Preface
Secretly Married Hollanov (Outed by Basil)
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at https://archiveofourown.org/works/80852281.
- Rating:
- Teen And Up Audiences
- Archive Warning:
- No Archive Warnings Apply
- Category:
- M/M
- Fandom:
- Heated Rivalry (TV)
- Relationships:
- Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov
- Characters:
- Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Farah Jalali, Hayden Pike
- Additional Tags:
- Domestic Fluff, Domestic Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Secret Relationship, Secret Marriage, Coming Out, Social Media, Ilya Rozanov Being an Asshole, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov in Love, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Hollanov - Freeform
- Language:
- English
- Stats:
- Published: 2026-03-08 Completed: 2026-04-02 Words: 24,922 Chapters: 4/4
Secretly Married Hollanov (Outed by Basil)
Summary
Ilya Rozanov’s husband sends him to the grocery store for basil under a time constraint.
Unfortunately, Ilya grabs the first shirt he finds in Shane Hollander’s closet.
Unfortunately, the shirt says HOLLANDER 24 on the back.
Unfortunately, someone on hockey Twitter notices.Or: Ilya Rozanov accidentally outs his secret relationship with Shane Hollander while buying groceries.
Notes
Headcanon Divergences
- Yuna suggested a secret marriage to protect Ilya in case their relationship leaks
- Hayden has yet to find out that Lily is Ilya
- The fan mail outing never happened, and Shane stayed with the Metros
- The Metros actually respect Shane and are not homophobic idiots
Chapter 1: The Basil Incident
Ilya wakes slowly, heavy with the lazy satisfaction of a nap taken after an eventful post-workout cardio session with his husband.
Out of habit, he rolls to the right side of the bed.
Shane isn’t there.
Only a perfectly made half of the mattress greets him. Sheets pulled smooth. Pillows aligned like a hotel bed. Shane Hollander’s side of the bed never survives long after he wakes up.
Ilya barely cracks an eye open before his senses are assaulted by a smell drifting in from the kitchen.
Garlic.
Butter.
Tomatoes.
Which can only mean one thing.
Shane Hollander is cooking.
And when Shane Hollander cooks, he follows the recipe.
Exactly.
Down to the gram.
Down to the minute.
Down to the last ingredient.
Which is how the problem started.
Ilya drags himself out of bed and wanders toward the kitchen, hair messy, wearing nothing but his Calvin Klein boxers.
Shane is at the stove.
He’s wearing soft grey shorts, an old white shirt, and an apron tied around his waist. His hair is slightly damp from the shower. One hand stirs a pot while the other holds a wooden spoon like he’s conducting an orchestra.
Ilya stops in the doorway.
Ilya is a witness to many beautiful things in the world. Sunsets over the Ottawa river. Stanley Cup victories. His bright orange Porsche under his custom garage lighting. But nothing compares to the sight of Shane Hollander cooking dinner for him.
“Ilya,” Shane says without turning. “Good. You’re up.”
“Hi, Moy lyubimyy.”
Ilya walks over and wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, careful not to interrupt the stirring motion of the spoon. He presses a lazy kiss to the back of Shane’s neck.
Domesticity hits him like a truck.
Sometimes Ilya still can’t believe this is real.
On the other hand, Shane is currently summoning every ounce of discipline he has.
Because his 6’3 husband, who is wearing nothing but Calvin Klein boxers, is pressed against his back.
And the situation in Shane’s lower back region is… noticeable.
Extremely noticeable.
Shane refuses to acknowledge it.
Focus.
Recipe.
Pasta.
Not husband.
Fortunately, it is the same husband who breaks the silence.
“This smells so good. Do you need help, Solnyshko?” Ilya asks as he continuously caresses Shane’s neck.
“Actually, yes,” Shane says finally. “I’m missing something from this recipe.”
He tilts the iPad slightly so Ilya can see the screen.
“We are missing basil.”
Rozanov immediately frowned.
“It’s fine. Recipes are only suggestions.”
Shane blinks. Then slowly turns his head.
“It is not.”
Rozanov sighed dramatically.
“You will not even taste difference.”
Shane shook his head firmly.
“It says fresh basil.”
Rozanov leans back against the counter.
“We have dry basil.”
He gestures toward the rack of perfectly organized herbs and spices, including a very respectable jar of dried basil.
“That is not the same.”
Rozanov squints.
“It is same plant.”
Shane crossed his arms.
“Ilya.”
That tone.
Rozanov sighs.
Because he recognizes that tone. Because he knew his husband well enough to know that if the recipe wasn’t followed exactly as it says on the iPad, Shane would spend the entire dinner thinking about it.
“Fine.”
Shane brightened instantly.
“You just need to go to the grocery store and get fresh basil. The recipe also says it will be better with lemon and grated parmesan. We have some parmesan left, but we don’t have lemons.”
Rozanov chuckles, half amused and half mortified by his husband’s devotion to a recipe.
“Ok, sweetheart. I think they have them at the corner store.”
Shane checked the stove. Then looked back at him.
“You have exactly twenty minutes.”
Rozanov stares.
“…this is impossible mission.”
Shane shrugged.
“I believe in you.”
Ilya races back to their room, looking for a shirt.
He has not worn a shirt since they arrived at the cottage. Why would he? It is summer, and he enjoys seeing Shane get flustered and red, freckles standing out across his cheeks.
But apparently grocery stores have rules.
Maybe it’s because his suitcase is downstairs and he’s on an impossible mission. Maybe he just likes the idea of wearing Shane’s clothes. Either way, he opens Shane’s closet.
He borrows a pair of grey shorts and grabs the first shirt he sees.
Plain. Black. Soft cotton.
Ilya pulls it over his head. It fits. Technically. A little tight across the shoulders. A little shorter than usual.
But perfectly wearable.
He checks himself in the mirror.
“…acceptable.”
Then immediately grabs the car keys.
The grocery run takes about fifteen minutes.
Ilya moves like a man on a mission.
Straight to produce.
Grab basil.
Grab lemons.
Grab extra parmesan just in case.
Pay.
Leave.
Back in the car.
Mission accomplished.
When he pulls into the driveway, he checks the dashboard clock.
Five minutes to spare.
“Efficient.”
He steps quietly into the cottage.
The kitchen is warm. Shane is still wearing the apron, checking something in the oven.
Ilya leans against the kitchen island and watches his husband. There is something mesmerizing about Shane cooking. Focused. Precise. Hair falling into his eyes.
“Oh hey, Ilya,” Shane says. “Just about time. I’m waiting for this to finish in the oven and we can eat.”
Ilya unloads the groceries.
“Do you want me to cut basil and lemon? I also bought extra parmesan.”
Shane smirks as Ilya starts rummaging through cabinets for knives and a cutting board.
Then Shane notices the back of the shirt.
The bold letters across Ilya’s shoulders.
HOLLANDER. 24.
Shane freezes.
“Oh my god, Ilya.”
His voice cracks between panic and disbelief.
“Did you wear that outside?”
Ilya turns around, confused.
“Yes. A little small for me, but I look sexy in it, yes?”
He pauses when he sees the horror on Shane’s face.
“Shane… is this not okay? I’m sorry. I won’t use your shirt again.”
For a moment Shane just stares at him.
Completely stunned.
The kind of stunned where the brain stops working while every possible consequence loads at once.
Then Ilya’s phone starts ringing.
Once.
Twice.
Then a flood of notifications he could not ignore.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and saw bunch of notifications. Mostly from one person. Farah.
He opens his email.
Subject: URGENT – PLEASE CALL
Another email.
Subject: Proceed With Contingencies??
CC: Shane Hollander. Yuna Hollander.
Ilya frowns.
Then opens the message.
Then stops.
Oh.
He looks up.
“Oh my god, Shane.”
Shane groans, knowing his husband caught up to the gravity of the situation.
“That is my training jersey.”
He exhales slowly.
“And I assume people saw you wearing it in the grocery store.”
-----
Ilya opens Twitter.
His algorithm immediately brings him to a viral tweet whose engagement is climbing by the second.
It’s a grainy photo of him in the produce section, holding fresh basil.
Caption: “Why is Rozanov grocery shopping in a Hollander jersey?”
People secretly (or very obviously) taking photos of Ilya in public is normal.
So when a few people took pictures of him earlier, he assumed they were hockey fans bragging to their friends.
Twitter reactions are mixed. Some people question if the photo is real. Some want to know why Ilya Rozanov needs basil. Some point out the shirt is clearly one size too small.
One small corner of the internet is celebrating. The Hollanov shippers. For them, this is a field day.
The most viral retweet simply reads:
“DOMESTIC. HOLLANOV.”
(Un)fortunately, that corner of the internet is very small compared to the rest of hockey media.
Most hockey fans assume something else entirely.
Psychological warfare.
Classic rivalry chirp.
A girlfriend made him wear it after losing a bet.
Summer boredom trolling.
-----
Back at the cottage, dinner sits untouched. Fresh basil uncut. Parmesan ungrated.
Shane and Ilya sit across from each other scrolling through Twitter.
“They think this is psychological warfare,” Shane mutters.
Ilya nodded thoughtfully.
“That is good one.”
He scrolls again.
“Oh, this person thinks my girlfriend made me wear it because I lost a bet”.
He chuckles while showing his phone to Shane.
Shane glares.
“You’re enjoying this.”
Rozanov shrugs.
“I didn’t know it was your shirt. It was closest shirt.”
Pause.
“Grocery mission was successful.”
--------
Thirty minutes later, they are on a video call.
Yuna appears first. Calm. Focused. Already tired.
Farah looks like someone who has spent the last thirty minutes on crisis calls.
Yuna speaks first.
“Ilya.”
“Yes.”
“Why were you wearing Shane’s jersey in a grocery store?”
Rozanov blinks.
“It was first shirt in Shane’s closet. He gave me twenty minutes to buy basil before his dish burns.”
Shane groans. Farah pinched the bridge of her nose.
“It has a big HOLLANDER 24 on the back.”
Rozanov nods.
“Yes.”
“It’s my training shirt,” Shane says. “I didn’t notice when he left.”
Rozanov laughs.
“Yes, you were very busy with iPad. Focused on the recipe.”
Shane covers his face. Farah shares her screen.
Twitter. Articles. Threads. Memes.
“Right now,” Farah says, “there are three main theories.”
“One, psychological warfare.”
“Two, you lost a bet to your girlfriend.”
“Three, you are trolling.”
“You forgot shippers,” Ilya says. “They think Shane domesticated me.”
He looks at Shane fondly.
“Which is true.”
Shane tries to glare at him. His heart eyes betray him.
Yuna raises a hand.
“Yes. Or,” she says calmly, “you could tell the truth.”
Shane panics.
“What?”
“We could activate contingencies,” Yuna continues. “Or, as Farah said, we could spin this any direction you want. The world knows nothing. They have theories, and Ilya can walk away from it because he’s a menace to half the league.”
“Da. Thank you, Yuna.” Ilya grins.
