MTL): The fucking slurs, Barrett. You yelled them at Shane and JJ every fucking chance you got

Hayden Pike (MTL): WAIT YOU STILL HAVENT APOLOGIZED TO SHANE??? Holy fuck I think even some of the metros apologized to him. And you still haven’t.

Hayden Pike (MTL): I’m gonna kick your ass when we play, Barrett

Troy Barrett: Oh my god I didn’t even remember

Troy Barrett: I’m so sorry I’ll apologize to him next time I see him

Troy Barrett: And tell Boiziau I’m sorry as well

Troy Barrett: I feel so bad

Ilya Rozanov: no worries pikester i already have him on bag skates and i will force him into extra niceness training

Hayden Pike (MTL): It’s called sensitivity training. I’m still going to kill him

Ilya Rozanov: ok yes

Troy Barrett: I’ll book the sensitivity training myself, don’t worry

Wyatt Hayes: Ok so that’s all sorts of horrific but I’m glad we kinda addressed it

Wyatt Hayes: Back to the topic at hand

Wyatt Hayes: Pike, when should we be worried for Hollander? Any warning signs we should specifically look out for?

Hayden Pike (MTL): Well you should’ve been worried yesterday you fucks

Hayden Pike (MTL): If he passes out or isn’t keeping on enough weight, intervene immediately. Assuming roz doesn’t get there first

Zane Boodram: Jesus Christ. Any idea why he’s doing this?

Hayden Pike (MTL): @Ilya Rozanov What has he told you?

Ilya Rozanov: fucking nothing

Ilya Rozanov: i ask and his eyes get all big and he tell me not to worry

Ilya Rozanov: do u know y

Hayden Pike (MTL): Not entirely sure but I have my suspicions. I’m also not going to say anything he hasn’t told you

Ilya Rozanov: fuck you

Hayden Pike (MTL): No thanks. All of you better be good to Shane, otherwise you’ll force me and roz to team up kill you guys and I would hate that

Hayden Pike (MTL): Actually roz, call me. I have questions

Ilya Rozanov: ok

Troy Barrett apologized to Shane. Barrett apologized to Shane. He was a little awkward and a lot sincere, and Shane was sure that he was supposed to feel grateful and appreciative of this little show of bravery, but he really didn’t care. It was only a few days before their first game against Montreal, unusually late in the season, and Shane had a feeling Hayden and Ilya put him up to it, given the irritated call he received from Hayden and the way Ilya wiggled his way under Shane’s shirt to listen to their call.

Barrett’s apology was more insulting than the slurs he spat at him, honestly. But still, Shane bit his tongue and grit his teeth and offered him forgiveness anyway. Barrett looked grateful, not just relieved, at Shane’s half-hearted reassurances; it was almost enough for him to feel guilty about lying to him, but then again, an apology he was forced into doesn’t do much for the years of fear he caused.

Shane couldn’t really blame Barrett for that, though. He should have just been braver. Ilya could’ve been happier sooner. It was on him.

Shane sighed quietly as Barrett walked away, nearly skipping to Harris’s office. All of the hell he put Shane and Ilya through, only for him to get the easy fairytale ending. He didn’t want to resent Barrett, he really didn’t, because he gave a shit about team dynamics, but. Well. It was hard not to, when he reminded Shane of the cruelest parents from junior leagues and the shittiest kids from peewee.

“Good?” Ilya asked quietly, hugging him from behind. Shane shrugged.

“Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

Shane grimaced. “Honestly? I don’t even remember. It was a fine apology. I forgave him.”

Ilya was silent for a moment, just breathing into Shane’s ear. “You don’t have to.”

He never could lie to Ilya. He shrugged again, and Ilya reluctantly peeled himself off of Shane, watching him carefully. He’d been doing that a lot, as had the team. The guys, though, treated him like he was something fragile, while Ilya just looked more and more disconcerted. Shane could understand Ilya’s reaction, maybe: he was looking a little more gaunt these days, struggling to keep up adequate weight because the thought of just a bit more fat or sugar in his diet made him feel sick.

But the rest of them needed to mind their business. He’d told Ilya as much, argued with him about telling them to stop walking on fucking eggshells around me, getting they’re just concerned, Shane, like I am in response. But they weren’t concerned for him; they were concerned for Ilya. And that was fine! Perfectly, totally fine, because Shane wanted Ilya to be surrounded by nothing but love and care!

But fuck, if they didn’t stop making Shane the proxy of it.

The door to the locker room creaked open, and Shane heard Wiebe’s cheery voice calling everyone over for a pre-practice talk. Barrett slipped in behind him, obviously a little more flushed and mussed than before. At one point, Shane would’ve called him disgustingly unprofessional, but now— Well, no. He still wasn’t excused. Ilya and he kept their hands off of each other, even as Shane tried to get himself used to PDA elsewhere; Barrett could stand to do the same.

He jolted as Ilya nudged him forward, and they took their spots in front of their stalls, waiting for Wiebe to start talking. Shane liked Wiebe, even if he wasn’t fond of his coaching style. He was kind to a fault, leaving the pushing and the yelling to Ilya and Boodram. He didn’t yell at individual players in front of the team, never dragged them to his office for a verbal flogging that could be heard through the door. The first time they’d lost a game with Shane on the team, he’d been braced the entire time for him or Ilya to be yelled at; neither of them was. Instead, Wiebe said he was disappointed, that they could do better, and… that was it. He moved on to analysis, to compliments and critiques that didn’t leave the taste of blood in his mouth. The blame was shared, not concentrated.

Shane wasn’t sure if he liked that. He wanted to piss Wiebe off so badly that he had no choice but to pile on critique after critique after critique. He wanted to be made to feel like he was the worst thing to happen to hockey so that he could become better.

“Alright, everyone!” he called, clapping his hands together. “We play Montreal in a few days.”

A few boos and jeers rang out. Ilya’s voice was the loudest, and Shane’s was missing. They weren’t his team anymore, he reminded himself. They didn’t get his loyalty.

(He dragged them, kicking and biting and crying, to greatness. He had.)

“We’re going to practice hard, play hard, and win hard. Montreal isn’t going to go easy on us, even without Hollander—”

Wiebe glanced at Shane for confirmation. He nodded mutely.

“—so we can’t slack. Not that I thought you guys would, but let’s all say it out loud anyway.”

“Fuck Montreal!” Ilya yelled, grinning a little madly as the guys echoed his cries. Shane’s chest tightened.

Why couldn’t he just feel grateful?

“We’re going to take Hollander’s lead for these next few practices. He knows the ins and outs of the Metros, and unless he has some moral issue with it, we’ll use his knowledge to our benefit.”

That was a joke. Shane was supposed to smile. Laugh.

His lips barely twitched. “No moral issue here. Let’s fucking destroy them.”

He must have sounded too serious, too intense. Not fit for a group of nice guys like the Centaurs. Only Ilya, forged in violence and chirps and Boston’s rage, looked at him with any gravity, like what he knew mattered. Barrett was a close second, but he was Toronto’s not-so-prodigal son, a different sort of violence. Shane supposed he was glad it was leveled against Montreal this time, rather than him. The others, though, just looked different levels of uncomfortable. They weren’t used to Shane’s intensity, he reminded himself, they weren’t used to his insatiable need to not only win, but destroy.

Still. How did they think he landed Ilya? By being passive on the ice?

It was laughable.

Wiebe looked perturbed for a second, but at Ilya’s reaction, he must have relaxed. “That’s what I’m talking about. Any tips, Hollander?”

Shane hummed thoughtfully, then nodded. “Drapeau’s weak on the left because of something with his eye that he never reported. Aim there. Comeau’s right shoulder and knee are fucked from a bad hit a few years ago. I’ll turn a blind eye if you bust them again.”

