Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike & Jackie Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Original Characters, Yuna Hollander, Rose Landry, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, Different getting together, Humor, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Autistic Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is a Little Shit, Slow Burn, Crack Treated Seriously, Everyone is a little bit more chill about the gay thing, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, POV Shane Hollander, I make up an entire NHL worth of teams and hockey players but kept the Penguins and Sidney Crosby just for an elaborate dick joke, once again I am going on rants about animal reproduction, Heteronormativity, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Racism, Justice for JJ, Good Friend Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, low angst

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Hollanov fics, Part 1 of Captain vs Captain

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-14 Completed: 2026-04-03 Words: 64,863 Chapters: 16/16

Captain vs. Captain

Summary

Following the internet success of Shane and Ilya's presentation at the NHL Awards, ESPN decided to contract with them to do a whole series. It goes far better than anyone could have dreamed.

-or-

“When you think about it,” Jackie said, when Shane had dinner with her and Hayden a few days later, “hockey’s basically already reality tv.”

Notes

I got this plotbunny into my head and before I knew it I was spending all my free time typing. The story is currently at 40k 60k 65k right now, so I have 8 14 all 16 or so chapters already written and I don't expect it to be more than 50k 70k (lol!)

Update: the story is complete! I'll be posting every few days until it's done!

Thanks to the awesome members of my Heated Rivalry discord for brainstorming and encouragement!

This isn't crack but it's going to be much less angsty than canon. I've gone with the game changers names for teams etc.

This AU is written in 2015 or so a mish-mash between 2015 and 2017, where Ilya and Shane haven't gotten together yet, and some 2015 events have just happened and some 2017 events are happening.

Also I know nothing about producing tv shows or anything so sorry for any errors!

The tv show is going to be broadcast at some point in the story so if anyone wants to share what they think would be believable social media reactions that maybe i could include, that would be super fun.

Chapter 1: Episode 1: The Ringer

Shane was vaguely aware that reality tv existed. His exposure to it was mainly limited to his billet family being obsessed with Amazing Race, Jackie occasionally kicking Hayden out of the house so she could host Drag Show watch parties, and that time Fredrick Skaarup, retired center for the Red Tails, was on Dancing With the Stars, and they’d gotten together to watch it because Mitty had been on a team with him once. He’d danced terribly and no one was surprised when he was the first one kicked out.

“Well,” Mitty had said cheerfully, “he never had any rhythm.”

So when Shane got the call from his mom, he’d said: “You mean like a competition?”

His mom had been silent for a moment. “It doesn’t seem like it,” she said. “This is just a proposal, but the idea seems to be the two of you doing things together.”

“Me and Rozanov?” Shane said doubtfully.

“Yes!”

“What kind of things?” Shane asked.

“So it looks like they’re thinking a mix of casual activities— mini golf, arcades, that kind of thing— and cultural visits, like going to historic places, art museums, so on. Highlighting the cultures and histories of both cities, it says. I’ll send you the proposal.”

“I don’t have time to film an entire TV series.”

“No,” his mother said. “It’s not a whole series. It will just be short segments. Fifteen minutes each, maybe, they’re thinking ten episodes shot during the season, whenever they can fit it into both of your schedules. They want to make it as convenient for you as possible. So when you’re in Boston, or he’s in Montreal…”

“We only play four games against the Bears in the regular season,” Shane reminded her.

“For sure,” she said. “But there’s also breaks and the All-Star Game and other times when we can fit it in.”

“It sounds like it’s going to be a big time sink,” Shane said. “And my schedule is already so crowded.”

“Shane, this is a great deal for you. They’re willing to offer a lot; there’s a new sponsorship included, and it’s huge publicity. Airing segments dedicated to you on a regular basis? Hockey doesn’t get that much airtime compared to football, baseball, and basketball, remember.”

“It’s not just dedicated to me, it’s dedicated to me and Rozanov.”

“And that’s even better because people love your rivalry and they loved that bit you did at the NHL Awards was very funny— I saw clips of it all over Twitter. If this does nearly as well… I really think you should go for it.”

Great, Shane thought. Rozanov probably came off amazing in those clips, funny and assholish in that charming way only he could pull off. Shane probably looked like an awkward idiot.

“I’ll send over the proposal,” Shane’s mom said, “and you can think about it, okay?”

Shane agreed, feeling like somehow this had already been decided for him.

“When you think about it,” Jackie said, when Shane had dinner with her and Hayden a few days later, “hockey’s already basically reality tv.”

“Oh, here we go again,” Hayden sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

Jackie gestured with her fork. A chunk of salmon was speared on the end of it. “No, hear me out. It’s not scripted, right? But you’re also, you know, you’ve got a media face. Every time you give an interview, that’s not really you; that’s your media training. And then there’s all the drama that the media’s trying to create, the storylines, everything.” She ate the salmon she’d been waving around. “It’s really… I mean, that’s all reality tv is. So why not do a little more of it?”

“I’m a hockey player,” Shane said. “I’m supposed to play hockey. Not.” He waved his hands. “All of this other stuff.”

Jackie shrugged. “You can say no, right? This isn’t part of your contractual obligations.”

“Yeah,” Shane sighed.

“But you’re going to anyway because your mom wants you to do it because all exposure is good exposure and it’s good for you to have worked closely with ESPN and because you want to seem like a team player,” Hayden added, sounding a little bored. He put a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Sucks, buddy. Having to spend time with Rozanov.”

Rozanov was annoying during games, it was true. It was part of his strategy, throwing his opponents off balance, riling them up. But Shane had spent a little time with him off ice. There was that weird conversation they’d had at World Juniors, that weird fitness room encounter after the draft, the CCM shoot, a few joint press conferences, running into each other here and there. At the ASG, at the awards.

They’d spent about fifteen minutes talking at the last NHL Awards, actually, after that stupid presentation. Rozanov had sat down beside Shane and started making jokes, and, when they’d been interrupted, Rozanov had seemed a little disappointed. He’d been annoying, yes, but not that bad. Funny, too. Hot as fuck, not that Shane would admit it.

And in the fitness room and the CCM shoot, there’d been something there Shane hadn’t been able to wrap his mind around at the time. A feeling of… He didn’t know. Like maybe Rozanov understood him in a way no one else did, somehow. Or— well, sexual tension. But Shane wasn’t going to think about that.

“Shane?” Jackie asked, and Shane realized he’d drifted off a little.

“Yeah, I was just thinking,” Shane said. “Yeah, it would suck. But I guess my mom’s right that it’s free publicity. And maybe a new sponsorship deal. I don’t know— I have some questions about the proposal.”

“I think it would be great,” Jackie told him. “Rozanov may be an asshole, but he is really funny.”

“Hey,” Hayden said, pointing his fork at her. “He’s not. He’s terrible. We hate him.”

Jackie rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, dear.”

“You don’t think I’d be too awkward?” Shane asked.

Jackie pursed her lips and patted his arm. “You would be awkward,” she agreed. “But too awkward? No. You’d be like a sweet, awkward puppy dog.”

“I’m not sure I want to be a puppy dog,” Shane said.

“Everyone will love you.”

“I don’t want to be loved,” Shane told her. “I’m a big, manly hockey player. Grrrrr.”

“One of those big puppy dogs. You know when they’re still growing, and their feet are too big?”

“I am not still growing!” Shane protested. “I’m 24! I’m fully grown!”

“Don’t bother,” Hayden said, with a sigh. “You’ll never win.”

“Awkward but cute,” Jackie decided. “All the ladies will want to gobble you up.”

Shane was increasingly sure he didn’t want ladies to gobble him up. He’d had a lot of time to reflect, and a vacation spent on a beach in Venezuela with a surprisingly muscular insurance adjuster, and come to the conclusion that he may not be straight.

But that was an insight he wasn’t quite prepared to share, even though he was sure Hayden and Jackie would be supportive.

“You should definitely go for it,” Jackie continued. Shane had the sinking feeling he was going to end up having to.

“We’re going to start off slow,” the peppy director said, her voice tinny through Shane’s computer speakers. She was a white woman with spiky pink hair, wearing a pastel green Hawaiian shirt with pink popsicles printed on it. “But we’re thinking we want to showcase hot spots around Boston and Montreal. Get the city tourism boards into it, even. Adrienne, look into that, would you?”

The director’s assistant looked up from where she was typing something into her phone. “On it,” she said.

“Of course, we’ll work around your schedules,” the director continued cheerily. “When you’re both in the same city would be ideal. Since we’re thinking short segments, it should only take a few hours. Now I understand you’re both pretty competitive, so that can be our ice breaker. Maybe an eating contest or something…?”

“I do not think that will work,” Rozanov cut in, leaning closer to his computer screen. Rozanov somehow managed to look hot even in a Skype meeting. “Hollander only eats rabbit food.”

Shane blinked at the computer. “How do you know what I eat?” he demanded.

“You did an interview,” Rozanov reminded him, rolling his eyes. “You told them all about your strange diet.”

“My diet is not strange!” Shane protested. “It’s scientifically based! You only eat cigarettes and vodka, so what would you know?”

“Such stereotyping," Rozanov sighed. “Tsk, tsk.”

“This is exactly the kind of energy we want!” The producer exclaimed. “Save it for the show, though, boys, please. Maybe we could have you go to that food hall in Boston, what is it, Adrienne?”

“Feneuil Hall,” the assistant supplied, not looking up from her phone.

“And you can argue where to eat!”

“Sounds fun,” Shane said, dryly. A moment later, his phone chimed.

Stop being so pessimistic, his mother had texted. He glanced at her little box on the screen where she seemed to be diligently typing something, looking up now and then.

“In the proposal, mini golf was mentioned?” Shane asked, surprising himself. “That’s competitive but not serious. And it wouldn’t have crowds, like that food hall probably has.”

The producer clapped her hands together. “That’s a great idea! I love it.”

“I like the idea of non-competitive things,” Rozanov cut in. “You know, make it competitive. Bets or contests. Go to art museum and see who can guess something, I don’t know. What famous person sat on this chair.”

“Do they have chairs famous people have sat on at art museums?” Shane asked.

“At Boston art museum,” Rozanov told him. “Old French ones, from kings and queens.”

“That’s kind of weird.”

The producer cleared her throat. “I’ll have Adrienne look over your schedules and work with your managers to find some times that work for everyone!” the producer said, interrupting them. “And a good mini golf place. Does that sound good?”

Everyone agreed, but instead of the meeting ending there and then, it dragged on for another half an hour, with people Shane didn’t know asking questions they could have gotten answered through email and bringing up more and more unlikely scenarios. Finally, Shane cut in.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got training. Uh, can we wrap this up?”

That took another ten minutes, of course, and Shane was on the verge of running late when the call finally cut out.

“What,” he said to the empty room.

I think that went well! his mom texted.

“So why are we playing mini golf again?” Hayden asked as J.J. tried again to get his ball past the windmill.

“Because I’m going to be playing Rozanov in a mini golf competition on reality tv and I don’t want to lose,” Shane repeated patiently.

“I think this thing is cursed!” J.J. declared, scowling at the windmill as his ball came rolling back to him.

“Nah, it’s all physics,” Hayden said, stepping up to his own ball. “See, you’ve got to hit it at the exact right time.” He hit the ball and they all watched as it rolled up the slope, hit the windmill blade, and rolled back down again.

“Huh.”

Shane dropped his ball to the astroturf— was it astroturf if it was so short?— and waited for a moment, trying to time his swing to the windmill’s movements. He waited, waited, waited, then swung. The ball rolled up the slope and under the windmill, just avoiding the blade.

“How did you do that?” JJ demanded.

“You’re going to crush Rozanov!” Hayden cheered.

It was a lovely September day, and Shane was at a mini golf course in Boston instead of training in Montreal. He sighed and looked around at the mini golf course. This one had a zoo theme, with all sorts of fiberglass animal statues towering over and, at points, impeding the holes of the course.

“Hollander,” a voice said, and Shane turned. Of course, it was Rozanov, looking as hot as ever, the sunlight turning his brown curls red-gold, his biceps bulging where his sleeves had been cut off to accommodate them, black jeans so tight it looked like they’d been painted on.

Rozanov smirked. “Thank you for coming to Boston,” he said. Shane suspected he also winked, but it was hidden behind his big sunglasses.

“I lobbied for Montreal, but they want to alternate cities,” Shane said.

Rozanov shrugged. “I am surprised you agreed to this show.”

“Why?” Shane asked. “I have a lot of sponsorship deals.”

“Yes, yes,” Rozanov said. “I see everywhere. Shane Hollander with duck face, Shane Hollander almost naked, Shane Hollander all wet…”

Shane felt himself growing red. He’d protest the ‘almost naked’ description, but it was true. Speedo hadn’t been receptive to the idea of doing a fully clothed ad, to Shane’s disappointment.

“I’m very popular,” Shane agreed, trying to sound nonchalant. “Everyone wants a piece of this.”

“Yes,” Rozanov said, leering. Or Shane thought he was leering, behind the sunglasses.

“It’s good publicity,” Shane defended. “Why are you doing it?”

“I need the money,” Rozanov lied easily. Then he grinned, all of his perfect fake teeth shining bright white. “I thought it would be fun to beat you even more often.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “It’s not a competition.”

“Show is called ‘Captain vs. Captain’,” Rozanov reminded him. “It is a competition. But it is a good name. Funny. And I think you and me both very competitive people, yes?”

Shane looked down, feeling a little embarrassed. Rozanov wasn’t wrong. Shane had gotten into far too many stupid bets and contests over the years.

“It is fun,” Rozanov added, and this time his smile was more genuine and less shark-like. “But I will win.”

“Shane! Ilya!” the producer called. Today, she was wearing her pink hair in pigtails, with pink heart-shaped sunglasses perched on her forehead and salmon and white striped overalls. “Great, you’ve met.”

“We’ve known each other for years,” Shane reminded her. “We first met in… 2008?”

“Yes,” Rozanov said. “World Juniors. I won gold.”

Shane scowled.

“Right, right,” the producer said. “That’s great— you’ll already be comfortable together. I was thinking maybe of doing some icebreakers before filming just to build up some familiarity, but you clearly already have a great dynamic happening.

“Okay, so this is how it’s going to go; you’re going to do an intro— I think you can switch off on that. Then the person from their home city can introduce what we’re doing, and then you play the game. Maybe Shane can introduce mini golf to Ilya? Then at the end, we have an outro— we’ve got cue cards, and you include the message from the sponsor. Got all that?”

“Yeah,” Shane said.

“Great. So let’s have Rozanov start the intro. Rozanov, you can follow the general structure of the cue cards.” She gestured to a member of the production staff holding giant cards.

“Got it,” Rozanov said, and the producer took a minute to position them in front of the mini golf course and then began the countdown. “3, 2, 1, and we’re rolling. Ilya?”

“Hello,” Rozanov said, beaming at the camera. “Welcome to Captain vs. Captain. I am Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Bears, winner of Stanley Cup, and this is Shane Hollander, who did not win Cup.”

“I won silver medal in the Olympics, though,” Shane pointed out. “I don’t think your team placed, did it?”

“Oh, the Olympics,” Rozanov said breezily, as if the Olympics meant nothing.

“I won the Art Ross last year, too,” Shane reminded him.

“Yes, yes, very good job,” Rozanov said. “But not the Cup.”

“This is great, guys,” the producer said, “but let’s move on.”

Rozanov beamed at her.

“Here we are in beautiful city of Boston, best city in America, and today we are playing all American past time of mini golf.”

“I think the all American past time is baseball,” Shane said doubtfully, as a production assistant handed them balls and clubs.

“Is this mini golf?” Rozanov asked, looking down at the ball he’d been given. “This is regular golf ball, yes?”

“It’s mini golf because the golf course is smaller,” Shane explained, gesturing.

“Oh,” Rozanov said. “Also it is more interesting than… mega golf? Look at the funny animal statues!”

“Hey, I like golf,” Shane protested.

“Of course you do,” Rozanov told him. “You are boring person, it is most boring sport. I put it on tv for sleep.”

“I’m not boring,” Shane argued, despite himself.

“Boring clothing, boring food. Bet you drive a boring car.”

“Road safety is not boring,” Shane muttered. What was wrong with his clothes? He was wearing a Voyageurs hoodie and jeans. Perfectly normal. Way more normal than Rozanov’s leopard print shirt with the sleeves cut off and painted-on jeans. Why didn’t he ever wear sleeves? Didn’t he get cold? Was it because there weren’t any shirts that could accommodate the bulging muscles of Rozanov’s biceps?

Shane chided himself from thinking about Rozanov’s biceps— it wouldn’t do any of them any good.

“Why don’t you start playing?” the producer suggested. “Shane, you explain to Ilya what to do?”

“For sure,” Shane said. “So the objective is to get the ball in the hole in as few turns as possible. You’ve got to start here.” He gestured to the divots that had been helpfully put at the start of the first hole. “And then you hit your ball towards the hole. But there are often obstacles or shortcuts, so you have to keep an eye out and think strategically.”

“Oh, strategically?” Rozanov asked. “You have good hockey smarts. You also have good mini golf smarts?”

Shane didn’t know how to reply to that, so he didn’t. Instead, he put his ball down and said, “you have to be careful not to hit it too hard, or it will fly out of the course.”

“And then what?” Rozanov asked.

“Then you have to play it from the spot closest to where it landed,” Shane explained.

“Maybe that is a strategy? If you make it fly over and then land there,” he gestured, “then you are very close to the hole?”

Shane frowned. “I guess?”

Rozanov nodded, seemingly satisfied. “What is the prize?” he asked.

“Prize?” Shane repeated.

“When I win?” Rozanov looked at the producer. “There is no prize?”

“You can brag about it?” Shane hazarded.

“We make bet,” Rozanov suggested. “If I win you wear my number next time we shoot show. I bring you t-shirt or something.”

Shane scoffed. “I’d never wear Bears gear,” he said.

Rozanov shrugged. “You think I win then?”

“In your dreams,” Shane said. “Fine. When I win, you have to wear my number.”

“Deal,” Rozanov said with a smirk.

Rozanov was a fucking ringer.

“You’re a fucking ringer!” Shane exclaimed the first time Rozanov hit the ball just right on the fifth hole, so it rolled down the right hidden tunnel, across the little bridge, avoided the sand patches, the snapping alligator jaw, and falling off the elevated track, curving down just right so it dropped straight into the hole.

“Shane!” the producer said for the hundredth time. “Language! Say it again.”

“You’re a ringer!” Shane exclaimed again, trying for the same level of outrage.

“I don’t understand,” Rozanov said, clearly suppressing a smirk. “Ringer is like… bell?”

“Oh my god,” Shane muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You made me tell you the rules!”

“It was very good explanation. Very helpful.” Rozanov plucked his ball from the hole and watched, amused, as Shane got the wrong tunnel and his ball was spit out of the alligator’s mouth right into one of the sand patches.

“How many times have you done this course before?”

“I don’t know what you say. What is course? English very hard.”

“Oh my god, you’re such an asshole.”

“Shane! Language!”

“Oh my god,” Shane repeated. “You’re so horrible.”

Rozanov smirked as Shane finally sank the ball in the hole. “That is 3? Still below par.”

Shane glared at him and grabbed his ball, trying not to look at the way Rozanov’s painted-on jeans stretched around his ass as he leaned over to put the ball on the divot. He looked back at Shane, grinning. “Ready for the next one?”

By the eighteenth hole, the one with a stomping elephant, Shane was behind Rozanov by ten. He was above par, but considering the usual patrons of the mini golf course were probably children, that didn’t really seem like an achievement.

Rozanov watched his ball go into the hole that was marked for a free round of mini golf with a cheer, and Shane batted his into the normal non-winning hole with a sigh.

“That’s great, guys!” the producer exclaimed. “Can you tell me how you feel about what just happened?”

“I can’t believe Rozanov came here like ‘oh, I don’t know anything about mini golf, I’ve never played, and now it’s obvious that he hasn’t just played mini golf before, but he’s played this specific course.”

Rozanov shrugged. “I never say I never played.”

“You asked why the balls aren’t mini!” Shane exclaimed.

Rozanov shrugged and smirked.

“How do you feel, Ilya?” the producer asked.

“Hollander played well,” Rozanov said. “But I played better.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Shane muttered.

“Did you have fun?” the producer asked.

“Fun?” Shane asked and looked at Rozanov, who seemed equally confused.

“Yes,” she said. “People usually do this for fun.”

“Huh,” Shane said. He looked out over the mini golf course, the stomping elephant, the biting alligator, and all the other animals. “I guess? Maybe if I was less determined to win, I’d have had more fun,” he admitted.

“I had fun!” Rozanov chimed in.

“Because you knew you were going to win.”

Rozanov tilted his head. “Maybe,” he said. “But also it is a nice day.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, “I guess it is.”

“Thanks, guys,” the producer said. “I think we’ve got almost everything we need! Let’s just wrap it up!”

One of the production crew was standing beside her with cue cards.

“Ilya, you’re up first,” the producer called.

“He went first last time,” Shane argued.

“Yes, but I won,” Rozanov reminded him.

“Shane, you do it then,” the producer said.

“Okay,” Shane said. “Uh. Thank you for watching Captain vs. Captain! Tune in next time when I destroy Rozanov at… what are we doing next time?”

“Apple picking,” Adrienne said.

“Tune in next time when I destroy Rozanov at apple picking.”

“Apple picking is not comptitive sport,” Rozanov commented.

“Not until we do it,” Shane said.

“Rozanov, your cue cards!” the producer reminded him.

“Ah, yes, sorry.” He paused. “Brought to you by Bud Light, the Hollander of beers. Boring beer for boring captain.”

“That’s not what it says on the card,” the cardholder said, sounding confused.

“Hey,” Hollander complained. “I don’t even drink beer.”

“Bud Light is not beer, so is safe for you.”

“Guys, can we not insult our sponsor?” the producer suggested tiredly, her peppiness worn away.

“Sorry,” Rozanov said, not sounding sorry at all. “Brought to you by Bud Light, the perfect beer for a perfect game. That means you should drink it while watching Bears play,” he added, smirking at Hollander. “And you will see us win cup again.”

“You wish,” Hollander said, lamely.

“Cut!” the producer called.

The production crew began to break down the equipment they’d used.

Rozanov looked at Shane a little awkwardly, like he wanted to say something.

“Yes?” Shane finally asked.

“You are upset?” Rozanov asked. “I did not think you would be upset. When you suggested mini golf, I asked Connors to help me learn how to play. We came to this course. It was a coincidence.”

Shane took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No,” he said. “It would be pretty unfair to be upset, wouldn’t it? After the Skype meeting, I went mini golfing with Hayden and J.J. If we’d have filmed there, I wouldn’t have been mad about it.

Rozanov seemed to relax a little. “Good,” he said and held out his hand. “You will look pretty in Bears gear.”

Shane shook it. “Fuck you,” he said, but he was smiling and Rozanov smiled back.

“How did it go?” Hayden asked while they were changing into their gear.

“He was all like, 'I’ve never even heard of mini golf before and then he slaughtered me,” Shane admitted, sourly.

Hayden laughed and slapped him on the back. “And you thought you had it in the bag.”

“We’re going to destroy his team tonight, though,” Shane said, more viciously than he meant to.

Hayden laughed again. “Hear that?” He shouted to the team .”Holls needs us to recover his honor!”

Chapter 2: Episode 2: How do you like them apples?

Chapter Summary

Competitive apple picking and Shane trying too hard not to stare at Ilya

Chapter Notes

I'm from a part of New England where everyone is obsessed with apples in the fall and everything is apples and while I consulted with some Canadians on this, I'm not entirely sure Canadians are apple-obsessed to the same degree, so you're going to have to suspend your disbelief if that is not the case. Also maybe Russians go apple picking, but Ilya Rozanov definitely didn't.

Edit: I have been informed by a friend on discord posting a screenshot of a Threads thread regarding this very author's note that apple picking is a disgustingly common date in Ottawa. I will assume that this extends to reality tv show segments filmed near Montreal, but the commenter on the thread was not clear.

I am also informed that Russians do not pick apples recreationally (please let me know if you have a different experience), and that there is a hot Russian drink made out of kumquats which I am now very interested in trying. You can assume that Ilya was being hyperbolic.

The fall air was crisp and clear; the maple trees were at peak color. Shane turned and breathed in the scent of cold and turning leaves and apples and sighed happily. Even the presence of Rozanov, with his muscular forearms and faint scent of cedar and cigarettes couldn’t dampen Shane’s mood.

They’d been in the back of a mini-van for almost an hour, caught in city traffic before finally hitting the countryside.

Rozanov had been sacked out since he’d crawled into the backseat, snoring faintly. Shane had spent the time pretending to read a book but mostly staring out the window. It felt like years since he’d last gotten out of the city, headed into the countryside like this, even though he’d been at the cottage only a few months before.

He did not sneak glances back between the seats to where Rozanov was slumped, neck crooked at an awkward looking angle, plush red lips parted, eyelashes brushing the skin of his high cheekbones, curls escaping from his slick-backed hairstyle and falling onto his forehead, making him look like a sleeping cherub, and, oh god, Shane had to get control of himself.

They clambered out of the minivan and Shane walked around the gravel parking lot for a moment, stretching his legs and looking around at the autumn-tinted hills, the perfect blue of the sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds.

He turned to see Rozanov stumbling out of the van, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked around with a scowl, wincing at the light and crossed the parking lot to lean against the side of a building, lighting the cigarette and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Maybe he wasn’t an early riser, Shane thought, trying to be charitable. They’d had to meet the production crew at six in the morning and even Shane had been dragging, despite usually getting up at five.

Maybe he was still bitter about the loss the night before— it had been a slog, 0-0 until the end of the second period when Needy had gotten one in just before the clock had run out. They’d ended up going into overtime, and Montreal had won 2-1.

The make-up artist came up to Shane while he was still thinking about it and powdered him down a little. They weren’t doing much for this production besides making sure they didn’t look too shiny, a nice change from all the commercials and photoshoots Shane had filmed. Then there was the sound guy with the mic pack and the production assistant with her notes, and then they were being herded over to where the producer had decided to stage the intro.

Shane watched as the makeup artist dusted Rozanov, teased two of Rozanov’s curls over his forehead and then disappeared. Rozanov brushed at his shirt— another one with the sleeves cut off, this one larger and looser, the gaping holes where his sleeves had been revealing a glimpse of his ribs.

Wasn’t he cold? Shane was wearing a flannel and still wondering if he should grab the corduroy jacket he’d left in the minivan.

Maybe this was the hardy Russian genes Andropov was always going on about.

Finally, the cameras were ready and Shane’s mic pack had been adjusted six times and the makeup artist had finally decided she was satisfied with Rozanov’s hair and the producer asked them if they were ready.

“For sure,” Shane said, as Roznaov nodded.

“Good, then,” the producer said. “Three, two, one…”

“I get to go first,” Shane told Rozanov. “Since you did last time.”

“Go then,” Rozanov said, shrugging one shoulder as if he didn’t care.

“Hi, this is Captain vs. Captain,” Shane said, smiling at the camera. “I’m Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, currently top of the league, and this is Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Bears, who lost a game to us last night.”

“We still going to win cup again,” Rozanov said with a shrug, grinning so wide he showed all his teeth. “You have not won cup, I think?”

“Your cue cards, Ilya,” the producer prompted, when Shane didn’t answer.

“We are at Daneau Orchards, in Ebensee, Quebec,” Rozanov said, butchering both names. “To pick apples.”

“Have either of you gone apple picking before?” the producer asked.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “My family used to go every year. I loved it; the fresh air and the autumn views, the delicious apples, just the whole experience was always so fun.”

“What about you, Ilya?”

“I am from Moscow,” Rozanov replied, dryly. “Russians do not pay money to pretend to be farm worker.”

“It’s not pretending to be a farm worker,” Shane argued. “It’s getting in touch with the land and where your food comes from.”

“If it is not pretending to be farm worker, why are you dressed like farm worker?” Rozanov asked, casting a disparaging eye over Shane’s outfit.

Shane looked down at himself. He was wearing jeans, a checked flannel, and sturdy leather boots. “This is a perfectly normal outfit,” he said. “Whereas you… can you even bend over in those jeans?”

“Can do more than bend,” Rozanov said, smirking and Shane looked away, trying not to blush.

“Ilya,” the producer castigated. “And Shane, that wasn’t helpful either.”

“I’m not going to dress nicely to pick apples,” Shane told Rozanov.

“You dress nicely never,” Rozanov commented. “But it is okay; I have surprise for you.” He gestured and one of the crew approached with a shopping bag with a Bears logo on it.

“Oh no,” Shane groaned.

“You lost the bet,” Rozanov reminded him. He pulled out a Bears hoodie with his name and number on it. “I brought you present. You want me to sign it?”

Shane stared at it. But he had lost the bet. Sighing, he stripped off his flannel and pulled the Bears hoodie on. At least it still had that new-hoodie softness. He looked down at the Bears logo now splayed across his chest and the ’81’ on his arm and sighed.

“You look good in Bears colors,” Rozanov told him, reaching out and tugging on one of Shane’s hood strings. “Maybe we trade for you? You play my left wing?”

Shane rolled his eyes and hoped he wasn’t blushing. “In your dreams. The Bears couldn’t possibly afford me. And if they could, you’d be on my wing.”

Rozanov was still looking at Shane appreciatively. Shane cleared his throat and turned back to the camera. “So,” he said. “Apple picking.”

“Yes,” the producer said, and gestured.

A pretty young white woman with long brown hair and a Daneau Orchards polo shirt stepped up to them. “Hi! Ilya, Shane, it’s so nice to meet you!” she said, her English softly accented. “I’m Ovélina Daneau. My grandparents started the orchard.”

“Nice to meet you,” Shane said.

“Yes, very nice,” Rozanov added, the look he gave her just short of a leer.

She passed them each a woven basket. “These for the apples,” she said. “If you’d follow me.”

The orchard worker gave a brief history of the orchard as they climbed up the hill towards the apple trees.

“Why the trees on string?” Rozanov asked, pointing to the small trees that had their branches attached to some kind of wire.

“It’s a newer method of growing trees,” she explained. “Growing the trees smaller— using specialized root stock— means that the apples are easier to pick, but the boughs can grow too heavy and break, so we use this wire to support them. It also keeps people from passing between the trees, so things are a little less chaotic during apple picking season.”

“Things get chaotic?” Shane asked.

The orchard worker laughed. “I’ve broken up so many rotten apple fights.”

Rozanov elbowed Shane.

“No,” Shane said immediately. “We are not doing that.”

“So boring, Hollander,” Rozanov sighed.

“We’ve got twenty different apple varieties,” the orchard worker continued. “Both heirloom and modern.”

“There are different kind of apple?” Rozanov asked. “Red and green?”

“There are like hundreds of apple varieties!” Shane exclaimed.

“Yes,” the orchard guide agreed, smiling politely. “Far more than you see at most grocery stores.”

“Oh, honeycrisp!” Shane exclaimed, seeing a tree laden with them. “Those are some of my favorite.”

“Only you get excited by apple,” Rozanov said, but he was smiling a little.

“You haven’t tried it?” Shane asked, looking over the apples until he spotted the perfect one, red with undertones of gold. “Can I pick this?” he asked the orchard guide.

“For sure,” she told him, so he carefully pulled and twisted, plucking the apple from the branch.

“You have to taste this,” Shane said, handing Rozanov the apple. Rozanov looked at it skeptically.

“I have tried apple before.”

“But not this kind,” Shane said. “Go on.”

Rozanov doubtfully bit into it and chewed. “It tastes like apple?”

“No, it’s sweet, it’s got a complex flavor, it’s like honey,” Shane prompted.

“You’re doing my job for me, Shane,” the orchard guide said, amused.

“Okay, it is good?” Rozanov said, with a shrug. He took another bite. “But still apple.”

“What did you think it was going to taste like cake?” Shane asked.

“Way you talk I think maybe cocaine,” Rozanov said.

“Ilya, we can’t broadcast that. Can you rephrase it?” the producer cut in.

“Way you talk I think maybe—” Rozanov paused for dramatic effect. “Pussy,” he finished, completely straight-faced.

Shane couldn’t help breaking down with laughter, hands on his knees. “Oh my god,” he choked.

Rozanov was clearly fighting to keep a straight face.

“Ilya!” the producer scolded.

“Okay, okay, settle down, Hollander, I try again,” Rozanov said.

Shane took a few deep breaths and wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Way you talk—” Rozanov paused again, smirking. “— I think maybe your mother’s pussy.”

It wasn’t funny. It shouldn’t have been funny. And yet Shane found himself hanging from Rozanov’s shoulder while they both laughed until they couldn’t breathe.

“Why are you doing this to me?” the producer demanded, while Shane fought to stay upright. Every time they caught each other’s eyes they’d break down with laughter again.

A production crew member turned up with water and another produced tissues and they sipped at the water and cleaned their faces. Shane shook himself then stretched. The makeup artist dived in with a wipe and brisk powdering.

“Okay,” Shane said. “I’m good.”

“Let’s just move on,” the producer suggested.

They wandered up the orchard a little ways. Every once in a while Shane would exclaim over an apple variety and Rozanov would taste it and then say, deadpan “it taste like apple.”

“No, but really, all the different apple varieties taste different,” Shane said. “You can taste that, right? You didn’t destroy your taste buds with smoking?”

“Me destroy taste buds!?” Rozanov chirped back, feigning shock. “You only eat rabbit food!”

“Yeah, because it’s good, because I still have functional taste buds.”

“Okay,” Rozanov said. “Next challenge: taste test.”

“What are we tasting?” Shane asked.

“Has to be something you’re both familiar with,” the producer mused.

“Flavors of Gatorade,” Rozanov suggested. “Blindfolded.”

“Maybe we can get Gatorade sponsorship,” the producer mused. “Adrianne!”

“On it,” Adrianne said.

“Meanwhile, we can still have rotten apple fight,” Rozanov said, eyeing the fallen apples beneath a tree.

“Don’t you dare!” Shane exclaimed, grabbing his arm and pulling him back from where he was eying the rotten apples.

“Come on, Hollander,” Rozanov said. “It does not sound fun?”

“Being pelted with rotten apples? No.” Shane gripped him tighter and Rozanov laughed and turned and grabbed Shane, using his heavier weight to try to knock him over.

Shane hooked his foot around Rozanov’s ankle, trying to unbalance him, but Rozanov held on and soon they were toppling to the ground, arms around each other, both of them laughing.

“I win again!” Rozanov crowed, trying to pin Shane down, but Shane hooked his leg around Rozanov’s waist and flipped them, ending up straddling Rozanov’s waist.

“Who’s the winner now?” Shane demanded, laughing, until he realized what the hardness he was feeling pressed against his ass was.

Rozanov grinned and waggled his eyebrows and Shane’s face was suddenly boiling hot.

He jumped to his feet, tugging down the hoodie— Rozanov’s hoodie— so it would hide his own stiffening cock. “Yeah, uh, a Gatorade tasting competition, we could do that.”

Rozanov rolled to his feet, brushing twigs and leaves out of his hair. He seemed unconcerned about the bulge in his tight jeans.

“We’ll see if that’s feasible. For now,” the producer said, “I was thinking you could do a contest to see who can pick more apples in a minute.”

“More apples,” Shane asked, “or more quality apples?”

The producer considered this. “Yes, let's go with only high-quality apples. No bad spots, ripe, that kind of thing.”

“What if there’s a rust mark?” Shane asked.

“Use your judgement. Do you have your baskets?”

Shane did, but they had to hunt around for Ilya’s for a few minutes.

“Okay, ready?”

“Wait,” Rozanov said. “What are terms of bet?”

“Huh,” Shane said, trying to think of something good.

“I know. If I win I choose new outfit for you for next show.”

Shane looked down at the hoodie. “This isn’t enough?”

“No,” Rozanov said. “It is better, but still…” he looked pointedly at Shane’s jeans and boots.

“I had to get these tailored!” Shane gestured to his jeans. It was true. His ass wouldn’t fit into normal jeans.

“Should fire tailor.”

“If I win, same deal,” Shane told him, thinking of dressing Rozanov in something that would help with Shane’s staring problem.

“Deal,” Rozanov said and held out his hand.

“Deal,” Shane agreed and shook it.

“Okay,” the producer said. “Are you ready now?”

Shane nodded and edged over a little, closer to the nearest tree. Rozanov eyed him and edged in the other direction.

“Go!” the producer called and Shane sprinted to the tree, picking apple after apple and dropping it in his basket, clearing the tree and running to the next one, not even caring that he didn’t particularly care for Cortlands.

“And stop!” the producer called, just as Shane was starting to worry about not having enough room in his basket.

He walked back over to where most of the film crew was standing, one hand keeping the apples from falling out.

Rozanov returned more slowly, with obviously fewer apples.

“I’ve clearly won,” Shane said, smugly.

“What if all your apples have worms?” Rozanov asked.

“My apples don’t have worms!” Shane exclaimed.

“I demand recount,” Rozanov said.

“You can’t do a recount if you didn’t count in the first place,” Shane pointed out.

“We’ll count the apples,” the producer said as some production crew members laid out a tarp and gestured for Shane and Rozanov to put their baskets down on it.

The orchard guide did the tallying, inspecting each apple carefully but quickly. Shane was smug when only three of his apples were rejected, but seven of Rozanov’s were.

“See?” he asked. “Paying to do farm work pays off.”

Rozanov shrugged. “At least I do not lose money.” He took the basket the production assistant handed him and looked at it doubtfully. “What do I do with so many apples?” he asked.

“Make apple pie?” Shane suggested. “Apple sauce? Apple crisp.”

Rozanov stared at him blankly. “I am not making apple sauce,” he said. “Here,” he asked one of the film crew. “You want apples?”

“No thanks, man,” they said with a laugh.

“See? No one wants apples,” Rozanov said.

“GIve them to me,” Shane said.

Rozanov handed over the basket with a smirk and Shane awkwardly tried to walk with two baskets, one overflowing, until one of the members of the film crew took them away and said she’d bring them to the minivan.

“Thanks!” Shane called. “Hey, do they have apple cider donuts at this orchard?”

The orchard guide appeared from behind the production crew. “We do!” she said brightly. “Wait until you check out our farm store!”

“Donuts?” Ilya asked, following The orchard guide and Shane. “Donuts are on diet?”

“I can make an exception for apple cider donuts,” Shane assured him.

“I do not understand obsession with apples,” Rozanov said.

“It’s fall,” Shane said, gesturing at the distant hills covered in fall foliage. “The maple trees are beautiful, the air smells good, leaves are falling, and it’s apple season. Doesn’t it make you so happy?”

“Okay,” Rozanov admitted. “Trees are very pretty. But apples?”

“Apples are like the thing that reminds you of fall,” Shane tried to explain. “Like how maple syrup makes you think of spring. You know, the snow is finally melting and the crocuses are coming up and the maple sap is running and you go to a sugar shack and they’re boiling the syrup and you get a big stack of pancakes with that fresh syrup on it…”

“You are Canadian commercial right now,” Rozanov said. “Shane Hollander, sponsored by Canadian tourism board.”

Shane laughed. “Yeah, okay. But, like, I’m Canadian so…”

“Oh, you are Canadian? I did not know,” Rozanov chirped, sarcastically.

Shane laughed again. “Like you’re not always reminding people you’re Russian, unnecessarily.”

They stepped into the farm stand. Besides bushels of apples, there were jugs of cider, a large carafe of hot apple cider, apple themed pastries of every kind.

“Is all of Canada obsessed with apples?” Rozanov asked, looking bewildered at the apple-printed tea towels and pot holders and souvenir t-shirts.

“Yes, we’ve already covered this,” Shane said, accepting a cup of hot apple cider with a smile. “Try this.”

Rozanov took a sip and then jerk back, surprised, dropping the cup on the ground and jumping away from it as it splashed. He yelled something in Russian and stuck out his tongue and panted.

“Oh, no,” the producer exclaimed. “You didn’t realize it was going to be hot?”

“I’m so sorry!” The orchard guide gushed. “I didn’t know he wouldn’t know! Here… let me…” she disappeared into the back of the farm stand and a moment later came with a cup of ice.

Rozanov grabbed a chunk of ice and shoved it in his mouth and spent the next few minutes sucking furiously and glaring at everyone, while one of the orchard workers got out a hose and sprayed down the mess that Rozanov had made.

“Sorry,” Shane said. “I didn’t know you didn’t realize the cider was hot.”

“Stupid country!” Rozanov declared around the ice cube in his mouth. “Why is juice hot? No other country make juice hot!”

“It’s, you know—” Shane said.

“Special Canadian thing,” Rozanov filled in, rolling his eyes. “I do not like apple,” he pouted. “All apple thing is stupid. Apple and hot apple juice and apple cake and apple whatever.” His gesture took in the whole farm stand.

Shane tried to think of an apple product Rozanov might like. “They make hard apple cider,” he said. “It’s alcoholic.”

Rozanov shrugged. “Not better than vodka.”

“I really am sorry about the cider,” the orchard guide said. “Usually, people already know it’s going to be hot. Do you want a popsicle?” she held out a creamsicle “Its from my brother’s secret stash.”

Rozanov perked up. “Okay,” he said, and unwrapped it, handing the wrapper to the orchard guide and shoving the whole thing in his mouth, rubbing it up and down on his tongue as if it might heal the burn.

Shane suddenly realized he was staring and looked away, feeling his cheeks grow hot.

“Do you want anything?” the orchard guide asked Shane. “We have freshly cooked apple cider donuts.”

Shane shook his head, still trying to avoid the sight of Rozanov who was now licking at the sides of his popsicle to keep it from dripping onto his hand. “I’m good, thanks,” he choked out.

“Well, I think we have enough content,” the producer commented. “We’ll just have to do the outro?”

Shane looked at Rozanov, who raised his eyebrows at him. He had white melted creamsicle smeared around his mouth. Shane couldn’t. He cleared his throat a little and said “yeah. What are we doing next?”

“The New England Aquarium,” Adrianne said.

“Oh that sounds great,” Shane enthused. He turned and smiled at the camera.

“That’s all for Captain vs. Captain. Tune in next time for when I feed Rozanov to the sharks at the New England Aquarium.”

Rozanov’s eyes went wide and he pulled the popsicle out of his mouth. “I feed you to jellyfish!” he exclaimed.

“Yeah?” Shane asked, laughing. “I’ll feed you to the seals.”

“I’ll feed you to the octopuses.”

“I’ll feed you to the piranhas.”

“Well,” Rozanov said. “I’ll feed you to the….” He stopped and frowned in thought. “Your mother’s pussy.”

Shane opened his mouth and, to his horror, actually hooted with laughter.

Rozanov smirked with triumph and stuffed the popsicle back in his mouth.

“Why?” the producer moaned.

“Don’t forget the sponsor,” Adrianne prompted, staring at her phone as usual.