“The point is,” Yuna continues, “we have the power to control the narrative.”
Shane sighs.
“Thank you, Mom. I just didn’t think this would happen because I asked him to buy some fresh basil.”
“Oh, honey,” Yuna says gently. “This isn’t your fault. There’s only so much you can control. When you keep a secret this big, eventually something slips. That’s why we have contingencies.”
“Da,” Ilya adds. “It was important ingredient. Also… maybe little my fault. I wanted to wear your shirt. I just did not see your name on the back.”
He says it half to tease Shane and half to reassure him. Then, Ilya looks directly into the laptop camera.
“I’m tired of hiding.”
He glances at Shane.
“I’m ready to tell the truth if Shane is.”
Shane hesitates.
Years of pretending.
Years of rivalry.
Years of hiding the best thing that ever happened to him.
“…yeah.”
He exhales.
“I think I’m ready too.”
Yuna leans slightly closer to the camera, her voice calm and steady.
“Alright. We have a statement prepared to send to your teams. We also have a draft for a joint social media post.”
Farah nods, jotting something down.
“Both management teams already reached out to me. I just need direction on what to tell them.”
Rozanov frowns.
“No.”
Everyone looks at him.
“I mean yes. Tell management first. But I want to post statement myself on Instagram. People saw me. People want statement from me. Not my team. Not Shane’s team.”
“Ilya,” Shane groans again.
“That actually makes sense,” Yuna says thoughtfully.
Farah nods.
“Okay. I’ll send the prepared statement to your teams now. Then we draft what Ilya posts on Instagram.”
Yuna folds her hands.
“Alright.”
Her tone shifts slightly. Full momager now.
“Before we post, let’s walk through every possible issue. I want to make sure you’re both ready.”
She looks directly at Ilya.
“Ilya.”
He nods.
“Yes.”
“If this becomes public, Russia will know immediately.”
Farah adds quietly.
“And not just fans. Media. Federation officials. Government observers.”
Ilya remains calm.
“Yes.”
Yuna gives him a steady look.
“You’re living in Canada full-time. You pay taxes here. You have permanent residency. From a safety standpoint, you should be fine. But you understand Russia may not react well. You might not be able to go back.”
“I do not plan to return,” Ilya says, almost defensively.
“If Russia retaliates—”
Rozanov interrupts calmly.
“They already hate me.”
He pauses.
“I choose this.”
Shane reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.
Yuna notices the shift in Ilya’s expression and decides not to press further.
“Alright. Next issue. The NHL.”
Farah picks up the thread.
“As far as legal concerns go, this shouldn’t affect your contracts. The NHL won’t punish you. Publicly, they’ll have to support inclusivity.”
“Yes,” Yuna adds. “The league will stand behind two of its biggest stars. But there will be noise. Some older executives will panic. Legally, though, there’s nothing preventing this.”
Rozanov looks confused.
“Preventing marriage?”
Farah shrugs.
“Hockey has survived stranger scandals,” Shane interjects. “They could live with this,”
Yuna raises a finger.
“One thing that does matter. Endorsements.”
Shane groans.
“Mom.”
“What? They matter,” Yuna says. “Some brands may leave. Some will stay. Some will try to profit from it.”
“And some brands will suddenly become very supportive,” Farah adds.
Rozanov grins.
“They like hockey husbands.”
Farah laughs. Yuna nods.
“They like publicity. As your manager, I can handle that.”
She pauses.
“But what I can’t control is how people will react. Your teammates.”
“Oh, God.” Shane groans. “They’re going to be upset I didn’t tell them.”
Ilya looks at him.
“Da. they will lose their minds. But it’s not personal, Shane. They know that. You are their captain. You have three Stanley Cups. You’re Shane Hollander.”
Shane actually looks relieved for a moment.
“Oh my god.”
Shane realizes something.
“Hayden.”
“He is fifteenth best player in Montreal. He has million kids to worry about.”
Ilya grins.
“He will manage.”
Shane glares at Ilya again.
“I hope so.”
Farah continues.
“The story will dominate sports media for weeks. People will say the rivalry was fake. They’ll say the marriage is a PR stunt. Or psychological warfare. Or some elaborate hockey mind game.”
Rozanov smiles.
“That is funny.”
Shane glares again.
“You encouraged that theory.”
Rozanov shrugs. Farah cuts in before the argument can escalate.
“Once this is public, media will want everything. Where you live. When you got married. Why. Who knew. How long. Every detail. They will push hard, so we need clear boundaries.”
Yuna nods.
“We do a press conference. We set the tone. We give them what we’re comfortable sharing and control the rest.”
Shane looks relieved.
“Yes.”
Rozanov agrees.
“Yes.”
Yuna continues.
“You confirm the marriage. You decide what remains private. Your relationship timeline. Your home. Your personal life.”
“Who is bottom,” Ilya says helpfully.
Shane elbows him.
Hard.
Farah, being a professional, redirects smoothly.
“Yes, Ilya. Thank you. Intimate details remain private. Not even your agent needs to know.”
She pauses.
“Or your mother-in-law.”
Yuna laughs. Then, she looks back at the screen.
“The internet will explode the moment you hit post”.
Her eyes move between them.
“Are you prepared?”
Silence fills the cottage kitchen.
Shane looks at Ilya.
Ilya looks back.
A quiet decision passes between them.
“Yes,” Shane says finally. “We’re ready.”
Yuna studies them for a moment. Then smiles.
“Good.”
She glances at Farah.
“Farah, let us choose the pictures and draft the caption.”
Then, she looks back at them.
“Because I definitely don’t trust Ilya to write it.”
“Thank you, Yuna,” Ilya mutters.
“Da. I also do not trust me.”
-----
Five minutes later, Yuna sends the draft.
They read it, add three sentences, and press post.
Photo 1
A candid photo of Shane and Ilya sitting on the dock behind the Ottawa cottage. Lake in front of them. Rozanov leaning into Shane’s shoulder against the sunset.
Photo 2
A photo taken on the small synthetic rink behind the cottage. Shane and Ilya face each other across a puck at center ice, mimicking a faceoff. Both of them smiling like it’s a joke they’ve told a hundred times.
Photo 3
A backyard wedding. Quiet. Small. Summer evening. Shane in a blue suit. Iya in maroon. David Hollander smiles in the background. Yuna stands beside them. A simple ring exchange captured mid-laugh.
Photo 4
A recent photo. In the kitchen. Shane cooking. Ilya behind him with his arms wrapped around his waist.
Caption
For the past two years, I, Ilya Hollander-Rozanov, have been married to Shane Hollander-Rozanov.
This marriage is something we chose to keep private while continuing to focus on our teams, our careers, and the responsibilities that come with playing professional hockey.
Privacy and shame are not the same thing.
Our decision to keep this part of our lives out of the public eye was never about hiding who we are, but about protecting something personal in a world that often demands more access than it deserves.
We also recognize that for many queer people, the decision of when and how to share their lives is shaped by considerations of safety and security.
Like many others, we chose to do so on our own terms and at a time when we felt prepared for the attention that would follow.
We understand that there will be curiosity, and we respectfully ask for privacy regarding the details of our personal lives.
Nothing about our commitment to the game changes. We remain dedicated to our teams, our teammates, and the sport that gave us both our careers.
On the ice, we are hockey players first.
But I also want to be clear about something.
Nothing about our hockey changes because nothing about us has changed.
There has never been a version of Ilya Rozanov stepping onto the NHL ice that was not in love with Shane Hollander.
Thank you for the support.
-----
At the cottage, Ilya reheats their dinner.
“Solnyshko,” he says gently.
“We have to eat.”
Shane exhales.
“I sent you to the store for fresh basil.”
“Da.”
“And now we’re apparently coming out to the entire world.”
“Da.”
“And you think I can eat?”
Ilya thinks.
“Maybe after dinner, I could fuck you and make you forget all of this.”
Shane blinks.
“…okay.”
They eat dinner.
Pasta. With fresh basil. A squeeze of lemon. Freshly grated parmesan.
And for the first time in over a decade, they feel free.
Dinner drags on. Not because the food isn’t good. It is. Shane’s devotion to the recipe has resulted in a perfectly balanced dish. Bright with lemon. Fragrant with fresh basil. Finished with just enough parmesan.
The same dish that had started the entire chain of events.
Their phones sit face-down on the table. Both on ‘Do Not Disturb’. Notifications limited to only a handful of people who might actually matter tonight.
Yuna. David. Farah.
Outside the cottage, the internet is very likely losing its collective mind. Inside, the world feels strangely quiet. Almost peaceful.
Shane still isn’t sure how to process that.
He twirls his fork through the pasta again, though he’s barely eaten more than a few bites. His thoughts keep circling back to the same things. Tweets, headlines, teammates, reporters, sponsors, the league, his parents’ neighbors probably seeing the post already.
“Well,” he says finally, staring down at his plate, “I think the world is on fire.”
Across from him, Ilya doesn’t look remotely concerned. He grabs a spoonful of extra parmesan and takes another slow bite of pasta.
“Da,” he says calmly.
Shane exhales through his nose.
“You don’t seem worried.”
Ilya sets his fork down and studies him for a moment.
“No need to worry.”
Shane gives him a look.
“We just told the entire world we’ve been secretly married for two years.”
Ilya tilts his head slightly.
“Yes.”
Shane gives him a confused look, searching for his husband’s sense of urgency.
“And now every sports journalist in North America is probably trying to figure out where we are right now.”
Ilya shrugs.
“They will not find us.”
Shane pushes his plate slightly away.
“Ilya—”
Before he can spiral further, Ilya quietly slides the plate back toward him.
“Eat.”
Shane blinks.
“I’m serious.”
“I am too.”
Ilya nods toward the pasta.
“You made good dinner. It would be sad if it goes to waste.”
Shane hesitates.
Ilya picks up his fork again and takes another bite like nothing in the world is unusual. The calm of it is almost absurd.
Shane sighs and reluctantly takes another bite.
“Thank you,” Ilya says softly.
Shane rolls his eyes.
“You don’t have to thank me for eating my own food.”
Ilya watches him for a moment longer.
“You are thinking too much.”
Shane huffs.
“Yeah, well. Someone has to.”
“No.”
Ilya shakes his head gently.
“We already did the hard part.”
Shane pauses.
“What hard part?”
“Telling truth.”
The words land quietly between them. For a moment, Shane doesn’t respond. Then, he picks up his fork again. They finish the rest of the meal slowly. No phones. No news. Just the quiet sounds of cutlery against plates and the soft night air drifting in through the open window.
When Shane finally sets his fork down, he leans back in his chair and exhales.
“I think we just changed our entire lives.”
Ilya stands and begins clearing the plates.
“Maybe.”
He sets them in the sink, rinses them quickly, puts them in the dishwasher, then turns back toward his husband. Shane is still sitting there, watching him.
“What?” Shane asks.
Ilya gestures toward the hallway.
“Come.”
Shane frowns.
“…where?”