Ilya coughed, blinking at Shane with something like surprise. He was on a roll, though.

“Andropov always leaves his right open when he has the puck, and defense never fills it. Check him or don’t, I don’t care, but come in from the right to steal from him. Roy is violent, so I suggest you just ignore him. He’ll get mad enough to instigate, and that’ll save us the longer penalties. Gagnon is gonna be tough; he’s good. Dizzy him up, though, because he has something fucked in his head. It’ll make him useless. Laine’s easily intimidated, so Barrett, you’re on him whenever possible. If they sub in Mitty— Miitka, I mean, for whatever reason, Hayes has gotta step up, because Miitka’s good. They’ll get more reckless if he’s on, meaning the plays are gonna be more focused on disrupting us than actually scoring, since they don’t expect us to score either.

“Schneider is terrible all around, but they kept him on second line for no good reason, so just… do your best to hurt him, I guess. He’s a fucking nuisance. Taylor’s gonna look to hurt us before playing any decent hockey, so—”

Wiebe cut in then, snapping his fingers. “Right, about that! How much violence are you anticipating, Hollander, and against who?”

He pursed his lips. “Against me and Rozanov, for sure. They said as much when I left, but it’s going to be targeted towards me. Rozanov will probably be more… incidental, I guess. They might try to go after Barrett, too, because of the whole gay thing. The checks are going to be brutal, but they won’t target anyone else. It’ll just be more violent than normal.”

Wiebe blinked at him. Frowned. “They said they’d target you?”

“Eh. They said they’d take me down, then keep me down, but their coordination is shit without me, so I just interpreted it as targeting me, which is what I expected anyway.”

“...They threatened you, and you expected that?” LaPointe asked, brows raised. “What the fuck, Hollander?”

“Theriault didn’t intervene?” Wiebe added, aghast.

Shane scoffed. “You think that’s a threat? No, that’s a promise they can’t keep. Montreal’s always played like that.” He turned to Wiebe, shaking his head with a short laugh. “No, Theriault encouraged them. He’s the one who told them to let opposing teams cut my Achilles tendon. Not that they could catch me, but it was the sentiment that counted.”

LaPointe gaped at him. “If that’s not a threat, then what is?!”

“Things I can tell you after we win, I guess. They’re not impo—”

“Hollander,” Ilya grit out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s unacceptable. You know this.”

“It’s fine, Rozanov. What they do is what matters, not what they say. I’ll just need extra coverage, but I survived when they weren’t giving me any, so we’ll see how the game progresses, I guess.” Shane paused, narrowing his eyes consideringly. “Or, actually, if I don’t have extra coverage, they’ll go after me. It’ll give you guys mostly clear lanes for shooting.”

Wiebe’s frown deepened, and he shook his head. “You’re not going to be bait. You’re a star center.”

Something bitter settled on Shane’s tongue. He shrugged. “But I’m not the star centre. We have two, so we use two. Center me on the first line with Rozanov on wing. He can be the playmaker. They won’t expect that, since I was the playmaker in Montreal. They know my play style, since I always play center, but they haven’t gone against Roz on wing since All-Stars a few years ago. He can score, I can keep them distracted.”

“And the other lines?” Wiebe asked. Shane bit back a scoff.

“You think they give a shit about anyone other than us? Other than me, actually?” Shane shook his head. “Even Rozanov is just collateral.”

“So you want to be bait?” Ilya all but growled. Shane could feel his frustration radiating off of him in waves, and the rest of the room had fallen into an uncomfortable silence. “What if you get hurt, hm?”

“Oh, I will,” Shane said easily, shrugging. “But we have two star centers. That’s the point. Keep the heat focused on me, since I can have them running in circles. I’m faster than all of them. I’ll be able to keep away until at least the second period, if not longer.”

“What happens when you get caught?” Holmberg asked faintly. The poor kid looked green in the face.

Shane grinned. “Then we see how much my ribs can take. It’s a team sport, Holmberg. We’ll just need you all to step up this game.”

Shane and Ilya were cuddled up in bed, bundled in a cocoon of blankets and shielded from the world. They’d cleaned up quickly after fucking, too tired and impatient to be skin-to-skin again. Shane had pillowed his head on Ilya’s chest, tracing random patterns on his bare stomach. Ilya’s hands were buried in his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. He was warm, surrounded by Ilya Ilya Ilya, and already half asleep. Ilya had thoroughly pushed all thoughts of the game against Montreal tomorrow from his head, and he was endlessly thankful for it.

That wasn’t the case for Ilya, though, apparently.

“I still don’t like this plan, Shanya,” Ilya murmured into his hair. He hummed sleepily, questioning. “I don’t like that you are bait and that Wiebe agreed and that you’re only getting minimum defensive coverage.”

“Aren’t you—” he cut himself off, yawning. “Aren’t you the one who tells me to keep work talk out of the bedroom?”

He felt Ilya bristle under him. “Because normally, we are not using my husband as bait.”

“I’ll be fine, baby. The team will step up.”

“I’m not worried about the game, Shane. We’ll win regardless. I’m worried about you.” Ilya took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “They’re so violent. With a fucking purpose, is the thing. Boston was aggressive for fun, not violent.”

Shane shrugged sleepily. “We’ll deal with that when it comes to it, Ilya. Our plan will work.”

“You wouldn’t have done this for them.”

“No,” Shane agreed. “Because I barely liked them. I like the Cens. They’re nice. They deserve to win.”

Ilya was quiet for a while, long enough that Shane would have thought he fell asleep, if not for the steady up-and-down-and-up of his chest. But Shane was tired and wrung out and pleasantly sore, and he wanted to sleep.

Ilya chose that moment to speak again. “You keep saying ‘they.’ We’re your team, too.”

Shane just hummed noncommittally. Sure, yeah, they were his team. They were his team in the same way hockey was his sport.

The stands were full of roaring and adoring fans. It was a home game, meaning the Centaurs fans did manage to drown out the Metros fans, but they were loud in their own way, all brightly colored signs and thunderous expressions. They were out for blood, and the Cens fans were out for revenge.

Not that Shane noticed any of this. He was busy with warm ups and fielding overly worried questions from his teammates. They’d ended up being uncomfortable with the change in formation, which was a really unfortunate time to decide they cared about Shane enough to make their concern known, but Shane and Wiebe managed to shut down the protests. Shane wanted to win, and Wiebe… well, he wanted to show Theriault just what he’d lost.

Next to him—because they got to warm up together, joy of joys!—, Ilya’s attention was split between admiring his stretches and pointing out the most vulgar signs being held up, laughing like they didn’t bother him. They did, though, because for once, they weren’t about him. They were about Shane, about declaring him a traitor.

It was never going to stop surprising him, Shane thought, how quickly Montreal, fans and all, turned on him for… what? Being himself? Choosing his own happiness for once? It didn’t matter that he gave almost all of his adult life and career to them; he chose himself once, and all of a sudden, he was dead to them.

Then again, being selfish never ever made anyone happy. He should’ve just sucked it up and stayed with the Metros for another season or two, until this all blew over and he could go to Ottawa without bringing all of the drama that being him entailed. The extra time spent long distance would have been rough, but they’d get through it.

(Wouldn’t they? Maybe not, Shane realized, because Ilya was already getting sick of it when they had every reason to be scared.

Maybe Ilya would’ve chosen the easier option if Shane asked for more time. He’d be within his rights to. What kind of person wasted their partner’s time, locked them down immovable for the best parts of adulthood?)