“Oh yeah,” Shane said. “Captain vs. Captain is sponsored by Bud Light. Bud Light: the Perfect Beer for a Perfect Game.”

Rozanov pulled the popsicle out of his mouth again. “Bud Light, tastes like your….”

“Nope!” the producer cried. “No, stop rolling!”

Chapter End Notes

What did Shane end up doing with all those apples?

Chapter 3: Episode 3: What do bears have that penguins don't?

Chapter Summary

“You cannot pick the animals up or take them out of the tank or throw them at your arch-rival,” the marine biologist instructed as Shane and Rozanov gravitated toward the tank. Clearly he had their number.

Chapter Notes

So for some reason I forgot I was making up fake team names and made all these jokes about the Penguins and then couldn't bring myself to change them. How do Shane Hollander and Sidney Crosby exist in the world? Your guess is as good as mine. The important thing is that it's funny.

I actually was macrobiotic for a while, so I was excited to write about macrobiotics. I suspect the mention to Shane being macrobiotic in the show was a throwaway line, but I'm going to milk it for all it's worth.

Shane has some Feelings about being part Japanese but not engaging with Japanese culture very much, in this and future chapters. This was informed by friendships I have with people who have expressed similar sentiments, but I am a white person and appreciate any feedback anyone has!

Sorry not sorry about the long rant about animal reproduction.

I now have 13 chapters of this written! No idea how long it's actually going to be.

Rozanov was standing, waiting, on the pier outside of the New England Aquarium, smoking a cigarette. Shane stopped and stared at him for a long moment. He was looking out at the grey sea, the horizon just tinted pink from the sunset, Rozanov silhouetted against it looking dark and moody.

“You really shouldn’t smoke,” Shane said, remembering the first time they’d met as soon as the words passed his lips.

Rozanov turned and looked at him. He was wearing an elegant black wool jacket, the collar turned up. His fair skin seemed almost translucent in the dusk, his eyes shadowed.

“Do you care?” Rozanov asked, stubbing out the cigarette on the wooden railing. “If I smoke then I am worst player, no? Then you can finally win the Caulder.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to win because you smoked yourself into emphysema. I want to do it fair and square.”

Rozanov shrugged one shoulder. “Good win against Hammerheads,” he said.

“Thanks,” Shane replied. “Your last goal in the Drillers game was something else.”

Rozanov smiled faintly and shrugged his chin deeper into the collar of his coat. He stepped up to Shane’s side and knocked their shoulders together then continued on. Shane turned and followed him to where the production crew were unloading their equipment in front of the aquarium. The last of the aquarium visitors were trickling out, tired parents pushing strollers and children clutching stuffed sea creatures.

Shane and Rozanov followed the production crew into the center of the aquarium, where a ramp spiralled up and up around the enormous round ocean tank that sat at the center of the building, the penguin habitat spread out below it.

“We’re going to start here,” the producer said, gesturing. Her hair was blue now and her cutesy dress was decorated with fish.

Shane and Rozanov obediently went to stand on their marks and the camera came up.

“This is Captain vs. Captain,” Rozanov said, throwing an arm around Shane’s shoulders. “I’m Ilya Rozanov, Captain of Boston Bears and this is Shane Hollander, second fastest skater in NHL.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Only because you’re too scared to do a rematch,” he said. “Hi, I’m Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs and this is Ilya Rozanov, who has the second highest shot accuracy score in the NHL.” He shook his head. “Your record is slower than mine by, what? An entire 1.3 seconds?”

“We’re at the New England Aquarium, world famous aquarium in Boston. Hollander, is there a world famous aquarium in Montreal? I do not think so— I have not heard of it.”

“Montreal has a very nice aquarium,” Hollander defended. “Maybe you’re just ignorant about good aquariums."

“And here’s your guide!” the producer cut in.

A friendly-looking Asian man stepped up to them, grinning. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Mike Kim, one of the marine biologists here at the New England Aquarium, and I’m going to be your tour guide. You guys want to meet the penguins?”

“Hold on,” Shane said. “I think you lost a bet last time, Rozanov?”

Rozanov stuck out his lower lip. “I hoped you forgot.”

“Nope,” Shane said, brightly. He accepted the bag he’d brought from a production assistant and handed it to Rozanov. “Is there a bathroom around here?”

“I’ll show you,” the marine biologist said and led Rozanov away.

“What did you bring?” the producer asked.

Shane grinned. “Carhartts, a flannel, a Voyageurs tee, and a team Canada hat. Rozanov is going to hate it.”

Rozanov came out of the bathrooms a minute later, grabbing at his waist to adjust his pants.

“Never have I worn such ugly pants in my life,” he declared. He turned and leaned over a little. “Look at my ass,” he complained. “Never have my ass looked so bad. So flat!”

“You look fine,” Shane said. “But where’s the hat?”

“I am not wearing hat!” Rozanov exclaimed. “I draw the line at Team Canada hat! Anyway it is inside at night, no need for hat.”

“Shane, are you okay with Rozanov not wearing the hat?” the producer asked.

“I guess it’s okay,” Shane said, benevolently.

Rozanov looked down and grimaced at the flannel. “Ugh,” he said. “I look so Canadian!”

“Suck it up,” Shane said. “We’re going to meet penguins!”

“Hollander loves penguins because of crush on Sidney Crosby,” Rozanov declared.

Shane felt himself go red. “I do not have a crush on Sidney Crosby!” he hissed. Oh god, what if Sidney Crosby saw this?

“You have poster of Sidney Crosby as child,” Rozanov said. “You tell everyone he is your hero.”

“How do you even know that?” Shane demanded.

“Internet never forget,” Rozanov told him, wisely.

“Having a poster of Sidney Crosby is perfectly normal. I bet half the guys in the NHL had one,” Shane defended. “Who did you have a poster of? Ovechkin?”

Rozanov sniffed. “Federov, of course.”

The marine biologist looked between the two of them. “I don’t know who any of those people are,” he admitted. “I’m guessing he’s a hockey player.” He glanced at the production crew. “You’re hockey players, right?”

Rozanov laughed, seemingly delighted by this. “Yes, hockey players.”

“What does that have to do with penguins?” the marine biologist asked, clearly extremely confused.

“The Pittsburgh hockey team is called the Penguins,” Shane explained, feeling his face heat and hoped that Sidney Crosby didn’t watch stupid fluff pieces like this. It was already embarrassing enough remembering his childhood Sidney Crosby poster when he met the man at the NHL Awards and faced off against him. You weren’t supposed to meet your heroes, isn’t that what they always said?

“Huh,” the marine biologist said. “Because penguins are notoriously slow on the ice?”

“Don’t try to make sense of English, Mike,” Rozanov told him. “It never work.”

“Well,” the marine biologist said. “Uh, I guess let’s go meet penguins? But like real ones? I guess you’ve probably met the team before? I don't know how hockey works,” he admitted.

The penguins were very cute and larger, somehow, than Shane had expected. The marine biologist let them each feed them bits of fish and told them fun facts.

“You have gay penguins here?” Rozanov asked. “I hear of gay penguins.”

“The famous gay penguins are at the Central Park Zoo,” the marine biologist explained. “We don’t have a nesting pair here, but it’s not uncommon for penguins to form same-sex pairings. It’s actually pretty common across bird species. In fact, same-sex behavior is a lot more normal in animals than a lot of people would have you think.”

Shane was so surprised by this he didn’t notice when the penguin ran out of fish and bit him in the finger.

“It bit me!” he exclaimed, inspecting his finger, which was thankfully intact.

“Your finger look like little worm,” Rozanov said. “You want to eat Hollander?” he cooed at the penguins, who stared up at him. “He is very bite-sized.”

“I’m only a few inches shorter than you,” Shane protested.

The marine biologist watched them bicker, bemused, throwing random penguin facts at them until it was time for them to move on.

Fish were, it turned out, a lot more interesting than Shane had thought. Not that he’d ever given it much thought. There were, like, lots of different types of fish. Some of them looked very boring, grey or brown or whatever, but some of them were elaborate and beautiful, vibrant polka-dotted, striped, with long trailing fins. There were tiny eels that peeped up from the gravel like sea grass with mouths and it turned out that electric eels were actually electric? Like that was actually a real thing? And there was a tiny tank with tiny baby squid with tiny tiny tentacles.

Shane forgot to exchange barbs with Rozanov and Rozanov forgot to be annoying. The marine biologist led them around, pointing to a tank and telling them some amazingly cool facts about the fish or, like cephalopods or whatever, and Shane and Rozanov stared at the creatures with open mouths.

It probably made for terribly boring television, actually, especially since the aquarium wasn’t very well lit. Shane could see the producer looking a little antsy when it had been over half an hour with Shane and Rozanov not doing anything even as exciting as elbowing each other.

The last room they visited was clearly oriented at children, but had a long winding touch-tank where you could actually reach your hand in and brush the backs of the skates that were swimming around or feel the spines of the sea urchins.

“You cannot pick the animals up or take them out of the tank or throw them at your arch-rival,” the marine biologist instructed as Shane and Rozanov gravitated toward the tank. Clearly he had their number.

“Not even to put starfish down the back of Hollander’s shirt?” Rozanov asked with a pout that made him look entirely too cherubic.

“Not even,” the marine biologist agreed, solemnly. “But look; some of the skates like rubbing up against things…” he sighed and waited patiently while Rozanov wiggled his eyebrows and smirked. “Are you done?” the marine biologist asked, after a minute.

“Yes, sorry,” Rozanov said. Shane rolled his eyes at him.

“If you put your hand in the tank like this, they’ll come up to you and brush up against your hand. See?”

“Wow,” Shane said and put his hand in the tank and smiled when the skate brushed up against him. “It’s like petting a cat.”

“Let me,” Rozanov said, moving to stand beside Shane and dropping his hand in the water. “Aww, so cute. Sweet little— what did you call it.”

“They’re skates,” the marine biologist said.

“Like ice skates?” Rozanov asked, looking down at the fish.

The marine biologist shrugged. “You said it; English is weird. They’re in the family as sharks, actually, the boneless fishes. Their skeleton is made of cartilage rather than bone— that’s the substance your ears and nose are made out of. It’s lighter and more flexible than bone.”

Rozanov snickered. “They have no bone?” he repeated, suggestively.

“Actually, boneless fishes are one of the only groups of fish to practice internal insemination. That is, to have a structure similar to a human penis. They have claspers, which are modified anal fins, which they insert into the female’s vent during insemination. Here…” he easily grabbed one of the skates and turned it over, balancing it on one forearm. “This is a juvenile, but you can see these are the claspers here. During mating they kind of… open up. I’m not sure what this species looks like exactly, but they often are barbed or have hooks on them to stay in place more easily.”

“So those are skate penises?” Rozanov asked.

The marine biologist let the skate go and it hurried away. “Similar to,” he said.

“And they have two?” Rozanov looked impressed. “Two girls at once?”

The marine biologist rolled his eyes. “No— they only use one at a time. Like lizards and snakes.”

“Lizard and snakes also have two penis?”

“Yes,” the marine biologist said. “But maybe we’re getting a little off topic.”

“So shark have very big one,” Rozanov pressed.

“Two big ones,” the marine biologist corrected. “If they’re big sharks.”

“But all other fish do not have…?”

“Like I said, a few fish groups do, but most don’t.”

“So how do they, uh… make babies?”

“They practice external fertilization,” the marine biologist told him. “Basically the female lays the eggs and the male…” he paused, clearly searching for the right way to phrase it. “Ejaculates the sperm. Sometimes directly on top of the egg, sometimes they’re both releasing their gametes into the water in the same place at the same time.”

“So fascinating. Hollander, isn’t it fascinating?” Rozanov asked. “What about… penguin?”

“Well actually,” the marine biologist said, walking right into the trap. “Even though they’re not that closely related, fish and birds are fairly similar in that most fish and most birds do not have copulatory organs— that is, external genitalia like a penis. But birds don’t live in the water, so external fertilization wouldn’t really work for them. Instead, most bird species reproduce pressing their cloaca— it’s kind of like an all purpose opening for excrement, urine, sexual reproduction, and eggs— together. It’s I guess you could imagine like two people pressing their open mouths together and one of them pushes their spit into the other person’s mouth. Except the cloaca can evert a little?”

Rozanov was clearly a little lost. Shane was at least a little lost. But…

“So penguin has no penis?” Rozanov asked.

“No,” the marine biologist agreed.

“Too bad, Hollander,” Rozanov said. “Your Sidney Crosby dreams will not come true.”

“Oh my god,” Shane moaned, covering his face.

“You know what has penis?” Rozanov asked. “Bear. Right, Mike?”

“Well,” the marine biologist said, “I’m a marine biologist, but yes, bears do have penises, as far as I know.”

Rozanov smirked meaningfully.

At least, Shane thought, ducking his head to hide the burning in his cheeks, there was no way they were airing a lecture on animal reproductive organs on ESPN. He hoped.

“I think we can wrap this up,” the producer said, wearily. Shane remembered when she’d been peppy and excited. Only two shoots ago. “Let’s film the rest in front of the jellyfish tanks?”

“Sure,” the marine biologist agreed and they trouped back to the jellyfish room, the camera man carefully positioning them so they were in the only lit area of the room.

“Okay,” the producer said, “time for the competition. And the bet.”

“What is the competition?” Rozanov asked.

“Mike has written down questions related to the facts he’s told you and you have to answer. We’re going to do sudden death: first person to miss a question wins.”

“Does the question pass on to the next person?” Shane asked.

“No,” the producer decided.

“Okay,” Shane said. “I’ve got an idea for a wager.”

“What?” Rozanov asked.

“The loser has to get one of those foam fingers that say #1 fan for the winner and wave it during a commercial break at the game tomorrow.”

Rozanov raised his eyebrows looking impressed. “You brought with you?” he asked.

Shane grinned. “Yep.”

“Maybe you will have to go to Bears shop tomorrow to buy one,” Rozanov said, thoughtfully. “I do not have any.”

“I mean, you’ll be losing,” Shane said.

“Sure,” Rozanov replied. “Okay, we are ready. Mike?”

The marine biologist held up a set of index cards.

“Okay,” he said. “Rozanov first, since he lost the last bet. What do some penguins build their nests out of?”

“Pebbles,” Rozanov said, quickly.

“Right. Shane: what do electric eels use electricity for?”

“Hunting,” Shane said.

“Good. Ilya: what can cuttlefish do with their skin?”

“Change color.”

“Right. Shane: what’s currently endangering sea turtle populations?”

“Plastic bags and climate change,” Shane supplied.

“Excellent. Ilya: what is the only bone in a shark’s body?”

Rozanov frowned. “Here,” he said, touching his chin. “Ah— Jaw!”

“Good. Shane: what is the largest fish?”

“A whale shark.”

“Right. Ilya: where do piranhas live?”

“South America.”

“Good. Shane: how do humpback whales trap prey?”

“Ugh,” Shane said, trying to think. “Sonar?”

The marine biologist frowned. “No, sorry.”

“Bubble nets!” Rozanov exclaimed.

Shane frowned. “How do you know that?” he asked.

Rozanov shrugged. “I watch lots of animal shows.”

“You do?” Shane asked.

“Yes,” Rozanov said. “It’s very nice. Soothing. Tell you what; I will ask for team to send you foam finger, okay? You don’t even have to buy it.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

“You both did pretty well,” the producer told them. “I would definitely have been stumped on some of those questions.”

“Thanks,” Shane said, halfheartedly.

“I think it’s Ilya's turn to film the outro?”

“What is next event?” Rozanov asked.

They all looked at Adrianne. “We’re going to an arcade,” she said.

Rozanov smiled a smile that made Shane nervous.

“Thanks to Mike for so many good facts,” Rozanov said, to the camera. “And the New England Aquarium for showing us penguins. Penguins in Boston much better than Pittsburgh Penguins, sorry Zhenya, but it is true.”

“Also all the other animals,” Shane chimed in.

“And thank you to our sponsor, Bud Light,” Rozanov continued. “Bud Light; better than…”

Shane elbowed him hard in the gut. “Bud Light: the Perfect Beer for a Perfect Game,” he jumped in while Rozanov was doubled over.

“How is your elbow so sharp?” Rozanov demanded.

“Join us next time when we go to an arcade and I destroy Rozanov in skee ball.”

Rozanov narrowed his eyes. “What is skee ball?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter; I will win.”

“You can try,” Shane said. “Just like you can try to beat me in our game tomorrow.”

“I will try and succeed,” Rozanov declared.

“In your dreams.”

“You don’t want me to win?” Rozanov asked. “You are my #1 fan!”

“Only in foam,” Shane said.

“And that’s a wrap,” the producer cut in before Rozanov could reply to that. “I think that actually turned out well. We’ll have to cut the entire segment on animal reproduction, of course.”

“Sorry,” the marine biologist said, sheepishly. “I do try not to go on about it.”

“No, it was great,” Shane said. “Thank you.” He shook the marine biologist’s hand and then let the production staff herd him and Rozanov out of the aquarium.

“I’m so hungry,” Rozanov complained as they stepped into the chilly night air.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed.

Rozanov buttoned his coat and turned up the collar.

“Your diet is macrobiotic, yes?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “How did you know that?”

“One million articles are written about Shane Hollander,” Rozanov said dryly. “Plus, Wikipedia. Very convenient; someone translated your page into Russian.”

“Oh,” Shane said, the idea of Rozanov reading articles about him making him feel a little lightheaded.

“There is a very good macrobiotic restaurant in Boston. Very famous stars go there. Madonna.”

“Yeah?”

“It is not far from here,” Rozanov continued. “Well, nothing is very far. Boston is very small city.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Shane asked. “I guess I could check it out, but if famous people go there I’d probably need a reservation.”

“Hollander,” Rozanov said, with a sigh. “I am famous person in Boston.”

Shane stopped walking and looked at him. “You want to go to a macrobiotic restaurant with me?”

“Yes,” Rozanov said, like Shane was being stupid.

“You know what macrobiotic food is, right?” Shane pressed.

Rozanov turned away and swore in Russian, head up to the sky like he was asking god for patience.

Shane couldn’t help laughing. “Okay,” he said. “You want to eat macrobiotic food, I’m not gonna stop you.”

“Good,” Rozanov said. “Come on.”

Rozanov had spent a ridiculous amount of money to park his ridiculous sports car in a ridiculous garage. He told Shane what kind of car it was but Shane promptly forgot in a deliberate attempt to not care about it (because Shane was not squirreling away every tiny morsel of information he could get about Rozanov).

It was lime green and had an engine that was wasted on anything slower than an actual racetrack. Rozanov drove like Boston streets were an obstacle course, flitting in and out of lanes and slipping into gaps in traffic that should not have been large enough.

When Rozanov skidded to a stop in front of the restaurant and stepped out of the car, tossing the keys to the valet, Shane’s legs felt like rubber.

He opened the door and stumbled onto the street. “How,” he panted. “How are you still alive? Seriously, Rozanov.”

Rozanov gave him an incredulous look.

“If I win the cup because you got injured in a car accident I’m going to be so mad,” Shane told him.

Rozanov laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said and gestured for them to go inside.

The hostess nodded and Rozanov gave his name and escorted them to a small table partially hidden from the main area of the restaurant by a screen of living bamboo.

“Fancy,” Shane observed.

Rozanov laughed. “Hollander, you are multi-millionaire. You don’t go to fancy restaurants?”

Shane shrugged. “I like familiar things,” he said and braced himself for Rozanov’s teasing, but Rozanov only smiled a little and nudged the menu toward him.

“What is good here?” he asked.

Shane glanced over the menu. “I’m not, like, a macrobiotic epicure. I just eat, like brown rice and vegetables and tofu and fish and things. Like there’s lots of restrictions I don’t follow, like no out of season fruits and vegetables and no alliums or nightshades, but I’m mostly just, like whole foods and no meat kind of thing, and I’ve honestly never really understood the whole yin yang thing. So. I don’t, like, really know?”

“What will you order then?” Rozanov asked.

Shane looked over the menu a little more seriously. “Miso soup and, uh, the fish of the day, maybe? Brown rice, blanched vegetables.”

“Okay,” Rozanov said. “If I order some other things you will try? It’s all on your diet,” he reminded him.

“I don’t have to eat them if I don’t like them?” Shane asked and Rozanov raised his eyebrows.

“I am not parent, Hollander,” he said. “I’m not tell you to clean your plate. How do you find out you like new things if you don’t try?”

“I don’t?” Shane said, tentatively. “Usually?”

“I like to try,” Rozanov declared. “I will order some things I don’t know and if you want you can try. No pressure. Eat boring fish. I don’t care.”

Shane blinked at him. “Okay,” he finally agreed and was rewarded with Rozanov’s wide grin.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when Rozanov ordered half the menu and their table ended up loaded with food. Tofu served three ways and seaweed salad and kimpira and seitan cutlets on mochi waffles with miso gravy… Rozanov gamely tried every dish and commented on it. His main complaint was that it needed more spice.

“Macrobiotics doesn’t do a lot of spice,” Shane admitted. “And it’s mostly traditional Japanese foods, which don’t use a lot of spice either.”

“Oh,” Rozanov said. “And you are Japanese— part Japanese— and also not very spicy.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “I know you think I’m boring, but do you really think this food is boring?”

Rozanov eyed the spread."No," he admitted.

Shane nodded and helped himself to the kimpira.

He hadn’t grown up eating macrobiotic— it was a pretty niche diet, even in Japan— but like he’d told Rozanov, a lot of it was traditional Japanese foods, and it reminded him of his grandparents, going to spend weeks with them in Montreal when his parents were on work trips or romantic vacations.

His grandmother would cook udon and seaweed salad and oniguri— all things he could eat on his current diet. So why wasn’t he? Why was he limiting himself?

He took a serving of the seaweed salad and even tried the mochi waffles while he and Rozanov talked— about players they both knew and how various teams were doing and their various training regimes and he was reminded, again, of how easy it was to talk to Rozanov, how he felt like a part of himself that was always watching his interpersonal interactions, waiting anxiously for a misstep was lolled— by Rozanov’s meaningless insults, or Rozanov's patience when Shane was speaking, or Rozanov’s own difficulty with the language, he didn’t know.

But for whatever reason, the time flew and then they were picking at the food, empty and half-empty dishes littering the table, and then the waiter was giving them meaningful looks and then they were stepping out into the cold night air, the valet swinging around with Rozanov’s ridiculous lime green car with a stupid loud revving sound and Shane was laughing and saying “fuck no; there is no way I’m ever getting in a car with you again.”

Rozanov shrugged. “Your loss,” he said. He grinned. “See you tomorrow. Sorry when I beat you.”

Shane rolled his eyes and pulled up the Uber app on his phone. “For sure,” he said sarcastically and Rozanov winked and revved his engine and pulled away.

“What’s that?” J.J. asked when a Bears staffer came by the locker room and passed Shane a note that said that the foam finger would be waiting for him at the bench.

“You’ll see,” Shane said.

“Ominous,” Mitty commented from the floor.

The finger was in a bag under the bench, Shane discovered, and just as he’d agreed, he pulled it out and put it on and waved it around at the first commercial break.

Hayden caught sight of it and spit out his water, coughing while J.J. slapped him on the back.

“I lost a bet,” Shane explained, waving the finger around a little more. The crowd had noticed now and people were craning their heads and pointing. In the visitor's bench he could see Rozanov standing and waving. Shane waved back, the finger flopping around. Then the buzzer sounded a warning and he stuffed the finger back into the bag and hid it under the bench again.

“I hope that show isn’t distracting you from the game,” the coach said, with a frown as they got ready to head back onto the ice.

“No, sir,” Shane replied.

“Get out there then.”

“Number one fan!” Rozanov chirped with a big smile when Shane slid into place across from him.

“Shut up,” Shane said, trying to keep from smiling back.

“No stuffies?” Hayden asked, wide eyed.

“The gift shop was closed,” Shane admitted, feeling guilty. “But I could buy some online.”

“No,” Jackie said, sharply. “No stuffies. If the girls get any more stuffies we’re going to have to buy a bigger house.”

“But they have whale shark stuffies, I saw them online,” Hayden said.

“Hayden Pike, I am not sharing my bed with a whale shark stuffy. Bad enough I let you buy me that one at Ikea. I never expected to be sharing my bed with a life-sized shark.”

“You love Blahaj!” Hayden protested. “You cuddle Blahaj more than I do! Blahaj keeps you warm while I’m on the road.”

“I don’t really want to know about your bedroom activities with your stuffed shark,” Shane said, dryly.

“Are you sure?” Jackie asked and winked.

Chapter 4: Episode 4: Could get violent

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya at the arcade. Who will win the most points? Who is cheating on the boxing machine? Killing Dance Dance Revolution? Absolutely destroying the racing simulator? Read more to find out.

Chapter Notes

Happy Snow Day to everyone who was forced to celebrate! Things I researched for this chapter: arcade games, arcade prizes, Japanese holidays, Russian New Years.

“Surprised you do this during Christmas break,” Rozanov told Shane while the production crew got ready. The arcade was empty but still filled with blinking lights and blaring sounds that kept catching Shane’s attention and pulling it away.

Shane shrugged. “I’m going to drive out to see my folks later today. Christmas isn’t really a big holiday for us. My dad’s an atheist and my mom never really got into religion, I guess. We used to celebrate New Year’s with my grandparents, but since they passed, we don’t do much.”

“New Years is also important family holiday in Russia,” Rozanov said. “More than Christmas.”

“Too bad you can’t go home for it,” Shane said.

Rozanov shrugged as if he didn’t care, and Shane remembered hearing some rumor that his family hadn’t even gone to see him play during the Olympics.

He suddenly wanted to offer to meet up with Rozanov on New Years, to keep him company when his family wasn’t there, which was ridiculous. Even if his family wasn’t around, he’d have his friends and his teammates to celebrate with.

“Okay guys,” the producer said. “We’re just about ready to start shooting. Please remember to keep it PC.”

“For sure,” Shane said and she gave him a skeptical look. “I’m going first,” he told Rozanov, knocking their shoulders together. Rozanov waved his hand for Shane to go ahead.

“This is Captain vs. Captain. I’m Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, currently at the top of the league,” Shane said, “and this is Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Bears. Rozanov, where is your team ranked?”

“Fifth,” Rozanov muttered.

“I can’t hear you,” Shane said, to be a little shit.

Rozanov glared at him. “We are in an arcade today,” he said, changing the topic, gesturing to the arcade behind him. “Croteau’s Family Fun Arcade in Montreal, and I will make a bet with Hollander about who wins.”

“What do you want to wager?” Shane asked.

“The arcade gives little tickets when you win, yes?” Rozanov asked.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed.

“Who gets more tickets wins bet, right?”

“Sure,” Shane said. “What are the terms?”

Ilya grinned. “Loser has to wear winner’s jersey… during post-game interview after next Boston- Montreal game.”

Shane felt himself going red. “I can’t do that,” he said, casting about for some plausible reason. “You know my contract with CCM.”

“Spoke to CCM rep,” Rozanov told him, smirking, “said it’s okay for one time. Said would send you email.” He raised his eyebrows challenging. “Bet?”

Shane couldn’t help picturing the stares of the journalists when he pulled a Rozanov jersey over his head. It had been bad enough wearing Rozanov’s hoodie where no one besides Rozanov and the film crew (and eventual the viewing public) could see, but he could hardly say no now.

“For sure,” he said, extending a hand. Rozanov engulf and gripped Shane’s hand firmly, pulling Shane in and slapping his back in one of those manly pseudo-hugs. Shane only barely managed to get in his own slap before Rozanov released him, making him feel off-balance and a little dizzy.

“So, games?” he asked.

“We figured you two could take turns choosing, fifteen minutes or so for each game?” the producer suggested.

“For sure,” Shane said. “Sounds good. Rozanov, you’re the guest.”

“So polite,” Rozanov said, looking around.

“Have you been in an arcade before?” Shane asked. “Do they have arcades in Russia?”

“You know Russia is not trapped in distant past,” Rozanov said. “Yes Moscow has arcades. That one, with ball?”

“That’s skee ball,” Shane said, heart sinking. It was the one game he knew he was good at, but if Rozanov suggested it he probably had some advantage. It would be like mini-golf all over again.

He followed Rozanov over to the skee ball and one of the production crew handed them each a bucket of quarters. They fed them into the machine and grabbed the balls.

“There is arcade in Ottawa?” Rozanov asked, his ball catching the rim of the 50pt hole and somehow dropping into the 40pt one. The machine whirred and spit out tickets.

“Yeah,” Shane said, stepping up and tossing his ball underhand. It caught on the edge of the 50pt hole and then fell in. “For a few years every single one of my teammates held their birthday party there. I must have gone, like, every other week.”

“This one your favorite game?” Rozanov asked, sinking a 50.

“Yeah,” Shane admitted. “It’s the most straightforward.”

“And you can play alone,” Rozanov suggested, so quietly the mics probably didn’t catch it, over the jangling noise of the arcade.

Shane glanced at him and fumbled his throw, only hitting the 10pt circle.

“Sorry,” Rozanov added, in the same quiet voice, tossing his next ball.

They were more or less even at the end of the fifteen minutes and reluctantly Shane looked around at the other games until he spotted the air hockey table. Rozanov followed his gaze and grinned. “You sure?” he asked. “Could get violent.”

“I don’t mind a little violence,” Shane said, grinning back and they headed over to the air hockey table, the production crew in tow.

For the first five minutes they constantly hit the puck too hard, knocking it off the table, into each other’s faces or the production crew, laughing harder every time it happened and shouting accusations at each other about blocking the goal with their arms or purposefully trying to knock the puck into each other’s faces.

“We need helmets for this,” Shane said, the third time he ducked an over-enthusiastic puck.

“Helmets?” Rozanov scoffed, blocking the puck and sending it at Shane’s goal.

“Unlike some people I still have all of my original teeth,” Shane said. “If they get knocked out by air hockey I will be very upset.” He bounced the puck off the side of the table and almost got it in the goal before Rozanov blocked it, sending the puck hurtling at the camera.

“If the camera gets broken by air hockey I’ll be very upset,” the producer muttered.

“You’re hitting it too hard,” Shane told Rozanov, faking him out and then knocking the puck in the other direction, pumping his fist when he finally got a goal.

“That’s what she said,” Rozanov joked, tapping the puck back and forth a little before flicking it towards Shane’s goal.

.

The next game Rozanov picked was Pac Man, a game that it turned out both of them were terrible at, constantly getting cornered by the ghosts and dying over and over again.

After that, Shane decided it was time to turn up the heat, so on his next pick he went with the punching bag machine. Ordinarily, he would have avoided it; there was no question that Rozanov was stronger than him, Rozanov having at least 20 kilos on him, not to mention the size of his biceps. But Shane had come across a tiktok a few days earlier that had shown how to game the game.

He smiled and gestured for Rozanov to go first. Rozanov punched the bag just like he would in a gym, a solid, hard punch, and the game chimed and read ‘456’. Rozanov smirked at Shane and moved so he could take his turn.

Shane smirked back and hit the machine just as the tiktok had instructed, towards bottom of the bag and angled upward. The bag swung up, the machine chimed and read ‘782’.

Rozanov exclaimed something in Russian, frowning, put his quarter in and stepped in front of the machine. He hit the bag even harder and it went up to 534.

Shane smiled, took his place and hit the bag. 823.

Rozanov looked Shane over, then looked at the machine. “You are cheating!” he said. He looked at the production team. “He is cheating!”

Shane laughed. “I am not cheating,” he protested.

Rozanov flexed his arm, his biceps clearly visible beneath the material of his shirt. “Look at my guns. Look at my guns and look at you. Arms like twigs!”

“Oh my god,” Shane said, still laughing. “My arms are not like twigs. Just because I’m not Arnold Schwarzenegger—”

“You think he is stronger than me?” Rozanov demanded of the camera, flexing again.

Shane was laughing so hard he was gasping for air.

“You know what he eats?” Rozanov demanded. “Grass? Entire diet is grass. He is basically a cow. I eat meat. Look here—” he patted one bicep. “So much meat.”

“I don’t eat grass,” Shane gasped out, doubled over.

“This is so much crime!” Rozanov exclaimed, grabbing Shane’s shoulder and shaking it gently. “You think Hollander perfect Canadian boy but committing crimes! Cheating scandal here! Hollander major cheating scandal! So shocking! Where is ref?”

Shane finally managed to straighten up, focusing on his breathing and wiping his eyes.

“Unbelievable,” Rozanov said. “I try again.”

“Go on,” Shane said, accepting a tissue from a production crew member so he could wipe the tears away.

Rozanov took in a deep breath and stepped in front of the machine, body poised like he was going into a boxing match. He pulled back his arm, coiled his body tight and swung, hitting the bag so hard Shane was surprised it didn’t fly off of the machine. The machine chimed. ’593’.

Rozanov swore, gripping his wrist.

“Hey!” Shane exclaimed. “Rozanov, you’re going to injure yourself.” He took Rozanov’s hand gently and brushed his fingers across the knuckles, which were turning red. “It’s just a stupid game.”

“How did you do it?” Rozanov demanded.

Shane turned Rozanov’s hand back and forth, trying to see if there was any swelling. “It measures speed, not pressure,” he finally said, dropping Rozanov’s hand. “You’ve got to hit it in exactly the right way. Look.”

He put in the quarter and stepped up to the machine. “Hit it on the bottom, here, and angle your punch upwards.” Shane demonstrated, the punching bag swung and the machine chimed. ‘901’.

Rozanov narrowed his eyes and took Shane’s place, careless of his possibly injured hand, he practiced for a moment, swinging his arm and almost touching the punching bag before putting in a real swing.

Chime. 932.

“Very sneaky, Hollander,” Rozanov said, voice full of appreciation. Then he smirked. “Time for next game?”

“You don’t want to spent the fifteen minutes here?” the producer asked. “Rack up points?”

“No, we should change.” Rozanov’s smirk turned into an evil grin. “Dance Dance Revolution.”

“Fuck,” Shane said and Rozanov winked at him.

“Could you,” the producer interrupted. “Please not swear? And do that again.”

Rozanov shrugged and turned away a little, turning back with the same smirk to evil grin as before. “Dance Dance Revolution,” he said, somehow even more dramatically.

Shane desperately tried to think of something to say that wasn’t a curse word and came out with ‘fudge’.

Rozanov laughed at him for an unreasonably long period of time.

  .

The less said about Shane’s performance on Dance Dance Revolution the better. He shouldn’t have been so terrible at it, logically; he was an athlete, used to following directions and moving his body in convoluted ways. Maybe he wasn’t even that bad at it. But Rozanov was incredible. He didn’t just hit all the marks, he made them flashy, jumping up and doing spins and other fancy moves, like he was in a music video or something. Shane desperately wished he could watch instead of standing beside him and trying to concentrate on putting his feet on the right arrows while Rozanov was doing some kind of fancy jig beside him.

Shane looked, despairingly, at the ribbons of tickets spewing out of the machine and despaired.

“Okay, Shane, we’ve got time for one more game,” the producer said. “Your pick.”

Shane looked around the arcade.

“Maybe,” Rozanov began.

Shane looked at him.

“I would like to do racing simulator? Is it okay?”

Shane sighed and nodded. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve already lost.”

Rozanov patted his shoulder and led the way to the racing simulator. The chairs of it were deep set and definitely not sized for adult hockey players.

At least Rozanov must be even more uncomfortable than me, Shane thought, rather viciously, as the game began.

It was surprisingly intuitive, Shane found. The controls, the steering wheel, following the road, avoiding obstacles, knocking into other players; all of it reminded him viscerally of flying down the ice. He suddenly found himself locked in, all other sounds and sights blocked out, his whole focus on maneuvering his car, racing against harder and harder obstacles, through level after level until finally, with jarring finality, he hit a ‘Game Over’ screen.

‘New high score!’ the next screen proclaimed. ‘Enter name’

Shane_Hollander24, Shane entered, then looked up to see Rozanov and the whole production crew staring at him.

“What?” Shane asked, his voice coming out as a croak.

“You’ve been playing for forty-five minutes,” the producer told him. “You played that game before?”

“No,” Shane said. “I’ve never played anything like it.” He crawled out of the simulator, muscles cramping from the confined position; he hadn’t even noticed them aching.

“You are a ringer!” Rozanov accused, finger pointed straight at him.

“I’ve seriously never played that before,” Shane insisted.

“I’ve been had!” Rozanov exclaimed, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “Shane Hollander is liar! Everyone, Shane Hollander, big fat liar!” Shane would have been offended if not for the smiling creeping out at the corners of Rozanov’s mouth.

“Well,” the producer said. “Needless to say, you’ve won.”

“I’ll be sending you my jersey,” Shane teased Rozanov.

“This whole episode was rigged!” Rozanov exclaimed, in mock accusation. Shane ducked his head to hide his smile.

.

After the staffers had completed counting the tickets they headed to the display case stuffed with trinkets.

Shane had enough tickets for a lava lamp, a popcorn maker, a led keyboard, or a Mad Max: Fury Road poster.

“I get the Shane Hollander bobble-head,” Rozanov said, decidedly.

“Oh, that’s one of our best-sellers!” the arcade worker exclaimed, pulling the bobble-head out of the case. “Kids save up for weeks for it.”

Rozanov reached out a finger to tip the head so it bobbed back and forth.

“Maybe I can get it signed,” he mused.

“By who?” Shane asked.

Rozanov made a show of considering this. “If only I knew Shane Hollander!” he lamented.

“What about you, Shane?” the producer asked.

Shane knew the lava lamp wouldn’t go with the decor his home decorator had chosen for him, but he’d always wanted one when he was a little kid.

“The lava lamp,” he decided, smiling a little when he took the box. He admired it for a minute before the producer cleared her throat.

“The outro, Shane?” she prompted.

“Oh yeah,” Shane said. “This has been another episode of Captain vs. Captain.”

“Captain vs. Cheating captain,” Rozanov muttered.

“I’m Shane Hollander, completely aboveboard and non-cheating captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, and this is Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Bears and a very sore loser. Captain vs. Captain is sponsored by Bud Light: the Perfect Beer for a Perfect Game, including all of the games I won today.”

“It is also perfect for Dance Dance Revolution, which you failed miserably,” Rozanov chimed in.

“Join us next time for when we will…” Shane looked at Adrienne.

“Skating in Boston Common,” Adrienne supplied.

“Join us next time where we will be skating in Boston Common. What could possibly go wrong?”

“That’s a wrap,” the producer cried. “Really good show this time. Thank you for keeping the swearing to a minimum and not spending ten minutes talking about animal reproduction.”

“That was Mike’s fault,” Rozanov threw in. He slung an arm over Shane’s shoulders as the production crew began to wrap up. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

“Do you have other lines or is that the only one?” Shane asked.

Rozanov raised his eyebrows. “I’m rich, handsome, semi-famous star athlete,” Rozanov said. “I do not need lines. Do you need lines, Shane Hollander?”

Shane felt himself going red. The honest truth was that Shane only ever tried to pick up when he was somewhere where he knew he probably wouldn’t be recognized, like in LA, and even then rarely, given his dislike for casual sex.

“Not usually, no,” Shane said, instead.

“Good,” Rozanov said. “Happy you not sleeping with stupid girl. Let’s go. You can take me to favorite restaurant. Familiar, yes? You like familiar.”

Shane did like familiar things, and hanging out with Rozanov was starting to feel like one of them. Why not, he decided. His parents weren’t expecting him until that evening and it wasn’t like people would be surprised he and Rozanov were spending time together, considering they were filming a tv show together.

“For sure,” he said, considering. He was hungry. He could eat lunch. “I’m driving this time, though.”

Rozanov smirked but didn’t argue.

.

“Good afternoon, Shane,” the host said, cheerfully, ignoring the fact that neither of them was dressed nice enough for the place. “I think your usual table is free.” He smiled at Rozanov. “And guest? Lovely. Please, come this way.”

Shane wondered if the host recognized Rozanov. He was vaguely aware that people who didn’t watch hockey existed, like the marine biologist from the aquarium, but they always seemed few and far between. Perhaps, he reflected, his perspective was a little skewed.

Rozanov sat across from Shane and ordered a seltzer with slice of lemon, the same as Shane and then scanned the menu.

“I’m going to guess you get the salmon, brown rice, and steam vegetables?” he teased.

Shane shrugged, smiling helplessly. “I like what I like,” he said, sinking back into the seat. He liked the restaurant, how it was open without being overwhelming, always the quiet background noise of people talking, faint instrumental music kept very low, cutlery and ceramic clanking, the soft rush of the ventilation system. His usual table was a small one towards the back, slightly elevated so it wasn’t claustrophobic like it might have been otherwise, looking out over the main floor of the restaurant.

“So you flew up to Montreal just for this?” Shane asked.

Rozanov squeezed his lemon slice into his seltzer and seemed to consider the drink for a minute. “It is not a long flight,” he said, finally. “And the sponsorship is very good. Glad I don’t have to actually drink Bud Light.”

Shane laughed. “Me too.”

“You do not drink,” Rozanov observed. “Only at NHL awards I saw you.”

Shane smiled. “When I won the Calder. Hunter was buying me shots. He wanted to buy them for you too, but you disappeared. I had the worst hangover the next morning.”

“Sulking,” Rozanov admitted. “Jealous. I thought you were so perfect. Canadian golden boy.”

Shane stared at him. “I’m not,” he said, finally.

Rozanov smiled at him. “I know.”

“I was jealous of you,” Shane admitted after a moment. “I never know what to say in the languages I grew up speaking. But you always have a chirp or joke or smart-ass thing to say. You’re so… charismatic and I’ve always felt so out of place, no matter where I was.” He couldn’t believe he was saying all this to Rozanov, but hearing that Rozanov was jealous of him, that Rozanov had thought Shane was perfect made it easier to open up somehow.

Maybe it was the idea he was more similar to Rozanov than he’d thought possible.

Rozanov smiled, not one of his big beaming smiles but something small and crooked. Genuine, Shane thought.

.

Shane got the salmon, brown rice, and steamed vegetables. Rozanov got some kind of stacked vegetable dish, like a savory parfait, creamy and delicious-looking, that he ate with evident enjoyment.

They talked; Rozanov told Shane about how they celebrated New Years in Russia, recounted an adorable story about his mother hiding away a second helping of his favorite sweet buns just for him, then told Shane a few stories about his year in the KHL, the pranks he’d played on his teammates, the different cities they’d traveled to.

Shane told him the little he remembered about celebrating New Years with his grandparents, about how sad he was to have forgotten the small amount of Japanese his grandparents had taught him, how alienating it was to look like you belonged to a community you felt like you had no connection to at all.

Every once in a while he remembered how strange it was, that he was having this intimate personal conversation with Ilya Rozanov, someone Shane was supposed to hate so much they’d been asked to present the award for best sportsman ship together as a gag.

But Shane had never hated Rozanov (except for like two minutes after he’d been drafted first and every once in a while after a particularly bad defeat). How could he hate someone who played hockey so well?