Ilya’s mouth curves faintly.
“I take your mind off.”
Shane narrows his eyes. He hesitates for exactly two seconds before taking it.
Ilya pulls him gently to his feet. Then leads him down the hallway toward their small home gym.
Shane realizes where they’re going and expresses his disbelief.
“Ilya, why are we going to the gym?”
Ilya just smirks. He continues to pull Shane to the gym. It’s a small room with rubber flooring, two treadmills, a rack of weights, and the mirrored wall Shane usually uses for yoga.
Ilya reached inside and flicked on the lights. Not the bright overhead ones. Just the dim strip along the ceiling.
Soft light spilled across the room. Shane stepped inside slowly.
“Ilya…”
He folded his arms.
“What are we doing?”
Ilya closed the door behind them.
For a moment, he simply watched Shane. Shane recognized that look. It was the same one Ilya wore right before scoring a hat trick.
Focused.
Dangerous.
Interested.
“You want roleplay tonight, yes?” Ilya said.
Shane blinked.
“…what?”
His mind immediately jumped through a dozen possibilities. Two years of marriage had given them plenty of time to explore different personas in bed, and Shane had been enthusiastically involved in all of them. The thought alone sent Shane’s blood rushing to his now half-hard dick.
Ilya tilted his head slightly.
“You think we continue game we have been playing all summer.”
Shane felt his face warm slightly. That wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Maybe,” he admitted.
Ilya shook his head once.
“No roleplay tonight.”
Something about the way he said it made Shane’s stomach flip.
“What does that mean?”
Ilya stepped closer. Slowly.
Shane instinctively stepped back. Until his shoulders touched the wall directly in front of the giant mirror. He hadn’t realized Ilya had maneuvered him there until it was too late.
The mirror stretched behind him, reflecting the entire room.
And Ilya. Standing right in front of him.
Shane’s breath caught. Because in the reflection he could see the back of Ilya’s shirt.
The black training jersey.
With the name and number across the shoulders.
HOLLANDER. 24.
The very shirt that had started everything.
Shane swallowed.
“Ilya…”
Ilya placed one hand beside Shane’s head against the wall. Not trapping him. Just close enough that Shane felt the warmth of his arm.
“You want it,” Ilya said quietly. “I am me. You are you.”
It wasn’t a question.
Shane glanced at the mirror again. His name. On Ilya’s back. His husband wearing it like it belonged there.
Shane looked away quickly.
“Yes.” Because yes—tonight, maybe for the first time ever, he could be himself. And Ilya could just be Ilya.
Ilya tilted his head slightly, catching the flicker of amusement on Shane’s face when he’d noticed the jersey.
“You like it.”
Shane exhaled slowly.
“…maybe.”
Ilya leaned a little closer.
“Solnyshko,” he murmured, “you have been very good boy tonight.”
The words sent a sharp pulse of heat through Shane’s chest. That was familiar. That dynamic. But something about tonight felt different.
Shane frowned slightly.
“What are you doing?”
Ilya’s expression softened.
“Showing you something.”
“Showing me what?”
Ilya didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took Shane’s hand and guided it upward until Shane’s palm rested against Ilya’s chest.
Shane blinked.
“You want me to tell you what to do? Tell you what makes you good for me,” Ilya asked quietly.
“Yes”
Ilya shook his head.
“No.”
He pressed Shane’s hand more firmly against him.
“Tonight, you control me.”
Shane froze.
“That’s not—”
“Yes.”
Ilya’s voice was calm. Certain.
“Ilya—”
“Look.”
Ilya turned slightly, guiding Shane’s gaze toward the mirror again.
Shane saw it immediately. The jersey. His name. On Ilya’s back.
And the way Ilya was standing in front of him. Close. Waiting. Listening.
“You see?” Ilya said softly.
Shane’s throat felt dry.
“You are wearing my name.”
“Da.”
“And you want me to control you?”
“Da.”
Shane glanced up at him.
“…why?”
Ilya smiled faintly.
“Because I want,” Ilya said. “I am all yours.”
Shane’s chest tightened.
Mine.
He had never realized how intoxicating restraint could be. Ilya standing there, waiting for him. Listening.
Most nights Shane didn’t even pretend to be in control. He usually gave in long before that, desperate enough to let Ilya take over everything. And Ilya had always been more than happy to do it.
But tonight felt different.
“You want something too, Shane,” he said quietly. “Tell me.”
Shane’s pulse jumped.
“You know what I want.”
The words came out more hesitant than he liked. Like he’d just been handed a sword and had no idea how to swing it.
“No.” Ilya shook his head. “Use words.”
Shane laughed nervously.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Ilya didn’t move. Didn’t pressure him. Just waited.
The mirror made everything worse. Shane could see himself. Pinned against the wall. Ilya standing in front of him. His name stretched across Ilya’s back like a claim.
And suddenly, something shifted in Shane’s chest.
“Tell me,” Ilya repeated softly.
Shane’s voice came out quieter than he expected.
“…I want you to kiss me.”
Ilya’s eyes darkened slightly.
“Good.”
He leaned forward, pressing a slow kiss against Shane’s mouth. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just warm. Certain.
Shane’s fingers tightened in the fabric of the jersey.
“Don’t take it off,” he murmured. “Leave it.”
Ilya pulled back slightly, studying him. A slow grin spread across his face before he leaned in again, pressing another slow kiss to Shane’s mouth.
Shane’s breath caught as the space between them vanished. For a moment, the world outside the cottage disappeared.
No internet. No headlines. No reporters. Just the two of them. And the quiet reflection of Shane’s name across Ilya’s back.
The moment lingered.
And Shane realized Ilya was waiting again.
He wasn’t going to do anything unless Shane said it.
Shane exhaled slowly.
“Kneel,” he musters. The word came out a little softer than he intended.
Ilya grinned.
Then he obeyed.
He lowered himself to the floor without breaking eye contact, waiting patiently for Shane’s next instruction.
Shane swallowed. The sudden shift in power made his pulse race.
“…Ilya” His voice faltered slightly.
Ilya’s expression softened with quiet amusement. Always the same. Shane, trying so hard to take control and still instinctively polite about it. Ilya tilted his head slightly.
“Well?” he murmured. “I am listening.”
-----
The drive from Montreal to Ottawa should have taken about two hours. For Hayden Pike, it took one hour and thirty-six minutes. Mostly because he was losing his mind the entire way.
He tried texting shane. No response.
His calls went straight to voicemail.
He tried Yuna.
Then David.
Nothing.
Hayden figured the entire Hollander family had probably put their phones on ‘Do Not Disturb’. Or maybe thrown them into the Ottawa River after the post went up.
Because Hayden had seen the post.
Three times.
He read the caption.
Saw the wedding photo.
Fixated on one line.
There has never been a version of Ilya Rozanov stepping onto NHL ice that was not in love with Shane Hollander.
Hayden nearly drove into a ditch because his bestfriend had been secretly married. For two fucking years. To Ilya Fucking Rozanov. The most annoying man on the planet.
Hayden pulled into the cottage driveway like he was about to start a fight. Which, emotionally speaking, he was.
He knocked twice. Hard. Nothing.
He rang the doorbell. Multiple times. Still Nothing.
Then he yelled Shane’s name and looked directly at the front-door security camera.
“OPEN THE DOOR.”
Nothing.
Five minutes passed. Hayden was almost ready to accept that he had driven two hours for absolutely nothing—
when the door finally opened.
And there was Shane.
With Ilya fucking Rozanov right behind him.
-----
A few minutes before Hayden arrived at the cottage, Ilya was changing the sheets. At some point earlier, Shane had apparently decided he didn’t want to ruin his perfectly organized home gym and redirected their evening to the bedroom instead.
He had just tossed the used ones into the washer and followed Shane’s meticulous laundry instructions, which were helpfully laminated and taped to the wall beside the machine.
He was waiting for his husband to finish in the shower.
This time, Shane had insisted on showering alone. Mostly because Ilya had made it very clear he would not be able to keep his hands to himself otherwise. Which was understandable. Considering they had just spent the last hour discovering how good it feels to finally be honest with the world.
The bathroom door opened a few minutes later.
Shane stepped out wrapped in a towel, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. Steam followed him into the hallway, and his cheeks were still faintly flushed from the hot water.
Ilya immediately forgot what he was doing, his focus lost in the accentuated freckles across his husband’s cheeks.
“Solnyshko,” he said softly.
Shane rolled his eyes but walked straight into his arms anyway.
They ended up on the bed again, half tangled in clean sheets, Shane leaning against Ilya’s chest while Ilya lazily traced circles along his arm.
For a moment, everything felt quiet again.
Then—
Knock.
Both of them froze. Another knock followed, louder this time.
Ilya frowned and reached for his phone on the nightstand. He opened the security camera feed.
A very familiar, very furious hockey player appeared on the screen.
Ilya blinked.
“Moy lyubimyy,” he said calmly. “It’s Pike.”
Shane sat up immediately.
“What is he doing here?” He checked the time. “At ten at night?”
They both knew exactly what Hayden was doing there.
Ilya tilted the phone toward him.
“I don’t know,” he said mildly. “Do you think he saw my post?”
Shane groaned. He stood up and grabbed the nearest shirt, pulling it over his head before throwing another one at Ilya.
“Put on clothes.”
Ilya caught the shirt and sighed.
“I was enjoying our freedom.”
Shane pointed toward the door.
“You can enjoy it later.”
The doorbell rang again.
And Hayden Pike was still outside.
-----
Shane opened the door.
Hayden Pike stormed inside.
“You’re MARRIED???”
Shane winced.
“Hi, Hayden.”
Hayden pointed aggressively at the Instagram post still open on his phone.
“YOU’RE MARRIED.”
“Yes.”
“To HIM.”
Hayden pointed behind Shane.
Rozanov was leaning casually against the kitchen counter. Arms crossed. Watching the chaos unfold like a pleased spectator.
“Hello, Pike.”
Hayden looked at him like someone discovering a cockroach in their cereal.
“…you.”
Rozanov nodded politely.
“Yes.”
Hayden whipped back to Shane.
“You married this asshole from Boston? And made me run a hockey camp with him?”
Ilya grins.
“I am asshole from Ottawa now.”
Hayden stared at him. Then back at Shane. Then back at Ilya.
“You chirped me for nine years.”
Rozanov nodded thoughtfully.
“You are very easy chirp.”
Hayden sputtered.
“You told reporters I was the fifteenth best player on the Metros.”
Rozanov shrugged.
“That was generous estimate.”
Shane buried his face in his hands.
“ILYA.”
Hayden pins his attention to his bestfriend.
“YOU MARRIED HIM.”
Rozanov answered calmly.
“For green card.”
Shane choked.
“ILYA.”
Hayden froze. Then blinked.
“…what?”
Rozanov shrugged again.
“Very practical, yes?”
Hayden looked horrified.
“YOU MARRIED HIM TO GIVE HIM A GREEN CARD??”
Shane groaned.