Boodram nudged him with his stick. Shane blinked out of his stupor, glancing up. Boodram looked supremely unenthused, which was the expression he’d been wearing since they’d finalized the lines for this game. Shane bit back a weary sigh; he really couldn’t be bothered to comfort his teammates about the plan anymore. He wasn’t captain, anyway. They should go to Ilya for reassurance.

“All good?” Boodram asked, instead of voicing any of the several hundred complaints swirling in his eyes. “You zoned out for a second.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”

Boodram hummed sympathetically. “Going against Montreal is gonna suck for this first time, huh? You think they have a tribute for you?”

“Hell no. If they did, it’d be the worst thing possible, like some sort of fucked up humiliation ritual.” Shane grimaced. “And it’s going to suck every time until they do a rebuild. I’ll be lucky if I’m not out for a few weeks after this one, though.”

Boodram hissed, glancing around as if half of the team wasn’t glaring daggers at Montreal, and the other half wasn’t further along the ice. Only Ilya was paying them any attention, and even then, his attention was split between chirping the Metros and making fun of the Montreal fans.

“Don’t say that, man. Bad luck!”

Shane scoffed, shaking his head. The cameras were on him, the eyes, the sights unseen and there he was, centerstage like always. One day, just one day, he’d like to not be. Today was not that day, and today—

“I don’t give a shit about luck,” he laughed. “It’s never had a part in how I play, and it sure as hell isn’t going to play a part now.”

Boodram sighed but nodded, holding out a hand for a fist bump. “For the record, we reserve the right to increase defensive coverage if they’re doing too much.”

“Fine,” Shane sighed, giving him a halfhearted fist bump. It wouldn’t be necessary for a while yet—his stamina was nothing to scoff at—, and by the time it might become necessary, they’d be well in the lead and Shane could afford to take the hits. “I’m gonna go say hi to Hayden real quick.”

The man in question was already waiting for him near the center, eyes tight and face a little bloodless. He gave Shane a shaky smile, pulling him into a hug once he was within grabbing distance. Shane huffed fondly, gently swaying them side-to-side. Hayden looked like he was walking to an execution.

He pulled away after a few moments, waving absently to the few cheering fans. “Hey, buddy. Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah, man. Thanks for checking in.” He blew out a slow breath, looking at Montreal’s bench. They were already glaring at him, murder in their eyes and white-knuckle grips on their sticks. “How’s it been with the Metros? Sorry I haven’t had the chance to ask, it’s been… a lot on my end, too.”

Hayden shook his head, waving him off. “Don’t even worry about it. I’m gonna level with you, dude, it’s been fucking terrible. They can’t coordinate for shit, the locker room talk is rancid, and, like, I don’t think a single team event has been planned since you left. Since no one fucking trusts each other anymore.”

Shane grimaced. That tracked, somehow. For as much as they hated Shane, he knew he was the unifying factor on the team: they came together to praise him, hate him, and hurt him. It was the thing he was best at: unification. Assimilation.

(Well, that and running his teams into the ground, both in terms of practice and morale. Three cheers for Shane fucking Hollander, worst team player in the history of hockey!)

“That sounds rough. How much longer is your contract for?”

Hayden sighed heavily, hanging his head. “Another season, then I’m a free agent. I’ve already talked to Jackie about it, but I’m leaving Montreal after next season. She’s ready to move, too. Apparently the other WAGs have been shunning her a little.”

Shane’s eye twitched. “They need to leave our families out of hockey shit, Jesus Christ. Tell Jackie I’m sorry about that. What teams are you looking at?”

“Will do.” Hayden hummed, glancing over Shane’s shoulder at the Cens’s bench. He had badly concealed disdain in his eyes. 

Shane didn’t have the energy to tell him to knock it off; he’d already told Hayden off for too much. Before he knew it, he’d be overstepping and chasing off his best friend. And then what? Outside of Ilya, he’d be left with his parents, Rose—who barely had time to see him anyway—, and a team that barely tolerated his presence. He needed Hayden and Jackie and their kids.

“Ottawa’s the dream, I guess,” Hayden sighed, eyes flicking back to Shane. “I fucking miss playing with you.”

Something cracked in Shane’s chest. He missed his best friend. He missed getting to be ‘Shane’ around more than one person. He just nodded, hoping Hayden read everything he couldn’t say in his eyes.

His best friend, a miracle worker in the best and worst of circumstances, smiled understandingly at him. “I’m guessing you guys can’t afford me, though.”

Shane shook his head. “No one’s close to retiring, either.”

“Damn. I’m trying to stay in Canada, too, so—” Hayden flinched at the yelling of his teammates. “Shit, okay, we’ll catch up later. Can JJ and I come out with you guys tonight?”

“Yeah, for sure, man. I’ll text you.” He bumped his head against Hayden’s helmet, trying for a bright smile. “Good luck, Hayd. You’ll need it.”

“God, you’re such an asshole,” Hayden called over his shoulder, grinning.

The rest of the pre-game time flew by in a blur of chirping and touching and whispered good lucks and we’ve got yous. By the time puck drop came around, Shane was in the flow of the game, the noise of the fans drowned out. All there was, was ice and cold and the glint of blades, biting and scratching at his exposed skin. He bent over center ice, glancing up to see Montreal's new center—some hotshot kid by the name of Carmen Tomlinson, hardly half as good as Shane was in Juniors—already smirking cruelly at him.

“How’s it feel to leave a winning team just to bounce on some dick?” Tomlinson hissed, hitting his stick against Shane’s harder than necessary. “Just waiting ‘til your boy can knock you up, huh?”

Ilya glanced over, lip curled, and Shane nearly bit his tongue. Nearly chose to be the better person, the one that the Metros knew and revered for ten years. He was better than this, was the thing. He was untouchable in every way that mattered and had been since he was twelve— until now, that is. Until he fell in love, and it was enough to strip away every single protective barrier he had built around himself. Until it was enough to make Shane Hollander the hockey player into Shane Hollander the gay, Asian hockey player.

Huh. He’d never forgive Montreal for that.

(He’d never forgive hockey for that. Which meant he’d never forgive himself for that. Sow and reap.)

So Shane Hollander, for the first time in a long time, bared his teeth and bit back: “You only won because of me.”

Tomlinson’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Careful, fag—”

The puck dropped, and Shane was off, shooting down the ice like a bullet.

The game melded into action-hurt-action-hurt after that. The Metros were clearly thrown off by their first line, with Shane, who always drove the plays with them, deferring to Ilya despite him being wing. They circled each other, driving Montreal into a dizzying frenzy in front of their own goal. Ilya was careful with the puck, keeping his head down and his attention on getting the puck into the goddamn net. He didn’t bother responding to the chirps or getting into fights, a first for this season. Shane would have to, ah, thank him tonight. So to speak.

That also left Shane to his own devices, and he decided to be the sort of nuisance his old teammates were. He was constantly in their shooting lanes, provoking them into chasing him up and down and up and down the ice, tiring them out. Even after a decade under his leadership, the average Metro’s stamina left a lot to be desired. He’d know; he looked at the numbers. Sure, his constant goading and grinning and chasing got him checked into the boards more often than normal, but it wasn’t too bad yet. They hadn’t even made any threats against him yet!

As he and his line crashed into the bench for the line change, Shane felt shaky, an insatiable buzzing under his skin. His legs burned, his lungs screamed for oxygen, sweat dripped into his eye— and he wanted nothing more than to get back on the ice right the fuck now. It was a fucking thrill, terrifying and heartstopping and exhilarating, in a way that none of the other games had quite managed. Breathing heavily, he and Ilya passed a water bottle between them.

A small smile tugged at Ilya’s lip, the first of the day. “Remember that bike race?”