Rozanov ordered an espresso and a dessert, a chocolate cake so soaked in syrup and whipped cream it was basically a pudding, and told him about how he’d been forced to eat an eclair basically the moment he arrived in Boston, eclairs being some kind of Boston tradition or something, which segued into him talking about all the things he liked and hated about Boston; how weirdly aggressive the people were (but in a funny way), and their obsession with how historic everything was even though none of it was that old, and how horrible and confusing the traffic was and how some people had accents so thick for a while Rozanov hadn’t even been sure they were speaking English at all.

And finally they were bundling up and stepping outside onto the sidewalk and it was much later than Shane expected. “When’s your flight?” he asked and Rozanov shrugged.

“Tomorrow morning,” Rozanov said.

“I can drive you to your hotel?” Shane offered.

“Can you drive faster than I walk?”

“Fuck you,” Shane told him and they headed back to his car.

They were silent on the short trip to the hotel, Shane concentrating on the directions and Rozanov poking around on his phone. Shane pulled to the curb and looked at Rozanov and Rozanov looked back at Shane and Shane thought that if he even moved slightly in Rozanov’s direction Rozanov might kiss him and invite him up to his room. Rozanov would hold him down and fuck him, probably, with that crooked grin and ever-present intensity and the surprising amount of consideration he’d shown glimpses of to Shane, rough and tender in all the right places.

But Shane was already hours late to meet his parents and while Rozanov might not be the bitter enemy everyone thought he was, but he was still captain of the Bears, still a professional colleague, a competitor, someone Shane was contracted to shoot at least four more episodes of this stupid tv show with.

It wouldn’t be a good idea to compromise that just for a taste of those plush lips and the feel of Rozanov’s large hands on his body. Right?

“We should exchange numbers,” Shane blurted out instead.

Rozanov raised his eyebrows.

“So we can coordinate plans in the future,” Shane added, and Rozanov agreed, passing Shane his phone and watching while Shane entered his number in.

He took it back and smirked, eyebrows raised. “‘Shane Hollander, Montreal Metros’? You think I do not know who Shane Hollander is? I am confused when you text?”

“Shut up,” Shane said. “It’s how I organize my contacts.”

Rozanov took the phone and immediately changed the contact information, then showed him. ‘Hollzy (boring)’.

Shane felt himself growing red. His phone chimed with a text and he picked it up to add Rozanov to his contacts.

“Don’t write ‘Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears’,” Rozanov told him.

“That’s how I organize my contacts,” Shane said again.

“Is so boring,” Rozanov complained. “You always call me ‘Rozanov’. You know I have lot of fun nicknames. Rozinator, Rozalicious, Rozo cop.”

“No one calls you ‘Rozo cop’.” Shane finished entering the information and put his phone down.

“They do!” Rozanov protested.

“Who?”

“Announcers,” Rozanov informed him. “At least twice.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Announcers will say anything. They like to call me the ‘Shane Train;’ it makes me feel like Thomas the Tank Engine.’

“Little happy train?” Rozanov asked, laughing. Someone knocked on his window and Rozanov rolled the window down.

“You can’t sit here,” one of the hotel doormen said. “Sorry, but we need the space for guests with luggage.”

“Sorry,” Shane said and the hotel doorman looked up at him and blanched.

“Uh, sorry Mr. Hollander,” he said, wide-eyed. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

“No, no, you’re right.” He smiled at Rozanov. “Have a good trip and I’ll see you in a few weeks. For skating, I guess.”

Rozanov nodded. “Thanks for the ride. See you later, Shane Train.”

“Don’t call me that!” Shane called after him through the open window.

Rozanov turned and flashed a grin and a wink at him before disappearing into the hotel.

Chapter 5: Episode 5: Something in common

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya go on a romantic ice skating date in Boston Common that ends up steamy.

Chapter Notes

21k isn't too much of a slow burn is it?

“Why is it so cold in Boston?” Shane asked, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, wishing he’d worn a heavier coat. “It’s not as far north.”

“Wet air,” Rozanov replied, face hidden behind his scarf.

“Oh, the humidity? I guess that makes sense?” Shane looked around. “So this is Boston… Common? Why do they call it a common?”

The park they were in was surrounded by tall buildings, the golden light of early morning shining weakly through the gaps between buildings.

Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask me?”

There were a lot of people milling around considering it was seven in the morning on an incredibly cold day in January. They were holding up pro-Bears and anti-Voyageurs (and anti-Shane) signs and many of them were wearing Rozanov jerseys over their winter coats.

“Did you tell people this was happening?” Shane asked.

Rozanov shook his head and stomped his feet. “I would not do that.”

“Those children should definitely be in school,” Shane commented. “It’s too cold for them to be out here like this.”

“Okay,” the producer said. “This is colder than we expected, but it could still work. We’ve booked out the pond for a few hours— that’s why we’re here so early. So we’ve got some hockey equipment and we thought you could play around for a while.”

“We could go indoors to a nice warm rink,” Shane suggested. “With less of an audience.”

“You play in front of large audience every day,” Rozanov pointed out.

Shane ignored him and eyed the ice. “It’s very chopped up.”

“They can not fit zamboni on small pond.”

“They must do something to resurface it though, don’t you think? Maybe they pour hot water on top or something.”

“Okay, guys, we’re ready,” the producer said.

Shane tried not to let his teeth chatter as Ilya began the intro. They were positioned so they crowd was visible behind them in the shot.

“Hi, welcome to Captain v.s Captain. I’m Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Bears, currently on seven game winning streak.” The crowd cheered loudly. “And this is Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Voyageurs.” The crowd booed. “Hollzy, the Voyageurs lost your last game, yes? Against the Penguins?” The crowd laughed and Rozanov turned shot them a cocky smile.

“Fuck off,” Shane said, automatically.

“Would you try that again?” the producer asked, sweetly.

“Against the Penguins?” Rozanov pressed.

“Yes, the Penguins won our last game,” Shane said, putting on his media face. “We played a hard game, but at the end of the day they just wanted it more. But we’re going to keep putting goals on net and strengthening our defense and we’re going to be more than ready for a rematch the next time we play them.”

Rozanov rolled his eyes.

“Today we are in Boston Common, skating on the Frog Pond, important Boston tradition,” he continued. “Hollzy, you been here before?”

“To Boston?” Shane asked, to be a little shit. “Are you blocking out the memory of all the times we beat you?” The crowd booed. “Seriously, any way we can stop with the sound effects?”

“It’s a public area,” the producer said, not sounding apologetic at all. Shane smelled something fishy, but maybe that was the nearby harbor.

“Thank you for coming to support me!” Rozanov called, “but we need to shoot show now, yes? You can stay and watch but please—” he put his finger in front of his mouth and smiled fondly at his fans.

“Next time we’re in Montreal…” Shane warned.

Rozanov patted him on the shoulder. “I was asking if you been to Boston Common.”

Shane shook his head.

“It is very historic place. Famous book about baby ducks.”

“I thought you were going to, like, reference the Revolutionary War,” Shane said. “Not baby ducks.”

“Also famous book about swans,” Rozanov added.

“So Boston Common is famous for waterfowl?” Shane asked.

“Water foul means dirty water?” Rozanov asked, confused.

“No,” Shane said. “Birds that live in water. Or hang out in water? Like ducks and swans? It’s ‘fowl’ with a ‘w’ not a ‘u’. Fowl means birds, I guess.”

Rozanov considered this. “Yes?” He recovered quickly. “That gold building is the statehouse. I went there to meet the governor. Governor Patrick, do you know? Is very cool guy.”

“No, I’ve never met the governor of Massachusetts,” Shane admitted.

Rozanov nodded like this proved something.

“I’ve met the Prime Minister of Canada, though,” Shane said.

“I also meet President Obama last year,” Rozanov added. “Also very cool but doesn’t know anything about hockey.”

“I’ve heard Americans have that problem,” Shane said, sympathetically.

“There are also many other historic buildings,” Rozanov said, gesturing towards the skyline. “And a fountain over there. Good for swimming when drunk. I hear, anyway.”

“Did you swim in that fountain when you were drunk?” Shane asked, suspiciously.

“No,” Rozanov said, clearly trying to look innocent. “Me? I do not do this.”

“Not even after winning the cup?”

Rozanov shrugged. “You expect I remember?” He asked with a laugh. Then he turned and gestured to the pond they were going to skate in. “This is Frog Pond. Very famous place for skating. Very romantic.”

“Romantic?” Shane asked, raising his eyebrows. “Have you ever brought a date here?”

Rozanov shrugged. “Maybe some day I will. You brought your skates? Or we could rent.”

Shane looked up at him horrified. “Rent?” he repeated. “Skates?”

“Get the full experience,” Rozanov teased.

The idea of putting on shoes other people had worn was horrifying. And wearing strange skates would be like cheating on his own.

Shane shook his head and went over to his gear bag, pulling his skates out, resisting the urge to hug them to his chest and assure him he’d never stray. Until he had to get them replaced, of course.

Rozanov laughed and pulled his own skates out of his gear bag, and they both sat down to change into them, Shane struggling to tie the laces tightly in the frigid weather.

He stood up and stepped onto the choppy ice while Rozanov was still tying his skates.

“It reminds me of being a kid,” Shane said, skating a little further, getting a feel for moving on the uneven ground. “There was a shallow pond out back behind my house, before the land got developed and we used to go and skate on it, me and the other kids in my neighborhood. It would get kind of like this.”

Rozanov nodded and tentatively stepped out onto the ice, grimacing at how uneven it was.

“You have to be careful,” Shane warned, “you don’t get your blade stuck in a rut. You never skated on a pond?”

Rozanov shook his head. “Grew up in Moscow, no neighborhood ponds.”

“Did they have any outdoor skating things, like this?” Shane asked.

“I don’t know,” Rozanov admitted, skating a little faster, gaining confidence.

“So not where you’d take a date then?”

Rozanov grinned. “I always treat date like princess; good food, good entertainment, you know?”

Shane felt an unaccountable combination jealousy and trying not to think about how Rozanov had taken him out for good food. “For sure,” he said. He turned away from Rozanov and went to where there was a pile of gear; a pair of toy hockey nets, a collection of sticks and a bag of pucks. He grabbed one of the nets and positioned it at one end of the pond; Rozanov grabbed the other and did the same, then they picked through the piled of sticks.

“I would have brought my own if I’d known,” Shane said, testing them out, frowning at their size and the condition of the tape.

Rozanov laughed. “Is only pick up game, no need for good stick.”

“Good sticks are important,” Shane protested, choosing one and considering grabbing the stick tape in his gear bag, but he figure if he did, Rozanov would probably chirp him for taking the time to re-tape the stick.

Rozanov picked his own stick and then grabbed a puck.

“No pads,” he reminded Shane.

“Yes, I know,” Shane said. “We have to be careful.”

Rozanov nodded, then looked to the production crew. “Someone can drop the puck?”

“Just put it down and we’ll count to three,” Shane said, so Rozanov dropped the puck onto the ice and Shane said “one, two,” and then they both went at it, laughing and scrabbling for the puck before he’d said three.

Rozanov managed to grab it, turning for the breakaway, but his skate caught in a divot and he stumbled and almost fell; Shane grabbed the puck from him and turned and shot it into his goal.

“Yeah!” he cheered, arms above his head.

“You see that!” Rozanov yelled. “Ref! He pushed me!”

“You’re such a diver,” Shane chirped. He skated over to Rozanov’s net and retrieved the puck. “Okay, this time actually wait for three.”

Neither of them even waited for two, Shane scooping the puck up just as Rozanov went for it, and turning to get it into the net, but Rozanov grabbed onto his arm and hung on him, overbalancing him and sending them both crashing onto the ice.

“Ow!” Shane exclaimed, still laughing. “Wow, that hurts so much more without pads.”

“You are cheater!” Rozanov accused. He was half on top of Shane, one arm pinning Shane down and their groins a little too close together for Shane’s comfort, considering where they were.

“That was interference!” Shane argued, pushing at him and rolling to his knees.

“I’m going to have a bruise tomorrow, you—” Shane suddenly remembered to censor himself. “— jerk.” He got up, rubbing his hip.

“Sorry,” Rozanov said, not sounding sorry at all.

They faced off again and this time Rozanov managed to get his puck into Shane’s net. It was actually a little boring, Shane decided, after they’d done it a few more times. He was going to say something, when the producer asked if they wanted company and Shane looked up to see a group of small children bundled up in cold weather gear with hockey pads strapped on top.

“Yeah, let’s go!” Rozanov exclaimed and the kids all joined them on the ice. They were tiny— four or five maybe— all wobbling and so round with their coats and their pads they looked like little tops balanced on tiny legs. Whenever one fell over Rozanov and Shane had to help them back up or they’d just lie there, legs and arms kicking, like a beetle that had fallen on its back. It was pretty cute.

Shane and Rozanov organized the children (Rozanov much more aptly than Shane, Shane had to admit) and then they were coaching the children to play, yelling ‘no, no send it this way!’ ‘yes, on your left, no the other left’ and picking them back up and laughing and arguing about which children were on whose teams and what counted as a goal.

When they were done they signed the kids’ jerseys and posed for pictures with them and Rozanov sent one of the production crew to the Dunkin’ Donuts to buy coffee for the adults and hot chocolate for the children and several dozen donuts for everyone.

“This is for you, Mr. Hollander,” the gofer said, holding up a cup with GREEN TEA written on it. It was possibly the worst green tea Shane had ever had but he appreciated the thought.

“Thanks,” Shane said and looked over at where Rozanov was talking to one of the young skaters. There was something about Rozanov interacting with children that made Shane’s insides twist.

Finally, the producer called for Rozanov and Shane to come over, again setting up the shot so the crowd would be in the background, but this time composed of the children and their families.

“Who won?” the producer asked.

Shane and Rozanov looked at each other. “It wasn’t the kind of game you win or lose,” Shane said, finally.

Rozanov smiled at him. “My team won though.”

“For sure,” Shane said, sarcastically. “Whose turn is it to do the outro?”

“Mine,” Rozanov said and turned to look at the camera. “Thanks to everyone who joined us today on Captain vs. Captain.” He turned and waved at the kids and their parents and they cheered. “Sponsored by Bud Light: The Perfect Beer for a Perfect Game. Hollzy, don’t you wish you had a Bud Light right now?”

“It’s like ten in the morning,” Shane said. “And I’ve got this green tea.” He held up his terrible green tea.

“Hollzy, this show is sponsored by Bud Light, not by Dunkin,” Rozanov chided.

“That’s probably for the best because this tea is terrible.”

Rozanov game a mock gasp. “Shane Hollander insulting beloved Boston institution! Boo!” He gestured to the crowd and they all started booing.

Shane rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Boston, but it’s not like you didn’t already hate me.”

Rozanov slung his arm around Shane’s shoulders. “Join us for our next episode where we will….” He looked at Adrienne.

“Play in the All-Star Game!” Shane reminded of him

“Yes!” Rozanov exclaimed. “We’re gonna be taping a show at All-Star. Maybe they will choose you and me for captain and we can have epic All-Star battle. I will draft all the best players. Your team will be so sad.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Obviously, my team will be the best. It always is.”

“Boo!” Rozanov yelled and waved to the crowd, which waved and booed happily.

“And don’t forget that Rozanov has promised to wear my jersey at the post-game interview tomorrow,” Shane added, grinning widely.

“Will look better on me than on you,” Rozanov told him, cockily.

“What will you say when the reporters ask why you’re wearing my jersey?” Shane asked.

“Tell them Shane Hollander is cheater,” Rozanov answered, easily, “but I am honor… person with honor?”

“An honorable person?” Shane suggested.

“Yes, I am an honorable person even if Hollzy cheat so bad.”

Shane laughed. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“And that’s a wrap. Good job today, guys,” the producer said.

“The kids were a great touch,” Shane told her, to her delight.

.

“What are you doing now?” Rozanov asked Shane while they exchanged their skates for their shoes.

Shane shrugged. “Getting warm? The team’s flying in this afternoon, we’ve got tape review then team dinner, but until then I was thinking of getting a workout in in the hotel.”

“Come to my house,” Rozanov suggested.

Shane stared.

“My house is very nice fitness room. Much better than hotel. Also have a hot tub and a little sauna.”

Shane stared a little more.

“It is better than hotel room,” Rozanov said. “Hot tub and sauna will make you very warm? I can cook.”

“You cook?” Shane repeated.

“Of course I cook,” Rozanov said. “You think I eat at restaurants only?”

“Lots of people have a meal service,” Shane told him.

Rozanov made a face. “Well?” he asked, after a minute.

Shane put his skates in his bag. “Sure,” he decided. “Why not?”

.

If Shane had realized that going with Rozanov to his house would mean riding in another of his ridiculous sports cars at completely inappropriate speeds he might have said no. As it was he was relieved when they finally escaped the traffic onto a highway heading out of the city even though it meant Rozanov opening up the throttle.

“Where are we going?” Shane asked as the speedometer slipped up to 140 kilometers an hour.

“My house,” Rozanov said, like Shane had forgotten.

“It’s not in the city?”

Rozanov shrugged. “Bigger house, more privacy away from city.”

They took the next exit, taking the curve of the exit like they were barreling down a racetrack and then coming to a smooth stop at a stop sign. Shane always forgot how drab it was around Boston in the winter; the trees small and spindly pines and bare oaks, brown grass poking up through the patchy snow.

Rozanov headed through a series of new-looking roads, thirty miles over the speed limit through a neighborhood of McMansions until he reached a gate set in a thick hedge of arborvitaes.

The gate opened automatically and Shane was treated to the sight of a large house facing away from the road, boxy and modern looking.

Rozanov drove down into a garage set under the main part of the house, then led Shane up past a laundry and storage room to a wide open kitchen/ dining room/ living room decorated in bright wood and sober gray with large canvases of abstract art hung on the walls that weren’t purely windows.

“This is nice,” Shane said, automatically toeing off his shoes and dropping his gear bag beside the door.

“Mm,” Rozanov agreed. “Workout or hot tub first?”

“Workout,” Shane decided, rummaging in his bag for workout clothes and shoes. He felt awkward holding the bundle while Rozanov fished two bottles of water out of the fridge before leading him down a short hallway and into what was, indeed, a very nice fitness room, one wall entirely made of glass, another covered by an enormous flat screen.

“Nice,” he said.

“Thanks,” Rozanov replied, giving him a run through of what he clearly thought were the most important things; how to work the television and audio system, the finicky controls on the treadmill. “Bathroom is there. I will come and join you soon.”

Shane swallowed and looked at his retreating back, then stepped into the bathroom to change.

.

Shane was halfway through his reps on his split squat jumps when Rozanov came in wearing a tank-top and indecently short shorts, raising his eyebrows at Shane and heading to the treadmill.

“No music?” he asked.

Shane shrugged. “I don’t, uh, listen to a lot of music,” he admitted, when his set was over. He grabbed the water bottle and swigged it.

Rozanov smiled, small and amused, then fiddled with the sound system for a moment before it started blaring something Shane thought might be hiphop.

“Do you mind?” Rozanov asked and Shane shook his head and started his next set.

He tried not to stare at Rozanov’s ass as he worked through his routine. It was so round. It bounced a little with every step Rozanov took. It escaped a little from the bottom of Rozanov’s extremely short shorts. Had Rozanov known that would happen? Was he attempting to seduce Shane via exposed ass?

Shane shook his head and started his next set of reps.

.

Rozanov’s hot tub was outside, at the end of a long covered deck, overlooking a snow-dotted lawn that sloped down to a forest of spindly pine trees. Shane looked down into the hot water. It was freezing and Shane was only wearing a towel around his hips.

“Are you going in?” Rozanov asked and stripped off his towel and stepped into the hot tub entirely naked.

Shane shouldn’t have been surprised. It’s not like he hadn’t seen Rozanov naked before. It wasn’t like they didn’t both spend a good portion of their lives among other naked men. But that wasn’t in a small hot tub on a deck overlooking pine trees with a man who kept inviting Shane to dinner and touching him gently on the back and had possibly been trying to seduce him via booty shorts.

Rozanov raised his eyebrows at Shane and Shane pulled off the towel he was wearing and stepped into the hot tub across from Rozanov, leaning back against the side of it. Their naked legs brushed together.

Shane wondered if Rozanov would see if he got an erection. He could look at Rozanov to see if his dick was visible, but Shane knew if he looked he’d stare and if he stared Rozanov would notice, so he rested his head on the side of the hot tub and stared at the ceiling of the deck instead. It had been painted light blue and there were lights strung across it.

“You always do those exercises?” Rozanov asked, startling Shane.

“Sorry?” Shane asked, looking at him. Rozanov had his arms slung on either side of the hot tub, and was looking out at the scraggly pines.

“Those exercises you did. Do you always do them?”

Shane frowned. “No, I’ve got a rotation,” he explained. “I work with Marchy— you know Brandon March?”

Rozanov nodded.

“I work with him in the summers. We designed this whole workout regimen,” Shane said.

“Fancy,” Rozanov said.

Shane snorted. “Like you don’t do something similar.”

Rozanov shrugged. “Of course. I just did not see some of your exercises before. You work with March every summer?”

Shane nodded. “For sure. I spend a few weeks resting, you know, and then I head back to Montreal. Usually train with Pike and Shaw, sometimes Xin— Marcus Xin.”

“From the Hammerheads?”

“Yeah. You train in Moscow, right? With Shapoval?”

“Shapovalov, yes,” Rozanov agreed.

“Anyone else, or just one on one?”

“Antok— ah, Anton Kulibin?”

Shane nodded.

“Sometimes Varkov join us. You don’t know him— he plays on Dynamo.”

“Gaspar Varkov?”

Rozanov nodded.

“I remember him from World Juniors,” Shane said. “And he was on your Olympic team too. I always wondered why he didn’t enter the draft.”

Rozanov shrugged. “He want to stay in Russia,” he said. “Family wanted him to stay.”

Shane nodded. “I love my family but I think I’d move to the moon if that was where the best hockey was.”

Rozanov gestured. “I moved to America.”

“America is probably a little better than the moon,” Shane joked.

“Maybe.” Rozanov frowned. “Probably hockey is not very good on the moon. Low gravity.”

“Hard to breathe,” Shane agreed.

“Breathing is overrated,” Rozanov said.

“How was your New Years?” Shane asked, suddenly.

It took Rozanov a little while to answer, still studying the trees in the distance. “Okay,” he said, finally. “Met up with other Russian hockey players.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I heard you guys have a kind of a network.”

Rozanov laughed. “Not network. Just, you know, you play on teams with this person and that person, it’s nice to speak Russian and people tell you where to find good Russian food.”

“I mean that sounds kind of like a network,” Shane teased.

“Network sound like mafia,” Rozanov said.

“Organized non-crime?” Shane suggested.

“What did you do for New Years?” Rozanov asked.

Shane looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “We had that conversation,” he reminded him, “right before Christmas, and it actually made me think a lot about my family.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’ve got some cousins near Montreal. Our families lost touch after my grandparents died; my uncle didn’t like that my mom married a white man. But I thought, you know, I’ve always thought maybe I should be more connected to, you know, my mom’s— my grandparent’s culture. And family. So I reached out to them.”

He grinned. “Turns out they’re actually huge fans and were super excited for me to go join them, so I did. It was kind of weird because I don’t really know them at all besides, like, some vague childhood memories. They’re all— there’s five of them, three of my uncle’s kids and two of my aunt’s, and three of them are married, so they had spouses and there were some kids.

“All my cousins are older than me, and they learned at least a little Japanese, but they all speak French too. And my cousins Hatsue and Roka both have kids, so that was fun— they called me Uncle Shane.” He smiled. “The kids went to bed and we stayed up until midnight talking and…” he sighed. “They know so much more than I do. About Japanese culture, about our grandparents, everything.”

“Now they can tell you?” Rozanov asked.

Shane dragged a hand through the water, watching the tiny whirlpools that developed. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “I mean, I kind of feel like I lost something. That— my mom kind of decided she only wanted to be Canadian, really, and she made that choice for me. She knows— she knew Japanese when she was a kid, and all the stuff my cousins were telling me, but she didn’t want me… It’s complicated. I don’t— I don’t hold it against her. She wanted to belong. To blend in. But I feel like I lost something. And a part of me’s like I’m never gonna blend in anyway, so what was it for?”

“Mm,” Rozanov hummed. After a moment he added: “you are happy you went?”

“Yes,” Shane agreed, smiling. “They added me to the group chat and the kids all want me at their birthday parties and…” he considered. “I don’t know if you have cousins, but you have a brother, right?”

“Yes, and I have cousins but is similar situation; I did not see them since I was young.”

“Even though we don’t share that much DNA, there kept being these, like flashes where I felt like I was recognizing something of myself in them. Just, I guess, mannerisms? Turns of phrases?”

Rozanov nodded. “I am not close with my brother but I understand. I am glad your New Years was good.”

Shane smiled. “I probably wouldn’t have done it if we hadn’t had that talk, so thanks.”

“I am happy to help,” Rozanov said, with a wink. “Are you pickled? You want to go to the banya?”

“Pickled?” Shane asked, standing up and grabbing his towel.

“You know, your fingers, like raisins.”

“Raisins are not pickles,” Shane pointed out.

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “I did not make this phrase. This is English phrase.” He stood up too, water sloughing off his muscular body like someone in a swimwear ad except he was naked.

Shane tried to look away but the sight was too captivating; Rozanov’s translucent skin, dotted with moles, the flex of his muscles, the nest of pubic hair surrounding his fat…

Shane shook himself mentally and focused on drying off, shivering in the cold air, while Rozanov fiddled with the hot tub controls and pulled the cover on.

The sauna was built next to the hot tub, a small closet of a room with a pebbled floor and built in bench and a iron bowl filled with steaming coals. Rozanov poured water over it and steam gushed out, smelling faintly of herbs.

“Is Russian tradition, you know?” Rozanov said, settling onto the bench beside Shane. The room was small, but the bench was long enough they weren’t pressed together, although Shane’s shoulder kept brushing the rough wood of the wall. He’d suspected (hoped?) that this was part of Rozanov’s seduction plan. A sauna sounded like a great place for a seduction. But the room was too cramped for that, Shane decided.

Shane wasn’t sure he wanted Rozanov to seduce him. He went back and forth. Back— Rozanov had the body of a god, the hockey skills of a, well, hockey god, (Fuck, it was hot watching him play hockey,) and he was surprisingly thoughtful, especially considering he had the reputation of being a total dick.

There was also the fact that Rozanov had the same reasons to keep anything they did a secret. More reasons, actually, considering Russia’s stance on queerness. In a way, Rozanov was more safe than almost anyone else Shane could have slept with.

Forth— Shane was currently shooting a reality tv show with him and even when that was done he’d still be playing against him. The competition wasn’t a problem— Shane loved the thrill of playing against Rozanov and he could only imagine that sleeping with him would make things more interesting.

But the rivalry was… Boston hated Montreal and Montreal hated Boston. Their fans burned effigies of each other before games. Shane’s teammates were always cursing out Rozanov and Shane was sure Rozanov’s did the same. They were supposed to hate each other. That’s how this whole thing had started.

If anyone found out, everyone would feel betrayed.

Even though it’s no one else’s business who I sleep with, Shane thought, sourly, uselessly, because no one else would agree with that sentiment.

“You are so quiet,” Rozanov said. “Think so hard?”

Shane shrugged. “I think a lot.”

Rozanov nodded. “Too much.”

Shane looked at him. Even though their bodies weren’t touching Rozanov was still so close. When he looked back at Shane he was close enough Shane could feel his breath, cool compared to the dizzying heat of the sauna.

“Can you really think too much?” Shane asked.

“Thinking can only…” he paused, frowning. “No point after a certain amount. Then you need to act. If not you think and think in circles, yes?”

Shane couldn’t disagree with that. He sighed. “For sure.”

Rozanov touched Shane’s hand where it sat on the bench. Shane looked down. Rozanov’s fingers— square, strong— slid down the backs of Shane’s fingers, then back through the grooves between them.

Fuck, maybe the sauna was where Rozanov seduced people.

“You hungry?” Rozanov asked.

Shane looked up and Rozanov’s face was right there, his eyes green in the warm light of the sauna. “Yes,” he whispered and Rozanov leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t the kiss Shane expected, or the kiss he wanted. It was light and curious and over too quickly. Shane only realized he was chasing Rozanov’s lips when Rozanov put up a hand and laughed and said “not here”.

He took Shane’s hand and pulled him out of the sauna, across the house, into a large bedroom with a king bed in the center. He stopped in the middle and turned to Shane. “Is this okay?” he asked and Shane thought fuck it.

“Yes,” he said, hating how it came out almost like pleading. To make up for it he wrapped a hand around Rozanov’s neck and pulled him in for another kiss. A real one, almost too hard, too deep. Rozanov put on hand on Shane’s hip and the other on his cheek and kissed back like he wanted to eat Shane. Shane wanted him to. Shane wanted to crawl inside him. He made do with his tongue.

Chapter End Notes

Next up: Shane hangs with the team, Ilya wears Shane's jersey

Chapter 6: Interlude 1: With the boys

Chapter Summary

What happens when Shane rejoins the team? Does Ilya wear Shane's jersey after the upcoming game? Who wins when Captain is pitted against Captain? Find out now on the newest episode chapter of 'Captain vs Captain'!

Chapter Notes

There's a chapter count now. I researched nothing for this chapter.

Haha, slow burns over but I still haven't earned my 'E'

An hour later they were breathless, lying side by side on Rozanov’s destroyed bed.

“Hollzy, you killed me,” Rozanov pouted, hand on his heart. “I’m dead.”

Shane smiled and kissed him on the forehead, then craned to see the alarm clock beside the bed. “Fuck, how long does it take to get to downtown Boston?”

“Normally? Twenty minutes.”

“At the speed normal people drive,” Shane amended, dryly.

“Half hour. But right now is rush hour, so…” he winced. “Hard to say.”

“I’ve got to go,” Shane said, trying to keep it from sounding like a complain.

“Do you really need to?” Rozanov asked, rolling over and on top of Shane. He bit lightly at Shane’s collarbone.

“At the risk of getting scratched for missing tape review.”

“Would be shame,” Rozanov muttered, kissing the side of Shane’s neck.

“Was this your evil scheme?” Shane asked. “Seduce me so I’ll miss tape review and get scratched so you’ll win?”

“Do not need evil scheme to win,” Rozanov argued, rolling off of Shane and flopping onto his back again.

“Sure,” Shane said, sarcastically. He sighed and pulled himself off the bed. “Bathroom’s in there?”

Rozanov made a garbled sound and Shane looked over to see him reaching for Shane, a petulant look on his face. He smiled back and stepped into the bathroom.

One brisk rinse later and Shane was pulling on his clothes, packing his exercise things into his gear bag and hoisting it onto his shoulder. He smiled at Rozanov, who was still lying naked on the bed.

“See you later, Rozanov,” he said.

“At least call me Roz,” Rozanov said.

Shane smiled. “See you tomorrow, Rozy. Can’t wait to see you in my jersey.”

“If you stay I’ll put it on right now,” Rozanov said, with a flirtatious grin.

Shane laughed. “My taxi’s waiting.”

Rozanov pulled himself out of bed and crossed the floor to him, winding his fingers into Shane’s wet hair and kissing him deeply. “See you tomorrow,” he whispered and Shane couldn’t help giving him one last kiss.

“Tomorrow.”

.

Thankfully the taxi driver, while being nowhere near Rozanov’s league, was aggressive enough to get Shane to the hotel on time. He walked into a lobby full of his teammates, who hooted and cheered when they saw him.

“Cap! You look like the cat that got the canary!” Needy exclaimed. “I guess you won, huh?”

“Won what?” Shane asked.

“The show!”

Shane looked at him confused.

“You said it was called Captain vs. Captain,” Sted said.

“Oh,” Shane said. He scratched the back of his neck. “We don’t always compete. Like…” he tried to remember how much he was allowed to say about the show. “There’s usually some sort of competition but it’s never the main point. But this time there wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Sted said. He examined Shane. “So why are you so happy? You had to spend the morning with Roz.”

Shane shrugged. “Because I’m with my boys now and we’re gonna get ready to crush the Bears,” he said, grinning.

“Hell yeah!” Needy exclaimed, but Sted looked unconvinced.

“You’re excited to watch tape?” he asked.

“Holly loves tape,” Hayden said, coming to Shane’s rescue. “Any edge you can get, hey Cap?”

“Are you saying my edges aren’t perfect?” Shane asked, mock offended.

“No, no, your edges are beautiful,” Hayden replied, grinning. “Best edges in the league.”

Shane went to check his watch, then cursed internally. He must have left it at Rozanov’s.

Hayden noticed. “Where’s your piece?” he asked.

“I had to take it off for the shoot,” Shane lied, “must have left it there. I’ll call the producer and ask if anyone’s seen it.”

Hayden sucked in a breath. “Expensive thing to loose.”

“I’ve got more at home,” Shane said, shrugging.

“Oh yeah, they fucking pay you to wear expensive-ass watches,” Sted threw in. “Must be nice to be Shane Hollander.”

Shane grinned. “Yeah, it’s pretty great. How long do we have before the tape review?”

.

There was enough time for Shane to go out and grab a chickpea salad at a place he liked nearby, Hayden accompanying him so he could recount Ruby’s latest troublemaking (convincing her sister to swallow a worm.)

“Where did she even find a worm in the middle of the winter?” Shane asked as they waited for the salad and Hayden’s sandwich to be prepared.

Hayden threw up his hands. “I don’t know! We can’t figure it out. It was like an earthworm too! Aren’t they all, like deep under the frozen soil?” He paused, frowning. “What actually happens to earthworms in the winter?”

“I have no idea,” Shane admitted. “They must like hibernate or something?”

“These are the kinds of questions my kids ask me all the time and I never know the answers to,” Hayden lamented. “When they ask Jackie she shows them how to Google and they go on an adventure of discovery together.”

“Why can’t you do the same thing?” Shane asked.

“Because they’re always asking when we’re in the middle of something! It’s like bath-time and I have one child trying her best to flood the bathroom and another one running around naked and slippery and the third one pops up and asks me what color are a T-Rex's feathers.”

“T-Rex have feathers?” Shane asked.

“Yes! Apparently they have feathers now!”

“How can they have feathers now when they’ve been extinct for like… a long time?”

“I don’t know,” Hayden said, throwing up his hands. “There is literally so much I don’t know. I never thought having children would reveal how ignorant I am.”

Shane tilted his head a little and shrugged.

“Oh, fuck you,” Hayden told him. “You didn’t know T-Rex had feathers either.”

“Actually now that you mention it, it sounds kind of familiar,” Shane said.

Hayden elbowed Shane hard in the gut and Shane laughed until their number was called.

.

Shane didn’t mean to lose focus during the tape review, it was just that he kept finding himself thinking about Rozanov, and not the Rozanov who was on the screen, decimating the Tampa Bay Bolts. Or, not just the Rozanov who was on the screen, stealing the puck and checking the Bolts into the boards and getting Shane very inappropriately hot and bothered. Why am I like this? he moaned internally, glad he had his salad on his lap, keeping his perverse response to a hockey game from being noticed.

Team dinner was at the seafood joint they always hit up in Boston. Shane sat with Pike, Pretty, Mitty, Sted, and JJ and was mostly successful at not making the whole conversation be about coffee.

.

He discovered he had a text from Rozanov when he got back to his hotel room.

Rozy: [image of Shane’s Rolex] You left me a present?

Me: Payment for services rendered

Rozy: It is a big tip. Must have been good job 😉

Me: It was a big tip 😉

Rozy: I can it bring to game tomorrow?

Impulsively Shane replied: No you keep it

Rozy: ??? 😯 ❤️

Me: They give me a new one every season

Rozy: Oh it is not even generous gift

Rozy: Oh no I am Shane Hollander have too many expensive watches what to do

Rozy: Too lazy to ask for it back you just keep it

Rozy: Like leaving trash lying around what terrible guest

Rozy: Maybe I never ask you to come to my house again

Me: lol if you don’t want it I can give it to someone else

Rozy: It is okay

Rozy: Too much effort I know

Me: It would be sexy if you wore it

Shane pressed a hand to his mouth, staring at the typing bubbles, suddenly filled with anxiety. Was that— it hadn’t seemed like a one off with Rozanov but...

Rozy: Yeah? You like I wear your watch?

Rozy: You look at picture of me with watch and get hot????

Rozy: I wear it with game day suit. Already suit is very sexy but with watch you will turn red when you see

Shane was already very red.

Me: Maybe

Rozy: Tomorrow I wear your sweater

Rozy: You like to see me wear it?

Me: Yes. Did you like it when I wore your hoodie?

Rozy: Very hard to not grab you

Me: You were hard? In the orchard?

Rozy: 😜

Rozy: What you do tomorrow morning? Before game?

Me: My usual game day routine

Rozy: No time for quickie?

Shane wished he could.

Me: Not part of my routine, sorry

Rozy: 😢

Rozy: You fly after the game?

Shane: Yeah, headed back to Montreal tonight.

Rozy: 😢

Rozy: See you again at asg

Me: Yeah, for sure.

Me: Oh you mean you want to…?

Rozy: Fuck again? Yes

Shane felt his heart speed up.

Me: yeah. Okay. We can coordinate

Me: I have to go to sleep

Me: see you tomorrow

.

“You’re more wound up than usual today,” Hayden observed when he showed up at the guest player lounge. Hayden always arrived later than Shane.

Shane looked at him. He was feeling more wound up than usual, but how could Hayden tell? He was just sitting there drinking his kombucha.

“You’re doing that thing where you trace the design on the bottle,” Hayden told him.

Shane thought about how nice it had been when he hadn’t had friends who knew him that well and then he had a moment of panic when he had the thought that if Hayden could tell he was feeling wound up because of Shane’s unconscious finger movements he might be able to pick up other things.

Like that Shane had fucked Ilya Rozanov. Like how Shane had been unable to keep his eyes off Rozanov slamming people into the boards. Like how Shane kept thinking of the text conversation they’d had the night before and smiling.

And then he wondered if it would be so bad. Hayden knew more about Shane than anyone else ever had, besides Shane’s parents. He’d seen Shane have a meltdown once, when Shane had gone out to a club with his teammates and there’d been this girl who’d kept touching him and the flashing lights and the pounding music and it all had been so much he’d ended up in an alleyway hyperventilating.

Hayden had followed him out of the club and squatted down beside him and just stayed there, not saying anything, until Shane had managed to calm himself down, then he’d offered him a bottle of water and asked if he’d wanted to go back to the hotel. Just calmly, like Shane hadn’t done anything embarrassing or stupid.

Maybe Hayden would be okay with Shane being gay. He’d probably be okay with Shane being gay. Jackie’s brother was gay and they loved him and his husband.

Shane took another sip of kombucha. He couldn’t think about this on game day. Instead he smiled. “Feeling a little unbalanced because I don’t have my watch.”

“Oh yeah,” Hayden said, accepting this easily. “Any change in the routine, huh?”

“Remember when Reebok discontinued my favorite sneaker?” Shane asked.

“Heartbreaking,” Hayden agreed. “Why do shoe companies always do that? You finally find the perfect shoe and the next minute they’re like ‘oh we’re not going to make that anymore’.” He shook his head. “You up for two-touch?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, “of course. Game day routine.”

“Right,” Hayden agreed, finishing off his Gatorade. “Let’s go.”

.

It was fortunate Shane was someone who had spent his life developing his self-control because it took a lot of it not to look on the internet to see if the Bears had posted pics of Rozanov in his game day suit.

Would he really wear Shane’s watch? Shane could never do something like that; he’d feel so exposed, but Rozanov would, Shane thought. He envied how easily Rozanov managed so many of the things that wound Shane up.

In the locker room they talked shit about the Bears and how they were going to flatten them. Koch keep trying to say they were going to ‘skin the Bears’ but everyone else thought that was gross. J.J. and Pretty did their ridiculous locker room dance while everyone else hollered and then Shane got up and gave a speech that was so predictable everyone kept shouting the ends to his sentences, then they all knocked their helmets together and headed out on the ice, the Boston crowed booing Shane when he came out of the tunnel and did his laps.

The Bears were called and everyone cheered, loudest for Rozanov when he skated out last, hands up and yelling back at the crowd that was cheering “Roz-y, Roz-y, Roz-y!”

Shane caught himself smiling and looked down at the ice so no one could see.

.

Rozanov grinned across the face-off circle. “I fuck you again, yes?”

“You can try,” Shane replied with a bright smile and stole the puck.

Everything disappeared when he was on the ice but the joy of the moment, the thrill of flying down the ice, of fighting for the puck, of checking and getting checked, heart pounding and sweat dripping down his back and exchanging chirps and the feeling of the puck on his tape, the sight of a clear line to the goal, the caught breath as it swept across the ice, the sound of the buzzer, the impact as his teammates slammed into him in victory.

And Rozanov there, across from Shane in the face-offs, trying to steal his puck, slamming into him and chirping him, and it was even more fun than it usually was, now knowing the shape of Rozanov’s body under his pads, the feel of his muscles as they flexed, Rozanov’s fingers pressing into Shane’s skin. Shane stole the puck away from Rozanov and sent it to Pike, checked Connors and got the puck back, faked out the goalie and backhanded it to Pretty who shot it right over Caydn’s shoulder into the net.

The crowed booed. Shane slammed into Pretty and then Pike joined them, then J.J. and Sted and they were yelling and celebrating and tapping Mitty’s helmet and heading through the tunnel to strip down and announce the stars and drop the ragged Burger King crown they really needed to replace onto Pretty’s head.

  .

The media came in a little bit later, and Shane was gleeful when the first question was “Can you tell us why Rozanov was wearing your jersey?”

Shane grinned and resisted the urge to ask for a picture of it. “He lost a bet when we were filming our upcoming show Captain vs. Captain.”

“How’s the filming going?” another reporter asked.

“It’s going great,” Shane said. “We’re having a great time and of course it’s pretty competitive.”

“How’s working with Rozanov?” the reporter followed up.

Shane considered. He could keep up the ‘I hate him’ shtick but it wasn’t not like people wouldn’t see them laughing together when the series came out.

“It’s fun,” he said. “We’ve known each other a long time but we’ve never really spent that much time together so it’s been fun getting to know him, and we’re both pretty competitive, so that’s fun too. And the production team has been great, coming up with fun things for us to do.” Was that too many ‘funs’ in one sentence? Shane wondered, but the reporter was already following up.

“Has it affected your game, getting to know Rozanov?”

Shane frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Is it harder to see him as an enemy?” the reporter clarified.

Shane couldn’t help laughing. “Enemy is kind of a strong word, isn’t it? I like competing against him, so for sure I’m going to do my best to win every time.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I always have done my best and I always will, even if I’m playing against teams with people I consider friends on them, which happens all the time. I train with guys on other teams, I play in Worlds and in the Olympics with guys on other teams, against guys on my team… If hockey players didn’t play as well against people they liked trading players would be kind of a problem wouldn’t it?”