“That is not—”
But Rozanov kept going.
“He gets husband. Canada gets citizen. Very good deal.”
Shane dragged both hands down his face.
“Oh my god.”
Hayden stared at his best friend.
“Shane.”
“Yes.”
“You married Rozanov for immigration paperwork?”
Shane pointed at Rozanov with a glare.
Rozanov studied Hayden carefully. Then tilted his head.
“…why do you sound angry.”
Hayden stared.
“WHY DO I SOUND—”
Rozanov narrowed his eyes slightly, searching for an English word he knows he knew.
“You are… how you say…” He gestured vaguely. “Homophobic.”
The cottage went silent. Shane slowly turned toward him.
“…oh my god,” Shane muttered, suddenly afraid. Because maybe it was true. Maybe his bestfriend couldn’t handle this. Maybe everything would change.
Hayden’s eyes widened in horror.
“WHAT??”
Rozanov crossed his arms.
“You are upset because two men married.”
Hayden sputtered immediately.
“I AM NOT—”
He turned desperately to Shane.
“I AM NOT HOMOPHOBIC. Buddy, I swear I don’t have a problem with you being gay. But really? Rozanov?”
Before Shane could react, Ilya spoke again.
“He may be jealous.”
Hayden whipped around.
“I AM NOT JEALOUS.”
Rozanov shrugged.
“You drove two hours.”
Hayden froze.
“…that is irrelevant.”
Rozanov nodded slowly.
“Da. It is very relevant” Then added calmly: “Very emotional man.”
Hayden turned back to Shane again.
“I HATE HIM. SHANE, I’M GOING TO KILL YOUR HUSBAND.”
Shane grabbed him immediately.
“No murder in my cottage. Why don’t we all sit first?”
Rozanov leaned casually against the counter again, watching the chaos. Then added one last observation.
“You see.” He gestured toward Hayden. “Very dramatic man.”
Hayden pointed again.
“YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE.”
Shane glared at both of them and steered everyone toward the dining table. Ilya sat beside Shane. Hayden dropped into the chair across from them.
“Yes,” Shane said finally. “I married Ilya so he could apply for permanent residence faster.”
Hayden’s mouth fell open. This is absurd.
“You’re serious?” Hayden asked.
Shane sighed.
“Ilya’s situation with Russia isn’t simple.”
Ilya quietly reached for Shane’s hand and squeezed it.
“If something happened… if he had to go back there, if things got complicated politically…”
Shane shrugged slightly.
“…marriage helps.”
Hayden blinked.
“…you married him for legal protection?”
Shane nodded.
“Yes.”
Hayden stared.
“…that’s insane.”
Shane rubbed the back of his neck.
“My dad found out first.”
Hayden blinked.
“…how? ...when?”
Shane glanced at Ilya.
“He walked in on us here. The summer I got injured.”
Hayden slowly turned toward Ilya.
“You were at the cottage.”
“Da. Yes.”
Hayden still looked confused.
“And then my mom suggested I marry him,” Shane added. “Helped with the paperwork. Pulled strings to keep it a secret.”
Across the table, Ilya lifted his glass slightly.
“Very helpful woman.”
Hayden leaned back in his chair.
“…Yuna made you marry your rival?”
Shane winced.
“When you say it like that—”
“That is exactly what happened,” Ilya said.
Hayden dragged a hand down his face.
“…okay.”
A pause.
Then Shane added quietly,
“And because I love him.”
For a moment, Shane didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
The memory was still clear.
-----
The ceremony had taken place behind the cottage.
Late summer. The lake quiet. The air warm enough that the evening light lingered across the water.
No reporters. No teammates. Just family.
One camera on Yuna’s hands. A few Polaroids to capture the moment they became husbands.
Shane adjusted the cuffs of his navy-blue suit for the third time in five minutes.
Across from him, Ilya stood near the edge of the dock, staring out at the lake like he was trying to memorize it. His hand firm on the crucifix around his neck.
His suit was maroon. Dark, almost the color of dried wine in the sunset.
Yuna had insisted they both wear something proper.
“Just because it’s secret doesn’t mean it has to be ugly,” she had said.
David stood a few steps away, holding a printed sheet of paper and reading it with the same expression he used when reviewing Shane’s contracts.
Focused. Serious. Official.
He had gotten ordained online three days earlier.
Shane still wasn’t sure if that was ridiculous or incredibly sweet. At first, he had assumed they would just sign the paperwork quietly and move on.
Ilya had looked at him like he’d said something offensive.
“We are getting married,” he had said. “There should be wedding.”
Yuna noticed Shane fidgeting and smacked his arm lightly.
“Stop doing that.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’ve adjusted your sleeves four times.”
Shane sighed.
“I’m getting married.”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “That tends to happen at weddings.”
Shane glanced toward the dock again.
Ilya hadn’t moved.
“Is he nervous?” Shane asked.
Yuna followed his gaze.
“No.” She smiled faintly. “He’s being dramatic.”
As if summoned by the comment, Ilya turned and walked back toward them.
He looked composed. Too composed.
Shane narrowed his eyes.
“You look suspiciously calm.”
Ilya shrugged.
“I am Russian. This is normal.”
Yuna rolled her eyes.
“Alright,” David said, glancing up from the paper. “Before I forget the order of this thing.”
He looked between them.
“Are we doing this?”
Shane met Ilya’s gaze. For once, neither of them had a joke ready.
Ilya reached for his hand first.
“Da.”
David nodded once.
“Okay then.”
The ceremony itself was short and simple. Exactly how Ilya wanted it.
Just the quiet sound of water against the dock, and Yuna occasionally wiping at her eyes while pretending she wasn’t.
For years, she had worried that her son cared too much about hockey and not enough about finding someone to share his life with. She had spent the better part of the last decade trying to set him up with perfectly nice women he barely remembered meeting.
Standing there now, watching Shane marry the man he had quietly loved all along, she realized she had never needed to worry.
When it came time for the rings, Shane hesitated for half a second.
Not because he doubted it. Because the moment suddenly felt very real.
Ilya noticed. Of course he did.
He leaned closer and murmured quietly enough that only Shane could hear.
“You can still run.”
Shane snorted.
“Shut up.” The words came out softer than he intended. More affectionate than annoyed.
“I promise to choose you,” Shane says. “Even when it’s complicated.”
Then he slid the ring onto Ilya’s finger.
“I love you, Ilya.” Shane declared.
For once, Ilya looked completely undone. Half smiling. Half trying very hard to maintain his usual Russian bravado while clearly fighting tears.
“It will always be complicated,” he said.
Shane met his gaze. Certain.
“I know.”
At that moment, Ilya was the happiest man alive.
“Then I promise to stay.”
Ilya slid the other ring onto Shane’s finger.
“Shane…”
Ilya exhaled slowly.
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
David cleared his throat and glanced down at the paper again.
“Alright. I think the script says something about a kiss.”
Yuna waved a hand impatiently.
“David, just let them kiss.”
So they did.
A quiet kiss on a wooden dock behind a cottage where no one else could see.
The lake stretched out endlessly behind them.
For the first time since their rookie season, they weren’t rivals, or casual fuck buddies, or something they had to hide.
They were simply husbands.
-----
When Shane blinked, he was back at the table.
Hayden was still staring at them like the world had tilted sideways.
Processing.
“…what.”
Another pause.
Then his eyes narrowed.
“…wait.”
He pointed at Shane.
“What about Boston Lily?”
A quiet pause followed.
Shane sighed.
“Lily wasn’t—”
Ilya burst out laughing.
Hayden slowly turned toward him.
“…why are you laughing.”
Rozanov wiped a tear from his eye.
“Pike,” he said kindly, “you are very slow man.”
Hayden blinked.
“…what.”
Then realization hit him. Boston. Secret. Lily. Ilya.
He looked at Ilya. Then Shane. Then back at Ilya again.
“…Lily.”
Shane rubbed his temples.
“Yes.”
Hayden pointed.
“LILY WAS YOU??”
Rozanov nodded politely.
“Yes.”
Hayden sat back in his chair, completely stunned.
“…I need a drink.”
Ilya stood.
“Da. That sounds correct. Maybe I need one too.”
Ilya disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and returned with three glasses, a bottle of vodka, and a can of ginger ale.
He set everything on the table without comment.
First, he poured a generous measure of vodka into one glass and slid it toward Hayden.
Then he picked up the second glass.
Before pouring, he glanced briefly at Shane.
A small pause.
Shane hesitated, then gave a tiny nod.
Ilya poured a smaller amount into Shane’s glass and put the can of ginger ale next to it.
The third glass he filled halfway with vodka for himself.
Hayden picked up his drink. He didn’t say anything. Just took a sip. Then another.
His expression didn’t change, but internally he registered one clear thought: Jesus Christ.
Ilya leaned back in his chair.
“Good,” he said calmly.
Hayden stared at Shane.
“Wait.”
He pointed between them.
“You told me you stopped seeing Boston Lily.”
Shane nodded slowly.
“I did say that. When Ilya moved to Ottawa”
Hayden blinked.
“You could’ve told me then.”
Shane sighed.
“It wasn’t personal, Hayds.”
Hayden leaned back in his chair.
“It felt personal.”
Shane rubbed the back of his neck.
“I couldn’t risk it.”
Hayden frowned.
“Risk what?”
Shane glanced briefly at Ilya before answering.
“Leaks.”
Hayden’s expression shifted slightly.
“At the time, Ilya was still on a work visa. If the wrong people started asking questions… if the wrong people connected things…”
He shrugged.
“…things could’ve gotten complicated.”
Ilya spoke quietly.
“Deportation.”
Hayden blinked.
“…oh.”
Shane nodded.
“So yeah. I made sure people don’t have anything they could pull on.”
He shrugged again.
“But now he has permanent residency.”
He gestured toward Ilya.
“So we can finally stop pretending.”
Hayden looked between them again.
“…okay.”
He paused. Then frowned.
“But that’s still insane.”
Shane gave a small laugh.
“Yeah. Well.”
He hesitated.
“But that’s not everything.”
Hayden looked up.
Shane leaned back slightly in his chair.
“There was this game a few years ago.”
Ilya glanced at him immediately. He knew exactly which one.
“I got hit,” Shane continued.
Hayden nodded slowly. He remembered. Everyone did. Broken ribs. Concussion.
“Ilya had to wait overnight and pretend he was visiting as his team’s captain just to see me.”
Shane shrugged slightly.
He glanced at Ilya briefly, then back at Hayden.
For the first time since Hayden arrived, Ilya’s voice was completely serious.
“It was hard. I was losing my mind all night.”
He folded his arms loosely.
“I couldn’t be there.”
A pause.
“I am not family. Nobody knows.”
The words settled heavily in the room. For a moment, no one said anything.
Shane looked down at his hands.
“If something had gone wrong… if something serious happened…”
He exhaled slowly.
“He wouldn’t have been allowed to see me.”
Hayden didn’t say anything.
Shane continued.
“And if something ever happens to him?”