“How could I forget? I wanted to kiss you stupid the first time I saw you,” he whispered back, grinning. “We’ll do something better tonight, though.”

Ilya’s smile widened, his eyes darkening. “Oh?”

Shane smirked, turning back to the ice as Comeau slammed into Barrett, making the plexiglass shake with the force of the hit. Next to Ilya, Boodram hissed sympathetically. Shane was almost surprised he himself hadn’t flinched a bit at that hit; Barrett certainly wouldn’t be able to sleep on his shoulder tonight. But he also found himself not really… caring. The game was a bloodbath, and not for Ottawa. The second line was as strong as the first, with Haas, Barrett, and Dykstra holding down the fort and, just like Ilya had screamed at them to do, thoroughly humiliating the Metros.

They were up three, with Haas and Barrett setting up for four—God, they were making such beautiful plays, Shane could hug them—, and Hayes was a brick fucking wall. He watched with a creeping sense of satisfaction as the Metros’ coordination fell apart further (he’d have to send Hayden some ‘sorry for your loss’ chocolates, because this was fucking ludicrous) and they got more and more desperate, sloppy and violent and idiotic. Bloodthirsty in a way they only got against Boston and Ilya.

And now they’d lose to Ottawa. What a fucking beaut.

Shane couldn’t believe he’d captained these fuckers. They were doomed to fail from the start.

Boodram leaned across Ilya, catching his eye. “How’re you holding up, Hollywood? They were being pretty nasty.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “They’re fine. Nothing to worry about.”

The second period was much of the same. This time, Shane took on more of a leading role, weaving in and out of the throng of players expertly, the puck secure on his blade. It was best to keep them on their toes, his line had decided, and to never let them know who would be leading playmaking. It switched between them frequently, even within individual shifts and periods; sometimes, Boodram was trailing Shane, ready to take over when he got checked. Other times, Ilya hogged the puck, setting up and their goals. It was unorthodox, certainly, but their circumstances were unorthodox, so exceptions could be made. And they were working, anyway.

Ottawa was up 4-1, and Montreal had dropped any pretense of civility. This is what Shane had been counting on, their desperation for revenge making them reckless and singleminded. They handled the puck, sure, but they spent twice the amount of time slamming Shane into the boards and on the ice. He was starting to feel it, too, old aches flaring up as he put his body through the wringer.

This is what he’d been counting on, though, aches and Ilya’s concerns be damned.

Taylor slammed into him hard and fast, pressing into him as Shane slapped the puck away from them. Ilya caught it, and Boodram stayed close. He’d been itching for a fight, Shane could tell, but he shook his head slightly as Taylor spoke.

“Should’ve killed you when we had the chance,” he hissed. “Guess I’ll just have to finish the job now.”

Boodram’s nostrils flared. “The fuck did you just say?”

Taylor glanced over his shoulder, rolling his eyes. “Man, shut up. Don’t act like you like Hollander. Fucking no one does, except that fairy of a husband.”

“Shut the—“

Taylor’s eyes lit up as he shot down the ice, Shane close behind. “Or, Hollander, do you get passed around the locker room as a fuck sleeve?”

Shane just gave him a tight smile, reversing their cat-and-mouse game as Ilya shot the puck towards him. They were too close to Ottawa’s bench for the guys to not have heard, and for as much as they didn’t care for Shane, a comment like that was more of an attack towards Ilya. Taylor would have hell to pay. He caught Barrett’s eye, nodding slightly at his horrified expression.

He’s all yours, he promised wordlessly. Barrett just seemed more green in the face.

The next check was by Laine, right in front of Ottawa’s net. He went sprawling on the ice, Laine right beside him. He bit back a groan, glancing at a very worried Ilya to wave him off, as he scrambled to his feet.

Laine watched with mild interest. Shane had always liked the man. He was serious and quiet, a dedicated player at the worst of times and a great player at the best. A good dad, too, from what he’d seen. He’d been quiet in the aftermath, but then, Hayden was the only one who hadn’t, so he couldn’t hold it against him.

“No one’s checking on you,” he observed quietly. “Neither did we. Is Ottawa really nicer, captain?”

Shane hesitated, just for the briefest moment, because yeah. Yeah, Ottawa was nicer, by miles at that. But the look in Laine’s eyes, a tired sort of concern, was just— he didn’t get it. Ottawa was nicer. They were nice.

“They’re actually covering me, so yeah.”

Laine shrugged, already skating away. “As you say. We should catch up.”

Shane hummed faintly, waving off a questioning look from LaPointe. The last thing he wanted to do was play nice with Montreal, but if he could still be friends with Hayden and JJ, it could be worth a shot. Laine was nice, too.

LaPointe caught him before he could skate away, exchanging a frown with Hayes before saying, “Do you want us to step in? I thought… Well, I mean, you didn’t look like you wanted interference. And Roz didn’t say anything.”

Shane shook his head. “No. You do what you’ve been doing.”

“And, uh—“ LaPointe continued, shifting uncomfortably, “—you don’t, like, owe any of them anything. So if you need an excuse to skip lunch with Laine…”

“They were my guys, LaPointe,” he said slowly. “I know how to handle them. Thanks, though, I guess.”

“Um. Yeah. Sure.”

Shane sighed quietly, shaking out his hand and rejoining the mess further down the ice. Ilya was playing like he was on fire, all aggravating grins and surprisingly tame chirps. He’d finally acquiesced to letting Shane get into the conflicts tonight, and he was clearly having fun with it. Shane grinned at him, skating past and easily stealing the puck from Tomlinson.

He was so shit. It was hilarious.

Shane raced down the ice, the clock ticking down. It was already well into second period, and as much as he hated it, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out. He was rarely, rarely, the punching bag, the one that people hit and targeted and slammed into boards over and over again. He could handle it, yes, but—

It hurt. A lot.

He weaved past Comeau and Gagnon, sticking close to the boards. He knew Ilya was trailing him, poised perfectly to steal the puck back if Shane lost it. He just wanted one goal, one clear shooting lane, he just needed another moment, and there right there go go go—

Comeau slammed him into the boards, face first. Everything went dark.

Shane heard someone screaming. A sharp pressure on the back of his knee that was suddenly gone, replaced by the sounds of a scuffle and more yelling. There were hands on him, on his shoulders and his face and his sides.

Warm hands.

Shane forced his eyes open, vision blurred by tears. He had slid down the boards, hunching into himself and clutching the edge with a white-knuckle grip. He glanced sideways at Ilya, who let out a wounded sound upon seeing him. He shucked off a glove and brushed the back of his hand across Shane’s cheek. It came away red.

Shane grimaced, shaking off his own glove and patting around on his face. He bit back a scream as he pressed on his nose. Fuck. That was definitely broken. Ilya grabbed his hand, shaking his head as he yelled over his shoulder for Boodram. With a groan, Shane lifted his head properly, surveying the scene. It was just him and Ilya in this little corner. Barrett was beating down on Comeau, his yelling lost to the roars of the stands. Dykstra was in a tussle with Taylor, while Holmberg and Young ganged up on Gagnon.

His eyes flicked to Hayden and JJ, who were both ashen and furious. Their gazes kept flicking between Comeau—holy shit, was he even conscious?—and the Cens. They’d stayed out of the scrum, yes, but JJ looked like he was two seconds from driving his blade into someone’s thigh. Hayden was muttering something, disgust curling his lip as he surveyed the scene.

Never mind that, though. He could deal with their anger later.

He tugged on Ilya’s hand. His head whipped around, and all of a sudden, he was crowding Shane, gently cupping his face and staring at his eyes with a deep frown.

“Okay?” he asked, voice rough. “Pupils look okay. No concussion?”