“So you like Rozanov?” Another reporter jumped in.

Shane frowned, considering how he should answer. “He’s kind of a—” he searched for an appropriate way to say ‘asshole’. “— jerk but he’s fun to hang out with,” he concluded. “Any questions about the game? I don’t want to miss my flight.”

The reporters laughed and moved on to asking about the game.

.

Shane was planning on not looking at the pics until he got home, but Needy had already pulled it up when Shane got out of the media scrum.

“I can’t believe this!” he exclaimed, waving his phone so much Shane couldn’t focus on the picture. “How the fuck did you get Rozanov into your jersey?”

“He lost a bet,” Shane said, shrugging. He grabbed Needy’s phone and looked. Surprisingly, it was the Bear’s social media account that had tweeted it, maybe to get out ahead of the news sites.

There were two pictures of Rozanov in the jersey. In the first he was laughing, hair still damp with sweat, pointing to the Voyageurs’ logo and in the second he was turned around so the viewer could read Shane’s name written across Rozanov’s broad back.

Shane was glad he was still wearing his cup and no one could see what that was doing to him.

Our captain always makes good on his bets. The caption read. We’re excited to find out what the bet was for when Ilya and Shane Hollander go head to head in ESPN’s upcoming series Captain vs. Captain!

“What was the bet over?” Pretty pressed.

“I can’t tell you,” Shane said. “You’ll just have to watch the series.” He turned away from them and pulled his undershirt over his head, then bent over to strip out of his leggings. Behind him the guys were speculating. “Get changed!” Shane yelled. “If you’re not on time for the bus we’ll leave you behind!”

The guys laughed. “You’re the only one who hasn’t showered, Cap,” one of them called. “We’re waiting on you.”

“Really?” Shane asked, looking back over at them. Many of them were in some form of half-dress, it was true, but it was in their game day suits, not their gear. “Pretty’s done too?”

“They only asked me few a questions,” Pretty said.

“Huh,” Shane said and finished stripping, heading into the shower.

It was harder not to think about Rozanov— fuck— when the shower was empty, but he resolutely thought of gross things; Pretty’s lucky— and horribly unwashed— cup, what nasty things had accumulated in the shower drain, the time Hayden had vomited on Shane’s shoes at his bachelor’s party, until he was dried and dressed, the last one ready even though he’d rushed when he’d put on his suit.

Chapter 7: Interlude 2: Coming out pt. 1

Chapter Summary

“But the thing is,” Hayden added, more quietly, “that I know you left your watch at a shoot for the show you’re filming with Roz yesterday. And now Roz happens to show up wearing the same watch the day later? A watch which, according to this stupid blog, he’s never been seen with before.”

He put down his phone and raised an eyebrow at Shane and Shane felt himself blushing.
“Why is Roz wearing your watch?”

Chapter Notes

I finish the first draft! 🎉🎊🥳 Now I'm going to try to post every few days until it's done 😅 unless it turns out one or more of the chapters needs a lot of editing

Since Shane had already broken the seal, so to speak, he didn’t bother stopping himself from pulling up the tweet showing Rozanov in Shane’s sweater, only closing it when his mind had started drifting to if Shane could get Rozanov in his jersey again, maybe without anything else on? He could be like one of those girls in their boyfriend’s shirts.

Shane sighed and pulled out his book just as Hayden sat down beside him.

“Look at this,” Hayden said, holding his phone out for Shane, who was shocked to see it was a picture of Rozanov in his game day suit. The poster had put a red circle around Rozanov’s wrist.

“What is it?” Shane asked and Hayden looked at his phone, then swiped it to another picture, showing Shane in a game day suit from a few weeks earlier, a red circle around his wrist as well.

Shane’s stomach twisted but he kept his face carefully blank. “They’re pointing out that… Rozanov has the same watch I do?”

Hayden laughed. “Yeah,” he said, looking at his phone again.

“I don’t understand what people do with their time,” Shane said. “I never feel like there’s enough time but somehow these people are examining pictures of us and finding things like this and then posting about them.”

“They think there’s something going on between the two of you because you have the same watch,” Hayden said.

“People have suggested there’s something going on between the two of us for years,” Shane pointed out. “There’s even like a… what do you call it? A couple name for us.”

“Yeah,” Hayden said. “Jackie thinks it’s hilarious. She’s subscribed to the topic and sometimes likes the posts just to fuck with them.” He smiled and sighed in admiration for his wife.

“But the thing is,” he added, more quietly, “that I know you left your watch at a shoot for the show you’re filming with Roz yesterday. And now Roz happens to show up wearing the same watch the day later? A watch which, according to this stupid blog, he’s never been seen with before.”

He put down his phone and raised an eyebrow at Shane and Shane felt himself blushing.

“Why is Roz wearing your watch?” Hayden whispered.

There was obviously no point in denying it.

“I didn’t leave it at the shoot,” Shane whispered back. “I left it at his house.”

Hayden raised his eyebrows. “You went to his house?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “We’re friends. It was super cold during the shoot and he has a hot tub and a sauna and his home gym is really nice, so he suggested I come over to warm up.”

“So you took your watch off…?” Hayden asked.

“I was in a hot tub,” Shane said. “I took all my clothes off. It’s not a big deal.”

Hayden gave him a look like he didn’t believe it. “So you accidentally left your watch at Roz’ house and instead of returning it he wore it?”

“Just fucking with me, probably,” Shane said.

“Okay, so why is your face so red?”

Shane sighed. “Okay,” he said, finally. He took a deep breath. “We didn’t just share the sauna and hot tub,” he whispered.

Hayden reared back, his eyes wide. “Holy fuck,” he said.

“Shut up!” Shane cried.

“You didn’t. Shit, Shane.”

“Shut up,” Shane said again, looking around. Needy, in the seat across the aisle from them was giving them a curious look. Shane waved him off.

“How did… was that the first time?” Hayden demanded, back to whispering.

“With him, yeah,” Shane admitted.

“I am going to need all of the deets.”

“You are not,” Shane told him.

“Jackie is going to need all of the deets.”

“You can’t tell her!” Shane exclaimed, voice going high pitched.

“I can’t keep secrets from her, you know that,” Hayden reminded him.

“There’s not much to tell.”

“Shane, buddy,” Hayden said. “I’ve been married for like forever.”

“Five years.”

“I need to live viscerally through you. And you have never come through before. Please, just give us this.”

Shane looked at Hayden for a long moment. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll come over tomorrow and tell you what happened.”

“Yes!” Hayden said. “I’m going to text Jackie right now.”

“Don’t text her about it!” Shane exclaimed.

“I’m just telling her you’re coming over,” Hayden reassured him. “Wow.”

“What’s going on?” Needy asked.

“None of your business,” Hayden told him and Needy scowled and put his headphones back on.

.

Shane hunkered down on the plane and pretended to be engrossed in his book, mind spinning with what had just happened. Had he seriously just come out to Hayden? And Hayden had reacted almost gleefully? It seemed like a bizarre dream. It seemed like… could it actually be that easy?

.

The flight was short— soon they were landing and piling out of the plane, heading through the terminal to their cars, Hayden telling Shane Jackie was excited to see him at dinner the next day before getting into his SUV.

Shane pressed his forehead against his steering wheel for a long moment and then began driving.

.

When he got home he had eight missed texts from Rozanov and three from his mother.

Rozy: [link to the twitter post about the watches]

Rozy: People noticed!

Rozy: [link to another twitter post asking ‘Who wore it better?’]

Rozy: Me obviously

Rozy: Have good trip home

Rozy: In sauna all alone. Sad ((((((((((

Rozy: [link to the twitter post about Rozanov wearing Shane’s jersey]

Rozy: You like?

Me: Its a watch how do you wear it badly?

Me: Obviously I wore it best. Im a literal watch model

Me: Yes I liked it. You should wear it again. The sweater I mean

Rozy: You are very sexy model. I like your calvin kline ads.

Rozy: But I am sexy model too

Rozy: You can see again if you win another bet 😉

Me: Does the bet have to be on the show?

Rozy: Maybe. What do you think?

Me: If we make a bet sooner the results will happen sooner

Rozy: You want to see me in your jersey so bad

Me: How about whoever wins the most games from now until we see each other next the other will wear their sweater

Rozy: You mean when I win more games you wear my jersey

Me: When I win more games you mean

Rozy: No I don’t think so. Definitely me

.

Shane almost turned around and drove back to his place three times before he finally arrived at the Pikes. Only spurred on by the thought that the kids would be sad if he didn’t come (at practice Hayden had shown him a video of them being excited to see him, the sneaky asshole). He parked his car in their driveway and spent a minute trying not to hyperventilate.

Someone knocked on the door and he saw Ruby peering in and grinning, Jade beside her, trying to see into the window.

Shane sighed and opened the door, careful not to knock the children over.

The conversation didn’t happen until the children were tucked into bed, Shane reading the girls their bedtime story, at their insistence. It was a picture-book version of Frozen. Hayden apparently did all the voices but when Shane tried the girls laughed at him.

When he got into the kitchen Hayden was finishing up the dishes. “Jackie’s still putting Arthur to sleep,” he said. “I got your favorite kombucha.” He jerked his chin to the fridge.

“I got your favorite kombucha,” Jackie corrected, coming in the kitchen. “Went to three stores and ended up having to text Nieder’s girlfriend to find out where they sold it.” She made a face. “She’s trying to become a fitness guru. She made me promise to go to yoga class with her, so you should be grateful.”

Shane took the bottle of kombucha out of the fridge. “I am,” he promised.

Jackie grabbed a beer for herself and one for Hayden— a light beer to his clear disgust— and led the way to the living room, turning the tv on to a radio station.

“So what’s this big news?” she asked. “Hayden’s been bursting at the seams since you got back from Boston. Is it about the show you’re doing with Rozanov?”

“Kind of,” Shane said.

“Not really,” Hayden corrected.

“If you want to tell her, go ahead,” Shane told him.

“I don’t really know anything!” Hayden protested. “We had like a five minute whispered conversation.”

“Start at the beginning,” Jackie suggested.

Shane took a deep breath. “I’m gay,” he said.

Jackie’s eyes widened. “Shit,” she said. “Wait— that thing they’re saying on twitter about Rozanov wearing your watch? That’s true? Like you and Rozanov?”

Shane took a deep breath. “We hooked up on Tuesday,” he admitted. “There was a lot of flirting before that. He kept asking me to go get food with him.”

“So Roz came on to you?” Jackie pressed. “But how did he even know you’d be interested?”

Shane shrugged. “For a while I thought it was like just his personality. You know? Flirtatious.”

“He’s never flirted with me,” Hayden muttered. Jackie patted his thigh consolingly.

“It’s like,” Shane began. “It’s always like that between us. Like there’s been… what do you call it?”

“Frisson?” Jackie asked, clearly already way too invested in Shane’s love life.

Shane closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

“You two are pretty intense when you play against each other,” Hayden said.

“But what was, like, the first time you met him?” Jackie asked. “Besides being on the ice.

“Before World Juniors, the year we got drafted,” Shane said. “I stepped outside to get some fresh air and he was smoking in a non-smoking area.”

“Sounds like him,” Hayden grumbled.

“I, like, introduced myself and told him he was a great player and all he said was ‘yes’. I thought maybe he didn’t speak English well and then, when I was leaving he said… oh, what was it? ‘You won’t be so nice when I beat you’? Something like that.”

Jackie laughed. “Was there frisson then?”

“I don’t know!” Shane exclaimed. “Kinda? Then we met at the draft, of course. I didn’t go to the combine— I don’t think he did either.”

“You didn’t miss out on anything,” Hayden muttered.

“I couldn’t sleep that night,” Shane continued, ignoring him. “Just too much in my head. I was pretty mad about going second, you know?”

“Only you would be mad about being drafted second. Anyway, if you’d been picked first you’d have been on the Bears!”

“I know,” Shane said. “Anyway, so I couldn’t sleep so I went down to the tiny fitness room in the hotel and got on the treadmill and I’m running along you know and then I see Rozanov getting on the treadmill beside me.”

“It was the middle of the night?” Jackie asked.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Maybe it was jet lag, like it was probably morning in Moscow, but still. So he starts running and I see he’s going faster than me—”

“So you run faster,” Hayden supplied.

“Yeah,” Shane said, smiling. “So I run faster and then he runs faster and before you know it we’re both going flat out until finally I have to hit the emergency stop.”

“Oh, that must have killed you,” Hayden said, laughing.

“Yeah,” Shane said, with a small smile. “So I like collapse to the floor and he sits across from me and we talk, like he asks me if Montreal and Boston are nice and he says we’ll be seeing each other often.”

“Oh,” Jackie said. “Maybe he wanted to be friends with you. It’s not like he really knew anyone, right?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Shane admitted. “And the whole time he’s looking at me like… you know…”

“Like he’s undressing you with his eyes?” Jackie supplied.

“Sure,” Shane said. “Okay. And he had a water bottle and I didn’t so he insisted I take his, like shoved it at me and when he passed it over our hands brushed together. Not brushed, like he ran his fingers over mine. And then I passed it back and the same thing and then I like basically ran away.”

“Awww,” Jackie cooed. “You must have been so flustered.”

“Yeah,” Shane scratched the back of his neck. “Then I guess we were both at the next World Juniors but I didn’t talk to him at all, then that summer we filmed a commercial together.”

“The CCM commercial?” Jackie asked.

Shane nodded, then smiled despite himself. “You saw it? You know they had us skate forward like we were going to do a face-off and then stare at each other? Well the director kept yelling ‘be more intense’ or something at us and we just started losing it, just totally cracking up, every time we made eye contact. Rozanov started it but by the end neither of us could keep it together and they gave up and decided they’d have to work with what they had.”

“That’s so cute,” Jackie said. “So you talked after that?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Shane admitted. “We exchanged a few words, but then we got interrupted. I guess the next time I saw him— besides being on the ice— was at All-Star.”

“Wait,” Jackie said. “That was it?”

Shane shrugged. “It was a short conversation and we didn’t get another chance to talk. They filmed me skating then I left while they were filming him.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “So then you saw each other at the All-Star game?”

Shane shrugged. “We’ve seen each other at, you know. All-Star games and the Awards and everything but we’ve never really had a conversation until ESPN decided to do this show. Then we started talking you know before and during and after the shoot and we had a lot fun doing it and he invited me to go to dinner when we were shooting in Boston and then again in Montreal and we exchanged numbers and, I guess it feels like we flirted more and more. Then when we were shooting on Tuesday it was really cold so he suggested we go to his place because he has a sauna and a hot tub.”

“Smooth,” Jackie said. “And he seduced you with his fancy sauna?”

Shane shrugged, blushing. “I mean I was pretty much a sure thing by that point, but seeing him naked didn’t hurt.”

Jackie covered her mouth and laughed.

“Eww,” Hayden said and Jackie hit him in the arm.

“So what was it like?” she asked. “Is he good in bed or is he one of those guys that are so cocky they think they’re god’s gift to women— I mean god’s gift to people— and that they don’t actually have to do any work?”

Shane bit his lip and looked down at his kombucha bottle. “The first,” he finally admitted.

“Oh my god!” Jackie exclaimed. “I bet he’s super hot naked. I mean he’s super hot clothed, so…”

“Yeah,” Shane said, with a sigh.

“Jackie!” Hayden protested.

“What?” Jackie asked. “I’m married but not blind.”

“He’s our enemy!”

Jackie rolled her eyes. “Hockey people are so dramatic. So what’s next. Like you’re gonna see each other at the All-Star game. Are you gonna hook up or…?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Shane said. “We’ve been texting—”

“Do not tell me you’ve been sexting!” Jackie shrieked.

“Jackie, our children are asleep,” Hayden protested and Jackie clapped a hand over her mouth, looking guilty.

“No,” Shane said. “I mean not really.”

“Well,” Jackie said, “you’ve got to be careful with security and everything, right? People get their phones hacked all of the time.”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “I guess we’ve had a few exchanges that might seem kind of… revealing.”

“I’m sure there are ways of making things more secure,” Jackie suggested. “I’ll ask the girls. They always know things like that.”

“Yeah,” Hayden said. “I think at least one of them is a spy.”

“So, is it okay if I ask? How long have you known you were gay?” Jackie asked.

Shane shrugged. “It’s kind of dumb,” he said. “I had a huge crush on my roommate in juniors.”

“Brosseau?!?” Hayden exclaimed. “Ugh, seriously?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Jackie asked, fascinated.

“He’s so ugly!”

“He’s not!” Shane protested.

“Is there, like a picture of him?” Jackie asked. “Can I see?”

“You’re weirdly invested in Shane’s love life,” Hayden said.

“You’re the one who said you need to live vicariously through me,” Shane reminded him. He opened his phone and googled Brosseau and showed Jackie, who shrugged.

“He’s not bad,” she said. “Gangly, but he’s, what, seventeen in that pic? Is he in the NHL?”

Shane shook his head. “Got drafted but he didn’t feel like he had a lot of chance of actually playing so he went to college.”

“So you had a crush on him?” Jackie prompted.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “And like I knew I had a crush on him. Like I’d feel my insides twist sometimes when he smiled at me and I’d invent excuses to be close to him and stupid things like that. But it didn’t click that that was a gay thing to do? It’s not like I was in denial exactly it was just it didn’t compute.

“And then, well I’ve got this friend who’s a speed skater— we used to train in the same rink and our moms were friends— who’s gay and he was telling me about this guy he liked and the way he described it I was like ‘oh fuck, wait.’ It was like those optical illusions where you’re looking and you’re looking and then like suddenly you see the picture, you know?”

He sighed and shifted a little. “I mean, I tried to fight it. I had a girlfriend, I had sex with girls, I tried to watch, like straight porn. I even looked up like what they do in those conversion camps.”

Jackie put her hand to her mouth. “No,” she said.

Shane nodded. “You can’t be gay and play hockey, right? Of course none of that worked. I kind of thought maybe I’d just be celibate until I retired or something. Then there was that encounter with Rozanov in the middle of the night at the draft and I just kept thinking about it. Like what if I did it? What if I could maybe touch someone?

“Then, you remember, I went on that trip to Venezuela?”

“For the macrobiotics seminar?” Hayden asked.

Shane nodded. “I, uh, I met a guy the day before the seminar. On the beach. He was an insurance adjuster from the Netherlands. He had no idea who I was.” He laughed and scratched the back of his neck. “I’m not sure how it happened but we ended up in his hotel room and…” He picked at the label on his kombucha. “We didn’t leave for the whole week?”

“Oh my god!” Jackie exclaimed. “You didn’t go to the seminar at all?”

Shane shook his head, knowing his face must be flaming red.

“So he, like, showed you everything?”

Shane nodded. “Well, I don’t know, you know, if it was everything, but I did learn a lot.”

“Wow,” Jackie said. “What happened after?”

Shane shrugged. “We lived on separate continents and he didn’t want to long distance date someone in the closet and I don’t know if I was very interested in keeping it up either. We still text sometimes.”

“And after that?” Jackie asked.

“Sometimes I pick up when I’m in cities where they don’t really care about hockey,” Shane said. “New York, LA, Miami, you know? If they recognize me I ask them to sign NDA, but usually it’s just… anonymous.”

Jackie frowned. “You don’t really seem like an anonymous sex kind of person.”

Shane shook his head. “I’m really not.”

Jackie put her beer on the coffee table, leaned against Hayden. “Thank you for telling us,” she said. “Are you out to anyone? Your parents.”

Shane bit his lip and picked at the bottle.

“They’d support you, I know they would,” Jackie said.

Shane nodded. “It’s not what they want for me,” he said. “They want me to be the best; they want me to be a role model.”

She sat forward. “You being gay doesn’t make you not the best,” she said. “It doesn’t make you not a role model. Shane— it’s not a failure.”

Shane blinked, trying to keep himself from tearing up. “I know,” he said. “I know but I don’t know.” He swiped at his eyes. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” Jackie said. “No, it does.” She put her hand on Shane’s shoulder and he opened his eyes and Jackie smiled at him the way she smiled at her children when they’d fallen down. “Can I hug you?”

Shane nodded and Jackie leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, rocking a little like she wasn’t half his size. “They love you, you know they’d love you no matter what. They’d even love you if you played for the Bears.”

Hayden made an indignant noise.

“They’d wear Bears jerseys for you,” Jackie said, a teasing note in her voice.

Shane nodded against her shoulder. “I know,” he said, taking a deep breath.

“Thank you for telling us,” Jackie told him, when she finally let go. “Thank you for trusting us. You can, you know? With everything?”

Shane swallowed and nodded.

“I just have one question,” Hayden cut in. They both looked up at him. “Rozanov? Seriously?”

Shane laughed when Jackie hit him in the arm.

.

Shane slept in the Pikes’ guest room despite knowing he’d be woken up at six in the morning by Ruby jumping on his stomach. He wandered into the kitchen where Jackie was making breakfast and Hayden was trying to talk Jade into wearing clothing.

“Hey,” Jackie said, putting a cup of green tea in front of him.

“You’re a goddess among women,” Shane said.

Jackie scuffed his hair and went back to the stove.

“I should get home,” Shane told them. “Get my stuff for practice.”

“I’m making breakfast for you,” Jackie said, pointing to the rice cooker. “I found a new recipe for rice porridge I wanted to try.”

“Oh,” Shane said, “thanks.”

“Rice porridge?” Hayden protested.

“Maybe you’ll like it,” Jackie said. “You’re worse than the four year old.”

“I like porridge,” Ruby said. She was nominally coloring in a Frozen coloring book but was actually coloring on the table.

“See?” Jackie said. “I got that cookbook you recommended and I’ve really been enjoying testing out new recipes from it. You’ve really opened up a whole new avenue of cooking for me.”

Shane looked down at his tea. “I mean, thanks? You’re welcome? You don’t have to be so accommodating.”

“You have no idea how annoying it is to invite someone over for dinner and you’ve done all this cooking and then they tell you ‘oh, I’m allergic to garlic or whatever.’ Like, hello, I’m cooking for you. If you can’t eat something maybe tell me? It’s so frustrating. Did I ever tell you about that boyfriend of my brother’s? Connor? Ugh. Every time he came over there was something new that was up with him. Which is fine, you know I like a challenge but I’d make a whole meal without, I don’t know, peanuts or whatever and then he’d be sitting at the table and be like ‘actually I don’t eat soy now’. Why wouldn’t he tell me that before he cooked!?! Why would you sit here and watch me make a whole meal with tofu and then tell me you’re allergic to soy?!”

She shook her head while Shane faintly wondered how on earth she had so much energy at six in the morning.

“If you want like his number I can share it,” Jackie continued.

Shane blinked up at her. “Who?”

“My brother.”

“I thought he was married?”

“Oh,” Jackie said. “Yeah, no, not for that. Anyway I don’t think you’d really be compatible. No, I just mean if you want to talk to another gay person.”

Shane stared at her. “Why would I want that?”

Jackie shrugged, opening the rice cooker and dishing the porridge out into bowls. “It’s nice to talk to people who understand you?” she asked. “Like Hayden and I will be here for you no matter what, but we can’t possibly know what you’re going through, right? Maybe my brother hasn’t experience exactly what you’re going through because, let me tell you, there’s no closet that would fit that boy, but he at least knows what it’s like to grow up gay in a heteronormative society.”

“How do you use words like ‘heteronormative’ at six in the morning?” Hayden groaned.

Jackie blinked at him. “Do you need more coffee, baby?” she asked. She placed a bowl in front of Shane and then gave smaller ones to the girls.

“None for me?” Hayden protested.

“I thought you thought it was gross,” Jackie teased, but she gave him a bowl.

“What’s in this?” he asked, poking at it.

“Pickled mustard greens and umeboshi plums and pine nuts,” Jackie said, setting her own bowl down in front of her.

“Thanks for cooking,” Shane told her, tentatively taking a bite. He usually didn’t like porridge because he hated things with thick smooth textures like polenta and mochi and millet, but Jackie had left the rice a little chunky, had probably undercooked the porridge just for his benefit.

He smiled into it and wondered how he deserved such good friends.

Chapter End Notes

I love love love comments but I'm not the best at replying especially when they're super embarrassed and make me want to hide, so sorry if I haven't replied to you, it doesn't mean I don't love you!

Chapter 8: Episode 6: Hey now, you're an All-Star pt. 1

Chapter Summary

All-Star weekend. Who lost the bet and will now have to dress in just the other's jersey? What team will Ilya end up on? Will he win the car?

Find out now on Captain vs. Captain!

Chapter Notes

Whoo, halfway there!

I watched a whole bunch of videos about All-Star games for this. I've gone with the draft model (that they've often used in the NHL) instead of whatever happened in canon where they made sure Ilya and Rozanov were on separate teams.

I invented a lot of players and teams for this! Let me know which team is your favorite!

They flew out to Toronto the next day, took out the Guardians in overtime, which Shane was smug about because the Guardians’ rookie center was incredible, then flew to Columbus to face the Wasps. The game was a shutout and Mitty got the Burger King crown and did his own version of the first star dance, throwing in a few splits that had them all hooting and yelling.

Shane flew right from Columbus to Dallas, where the All-Star was being held that year, finding out when he got there that he’d been chosen (by internet poll) as the away team captain.

Brenner, Dallas Comets’ soft-spoken Captain met him with a handshake and a half-hug. “Nice to see you again, Hollzy,” he said.

“Congratulations on your season,” Shane said— the Comets were leading the Western Conference.

“Maybe we’ll face you in the finals,” Brenner suggested, shyly.

“I hope so,” Shane said, as the room began to fill up. “I’m gonna get a drink? See you out there?”

He headed to the bar, stopping to talk to guys he knew at almost every step, shaking hands and exchanging chirps, ordered a seltzer with lemon, then turned around to face the room.

“Hollzy!” a voice exclaimed and Shane turned to smile at Rozanov.

“I won all my games,” Shane said, sipping at his drink with wide eyes.

“You won two games,” Rozanov said. “I won three.”

Shane frowned. “So we both won all our games— it’s a tie.”

“No,” Rozanov said. “I won more.”

Shane frowned. “That’s not—”

“Terms of bet,” Rozanov reminded him. “Who wins more games. Should have thought about schedule.”

“Is this guy harassing you?” Leo Bonin, of the Vancouver Marmots asked, clapping a hand on Shane’s shoulder. They’d played together in the OHL for a year.

“Nah,” Shane said, with a smile.

“You did not hear?” Rozanov asked. “Hollzy and I are friends now. We are filming a show.”

Bonin laughed. “I’d never thought I’d see Hollzy on a reality tv show.”

Shane tried not to bristle at this. “It’s not really reality tv,” he said. “We just do fun things. There’s no drama.”

Bonin opened his mouth to say something, but someone shouted “Skelly!” and he turned and grinned, hugging Demarin Waters of the San Jose Hammerheads. They’d played together Waters’ rookie year, Shane remembered.

The whole socializing hour passed like that, conversations constantly interrupted by guys greeting each other, exchanging small talk. Shane found himself at a high-top with Rozanov, Veeti Eskola, who’d played defense on the Voyageurs for a season and was now with the Chicago Meatpackers, and Berny Yurakin, a goalie with the Las Vegas Aces, who had played with Rozanov at Worlds and the Olympics.

The media found them an hour later, a reporter Shane vaguely recognized greeting them with a too-bright smile. “And here we have Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander sharing a table! You two are filming a show now for ESPN, isn’t that right? Has it ended the rivalry?”

“Yes,” Rozanov said, grinning back with just as many teeth. He slung an arm around Shane’s shoulders. “We are now BFF forever.”

“You’re not mad you didn’t get chosen as the away team captain?” the reporter pressed. “After all, you did win the cup and get MVP last year.”

“No,” Rozanov said. “Maybe I am best player on the league but Hollzy is Captain Canada.”

“Shut up,” Shane muttered.

“So does that mean you’re going to snag Rozanov with your first pick?” the reporter asked Shane.

Shane shrugged. “I don’t know; there are lots of great players here. It might be better to build a strong all-around team than to focus on offense.”

“You would not pick me, Hollzy?” Rozanov gasped, pulling his arm away. “I am hurt. But, actually, I do not want to be picked first.”

“You’d rather be on Team Brenner?”

“No, I want to be picked last,” Rozanov told them. “I need a car.”

Shane laughed. “You? Need a car?”

“Yes,” Rozanov said. “I want to be picked last, get Honda Accord.”

Shane considered this. “Makes sense,” he said.

The reporter and Rozanov both looked at him with surprise.

“Why do you say that?” the reporter asked.

“I’ve seen Rozanov’s sports car collection,” Shane told him. “For the show, you know. And yeah, it’s full of sleek cars in gaudy colors—”

“Gaudy?!” Rozanov protested.

“— that can go zero to sixty in like ten seconds or whatever, but where’s that gonna get you in winter in Boston? Plus they’re all so tiny, they can hardly fit you, not to mention your gear.

“No,” Shane concluded. “What you really need is a mid-range Japanese-made four door sedan so you and your gear can travel safe to the games.”

“You are sponsor of Honda now?” Rozanov asked.

Shane shrugged. “Honda can feel free to contact my manager.”

“Who taught you how to chirp?” Eskola asked.

Shane nudged Rozanov with his shoulder. “I learned from the best.”

The reporter wandered off, presumably to talk to Brenner and Eskola laughed. “This is what your show is like?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” Shane said.

Eskola shook his head. “Gonna be hilarious.”

.

Shane and Brenner were rounded up and pulled onto the stage, Brenner to the enthusiastic cheers of the Dallas fans, Shane to boos.

“Sorry about that welcome,” the announcer said. “Dallas is actually a pretty friendly place.”

“I’ve been here before,” Shane reminded her. “I don’t mind— it’s the cost of greatness.”

“I’ve heard you’ve been spending too much time with Ilya Rozanov and now I see why,” the announcer told him.

“You can blame ESPN,” Shane said, laughing.

“Since you heard you were going to be away captain, how much time did you spend planning your dream roster?”

Shane shrugged. “About twenty minutes,” he lied. He’d really been thinking about it non-stop since he’d heard, trying to guess who Brenner was going to pick and figure out who he needed to snatch up first and who could wait.

“As the away team you get first pick, since the home team gets the advantage.” She waved at the crowd, who cheered wildly. “Who’s going to be the first alternate on Team Hollander?”

“Ilya Rozanov,” Shane said, and the crowd booed even more loudly. Shane grinned at them.

“You told Marc backstage that you weren’t going to pick him.”

Shane shrugged. “Just some friendly chirping.”

“Why Rozanov?” she pressed.

Shane shrugged. “He’s the second best player in the league and I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to play with him. Plus, he’s a great captain, so he’ll be bringing a lot to Team Hollander.”

Rozanov came out from backstage shrugging on the away team jersey. He hugged Shane and yelled into the microphone “dream team!”

“And Team Brenner? Who’s your first alternate?”

“Travis Segal,” Brenner said into the microphone.

“Segal is your right wing on the Comets— you don’t want to change it up?” the announcer asked.

“No,” Brenner said, the added, shyly. “I don’t know how to be a captain without him.” He blushed under his freckles.

“Oh my god,” Shane mouthed and Rozanov smirked at him.

“Who do you want for other alternate?” he asked.

“Bennet,” Shane said. “He’s the best goalie in the league and he’s got really good understanding of defense."

Rozanov nodded.

Segal came bursting out of the backstage area, waved to the crowd, did a little twirl and then rushed over to jump on top of Brenner, wrapping one arm over his shoulder and slapping him on the chest. “Woooo! Bren, Brens, Brenny! We’re gonna crush them!” he shouted. “Let’s go, Dallas!”

The crowd cheered even louder.

Brenner looked down at his podium with a small smile.

“You other alternate, Team Hollander?” the announcer asked.

“Eric Bennett,” Shane said.

“Oooh,” the announcer said. “The first goalie. Eric Bennett is the replacement for Scott Hunter, who’s out for a lower body injury.”

Brenner picked a defense man as his other alternate— Vojtech Kovarik, from the Long Island Seals— then Shane picked Cesar Valerio, the rookie center that had been shaking things up with the Guardians. “Too many centers,” Rozanov argued. “You can play right wing,” Shane told him. “And Valerio can play left. Right?” he asked Valerio.

“For sure,” Valerio agreed enthusiastically. “Anything for you, Captain Canada!”

Rozanov smirked and Shane rolled his eyes.

He spent his next three picks on defense men, grabbed another goalie (Jean St-Jean, from the Edmonton Drillers), then filled up his second lines, battling with Brenner and Segal to see who could get the most decorated players.

“What do you think about your team?” the announcer asked when the draft was done.

“It’s perfect,” Shane told her. “Me, Rozanov, Valerio on a line, Bennett in the goal? We’re going to be unstoppable.”

“Is it a good idea to put all your strongest forwards on one line?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it be better for you, Rozanov, and Valerio to each have their own lines?”

Shane shrugged. “Bourne, Xin, and Shaw aren’t exactly weak,” he said. ‘This is the All-Star Game. But it’s something we’ll work out with the team and the coaches. But I’m confident we’ve got this in the bag. Sorry, Dallas,” he said, looking out to the crowd. They booed, somewhat perfunctorily.

.

When the draft was done (drawn out far longer than it had to be, in Shane’s opinion), they were released. Shane took out his team to a restaurant he’d found that seemed to have decent selections of both vegetarian and meat dishes and had a pretty good time, catching up with people he hadn’t seen in a while, getting to know the players he hadn’t interacted with much. They toasted him, and Shane smiled and raised his glass of seltzer and returned it, compliment for compliment.

“Where are we going after this?” Tom Laursen of the Winnipeg Geese, one of the rookies, asked, clearly giddy with excitement at his first All-Star.

“Nowhere for me,” Bennett said, yawning. “I need my beauty sleep.” Bennett was one of the oldest players on Shane’s All-Star team, approaching his mid-thirties. Harrison Ross of the Washington Monuments, one of the other older players agreed. “It’s a vacation from my kids,” he said. “I’m going to get some shut-eye.”

“Rozy?” Bourne asked and Shane’s gut twisted at the thought that Rozanov would probably go out, but Rozanov shook his head.

“I have appointment,” he said with a leer.

“Girl in every port, huh?” Bonin teased, slapping Rozanov on the back. “Captain, you’re coming?”

“No,” Shane said and the whole team booed. “Rozanov and I have to tape an episode of our show in the morning.”

He got a few chirps for not going dancing with them but they soon gave up, falling into an argument about which was the best place to go. Shane shared a car with Rozanov, Bennett and Ross back to the hotel, pulling out his phone when it buzzed with a text.

Rozy: 1324

Rozy: Have a jersey ready for you ;)

Shane flushed and looked determinedly out the window, while Bennett and Ross chatted about some friends they had in common and Rozanov typed away on his phone.

Rozy: It is going to look good on you. I think black is good color for you. Look good with your freckles.

Me: Fuck off

Rozy: In the car with Benny and Ross? I not think you into this

Me: Oh my god. Shut up

Rozy: You are turning red. Is very pretty

Rozy: So cute

Rozy: Can’t wait to see you in only my jersey

“Are you okay?” Bennett asked. Shane looked at him. “You’re gripping the door really hard.”

Shane grimaced and let go. “Getting some texts from my mom,” he said. “She wants me to do all these sponsorship things this weekend.”

“Oh,” Bennett smiled. “I used to have a few sponsors— not as many as you, of course, and it was really frustrating. A huge time sink. Then I realized I don’t actually need all that money. I already have more than I’m ever going to use. So I cut back and my life is so much easier now.”

Ross nodded. “Amen to that. I got trust funds for my kids and enough for my retirement and I don’t need more. I realized that spending time with them is more valuable than what I could be making in that time, you know?”

Rozanov looked over at him. “Just to check. You are offered sponsorship? This is not pretending you do not want because you do not have?”

“Kids these days are so disrespectful,” Bennett said.

“So disrespectful,” Ross agreed.

“Too big for their britches.”

“I do not know what that means,” Rozanov said. He caught Shane’s eye and winked and Shane felt himself flushing again and turned to look out the window.

Shane jerked open the taxi door as soon as it arrived at the hotel and hurried up to his room to take a few deep breaths before going up to Rozanov’s.

It was much more nerve wracking than heading over to Rozanov’s house had been, still early enough that players and their families were wandering all around the hotel, but he kept reminding himself it wasn’t a big deal; players hung out in each other’s rooms all the time during the All-Star game and it must have been clear by now that he and Rozanov were friends.

Still he tried his best not to look shifty when he knocked on Rozanov’s door, smiling vaguely at Jean St-Jean who was passing with his wife and kids in tow.

Rozanov opened the door and gestured for Shane to come in. He’d stripped off his shirt and was just wearing a tank top, his biceps bulging.

He shut the door and then leaned against it, looking Shane up and down before gesturing to the bed.

Shane looked over and saw Rozanov’s sweater laid out on it.

“Seriously,” he asked, even as he went hot all over. He walked over to the bed and picked it up. It wasn’t a sweater Rozanov had bought at the team shop either, still smelling like dye, but one he’d worn in a game, worn at the collar and with the faint stench of sweat and the rink.

“Shit,” he murmured, looking back at Rozanov, who was watching with an impassive expression but blown pupils.

Shane put down the jersey, and carefully, slowly, so he didn’t seem too eager, stripped, folding his clothes neatly while Rozanov stared intently.

When he was down to his boxers he pulled the jersey on. It was slightly too large on him, slipping down over one collarbone. He adjusted it, then pulled the boxers off, folding them neatly too and putting them on his small pile of clothes before turning to Rozanov, whose eyes were wide now, his lips slightly parted.

His eyes flickered over Shane, up over the Bears logo, down to Shane’s bare legs, then back up. He licked his lips, leaving them gleaming in the dim light.

Shane cocked his head and raised his eyebrows and smiled and Rozanov broke down, crossing the room in two long strides, bearing Shane down onto the bed, his hands suddenly everywhere, cupping Shane’s face while he kissed him long and deep, skimming down the Boston logo on Shane’s chest, diving beneath the hem of the jersey to grip his thighs, his ass.

“Can I fuck you?” Rozanov breathed into Shane’s mouth. “I really wanna fuck you in this.”

“That’s so fucking—” Shane gasped when Rozanov’s thigh slotted between Shane’s legs, his denim clad thigh rubbing against Shane’s cock which was somehow— fuck— already so hard. “— perverted,” he finished, with a grin. “Why are you wearing clothes?”

Shane plucked at Rozanov’s shirt, trying to undo the buttons without losing the pressure on his dick until Rozanov finally knelt up and stripped it off, throwing it across the room and peeled himself out of his jeans.

“How do you even fit in those?” Shane asked, sitting up so he could grip Rozanov’s thick thighs. “How does this ass fit in those stupidly tight jeans?” He grabbed Rozanov’s ass and buried his face in his groin, breathing in Rozanov’s must and nosing at his cock.

“How does this fit?” Shane continued, licking up the length of it.

“Is not usually, uh, so big,” Rozanov joked.

Shane mouthed over Rozanov’s cock, licking at his frenulum, teasing him. He opened his mouth wide to swallow Rozanov’s dick down, but Rozanov stopped him, pulled him off. Shane looked up at him feeling a little fuzzy, confused.

“Want to fuck you,” Rozanov reminded him.

“Oh yeah,” Shane said, letting Rozanov push him down onto the bed. Rozanov looked down at him for a long moment, brushed Shane’s lower lip with his thumb and laughed when Shane tried to suck on it.

“How are you real?” Rozanov asked him, voice full of wonder. He lowered himself onto Shane, smothering him with his size, his weight, until Shane felt blanketed entirely. He squirmed a little and Rozanov kissed him again, biting at his lower lip, pressing against his mouth like he wanted to swallow him. He turned Shane’s head and bit at his jaw, his neck, sucking kisses into his skin.

“No marks,” Shane gasped out, hips jerking up, trying to find friction.

“Shame,” Rozanov said, biting at his neck. “So pretty with marks.” He leaned over to grab something from the end table and Shane whined at the loss of the weight.

Rozanov chuckled and came back, but instead of pressing down on Shane again, he knelt between Shane’s legs.

“I am going to fuck you in this, and then I will wear it at the next game I play against you.”

“That’s psychological warfare,” Shane gasped out as Rozanov’s fingers found his hole, circling and warming him up. “Illegal. Geneva convention.”

Rozanov laughed and one of his fingers dipped inside Shane’s hole. “You tell me if it is good, yes?”

Shane nodded. “For sure,” he gasped. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Rozanov kissed the inside of Shane’s thigh and then sucked one of his balls into his mouth.

“Fuck!” Shane exclaimed.

Rozanov laved Shane’s balls, then moved onto his cock, not sucking it as much as licking and kissing, teasing Shane until he was writhing and saying “please, please.”

He pushed Shane’s legs up, large hands wrapped around his thighs, licked down his taint, down until he was slobbering across his hole, fingers prodding, trying to make space for his tongue.

“Fuck,” Shane exclaimed again. “Holy shit.”

A tiny, dispassionate part of Shane’s brain thought you are such a fucking bottom, and imagine what people would think if they could see you now, Captain Canada, but it was an old and broken part and Shane pushed it to the side, allowing himself to sink into the sensation, of Rozanov now three fingers deep, of Rozanov working Shane’s cock like he was worshiping at an altar, of Rozanov climbing up Shane’s body, hoisting his legs up, fucking himself in.

“You are so fucking pretty,” Rozanov said when he was deep inside Shane, his cock pulsing and so, so fucking big. He kissed Shane’s forehead, peppered his cheek with kisses. “These freckles, the way you turn red.”

“Would you fucking move?” Shane demanded.

“Needy bottom,” Rozanov cooed. He moved a little, teasing Shane.

“Rozanov,” Shane protested.

“Ilya,” Rozanov corrected and Shane’s eyes shot open, staring up at him. "Call me 'Ilya'."

Rozanov wasn’t looking back; his face was tilted up, staring at the wall, his body beginning to work, hips flexing against Shane’s grip.

“Ilya,” he whispered, then he moaned, back arching into the sensation as Rozanov began to truly fuck into him. There was silence then— or static— in Shane’s brain, only the rhythm of the thrusts, Shane’s hips lifting up to meet them, Rozanov’s heavy breaths, the moans Shane did his best to swallow. The bruises Rozanov pressed into Shane’s skin, the scratches Shane scoured into Rozanov’s.

Shane arched his back and there were stars behind his eyes. He felt the tight tension of the orgasm growing inside of him, tighter and tighter, the ecstasy of it growing higher and higher until with one last long thrust it broke and everything poured out of Shane, exploded as his cock pumped across the jersey.

“Fuck,” Rozanov— Ilya— exclaimed, and he pulled out and shucked the condom off and pumped— once, twice, three times, until he added his cum to the mess of Shane’s.