He looked at Rozanov.
“I wouldn’t be able to do anything either.”
Ilya spoke softly.
“Not family.”
Another quiet moment passed.
Then Shane lifted his head and looked back at Hayden.
“So yeah.”
He shrugged.
“Green card.”
A small pause.
“And unfortunately…”
He glanced sideways at Ilya.
“…I love him.”
Rozanov smiled faintly.
“Da.” Beat. “Very unfortunate.”
Shane rolled his eyes.
Hayden stared at both of them, clearly still processing.
“…I still hate him.”
Rozanov nodded calmly.
“I could live with that.”
Hayden sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“Look, I get it. The Russia thing. The visa thing. The whole ‘don’t accidentally get deported’ thing.”
He rubbed a hand down his face.
“But next time you secretly marry your biggest rival…”
He pointed at Shane.
“…maybe tell your bestfriend first before Instagram does.”
Shane grins.
-----
Inside the cottage, the conversation stayed quiet.
Three people at a dining table, a half-finished bottle of vodka, and a truth that had taken a decade to say out loud.
Outside, the hockey world was having a very different night.
@puckupdates
BREAKING: Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander reveal they’ve been secretly married for two years.
@nhlrumourwatch
WAIT WHAT
@sportsnetinsider
The Rozanov/Hollander rivalry might have been the most elaborate cover story in hockey history.
@metrosnation
so let me get this straight (or maybe not that straight??)
our captain secretly married ROZANOV???
@centaurfan1989
this is psychological warfare at a level we were not prepared for
@hockeywagswatch
THEY HAVE A COTTAGE??? COULD I BE THERE???
@nhlgossipwatch
that third photo is literally their wedding
@hollanovtruther
DOMESTIC. HOLLANOV.
@hollanovtruther
I TOLD YOU ALL. YOU DID NOT LISTEN TO ME.
WE. WERE. CALLED. DELUSIONAL.
WE. WERE. CALLED. INSANE.
LOOK. AT. US .NOW.
@nhlmemesdaily
so the rivalry was just sexual tension this whole time
@puckbunny1998
not to be dramatic but this changes hockey forever
@sportsanalyticsguy
this might be the most successful long-term PR misdirection in modern sports
@puckdetective
just remembering that time hollander checked rosanov into the boards and now realizing that might have been marital conflict
@littlecens13
what is the president's plan to ensure one of them gets pregnant with the future hockey GOAT?? i am scared
@nhlchaosreport
i don't know if i want to be shane or ilya
@hollanderdefenseclub
the way he said “there has never been a version of Ilya Rozanov on NHL ice that wasn’t in love with Shane Hollander” ????????
@hollanovtruther
YOUR HONOR THEY ARE MARRIED
@pikefanclub
SOMEONE CHECK ON HAYDEN PIKE
@nhlmemesdaily
imagine chirping a guy for years and he’s actually your husband
@sportscenter
One of hockey’s fiercest rivalries has turned out to be a secret marriage.
@hollanovtruther
THIS IS A ROMCOM
@hockeyanalyticsguy
timeline check:
Irina Foundation announced → Hollander & Rozanov suddenly “friends” → now they reveal they’ve been married for two years
@hollanovtruther
THE FOUNDATION WAS A COVER STORY
-----
By the following morning, every hockey podcast in North America had the same topic.
The Neutral Zone Podcast
Mike:
Okay, let’s put the romance aside for a second and talk about the actual hockey implications here.
Because this is unprecedented.
You’ve got two franchise players on rival teams who are married.
Ryan:
Yeah, and the first question every GM in the league is asking right now is: does that affect roster decisions?
Mike:
Exactly.
Because if either of them becomes a free agent, does the other team suddenly have an advantage?
Ryan:
That’s where people are going to start whispering the word tampering.
Tape to Tape Podcast
Chris:
Imagine this scenario.
It’s the trade deadline.
One of them gets moved.
Does the league have to worry about competitive integrity?
Because if Rozanov knows Hollander’s team is about to make an offer in the offseason… that’s technically information another player doesn’t have.
Mark:
Right.
This is the first time we’ve had two superstar players who are legally married but under separate NHL contracts.
The league is going to have to figure out how to handle that.
Offside Opinions
Brad:
There’s also the Olympic angle.
Rozanov is Russian-born.
If he’s now a permanent resident in Canada, that could complicate his international eligibility depending on the timeline.
Chad:
Yeah, and if Russia is banned again or the eligibility rules change, could he theoretically represent Canada in the future?
Brad:
That’s a massive storyline heading into the next Olympic cycle.
The Hockey Hour
Alex:
Another thing: locker room dynamics.
Hollander is the Metros captain.
Rozanov is the Centaurs captain.
And now everyone knows they’ve been married for two years while playing each other as rivals.
You’re telling me nobody in either locker room noticed anything?
Puck Management Podcast
Dave:
The NHL front office is probably scrambling right now.
Because if these guys ever decide they want to play on the same team…
that becomes the biggest free-agent leverage situation we’ve ever seen.
Tyler:
Two elite players.
One household.
You sign one, you might get the other.
That changes the economics of roster building completely.
Cap Space Conversations
Dan:
Think about contract negotiations.
Agents now have a completely new bargaining chip.
“Hey, my client’s spouse plays for Team X.”
You don’t think that matters?
Of course it matters.
The Neutral Zone Podcast (later in the episode)
Mike:
The funniest part of all of this?
Ryan:
What?
Mike:
They pulled it off for two years.
Ryan:
Two full NHL seasons.
Mike:
That might be the most impressive defensive system in hockey history.
-----
Instagram Post
@ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer
Tagged: @Ilya_Rozanov81
Over the past three days, Ilya and I have taken time to speak with our families, teammates, organizations, and the league following the news we shared earlier this week.
We understand that many people have questions, and we appreciate the patience and support we’ve received.
To address those questions, we will be holding a press conference this Friday.
We look forward to speaking with everyone then.
Thank you for the respect shown to us and to the people around us as we navigate this moment.
— Shane
Attached Image (Press Conference Poster)
NHL MEDIA AVAILABILITY
Shane Hollander-Rozanov
Captain, Montreal Metros
Ilya Hollander-Rozanov
Captain, Ottawa Centaurs
Joint Press Conference
Friday
3:00 PM EST
Canadian Tire Centre
Ottawa, Ontario
Media credentials required.
Livestream available via NHL Network and SportsNet.
Chapter End Notes
Hi, guys!!!
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my fic!!! <3 Also, thank you for the kind words in the comment section. To be honest, I am so overwhelmed by what you have been writing back.
I just finished this chapter!!! Right now, I don't have anything started for the next chapter, and I have to really get back to my research. So don't expect the next chapter to be posted soon huhu...
Love y'all <3 Ughhh
Munch. Munch. Munch. Yum. Yum. Yum.
By Friday noon, the chaos had been organized. Not gone, but contained. Directed.
Farah had spent hours coordinating with both teams, the league, and every media outlet that mattered. Yuna had taken control of everything else—messaging, tone, boundaries. Her PR control was immaculate, moving with the kind of quiet precision that made it clear she had been preparing for this two years before it happened. Together, they had given Shane and Ilya a solid strategy.
They knew what questions were coming. They knew which topics to avoid, which ones to answer directly, which ones to shut down entirely. They had talking points, fallback answers, contingencies layered on contingencies.
They had, as Farah had put it that morning, ammunition.
But for the first time in over a decade, none of it required pretending.
All they had to do now was tell the truth.
-----
Backstage, the room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every small movement feel louder than it should.
Shane paced near the wall, phone in hand, not reading anything on the screen. Just holding it. Turning it over. Unlocking it, locking it again. His thumb moved out of habit more than intention, like if he stopped, everything might catch up to him all at once.
Across the room, Ilya sat back in one of the chairs, watching him.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush him. He knew his husband well enough to to let Shane burn through it first.
“I’m nervous,” Shane said finally, the words coming out quieter than he intended.
Ilya’s mouth twitched faintly.
“I know.”
And he did.
Not just from the pacing, or the restless energy, or the way Shane hadn’t been able to sit still for more than thirty seconds since they arrived. But because he knew him. Because this was what Shane looked like when his mind was moving faster than everything else.
Shane stopped pacing.
“What if we’re bad at this?”
Ilya tilted his head slightly.
“At what?”
Shane hesitated, like he didn’t quite know how to put it into words. Then he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.
“…at showing it.”
Ilya didn’t move.
Shane let out a short, humorless laugh.
“We spent ten years pretending we hate each other in public.”
The words hung there.
Heavy, but not unfamiliar.
“What if we don’t know how to…” Shane gestured vaguely between them, frustrated with his own inability to articulate it. “…how to make it look real?”
Ilya stood. Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just steady.
He crossed the space between them in a few quiet steps, stopping close enough that Shane instinctively stilled, like something in him recognized the shift before his brain caught up.
“You already do,” Ilya said.
Shane frowned slightly.
“You think too much about how it looks.”
Then, softer.
“I don’t need you to perform, Shane.”
Something in Shane’s chest tightened at that.
“Ilya—”
“You are first person who… shows me this,” Ilya said, cutting him off before he could spiral further.
His gaze didn’t waver. Because Shane needed to understand.
He needed Shane to understand that he had spent most of his life believing he was temporary.
Good for a night.
Wanted in the middle of flashing lights and deafening music.
And always left to his own once the quiet creeps in.
For years, he had chased exactly that—something intense and easy. Something that never asked him to stay and never offered to.
And for a long time, it was enough.
It was what he wanted.
Until it wasn’t.
Until Shane.
Until someone looked at him like he was something worth keeping.
Ilya exhaled quietly.
“When we were sneaking in hotels,” he said, his eyes fixed on Shane’s. “When we were hiding.”
A small pause.
“You still look at me like I am…” He stopped again, jaw tightening slightly. “Not just that.”
Not just a body.
Not just a moment.
Not just something temporary.
“Like I matter,” he finished, simpler this time.
Shane’s breath caught. Ilya glanced at him.
“You are very good at loving me,” he said.
A beat. Then, more quietly:
“In private.”
The words settled between them. Simple. Heavy.
Ilya looked back at him.
“Now, you just… do the same thing.”
A small shrug.
“Everywhere.”
Shane swallowed.
His voice, when it came, was quieter. A little rougher.
“It feels like we owe people something.”
He glanced away, almost embarrassed by the admission.
“Like an explanation. Or… justification for hiding everything.”
“No.”
The word came immediately. Firm. Certain.
Ilya stepped closer, close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him, the steadiness of his presence anchoring him in place.
“We don’t owe them story, Shane.”
A pause.
“We do this. We get freedom.”
Shane looked at him. Really looked at him. And for the first time that morning, something in him settled.
“We can do anything we want now,” Ilya said quietly.
Shane let out a slow breath. His shoulders dropped, just slightly.
For the first time that morning, the thought didn’t feel too overwhelming.
It felt… possible.
“There’s this place.”
Ilya waited.