“Don’t think so,” Shane confirmed, pushing him back slightly. He knew he didn’t look great, but speaking was shaping up to be a monumental task of its own. “Go stop Barrett and the rookies from killing the Metros. Would hate to— hate to lose them to suspensions.”

Ilya gaped at him. “That’s what you’re worried about? Comeau just tried to stab you through knee with his blade!”

Oh. So that’s what that pressure was. Shane refused to have his career ended like this. He refused. It was fucking disgraceful and a waste of everything Ilya had done for him. He sure as hell would not be losing his career to fucking Gilbert Comeau.

He gently pushed Ilya off of himself. Stood up and stumbled. Righted himself. His knee was fine. Stable.

“He didn’t manage, right?” Shane asked anyway, knowing Ilya would need the question. He usually felt better if he got to do something for Shane, and this was so small— it wouldn’t affect his game.

“No, no. Troy got him before he could step.” Ilya paused, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Not sure if he will ever step again.”

Shane laughed. That was the worst decision he’d made this entire night. He immediately doubled over, the air punched out of him in a wheeze. That only made it worse. God, fuck, his side was on fire.

The lightness in Ilya’s expression vanished instantly, and he was quick to herd him towards the medics, firmly ignoring the yelled questions and attempts at arguments. He even made to follow him off the ice, but Shane stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He shook his head.

“I’ll try to get back on, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to,” he said, frowning. “You need to be there if I’m not, Rozanov.”

“We’re already leading!” Ilya argued, trying to shoulder past him. It didn’t really work, because Shane was as solid as he was, and he was being gentle. “They can win the game without us! Hollander, come on.”

Shane sighed, wincing as it ignited his ribs again. “They shouldn’t have to. I’ll see you in the locker room, Rozanov. Win for me.”

“I’ll get a hat trick for you,” Ilya grumbled, brows pulled down in frustration. He leaned in, then seemed to remember where they were. He pulled himself back abruptly, clearing his throat. “You are so annoying.”

“Yep.” He paused, shooting an apologetic look at the medic, who was now tapping her foot impatiently. “Ilya.”

His husband looked at him, brow raised. Shane just blinked slowly at him, batting his lashes for shits and giggles. Ilya’s face softened in understanding, and even if the stress wasn’t gone from his brow, he looked a little brighter. It would have to be enough for right now. Shane would make it up to him later tonight. A very thorough apology for stressing him out.

Carefully, and so quickly that anyone not paying attention would have missed it, Ilya leaned in to kiss him. When he pulled away, crimson was smeared across his lips and cheek. Warpaint. Shane bit back a smile, nodding at him, a dismissal as good as any. Ilya grinned back.

“Destroy them, Rozanov.”

“As you wish, Hollander.”

Shane did not come back to the ice. Ilya had suspected he wouldn’t, what with the broken nose and the fucked up ribs and the limp in his step. Hell, he’d probably be out for another few games. God, Ilya hated seeing him like that. He hated this plan from the very beginning. It wasn’t that Shane wasn’t strong or aggressive—he was, wonderfully so, pinning down Ilya at his whim—, but he didn’t fight. He didn’t see the value in it, so he let everyone else be his guard dogs while he played like a beast.

So when Shane and Wiebe were discussing the new arrangement, Ilya should have stepped in, called rank, and forced a regular lineup. Instead, he bit his tongue, looking around at the locker room full of his friends— of his family. He’d thought they’d step in anyway. He didn’t think he’d need to tell them to defend their fucking teammate. Forget being the captain’s husband, Shane deserved protection because he was their goddamn teammate.

But they didn’t seem to agree.

Ilya watched, lips pursed and commands bitten, as Shane took hit after hit after hit. It was adding up, Ilya could see his husband flagging, but he powered through. Like he always did. It was a painful sight, enough to spur at least Boodram into action; his AC started circling Shane, cutting into some of the lighter checks. But it still wasn’t enough, and Ilya had to watch his husband be flung into the boards like a ragdoll and not get up.

(Sure, it was just for a few seconds; Shane was already pulling himself up by the time Ilya got to him, the boards painted red with the blood on his face. But it was still terrifying, still too much like Boston and mama and all the times Ilya watched Shane go down, unable to do anything. Worse, still, because Shane could have gone over the boards. He could have broken something worse than his ribs.

He shook himself. No use thinking about that, Shane would say.)

And then Comeau had the audacity to spit at him, pressing his blade to the back of Shane’s knee. All hell broke loose, then, because no matter what, you didn’t try to end one of the Centaurs like that.

Troy had rocketed forward, cold, abject fury twisting his face, and tackled Comeau with so much force that Ilya heard something crack. The rookies had dropped their gloves, too, and Pike and Boiziau were split between spurring on the Cens and wishing death upon their teammates. And despite all of that, despite these shows of fury, not a single person had bothered to come check on their teammate. Only Ilya had.

And then Shane had limped off the ice, still thinking about nothing but the game, and Ilya had wanted to strangle every single one of the Cens and Metros. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe the blood off of him, darting his tongue out every now and again to taste the tang of iron.

They had, as Shane told them to, destroyed Montreal. 6-2.

Ilya was the first one off of the ice for the first time in a long time. He even snapped at Harris to leave me the fuck alone, I’m not doing media while my husband is hurt like this, which earned him a yelled warning from Troy. Later, Ilya would feel bad for snapping at Harris, and he’d get him a goodie bag of apple candies. Later, Ilya would pay for his teams’ drinks as an olive branch.

But later was not now, and now, Ilya needed to make sure Shane was okay.

That said, he wasn’t expecting Shane to be sitting in front of his stall in nothing but sweatpants. He looked terrible. His ribs were wrapped, the white tape bright and clinical in the fluorescent lighting. Bruises, purple and black and blue, bloomed all over his body. Including over his face, Ilya noted despairingly, because even the ice pack he held to his nose was enough to cover up the spread of injury. His hair was a mess, flattened by sweat and— fuck, was that blood, too? How badly had he been injured?

Worst of all, he was hunched in on himself, a fine shake in his hands as he glanced up at the guys. Tears beaded on his lashline, and his gaze flicked between everyone before finally, damningly, landing on Ilya.

He was beautiful. Ilya’s chest hurt.

“No concussion, just a busted nose and bruised ribs,” he rattled off, voice nasal and thin. “I tried to get back on, but they didn’t budge. We still won, but… I’m sorry. I should’ve been there.”

The room was dead silent for a long moment. Shane shrunk even further into himself. Ilya had barely taken a step forward, reaching out to him, when Bood spoke.

“What the fuck, Hollander?” he asked, completely aghast. Ilya whipped around to stare at him, eye twitching. “That’s the last thing you should be worried about! They fucking threatened to kill you, Comeau basically tried, and you’re worried about not coming back?”

At that, Shane frowned, catching Ilya’s eye questioningly. As if he would ever disagree with that particular sentiment. He just stared back, arms limp at his side. Shane waited for a few more moments, but eventually gave up.

“I’ve played through worse. A bruised rib is nothing.” He paused, chewing on his lip. That got Ilya moving, and he finally crossed the room to tug his lip from between his teeth, soothing away the bite marks with his thumb. “I was watching on the TV while they were cleaning my face and shit, and… Well, I was right, no? As soon as I was out, they started taking dirtier hits on Rozanov and Barrett. I could’ve prevented that.”

“By taking hits by yourself?” Ilya snapped, just a little too loudly.

Shane flinched away, a shoulder coming up as if to muffle the noise. The locker room was chattering now, the steady hum of low voices and quick glances. “For this game, yeah—”

“Shane. You are sitting in locker room bruised and bleeding—”

“That’s hockey, Ilya.”