“You’re seriously going to wear this jersey again?” Shane asked and Ilya dropped down onto the bed beside Shane, burying his face in Shane’s neck as he laughed.

.

Shane meant to go back to his room. He definitely meant to only rest for a moment, after he went to the bathroom to clean himself up a little. Ilya looked so soft and warm in the golden light of the bedside lamp and he held a hand out to Shane and Shane thought maybe he could lie there in Ilya’s warmth for a moment before he went back to his empty bed.

He couldn’t. He should have known he wouldn’t be able to, from the moment he called Rozanov ‘Ilya’, from the first time he texted him, from the first time he accepted his invitation to get something to eat, from the time in the apple orchard when he laughed so much he almost fell down, from the Lady Byng presentation when Rozanov put his hand on Shane’s lower back and smirked down at him, from every time he checked Shane against the board, from every time Shane checked him, from the night of the draft when Rozanov tilted his head back and insisted Shane take his water bottle, legs spread wide and eyes promising more.

Chapter End Notes

The wanting to win a car thing was a gag Ovechkin pulled at an all-star game, where he ferociously campaigned to go last or second-to-last so he could get a Honda (he was one of the best players there, fyi), so the captains decided, hilariously, to pick him third-to-last, which is something Shane and Jack Brenner would totally have done if Shane hadn't been so thirsty to play with him.

Chapter 9: Episode 6: Hey now, you're an All-Star pt. 2

Chapter Summary

What are Ilya and Shane getting up to at All-Star Weekend? Who's going to win the newest challenge? What poorly described actual hockey players can you spot? Are they ever going to actually play hockey?

Find out now on the newest edition of Captain vs. Captain!

Chapter Notes

I came up with a list of team names and wrote this and then kept thinking of different, funnier names, so it's possible I missed some when I changed them. Also I have no idea what Adrienne's name is. Adrianne? Arianne? This is definitely because Shane is terrible at names and I'm very good at writing in his POV 😉

He woke up with Ilya’s arm around him, his phone buzzing somewhere nearby.

Ilya whined something in Russian when Shane wiggled out of his grasp, then cracked his eyes open, frowning at Shane. “Why?” he pouted.

Shane found his phone in his hoodie pocket and silenced the alarm. “Have to get up,” he said.

“No,” Ilya complained, making grabby hands at Shane.

“We’ve got the shoot in two hours,” Shane said.

“So? Two hours. Plenty of time.”

“I’ve got to get my workout in,” Shane told him.

“I can work you out,” Ilya said, leering.

Shane sighed and crawled onto the bed so he could kiss him. He meant it to be one kiss, two, and then he was swallowing Ilya’s cock while he arched beneath him, gasping out something in Russian, then Ilya was returning the favor, deepthroating him like a champ, two fingers massaging Shane’s prostate until he was emptying his load into Ilya’s mouth.

Ilya tried to pin Shane down again, but Shane laughed and wiggled free, showering quickly in the bathroom, then dressing while Ilya complained.

.

The day was bright and beautiful and so fucking warm. Shane walked out of the hotel in only a light jacket, found a place that sold protein smoothies with enough vegetables to count as breakfast, and then wandered back to the hotel.

There was a large pool and recreation area, full of players and their families, swimming, lounging, drinking, socializing. Shane met up with the production crew and Ilya under an awning at one side of the area.

“So the plan is for you two to mingle and talk to the other players,” the producer explained. “We’ll be giving you questions to ask them and the winner is who gets picked the most. Basically the questions are things like ‘who would win in a… fight with a giant rabbit, Shane or Ilya,’ and if they say ‘Shane’ that’s a point for Shane and if they say ‘Ilya’ that’s a point for Ilya. But you won’t know what questions you’re asking until you’ve approached them, so you can’t pick and choose.”

“Okay,” Ilya said. “What will we bet for?”

Shane considered. “Whoever loses has to make an announcement about what a wonderful player the other is.”

“Here?” Ilya grinned. “In front of all these people?”

“Yeah,” Shane decided.

“Agreed,” Ilya said and held out his hand for Shane to shake.

That done, Shane turned to the producer. “Are we going together or separate?” he asked.

“Separate,” the producer said. “I’ll go with Ilya and you go with Adrienne. Sound good?”

“For sure,” Shane said. Ilya nodded.

“Good. Would you do the intro, Shane?”

Shane nodded and looked at the cameraman, smiling as he counted down. “Hi, I’m Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, currently on a seven game winning streak, and this is Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Bears, who recently lost a home game.”

“And is leading the league in points,” Rozanov reminded Shane.

Shane tried to resist the urge to smile at him. “We’re at the NHL All-Star weekend, and we’ll be talking to the other players here to see who they like better, me or Rozanov.”

“It’s me,” Rozanov said, confidently.

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “I was chosen to be All-Star captain over you. And you have kind of a reputation as a jerk.”

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “We will find out.”

They separated, and Adrienne pointed to where Josh Cooper, a defense men with the Denver Summit, was sitting with his wife and child.

“Can we film kids?” Shane asked.

“We’ll be asking everyone for consent after we film and edit around anyone who’s uncomfortable with it. Shane nodded and approached the family.

“Hey, Coops!” Shane said. “Hi, Mrs. Cooper, I’m Shane Hollander.”

Cooper’s wife smiled up at Shane. “I know who you are,” she said. “I’m Anna and this is Reilly.”

Reilly looked up from where she was coloring for a second before deciding her art was more interesting.

“I’m filming for my ESPN show Captain vs. Captain,” Shane told them, “would you mind if I asked you a question for it?”

Cooper looked at his wide and then back at Shane and shrugged. “Sure.” He laughed. “It’s usually like journalism interns and rookies doing this kind of thing.”

“Maybe I’m testing out a new career,” Shane joked.

Adrienne handed him and slip of paper. “Okay,” Shane said. “Would you rather come to dinner at my house or at Rozanov’s? I guess you should assume distance isn’t an issue somehow.”

Cooper frowned in thought. “Are you cooking?”

Shane looked at Adrienne, who shrugged. “Sure,” he said.

“I’ve heard you’re on some weird diet, so I’m going to have to go with Roz, sorry.”

“I don’t know,” Anna chimed in, then looked at Adrienne. “Oh, can I answer too?”

“Sure,” Adrienne said.

“If Holly’s on a weird diet then he probably knows how to cook,” Anna reasoned. “Because it’s going to be a lot harder to get foods he likes and can eat. But Rozanov is probably like most of the other players who can’t even boil water. So I’d rather got to Holly’s house, even if he’s cooking something I don’t usually eat.”

“It’s not a weird diet,” Shane couldn’t help saying. “But thanks!”

The Coopers waved to them and they moved on, Adrienne directing them to where Brady Bourne and Emerson Buck, both forwards from the Florida Cougars, were lounging, beers in hand.

“Hey, Cap!” Bourne called as Shane and the crew approached. “Are we gonna be on your show?”

“If you don’t mind,” Shane said.

“Awesome!” Bourne said. “Bucky, you know Holly and Roz are filming a show?”

“I heard about it,” Buck said, lazily. He had sun glasses on and was lying down on the chaise lounge, face tipped up to the sky, as if he didn’t get enough sun, down in Florida.

“They’re all buddy buddy now, Hollzy and Roz,” Bourne told Buck. “Sat together at dinner last night and didn’t even start a fist-fight.” He laughed and Buck rolled his eyes.

“So are you gonna ask us a question or something?” Borne asked.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind?”

“For sure!” Bourne said, enthusiastically. “I love this kind of thing. Fire away!”

Adrienne passed over a slip of paper.

“Who you rather be stranded on a desert island with, me or Rozanov?” Shane asked.

“Huh,” Bourne said. “That’s a hard one. You have any survival skills? Like can you fish or hunt or whatever.”

“You can fish and hunt,” Buck pointed out, lazily.

“Yeah, so?” Bourne asked.

“So you don’t need to find someone with those skills, but something complementary.”

Bourne considered this. “Like I’m looking for someone who will give me compliments? That doesn’t sound that useful.”

Shane frowned, trying to figure if he was joking.

“No, dumbass,” Buck said, finally sitting up. “Complementary, like he knows what you don’t and vice versa.”

“Oh,” Bourne said. “Like how I know how to fish and you know how to cook the fish.”

Buck scoffed. “I know how to fish.”

“With a spear. You go spearfishing. Who does that?!”

“It would be very useful on a desert island,” Buck pointed out. “If you don’t have any fishing tackle.”

“Did you learn how to spearfish just in case you were ever trapped on a desert island?” Bourne asked. “‘Cause that seems extra.”

“No,” Buck said. “I learned it because it’s the superior way to fish.”

“This asshole goes hunting with a crossbow,” Bourne told Shane. “He thinks it’s cool to be like someone from the 18th century.”

“They had guns in the 18th century, idiot,” Buck corrected him.

“I think we might be off topic,” Shane said.

“Hmm,” Buck considered. “You grew up in Ottawa? You’ve got a stupidly huge mansion on a lake up there?”

“It’s not stupidly huge,” Shane argued.

“We usually stay in a shack when we go fishing,” Bourne told Shane. “Roughing it, you know?”

“Rozanov is from Moscow,” Buck considered. “Much larger city than Ottawa. And I’ve never heard of him spending time in the countryside. So I’ve got to imagine you have slightly more survival skills than he does. Can you cut wood?”

“Yeah,” Shane said.

“Light a fire?”

“With matches or a lighter.”

Buck considered this. “I guess that will have to do.”

“Oh,” Bourne said. “You’re like a vegetarian right? So you could probably find the vegetables. That would be useful, eh?”

Buck looked at him hard for a minute, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. “Sure,” he said, finally.

“So you’re gonna go with me then?” Shane asked.

“Yeah, definitely,” Bourne said. “Plus I think you’d be more fun to hang out with.”

“Really?” Shane asked.

“Yeah,” Bourne told him, smiling.

“Thanks,” Shane said.

  .

The next group of guys they approached were all Russian; Berny Yurakin of the Las Vegas Jacks, Vojtech Kovarik of the Providence Raptors, and Timofei Avdonin of the Buffalo Wildwings.

“Hi,” Shane said. “I’m filming for my show, Captain vs. Captain. Can I ask you a question?”

Kovarik leaned over, translating for Avdonin, who nodded.

“Sure,” Yurakin said. “What is question?”

Shane took the paper from Adrienne. “Would you rather Rozanov or I—”

“Rozanov,” Kovarik said.

“You haven’t even heard the question,” Shane protested.

“The answer is Rozanov,” Yurakin agreed. “Russians have to stick together.”

“Does that even count?” Shane muttered to Adrienne, who shrugged.

She pointed him to where Bennett, Ross, and Myles Johnson of the Anaheim Mice were sitting.

“Hey guys,” Shane said. “I’m filming a segment for my ESPN show Captain vs. Captain and I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

“Shoot,” Ross said.

“Who do you think is more of a legend, me or Rozanov?”

Bennett, Ross, and Johnson looked at each other and laughed.

“Kid,” Johnson said, “you’re what? Twenty-two?”

“I’m twenty-four,” Shane complained.

“Come back in a decade and then we’ll talk about legends,” Johnson said.

“What?” Shane asked.

“Yeah, I’m with John on this one,” Bennett agreed.

Ross nodded.

“Okay,” Shane said, confused. He looked at Adrienne, who shrugged.

“We’ll ask someone else,” she said, so they headed over to where Jean St-Jean and Leo Bonin were hanging out with their wives, Jean St-Jean’s wife Alisa cradling a tiny baby against her chest.

“Captain!” Bonin called. “Have you met my wife Gracie?”

“No,” Shane said and smiled at her. “Nice to meet you.”

She flushed a little. “You too— Skelly has told me so many stories about you.”

“All good, I hope,” Shane said. “Do you mind? I’m shooting for my tv show, Captain vs. Captain and I’d like to ask you guys a question.”

“Shoot,” Bonin said, making finger guns.

“Who do you think is more of a legend, me or Rozanov?” Shane asked.

“Oh, shoot,” Bonin said, sitting back. “Huh.”

“It’s Hollander, obviously,” his wife said, and then looked at Shane. “Sorry, can I answer?”

“Yeah, of course,” Shane said.

“Hollander,” Gracie repeated.

“I don’t know,” St-Jean argued. “Rozanov has a cup.”

“Yeah, but he’s got the Bears,” Gracie said. “Hollander has built the Voyageurs from the ground up. He’s a fucking goat.” She looked at the baby and winced. “Sorry.”

St-Jean’s wife shook her head. “Can’t understand swears yet,” she said. “I agree. Hollander is… what is that word? Sheep?”

“Sheep?” Shane repeated, confused.

Gracie laughed, “Goat.”

“I’m gonna go with Gracie here, because I know how to maintain a peaceful household,” Bonin said. “Ow!” he exclaimed when Gracie punched him in the arm.

“I think Rozanov,” St-Jean said. “Sorry, Hollander.”

“No problem,” Shane assured him. “Thanks, everyone.”

They moved on to where Valerie and Waters were lounging at the edge of the pool.

“Hey, Holly,” Waters said, pulling himself out of the water and giving him a fist bump. He looked at the cameras. “Man, they got you work even here?”

“It’s for my ESPN show,” Shane said. “Captain vs. Captain. Rozanov and I are going around asking people questions. You up for it?”

“Go on.”

Shane took the folded paper and opened it. “Who would you want to train in the summers with? Me or Rozanov?”

“Oh man, that’s hard,” Waters said. “‘Cause like I know it’s super important to train in the summer but I also want to chill a little, you know? And I got the impression you don’t got no chill.”

“I have chill,” Shane said, reflexively even though he suspected he didn’t.

“Do you?” Waters asked. “Hey, Marky?”

Marcus Xin swam over to them and grabbed the edge of the pool. “Yeah?” he asked. “Hey, Hollzy.”

“What’s it like training with Hollzy in the summer?”

“Oh,” Marky said. “Wow, so it’s great. I’ve learned so much, I get into better shape than I ever had before.”

“But it’s pretty intense?” Waters suggested.

Marky grimaced. “Yeah, it’s pretty intense. Hollzy kind of goes flat out.”

“Yeah, see?” Waters said. “I like you Hollzy, I really do, but I bet Rozy would be little… more relaxed about everything, you know?”

“I don’t know,” Marky mused. “He makes a big show of being a playboy asshole, but you can’t be as good as is without training super hard. And he’s gotta push the Bears pretty hard too, for them to win the cup, right? So I’m not sure I’d choose either of them, if you wanted to relax.” He looked at the cameras. “What is this for anyway? That show you’re doing with Roz?”

“Yeah, I’m asking people questions. This one is: would you rather do summer training with me or Rozanov?”

“You for sure,” Marky said.

“I’d go with you too,” Valerio said.

“Brown nosing?” Waters teased. “I don’t know man, I think I’d take my chances with Rozy. Sorry, Hollzy.”

“No offense taken,” Shane said. “Thanks guys.”

“I think that’s enough,” Adrienne told him, so they headed back to the tent. Adrienne took Ilya’s tally sheet from the producer and quickly added it up.

“Twenty one people chose Shane and twenty two chose Ilya,” she said, after a moment.

“Yeah!” Ilya cheered. “I’m the best!” He danced around for a minute, yelling, everyone in the pool area turning to watch him.

“Shut up,” Shane said. “You’re so embarrassing.”

“Oh I embarrass you, Hollzy?” Ilya mocked. He grabbed Shane and spun him around and then kissed him on the cheek. Shane batted him away.

“Don’t forget about your announcement,” Ilya teased, then straightened up and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Excuse me!” he yelled, even though everyone was already staring at him. “Hello! Hollzy has important announcement.”

He grinned at Shane and gestured for him to step forward.

“I hate you,” Shane muttered before raising his voice. “Uh, hi, thank you. I just wanted to announce that Rozanov is a good hockey player.”

A few people in the crowd laughed.

“The best hockey player,” Rozanov insisted.

“I can’t say that,” Shane hissed back. “I’m not going to perjure myself on tv!”

Rozanov raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms. “I do not know what that means,” he said.

“Perjure means lie,” Shane said. “It would be lying to say you were the best hockey player.”

The crowd was watching them like the audience at a tennis match, eyes going back and forth between them.

“I won cup last year,” Ilya reminded him. “I won MVP.”

“And I won the Art Ross for the third time,” Shane shot back.

Ilya glared at Shane. Shane glared at Ilya. The crowd stared at both of them. You could cut the tension with a knife. If Shane hadn’t been practicing resisting his impulses and instincts his entire life he would probably have broken down and jumped Ilya right then and there. As it was it was a close thing.

Finally Ilya’s lip began to twitch and then he was laughing. “Fine, fine,” he gasped.

Shane cracked a smile. “Ilya Rozanov is one of the best players in the world,” Shane told them, laughter in his voice. “Thank you for… listening, I guess.”

Ilya was crouched down now, laughing into his hands. Shane patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Shane, I guess you’re doing the outro,” the producer said.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “What are we doing next?”

“A surprise,” Adrienne said.

“Well, I can’t wait,” Shane said. He looked at Ilya’ who was still laughing hysterically. “This has been Captain vs. Captain. Unfortunately my co-star is out of commission.” He patted Ilya’s shoulder again. “Thanks to our sponsor, Bud Light: The Perfect Beer for a Perfect Game. I’m gonna go and have one now before I head to the Skills Competition. Join us next time which is going to be a surprise, I guess!”

“And that’s a wrap. Great job as usual, guys. We’ll be hanging out for the rest of the weekend filming bits of the All-Star.”

“Cool,” Shane said. “See you around.” He leaned down to whisper in Ilya’s ear. “If we’re quick about it we can fuck before the Skills Competition.”

Ilya shot to his feet so fast he nearly knocked Shane over.

“That’s a yes then?” Shane teased.

.

They’d made a rule that you could only enter one skill, so Shane chose shot accuracy since he hadn’t been able to break his last record for the last three years and it was starting to annoy him. Ilya went for speed and kept chirping at Shane for not picking it because Ilya would beat him until Shane leaned over and whispered “I’m a little sore for fast skating right now’ and Ilya grinned like the cat that had eaten the canary but at least he stopped.

The whole crowd went silent when Shane skated over to the mark. He hadn’t been able to beat his record for the last three years but no one else had beaten it either. He closed his eyes and drew in his focus until nothing existed by him, the puck and the net and then the buzzer went off and he was hitting pucks, one, two, three, four.

“6.02 seconds”, the announcer called. “A new record for Hollander!”

Everyone on the away team bench jumped to their feet and started cheering.

“Good job,” Ilya congratulated Shane when Shane got back to the bench, swatting him in the shoulder. He stood. “Now it is my turn.” He winked at Shane and skated out onto the ice.

.

They drank by the pool as the sun was setting, went out to eat with some of the team, then went back to the hotel where Shane ate Ilya out until he came and then Ilya edged Shane until he cried. It was a good night.

It was a good weekend. Relaxing by the pool and talking shop with guys Shane had only ever seen on the ice. Fucking Ilya whenever they could get away. The All-Star fucking game, sharing a line with Ilya (and oh yeah, Valerio was there too), knowing exactly where Ilya was like a compass tracking true north, taking his assists, getting him goals, beautiful goals, perfect goals, goals they fucked about later while their nerves still buzzed with them, their muscles still tingled from the effort, their hair still wet from the showers.

It was a great weekend.

Chapter 10: Episode 7: A fine vintage

Chapter Summary

What is the surprise episode going to be about? Is Shane going to be able to fake it enough to satisfy the sponsors? Tragedy strikes! Find out more on the next installment of Captain vs. Captain!

Chapter Notes

I really wanted to get a chapter out today so I'm writing this from the train using my hotspot from my phone with only 10% left! That's how much I love you, enough to risk my phone dying and preventing me from reading any Hollanov fanfic. That's dedication, guys.

Thanks to my discord for suggesting gatorade flavors and that Shane would probably be fancy and make his own!

The other All-Stars shipped out, but Ilya and Shane stayed behind for one more shoot before heading home for the remaining few days of bye week.

Shane woke up in Ilya’s bed for the third morning in a row, blinking awake to smile at Ilya’s smooth sleeping face, younger looking then he ever was awake. His alarm chirped and reluctantly he dragged himself out of bed, into his gym clothes and down to the hotel’s fitness room, a round on the rowing machines, a round on the weights, a series of yoga stretches that revealed all the bruises and muscle aches from a weekend of hockey and sex.

Ilya was awake when Shane got up, frowning at his phone, and he smiled at Shane and flipped the covers back.

“I’m sweaty,” Shane said and Ilya lifted his eyebrows.

“I do not mind.”

“We’ve got to get to breakfast before the shoot,” Shane reminded him.

“Shane,” Ilya pouted.

Shane’s resolve crumbled.

.

They ended up with only a few minutes at the breakfast buffet before they had to head to the shoot and Shane gobbled down some gummy oatmeal, trying to ignore the texture, and a bowl of mixed fruit while Ilya ate sausages and bacon and eggs and waffles and drank three cups of coffee.

The production van drove them into the Texas countryside, the producer still refusing to let them know where they were going. Ilya fell asleep on Shane’s shoulder in the backseat.

Shane had expected the Texan countryside to be dry, desert-like, but instead it was green; rolling hills and farms that reminded him of a trip to England he’d taken with his parents once, driving across the country from London to Bath because of his mother’s Jane Austen obsession.

The van turned into a parking lot for a modern-looking building, plate glass windows and chrome and polished wood, the sign proclaiming it to be ‘Star Vineyards’.

“We’re at a winery?” Shane asked, climbing out of the car. “It’s like nine in the morning.”

“Ten now,” Ilya said.

Shane turned to see the camera was already on them. “Should we do the intro?”

“Wait a minute,” the producer directed and they saw why when, a few seconds later, Jack Brenner and Taylor Segal of the Dallas Comets came hurrying out of the winery door.

“Hollzy, Rozy!” Segal exclaimed, coming over to pull both of them into quick hugs. Brenner hung back a little, smiling shyly. “Welcome to my winery.”

“You own a winery?” Shane asked, surprised.

Segal shrugged. “Co-own,” he said. “C’mon, let me give you a tour.”

“Do the intro first,” the producer said, and jerked her head and Segal grinned and threw an arm around Brenner’s shoulders.

“Hey, I’m Taylor Segal and this is Jack Brenner of the Dallas Comets,” Segal read, excitedly, “and we’re here with Hollzy and Roz for a special episode of Captain vs. Captain.”

.

Shane had never considered what went into wine before. He’d never been very interested in wine; the few times he drank, it was always beer. Wine was bitter and dry and strong.

But it was kind of fascinating how it was made; the fields of grapes, trellised in a way that reminded him of the apple orchard, Taylor’s long and confusing explanation of root stocks and grafting and special grape vines from France or something. After that they saw the place where grapes were crushed (‘I thought pretty girls smashed with feet?’ Ilya had asked. ‘I wish!’ Segal said. ‘I tried to make that happen, but apparently it’s unhygienic or something.’), then a room of vats where the grapes were fermented, then a giant barn full of barrels where the wine sat for months or years.

“And here we are,” Segal finished, bringing them over to a table outfitted with wine glasses and a row of opaque wine bottles.

“A wine tasting?” Shane asked apprehensively.

“Not wine!” Segal exclaimed, turning one of the bottles around to reveal someone had cut the Gatorade logo off of a Gatorade bottle wrapper and glued it onto a wine bottle. “It’s your Gatorade taste off! The producers asked Jack and me if we wanted to judge your Gatorade taste-testing as, like reps from the home team and I had the great idea to do it like a wine-testing at my vineyard!,” Segal exclaimed, laughing.

“It is pretty funny,” Shane admitted, despite feeling that Segal did not need any encouragement.

Segal laughed a little harder, Brenner putting his hand on Segal’s shoulder so he wouldn’t fall over, a small smile on his face.

Ilya was inspecting the bottles. “Bottles are dark, but glasses are clear.”

“Yeah,” Segal said. “There are blindfolds for you.”

He produced a few of the eye-masks you usually get from airplanes.

“And it’s only going to be Gatorade?” Shane asked, trying not to sound too suspicious. Segal seemed like the kind of person who’d happily play a prank on them.

“Only Gatorade,” Brenner affirmed.

“Okay,” Shane said, and glanced at Ilya. “So what are the rules?”

“We’ve got ten flavors of Gatorade, both the most common and the most obscure,” Segal said, gesturing to the bottles like Vanna White. “You’ll both taste each flavor and then write it down on these whiteboards.”

“How can we write if blindfolds?” Ilya asked.

Segal frowned and then looked at Brenner. “Uh,” he said.

“Taste it and then they’ll take away the glasses and you can take off the blindfolds and write,” Adrienne suggested.

“Oh, yeah,” Segal said. “Okay, so here are the blindfolds.”

“Wait,” Ilya interrupted. “What is the wager?”

“Wager?” Segal asked.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Every time we do a competition we make a bet.”

“What have you bet so far?”

“That time Rozy wore Holl’s jersey, right?” Brenner asked. “And Holl waving that foam finger around.”

“And that speech at the pool,” Segal added.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “And I had to wear Roz’s sweatshirt and Roz had to dress in clothes I picked out for him.”

“Lots of clothes,” Segal noted. “Okay, hmm… What if you had to get a tattoo that the other one picked out?”

“That seems kind of… extreme?” Brenner commented.

Segal rolled his eyes. “Okay, what if you had to dye your hair the other one’s team colors? Oh, it doesn’t even have to be a permanent dye. They’ve got these, like colored hair gel things where you can just wash it out. So Hollzy wouldn’t even have to bleach his hair. So Hollzy would have to, like put in yellow stripes and Roz would have to do green, I guess?”

“Just like on a normal day or it would have to be something special, right?” Brenner said. “A press conference or something? All-Star just happened, and I guess the awards are too far off…”

“They could go somewhere in public together,” Segal suggested.

“We can figure out the details later,” Shane cut in. “But yeah, I guess the hair color thing would work.” He looked at Ilya, who nodded.

“Okay,” Segal said, “the blindfolds.”

Shane and Ilya exchanged one last look of resignation before pulling the blindfolds on, putting themselves, so precariously, into Segal’s hands.

“I hope you’re not planning on poisoning us so the Comets have a chance at the cup,” he said.

“Nah, man,” Segal replied. “Jack’d never let that happen.”

“Okay,” Brenner said. “Here’s the first flavor. We’re going to hand you the cups, I guess?” Shane felt a wine glass being pressed against his hand.

“Wine glass?” Ilya said. “So fancy.”

“You know me,” Segal joked. “Classiest guy ever.”

“I’ve seen pictures of your car,” Ilya returned.

“We can taste it now?” Shane asked.

“For sure,” Brenner said, so Shane tipped the contents of the glass into his mouth.

Shane actually hated Gatorade. It tasted like watered-down fruit punch but somehow still had so much sugar it clung to your teeth. He’d endured it all through juniors, but now made his own electrolyte drink with lemon juice (lime juice if he was feeling fancy), coconut water and sea salt.

He tried his best not to grimace as it filled his mouth, bringing back unwelcome memories of endless bus rides and the way his OHL teammates used to crowd into one hotel room to watch terrible porn.

“Okay,” Brenner said, taking the glass from him. “You can take off the blindfold.”

Shane did, to the sight of Segal laughing. “You really hate it, don’t you?” he asked.

Shane sighed. “Yeah. I don’t really like Gatorade.”

Segal laughed harder, while Brenner looked at Shane with wide eyes. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I guess no one knew. We could taste test something else?”

He looked around like some other beverages might pop up.

“Hollzy will not drink wine,” Ilya informed him.

“No,” Shane said. “It’s okay. I can deal with it.”

“Okay,” Brenner said. “Then I guess it’s time for the answers? You can, like face away from each other?”

“Okay,” Ilya said and he and Shane turned away and accepted the white board. Cool Blue, he wrote.

“Do we turn around now?” Shane asked.

“Yeah,” Brenner said, and they turned to show each other.

Arctic Blitz, Ilya had written.

“Point to Roz,” Segal said.

Fuck, Shane thought. He’d forgotten about arctic blitz.

“Okay, blindfolds back on!” Segal directed.

Another glass was pressed into Shane’s hand. He sipped and this time couldn’t avoid making a face.

“Oh my god, Hollzy!” Segal exclaimed, laughing hysterically.

“I feel so bad,” Brenner added. Someone took the glass from him and Shane took off the blindfold and accepted the whiteboard.

“I’m going to have to brush my teeth so hard after this,” Shane said.

“I know you don’t like it,” the producer told him, “but remember they’re sponsoring this episode, so we’re going to have to be a little more enthusiastic.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Shane said. He wrote cherry, then turned to see Ilya had answered Blue Cherry. Fuck, it had been blue cherry, he remembered now.

“Holl’s partially correct,” Brenner said.

“I feel so bad for him,” Segal added, though he was laughing while he said it so it didn’t come across as very sympathetic. “Maybe we could give him, like, half a point.”

“No,” Shane said. “I got it wrong. Let’s move on.”

The next flavor was orange, and Shane even managed to smile after tasting it, mostly because he was sure he’d gotten it right. Ilya smacked his lips and said it was one of his favorite flavor with the kind of gusto that endeared you to sponsors.

After that a horrible imitation of a lemon that reminded Shane of the rink his midget teams had practiced at.

Lemon-lime, he wrote. “It tastes like childhood,” he remarked, hoping to appease the sponsor. “You know I’d have this after every practice.”

Ilya had Lemonade, and Brenner patted Shane on the arm when he declared Ilya the winner.

The next flavor tasted almost identical to the first. Cool Blue, he wrote again.

“Sorry,” Ilya said when he saw Shane’s whiteboard. His own said Lightning Blast.

“I’ve never even heard of that flavor,” Shane admitted. Brenner patted Shane’s arm again.

“Last one?” he said.

“I thought you said there’d be ten!”

“Yeah, but we all feel really bad for you.”

“Guys, I really can’t show this footage to the sponsor,” the producer reminded them.

“Right, sorry,” Segal said. “Uh…”

“We can stop it at the next one and edit like we did all ten,” she suggested, with a sigh. “But maybe we can do a few retakes. Shane, can you say, ‘I’ve never even heard of that flavor,’ like you’re impressed and excited.

“Yeah, sure,” Shane said, and so they spent a few minutes pretending to be really enthusiastic about Gatorade, before declaring Ilya the winner, with ten right answers to Shane’s one.

“I’m the kind of person who when they find something they like really just sticks with it,” Shane said, to explain how he’d be so ignorant of so many Gatorade flavors if he was a fan it. It helped that it was true.

“Yeah?” Ilya asked. “You just… stick with it?” he waggled his eyebrows.

“Please don’t,” the producer said dryly, while Segal gasped and then broke into fits of laughter. Again.

“That wasn’t even funny,” Brenner said, with the tone of someone who put up with this kind of thing all the time. “Hey, Taylor, let’s get Hollzy something to eat. Wash that taste out of his mouth.”

“Oh yeah,” Segal said. “There’s a small restaurant here too. I made sure they had something to fit Holl’s weird diet.”

“My diet isn’t weird,” Shane protested, mostly out of habit.

“Athletes have to have strict diets,” Brenner said, commiserating.

“Yeah, yeah,” Segal agreed. “Jack never lets me eat anything fun. It’s all steak and whole grain things and no ice cream.” He pouted up at Brenner, who snorted.

“You have ice cream all the time.”

“But only if I eat my vegetables,” Segal said, still pouting.

Shane caught Ilya’s eyes and they exchanged a look of ‘what the hell’.

.

Segal’s vineyard’s restaurant was actually really nice and they’d made a really good tofu dish for Shane while everyone else ate steak, Segal reluctantly eating his salad after Brenner gave him a hard stare. The film crew only filmed snippets of the meal, so they were free to talk about whatever they wanted and chirp Shane for hating Gatorade and not saying anything. Mostly they talked about hockey, of course. Brenner had been on Shane’s Olympic team, so there was a lot of gossip about the other players who’d been on it, and chirping Shane about hanging out with Scott Hunter during the Olympics.

“Hunter?” Ilya cut in when he heard this. “Why you hang out with boring old man?”

“And our rivals!” Segal exclaimed. “I can’t believe you were chilling with our rivals when you should have been all patriotic and everything.”

“None of the team wanted to go see the ice skating,” Shane argued. “They all wanted to watch curling. And I didn’t hang out with him intentionally; I just bumped into him and Vaughn and we started talking and I don’t know, they’re cool guys.”

“Excuse me,” Segal said. “Hunter is not cool.”

“Yes!” Ilya agreed. “Hunter is so boring! Like white bread.”

“What other kinds of bread are there?” Segal asked, sounding confused.

Ilya laughed at him.

.

Finally the producer decided they had enough footage and they gave the outro, thanking both Gatorade and Bud Light this time and announcing that they’d be visiting Montréal en Lumière for their next episode.

“This is so fun!” Segal said when it was over and the production crew was beginning to pack up. “I want to do it again. Can we crash your next shoot?”

“No,” Ilya and Shane said in unison, and Segal broke out laughing.

.

The afternoon was spent shooting promos for the ESPN show and a commercial for Bud Light. The promos were a callback to their CCM shoot, with them skating into a face-off circle, in team gear, and then immediately breaking into laughter.

The first commercial had them in a face-off circle, then actors dressed as production crew came into the shot, taking their sticks and helmets and bringing a bistro table and chairs. Ilya and Shane sat down and toasted with glasses of what was, thankfully, caramel colored seltzer rather than actual Bud Light.

In the next one they were in a face-off circle again, but this time Ilya chirped “get a beer with me”.

“No,” Shane reacted disgusted, as scripted, as if Ilya had asked him to lick the soles of his feet.

“What if it is Bud Light?” Ilya asked.

Shane forced himself to look excited at the prospect of drinking Bud Light and then the commercial cut, the end to be filled with the end of the first commercial.

The third was just shots of them playing around on ice, one on one, keep away, that kind of thing.

That was fun at least. They finished up the shoot with a few stills of the two of them drinking the fake Bud Light standing on the ice, then the commercial producer called Shane over to do a few reshoots while Ilya headed into the locker room.

It had been fun and easy compared to many of the other commercials Shane had done, so he was surprised when he found Ilya hunched over on one of the benches in the locker room, paler than he usually was, clutching his phone in his hands.

“Ilya?” Shane asked. He crouched down in front of Ilya, awkwardly because he still had his skates on.

Ilya didn’t look up for a long moment. He said something in Russian, then cleared his throat. “My father is dead.”

Shane’s stomach hit the floor. “Oh shit,” he said and didn’t know what else to say or do. “Oh my god, are you okay?” realizing as he asked it what a stupid question it was. “I mean, obviously you’re not. I’m sorry, Ilya.”

Ilya toppled forward, into Shane’s arms, knocking into him until they were both sitting on the locker room floor, which was objectively disgusting, but Shane pushed that thought away. Ilya was curled into him, his head tucked into Shane’s neck. Shane only realized he was crying when he felt the collar of his jersey getting wet. He rubbed Ilya’s back and hoped he was doing it right.

He didn’t know long they sat like that— long enough for Shane’s legs to start to go numb, until they heard the locker room door open and someone call ‘everything okay in there?’

Ilya jumped up, and Shane followed him more slowly, dropping onto the bench so he could take off his skates. Ilya was still quiet, though he’d stopped crying, wiping his face angrily on his jersey. He wasn’t moving, otherwise.

“Okay,” Shane said. “So you, uh, need to shower and change, right? Then… do you need to call someone? Your team? Get tickets to Moscow?”

Ilya nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Okay.” He stood and began to strip out of his gear, packing it away with mindless habit. Shane did too, less carefully than he usually did because he wanted to follow Ilya in the showers, wanted to be there if he broke down again.

Ilya didn’t. He showered, dried off, and dressed.

“Okay,” Shane said. “We’re going back to the hotel.” Ilya nodded. “I can help you find a flight to Moscow?” Ilya nodded again. “Okay,” Shane said again and took Ilya’s hand and squeezed.

Ilya looked down at it and then at Shane, and squeezed back.

One of the production assistants was waiting for them outside of the locker room, leaning against the wall, playing with his phone. He turned when he heard the door open, then his face fell when he saw them.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“It’s personal,” Shane said. “We’re done here, right?”

The guy nodded.

“Can we go back to the hotel?”

“Yeah,” the production assistant said. “I’m here to give you a ride.”

“Great.” They followed the production assistant through the rink and out into the warmth of the Texan winter, both of them climbing into the back of the van.

“How long is the trip back to the hotel?” Shane asked.

“Forty minutes or so,” the production assistant said.

Ilya took out his phone and called a few people, all of of his conversations in Russian, the first brisk and clipped; Ilya’s agent, maybe, the next some how aggravated and grief-ridden at the same time. The third was quieter, expressive, someone Ilya clearly trusted.

Shane tried to stop listening and looked up flights to Moscow instead, although he quickly realized he didn’t have enough information. Would Ilya need to stop in Boston first? Would he want to fly first class or business class?

The van reached the hotel and Ilya ended the conversation, then followed Shane up to his room. Shane presented his findings and Ilya picked the flight that would get him to Moscow the soonest, not caring about what class he was in or anything else.

“Okay,” Shane said. “It leaves in five hours. We’ll go to the airport in three, okay?”

Ilya nodded, still looking so lost.

“Come here,” Shane said, and took into his arms again, pulling him down to lie on the bed, rubbing Ilya’s back in silence because Shane didn’t know what to say.

Ilya was quiet for a long time, then he finally said, haltingly “my father was sick. He was…” he paused, clearly trying to think of the English. “… Memory gone, you know? Old person, can’t think right.”

“Alzheimer’s or something?” Shane guessed.

“Yeah,” Ilya agreed, not sounding sure. “He asked me… when I was at World Juniors, in 2009, you know. He asked me to bring home bread.”

“Oh, wow,” Shane said, feeling like he had to contribute something but also feeling so lost.

“It got worse and worse and I was not… I had to leave,” Ilya continued. “I send money, but it is not enough.”

Shane tightened his grip on him.

Ilya turned so his face was pressed against Shane’s neck again, and didn’t say anything else and eventually his breath evened out.

Shane lay awake, afraid to move and disturb him, staring up at the ceiling and letting the thoughts swim around in his brain like fish in an aquarium. For a while he rehearsed plays in his head and came up with new ideas, then he thought about the All-Star Game, then he recalled the seven times he and Ilya had had sex in the last three days. The last was the most uncomfortable because he got hard, but Ilya was lying on one of his arms and would definitely wake up if Shane tried to jerk off.

Maybe Ilya would want to have sex, Shane thought, and then thought it was a horrible thing to think, but then thought that maybe he would be glad to be distracted, but he didn’t have to be distracted because he was asleep, but sex was good for, like, releasing good hormones or something, wasn’t it? Anyway, it didn’t matter because Ilya was asleep. Would he sleep the whole time? How long had it even been?

Shane craned his head until he could see the alarm clock on the nightstand. Only ten minutes had passed, somehow. He dropped his head back on the pillow and sighed.

.

The next thing Shane knew he was waking up to the sound of Ilya stuffing his things in his suitcase. Shane struggled up from the bed and blinked at him.

“Have to leave for the airport soon.”

“Oh,” Shane said, blinking again.

“You do not have to come,” Ilya said.

“No,” Shane told him. “No. I mean, if you don’t want me there then okay. But I thought maybe it would be better for you to not be alone.”

Ilya looked at him sharply, opened his mouth and Shane was certain he was going to say something abrasive, but then he shook his head a little and his shoulders slumped.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would like that.”

“I changed my flight,” Shane told him. “So I can get past security. And…” he smiled. “It would be lonely staying here without you. But it’s after yours so I can wait with you. ”

Ilya nodded. “You’re all packed?”

“I hardly spent ten minutes in my room. It was a waste of money.”

Ilya smiled at this. “Get your things and I will meet you at check out.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Yeah, okay.”

.

The ride to the airport was quiet. At the airport Shane found himself signing a few things in the security line and on his path through the airport, though people in Dallas didn’t seem to care that much for hockey generally. Shane paid for access to the private lounge and they sat there together, mostly silently, watching the planes take off and land, until Ilya had to leave for his gate.

“I hope things go okay,” Shane told him, wishing he could kiss him goodbye. “Let me know?”

Ilya nodded and swallowed. “It will be about a week,” he said. “Maybe two. I don’t know if I’ll miss the shoot in Montreal.”

“That’s okay,” Shane told him. “It’s not important. Just take care of yourself.”

“You too, Shane,” Ilya said, and reached out his hand.

Shane thought he meant to shake it, which seemed incredibly formal for whatever they were, but instead Ilya just held it for a moment, his thumb rubbing over Shane’s thumb. He took a deep breath and smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

“For sure,” Shane said.

Ilya smiled again and finally left and Shane leaned his head back in his chair and tried not to feel all the feelings that were twisting around inside him. None of them were things he wanted to feel.

Chapter 11: Interlude 3: Men and women can't be friends

Chapter Summary

How does Shane occupy himself during bye week? Who will he meet when he finally goes stir-crazy and gets out of the house? How does Ilya respond to click-bait articles about Shane's new relationship?

Find out all this and more on the newest episode of Captain vs. Captain!

Chapter Notes

Happy Friday! Oh, its Thursday? Oops! Nvm!

Shane headed back to Montreal for the few remaining days of bye week, planning on holing up in his condo and speaking to as few people as possible for a blissful three days. He lay around like a sloth for as long as he could take it (two hours), then cleaned his place top to bottom, reorganizing several closets. He went to the grocery store and made one of the more fancy recipes in his cookbook, one that involved seitan, which he rarely made because it was so much work. He played around with some ideas for redesigning his condo.

He sat down on his couch and wondered what to do next, started up a video game, got bored before he finished setting up his character and went online and looked up how to make kombucha. He could make his own kombucha— he’d heard it was easy.

Turned out making your own kombucha involved keeping an alien-like fungus alive and the idea of having it in his house, maybe having to touch it disgusted him so much he considered throwing all his kombucha away.

That seemed excessive. He picked up the video game controller, fiddled around with designing the character. It was supposed to be a good game that somehow let you fight with swords while also reenacting the recent history of Japan. Shane should learn more about Japan. He gave his character pink hair, then decided it was stupid and changed it back to black. Did he want his character to wear a traditional kimono or to dress like a swimsuit model? What did it matter? He put the controller down again and sighed. It was only five.

Shane looked at his phone. Ilya hadn’t texted. He hadn’t expected Ilya to text. He probably hadn’t even been in Moscow for a few hours and he’d be busy with his family and the funeral and everything.

Hayden and Jackie and the kids were on vacation. J.J. had taken the opportunity to go back to France for a few days. Pretty and Needy and Sted were in the Bahamas or something. Shane had been dreaming of having a few days to just relax for months and here he was scrolling through his contacts list and wishing he had someone to talk to.