“It’s a restaurant near here,” Shane said, voice steadier now, though still soft around the edges. “I used to go there all the time when I was a kid.”
A small pause.
“I always thought…”
He trailed off again.
Ilya didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush him.
“…I always imagined taking you there.”
The words landed softly. Ilya nodded.
“Okay.”
Then, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth:
“We do this conference,” he said, tone lightening just enough, “and then you take me on our first date after ten years.”
Shane blinked, then huffed out a quiet laugh.
“…that sounds insane when you say it like that.”
Ilya shrugged.
“It is a little insane.” A beat. “But I like it.”
Shane shook his head, a smile finally breaking through.
“Yeah,” he said. “…me too.”
-----
The press room was packed.
Cameras. Lights. Reporters pressed shoulder to shoulder, voices overlapping in a low, restless hum that filled the space.
They walked in. And everything went quiet.
Shane took his seat first. Ilya sat beside him.
Microphones lined the table. Camera shutters began to fire again, rapid and unrelenting.
Ilya reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
Shane glanced at him briefly.
Ilya leaned toward the microphone.
“Good afternoon.”
A pause.
“We prepared something together,” he said. “I will read it… so I don’t improvise.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
Ilya unfolded the page carefully.
“Over the past few days, we’ve taken time to speak with our families, our teams, and the league following what we shared publicly.”
“We understand there are many questions. Some of them we will answer. Some of them we will keep private.”
He paused briefly, eyes scanning the page.
“What we can say is this.”
“We are very grateful for the support we have received over the past few days. From fans, from our organizations, and from the hockey community.”
A beat.
“We understand that this is new. We are, as far as we know, the first openly married couple in the NHL.”
A subtle shift in the room.
“But our relationship did not begin now,” Ilya continued. “It existed long before this moment. It existed before we were ready to share it.”
He glanced down briefly, then continued.
“It also existed alongside our careers.”
Another pause.
“Nothing about our relationship changes the way we play hockey.”
“If anything,” he tilted his head slightly, “it made it more intense.”
A few quiet laughs.
“We compete against each other because we respect each other.”
A beat.
“And because we like to win.”
Another small ripple of amusement.
Ilya lowered the paper slightly. He didn’t look back at it.
“Especially me,” he added, almost thoughtfully.
Shane turned his head immediately.
“Ilya—”
“I think it is very important to win,” Ilya continued, completely serious.
The room stilled, waiting.
“I find beating him very motivating.”
A pause.
“…and sometimes,” he added, “very attractive. Very hot.”
The room broke with laughter, cameras flashing faster.
“Shane is very desperate when he loses. He is like angry kitten.”
Shane dragged a hand down his face.
“Oh my god.”
Ilya glanced at him, unbothered.
“He does not like losing,” he added, like he was clarifying something important. “You see him as very… humble.”
A small tilt of his head.
“But you do not see what happens after.”
“ILYA.”
“For days,” Ilya said, holding up a finger, completely serious. “He talks. Constantly.”
The room was already starting to crack.
“Ilya,” he said, shifting slightly, voice pitching higher in a near-perfect imitation, “did you see my hat trick?
A beat.
“Ilya, I did the Rozanov against you.”
Laughter broke out, louder this time.
Ilya nodded to himself, like he was proving a point.
“Very smug,” he added. “Very annoying.”
A pause.
“Like… sassy kitten.”
The room lost it.
Shane leaned into the microphone, visibly suffering.
“Please ignore him.”
“I cannot ignore truth,” Ilya replied calmly.
More laughter.
Shane closed his eyes.
“I’m never speaking again.”
Ilya glanced at him, grinning. Then he finally looked back down at the paper.
Back on track.
“Off the ice,” he continued, voice settling again, “we built something we chose to protect until we were ready.”
A beat.
“Now we are ready.”
He lowered the page completely.
“We are still the same people you have been watching for years.”
A small pause.
“You just know more about us now.”
Silence, softer this time.
“Thank you.”
He folded the paper neatly and set it down.
The room held its breath for half a second.
“Questions.”
The first hand went up immediately.
“Can you clarify the timeline? You said in your post that Ilya has been in love with Shane his entire career. Is that accurate?”
Ilya nodded once.
“Yes.”
The reporter turned.
“And Shane? Is that true for you as well?”
A pause.
Shane didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
A shift in the room.
“Can you give more details about when the relationship started?”
Shane shook his head slightly.
“Further details are private.”
Another voice.
“In Boston, Ilya, you were frequently seen with women. How does that fit into this timeline?”
Ilya glanced briefly at Shane.
Shane answered.
“We weren’t exclusive.”
The room leaned in.
“For a long time,” Shane continued, “it was… casual.”
He exhaled.
“We were both…” he paused, searching for the right word, then gave up and went with the truth. “scared.”
A flicker of something crossed Ilya’s expression.
“We weren’t ready,” Shane added. “So we spent a long time downplaying what this was. Even to ourselves.”
Silence.
“and when did that change?” another reporter pressed.
Shane’s mouth twitched faintly.
“That’s private.”
A different voice cut in.
“What about Rose Landry? Was that relationship real, or was it a cover?”
Shane shook his head immediately.
“It was real.”
A beat.
“We just weren’t compatible.”
He leaned back slightly.
“We’re good friends now.”
“Was the rivalry ever exaggerated for the sake of that relationship?”
Shane huffed softly.
“No.”
Ilya leaned toward the mic.
“Like I said, we are both competitive people.”
Shane calmy interjects:
“I would rather die than let him win.”
A ripple of laughter. Shane didn’t smile.
“It will remain that way.”
For a while, both of them thought everything was going smoothly.
The questions were expected. The answers came easily. Controlled. Practiced. Honest, but within the lines they had drawn.
Until one wasn’t.
It started with an innocent hand raise.
The moderator nodded.
A voice from the back. Louder than the others.
Cutting clean through the room.
“Why should we believe any of this?”
Silence.
The reporter didn’t stop.
“You’ve spent years lying. To the league, your teams, your fans. You built an entire narrative that wasn’t true.”
A pause.
“Why should anyone trust you now? I mean, just last year, the main storyline was Ilya singlehandedly raising Ottawa back to playoff competence. And they even made it past their first playoff series with the Metros after a Game 7—what, a fluke? Shane slipping, Rozanov scoring in overtime—”
A few people shifted uncomfortably.
“How do we ensure integrity?” the reporter pressed. “How do we know this isn’t affecting the game? That it’s not—what—some kind of arrangement? A monthsary gift?”
The room froze.
Even Ilya stilled.
But Shane didn’t.
He leaned forward. Not loudly but sharply enough that it cut.
“We didn’t lie about hockey.”
The reporter opened his mouth—
Shane didn’t let him.
“Everything you watched on the ice was real,” he continued, voice tight but controlled. “Every shift. Every hit. Every goal.”
A beat.
“You think I let him score on me in Game 7?”
A short, incredulous laugh left him.
“You think I spent my entire career working for that moment just to—what—fall over for him?”
The edge in his voice sharpened.
“I fell,” Shane said flatly. “Because I lost my edge on bad ice.”
A beat.
“And he capitalized.”
He gestured toward Ilya without looking at him.
“That’s what he does.”
Silence.
Shane’s jaw tightened.
“We have spent years trying to beat each other,” he said. “And we did. Repeatedly.”
Another beat.
“We just went home to the same place after.”
The words landed. Heavy. Final.
The reporter tried again—
“But don’t you think—”
“No.”
This time, it wasn’t Shane.
Ilya leaned toward the microphone. Calm. Measured.
“No,” he repeated.
A pause.
“If you think I would lose on purpose,” he said, voice even, almost conversational, “you do not understand me.”
A small shift in the room.
“I do not lose for anyone.”
Another beat.
“Especially not for him.”
A glance sideways. Brief. Sharp.
“He would hate that.”
A few quiet laughs broke the tension but didn’t fully dissolve it.
Ilya continued.
“And if you think he would let me win—”
A faint tilt of his head.
“You do not understand him either.”
Shane huffed softly beside him. That part, at least, was true.
Ilya leaned back slightly.
But the same reporter didn’t back down.
“Okay,” he said, steady, “but league concerns aren’t just about competitive integrity. There’s tampering, unfair roster advantage—how do you address that?”
Shane tilted his head slightly.
“The women’s league has had this for years.”
Ilya nodded and added his thoughts.
“There are siblings in the NHL playing on different teams.”
Shane picked up smoothly.
“We have been separating professional and personal for our entire careers. And I think our records speak for themselves,”
A brief pause.
The moderator jumped in.
“Next question.”
The next few questions came easier. Controlled. Expected.
“Do you live together during the season?”
“No,” Shane answered. “We live separately in-season. Same as always. We focus on our teams.”
“Summers are different,” Ilya added. “We spend them together.”
“Have your teams known?”
A glance between them.
“A small number of people. For legal and medical reasons,” Shane said carefully.
“Teammates?”
“No,” Shane admitted. “They found out the same way everyone else did.”
A few murmurs lingered. Then, a quieter voice spoke.
Heavily accented.
“Ilya—regarding Russia. Do you intend to return?”
The room shifted.
Ilya didn’t hesitate.
“No.”
A pause.
“My life is here.”
“How about your duties as captain of the Russian national team?” another reporter followed quickly. “Some are calling this a betrayal, especially with the upcoming Olympic cycle.”
Shane looked for Ilya’s hand and squeezed it. Ilya’s expression didn’t change.
“They betrayed me first.”
A pause.
“I gave them everything.”
Another.
“They could not accept one thing.”
Silence dropped.
“If I cannot be myself there,” he continued calmly, “if I cannot love him there—”
He gestured slightly toward Shane.
“—then I do not want to be there.”
A beat.
“I have no plans for the Olympics right now.”
“Would you consider playing for Canada?”
“I am open,” Ilya said. “But I am focused on the season.”
The moderator scanned the room.
“One last question.”
A pause.
“What changed?”
The room settled.
“You’ve both had incredibly successful careers for over a decade. You managed this privately. You were winning. Everything was working.”
A pause.
“So why now?”
Silence. Not tense. Not hostile. Just waiting.
Ilya leans toward the microphone first.
“We got tired,” he says simply. “Of hiding.”
A beat.
“And we didn’t have to anymore.”
He glances briefly at Shane.
“Before, there were reasons.” Not elaborated. “Now there are none.”
Shane exhaled quietly, then leaned forward.
“For a long time, we had contingencies,” he said. “Plans for what to do if something like this ever happened.”
A faint, almost disbelieving shake of his head.
“And then I sent him to buy basil.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
“And suddenly it wasn’t hypothetical anymore.”
A beat.
“It was already out there.”
He shrugged slightly.
“So we made a choice.”
His voice steadied.
“We could try to cover it up. Or we could stand our ground and take control of our truth.”
Silence.
“We don’t owe anyone a story.”
The room held still.
“But we didn’t want to hide ours anymore.”
The moderator stepped in.