“—all because you decided to… to, ah, fuck, what is word?” Ilya scrubbed a hand down his face. “Muchenik. Dies for others.”

“Martyr,” Shane supplied, then frowned. “Hold on, I’m not a fucking martyr. We were going up against my shitty old team, so I took the lead. Simple as.”

Hayes gave him a look, equal parts disapproving and appraising. “No, not simple as. We, as a team, were playing against another team. You played like it was you versus the Metros. Why?”

Shane threw up his hands, then winced as it pulled on his ribs. Ilya lurched forward, steadying him immediately. Shane’s skin was so warm under his hands, the sort of heat that only injury and exhaustion could bring. In a perfect world, Shane would never have to hurt; Ilya could wrap him up in a soft blanket and protect him from every bad thing. But this world wasn’t perfect enough for his perfect husband, so now Shane’s pain was bared for the entire room to see.

“Wasn’t it, Hayes?” Shane snapped, exhausted. “I’m the fucking problem, man. I came out and ruined team dynamics. I kept Ilya in the closet and ruined team dynamics—”

The entire room flinched at that. Ilya narrowed his eyes.

“No, you did not,” he said slowly, watching his team. “It was a, ah, mutual decision.”

Shane shook his head, tears brimming in his eyes again. Troy and the rookies looked stricken, completely caught off-guard, while Bood and Wyatt exchanged… some sort of look. Curious.

“I should’ve realized sooner,”  Shane was saying, and, oh, now he was sniffling. 

Shane crying, genuinely and truly, was one of the worst things Ilya had ever seen; he didn’t want to let anyone else see that soft side of his husband, his vulnerable underbelly. He may have trusted his team, but he didn’t trust them that much. And now, given the reactions they had, he wasn’t sure he trusted them at all.

“But, regardless, as I was saying—”

“Holly,” Wyatt tried, only to be cut off.

“I’m the problem on every fucking team I’ve ever been on. Like, when I signed with Ottawa, the fucking media circus? My fault. The controversy, the aggression, the— the accusations. They’re all my fault, all because I fucked up,” Shane rambled, voice going high and breathy like it did when he was about to shut down. “And— And now, I couldn’t even do the one thing I’m good at. I couldn’t even play the game for you.”

That was directed towards Ilya. He frowned, rubbing a hand down Shane’s back, soft and careful.

“For me?"

He nodded miserably, ducking his head. “All I’ve done is cause problems since I joined. I just— I just figured that I’d play really well, and that’d make it easier. Take some of the scrutiny off of us, make it easier for everyone. I know— I know playing with me, adjusting for me, it’s hard. You guys shouldn’t have to. You had your system and then I…” 

He sniffled again, tucking his head into Ilya’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Montreal never did?” Wyatt asked quietly, sympathetically. “They moulded you, instead of the other way around?”

Shane shook his head. “N-Not really, no. I still— I mean, I was still in charge. It’s just… you know. All the other stuff. The social stuff.”

Ilya glanced down at Shane, his freckles hidden by the dark bruises blossoming on his cheekbones. A picture started to paint itself, and Ilya wasn’t sure he liked it. He knew Shane wasn’t particularly social, but he was never as reticent as he had been since moving to Ottawa… except for when he was in Montreal.

Ilya had chalked it up to nerves. To the stress of giving up your legacy and drafting team to rebuild it with a new one, a new dynamic and name to make. He’d just… he’d been so happy to finally have his team and his husband and his family all together. He thought Shane was happy too. He thought Shane was doing better than he was in Montreal.

Did Ilya even know what it was like for him in Montreal? How bad was it, for Shane to excuse all of the abuses thrown at him on the ice, and then turn around to apologize for… what, getting hurt? Not being able to finish the game?

The audacity of Montreal to strip Shane of his pride, of his sense of self, was astounding. To make him feel like he failed for being human, piling the responsibilities of the entire team on his shoulders— that was horrific. No wonder Shane had been so stressed last year, so doubtful of his own skill.

…How long had it been since Ilya saw him smile with someone that wasn’t him?

(He didn’t think the team even knew Shane’s real laugh, the one that was kind of breathy and bitchy and beautiful.)

“The social stuff…?” Bood prompted after a moment, quiet.

Shane shrugged, turning his head just enough to peek out at the team. Ilya pulled himself closer, wrapping his arms around his husband. “I’m on a diet, and it’s annoying to deal with, so none of the WAGs—except Jackie, obviously—bothered. I’d usually just bring my own food. I go to bed early, and they hated it when I showed up to parties and then after a few hours, so they just… stopped inviting me. Stopped showering at the same time as me when I came out, went quiet if I talked, stuff like that. I get it.”

Ilya’s heart was breaking. Entirely and actively, it was breaking. “Shanya, moye komnatnoye rasteniye, why did you not tell me?” [My houseplant]

“Houseplant. And should I have?” he asked. Ilya’s jaw dropped and he looked down at him to make sure he heard him right. He did. Shane blinked up at him, genuine and earnest. “That’s all pretty normal, honestly. And you were dealing with your own shit, obviously, so why would I bother you with… normal hockey?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya saw Troy mouthing a shocked ‘normal?’ which was, frankly, the most polite reaction anyone in the room had had yet. Young looked ready to blow a gasket.

“Okay, so we need to genuinely kill Montreal,” he said, pacing along the length of the locker room. “What the fuck. What the fuck? Holly, was it like that in Juniors, too?”

“I mean, yeah. Peewee was obviously better, but the parents made that kinda hard too.” Shane shook his head, sitting up. “I don’t know what the big deal is. Ottawa’s better, anyway. It’s quiet.”

Ilya’s gaze snapped to Wyatt. He was always the most expressive of the bunch, and sure enough, he looked all sorts of sick and pale. Oh, he was going to kill his team.

The door to the locker room opened, and one of the medics poked their head in. “Hollander, can we steal you for a second? We want to take another scan to make sure that it’s just bruising.”

Shane groaned, nodding and getting up. He tossed the ice pack onto the bench, hissing in pain as he tried to wiggle into his button-up without aggravating his ribs too much. Ilya jumped up, grabbing the shirt and helping Shane into it. He got a soft smile for his efforts and, after a moment of deliberation, a kiss. And then Shane was gone, limping out the door to get his ribs checked.

Slowly, Ilya turned to look at the rest of his team, clapping his hands together. The few guys who had tried to steal away to the showers slunk back, sheepish.

The silence was suffocating, stifling and heavy and tense. Ilya took his time scanning everyone’s faces, lingering just lock enough to make them uncomfortable. He took care to catalogue each and every expression: Troy’s horror, Bood’s concern, Wyatt’s pensiveness, Luca’s guilt.

Guilt. Guilt.

How. Fucking. Curious.

When Ilya spoke, his voice calm, stretched thin and ready to snap. The room seemed to hold its breath. Ilya didn’t get angry at people very often. Certainly not his team.

But tonight, Ilya could have mauled every single one of them without an ounce of remorse.

“What,” he started slowly, carefully, “did my husband mean that he ‘ruined team dynamics?’”

He was met with silence. Evasive, guilty silence. His lip curled as he took a shaky breath, flexing his hand once, twice, three times. Wyatt cleared his throat.

“We, um… Last year, you were in a terrible place,” he began, swallowing roughly. “And— And when the FanMail thing happened, we, uh, thought Hollander—“

“Keep his name out of your fucking mouth.”

Wyatt held up his hands placantingly. Ilya wanted to break them. “Sorry. We thought he was, like, forcing you to stay in the closet, since you were so much happier being out of it, you know? And then when he signed here, he wasn’t super affectionate or smiling or anything, and…”

Ilya raised a brow. “And what?”