He put down his phone and grabbed his coat. He’d go out. Somewhere. To a cafe or a bookstore or something. Or a cafe that was also a bookstore. That was a thing, right?

.

The bookstore was larger than Shane expected, three stories connected by stairs on one side and escalators on the other, a large list of genres and what floor they were on one wall.

What kinds of books did Shane even want to read? He mostly read books about hockey, but maybe he should branch out a little. Maybe he could read an interesting book and tell Ilya about it. Maybe he could read a Russian book. There were some famous Russian books, right? War and Peace or Crime and Punishment or something? Lolita?

Would it seem like trying too hard if Shane read a Russian book? Like if he just dropped ‘I was reading Lolita the other day and…’ That would seem like trying too hard. Like if you were fuckbuddies or whatever he and Ilya were you didn’t attempt to read the literature of their country, right?

Shane sighed and wandered a little. He didn’t read a lot but he liked the aesthetics of books, like imagining how there was an entire world squashed between the pages of each one. He should read more. He used to read a lot in high school, on all the long bus trips his OHL team had taken. He’d liked science fiction back then. Or maybe he could read some Japanese books?

Then he thought that he should text his cousins, maybe he could go see them.

He’d just pulled out his phone and was in the middle of a text when he walked right into someone and knocked their books to the ground.

“Oh, shit!” Shane exclaimed and shoved his phone back into his pocket, squatting down to grab the books. “I’m so sorry— I shouldn’t have been walking and texting like that.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” the person he’d walked into said a little sharply, in an American accent. He finished gathering up the books and stood, only realizing when he went to give them to her that she seemed familiar.

“Do I know you?” he asked, trying to place her. She was pretty and young— about his age, maybe. Maybe she was one of the wags?

The woman laughed. “Uh, no, not personally. I’m Rose.” She held out a hand. Shane was certain he’d never met a Rose before, but she seemed so familiar.

“Shane,” Shane said.

“I know,” Rose said. “I’m a Michigan girl with three brothers. They're huge hockey fans.”

“But you’re not?” Shane asked.

Rose shrugged. “Not of the Voyageurs! My brother Peter's in the AHL so that's my home team, you know.”

Shane nodded politely. "Naturally. I’m sorry, but you seem really familiar,” he couldn’t help saying.

“Oh,” she said, and laughed again. “Um,” her eyes darted around. “I’m Rose Landry? I’m an actress, maybe you’ve seen me in some things.”

“Oh my god,” Shane said, feeling a little faint.

Rose smiled sheepishly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ve seen your movies,” Shane said. “Some of them, I mean. I don’t watch a lot of movies. But they were, uh, good?”

Rose grinned. “Look, Shane Hollander, would you want to get a coffee?” She gestured to where the cafe part of the bookstore and cafe was.

“I don’t drink coffee,” Shane said.

Rose blinked. “Um. Tea?”

“Yeah, I drink green tea. Sure.”

Rose smiled and he followed her to the cafe, where they received a lot of double takes but thankfully no one approached them.

Shane settled down across from Rose with his tea in a table by one of the large windows that looked out onto the street and suddenly had a thought.

“Um,” he said. “This isn’t like… I hope you didn’t mean… I’m kind of seeing someone…?”

Rose looked at Shane like she was trying not to laugh. “It’s okay,” she said, patting his arm. “I didn’t really get an interested vibe from you anyway.”

“Oh,” Shane said. “Good.”

“So what brings you to this bookstore?” Rose asked. “You didn’t find any books?”

Shane frowned. He shrugged. “I don’t read a lot but I thought maybe I should read more, but then I couldn’t think of what to read.”

“Oh,” Rose said, brightly. “Maybe I could help. I read a lot. There is so much downtime on sets you wouldn’t believe. What kind of things do you like?”

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “I usually read about hockey but I thought maybe I should diversify?”

“Okay,” Rose nodded. “What is the last book you enjoyed reading? Besides books about hockey?”

Shane shrugged.

“You’re a tough one, huh,” Rose said.

“I liked science fiction, in high school,” Shane admitted.

“Okay,” Rose replied.

“And I was thinking maybe I’d like to read some books by Japanese authors? Because, I’m, uh, part Japanese.”

“Okay,” Rose said, a little more enthusiastically. “There are some great Japanese science fiction authors.”

“Yeah?” Shane asked.

“Yeah. Like I’d really highly recommend Never Let Me Go by Ishiguro. I think he was born in Japan and raised in Britain. And then, of course, Haruki Murakami is a very popular Japanese science fiction author— I’d recommend The Wind-up Bird Chronicle to start with. And, she writes magical realism more than science fiction, but I really love Banana Yoshimoto, especially Kitchen.”

“What’s magical realism?” Shane asked, and he could see from the light in her eyes that he’d asked the right question.

.

Shane emerged from the bookstore an hour later with an armful of books and the number of a famous star in his phone. Rose was going to be in Montreal for a few more months, she’d said, and they’d already made plans to hang out again— she wanted to hear all about what he thought about the books she’d recommended.

A few hours later (half-way through Kitchen), Shane got a text from Hayden.

Hayden Pike (Montreal Voyageurs): Something you wanna tell me? [Link]

Shane clicked on the link and immediately found himself on what looked like a tabloid site, a picture of him sitting across from Rose, both of them laughing. Rose Landry Gets New Squeeze? The headline asked. It went on to refer to Shane as a ‘mystery man’.

Well, that’s refreshing, Shane thought.

Rose Landry: Sorry! [Link]

Rose Landry: This literally happens every time I hang out with a friend

Me: That’s hard

Rose Landry: Tell me about it. Like can’t a girl have friends she’s not fucking?

Shane laughed and switched to his web browser again, looking at the article. He’d get ID’d soon and then it would probably be all over Failspin. He sighed and texted his parents.

Me: I made a new friend yesterday

Mom: Oh, that’s exciting. Good for you!

Dad: Who is it? How did you meet?

Me: Her name is Rose and I met her at a bookstore

Me: We got coffee together and she gave me a lot of book recommendations

Me: But we’re just friends, don’t read anything into it

Dad: Are you protesting too much

Me: No, just warning you

Mom: Warning?

Me: [link]

Mom: …

Mom: Your new friend is Rose LANDRY

Dad: Whos that?

Mom: She’s a movie star

Mom: Like super famous

Mom: I loved her in ‘Spring Tides’

Dad: Oh that girl with the hair?

Me: I think most girls have hair

Dad: You know what I mean

Mom: So I’m guessing this is going to break soon

Mom: Are you sure you’re just friends? This could be great for your image

Me: Yes, mom 🙄

Mom: Just asking! Maybe call Kyle and let him know about this

Me: Kyle?

Mom: You’re so bad with names 🤣

Mom: Kyle is the head of PR at the Voyageurs

Mom: Honestly you should know that

Me: 😳

Me: Ill do that

Dad: Say hi to rose for me

Me: Ill tell her you called her the one with the hair

Dad: 😛

Me: omg dont use that emoji

Dad: 😝

Me: Ew stop that’s gross

.

Shane opened his contacts and found Kyle Parrish (Montreal Voyageurs PR Manager).

“Hey, Shane, what can I do for you?” Kyle asked. There was a shuffling noise.

“Hi, Kyle,” Shane said. “I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Oh no,” Kyle said, joking. “What happened?”

“I hung out with Rose Landry yesterday and someone put a picture on the internet.”

“Rose Landry?” Kyle whistled.

“We’re just friends,” Shane said.

“For sure,” Kyle said.

“We might hang out again, just wanted you to know if you see any articles.”

“That definitely sounds like something the media’s going to latch onto,” Kyle said. “And you’re just friends?”

“Men and women can be friends,” Shane said. “I have a lot of female friends.”

This was categorically untrue. Shane had one female friend, Jackie. Two now, he guessed. And his cousin, so that was three, right? Did cousins count as friends? If there were more women in hockey he’d have more female friends, he thought and then remembered that there were women in hockey, lots of them. He’d even met a few last year at the Olympics. Maybe he should get into contact with them.

“We’ll keep an eye out,” Kyle promised, interrupting Shane’s musings, “and if necessary we’ll do some prep before your next interviews.”

“Thanks,” Shane said.

.

He had dinner at his cousin Hatsue’s house that night, with her husband Theo and their kids Maika and Nara. They spoke a mix of Japanese and French, switching languages halfway through sentences, sometimes, but Hatsue and Theo kept mainly to French for Shane’s sake. It was a nice evening; the girls had loved Shane’s gifts of jerseys and a Voyageurs branded knee hockey set and they’d moved the furniture in the living room to play it, Hatsue and Maika against Nara and Shane, Theo watching from where he was finishing up the dishes.

“You should come to a game,” Shane suggested, when the kids had gone to sleep. “You and the girls.”

Theo and Hatsue looked at each other. “It’s too violent for them,” Hatsue said, finally. “I don’t want them to be watching and see their uncle get hurt on the ice. We watch women’s hockey sometimes because it’s not as violent.”

Shane nodded. “Well, the two of you can still come, if you want. Just let me know and I’ll have them set aside tickets for you.”

“For sure,” Hatsue said, but Shane got the impression they wouldn’t. “Maika’s birthday is coming up in March. I know you’re pretty busy, but she’d love it if you could come.”

“Text me and I’ll see if I’m free,” he said and they hugged and Shane headed out to his car.

His phone had been buzzing so he pulled it out to see what had happened and found what seemed like a million text messages that were all variants on ‘go get it’. The Rose news must have dropped.

Shane pulled out of the driveway and started heading back to his apartment, thinking about how practice was going to resume the next day and what meetings he might have and the ribbing he was going to get from the guys over the Rose thing. That would be annoying but part of him was relieved because if people thought he was with Rose they wouldn’t think he was with Ilya.

Oh, fuck. Ilya.

He almost swerved with the force of the thought, only managed to steady himself at the last minute, taking a deep breath.

Ilya was in Russia, dealing with his father’s funeral and everything. Would he even hear the gossip that Shane Hollander had been caught engaging in the scandalous activity of sitting in a cafe with a girl? Would he even care? He and Shane were… Shane didn’t know what they were. They hadn’t talked about it. They’d only hooked up a few times, they lived in separate cities, separate countries, they were both so deep in the closet they’d never see the light of day.

Shane wanted Ilya to care, he realized. He wanted him to be jealous. Not that Shane wanted Ilya to be upset or unhappy. But.

Shane took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on his driving. He shouldn’t want Ilya to care. He and Ilya— that couldn’t work. They were hockey players. Hockey players didn’t get into long distance gay relationships. They didn’t do any kind of gay relationship. All it could be was heartbreak.

Finally, Shane pulled into his parking garage and slumped, resting his head on the steering wheel for a moment. He pulled out his phone.

Me: Funny thing happened

Me: I was at the bookstore yesterday and I made a friend who recommended a bunch of books to me and now everyone things we’re dating because we sat at a cafe table and talked for half an hour

Me: She says it happens to her every time she goes anywhere with a guy

Me: It sounds exhausting

Me: Anyway if you hear any news that’s what happened

Me: Hope you’re doing okay

Me: Let me know if you need anything

That was stupid, Shane chastised himself as he got out of the car, grabbing the Tupperware of leftovers Hatsue had forced on him, and headed up to his apartment.

He sat down and began to methodically delete every text he didn’t think he needed to reply to, only pausing when Ilya replied to him.

Rozy: It is cold here

Rozy: Did you buy a lot of books

Me: Hope you can stay warm

Me: Yes. I wanted to read more books that weren’t about hockey

Me: I’m reading a book right now called Kitchen

Rozy: What is it about?

Me: This girl’s grandmother dies and she’s her only family member and she feels lost and confused

Me: And she doesn’t know what to do but this boy invites her to stay with him and his mother

Me: And she goes and stays with them and sleeps on their couch and starts learning how to cook

Me: It sounds pretty weird but its actually really good

Me: The mother is transgender which is kind of cool

Me: I don’t think I’ve read a book with a transgender person in it before

Rozy: Maybe I will read it

Rozy: Would I like it?

Me: I don’t know

Me: I like it but you think things I like are boring

Rozy: That is true

Me: Its originally in japanese maybe it was translated into Russian too

Rozy: I can read in english

Me: Obviously lol

Me: But like you’re not reading it in the orginal language anyway so why not read it in russian?

Rozy: Maybe I will see

Me: How are things going?

Rozy: ...

Rozy: I am tired

Me: I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how hard it is

Rozy: Yes

Shane didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to say something that could make it better. Something that would make Ilya laugh or something that would make him feel like it wasn’t so bad, but Shane had never been good at that kind of thing.

Me: I’m glad you’re still coming to Montréal en Lumière

Rozy: You have been before

Me: Yeah, it’s pretty cool

Rozy: Tell me about it?

.

The room erupted into hoots and hollers when Shane came in.

“Our boy!” J.J. exclaimed, clapping Shane on the back. “Finally has become a man!”

“Fuck off,” Shane said, pushing passed him to his stall.

“How did you bag fucking Rose Landry?” Needy demanded.

Shane sighed and pulled off his boots. “I didn’t. We’re just friends.”

“Not according to TMZ,” Mitty said.

“Yeah, the most reliable news source ever.” Shane rolled his eyes.

“Where did you even meet Rose Landry?” J.J. asked. “You going to parties you didn’t invite me to?”

“First of all you were in France,” Shane said. “Second of all, we met in a bookstore, not at a party.”

“Of course Holls would pick up girls in a bookstore,” Pretty said.

Shane sighed. “I didn’t pick her up. I walked into her and knocked her books out of her hand by accident and helped her pick them up and then she gave me some suggestions for books to read.”

“I tried that ‘knock into a girl by accident’ move but it never worked,” Sted complained.

“It was not a move,” Shane insisted.

“So how did you go from stumbling into her like a clumsy oaf and having coffee with her?” Mitty demanded.

“Tea,” Shane corrected. “And she recognized me and asked if I wanted to get coffee.”

Pretty hooted with laughter. “You didn’t even recognize her!? Only Hollzy!”

“Don’t you have anything better to do than interrogate me about this?” Shane complained, pulling on his undershirt.

“Yeah, go do some laps and leave the cap alone,” Hayden ordered, coming into the locker room.

“You’re the one who was late,” J.J. pointed out.

“Had to talk to Andreas about my shoulder,” Hayden said, rolling the joint in question.

“All good?” Shane asked.

“Yeah, I pulled something trying to stop Ruby from jumping into a tank full of sharks,” Hayden explained, “but Andreas thinks it’s not too bad.” He stripped off his hoodie. “Honestly, that kid’s gonna be the death of me.”

“Shane, are you free?” Kyle asked, coming into the room.

“Heading into practice in a minute,” Shane said, taping up his socks.

Kyle sat down in Sted’s stall. “Just wanted to go over what you’re going to say when they ask you about Rose Landry.”

Shane shrugged. “I talked about this with her,” he said. “I’m going to say she’s a friend I had coffee with. Which is the truth.”

Kyle nodded and made a note.

“And then I’m going to add that I’d prefer to keep the conversation on the game, not on my personal life,” Shane added.

“Okay,” Kyle said. “We’ll stress that with the journalists. What about Rozanov?”

Shane frowned. “What about him?”

“You two have clearly become close. I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked you about his father.”

Shane stared at him. “Why on earth would they ask me about that?”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “You know how they are.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll say that I was sorry to hear of his dad’s passing and my thoughts are with him,” Shane said.

“You were spotting in Dallas Fort Worth with him.”

Shane sighed and rubbed his eyes. “He got the news about his dad right after we finished shooting the Bud Light commercial together. I stuck with him as long as I could because I didn’t want him to be alone.”

“You can say he’d a good friend and you were supporting him in a difficult time,” Kyle suggested.

“I hate that they’d ask about that,” Shane said. “Taking pictures of us when we’re just being normal people is one thing, but when his dad just died— he was so devastated.”

“I know,” Kyle agreed. “In a perfect world they’d respect what people are going through.”

“Now you’re going to tell me it’s not a perfect world,” Shane said.

“I think you already know that. You’ve got your talking points?”

Shane nodded.

“Keep me updated,” Kyle said.

“For sure,” Shane told him.

Kyle touched his arm. “Seriously,” he said. “Anything that could get out I need to know about. I don’t care what you’re doing or who you’re doing it with— my job is to do damage control, not to make more news. And I’ve got an NDA, you know. It would just be easier for all of us if we were prepared.”

For a moment Shane had the horrifying thought that Kyle knew something about him and Ilya, but then he remembered that this was Kyle’s standard spiel. He’d heard it before. Should he tell Kyle about him— not about him and Ilya, not without asking Ilya first— but about him being gay?

“Thanks,” Kyle said. “We’ll do interviews after practice.”

“For sure,” Shane said again and bent down to pull on his skates. He should tell his parents before he told anyone else, he decided. He should tell his parents, but not now, not in the middle of the season. Maybe in the summer. Maybe after they won the cup.

Chapter 12: Episode 8: In the lights

Chapter Summary

The last episode of Captain vs. Captain! What are the boys going to do now?!?!

Find out now on the very much not last chapter of Captain vs Captain!

Chapter Notes

I watched so many vlogs about going to Montreal au Luminare you wouldn't believe. It looks amazing!

Shane turned from where he was nervously pacing at the windows when he heard the knock at the door, opening it with a smile and his heart in his mouth.

“Ilya,” he said.

Ilya stomped his feet to get the snow off and stepped inside. “Shoes off in house?” he asked, looking at the neat row of shoes beside the mat.

“Yes, please,” Shane said.

Ilya bent to untie his laces.

“How was the trip?”

Ilya shrugged, a little awkwardly because he was still bent over. “Short. Flying with the team is so much better!”

“Why couldn’t the whole team come up early?” Shane joked.

Ilya looked up at him and smiled, then straightened up.

“Your fingers are better?” he asked.

Shane looked down at his hand. He’d broken a few fingers a few weeks earlier in a tangle with Bonin and Zec when they were playing the Geese. They were splinted now, but more or less usable. “They’re okay,” he said.

Ilya took his hand and inspected it.

“How are you doing?” Shane asked. “That hit from Leel looked like it hurt.”

“A few bruises,” Ilya said, dropping Shane’s hand. He stepped further into the apartment, looking around. “This is nice.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I own the building, actually. This was two separate units originally, but I knocked down the wall, put in an exercise room and another guest room.Then I’ve got four units below and I rent the storefront too.”

“Mr. Landlord,” Ilya teased.

Shane smiled, feeling a little shy. “It’s a good investment, eh?”

“Eh?” Ilya repeated, in a teasing tone. He inspected the shelf Shane had recently installed, the rows of brightly colored books. “These are the books you got from Rose?”

“She didn’t give me them,” Shane said. “But she recommended a bunch.”

“How many have you read?”

“Five,” Shane admitted. “But it’s not like I have time.”

“You should listen to audiobooks,” Ilya said, taking out one of the books and looking at the back cover. “Consy listens to them all the time. Working out, on the bus. He is quiet, you think maybe sleeping, and then suddenly he is laughing or saying ‘fuck!’ and everyone looks.”

Shane laughed. “You’re not selling it. People already think I’m weird enough.”

Ilya frowned at that. “You are spend time with Rose a lot,” he said, changing the subject.

“I’ve only hung out with her twice,” Shane corrected. “And she went to a game. She’s a big hockey fan. It’s just that every time we hang out they get photos and make a huge deal out of it so it seems like a lot. I’m not…” he chewed on his lip and then remembered he shouldn’t. “We’re not dating. I’m…” Shane turned away, looked out the window. He scratched his ear. “I’m gay.”

“Oh,” Ilya said. “You don’t like girls?”

Shane shook his head. “No— I’ve tried. I’ve had a few girlfriends and I’ve had sex with girls, but it doesn’t really… It’s not the same.”

Ilya hummed and stepped a little closer to Shane. Shane watched him in the reflection on the window.

“What about you?” he asked.

“I like both,” Ilya said, simply.

“Oh.”

Ilya touched Shane’s shoulder, then wrapped his arms around him, pulling him back against his body. “Does Rose Landry know?” he asked.

“No one knows,” Shane said. “Except Hayden and Jackie— Hayden’s wife. Hayden recognized my watch when you wore it and he’d known I’d lost it the day before, so it wasn’t hard for him to put the pieces together and then… it was nice to have someone who knew. Sorry I told them about you without asking.”

“You said he guessed. I do not think there is good reason for me to wear your watch.”

“Not really, no,” Shane allowed.

“It was my choice.”

“Yeah, I guess. Does anyone know about you? I mean, you obviously had sex with men before. But anyone else?”

“My best friend,” Ilya said. “Svetlana. I used to sleep with my coach’s son and we were all friends. I used to sleep with her too.”

Shane looked up, surprised, meeting Ilya’s eyes in the reflection and Ilya smirked. “Does that shock you? We partied a lot, did a lot of drugs. Drinking.” He leaned down a little so he could whisper in Shane’s ear. “We were bad boys and girls.”

Shane shivered and Ilya’s smirk deepened. He was pressed so closely behind Shane that Shane could feel his cock pressed against Shane’s hip and couldn’t help pushing back against it.

Ilya’s hands snuck down to Shane’s waist, creeping into his joggers, one cupping Shane’s hipbone and the other rubbing at the crease of his thigh.

“We have four hours until the shoot,” Ilya whispered into Shane’s ear. “I can show you how bad I am.”

Shane couldn’t help laughing. “That’s a terrible line,” he said. He turned around and looped his arms around Ilya’s neck, pulling him in.

.

“This is Captain vs. Captain,” Ilya said, “I am Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Bears, who will win tomorrow’s game against Montreal, and this is Shane Hollander, Captain of Montreal Voyageurs. Hollzy, how does it feel knowing you are going to lose?”

“This is going to be really funny when it is published and everyone goes ‘wait, didn’t the Voyageurs win that game?’” Shane said.

Ilya raised his eyebrows. “You have very good imagination.”

Shane laughed and punched him in the shoulder.

“Canada is such violent country,” Ilya pouted, rubbing his shoulder.

“We’re here at Montréal en Lumière,” Shane said. “It’s an annual winter festival we hold every year in Montreal, featuring light sculptures, music, food and more. I like to go every year but,” he looked at Ilya and the production crew. “Usually a little more subtly.”

“So you can show me around?” Ilya asked.

“For sure,” Shane said, as they began to head toward the light sculptures. “There’s a lot of great sculptures this year,” he said, staring up at the lit wires that stretched from pole to pole, flashing on and off at different speeds.

“It’s really amazing,” Ilya said. “I love it.”

They wandered around the light sculptures for a while, playing with the interactive ones, the production crew helping to deter fans who wanted to ask them for pictures and autographs.

From the light sculptures they went to the maple toffee section, carefully pouring the maple syrup on the snow and then twisting it onto sticks.

“Surprised you can eat this,’ Ilya said, licking tentatively at the candy. “Is it in diet?”

“No,” Shane said, “but I’m Canadian.”

“So this is national exception for diet?” Ilya asked.

“Pretty much,” Shane agreed. “Don’t you have any exceptions like that? For, I don’t know, vodka for something?”

“You think all Russians drink vodka?” Ilya asked, eyebrows raised.

Shane laughed at him. “I’ve heard you complain about the vodka they serve here like five times.”

“Sure,” Ilya said. “Fine.” He took a bite of the candy. “This is good.”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. He looked at the producer. “Where are we going next?”

Adrienne pointed up to where a pair of zip-liners were flying past.

“Awesome,” Ilya said.

They got strapped into the zip-line harnesses and then Ilya turned to Shane, while Shane was being fitted with a GoPro. “We go at same time, make bet for who will win?”

“No,” Shane said. “You’ve got like twenty pounds on me. You’re going to win— that’s just physics.”

Ilya pouted and Shane rolled his eyes. “Are we ready?” he asked the assistant, who said yes. “See you!” Shane called and dropped off the platform to Ilya’s shout of protest.

Shane loved zip-lining; he hadn’t gotten a chance to do it much, but had always found it amazing, the second best thing to skiing, flying through the air. Maybe when he was retired and didn’t have to worry about career-ending injuries he should take up hang-gliding or something.

All too soon he touched down, Ilya following a minute later with a shout, and then they were being helped out of their harnesses.

After the zip-lines they went tobogganing in a led-lit track that was constantly flashing and changing— fun, but nothing compared to the zip-line— and then they wandered a little, stopping to listen to music here and there, to watch a few minutes of a puppet show, so Ilya could buy some of the street food. They came to a spot where some kids were street dancing. “You should do it,” Shane suggested, pushing a little towards them.

“Oh, no,” Ilya said.

“You’re only a dance master when it’s DDR?” Shane teased.

“Holy fuck!” one of the kids yelled, in French. “That’s Shane Hollander!”

“Hollzy! Come and dance with us!” another cried and they grabbed Shane’s arms and pulled him into their dance circle, with Ilya’s help.

“I’m terrible at dancing,” Shane admitted, trying to copy their moves. Beside him, Ilya was having much better success.

“Shit, you’re Rozanov!” one of the kids exclaimed, still in French. “My buddy made a voodoo doll of you and then set it on fire!”

He was speaking French, so Shane translated for Ilya, who laughed. “It did not work,” he said.

Shane translated this and all the kids laughed too, and then proceeded to try to teach Shane what they claimed were ‘very easy dance moves’. They were not very easy. Shane was pretty sure he looked like an elephant lumbering around, especially when compared to Ilya’s easy mastery.

“You move so well on the ice,” one of the kids said

“Only on ice,” Shane agreed, laughing.

“I wish we made bet about dance,” Ilya complained.

“What did he say?” the kid asked.

“We’ve been making stupid bets and he wished we had bet on this,” Shane explained.

“Yes, you would have won big,” one of the kids told Ilya.

“I thought you were my fans,” Shane complained.

“I contain multitudes,” the kid joked.

After a few more minutes they moved on. Ilya wanted to try poutine— Shane couldn’t help stealing a few bites, even though it was definitely not on his diet. Shane wanted to watch a street performer wearing what looked like an enormous bird skull on her head made of LED lights. Shane had a cup of hot cider that Ilya looked at suspiciously to Shane’s amusement. They even rode the ferris wheel (with the GoPro and mic pickup, Shane pointing out the sights and Ilya explaining how Boston or Moscow was better at, for example, having bridges or rivers or interesting skyscrapers, to Shane’s increasingly embarrassing peals of laughter.

“I think it’s time for us to go,” the producer said when they got down.

“But we didn’t do any competitions,” Shane said.

“That is your fault,” Ilya said. “You did not want to bet on zip-line or toboggan or dancing.”

“We can have an episode without competitions,” the producer said. “There weren’t any in the Frog Pond episode either.

That was true, and yet.

“Okay, Hollzy,” Ilya said. “We can have little competition.”

Shane eyed him skeptically.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Ilya said.

“Fuck off,” Shane told him, laughing.

“The outro then?” the producer asked.

“For sure,” Shane said. “This has been Captain vs. Captain. Oh, what are we doing next?”

“This is the last contracted episode,” the producer said.

Shane had known that— should have known that. “Oh,” he said.

“If there’s interest, they might ask to extend the contract,” the producer said. “They want to review what we have so far. These episodes are going to begin airing in March and hope to gain some more interest in the playoffs,” she added.

“Oh,” Shane said. “Um… let’s try again, eh? This has been Captain vs. Captain. Thanks to our sponsor, Bud Light, the perfect beer for a perfect game, or a perfect festival.”

Ilya threw his arm across Shane’s shoulders. “Thanks! Bye, hockey fans!” he called.

“Excellent,” the producer said. “That’s a wrap. Do you guys need a ride back?”

“No, we will enjoy the festival a little more,” Ilya said.

“We will?” Shane asked.

“Yes, Hollzy. I did not try all the food I wanted to.”

They wandered off as the production crew packed up, Ilya steering Shane by the arm he had slung over Shane’s shoulders.

“Where are we actually going?” Shane asked.

“The world is our oyster,” Ilya said, gesturing with his free hand and almost hitting someone in the face. “Sorry!” he called.

“Fuck you!” the person shouted back.

“Canadians, so polite,” Ilya sighed. He led Shane into the back of a bar where a band was playing some kind of country music.

“You stay here, I’ll go get beer,” he said.

“I don’t drink beer,” Shane reminded him.

“I know,” Ilya said. “Only seltzer. I get beer for myself.”

Shane pulled his toque further down over his eyes and pulled up his scarf around his mouth.

“You are like turtle,” Ilya chirped him, coming back with a glass of beer and one of what Shane assumed was seltzer.

“I’m trying not to get recognized,” Shane hissed back.

“Why?” Ilya asked.

“Because people will never stop asking for autographs and selfies and…” he sighed. “I just don’t want to be famous all the time.”

Ilya nodded. “Hockey is not so popular in Boston. It is popular, but not national pastime, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “It’s nice going to the US and sometimes people do a double take but usually it’s not more than that.” He sipped at the seltzer Ilya had brought him.

“You do not drink alcohol?” Ilya asked. “Because of macrobiotics?”

Shane shrugged. “I get— I’m like kind of allergic to alcohol? Like it’s not a real allergy, technically, but if I drink I turn red and I can start feeling sick really easy and it has all sorts of negative side effects. A lot of people who have it still drink but I don’t like it.”

“You got drunk during the Awards,” Ilya remembered.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I really didn’t like it.”

Ilya nodded, smiling a little. “You are very strange,” he said.

Shane flushed and looked away. “Fuck off.”

“No,” Ilya said. He touched Shane’s arm lightly. “I like it. You are interesting.”

“You said I was boring,” Shane countered.

Ilya rolled his eyes. “It is only a chirp.”

Shane looked away, up at the band, who were singing something soulful. They were probably a good band.

“I can’t believe the show is over,” Shane said. “I thought eight was going to seem like so many.”

“It has been half a year,” Ilya pointed out.

“Yeah,” Shane said. He took a sip of the seltzer.

“Come on,” Ilya said, standing up.

“But you just got your beer,” Shane protested.

Ilya shook his head. “It is not important. You are not happy.”

Shane stared at him for a moment, then stood and followed him out of the venue. “Sorry,” he said, when they’d walked for a minute.

“Why are you sorry?” Ilya asked.

“I ruined it.”

Ilya stopped and turned to look at him. He reached up and adjusted Shane’s scarf. “You ruined nothing. You did not like where we were, so we left.”

“I’m in a weird mood.”

Ilya smiled, small and crooked. “I tell you I like weird. We can go to your apartment. You did not eat very much. You can make some brown rice.”

“Are you sure?” Shane asked.

Ilya flicked him between his eyes.

“Hey, what’s that for?” Shane exclaimed, pushing Ilya away.

“You are being idiot,” Ilya said, starting to walk again. Shane hurried to catch up.

.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the filming being over, about what it would mean for him and Ilya. They’d been lucky, he realized, getting so many chances to see each other, to spend time together, not being obliged to travel with the team, arriving a day early or staying a day late. Next time they played each other— which would be in the playoffs— they’d hardly have maybe an hour to spend together before they risked missing curfew.

Shane ate some cold peanut noodles while Ilya wandered around his apartment, looking at the art on the walls and the pictures of his family on the shelves. It was late. They both had morning practice.

“We should go to bed,” Shane said, and Ilya nodded.

.

Shane’s plan was to play it cool. They’d see each other when they saw each other, right? They had each other’s phone numbers. They could text or call. But instead, after they’d gotten ready for bed and made out for a while and exchanged blowjobs, Shane found himself saying “do you think we’ll see each other again?”

Ilya laughed. “Yes, at playoffs.”

“I mean,” Shane said. “Off the ice.”

“Yes,” Ilya said again. “At playoffs.” He turned to face Shane. “We will find the time.”

“We will?” Shane repeated.

Ilya sighed. “If you want to?”

“I want to,” Shane affirmed.

“I want too,” Ilya said. “Now go to sleep. Early morning, yes?”

Shane yawned and nodded and Ilya wrapped around him, warm and heavy and comforting. He kissed the back of Shane’s neck. “Sleep well,” he said, then added something in Russian. Shane wondered vaguely what it meant, but fell asleep before he could ask.

Chapter 13: Interlude 4: Coming out pt. 2

Chapter Summary

What happens when Shane comes out to a few more people? What will Shane's friends think of the show? How much popcorn can JJ eat in one sitting?

Find out in the newest chapter of Captain vs Captain!

Chapter Notes

Finally, the show airs! I really wanted to do social media reacts to the show but honestly, I'm not very good at it. I got off twitter when it was muskified and since it's shane POV, doing a lot of social media reacts didn't feel very authentic.

So we'll be getting some popular response but it will be shown in different ways.

We're getting near the end and I'm getting really excited about that! I'm really happy with the way the last few chapters came out and I even made a fake magazine cover I'm really excited to share!

“Nice place,” Rose said, bending over to take off her shoes.

“Thanks,” Shane said, hovering a little and feeling awkward about it. “I bought the whole building and the converted it from two apartments. So I could have a fitness room and extra guest room.”

“Yeah?” Rose asked. He wondered if she was feigning interest, but as he gave her the tour she kept asking questions; about the flooring material, about how he’d combined the apartments, about the choices he’d made for this space or that one.

“I’ve got kombucha, tea, or water. Oh, and I’ve got a soda stream, if you want sparkling water? I don’t have any additives except lemon slices, if you want? Or sometimes I put a slice of ginger in.”

“Oh, I want to try the ginger,” Rose said, so Shane got out the ginger root and sliced it and put it in glasses, then poured the carbonated water over.

“Sometimes I get mint too,” he said, as she sipped it. “Or crush berries and put those in?”

“This is good,” Rose said. “I got on a rosewater kick a while back. It’s very floral— I don’t know if you’d like it.”

“I could like floral,” Shane defended.

“Do you?” Rose asked.

“Probably not,” Shane admitted and Rose smiled.

They sat down on the couch and Shane pulled the YouTube app on his TV.

“I’m surprised you don’t want your friends here to watch this,” Rose said, putting her glass down on one of the coasters on the coffee table.

“They’d make fun of me the whole time,” Shane admitted.

“Bold of you to assume I won’t,” Rose said, smirking a little.

“I’m hoping you’re going to be a little nice about it.”

Rose shrugged. “Let’s find out. Oh, look it’s trending.”

Shane groaned. “I don’t want to be trending.”

Rose laughed and started the episode. It started with a few aerial shots of Boston and then a wide-view shot of the golf course before cutting to a shot of Shane and Ilya standing side by side, Ilya wearing that obnoxious leopard-print tank-top of his. Shane always forgot how much shorter he was compared with Ilya until he saw them standing beside each other. He scowled at the screen.

“Hello,” Ilya said on screen, shining that boyish smile of his. “Welcome to Captain vs. Captain. I am Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Bears, winner of Stanley Cup, and this is Shane Hollander, who did not win Cup.”

“I always forget how handsome he is,” Rose said, thoughtfully. “Those muscles.”

“I have muscles,” Shane muttered and she raised her eyebrows at him, amused.

“I won silver medal in the Olympics, though,” Shane cringed at how petulant he sounded. “I don’t think your team placed, did it?”

“Oh, the Olympics,” Ilya replied dismissively.

“I won the Art Ross last year, too,” Shane defended.

“Yes, yes, very good job,” Ilya said, patronizingly. “But not the Cup.”

The video cut to the opening sequence; the shot they’d taken in Dallas of the two of them facing off and laughing, then a title card reading Brought to you by Bud Light, the perfect beer for a perfect game.

“You’d think they’d have you drinking Bud Light all during this,” Rose said, thoughtfully.

Shane shrugged. “I’m pretty glad they didn’t.”

Back to the golf course, where Ilya was talking about Boston and then Shane was teaching him the rules of mini-golf.

“He let me go on this whole lecture about mini-golf and then it turned out he’d already been playing it!” Shane exclaimed, as on-screen Shane and Ilya bickered over whether Ilya’s club was better.

Rose gave Shane a considering look.

“What?” Shane asked.

“You keep checking him out,” she said.

“I do not!” Shane protested, his face heating.

“No, look,” Rose said. She grabbed the remote and rewound half a minute. “You’re one hundred percent looking at his ass here.”

“He’s just standing in front of me,” Shane lied.

“Uh-huh,” Rose said.

“Do you think anyone else will notice?”

“I think no one would blame you. Look at that ass.”

“I’ve already been looking at it, according to you.”

“He’s looking at your ass too,” Rose said.

“No he isn’t.”

“He’s looking at your everything. Look at those side-eyes. He’s appreciating your whole thing.”

“He’s not,” Shane said, feeling himself growing red.

Rose looked over at him, tilting her head, then her eyes went wide.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

Shane covered her face. “Not ‘oh’,” he begged.

“Oh my god. Shane!”

“No.”

“Shane!!!!!!”

“No.”

Rose looked at the video, where Ilya was sinking balls and Shane was looking more and more frustrated.

“You and Ilya Rozanov?!?”

Shane tipped over until his face was hidden in a pillow. “No.”

“I mean you’re both, like, hockey gods,” Rose said, considering. “And super hot. Oh my god the two of you together…”

“Is it obvious?” Shane asked. “Please tell me it’s not obvious.”

“Not at all,” Rose said, consideringly. “You’re just glancing at each other. You don’t even seem to be having fun. Rozy is really enjoying bating you. If you weren’t sitting here turning into a tomato I don’t think I’d ever have suspected anything.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Were you together? When you shot this?”

“We’re not together now. We’re just…” he shrugged.

“Okay,” Rose said. “But were you like, whatever, back then?”

“No,” Shane replied. “We didn’t hook up until, like, after the fifth episode.”

“So it’s not like there’s even anything to see,” Rose said. “Anyway, I know it probably feels like a huge deal, but even if you spent the whole episode just staring at Rozy’s junk most people would write it off. I’ve seen, like, compilations of hockey players kissing each other on the mouth and people still think it can’t be gay. So unless you make out on the show I don’t think there’s much to worry about.”

“We don’t, uh, make out. On the show.”

“And he’s European,” Rose added. “They probably wouldn’t think he was gay even if he did make out with you on the show. They’d probably be like ‘that’s how Europeans say hello’.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, a little reluctantly.

“Which is horrible, actually, because, like heteronormativity is really harmful, but in this specific case, where I’m guessing you don’t want anyone to know it’s actually helpful, maybe?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, again.

“But if you’re worried about it, they’d probably share the episodes with you before they air them? I don’t know what your contract looks like, but that’s not far-fetched. Then if there’s anything that feels too revealing, you can probably ask them to remove it. Especially if this does well— and honestly, it’s pretty hilarious, so I think it will. And there are a lot of views already. Did you tweet about it?”

“My manager runs my Twitter,” Shane said. “I honestly hardly ever visit it. They send me, like, posts to review sometimes.”

Rose nodded, like she wasn’t surprised.

“But I probably did, and I’m sure the teams did. I’ll email my manager about reviewing the episodes. I think you’re right— I usually have veto power on commercials and things. I just usually don’t like seeing the things I’ve shot.”

Rose made a sympathetic face. “I actually know a lot of actors like that.”

“Really?” Shane asked.

“Yeah. They love acting but they hate seeing themselves on the screen.”

Somehow that made Shane feel less weird about it. “If I get them and can review them, do you think maybe you could watch them with me? Sorry if that’s a big ask.”

“No,” Rose said, immediately. “No, I’d love to. And I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to know about Rozy. I didn’t mean to out you to… well, I guess, to myself. But I’ll never tell anyone, I promise.”

Shane nodded, not sure what to say to that. “Thanks,” he said, finally.

“I guess you haven’t told a lot of people.”

He shook his head. “Mostly only the guys I’ve, you know. Fucked. And my friend and his wife know.”

“I’m glad you have some support.”

“It was just like you; he figured it out because I left my watch at Ilya’s place and he wore it the next day.” He smiled at the memory of Ilya wearing his watch.

“He must really like you,” Rose said.

Shane shrugged. “I don’t know. We haven’t, you know, talked about it or anything. I mean, it’s not like we can actually be together.”

“Even if you’re not public with your relationship it doesn’t mean it’s any less real,” Rose said. “I know a lot of people who aren’t public with who they’re dating. Some of them hide their sexuality, like you guys, some of them just don’t want the media to intrude. That doesn’t mean they can’t love each other and support each other and be open with the people they trust.”

“But Ilya and I are supposed to be rivals,” Shane said.

“You’re in a show together,” Rose said, gesturing at the screen. “Do you keep up that rivalry pretense the whole time?”

“No,” Shane admitted.

“So, people will see you’re friends and then it will be easier, right?”

“I guess,” Shane said.

Rose patted his arm. “You don’t have to figure it out now. Just think about it, okay?”

Shane nodded and sunk back against the back of the couch.

“Now,” Rose said. “Let’s finish watching this. I’m really enjoying seeing Rozy destroy you in mini-golf.”

“Traitor,” Shane groused. “See if I invite you to another game.”

.

“Can’t believe you lose to Rozanov!” J.J. exclaimed when Shane came into the locker room. “You were supposed to defend our honor!”

“In mini-golf?” Shane asked, raising his eyebrows.

“What happened to all the practicing we did?” Hayden demanded. “That’s two hours of my life I’m never going to get back.”

“That was valuable bonding time!” J.J. protested. “Three Montreal captains solidifying their bond through being bad at mini-golf!”

“And then being solidly crushed by Boston, in Boston,” Hayden mourned. “Could anything be more embarrassing?”

“We could be crushed by Boston in Boston during the playoffs,” Shane said dryly. “Maybe we should go practice so that doesn’t happen.”

J.J. snorted. “We’re going to skin that bear!” Koch cried from across the room.

“Stop trying to make that happen!” they all shouted back.

“Did I tell you about the time I saw a skinned bear in Alaska?” Mitty asked.

“Yes, please never mention her again,” J.J. said, and shivered. “I cannot deal with this hunting culture. I went to dinner last night and there was an entire moose head on the wall above me. I was only reassured by the fact that I was not Canadian and the moose would not blame me for his… Profanation?” He looked at Shane.

“Desecration?” Shane suggested.

“The moose will know who not to fight,” Tony argued, in French. “He will see that we have the blood of hunters. But he will see you are a soft city boy and attack.”

“I think you’re both putting too much thought into this,” Shane told both of them, finishing tying his skates and heading towards the tunnel, relieved that apparently everyone had seen the show and no one had accused him of staring at Ilya’s biceps too long or being too friendly with his supposed rival.

Seven more episodes to go.

.

Shane was smiling at a text from Ilya when he got the call from J.J. telling him to get down to his friend’s club because the whole crew was going to be there.

“And your girl, Rose,” J.J. added.

“She’s not my girl,” Shane told him, with a sigh.

“Just come here, Hollzy!” J.J. pressed and since the alternative was probably rereading old texts from Ilya and avoiding watching the episode previews his manager had sent him, Shane gave in and said yes, pulling on a linen shirt and some jeans and heading out the door.

“Hollzy!” J.J. greeted him with a manly hug. “Have you met my man Hollzy?” he asked the people gathered around the table he was at. “He never gets out.”