“Alright. That will conclude today’s availability.”
-----
Trattoria Belluno hadn’t changed. The same warm amber lighting spilling across the room. The same low, steady hum of conversation. The same worn wooden tables, polished smooth from years of use.
But the moment felt different. Because this time, they walked in together. On purpose.
Shane paused at the door.
Ilya noticed immediately.
“We can leave,” he said quietly.
Shane shook his head.
“No.” A breath. “I want this.”
Ilya didn’t say anything else. He just reached for the door and opened it.
Recognition came fast and immediate. A few heads turned. Then more. Conversations faltered. Phones appeared almost instantly. Subtlety never attempted.
Shane felt it. Of course he did. But this time, it wasn’t a secret being discovered anymore. It was something already known.
They were seated near the window. The same table Shane used to ask for when he was younger.
The waiter approached with a practiced smile. Warm. A little nervous, but genuine.
“Hi! Welcome to Trattoria Belluno.”
A small pause.
“…good to see you again.”
Shane blinked. Oh. Right.
“Can I get you started with drinks?”
Shane glanced at the menu, though he didn’t really need to.
“Red wine,” he said. “House is fine.”
Ilya turned his head slowly.
“…you want wine?”
Shane didn’t look up.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“I’m having a moment.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched.
“Dangerous.”
The waiter nodded quickly and stepped away.
From across the room, a phone camera flashed. Not even hidden.
Shane noticed it immediately. Watched it. And waited for the discomfort. For the tightening in his chest. For that familiar instinct to pull back, to leave, to disappear before it became something bigger. But instead, he just sat there.
“…huh.”
Ilya glanced at him.
“What?”
Shane leaned back slightly, eyes still on the room.
“…I thought this would feel worse.”
Ilya followed his gaze.
Another table. Another phone. Someone pretending not to stare.
“People have always taken pictures of us,” Ilya said.
Shane blinked. Right.
Ilya shrugged.
“This is same.” A small pause. “Only difference is now they post with correct caption.”
Shane let out a quiet laugh.
“I thought it would feel bigger,” he admitted.
“It is,” Ilya said.
Shane considered that.
“…but it doesn’t feel like the end of the world.”
“No.”
Then, softer—
“... it just feels like a date.”
The wine arrived.
Shane took a sip, then glanced down at the menu again, though his expression had already shifted. Softer now, more familiar.
“They make the best chicken parmesan here,” he said. “Same recipe since I was a kid.”
Ilya looked at him.
“You have been thinking about this a long time.”
Shane huffed a quiet laugh.
“Yeah.”
A small pause.
“I used to come here after games. With my parents. Or when something big happened.”
He traced the edge of the menu absently.
“First time I made varsity, we came here. I ordered the same thing.”
He glanced up.
“They do it right. Crispy, but not too heavy. Sauce isn’t too sweet. And the cheese—”
Ilya tilted his head.
“You are describing it like a scouting report.”
Shane rolled his eyes.
“I’m serious.”
“I believe you,” Ilya said easily. “You are very passionate about chicken.”
Shane smiled despite himself.
Then, quieter—
“I always thought… I’d bring you here.”
The words landed softer this time. Less like something imagined. More like something real.
Ilya didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. He just nodded.
“Good,” he said.
A small pause.
“I am here.”
-----
By the time Shane finished his third glass of wine, the shift was subtle at first. Just a looseness in his shoulders, a softness in the way he leaned back in his chair. But Ilya noticed it immediately, the way he always did when something about Shane changed, even slightly.
Ilya watched him over the rim of his glass, studying the faint flush along his cheeks, the slower blink, the way his usual sharp awareness had softened into something warmer.
“You are drunk,” he said mildly.
Shane frowned, like he had to think about it.
“I’m not drunk.”
“You had three glasses,” Ilya replied, unimpressed. “You can’t handle wine, Shane. You are very boring.”
Shane narrowed his eyes, trying very hard to look offended, though the effect was slightly ruined by the way he was already leaning toward him.
A beat.
“You like boring.”
Ilya smiled.
“Da.”
The waiter approached carefully, like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was interrupting something important.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, setting the check down gently between them.
Shane looked up at him, blinking once, then twice, like he was trying to focus.
“Do you know that’s my husband?”
Ilya closed his eyes. Briefly.
The waiter blinked, clearly caught off guard.
“I—uh—yes,” he said.
Shane turned back to Ilya, lifting a hand in a vague, sweeping gesture, like he was presenting something rare and valuable.
“Look at him,” he said, voice low but full of quiet, unfiltered awe. “He’s so handsome.”
“Shane—” Ilya muttered, already reaching across the table.
“And tall,” Shane continued, completely ignoring him, “and he has a very big—”
Ilya covered his mouth.
“Stop talking.”
Shane made an indignant sound against his hand, brows furrowing.
Ilya didn’t move.
“What?” Shane said when he was released, deeply offended. “I was going to say you have a very big heart.”
A pause.
Ilya stared at him.
“…you were not.”
“I was,” Shane insisted, softer now. “You’re very kind.”
“Shane, you are very drunk,” Ilya replied, already reaching for his wallet.
Shane caught his wrist immediately.
“Ilya—”
There was something almost scandalized in the way he looked at him.
“I asked you out,” Shane said, slower now, like the words mattered more. “I’m paying.”
“No.” Simple. Final.
Shane frowned harder, like this was a personal betrayal.
“It’s my place,” he said, quieter now. “I brought you here.”
A beat.
“I want to.”
Ilya looked at him. At the way Shane held his wrist. At the way his voice softened around the edges, like this mattered more than he knew how to explain out loud.
Something in Ilya’s expression shifted.
Then, just slightly, he leaned in.
“Net, moya printsessa. Ya zaplachu,” he said quietly. (No, my princess. I’ll pay.)
The words were soft, low enough that they didn’t carry beyond the table, slipping easily into a space that had always belonged only to them.
Shane stilled. Just for a second. Then his grip loosened.
“…you’re unbelievable,” he muttered, but there was no real fight in it now.
Ilya didn’t answer.
He just slid his card into the folder, calm, practiced, unbothered.
Like it had already been decided.
“Food was good,” Ilya uttered as he gives the folder back to the waiter.
The waiter smiled, a little surprised.
“Thank you.”
A few minutes later, the receipt came back, and Ilya signed it without hesitation, leaving a tip that made the waiter pause for half a second before nodding in quiet appreciation.
He stood, pulling his jacket on in one smooth motion, while Shane followed a moment later. Slower. Softer. Still watching him like the rest of the room had faded into something distant and unimportant.
The waiter lingered nearby.
“Thank you again,” he said.
Ilya nodded, then without overthinking it, without filtering the words the way he might have before:
“I understand now,” he said.
The waiter paused.
Ilya glanced briefly toward Shane, then back at him.
“Why my husband loves this place.” The words came easily.
The waiter’s expression shifted into something warmer, something that looked a little like recognition and a little like quiet respect.
“I’m glad,” he said.
-----
Outside, the night air was cooler. It was quieter. The noise of the restaurant faded behind them as the door closed and the moment settled into something softer.
Shane stepped out beside him, a little unsteady now, his movements slower, his guard completely gone, the tension of the past few days replaced by something lighter, something almost fragile in its openness.
“Oh my god,” Shane said suddenly, turning toward him with the kind of earnest excitement that only came out when he was like this. “Ilya, we could do this again next time.”
A beat.
“Like, with more time.”
Ilya looked at him, already smiling.
“We could do this every day if you want,” he said easily.
Shane blinked at him, processing. Then frowned.
“We have games,” he pointed out, like this was a very serious logistical concern. “And I’m not eating chicken parmesan every day.”
“Of course not,” Ilya replied, completely straight-faced. “It does not fit your crazy macrobiotic diet.”
Shane narrowed his eyes.
“…it’s not that crazy.”
Ilya hummed, unconvinced.
Then he reached for him without hesitation, his hand settling at Shane’s back in a familiar, grounding touch. Steadying. Guiding. Anchoring him in place like he had done so many times before, only now without the need to think about who might be watching.
The car was quiet once the doors closed.
Just the low hum of the engine. The soft rush of tires against the road. The city lights passing in slow, familiar streaks outside the window.
Shane leaned back against the seat, one arm resting loosely near the console, still a little soft from the wine, still carrying that openness with him.
For a while, he didn’t say anything. Then—
“…wow.”
Ilya glanced at him briefly, then back to the road.
“What?”
Shane let out a quiet breath.
“We just had dinner in public.”
A pause.
“And nothing really happened.”
“People stared,” he added, like he needed to acknowledge it. “But we just… sat there.”
Another pause.
“We just belonged there.”
His voice softened.
“Like a real couple. On a date.”
Ilya huffed out a quiet laugh.
“Shane, we are real couple on a date,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You are my husband.”
A beat.
Shane blinked. Then laughed softly, something a little disbelieving in it.
“…yeah.”
A small pause.
Then—
“Do you think people would freak out,” Shane asked, turning his head slightly toward him, “if I made out with you in a bar?”
Ilya didn’t even hesitate.
“Da. It would probably be national scandal,” he said, voice dry.
“Golden boy of hockey finally admits he cannot resist Ilya Rozanov,” Ilya continued, like he was reading straight off a headline. “But I will like it.”
Shane snorted.
“Of course you would.”
“And people would understand,” Ilya continued, just as calmly. “That you are very desperate for your husband.”
“Fuck off.”
A pause.
“You made out with a lot of girls in bars,” he added, voice quieter now, but not joking anymore. “It’s kind of unfair you never made out with me.”
That lingered. The road stretched ahead, steady and quiet.
Ilya didn’t answer immediately.
“Shane,” he said after a moment, voice calmer now, “if we did that then… we would not have careers now.”
Shane swallowed.
“…yeah.”
A pause.
“I think about it sometimes,” Shane admitted. “What it would’ve been like if we just… didn’t wait.”
Ilya huffed out a quiet laugh.
“You lose hockey,” he said. “I get deported.”
Shane let out a breath, something between a huff and a laugh.
“…okay, yeah. That’s fair.”
A small pause settled between them.
Then, quieter—
“Ilya?”
“Mm.”
“…next time we go out,” Shane said, voice slower now, softer, “I’m kissing you.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched.
“Okay. I take you to that bar in Montreal,” he said, like he was planning logistics. “We bring Rose Landry. We make out in front of her.”
“Oh my God, Ilya. For the last time, I’m gay.”
“Da,” Ilya said calmly. “But you danced with her in front of me.”
“Well, you also danced with that girl,” Shane shot back. “And you were way too fond of her ear.”
“Ah,” Ilya nodded, satisfied. “I knew you were jealous.”
“Shut up.”
“So desperate for me,” Ilya continued, completely unbothered. “You had very pretty movie star girlfriend, and still… Did you think of me when you were in bed?”
“Shut up,” Shane repeated.
Ilya grinned.
“I just figured…” Shane exhaled quietly, the edge of something real slipping back in. “We don’t have to worry about the past anymore.”