“We… uh, we kinda thought he wasn’t… good for you?” Wyatt finished meekly, shrinking into himself as Ilya’s glare sharpened.

“Not good for me,” Ilya repeated flatly. “Not good for me? What made you think you could decide that for me?”

Troy grimaced. “We were just looking out for you, Ilya. I mean, we clearly judged it wrong, but I promise we just—“

“Wanted best for me? Wanted me happy? And you thought, what, making my husband miserable was way to do that?” Ilya hissed, stalking towards Troy. He backed up slightly, hands up defensively. “Let me tell you this: Shane is best thing to ever happen to me. He is my reason to live. He is only reason I am here, in Ottawa. I would never be here otherwise. How fucking dare you? All of this to protect me, when you should have just talked to me.”

“Ilya—“ Wyatt tried, only to cut himself off as Ilya whipped around to snarl at him. “We didn’t think—“

“No, you fucking didn’t! Shane is not— he is quiet. Around others. He does not laugh loudly or smile often or talk much, but quiet does not mean silent! Quiet is happy, for Shane.” Ilya barked out a laugh, the sound ripping out of his throat. “And you know what silent is? Sad. He was so sad last season, and then… fuck.”

“Rozy?” Bood prompted, hand twitching as if to reach out. Ilya might’ve broken his arm if he tried.

“Silent this season too,” he muttered. “And I didn’t see it.”

“…He’s good at hiding it,” Wyatt offered, quiet. “Pike said as much, basically.”

“I know, Hazy! I married the man, I know how good he is at it!” Ilya yelled, dragging a hand down his face. “But not from me. He could never hide anything from me, except his own suffering apparently.”

The room lapsed into silence again, interrupted only by Ilya’s heavy breathing and the occasional shuffling from the guys.

There were two fundamental truths Ilya knew about himself: he did not deserve Shane, and he was terrible at taking care of nice things.

He could take care of the impersonal, the gaudy— but the things he loved? The people he loved? They’d be better off without him.

None more so than Shane. His sweet, beautiful, adoring Shane, who hated his own presence so much that he tried to erase it without hurting anyone else. And he’d almost succeeded, until it broke him. Physically, reparably, but Ilya was terrified that it might have broken him internally, irreparably. When had he lost Shane’s trust? When had his husband decided that he was not someone who would give up the world for him, someone to ask for help?

“We made it worse,” Troy finally said, jarring Ilya out of his thoughts. He sounded terrible, a little wrecked and a lot guilty. “We— I mean, we should’ve figured he wouldn’t be doing great after everything with Montreal. We didn’t know how they were to him, and we just… did the same thing.”

“I did not know either,” Ilya said quietly, staring at Troy, unseeing. “I still did not hold last season against him. Why did you? What made you think you could hate my husband for something he did not do?”

“We don’t hate him!” Wyatt insisted. “We never did, we swear. He’s still Shane Hollander, and more than that, he’s your Shane. We just— God, I don’t know, I just… didn’t like that he didn’t seem to consider what you wanted. But now, after seeing how Montreal treated him, I get it. If the reaction to me coming was that bad, I’d want to keep Lisa far away from anything like that, too.”

Ilya couldn’t say anything to that. He’d done the same thing, over and over again, trying to push Shane away to keep him safe from Ilya’s sharp edges and festering wounds. It hadn’t worked. All it did was hurt them both.

Wyatt swallowed thickly, something like tears glittering in his eyes. “And, for what it’s worth, I was… I was really excited to meet Shane. Before, uh, we fucked up. Massively.”

“It’s worth nothing,” Ilya snapped, voice quiet. “Did you know, I spent the entire summer after he left Montreal telling him that the Centaurs are nice people? They will love you, Shanya, I said, because they are good people. They do not leave their own to rot. They are not like Montreal, Shane, they will not abandon you for being yourself. For loving me.”

He laughed, the sound brittle and cold and disbelieving. “And then you did! You made me into a liar, boys. There is one thing I swore to never do to Shane again, and it was lie.”

“I’m sorry,” Troy said meekly. Always so apologetic, that one, so desperate for forgiveness and redemption. He cared fiercely, Ilya knew, and maybe that was why he wasn’t slapping Troy for even daring to say that. “We all are, Ilya, I swear. We’re so sorry. We’ll do better, we’ll apologize to him, we’ll do whatever you two need us to.”

Ilya gave him a sharp look, a critical once over. “For me, I need you to understand something. I did not bring Shane here to suffer, and he definitely did not bring me here to suffer, either. Last year was not his fault. It was brain’s fault. I have depression, and I am on medication now. I am better now, even when I have hard, terrible days, because of medication and Shane. He helps me be better and feel better. He gets me out of bed every morning, he makes sure I do not eat only junk, he makes me work out and laugh and rest. He gets angry at me when I need him to, and he holds me quietly when I need him to. He is the biggest reason I am doing better.”

He paused for a moment, long enough for some of the guys to murmur ‘sorry’ and ‘we didn’t know.’ Of course they didn’t; Ilya made sure of that. He just hadn’t meant to make it look like it was Shane’s fault. It wasn’t, it never had been. It was hereditary, genetic (wow, the Shane in his mind whispered, fond and achingly sweet, genetic), a flaw of his being and a mark on his essence. Shane only ever made it more bearable, rewriting his DNA and cleaning away the scuffs with calloused hands and a flat voice.

“I am the reason he is not. And you all made it worse.” He took a deep breath, eyes slipping shut. “The Metros fucked up. We know this. They let the best player in many generations walk away, all because they could not— they could not, ah, get heads out of assholes. The thing is, Shane is not player you force to fit into the team. You build team around him, and you get rid of what is holding him back. Montreal should have done that. In an ideal world for Shane, Montreal would have kicked out Comeau and Drapeau and Taylor and the five million other morons on the team just to fight to keep my husband. But no, they let him go. And we were lucky enough to get him.

“And then, what, you forget to cherish him? You forget to make him want to stay, not as punishment but for joy? I told him, see, I told him, Shanya, hockey will be fun again. The Centaurs are nice, they are excited to meet you. You will love your game again.”

Luca’s eyes were wet, his voice wobbly as he said, “He doesn’t even smile at practice anymore.”

“He used to smile every time he got on the ice,” Ilya corrected, his lips twitching up at the memories.

Every face off, every hit, every stolen puck— Shane’s face may have been set in stone, but the happiness was clear in his eyes, bright and silvery and ambitious. The ice had a way of lighting him up, the blue-white set in stark contrast against his warm skin and dark freckles. He looked at peace in the middle of a match, heedless of the chaos around him.

When was the last time he played with that glint in his eye?

He shook himself out of the memories, shoving those fond memories back down. Ilya looked around at the team again, making eye contact with every single man. Some shrunk away, while others just looked more and more sheepish. He took a deep breath, willing his voice to be steady.

“Here is what will happen. You will all shower and change. Then, you will wait here for as long as it takes for Shane to come back. You will apologize and maybe beg for forgiveness, and you will take what he gives.” He paused for moment, glancing at Troy. “Shane was not joking when he said he used to put the Metros through hell. He showed me some videos from their practices, you see, and it looked completely awful and terrible. I have not trained that harshly since Russia. So next practice, and maybe one after that, I will be using whatever drills and skills Shane suggests. You will do them, no questions asked or complaints made. I do not care if you are tired or nauseous, because neither will he. Understand?”

The room let out a breath. “Yes, Captain.”

He grit his teeth. “I said, do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain!”