Shane smiled at the people around the table, men and women, most of them people of color, many of them dressed in a way Shane thought might mean they were queer. Clubs weren’t his scene at all, but he should still hang out with J.J. more, he thought, as J.J. introduced his friends and then one of them— an Asian woman who’s name Shane had already forgotten— launched into a story about being mistaken for another Asian person. “We don’t even look alike!” she exclaimed. “She’s got short hair and like five inches on me!”

Shane laughed with everyone else, shocked at by how relatable it was. Another of J.J.’s friends was in the middle of a story about a woman trying to set him up with her daughter even though he was out with his husband when Shane spotted Rose.

“Rose!” he called, and she smiled and waved and began making her way through the crowd to them.

“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed, depositing a basket of fries on the table. “The bartender forced these fries on me. Forced! And I can’t eat them all and still fit into my costume, so I am desperate for help. You would not believe how tight they make those costumes. I literally cannot bend in them. The action coordinator is like ‘now step over this low wall’ and I’m like ‘okay, but I actually can’t, I am trapped in this bondage gear of a costume.’” She smiled at J.J. “Brilliant play last night, by the way. I love when d-men score.”

J.J. leaned on the table, leering at Rose. “I love it when d-men score too,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Rose Landry.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it.

“Wow,” Rose said. “You’re smooth.”

J.J. shrugged, grinning. “I’m French.” He introduced his friends again and somehow Rose immediately started up a conversation with the man who’d been talking to his husband about how terrible flying was.

“You’re really not into her,” J.J. commented quietly in French to Shane.

“I told you I wasn’t.”

J.J. shrugged. “I thought you were on dating her on the DL, you know. So who are you always texting with then?” he whispered.

Shane felt himself flush and glanced around, making a split second decision. After all, J.J. had queer friends, right? And they’d always been there for each other when their white friends just didn’t get what it was like playing in such a white sport with all the microaggressions (and macroaggressions, honestly).

He motioned for J.J. to follow him and headed to an empty table, J.J. leaning in so he could hear Shane.

“I’m gay,” Shane whispered, and J.J.’s eyes widened.

“All this time?” he demanded.

Shane nodded.

“You never told me!” J.J. exclaimed. “I have so many friends I could have set you up with.”

“I’m in the closet!” Shane hissed, and J.J. looked a little embarrassed at the reminder. “I only told Hayden and Jackie a few months ago, and only because Hayden figured it out.”

“Oh,” J.J. said, looking a little less hurt. “I’m sorry— thank you for telling me.” He clapped a hand on Shane’s shoulder and smiled.

“Anyway,” Shane said. “I’m in a relationship, kind of. Maybe.”

“That’s great!” J.J. said. “Good for you, man!” He looked around, then leaned in closer. “You want to tell me who?”

Shane swallowed. “I don’t want to out him without his permission.”

“I can respect that. But does Pike know?”

“He guessed.”

J.J. nodded, thinking and then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “No!”

Shane’s breath caught.

“Hollzy, are you sleeping with the enemy?” J.J. demanded.

Shane frowned at him, trying to figure out if he was being serious.

“He gave me stitches once!”

“You broke Vaughn’s arm and you still get dinner together,” Shane pointed out.

“Vaughn’s my boy. And I’m not fucking him!”

“Well, maybe if you were both gay…”

“Okay,” J.J. admitted. “If I were gay I’d totally tap that. Have you seen his thighs?”

“I am not checking out Carter Vaughn’s thighs,” Shane said.

“Then what even is the point of being gay?” J.J. demanded.

Shane raised his eyebrows.

“You must really like him,” J.J. said. “Even though he’s an asshole.”

“He’s not always an asshole.”

J.J. smiled at that and knocked his shoulder against Shane’s. “He must not be.” He picked up his drink and then discovered it was empty. “I’m happy for you,” he told Shane. “If he makes you happy.”

“The whole situation makes me want to jump out of my skin,” Shane admitted. “But he makes me happy, yes.”

J.J. wrapped his arm around Shane’s shoulders. “I need a new drink and I want to pick up Rose Landry.”

“Good luck with that,” Shane said.

“Oh, I don’t need luck,” J.J. told Shane with a grin and a wink.

.

On Tuesday Shane brought Rose to the Pikes', where Jackie spilled three cups of wine before she got over having a movie star in her house and started acting normal, and then, when the kids were in bed, they spent half an hour trying to figure out how to hook up Shane’s computer to the tv.

“So we’re watching the episodes to see if Rozanov and Shane are too gay for each other?” J.J. asked.

“Basically,” Shane admitted.

“I don’t know if I’ll be a good judge,” Hayden said.

“No,” Rose argued. “You’ll be the best judge because you know what’s normal between hockey players.”

“I mean, neither Shane or Rozanov are normal,” Hayden reflected. “And I’ve seen guys get up to some gay shit in the locker room.” He paused. “Can I say ‘gay’ like that?” he asked Shane.

“I’m not the gay language approval board,” Shane said, his hands up.

“Like what?” Rose asked, leaning so she could look at Hayden.

“In Juniors guys used to, like, just grab each other’s dicks.”

Shane winced. “Yeah, that was a thing.”

“Seriously?” Jackie asked.

“It was a game, like, uh, that slapping game, what do you call it. But with dicks.”

Jackie and Rose exchanged a look.

“Yes, it was so childish,” J.J. said. “They sneak up on each other when they were least expecting it and just slap.”

“They?” Rose asked. “You weren’t part of it?”

“Please,” J.J. said, scornfully. “As if I would participate in a dick slapping game. Obviously I would win— there would be no contest.”

“Well, I don’t think Shane and Rozy have their dicks out in this ESPN show,” Jackie said.

“We do not,” Shane assured her.

“So no matter what you do it’s already going to be, like, not the gayest thing I’ve seen hockey players do,” Hayden said. “Remember when the Cougars won the series in, like, what, ’13? And Green and LeMane totally made out for like a minute?”

“They weren’t making out,” Shane argued.

“There was kissing,” Hayden said. “On the mouth.”

“It wasn’t for a minute.”

“It was for a long time,” J.J. agreed.

“I’m just saying,” Hayden said, his hands up. “No one thinks they’re gay.”

“Actually, plenty of people do,” Rose said.

Everyone turned to look at her.

“There’s a small group of devoted LeGreen shippers. They’ve mostly died down now since Green got traded. Everyone’s moved on to BorneBuck anyway.”

“BorneBuck?” Shane repeated.

“Yeah,” Rose said. “Emerson Buck and Brady Borne? Since Borne is billeting with Buck and they seem super close.”

“I don’t… what is shipping?” Hayden asked.

“Oh,” Rose sucked in a breath. “I don’t know if I should even tell you.”

“Oh, is it that thing where people think Shane and I are secretly together?” Hayden asked.

“Oh no, not that again!” Shane groaned. He’d endured several nights of Hayden reading out increasingly ludicrous stories in various hotel rooms.

“Some of them were so good I was half convinced I was in love with Shane,” Hayden said, making cow eyes at Shane.

“Fuck off,” Shane muttered, feeling himself turning a little red.

J.J. raised his eyebrows. “Am I also included in this?” he asked.

“Not often enough,” Hayden told him. “The only thing better than shayden is… whatever it’s call when you’re also involved.”

“Do they write that about you too, Rose?” Jackie asked.

“Oh, do they!” Rose exclaimed. “Sometimes the studios do this thing where they want you to act like you’re in a relationship with someone to create ‘buzz’.” She made a face. “I did it with Mark Presser for this one movie and I guess it was really convincing.” She rolled his eyes. "As if. He's so awful, actually."

“Well, you’re a good actor,” Jackie said, then blushed.

“Thanks,” Rose said, a little awkwardly.

“Do you think people have that… shipping? stuff about me and Ilya?” Shane asked.

“Yeah, probably,” Rose said. “But the more they do that the more everyone thinks they’re just making things up.”

“Like with the watch,” Hayden chimed in. “Remember? I showed you that tweet where someone pointed out Rozanov was wearing your watch and everyone was like ‘shut up’.”

Shane nodded, not sure if he felt reassured or not.

“Way more people think you and Hayden are together than you and Rozanov,” Jackie said, like that was reassuring.

“I just don’t understand why they care,” Shane whined.

Rose rubbed his back.

“I know it’s the price of fame and everything and I wouldn’t get the sponsorships if they didn’t, but… I just want to play hockey, you know? Sometimes I think I’d pay back all the money if I could just be an ordinary person.”

“And not the best hockey player in the world?” Hayden asked.

“If I could just be an ordinary person and the best hockey player in the world.”

“And there wasn’t any homophobia?” Rose asked.

“Or racism?” J.J. suggested.

“And there was free ice cream!” Hayden threw in. Everyone looked at him. “Look, ice cream gets expensive,” he defended. “And I’ve got three kids and one on the way.”

“Okay,” Rose said. “We’ve got the episode queued up and we’ve already determined that no matter what you do it won’t be as gay as whatever apparently happens in the locker rooms.”

“Low bar, apparently,” Jackie added.

“Can we just?” Shane asked, gesturing at the screen.

“Wait,” J.J. said dramatically.

Everyone looked at him.

“I was promised popcorn!”

Shane sighed dramatically.

“I’ll go make the popcorn,” Jackie said. “Start without me.”

Rose hit ‘play.’

“I get to go first,” Shane said, on the screen. “Since you did last time.”

“Go then,” Ilya said rolling his eyes at the camera.

“Starting off strong,” Hayden said.

“Hi, this is Captain vs. Captain,” Shane said, smiling weakly. “I’m Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, currently top of the league, and this is Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Bears, who lost a game to us last night.”

J.J. laughed. “Yeah, cap, remind him who’s boss.”

“We still going to win cup again,” Ilya replied, grinning so wide he showed all his teeth. “You have not won cup, I think?”

There were some aerial shots of the orchard with Ilya’s voice as a voiceover: “We are at Daneau Orchards, in Ebensee, Quebec, to pick apples.”

“My family used to go every year. I loved it; the fresh air and the autumn views, the delicious apples, just the whole experience was always so fun.” Shane’s voice came over images of happy children picking apples, then the scene cut to Ilya and Shane again while they bickered over Shane’s outfit and Ilya presented Shane with his hoodie.

“Are you going to actually wear that?” Hayden asked, with raised brows.

“I lost a bet,” Shane defended, blushing when he saw how much he seemed to be snuggling into the hoodie. It had been comfortable. Was comfortable. Not that he ever wore it.

“Oh, she’s pretty,” Rose said, when the orchard guide came on screen.

“Who?” Jackie asked, coming back with the popcorn. “Oh, yeah. Who’s that?”

“The orchard guide,” Shane said.

“She literally just said her name,” Rose pointed out.

“Shane only knows the names of hockey players,” J.J. said, grabbing a big handful of popcorn. “Thanks, Jackie!”

“Maybe it’s a little gay that she’s so pretty but all Rozy has eyes for is your ass,” Rose commented.

“Is it really that noticeable?” Shane asked, a thrill going through him that Ilya had been checking his ass out even back then.

“No,” Rose said. “It’s just that because I’m like kind of looking for it.”

“Your ass is fantastic!” J.J. added. “Even straight men stare at it.”

“You know I’ve seen trees like that before, but I never knew why,” Jackie mused, as the orchard guide explained about the trees.

“I didn’t know you were so into apples,” Rose teased Shane.

“Apples are great,” Shane said.

“Then why did you give me like twenty pounds of them?” Jackie asked.

“Because I was going on a road trip!” Shane exclaimed, watching as Shane handed Ilya an apple, and Ilya tasted it. Unsurprisingly they cut out the part where they both cracked up laughing, but Shane still was a little sad not to see it.

They did keep the wrestling, however.

“Wow,” Hayden said. “Nice moves.”

“I took some aikido classes as a child,” Shane admitted. “Oh my god, did I have rotten apple smeared on my ass for the rest of the shoot?!”

“Were…” Rose said, tilting her head. “Was he hard there?”

“Oh my god, you were straddling him and he was hard?” Jackie exclaimed.

Shane took out his phone and made a note.

“Wait, are you going to tell them to cut that out because Roz was hard?” Rose asked.

“They could just cut out…” Jackie leaned forward and backed the video up a few seconds. “Just that one shot, right? Because I really want them to keep the wrestling in, that was such a fun moment.”

“Okay,” Shane sighed. “What’s the time on that?”

The rest of the video everyone agreed was okay, although they all broke down laughing at Shane’s expression seeing Ilya eating the popsicle, then they moved on to the next one.

It wasn’t as bad as Shane had feared. Or, well, it wasn’t as revealing as Shane had feared. There were glances they exchanged, banter everyone decided was flirtatious, but nothing that anyone thought was significant.

“I’d honestly just think the two of you were good friends, seeing this,” Rose said, when they were done.

“Yeah,” Jackie agreed. “It’s actually really cute because you can see your friendship develop over these episodes. I think this show is going to do really well.”

“I thought you were crazy when you told me about you and Rozanov,” J.J. added, digging into a new bowl of popcorn Jackie had supplied him with, his fifth bowl of the evening, “but now I see you two together I think it makes sense, no?”

“Yeah!” Jackie enthused. “You’re always laughing and joking together and, yeah, it is competitive a lot but you can tell it's all in good fun.”

Rose put her hand on Shane’s arm. “I think it will be okay,” she said.

“You should invite him over next time he’s in town,” Jackie said.

J.J. laughed. “Our next game with Boston will be in the playoffs.”

“People need to eat in the playoffs too,” Jackie reasoned.

“We’re not…” Shane began, feeling himself growing red. “We’re not in that stage of our relationship yet. I don’t even know if we’re in a relationship or are just, like you know, fuck buddies.”

Rose rubbed his back sympathetically.

“The way he was looking at you, though,” Jackie said. “In that Gatorade one.”

Hayden laughed. “I still can’t believed Gatorade is sponsoring that; you looked like you were gonna hurl every time you took a sip.”

“Taylor Segal was so hilarious in that episode,” Jackie said. “Oh!” She exclaimed, turning to Rose. “Do you think he and Brenner are together?”

“What?” Hayden asked, almost doing a spit take. He swallowed. “Seriously?”

“Oh, definitely,” Rose said. “Have you seen that interview they did together?”

“Brenner was so cute!” Jackie exclaimed.

“Jack Brenner is not cute,” Hayden said, flatly.

“What would you know?” J.J. asked. “Hollzy, what do you think?”

“If Brenner is cute?” Shane considered Jack Brenner. Brenner was enormous— 6’4” and muscled, and had soft blue eyes. He felt himself turning a little pink. “Yeah, I guess. He’s a good player. Solid, dependable.”

“Are you attracted to people based on if they’re good at hockey?” Rose asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Shane muttered, face growing hotter. “Maybe.”

“It’s as good a reason as any,” Rose decided, with a shrug. “You spent some time with them, Shane, do you think they’re together?”

“I don’t know,” Shane said, feeling cornered. “I don’t want to speculate, you know.”

“Oh,” Rose said, “yeah, no, sorry, that makes sense.”

“Well, you don’t have to bring Rozy to dinner because you’re dating,” Jackie said. “You can just bring him as friends. I’ll even make some Russian dishes.”

“You could make Russian dishes for Andy,” Hayden pointed out.

“I do make Russian dishes for Andy,” Jackie said, “but I can also make them for Rozy. It’s probably been so long since he’s had a home-cooked Russian meal.”

“But during playoffs?” Hayden asked, sounding strangled.

“Are you going to be seeing him during playoffs?” J.J. asked.

“I don’t know,” Shane admitted. “We haven’t talked about it.”

“So you’re not one of those ‘no sex during playoffs’ people?” Rose asked.

“Oh my god,” Shane said. It came out strangled. “It’s never… come up before?”

Jackie giggled and then made a face when everyone looked at her. “Sorry,” she said.

“We don’t even know we’re going to face them in the playoffs,” Shane reminded them. “They could get knocked out early; we could get knocked out early.”

“We’re not going to get knocked out early,” J.J. said confidently.

“But if we did,” Hayden pressed. “Would you? Sleep with the enemy?”

Shane scratched the back of his neck. “Probably,” he finally admitted. “If he wanted to. It wouldn’t hurt my play!” He exclaimed, when he saw the looks Hayden and J.J. were giving him. “I think it makes me a better player, actually. Like, I really like beating him on the ice…”

“Oh my god,” Hayden choked out. “Does playing against Rozanov turn you on?”

“Hockey as foreplay,” Rose added, sounding delighted.

“Ugh,” Shane groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Now I’m going to think about that whenever we’re playing him!” Hayden exclaimed. “This is the worst thing ever.”

“It’s, oh my god, can’t you just forget it?” Shane asked.

“I wish I could just forget it,” Hayden said.

“Not on your life.” J.J. grinned with all his teeth.

“I’m going to die,” Shane moaned.

J.J. cackled.

Chapter 14: Interlude 5: Thirst

Chapter Summary

How does Shane react when he finds out fans have made fan edits of him and Ilya? What's the thirstiest thirst tweet? What big bomb is Ilya going to drop during their Sports Illustrated interview! Find out all this and more on the next Captain vs Captain!

Chapter Notes

Thanks to my hr discord server for help thinking up good songs for fan edits and suggesting thirst tweets! I watched several thirst tweet videos for research, and also had to watch a few HR fan edits also just for research no other reason at all.

“People really like the show,” Shane’s mom commented almost as soon as she saw Shane.

Shane sat down and smiled at her and his dad. “Yeah, I’ve been told there are some good stats.”

“Your relationship with Rozanov is trending.”

“My relationship?” Shane asked, his heard suddenly pounding.

“Yeah, your friendship,” Shane’s mom said. “They even have a couple name for you! Shilya! Isn’t that cute?”

“Yeah,” Shane said dryly. “Adorable.”

“You are friends, right?” Shane’s mom asked. “You seemed to get along really well in the videos.”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “We’re friends.”

“You know I met him once,” Shane’s mom said. “At the CCM shoot when you were rookies. It was in the hotel— he was in the elevator going up to his room. It wasn’t much— I just shook his hand.” She laughed. “It’s funny when you think about how many rooms we’ve been in together and we’ve only ever just exchanged a few words. And now he’s a good friend of yours!”

“Yeah,” Shane said, faintly.

“This isn’t going to affect the playoffs is it?” she asked. The brackets had come out and Montreal and Boston were going to be playing each other in the second round, if they both got that far.

“Oh my god, mom,” Shane said. “I’ve played friends before and it hasn’t been a problem. And Ilya and I like competing against each other.”

“You do seem to enjoy all your challenges,” Shane’s dad said. ‘You get that from your mom. Never could fail to rise to a challenge.”

“Oh, and you’re any better?” Shane’s mom demanded.

“I am nowhere near your league,” Shane’s dad told her. “I bow to the master.”

Shane’s mom rolled her eyes.

“Well, next time we’re in the same place you can introduce us,” Shane’s mom said and it took a minute to figure out what she was talking about.

“Oh,” Shane said. “Yeah, sure,” already deciding that that would never, ever happen.

.

The final video was released the week before playoffs begin and Jackie threw another video watch party, this one with the kind of appetizers they serve at Super Bowl parties (vegetables with hummus and vegan sliders specially made for Shane).

They watched the final episode first. It was a little longer than most of the others, featuring almost the entirety of Shane and Ilya dancing (or trying to dance in Shane’s case), with subtitles translating the French into English, Shane and Ilya interacting with the light sculptures, making maple syrup toffee, and doing the zip-line.

“You look so sad,” Rose commented, when the producer started explaining that that was the last episode.

“Like a kicked puppy,” J.J. agreed.

“Look at all the comments,” Jackie said, scrolling down to reveal numerous comments asking for the show to be renewed so Shane would stop looking so sad.

“‘Our Captain needs his Rozy time’”, Jackie read. “Aww. Here’s another one: “‘How will they go one dates if no longer being filmed?’”

“I’m not that bad at dating,” Shane muttered.

Rose laughed at him. “How many dates have you been on outside of filming?” she asked.

“Three,” Shane said.

“And who instigated them?”

Shane sighed and didn’t answer. Jackie was navigating through YouTube, pulling up a video “Shilya looking at each other respectfully 👀 for six minutes” the video title read.

“Really?” Shane asked. As it turned out the ‘looking at each other respectfully’ in the title was sarcastic. “You said it wasn’t gay!”

“No one’s taking it seriously,” Rose assured him, starting the video which was, yes, six minutes of Shane and Ilya checking each other out, ending in the popsicle debacle.

The next video was “Shilya moments that send me”.

Shane covered his face with a pillow and wondered how hard it would be to suffocate himself. “Please stop,” he said as he heard the noise of him and Ilya bickering come through the sound system.

Someone patted his shoulder. “But you are so cute together,” J.J. said in what Shane was pretty sure was a mocking tone. “Oh I love this part where you’re arguing over apples.”

“I hate all of you,” Shane muttered into his pillow.

He looked up when he heard the strains of a song that sounded familiar, only to see a cut of Ilya looping his arms around Shane’s shoulders followed immediately by a shot of a hockey game, Shane slamming Ilya against the boards. The singer started singing in Spanish. Shane had a feeling it was a good thing he didn’t understand the language.

“What is this?” he asked.

“It’s a fan edit,” Jackie said. “Like a music video kinda. People make them for their favorite ships or movies or whatever.”

“A fan made this?” Shane asked, impressed despite himself. The video had cut to a clip of him and Ilya feeding penguins, then they were facing off against each other, back on the ice. It was somehow all done to the fast-paced rhythm of the song.

“Yeah,” Jackie said. “Some of these are really good.”

“Jackie likes to watch them when she’s nursing,” Hayden said. “Captain America and the Winter Soldier ones, mostly. You know, from the Marvel movies? Sometimes I get up to get a glass of water and there she is crying to the sight of two big men trying to beat the shit out of each other.”

“It’s a love story!” Jackie argued, heatedly. “They kept saving each other and then Bucky was brainwashed, and Steve broke his brainwashing…”

Shane nodded along, eyes on the screen, where the fan had skillfully edited together cuts from the show, games, press conferences, even the CCM ad they’d shot the summer before their rookie year.

He took out his phone.

Me: My friends are making me watch fan videos of the show

Rozy: I have been looking at them

Rozy: Which one did you like?

Me: None of them

Me: They’re all so embarrassing

Rozy: Some are hot )))))))))

Rozy: [link]

Shane hesitantly opened the link. For a moment there were jungle sounds and then My anaconda don’t, my anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns hun blared out of his phone as he frantically tried to close out of his browser.

Everyone in the room was staring at him.

“Ilya, uh, sent me a link,” Shane said.

“Oh!” Jackie exclaimed and then went to the youtube search bar.

“Please don’t,” Shane tried, but the jungle noises were coming from the sound system and then there was a video that appeared to be just Shane and Ilya’s asses and Shane and Ilya looking at each other’s asses while a woman sang about how big her ass was.

Shane reached for his pillow again.

.

If Shane later browsed youtube later, opening various fan edits of him and Ilya only to immediately close half of them out of embarrassment, that was between him and his youtube account.

.

The Voyageurs ended the season second in the league, first in their division, and played their first series against the Detroit Wreckers. It should have been an easy win— the Wreckers had barely scraped a wild card spot, but J.J. was out on a lower body injury and Mitty had been hospitalized with appendicitis the day before the first game and so instead the series had carried on for an exhausting two weeks, five of the six games they played dragging on into overtime.

The Bears had destroyed the Guardians in four games, so while Montreal headed into the second series exhausted, the Bears were well-rested and full of the confidence of a clean sweep.

There were four days between the end of the first series and the beginning of the second and Shane spent one sleeping and the next practicing and the third traveling to Boston ahead of his team, arriving at Logan in the middle of the afternoon, stopped at a Japanese place his mom had recommended and picking up an enormous amount of food before directing the cab to Ilya’s house.

Ilya let him in and pinned him against the wall as Shane laughed and said “The food! The food!” until Ilya let him up long enough to put the bags of takeout on the counter before pressing him up against it.

“The tempura’s not going to be good when it’s cold,” Shane warned as Ilya sucked on his neck. “And it’s already been in a while because you live so fucking far out of town.”

Ilya growled, then let him go. “Tempura?” he asked, opening one of the bags. “Fried food for Shane Hollander?”

“I’ve lost too much weight, the trainer said,” Shane confessed. “I’m so hungry I think I ordered half the menu.”

They pulled out the containers, opening them and shoving pieces of sushi and sashimi into their mouths as they went, until the whole feast was spread out before them.

“This is far too much,” Shane groaned, grabbing a tempura shrimp and almost downing it whole.

Ilya grabbed silverware and chopsticks from a drawer and investigated a container of udon noodles.

“You’re supposed to put them into the broth,” Shane explained, taking the udon noodles and dumping them into the container containing the broth. He grabbed a pair of chopsticks and took a big bite of the noodles, broth smearing on his face.

“You’re hungry,” Ilya said, amused. “No lunch?”

“I don’t like airport food,” Shane said, “and I’m still pretty worn down from the series— it was brutal.”

“Almost lose to Detroit, so embarrassing,” Ilya mocked, picking up a piece of sushi and dipping it into the soy sauce. Shane tried not to be impressed by how well he used his chopsticks.

“Detroit’s not so bad,” Shane said, wanting to take the words back as soon as he said them. He sighed and grabbed a piece of a torotaku roll. “You really slaughtered the Guardians”.

Ilya shrugged. “Half the team was called up. Not a fair game.” He grinned. “But we still celebrated.” He plopped a bite of ankimo sashimi into his mouth.

Shane ate some more of the udon noodles.

To his surprise (and dismay) they managed to eat almost all of the food, gorging themselves until they were more than full. They were too full for sex so instead they lay around watching tv until Ilya got the brilliant idea to put on fan edits from their show.

“Nope,” Shane said and got up.

“Where are you going?” Ilya demanded.

“Is your hot tub full?” Shane asked. “I could do with a soak.”

Ilya turned the tv off and followed Shane out onto the deck, fiddling with the controls of the hot tub, while Shane looked out across the yard. The game had been in the afternoon and the sun was only just setting. The scraggly trees didn’t look all that better in the summer.

“You should do something with this yard,” Shane said.

“Like what?” Ilya asked, looking up from the complicated looking hot tub control panel.

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “Better trees? You could do, like shrubs along the tree line.”

“You do not like my trees? You think my trees are bad?”

“They’re just kind of small and sad looking.”

“You hurt their feelings,” Ilya said. “Sorry trees!” he called, then laughed when Shane smacked him in the side. “The hot tub is ready now,” he said, stripping out of his shorts and tank-top carelessly, throwing them onto one of the deck chairs.

Shane’s mouth watered at the sight of him, even though he was still so full.

He followed suit, folding his clothes and pausing a moment when he felt Ilya’s eyes on him, stepping into the warm water and settling down on the bench.

Ilya grinned, his fake teeth gleaming in the late afternoon sun, then he slid across the small space to Shane, straddling his lap, knees on either side of him. He kissed Shane light, teasingly at first, until Shane started protesting and chasing his mouth, then pressed in harder, heavier, their naked bodies sliding together, the water easing the way.

“I’m still too full for this,” Shane complained into Ilya’s mouth and Ilya laughed and kissed him more deeply, as if he wanted to explore Shane’s full stomach with his tongue.

Eww, Shane thought, then laughed.

Ilya pulled away. “What?” he asked.

Shane smiled and shook his head and Ilya pinched Shane’s nipple in retribution.

.

He woke in Ilya’s bed, blinking at the golden sunlight pooling across them. Somewhere nearby, Shane’s alarm was going off.

“No,” Ilya grumbled and rolled over, tucking his head into Shane’s neck.

Shane laughed. “Shouldn’t have agreed to do those shoots,” he said.

“You agreed too,” Ilya mumbled into Shane’s neck.

“We’re both idiots,” Shane agreed and then forced himself up when his alarm started ringing again.

They stumbled through the morning. Ilya had purchased oats just for Shane, making a fried egg and toast dripping with butter for himself while Shane cooked his oatmeal. Ilya drank milky coffee and Shane drank the green tea he found in Ilya’s cupboard, the package still unopened.

It was probably because of brain damage— too many concussions in juniors— that Shane actually agreed to get into one of Ilya’s cars; it was day-glo orange this time, with black accents and a trunk so small Shane’s bag hardly fit in it. He pulled on sunglasses and tried not to pay attention to Ilya’s reckless lane-changing.

Finally they arrived at their destination; a warehouse looking structure somewhere on the outskirts of Boston. The woman who liaised with them from ESPN was there, with Ilya’s agent, a short, stout man with a light Russian accent, and Shane’s mom.

“Honey,” she said, coming over to hug him. “I went by the hotel but you weren’t there.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I went over to Ilya’s place for dinner last night and slept over because it’s a little way out of the city.” He felt a little bad about lying to his mom, but it was one thing to tell J.J. and Hayden and Jackie and Rose about Ilya and another thing to tell his parents.

“Oh,” Shane’s mom said, her concern melting into affection. She turned and smiled at Ilya. “I’m Yuna Hollander.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, smiling winningly. “We’ve met.” He shook her hand.

“Good game last night,” Shane’s mom said and Shane groaned internally.

The liaison jumped in. “Shane, Ilya, lovely to see you. We know your time is limited right now, with the playoffs, so we’ve made the schedule as tight as possible.”

“Right,” Shane said. “Of course.”

“We’ve set up four engagements for you today,” the liaison said. “First are two simple fun youtube spots.”

“What kind of spots?” Shane asked.

“They’re both with Buzz Feed,” she replied, looking at her clipboard. “Reading thirst tweets and an interview with puppies.”

This was going to take a while, Shane realized. He was still so tired.

“Okay,” Ilya said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We do them quick and then we take nap, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed.

“After that you have an interview with Sports Illustrated and then a photoshoot.”

Shane’s eyes widened and he looked at his mother.

“Sorry!” she said. “It was a last minute offer and there’s so much interest around you right now.”

“We have a game tomorrow,” Shane reminded her.

Ilya patted his shoulder. “Still can take a nap this afternoon,” he said, reassuringly, then glared at everyone else in the room as if challenging them to disagree.

“Okay,” the liaison said, as if they hadn’t interrupted. “Thirst tweets is first.”

Their first spot was horrible. They were put in chairs beside each other and asked to read thirst tweets about themselves.

“Shane doesn’t go on Twitter,” Ilya said, after they’d read the introduction. “But sometimes I send him some things.”

“And I hate you for it,” Shane replied.

Ilya laughed at him, then took the first slip of paper he was handed.

“I think I read tweets for Hollander, yes?” he asked, then looked down at the paper and raised his eyebrows. “Maybe you need to cover your ears?” he suggested. “This is too dirty for you.”

“I grew up in locker rooms,” Shane reminded him.

“I warn you,” Ilya said, then reads the paper “‘Do you think Shane Hollander knows hes the prettiest man to ever exist its just kind of baffling actually.’”

“Oh my god,” Shane said, covering his face and feeling himself turning red. “Why would someone write that?”

Ilya looked at him. “What do you think ’thirst tweets’ is?” he asked.

“Like, I don’t know. Uh… ‘I like your ass?’”

Ilya laughed and patted him on the back.

“I’m not pretty!” Shane exclaimed, still covering his face. “I’m very normal looking, actually.”

“Hollzy,” Ilya said, with faux sincerity. “You are very pretty.”

“Nope,” Shane said.

“Yes,” Ilya said. “So pretty.”

“Ugh,” Shane said. “Can we move on?”

“It does not get better,” Ilya warned.

Ilya took the next paper from the assistant and tried to hand it to Shane.

“No, you read it,” Shane told him.

“You have to read some,” Ilya said.

“No, you can read them and I’ll just sit here turning red,” Shane argued.

Ilya shrugged. “Okay. This one’s for me. ‘Ilya Rozanov I wanna shrink you to the size of a gummy bear and swallow you whole.’ Aww, that is very sweet, thank you.”

Shane looked at him, then looked at the paper. “What does that mean?” he demanded.

Ilya shrugged.

“You said it was sweet!”

“It is a little cute, yes? I would make a little cute gummy bear.”

“But then you couldn’t play hockey,” Shane said and Ilya beamed at him.

“You would also make little cute gummy bear,” Ilya said. “We could play on gummy bear team together.”

“I hate this so much,” Shane grumbled. “Can we move on?”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya said, taking another slip of paper and reading it. “Ah. This is for Shane. ‘What a beautiful shot!’ Oh this is, hmm… the third game against Detroit I think. That shot in second period, maybe? It was very beautiful. ‘i need to massage his ass every minute of every day. i need to be spreading those cheeks’.”

“What?” Shane exclaimed, jumping so hard from the surprise his chair fell over.

Ilya looked down at him, concerned for a moment and then bursting into laughter when he saw Shane was okay.

“Why!” Shane moaned from the floor.

“New headline: ‘NHL Star Shane Hollander out of playoffs after thirst tweet injury’” Ilya said, mockingly.

“Haha.”

“He’s okay,” Ilya told the camera.

“This is some nefarious scheme of yours to injure me,” Shane complained, wiggling away from the chair but not making a move to get up.

“You’re fine,” Ilya said. “You are a diver.”

“My brain isn’t fine,” Shane grumbled, finally standing up, dusting himself off, righting his chair and then sitting down.

“You don’t want ass massage?” Ilya asked. “Maybe your ass is too tight?”

“Fuck you,” Shane said.

“Shane,” the producer rebuked him.

“What?” Shane demanded. “We can talk about spreading my cheeks but can’t say ‘fuck?’ Honestly.”

“Let’s move on?” the producer suggested.

“I just don’t get it,” Shane said. “It was a beautiful shot, yes, thank you, okay. But then why does my ass get pulled into it? I didn’t get the goal with my ass.”

Ilya laughed. “You should try,” he said, wide-eyed with mock sincerity. “Stand in front of the net, bend over, see if ass is good forward.”

“Oh my god,” Shane exclaimed. “I actually, literally hate you.”

“You love me,” Ilya teased.

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best.”

“Can we move on?” the producer asked.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya said and took the next tweet. “Ah, one for me. ‘Excellent game Mr Rozanov is it ok if I lick the sweat between your thighs’ This one is very polite. Thank you for your courtesy. Sad because I am taken.”

Shane stared at him.

“What?” Ilya asked.

Shane felt himself, impossibly, go redder.

“You’re taken?” he heard himself asking hoarsely, then glanced, with a panicky nervousness, at the cameras.

“Yes, I have very beautiful paramour,” Ilya told him. “Most sweet, most gorgeous.” He looked at the camera and smiled. “You are all jealous, I know. Jealous of me, jealous of lover.”

Shane hoped his face wasn’t doing anything too revealing.

“Ewww,” Shane said, trying to cover up how he felt. “Don’t say ‘lover’. Gross.”

“Why?” Ilya asked, confused. “That is not the word?”

“It’s…” Shane gestured, vaguely. “Like a hairy guy from the seventies being creepy.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Shane said. “What’s next?”

Ilya shrugged and looked at the assistant. “New tweet? Oh, for Hollzy again. ‘'if you leave me and Shane Hollander alone in a room one of us is walking out pregnant. and it's not gonna be me.’”

“What!?” Shane squeaked, then clapped a hand over his mouth. “But I can’t…”

“Yes, I think they know,” Ilya said.

“Why?” Shane asked forlornly. “Why does everyone want my ass? What about my hockey? I’m a very good hockey player, but all people want to talk about is my ass!”

Ilya wrapped an arm around him. “This is very difficult for Shane,” he told the camera. “He is very innocent and young.”

“I’m older than you,” Shane protested as Ilya drew Shane in to rest his head on Ilya’s shoulder.

“Shhh,” Ilya shushed him, patting his hair. He took the next tweet from the assistant one-handed. “‘I cannot decide who is hotter, Shane Hollander or Ilya Rozanov,’ I can answer this question for you,” Ilya said, winking at the camera. “‘Fortunately, I have two holes.’ This person is a good problem solver,” Ilya commented, still patting Shane’s hair. “Why decide when you can have both?”

“You can have neither,” Shane said grumpily, head still resting on Ilya’s shoulder.

“Don’t crush their dreams,” Ilya told him.

.

Finally, the spot was over; the lights went off and Shane blinked while assistants appeared and handed them drinks.

“I think that went well,” Shane’s mom said and suddenly Shane’s mind went blank. His mother had been there. The whole time. When they were talking about Shane’s ass.

“Oh my god,” Shane said, covering his eyes.

“What is it?” Shane’s mom demanded. “What’s wrong?”

Ilya put his arm around Shane again and let Shane hide his face in his neck.

“Tweets were too thirsty,” Ilya said, rubbing Shane’s back.

“They weren’t that bad, eh?” Shane’s mom said. “I’ve read much…” she suddenly cut off.

“You probably don’t,” Ilya told her. “Probably didn’t even see interview? Went to get coffee?”

“What?” Shane mom asked. “No I—”

“Probably left to get coffee,” Ilya said again, emphatically, his hand still making circles on Shane’s back. Shane had the sudden realization that he was a grown man tucked into the arms of another grown man who was telling his mother to pretend she didn’t see him complaining about people’s obsession with his ass in a video that would be publicly accessible and probably widely viewed.

He laughed.

Ilya pulled away a little and looked down at him, concerned, and then smiled.

Shane stepped out of his arms, still laughing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was just… a lot. What’s next?”

What was next was puppies. Which were very cute and snugly but what was even cuter and more snuggly was how much Ilya Rozanov loved puppies. How his face lit up at the sight of them, more joyous and radiant than Shane had ever seen and how he spent the entire half-hour of the shoot cuddling them and cooing at them in Russian, leaving Shane to answer all the questions, which were simply, easy questions like ‘How are you feeling’ and ‘How has your rivalry changed your game?’ and at no point during the interview did anyone say anything about Shane’s ass.

When the interview was over and they were loading the puppies up to bring them back to wherever they’d gotten them from, Shane was relieved and relaxed and Ilya was forlorn.

“Do you want a dog?” Shane asked, as he drank the shake his mom had brought him.

“Want yes,” Ilya said, with a sigh. “But I am gone so much it would not be fair.”

Shane patted his back in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

.

The interview after that was also pretty straightforward. Shane had been interviewed tons of times, of course, but never with Ilya, so that was different and interesting. They were asked a lot of questions about their rivalry and how long they’d known each other and shooting the reality tv show.

“By the time this is published the playoffs might already be over for one of you,” the interviewer said. “How will that affect your new friendship?”

They looked at each other.

“Our friendship has withstood several games so far,” Shane reminded her. “We beat the Bears several times this season.”

“We won too,” Ilya protested.

“Once,” Shane said, before continuing. “Going out in the playoffs is a lot more, um, emotion that that, though. It’s…” he shrugged. “It’s a loss. You’ve been working so hard all year for this one thing and then suddenly it’s over and it’s this huge sense of loss. It’s really hard for everyone, I think, and I don’t think you can keep from associating the team that beat you with that feeling. So yeah, I think whichever of us loses the other will probably be angry and maybe even hate them for a little bit.

“But it’s also the game we’ve both been playing for eight years, and we’ve both lost in playoffs once a year for that whole time.”

“Not me,” Ilya cut in. “I won last year.”

Shane couldn’t help smiling at him. “Besides that. You have to move on, you know? You’re not going to be able to have a good life and good relationships if you don’t move on. You take a few days or whatever time you need to get over it and then you try to enjoy the off season.

“I’ve had friends who’ve beaten me before. We all have. I mean, I’ve played with probably, I don’t know, a tenth? More? Of the guys in the NHL at this point. People get traded, guys you played with in juniors, players you play with on national teams, at All-Star… if I hated everyone who beat me at some point I’d end up hating everyone, you know? That’s no way to live.”

“Yes,” Ilya added. “It is very true. The media likes to…” he waved his hands. “Make this whole thing big. Two players fight for the top spot, play on rival teams, they must hate each other. And we play along, yes?” he smiled at Shane. “Exchange chirps, say funny things in interviews. But we have known each other for so long, see each other again and again, we’re going to be very unhappy if we hate, you know?”

“How did you feel when you were asked to do the show?” the interviewer asked.

“It was my idea,” Ilya said.

“What?!” Shane demanded.

“Yes, I was talking to the ESPN representative. They wanted to do another series, one episode per sports star. I asked them ‘did you see awards with me and Shane Hollander’ and I pulled it up on my phone. I showed them how many views the video had gotten. Then I said ‘what about a series, me and Shane Hollander? We can play around, do things together, maybe little competitions? People love our rivalry, we are both big stars.”

“You came up with the idea?” Shane repeated.

“Yes, I just said so,” Ilya answered, smugly.

“So you wanted to spend time with me?”

Ilya shrugged. “I thought it would be good. Good for everyone? You, me, ESPN, teams, yes? And it was.”

Shane was still trying to wrap his head around this when the producer asked: “Shane, how did you feel?”

“Sorry, what?” Shane asked.

“When you were first offered the show?”

“I didn’t want to do it,” Shane said. “I’m so busy, I have so much to do, and I never really got into reality tv. It seemed kind of stupid?” he looked at Ilya sheepishly.

“You didn’t know it was Ilya’s idea?”

“No, not until now.”

“You seemed sad when you found out it was the final episode,” the interviewer pointed out.

“For sure,” Shane said. “Yeah, I thought it was stupid in the beginning, but it turned out to be really fun. I started looking forward to it.” He smiled at Ilya.

“So you’d do another season, if you were offered?”

Shane glanced at Ilya, then back at the interviewer. “I think so, for sure.”

.

Shane had done a lot of photoshoots, too, on the ice and off, but never with someone else. They had Shane wear a Voyageurs hoodie and Ilya a Bears t-shirt with the sleeves cut off (in his usual style) and they had them playing a variety of indoor games— knee hockey, a plastic kids bowling set, twister, which would all have been fun except they had to keep stopping and letting the photographer reposition them. Shane would probably have looked like he was in a hostage situation if Ilya hadn’t kept making jokes and cracking Shane up.

They had them change several times; into clothes that were too tight and had to keep being adjusted, into their jerseys, into each other’s jerseys, had them lie together on a couch and asked them to give smoldering looks at the camera, and Shane was exhausted when he was done.

“My team’s flying in today,” Shane told Ilya, as the shoot was finally wrapping up. “I’ve got to meet them at the hotel in the evening.”

“We should all go to lunch,” Shane’s mom suggested coming over, smiling at Ilya and Shane.

“Oh,” Shane said, and glanced at Ilya. He still wanted to keep Ilya as far away from his mom as possible. “We, uh… Ilya has plans.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “With Shane.”

“For lunch?” Shane’s mom asked.

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Um, special hockey player lunch.”

Shane’s mom raised an eyebrow and looked back and forth between them.

“But I’m going to be in Boston until Thursday,” Shane said, quickly, “so I could meet you for lunch tomorrow maybe? After morning skate.”

“Okay,” Shane’s mom said, slowly. “Your dad is flying in tomorrow so we can go to your games.”

“Great,” Shane said. “I’ll update you and we can make plans.” He grabbed his bag and looked at Ilya.

“See you later, Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya said, as Shane pulled him out of the room.

.

Shane wanted nothing more to go back to Ilya’s house so he could to pin Ilya against the wall and have his wicked way with him, but it was past noon and they both needed to eat. So they went to a restaurant and ate salad with a side of protein and greeted fans, signing a number of bits of paper and, confusingly, one sock.

“You’re the one who had the idea for the show,” Shane said, on the ride back, pretending to ignore the scenery hurdling past and how close he was to imminent death.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed.

“You set this whole thing up!”

“Yes.”

“You said you were taken.”

“Yes.”

“By a beautiful, sweet, gorgeous, paramour.”

Ilya smiled.

Shane found himself, absurdly, wishing Ilya would drive faster.

Finally, finally, they were at Ilya’s house, the garage door sliding closed. Ilya stepped out of the car, slung his bag over his shoulder and then Shane was on him like a leech.

“Shane!” he complained, laughing, as Shane pushed him against the polished concrete wall of the garage.

“We should probably have a serious conversation about this,” Shane said, against Ilya’s neck. “But right now—” he sank to the cold concrete floor and yanked Ilya’s fly open so hard the button flew off.

Chapter 15: Interlude 6: Gonna see my picture on the cover

Chapter Summary

What surprises are in store in the Sports Illustrated article about Shane and Ilya? What new insights does Rose have into Shane's life now? Who's Shane going to be training with when the season's over? Find out all this and more in the newest chapter of Captain vs Captain!

Chapter Notes

OMG penultimate chapter! I'm actually feeling a little sad about this fic ending! Thanks to everyone who suggested pics for me to use for the SI cover! I'm really happy with how it ended up turning out.

(You may not think you could make oniguri with brown rice but you actually can! It's amazing. I'm actually going to go and make some right now.)

Mitty and J.J. were back for the first game against Boston and their defense was solid, so Shane headed out onto the ice, grinning up at the vitriol shouted down at them by the Boston fans as they did their laps.

“Did you see the signs?” Ilya asked, skating to the edge of the midline after the Bears had done their laps to the resounding cheers of their fans.

Shane pressed harder into his stretch. “What signs?” he asked.

Ilya jerked his head up and Shane followed his line of sight to a small group of fans who had signs that read things like ‘Shilya ❤️ forever’ and ‘we love you Shane & Ilya!’

“What the fuck,” Shane muttered even as Ilya grinned and waved at them.

“Shane, wave to your fans,” Ilya told him. “Only people in Garden not hating you.”

“Fuck off,” Shane said, moving into another stretch.

“That is not the kind of fuck you want,” Ilya replied casually, moving into his own stretches.

“Don’t say things like that here!” Shane protested.

Ilya laughed at him. “Gonna destroy you, then destroy you.”

“Gross,” Shane muttered. “And we’re going to win.”

“Bet on it?” Ilya asked. “I would say winner gets one thing but we both want same thing.” He grinned at Shane, probably wiggling his eyebrows, but Shane couldn’t see them through his visor.

Shane sighed and stood up on his skates. “Winner makes the loser dinner, next chance we get.”

Ilya smiled and shook his hand and then skated away.

.

The Bears battled hard, but Mitty was in top form, determined to prove something after his surgery, and it was a shut out despite all the dirty tricks Ilya tried against him. The Bear’s goalie, Kovalev, wasn’t as lucky; Shane faked him out then got one in on the backhand and then, in the third period, J.J. shot a beautiful goal across a sudden stretch of clear ice.

They were too exhausted to think seriously about celebrating their win, especially considering how rabid Boston fans were, so they headed back to the hotel proud but subdued.

Shane changed out of his game day suit and told Hayden he was heading out. They didn’t have any team obligations until the afternoon, so there wasn’t a curfew that evening.

Shane grabbed his bag and opened his mouth to lie to Hayden— to tell him he was going to see his parents, who’d come down for the game, maybe— then remembered he didn’t have to.

“I’ll be back in time for curfew,” he joked.

Hayden laughed. “Say ‘hi’ to Rozanov for me.”

.

Boston took the next game and the less Shane had to think about that the better. Well, of course he had to think about it (and think about it, and think about it, what they could have done differently, and examine the tape and adjust their plays and then examine the tape from the first game to notice where they’d done things differently).  But he didn’t want to think about it. Instead he went and got drinks with Rose. Or, well, she got drinks and the bartender winked at Shane and produced the brand of kombucha they only sold at the tiny hippie place on the other side of town.

“I think he’s flirting with me,” Shane said, when they slid into the reserved booth at the very back of the bar.

Rose laughed so hard actually snorted her wine out of her nose. “You think?!” she managed when she could talk again.

“Your Sports Illustrated piece came out,” Rose said. “Did you read it?”

Shane shook his head. “I hate reading those things. My mom reads them and then she sends me the things she thinks are the most interesting.”

“I loved it,” Rose said. “The author really paints you and Roz in such a great light. And these pics are so great. You really should look. But also: it was Roz’s idea?!?”

“I know,” Shane said. “I know. I—” he leaned closer and whispered. “—fucked him about it.”

Rose clapped her hands on her mouth and giggled.

“But…” he took a deep breath. “You know, after we did the third episode he took me on what I now think might have been a date.”

“Oh?” Rose asked, like she was trying not to laugh at him. Again.

“Yeah, okay,” Shane said. “But… do you think he was trying to get in my pants this whole time? Like this was some elaborate seduction?”

Rose crooked her head. “Maybe,” she said, after a moment. “But maybe also this was a plan to get to know you better. Maybe he’s always been interested in you.”

Shane thought about that. He’d been thinking a lot, about his interactions with Ilya over the years and… yeah. Yeah, he could see that.

“The day we were drafted,” Shane said, “he asked me if Montreal and Boston were nice and then he said we’ll be seeing each other often, and I thought he was trying to fuck with me, you know, but I was telling Jackie about it and she said maybe he wanted to be friends with me.

“And the more I think about it the more I think she’s right, and I was actually kind of a huge asshole to him a lot. Like yeah he was also an asshole, but that’s part of his game, chirping, trying to get his opponents to make mistakes.”

“Kind of a dirty strategy,” Rose commented.

“Yeah,” Shane said, with a shrug. “But there were a bunch of times when he did try to start up a conversation and I brushed him off.”

Rose considered this. “He was still an asshole to you,” she reminded him. “Even if that’s part of his play. Like, it doesn’t have to be. So I think you made a reasonable assumption. Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge, right? He’s clearly not holding a grudge.”

“What if he put all this effort into getting to know me and he’ll discover he doesn’t like me?”

Rose gave him a pitying look. “Baby girl,” she said.

“Don’t call me ‘baby girl’.”

“Babydoll,” she corrected, with a smirk. “He likes you. He really likes you. He gets literal hearts in his eyes when he looks at you.” She held up a hand, staving off his objection. “He gets figurative hearts in his eyes when he looks at you.”

“Do you think he wants more?” Shane asked.

“More than what?”

Shane shrugged. “I don’t even know,” he said. “We haven’t, like, had the relationship talk. Can we even have a relationship? I mean, it’s not like we can come out.”

“Shane,” Rose said, in her ‘patient’ voice. “You already have a relationship. Maybe not a capital ‘R’ relationship, but you two already exist in relation to each other.”

“That literally describes every two people on Earth,” Shane muttered.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “The question isn’t if you have a relationship, it’s what kind of relationship you have. And what kind of relationship you want.”

“Have you— did the thirsty tweet video come out?” Shane asked.

Rose’s eyes went wide. “There’s a thirst tweet video?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’. Anyway when we filmed the video, Ilya said that he was ‘taken’.”

“He did?” Rose asked.

“And he definitely meant me.”

“It would be pretty horrible for him to say that if he didn’t mean it. Shane, if he’s saying that, then he already thinks you’re in a Relationship.”

“Capital ‘R’?” Shane teased. Rose rolled her eyes.

“You know who you should really be having this convo with?” Rose asked.

“Fuck off,” Shane muttered. “What I keep coming back to though is does it fucking matter?” he didn’t mean to say that as harshly as he did.

Rose frowned at him.

“You know,” Shane said, gesturing, hissing so he wouldn’t raise his voice. “Does it matter if we’re fuckbuddies or in a ‘capital ‘R’ relationship’ what the fuck ever because we’re never gonna get to come out of the closet. Now we’re friends and we can go on dates and people will be like ‘wow, those guys are so close’ and ‘bromance goals’ or whatever—”

“And I thought you didn’t go on social media,” Rose interjected.

Shane ignored her “— and I, don’t know, hold us up as role models for cooperation in sports or something. Give us the Lady Byng jointly or something.”

“Rozanov is never getting the Lady Byng.”

“And it’s great that we can be close and no one will think anything’s going on except for fans with— what did you call it? Ship glasses?”

“Shipping goggles.”

“But it’s also.” Shane sighed and felt all the anger evaporate out of him. He felt like a deflating balloon. “I want people to know he’s mine. I want to reblog all those thirst tweets and tell them they can’t have him.

“I want to brag about him the way the guys brag about their girlfriends and wives and I want to bring him to family skate— I mean I don’t know how that would work out, logistically, but I want to— and team cookouts and put pictures of him on my lock screen and what’s that line from that Joni Mitchell song?”

“You listen to Joni Mitchell?”

“My mom does, shut up. ‘Feeling proud to say ‘I love you’ right out loud.’”

“You’re feeling particularly vulnerable right now so I won’t make fun of you for memorizing Joni Mitchell lyrics.”

“That’s literally what you’re doing right now,” Shane muttered. “Can’t you let me be angsty for one minute?”

“Nope,” Rose said with a grin. “So, let me summarize. You want to have a capital ‘R’ relationship with Rozy but you’re frustrated because no matter how serious either of you get about each other no one except those closest to you will ever know?”

Shane sighed. “Yeah, okay, basically.”

“I have a lot of friends who are closeted,” Rose said. “They have a similar rationale to you; they think coming out will get them pigeon-holed and destroy their careers. And different people go about it different ways. Sometimes they’re only out to one or two people, sometimes they’re out to their whole friend group, sometimes they’re just only ‘softly’ in the closet. And they can still celebrate their relationship with the people closest to them, the people who know the truth.”

Shane nodded, not sure what he thought about that. “That might be kind of what I’m doing now?” he ventured. “Unintentionally?” He groaned and covered his face. “I still haven’t told Ilya I’ve told you and J.J.”

Rose squeezed Shane’s shoulder. “I think you also have to start considering how much power you have.”

“What do you mean?” Shane asked.

“You’re the captains of two of the top ranked NHL teams,” Rose said. “You’re leading the league in points and Ilya is leading the league in goals. You’ve got a fucking Olympics gold medal, World Juniors Gold metal, Worlds Gold metal. All the hardware you could possibly get and you’re the favorite to win the cup. You’re fucking Captain Canada.” She leaned forward across the table. “If you and Ilya can’t come out, who will ever be able to?”

Shane stared down into his drink. “For sure,” he said, finally. “Yeah, no, for sure, you’re not wrong. But I’ve spent my whole career being the poster child for Asians in hockey. My whole life I’ve had to— I’m not leading the league in goals by accident. I had to work fucking hard because the moment I hit even something that smells like a slump every asshole racist is coming out of the woodwork saying ‘oh I guess Asians really can’t play.’ I just, I can’t even think of how much more pressure being gay— out and gay— would be on top of that. And then…” he gestured helplessly.

“There’s something different about how my mind works, like— I never told anyone this before but I read this book and there was a character and he thought like me, like it was supposed to be unusual and different but it was me, it was just like how I think and I did a little bit of research and I’m pretty sure I have a learning disorder or something— I can’t even say the name of it out loud— and I’d really like.” He rubbed under one eye, dashed away the water that was starting to pool there. “I’d really like to stop being different. Just you know, if I could be normal for like one day that would really be great.”

“Oh,” Rose said, and she wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I wasn’t thinking. That must all be so hard.”

Shane laughed, a little wetly. “The paps are going to get pictures of us— you and me— and we’ll be in the tabloids again.”

Rose laughed too, weakly. “That’s one way to keep people from finding out you’re gay.”

“I don’t want to lie,” Shane admitted. “If that’s you offering to be my beard, thanks, but…”

“I know,” Rose said, pulling back. She sighed and smiled up at Shane.

Shane looked away, drank some of his kombucha, took a few deep breaths.

“I’d really like to stop being different,” he said, finally, “but I can’t, can I? I am who I am and, you’re right, there are other people like me. Gay and Asian and whatever else, and I want them to play hockey too. I want people to say ‘You can play’ and actually mean it. So maybe, if people knew, it wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Rose leaned over and hugged him again. “You’re the bravest person I know, you know that?”

“I don’t want to be,” Shane said. “I don’t want to have to be.”

“I know,” she told him, softly. “Come on; you look beat. Let’s get you home.”

Shane was beat. Playoffs were no joke and all this on top of it? He nodded and followed Rose out of the bar.

.

‘End of a Rivalry: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov on competition, friendship, and, of course, hockey.’ The two page spread featured a shot of Ilya and Shane from the photoshoot playing knee hockey, Ilya trying to push Shane away with one hand while Shane held onto Ilya’s arm, both of them laughing. Ilya looked beautiful, his hair falling out of its styling into curls, his muscles massive in his cut-up t-shirt, his smile wide enough that his cheeks dimpled. Shane stared at it for a long minute before turning to the next page.

‘Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were pitted against each other from the moment they both walked onto the international hockey stage as captains of their respective national teams in World Juniors despite being some of the youngest players in the tournament.

‘Now, almost ten years later, they’re making a splash of a different sort; as the unlikely friendship between the two developed over the filming of a web series featuring the two of them visiting local sites— The New England Aquarium, Boston Common, Montréal en Lumière— as well as participating in a number of silly, low stakes competitions, which they never failed to make ridiculous bets on.

‘Over the course of the series the two go from glowering at each other to interacting as close friends, although they never grow less competitive. And as we’re publishing this, they’re currently in the middle of the biggest competition of them all: going head to head in the second round of the NHL playoffs.’

The article went on to talk about their teams, the show, featured quotes from them and from other people, including, he was surprised to see, the producer.

“I was a little nervous going in; the joint speech they’d made at the NHL awards was hilarious but so awkward, I thought I’d have to do my whole kindergarten teacher routine, teach them about the magic of friendship, but as soon as I saw the two of them together I discovered it would be more about reigning them in than anything.

“I tried to do icebreakers that first day and one of them— I think Hollander— reminded me that they’d actually known each other for a long time and it became immediately obvious that they have really great chemistry.”

And later,

“One of my favorite segments we had to cut was when Shane was trying to convince Ilya to try the apples and Ilya tried it and said ‘it tastes like apple’ and Shane said something like ‘did you think it was going to taste like cake’ and Ilya replied ‘the way you talked I thought it would taste like cocaine’ and Shane just broke down laughing and Ilya kept one upping himself with ridiculous things for it to taste like— all of them inappropriate for our channel— until they were laughing so hard they had to hold each other up.

“That’s what I think people find so appealing about the show and the two of them; that it’s just these guys having a good time with each other and that’s fun. It’s contagious.”

And throughout were pictures of them together— the magazine had gotten pictures from games where they faced off against each other or one checked the other, from the All-Star game, from the show, and, of course, the photoshoot. There were Shane and Ilya playing games, but also Shane and Ilya posing in each other’s jerseys, Shane and Ilya sitting too close together on the couch, Ilya’s arm around Shane, Shane turned towards Ilya, looking up at him with a smile that wasn’t too revealing— it couldn’t be. Rose would have said something.

Shane touched his screen without meaning to. The light on the set caught the red in Ilya’s hair and there was something soft about his face that hadn’t been there the first few times they’d met. He was beautiful. Shane…

Shane jerked his hand away, closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Shane loved him. Shane pressed his heels over his eyes. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

.

Ilya came over the next day, after his morning skate, and Shane made them lunch and let himself be talked into taking their pregame nap together before Ilya had to head to the hotel to get the bus to the arena. Shane didn’t mention his realization or that he’d told multiple people about their relationship. It didn’t see right, before a game. Instead they talked about the Sports Illustrated issue and Shane mentioned something about his cottage which led to him telling Ilya about building it and all the things that had gone wrong, and then they were stripping down to their briefs and climbing into the bed together, Ilya rolling over and curling around Shane, warm like a winter coat.

They hadn’t even had sex, Shane thought muzzily. Hadn’t even brought it up. “Is the spark gone?” he asked softly and laughed, but Ilya was already asleep.

After he was gone, Shane’s followed his post-nap game day routine, arriving early at the arena, warm-ups, snack, two-touch, etc. He tried not to think about his realization of the day before, tried not to think about Ilya coming to the cottage, tried not to think about Ilya hanging out with Shane’s friends, concentrated instead on his routine, on the plays they were going to make and the flaws they’d noticed in the Bears defense and not the way Ilya’s eyes would sparkle across the face-off circle, the way he’d tongue his mouth guard out of his mouth for a moment to chirp Shane and grin.

Shane would beat Ilya because that’s what he did.

.

Shane did not beat Ilya. The game went into an exhausting forty-three minutes of overtime before Marlow slipped it into the next. The Voyageurs slumped back into the locker room while the Bears converged on their goalie in celebration and the Montreal fans muttered darkly and slunk out of the stadium. Shane fielded the usual questions without snapping at the reporters that they were doing the best they could, damn it.

“Do you think all the media attention around you and Rozanov is distracting from your game?” one asshole asked. Fuck him, Shane had gotten three points in the fucking game.

“Not at all,” Shane returned. “We’re both professionals and when we’re out of the ice we’re always going to give it our all.”

“So you’re not going easy on him because he’s your friend now?” the reporter persisted. Kyle in PR was beginning to look like he was considering kicking him out him.

“Not at all,” Shane told him, with a grin. “Friend or enemy, winning against Rozanov will always be my favorite thing to do.”

“And that’s the soundbite for this game,” Kyle muttered after he’d herded the reporters out.

“Is that a problem?” Shane asked.

“Not at all,” Kyle said, patting Shane on the shoulder and then clearly immediately regretting it, considering Shane was still in his sweat-soaked under layer.

Shane finished pulling off his pads, changed from his under layer in his workout clothes and went to do a cool-down in the fitness room.

.

Ilya arrived at Shane’s just after midnight, still pink from his shower, and he fell on the oniguri Shane had made on them, exclaiming in surprise when he discovered the marinated tofu at the center.

“My cousin taught me how to make them,” Shane said trying not to beam at Ilya when he exclaimed about how good they were. He’d taken the first with an air of trying to be polite and appreciative, the promptly gobbled another four down. “You’re supposed to chew for longer than that, though?”

Ilya lifted an eyebrow, mouth still stuffed.

“To get the nutrients out of the rice?” Shane said. “Some people think you should chew one hundred times for every bite. I tried it once and the rice actually gets really sweet? I guess it means you’re breaking the carbohydrates down into sugars.”

Ilya swallowed. “Shane, is too late for chemistry,” he said. “These are very good.”

“Thanks,” Shane said, smiling shyly at Ilya. “My cousin used white rice but I figured brown rice would work too, and it’s more healthy, of course. And I wanted to get some more protein in there, so I thought tofu would work?”

“What is this sweet thing?” Ilya asked. “Kind of… like sour apple?”

“Oh, that’s an omeboshi plum,” Shane said. “It’s like a pickled plum? It’s really good, right? My cousin introduced me to it. It’s like really expensive because it has to be imported from Japan.”

“What is ‘really expensive’?” Ilya asked.

“Oh,” Shane said. “Like eleven dollars? For a small container.”

Ilya was clearly trying not to laugh at that. “Shane you are a millionaire,” he said, once he’d swallowed again.

“Yeah,” Shane said, defensively. “I know.”

Ilya shook his head and ate another oniguri, humming as he got to the center.

He fit in so well in Shane’s kitchen. He imagined having him there all the time, sleepily making himself coffee, sitting at the kitchen counter with his computer, looking up and smiling at Shane when he came in.

“You should come to my cottage this summer,” Shane blurted out.

Ilya looked up at him in surprise.

“I mean, I know you’re probably going to Russia for training, but maybe you could come for a week or two?”

Ilya looked up from the oniguri he was eying and smiled. It was like a sock to the stomach, that smile, all of the sternness he usually tried to keep on his face gone. “I have to go to Miami to see the Russians,” he said. “But I do not think I’m going to Russia this year.”

“Oh, I thought you usually…” Shane began, then stopped. “Because of your father?”

Ilya sighed and shook his head. “A little bit. To tired to tell whole story.”

“Who are you training with then?” Shane asked, trying not to sound too eager. “I’d have to ask Marchy, but you could come here. The other guys wouldn’t mind.”

Ilya laughed. “Not mind? Training with enemy?”

“That’s nonsense,” Shane said. “Shaw and Xin aren’t with the Voyageurs and they train with us.”

“They are not Ilya Rozanov,” Ilya remarked.

“I’d like to train with you,” Shane said, then shyly added “if you want? I like the guys I train with, but they don’t really challenge me. It would be good to have someone of my caliber, you know?”

“Yeah,” Ilya agreed.

“And you could stay here,” Shane added, hurriedly. “It wouldn’t be that weird; guys stay at each other’s places all the time when they’re training.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said, laughing at him a little. “I know. I will think about it, okay? It is very late.”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, although he was still giddy with the idea of Ilya coming to Montreal to train. It was even better than the idea of him coming to the cottage; Ilya on the ice with him all day and in his bed all night.

“Probably have whole summer occupied with cup win anyway,” Ilya teased and Shane laughed and said “yeah, I probably will.”

Ilya picked up an oniguri like he was planning on throwing it at Shane, but he grinned and ate it instead.

Chapter End Notes

If you like my SI cover, you can reblog it here.

Chapter 16: Interlude 7: Coming out pt. 3

Chapter Summary

The boys finally talk about coming out. Who will win the conference finals and the cup? What really happens at the Meatpackers arena?

Find out all this and more in the last episode of Captain vs. Captain!

Chapter Notes

AAAAAAHHHHHHH last chapter!

(there will be some time stamps tho)

Thanks for bearing with me!

cw: a little mention of the racism Shane encounters in the middle of the chapter

The Voyageurs tied it up again on home ice, then they all flew to Boston to do it again; the Bears won, the Voyageurs tied.

Shane felt like he was half-dead, sleep walking most of the time, starving even though he was eating as much food as he could stomach. He and Ilya stayed with each other whenever they didn’t have curfews, but they didn’t achieve more than a few hand-jobs and blow-jobs. There was certainly no intense, acrobatic sex.

Montreal, Boston, Boston, Montreal, then Shane was giving his speech, a macho-version of ‘please I don’t want to lose this to Ilya, he’ll be so annoying if he wins another cup,’ and they headed out onto the ice.

.

Ilya scored a minute into the first period, Needy evening the score out six minutes later, and the rest of the period was a pitched battle, until, with less than a minute on the clock, Ilya was knocked in the head with a ricochet off Mitty’s glove.

He dropped to the ice and there was a sea of confusion for a minute; the Bears wanted to rough someone up for it, but even they knew better than to touch a goalie, and there was this buzzing sound in Shane’s ears that drowned everything else out.

Ilya got up, clearly against the advice of the medics, and skated off, but not before giving Shane a wink and a crooked, bloody smile.

Shane felt the tightness around his chest ease, and then channeled all of his emotion into his game; the Bears took a stupid penalty immediately, the Voyageurs rearranged themselves into the power play and Pike got it in right before the buzzer sounded.

.

Back in the locker room Shane got out his phone and checked to see if Ilya had sent him anything, but there was nothing. Ilya would be okay, Shane told himself. He’d been skating and grinning and it hadn’t seemed like he’d left any teeth on the ice.

But he wasn’t back on the bench when they filed back out, and his loss clearly took the heart out of the team; they were playing too aggressively, making obvious plays, and taking stupid chances and Milo got them another goal, then Pretty, on an assist from Shane.

“Word is Rozanov’s got a mild concussion,” one of the coaches said. Shane’s heart sank.

“Surprised he’s not forcing his way back onto the ice anyway,” another one commented.

They were three up at the end of the second— the locker room was full of excited chatter— and coached confirmed Ilya was out of the game, but couldn’t tell Shane any more.

.

The Bears had fallen apart; the victory seemed hollow, but it was still a victory. The Voyageurs still mobbed Mitty and cheered and the crowd cheered and the Bears grudgingly shook their hands.

After the celebration in the locker rooms, after Shane had showered and dressed, Shane headed through the area to the visiting player’s training room. One of the Bears trainers was still there, packing up the medical supplies. He looked up to see Shane and his eyes went wide.

“I’m looking for Rozanov?” he ventured.

“Oh,” the trainer said. “Sorry, he already left for the hotel.”

The hotel at least, not the hospital. Shane thanked him and left.

Ilya would text him or call him, Shane was sure. He was probably just upset about dropping out of the playoffs and if he had a concussion his screen time would be restricted. It will be fine, Shane told himself, over and over again as he drove back home. It will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine.

He was surprised to see the lights on when he got into his apartment, and stepped a little further in to find Ilya curled up on the couch, seemingly just waking up.

“Ilya,” he said, dumbly. “I thought you’d gone to the hotel.”

Ilya shook his head, then winced.

“How bad is it?” Shane asked.

“Very…” Ilya considered. “Small?”

“Mild?” Shane guessed.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Mild.”

Shane sat down on the couch beside him. “Sorry you got hurt,” he said.

“Yes,” Ilya said again. He slumped over to lean against Shane and without thinking, Shane began to stroke his hair. It was a little damp and clean, all the gel he usually used washed out of it. Shane pulled a curl straight only to see it bounce back.

“I was so worried,” Shane admitted. “I just kept thinking that if it had been something really bad I wouldn’t have even known, that no one would tell me anything. I’d just have to wait like…” he looked away, at the Montreal skyline visible through the windows. “Like I didn’t mean anything to you. Like we didn’t mean anything to each other.”

Ilya made a pained noise. “I will tell Svetlana. She is my emergency contact. I will tell her if anything happens to call you.”

“Okay,” Shane said. “Okay, I’ll do the same thing, I’ll tell my parents that.” He patted Ilya’s hair a little longer. “Does she know about us?”

Ilya made a sound like he was choking on a laugh. “She guessed,” he said. “She is very smart. I tell you about her before?”

“Yes,” Shane told him. “Your childhood friend.”

“Her father is a famous hockey player. She knows everything about hockey. She said you would win cup.”

“Sounds like my mom. So she knows? Did you tell anyone else?”

“No,” Ilya said.

“I told you Hayden found out. And he told his wife, of course. He can’t keep anything from her; he decided to propose and then found himself telling her about his plans ten minutes later. Then…” Shane hesitated. “J.J. and Rose also know. I told them I was gay and they guessed too.”

“Rose Landry?” Ilya asked, clearly surprised.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “She’s one of my best friends and she had tons of gay friends so I knew she would cool with it. J.J….the same. And,” he sighed. “I felt bad about leaving him out. And both of them,” Shane shrugged. “Maybe I’m too transparent.”

“Maybe you are also bad at secrets,” Ilya suggested.

“I kept the fact that I was gay from everyone for…” Shane sucked in a breath. “Ten? Twelve years? I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to out you like that. I mean, none of them will say anything.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. He blinked and rubbed his forehead and Shane abruptly remembered he had a concussion.

“Oh, sorry,” Shane said. “Do you— what do you need?”

“Just sleep,” Ilya said.

“Okay, do I need to wake you up or anything?”

“No,” Ilya told him, yawning.

“Okay,” Shane said. “Let’s get you to bed.”

.

Ilya left early the next morning, heading back to Boston with the team, pressing a kiss to Shane’s lips when he left, stroke his hair and said ‘goodbye’ and Shane went to sleep and woke up in the morning light alone.

.

They headed down to Carolina the day after that for the conference finals. The Wrens had gotten the first wild card spot and managed to get through the Cougars and the Admirals through a combination of poorly timed injuries and sheer good luck. They weren’t as good as a team as the Voyageurs, but it was their first time at the conference finals in franchise history and they were playing with everything they had. The Voyageurs took the Prince of Wales in five games, but headed back to Montreal battered and bruised.

“Fucking playoffs,” Shane muttered, as he examined his left side in the mirror, a blotchy mass of reds and purples. “How’s Miami?” He pulled out his tub of bruise balm and started smearing it over his skin.

“Relaxing,” Ilya said, with a smirk. “Don’t you wish you were here?”

“You wish you were in my place,” Shane countered, and, of course it was true. “What are you up to?”

“Wrestling alligators,” Ilya said. “I will save some of their teeth for you.”

“Thanks,” Shane told him, dryly.

“I learned how to scuba dive,” Ilya told him. “Grisha— you know Gregori Lisov?”

“Only from playing against him.”

“Grisha loves to dive,” Ilya said.

“Don’t you have to get a license or something?” Shane asked.

“Yes, I took a class,” Ilya said. “It is so beautiful, you know, light comes through the water, makes patterns like dancing. And so many pretty fish. And there is place with lots of shipwrecks, you can swim around.”

“Wow,” Shane said. “That sounds amazing.”

“Only place without mosquitos,” Ilya added, disgruntled, and Shane laughed.

“Maybe you could come with me,” Ilya added.

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “Maybe I’d get claustrophobic?”

“Ocean is wide open,” Ilya said.

“But, down there, you’re only alive because of the tank, right? Maybe the tube would detach or something would go wrong and that would be it, you know?”

“I would rescue you,” Ilya assured him. “Rescue breathing.”

“Is that anything like CPR?” Shane asked, amused.

“We could do it for the show,” Ilya suggested.

“Rescue breathing?” Shane joked. “It wouldn’t be very interesting,” he added. “There wouldn’t be any of the witty banter our fans love so much if we were underwater.”

Shane sighed and put away the balm and then pulled on his shirt.

“Okay,” he said. “I have to go. I’ll see you soon, though?”

“Not too soon,” Ilya said. “You’ve got to celebrate cup win.”

“We’ve got a long ways to go until a win.”

Ilya scoffed. “You’re a better team. They put everything into defense, first line, everything else is weak.”

“They made it to the finals,” Shane pointed out.

“Mission should have won, but good for you they didn’t. The games will be easy.”

“Easy?” Shane asked.

“You are Shane Hollander. Beating the Meatpackers? Easy. Sveta says you will win in five games.”

Shane took a deep breath and tried not to wince. “Thanks.”

“And then you will celebrate cup, have a big parade, very fun, and then I will see you and teach you the true meaning of ‘meatpacker’.”

“Oh my god,” Shane said, his face suddenly heating.

“I will pack you with so much meat,” Ilya explained, unnecessarily.

Shane laughed and shook his head. “You’re the worst. The absolute worst. I hate you.”

On Shane’s computer screen, Ilya was smiling, his face soft and open. “I miss you too,” he said.

“Yeah,” Shane replied. “Just a few more weeks.”

“You could take them in four games,” Ilya said. “Think about the prize at the end.”

“The cup?”

“No, the real prize; all the meat I’m packing.”

“Fuck you,” Shane said, laughing. “I’m hanging up now.”

He ended the call and looked at himself in the mirror, his expression as happy and soft as Ilya’s had been. “Fuck,” he muttered and grabbed his computer and headed for the kitchen.

Shane almost dropped the computer when he got into the kitchen.

“Oh, hi,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Hi, honey,” Shane’s mom said. “David wanted to make some meals for you, so all you’ll have to do is heat them up, and we heard you were on a call when we came in, we didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh,” Shane said, his whole body freezing up. “Did you hear… uh… anything about the call?”

Shane’s mom sighed and looked at his dad. “Enough,” she said.

Shane dropped onto one of the stools at the counter. “I wanted to tell you,” he began. “I just didn’t know how.”

“Tell us what?” his mother asked, softly, kindly.

Shane looked away, trying to figure out what to say.

“Are you gay?” his dad asked, and Shane nodded, swallowing. “And you’re seeing someone?”

Shane shrugged. “Kinda?”

“And that someone is Ilya Rozanov?” Shane’s mom asked.

Shane nodded.

“Oh, honey,” his mom said, dropping down from her stool and coming around so she could hug him.

.

“We never finished the conversation about me telling people about us,” Shane reminded Ilya the next time they spoke.

Ilya shrugged. “I don’t care,” he told Shane.

“You don’t care?” Shane repeated, confused.

“No,” Ilya said. “I have US citizenship now, I cut off my family, I have loyalty from my team, I won a cup so no one can say I cannot play. What is going to happen? People try to chirp at me already. Think their chirps will get better? People try to check me into boards already. Maybe they check harder— I don’t care. Price will flatten them. People say bad things about me already. I do not care.”

“Oh,” Shane said, trying to wrap his mind around not caring.

“For years I try to catch your attention,” Ilya said. “You did not know? During draft I flirt with you, but you are oblivious. I ask to shoot CCM commercial with you, but you did not notice.”

“You what?” Shane demanded, but Ilya was still going.

“At All-Star I always try to sit next to you, at NHL awards I go and find you but you are drunk the first time and always hide away after.” He sighed dramatically. “So I come up with the idea for the show, so I ask you out on dates.”

“I didn’t know they were dates!” Shane spluttered.

Ilya shrugged. “You find out in the end. Now I have you, yes?” he grinned at Shane. “Now we are going to train together and I will go to your cottage and the show contract will get renewed. So what do I care if everyone else finds out? Now I have you.”

Share stared at Ilya’s face, so much smaller and farther away than it should be.

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh,” Ilya mocked. “You do not want to come out, I know. It will be worse for you, probably. People hate me already. No one hates you.”

“They hate me in Boston,” Shane said, but Ilya brushed that off. Shane hesitated. “People hate me. A lot of people don’t think I should play hockey, because I’m not white. They’re always looking for a flaw they can use to support that. No matter how good I get, they’ll always be prying, trying to find that weakness.”

Ilya considered this, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I had not thought about this. It is an important thing to take into account,” he added, quickly, as if he was afraid Shane would take this for a dismissal. “You will be affected by this more than me, so you can decide limit. That makes sense?”

“Yes,” Shane agreed. “Thank you. I… I can’t believe you’ve wanted to get in my pants for so long,” he teased.

Ilya rolled his eyes. “You were looking at me when we met. I saw. So excited to meet me. Like excited puppy. 'You play beautiful hockey,' you said.”

“And you were so rude.”

“I was rude! You acting like Canadian police! Someone asked Shane Hollander to police no-smoking zone?”

“I thought maybe you didn’t know,” Shane said, scratching the back of his neck.

“I see— you think I am stupid Russian, cannot read sign.”

“No!”

Ilya raised his eyebrows and Shane laughed. “Maybe they have different no smoking signs in Russia! How am I supposed to know? And then you pretended not to speak English, just staring at me, all suspicious.”

“You were pretty,” Ilya said.

“Shut up.”

“Your round cheeks, your freckles.”

“My cheeks are not round!” Shane exclaimed.

“So round and cute. I did not think a hockey player could look so cute.”

“So that was it?” Shane asked, trying to resist the urge to hide his face. “You saw me there and that’s when you decided…”

“I wanted to fuck you?” Ilya asked. “No. I saw you skating first. Your soft hands, your beautiful edges. Years before I met you I saw you skate.”

“Years?” Shane asked, surprised.

“Of course. Maybe you were fourteen? My coach said ‘look at this Canadian kid, why are you not this good, you need to work harder!’”

“Oh,” Shane said.

“You were so tiny on the ice but you played like professional. I saw you shooting bottles balanced on top of the net. One, two, three, four, five, six, then you went and put the bottles up. You did that over and over?”

“For sure,” Shane said. “How else do you learn?”

“Then there was a clip of you playing in a game. So little next to other players. So determined. You ignored your team, just stole the biscuit and made a breakaway and sent it into the net. Over and over. Like you were playing by yourself.”

“They were terrible, though.”

Ilya laughed. “I thought: I want to meet him. I want to play together. I didn’t know anyone who could play like me, but you were. You did. I thought maybe I could go to America and play with you.”

“No, you didn’t,” Shane said, face burning now.

“I study English,” Ilya continued.

Shane gave in and covered his face. “Stop, stop,” he begged, and Ilya laughed, but it was a soft laugh.

“I will tell you later when I am there to stroke your hair and hush you,” Ilya told him. “Maybe I will slip my cock inside you and tell you then.”

“Ugh,” Shane said into his hands. “I’m going to hang up,” he warned.

“Are you hard?” Ilya asked, the tone of his voice making it clear he was changing track. “Maybe you show me?”

.

Montreal took the first two games at home.The first was one of those amazing games where everything went right and it felt like they were on top of the world, the Voyageurs winning 3-1. The second was a pitched battle that went to 22 exhausting minutes of overtime.

They flew out the next day to Chicago, to the Oscar-Meyer Arena, (locally known as the ‘Weiner Arena’) the objectively most disturbing arena in the whole league, where it was Chicago custom to throw hot dogs onto the ice whenever the team got a goal).

“Could be worse,” J.J. said thoughtfully. “They could just throw chunks of raw meat.”

“I’m so glad we only play here a few times a season,” Sted said, wrinkling his nose.

“Do you think I could collect those and bring them home?” Pike asked. “What?” he asked, when the whole bench looked at him. “Feeding three kids is expensive!”

Shane shook his head and then the commercial break was over and they were heading back out onto the ice.

.

Chicago took the third game, the Voyageurs took the fourth, and then they were heading back to Montreal, breathless with the knowledge that the cup was in the building. If they could just push through they could end it that night.

They didn’t. The Meatpackers went just as hard and they took the game 2-1 in overtime.

“One more game,” Shane told the room that night. “We can do this in one more game. I want to do this in Montreal, for our fans, and also so we do not have to go back to that fucking hot dog arena.”

The first two periods were grilling, 0-0 going into the third, then Needy grabbed the puck on a breakaway and went shooting down the ice, faking the goalie and getting it in the five-hole.

The whole stadium erupted when the buzzer went off and everyone piled on top of Needy until the linemen shouted at them.

“We just have to shut them out,” Shane told them, “and we’ve got it.” And they did, fighting with every thing they had to keep the puck away from the Meatpackers as the clock ticked down. Five minutes, two minutes, Chicago pulling their goalie, but they kept on it, one minute, thirty seconds, twenty, ten, five, four, three, two, one and the horns were blaring and they’d won.

The Voyageurs bench tumbled onto the ice, laughing and shouting and dropping their helmets while the Meatpackers huddled up against their bench. They hugged each other, they lifted Mitty into the air, confetti fell down from the rafters (so much better than hot dogs), everyone was laughing and yelling and then finally the coaches were corralling them into the handshake line so the Meatpackers could get off the ice and lick their wounds, then they were handing Shane the Conn Smythe, despite him arguing it should have gone to Needy.

Then the cup was right there, heavy in Shane’s hands and larger than life. He made his lap, grinning up at the sea of blue and red so wide he thought his face might split open, then handed it off, then the ice was opened to families and more people were spilling onto the ice; Jackie and the kids, J.J.’s girlfriend, Shane’s mom and dad and with them, in a Hollander Voyageurs jersey, Ilya Rozanov.

“Ilya,” Shane said, then he yelled “Ilya!” and skated forward into Ilya’s arms. Ilya picked him up and spun him around, despite being several inches shorter than Shane when he was wearing skates and on ice in sneakers on top of that.

Shane laughed and let himself be spun and then put gently back on the ice. “We won the cup!” he exclaimed. “You’re wearing my jersey!”

“Of course,” Ilya said. “I come to root for you; what else will I wear? You gave to me.” He brushed down the front of the jersey with a smile, the looked back up at Shane, glowing almost as much as he had when he’d won the cup himself. “You win the cup.”

"We won the cup!" Shane exclaimed again, feeling like his face was going to split open. 

"You won the cup! Where else would I be?"

.

.

Chapter End Notes

OMG it's over! I'm so happysad! I worked on this fic pretty much nonstop for the last few months, and it's the longest thing I've ever posted!

Or, well, it's kind of over! I have written one little time stamp for it, so there's a series now you can subscribe to. I don't know if there will be more, but maybe if I get inspired (feel free to leave suggestions!)

I'm quite pleased with myself about the coding I did to get the tumblr posts to work (hopefully they work 🙏). I've never used a work skin before so that was a fun experience!

Let me know how you liked the ending!

EDIT:

OMG guys I can't believe the reaction this fic is getting. Thank you all so much! I wish I could reply to every comment but every time I try I just get overwhelmed but I appreciate and love every one so much!

Just to clarify I'm not planning on writing a Season 2, just some time stamps maybe some little snippets of things, outsider POVs, etc, would love to hear any ideas.

For anyone with a screen reader or any other problem reading the faux tumblr posts, this is the content:

Post 1:

shilya_lives reblogs ilyabillyafeefifofillya:

battle-tosti:

OMG it’s official! Captain vs. Captain is going to have a second season! And it’s going to be filmed while Ilya’s training with Shane in Montreal!!!

.gif of Michael Scott from the office running around yelling "Oh my god! Okay, it's happening, everybody stay calm!

ilyabillyafeefifofillya replies:

My crops are watered, my skin is clear, my depression gone

#Captain vs Captain, #shilya, #Captain vs Captain Season 2!!!!, #legitimately SO excited!!!!, #And they're training together!!! AHHHHHH!!!!

Post 2:

CaptainShanevsCaptainIlya writes:

I don’t know how people can look at this:

.gif of Shane and Ilya from Heated Rivalry. Shane has just scored a goal at the 2017 All-Star games and Ilya has skated in and hugged him and kissed his cheek, and then they stared at each other for a moment like they might kiss for real.

author's note: in a perfect world, this would be a gif of Ilya spinning Shane around after Shane won the cup. But sadly, this .gif doesn't exist and so I was required to replace it with one that does

CaptainShanevsCaptainIlya continues:

And say *we’re* the ones who are delulu

#Captain vs Captain, #when Ilya spun Shane after he won the cup I legit cried tho, #shilya

Post 3:

an_etymologist writes:

honestly, genuinely, dgaf if shilya are together, bc look at this:

.gif of Shane and Ilya talking at the 2017 All-Star Weekend where Shane is smiling and laughing while saying something to llya

an_etymologist continues: Have you ever seen my boy Hollzy be this happy? Compare this to this:

.gif of Shane excerpted from a 2011 commercial for Orange Soda. Shane is smiling in a way that seems forced.

an_etymologist concludes: where he looks like he’s being physically tortured and okay, that’s a commercial maybe a bad example but

Romantic, platonic I DON’T CARE.

They make each other happy. I am so happy for them.

#shilya, #Captain vs Captain, #They're so adorable together, #I hope for a million new seasons

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COVER: Captain vs. Captain by deliciousblizzardshark by Superbtyrantcat