Shane slipped into the locker room. The x-ray had gone fine, his broken nose was set properly, and he’d stopped feeling the headache thirty minutes ago. On his way back, for some godforsaken reason, media had wanted a word with him, so he spent ten extra minutes wasting his and their time answering the same questions he’d been answering since he signed to Ottawa. By the end of it, a vaguely panicked Harris was ushering him towards the locker room, chattering on about the game and the players’ behaviours and Comeau’s four game suspension (which definitely didn’t make Shane laugh so hard that he thought he actually broke his ribs). Shane just let his rambling wash over him, nodding at the right times and frowning at others.

Harris stopped them in front of the locker room doors, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You did great out there today. Sorry that I couldn’t get them to lay off entirely.”

“Oh, uh. Thanks,” Shane replied awkwardly, nodding at him. “And it’s no issue. That’s just how the job goes, right?”

“Right, yeah. Yep. Feel better soon, Shane.” Harris pushed open the door for him, waving off his ‘thank you.’ “See ya.”

Shane blinked at his retreating back, then shook his head slightly. It wasn’t anything unusual for people to be jumpy around him. For everything he’d fucked up, he was still Shane Hollander, and he knew the weight that carried here. In Ottawa especially.

He scanned the room, grinning as he spotted Ilya. As always, he looked gorgeous, skin flushed from the shower and hair a mess of curls falling into his face. He was in his game day suit, artfully sloppy as always. He was rifling through their stalls, shoving his things into his own bag and carefully folding Shane’s.

He snuck up behind Ilya, leaning in to whisper, “Boo.”

“Fuck, Shane!” Ilya yelped, whipping around to swat gently at him. “You little menace. You seem happy.”

He nodded, smiling growing wider. “Comeau got a four game suspension, my ribs aren’t fractured, and I only need to miss the next game. I’m sure you can hold out for a game without me, yeah?”

“And everyone calls me a liar when I say you are an asshole,” Ilya sighed, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Ah, one thing, Shanya. Team has something to say to you.”

Just like that, all of his good humor drained out of him, replaced with the same bone-deep tiredness he had been feeling this entire season. He wasn’t sure he could handle any more questions tonight; all he wanted to do was go home and have sex and sleep. But Ilya had that look in his eyes, the one that let Shane know that he wasn’t getting out of whatever bullshit was about to happen.

Shane closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a slow breath. “Can it wait?”

“No, malysh, it’s waited long enough,” Ilya murmured, kissing his forehead. “It’s nothing bad. Well, a little bad, but it will get better.”

Maybe this was it, then. They wanted him out because Shane Hollander brought too much drama with him. He’d have to void his no-trade contract and try to shop around for yet another team in this conference. Maybe it would be enough to push Ilya to realize that he’d taken the path of most resistance, chosen the hardest option. That it would be easier if he was married to literally anyone.

With a deep breath, he turned around to face the Centaurs, hesitating. “If this is about tonight, I’m sorry—”

“Shane,” Boodram cut in, sounding upset. Shane stopped, snapping his mouth shut, hard enough that his teeth clicked. Since when were they on a first name basis? “You did nothing wrong at all. Not tonight, and not since you’ve been here. I… Probably not since you’ve known Rozy.”

Hayes stepped in then, a hand on Boodram’s shoulder. “We say that to say that we’re sorry. All of us. I know it’s just a few of us as, like, spokespeople, but we all talked about this, Shane. We fucked up with you. We, um— We assumed, last year, that Ilya’s partner wasn’t a great person. And then we found out it was you, and we saw how happy he was afterwards, so we… assumed the worst of you. We thought you weren’t treating him well.”

Shane blinked, tilting his head. “That’s what this is about? I know. I get it.”

“...What?”

“I get it. I haven’t been a great partner,” Shane clarified with a shrug. He reached back to hold Ilya’s hand as he made a wounded sound. It stabbed straight through his heart. “I wasn’t paying as much attention to Ilya as I should have, and it… wasn’t great. Long distance made it hard, but I really didn’t put in as much effort as I should have. I’m working on it, now that I’m not, y’know, wrapped up with Montreal now.”

“Shanya, moya lyubov, ty razbivayesh mne serdtse,” Ilya whispered, squeezing his hand.

“Izvinite,” he said, smiling sadly. “But, like, I get it. I’m glad you all are willing to stick up for him.”

“It shouldn’t be at your expense, though!” Boodram cut in, waving his arms. “We didn’t— We just did what Montreal did. We iced you out, were cruel to you, and watched you destroy yourself for us. All for some stupid fucking assumptions we made. God, Shane, we didn’t even think about what Montreal must have been like. I know we were giving you shit for not coming out sooner, but after today— fuck. We get it. We should’ve realized it sooner.”

Boodram paused, chewing the inside of his mouth. “If anything, I should’ve realized sooner. I’ve been there, with the terrible locker rooms that hate you for being who or what you are. Now here I am, just fucking, like, repeating the cycle. I’m so fucking sorry, Shane.”

“All this to say,” Barrett started, quieter than he’d been during Shane’s entire stint with the Centaurs, “we’re so fucking sorry. We were horrible to you. Rozy told you we’d be nice, that you’d be happy with us, but we just made it worse, I think. You needed support and we didn’t give that to you. I’m especially sorry. I just… I’ve never been good to you. I’ll do better, I promise. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Shane felt tears gathering in his eyes, heavy and cloying. His gaze danced between all of his teammates, sheepish and desperate and, yes, so fucking sorry. He swallowed roughly, his sinuses aching as the pressure built up. Just how much abuse could his face take today, he wondered.

“That’s just how hockey is,” he said faintly, shaking his head. “It’s okay. This is just— ugh, what did Rose say— this is just the status quo. It’s fine.”

They flinched at that. All twenty-something of them. God, he’d fucked up.

“No, Shane, it is not,” Ilya insisted, voice thick. “This is not status quo in Ottawa. I did not lie, I promise. They messed up badly, but you do not have to deal with it anymore, Shane.”

Shane frowned, looking over his shoulder at his husband. “Roz— Ilya, baby, I told you it was okay. I was just having an off night that night. It really is better than Montreal. I’m good here.”

“But are you happy?” Haas asked softly.

“Yeah. I’m married to my favorite person in the world and living near my parents. Of course I’m happy.”

“With the team?”

Yes. He should say yes, because he’d done enough damage as is. He didn’t have to add rejecting his team’s apologies to that list. He should take the olive branch they were offering, let them down with forgiveness that he didn’t really mean, but he just—

He took a deep breath, shuddering next to the prisoner in his chest. He could feel Ilya’s eyes tracking him, heavy and sad and hurt. Shane gave them a tight smile and a nod, head down. “We’re winning, right? I’m happy enough. Nothing has to change on my account. It’s a lot, I know.”

Hayes stepped forward slightly, and Ilya lifted Shane’s head gently, forcing him to look at the guys again. Hayes looked awfully upset, guilt brimming in his eyes.

“You don’t have to forgive us, Shane,” he said quietly, giving him a soft smile, “but, please, let us make it up to you. Let us be better, because you both deserve better.”

“...Do as you please, Hayes. I’m fine with whatever.” With that, he tucked himself against Ilya’s side, dropping his gaze to their hands, where their wedding rings glinted next to each other. “Can we just go home, Ilya? I’m tired.”

Ilya kissed his cheek, so soft and gentle and slow. “Of course, sweetheart.”

And if Shane kept his head down and muscles tense as they left, counting down the days until the next cold shoulder, that was between the team and the silence of the locker room.

Chapter End Notes

I promiseeee I tried to make a happy ending but with the way I set up the characters and conflict, it just wouldn't work :(( sorry everyone looking forward to a happy ending hurt/comfort. best I can do is bittersweet with room for reader interpretation