He shifted slightly, closer.
“We can just… make better memories now.”
Ilya was quiet for a second.
“Da,” he said. “Next time we play, I kiss you on center ice. We beat Scott Hunter’s moment with his boyfriend.”
“No, you would not.”
Ilya grinned, slow and satisfied.
“You would not stop me.”
Shane let out a disbelieving laugh.
“You’re insane.”
“Da.” Ilya continued softer, almost teasing. “But you like it.”
Shane didn’t answer right away.
He just leaned a little closer.
“…maybe.”
-----
They reached their house not long after, the familiar outline of it coming into view under the soft spill of porch light. It was steady and unchanged, like it had been waiting for them to come back as something slightly different than when they left.
Gravel crunched under the tires as Ilya pulled in, and for a moment neither of them moved. The engine idled, the quiet stretching. Then Ilya turned the car off and the silence settled.
Inside, everything was exactly the same.
Nothing about their home had changed.
And somehow, everything had.
Because the world outside didn’t feel like something they had to brace against anymore. It felt like something they could walk into, together. Without planning for it. Without making what they are smaller. Without losing anything in the process.
Shane glanced at him as they moved further inside, something soft and certain settling into place.
They didn’t have to hide anymore.
They didn’t have to think about who was watching.
And for the first time, it all felt… simple.
Chapter End Notes
This is it! I finally finished my first fic!! Thank you so much for taking the time to read this!! I love you!!! <3
Chapter 4: Out in the Open
Chapter Notes
Hi everyone!!
Thank you so much for all the love and support on this fic. I genuinely still can’t believe you’re here. 🥹💛
As a little bonus and to answer your requests, I wanted to challenge myself to write with a 5+1 format.
I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it <3
The dopamine rush that came with taking Shane out for the very first time was addictive. Stronger than any vodka he had ever downed. More intoxicating than any weed he had smoked. More lethal than anything reckless and fleeting he had chased before.
This wasn’t. This stayed.
Ilya had never realized how much he wanted something so simple. So boring, even. Taking someone to dinner. Sitting across from them under warm light. Calling it a first date.
He had spent years convincing himself he didn’t need that.
Until Shane.
And now that he could have it—openly, without hesitation, without hiding—he found himself wanting more.
More moments. More firsts. More ordinary things that had never been allowed to be ordinary.
But freedom, he quickly learned, did not come quietly.
It came with cameras. With headlines. With strangers watching, interpreting, and deciding what their relationship meant.
And so, Ilya chose anyway.
He chose Shane. In interviews. In crowded arenas. In comment sections. In moments that were no longer just theirs.
And Shane, stubborn and just as relentless, chose him back.
This chapter follows five very public moments where they learn how to exist in the open.
And one quiet, private moment where they remember how to exist for each other.
1. Revenge on Rose
One random night, before the hockey season started again and after their recent coming out had somehow settled into something manageable, Rose Landry texted Shane at 2:13 AM.
Rose: shaneee, I am losing my mind
Rose: this movie is so bad
Rose: why does it have a sequel
Shane stared at his phone for a second before replying.
Shane: I thought you said the script was better this time
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
Rose: I LIED
Another message.
Rose: please take me out
Rose: i need alcohol and normal human interaction
Shane huffed out a quiet laugh.
Shane: I’m in Montreal next week
Shane: Optional training starts
Rose: perfect
Rose: take me somewhere fun
Rose: not a quiet dinner i will actually die
A pause.
Rose: also i need to complain about my co-star
Shane smiled despite himself.
Shane: Yeah, okay
A second later.
Rose: thank you
Rose: i owe you my sanity <3
Shane: ❤️
-----
Shane mentioned it casually the next morning. Which, in hindsight, was his first mistake.
“I’m going out with Rose next week,” he said, scrolling through his phone like this was a completely normal, harmless piece of information.
Across from him, Ilya looked up immediately.
“Rose,” he repeated.
Shane nodded.
“She’s in Montreal filming that X-Squad sequel.”
Ilya’s expression shifted. Subtle, but noticeable.
“That movie is terrible,” he said.
Shane snorted.
“Apparently so,” he replied. “She’s bored. Wants to go out.”
A beat. Then—
“Okay,” Ilya said.
Shane frowned slightly.
“…okay?”
“We go out with her.”
Shane blinked.
“Oh.” A pause. “You want to come?”
Ilya tilted his head like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Da, Shane.” Another beat. “I kiss you in front of her.”
Shane choked.
“Ilya—” He sat up straighter, suddenly very awake. “Ilya, I’m gay.”
“I know.”
“That’s not the point—”
Ilya shrugged, completely unbothered.
“You kissed her in that club.”
Shane froze.
“…what?”
Ilya’s expression didn’t change.
“You danced,” he corrected mildly. “Very close.”
Shane stared at him.
“That was—” He gestured vaguely. “That was years ago.”
“Da.”
Another pause.
“I remember.”
Shane ran a hand through his hair, already exasperated.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Ilya leaned back, watching him, something dangerously amused flickering in his eyes.
“You are going out with her,” he said. “So I come.”
“That’s not how that—”
“I am your husband,” Ilya added helpfully.
Shane opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“…you’re not coming just to be normal, are you?”
Ilya grinned. Not subtle. Not reassuring.
“Nyet.”
Shane stared at him for a long second. Then groaned, dropping back against the couch.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Da,” Ilya agreed easily. “Very good bad idea.”
-----
The club was loud. Too loud.
Lights flashing, bass heavy enough to settle somewhere in your ribs, bodies moving in a way that made personal space more of a suggestion than a rule.
Shane spotted her first.
Rose Landry. Effortlessly recognizable even in low light. Leaning against the bar. Drink in hand. Looking exactly like someone who had already decided the night was going to be interesting.
She saw them. Grinned. Then her eyes shifted.
To Ilya.
The grin sharpened.
“Well,” she said, pushing off the bar. “This just got better.”
Shane sighed immediately.
“Hi, Rose.”
She didn’t even look at him.
“Ahhh,” she said, delighted, pointing at Ilya. “You brought the peg.”
Ilya frowned.
“What peg?”
Shane closed his eyes.
“Don’t ask.”
Rose gasped.
“Oh my god, he didn’t tell you?”
“Rose—”
“When we were breaking up,” she continued, completely ignoring him, “he told me he prefers being the hole rather than the peg—”
“ROSE.”
She laughed. Full, unrepentant.
Shane dragged a hand down his face.
“I hate you.”
“I know,” she said sweetly. Then, already pivoting, already moving on— “Alright.”
She grabbed Ilya’s hand.
“I’m taking you to the dance floor first.”
Ilya blinked. Then let himself be dragged. Because why not.
The dance floor was worse. Closer. Louder. Warmer.
Rose turned to face him, hands still loosely holding his, eyes bright with something between amusement and curiosity.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s talk.”
Ilya tilted his head.
“We are dancing.”
“We can multitask.”
A beat.
“Tell me you realize how lucky you are,” Rose muttered.
Ilya’s mouth curved slightly.
“Rose,” he said calmly, “you can’t give me this talk.”
She raised a brow.
“Oh?”
“I know him longer than you do.”
She scoffed.
“Well, I’m his bestfriend.”
Ilya didn’t hesitate.
“Pretty sure that’s me.”
She shot back instantly—
“Well, bestfriend he doesn’t have sex with.”
Ilya just looked at her. Flat. Unimpressed.
Rose laughed again, waving a hand.
“Oh my god, relax. It was twice. And we were both a mess.”
A beat.
“That’s pike then.”
Then she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to cut through the music.
“Okay, fine. Bestfriend who doesn’t play hockey.”
Ilya considered that.
“…okay,” he said finally.
Rose smiled, satisfied.
“So?”
Ilya didn’t look away.
“Da,” he said simply. “I am luckiest man alive.”
The answer came easy. Immediate. Certain.
Rose blinked.
“I protect him,” Ilya continued, quieter now, like this part wasn’t for the joke anymore. “Always.”
A beat.
“Even from myself.”
Rose studied him for a second longer. Then her expression softened.
“Oh my god,” she said, almost delighted. “I like you already.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched.
“Da. I am very likable.”
She laughed again. Then glanced past him toward Shane. Who was watching them. Very obviously. Very suspiciously.
Rose leaned closer, stage-whispering:
“He’s glaring.”
“I know.”
“Possessive.”
“Da.”
Rose grinned.
“…hot.”
Ilya hummed, approving.
Then, casually, he took a step back. Turned. And started walking straight toward Shane.
Rose watched him go, smile widening.
“Oh,” she murmured to herself. “This is going to be fun.”
Ilya found Shane at the bar. Exactly where he had left him. Except worse.
Shane was leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, hair slightly out of place, already halfway through a shot of vodka like he had something to prove.
“Ilya—” he started, spotting him.
Then tipped his head back and finished the shot in one go.
Ilya stopped walking.
“…you drink vodka tonight.”
Shane winced slightly, then grinned.
“I promised Rose something fun.”
Ilya reached him just as Shane set the glass down, still riding that sharp burn.
And then—
Shane leaned in. And kissed him. Not subtle. Not careful. Intense.
Ilya barely had a second to react before Shane’s hand caught the front of his shirt, pulling him closer like the rest of the room didn’t exist.
Ilya’s hand came up instinctively, steadying him. But Shane only leaned in harder, like he had just remembered he could.
“Ilya—” Shane murmured against his mouth, breath warm, slightly unsteady. “You started it.”
“I did not—”
“You did,” Shane insisted, already going in again.
Ilya kissed him back. Of course he did.
For a few seconds, he let it happen.
Let Shane press in, let him take what he wanted, let the noise of the club blur into something distant.
Then—
Shane tilted his head, deepening it, completely forgetting where they were.
“Ilya,” he said, quieter now, like a promise and a warning at the same time.
Ilya exhaled sharply.
“…okay, enough.”
He physically pulled back. Not because he wanted to, but because he knew Shane would be embarrassed of this tomorrow. Also, not entirely successfully, because Shane tried to follow.
“Ilya—”
“No,” Ilya said, firm now, one hand still at Shane’s waist, holding him in place. “You are drunk.”
“I had one glass.”
“You are very drunk.”
Shane opened his mouth. Paused.
“…a little.”
Ilya huffed. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked straight at Rose.
Who was watching the entire thing like it was premium entertainment.
Ilya narrowed his eyes.
“That was payback.”
Rose blinked.
“For what?”
Ilya gestured vaguely between her and Shane.
“Last time. You were with him. In this club.”
Rose stared at him. Then she burst out laughing.
“Oh my god,” she said, delighted. “Ilya.”
She clutched her chest.
“Are you serious right now?”
Ilya didn’t answer.
Because yes.
He was.
Rose shook her head, still laughing.
“That was years ago.”
“Da.”
“And you’re still thinking about it?”
Ilya shrugged.
“I have very good memory.”
Rose laughed harder.
“Okay, I really like you.”
-----
Five minutes later, Rose had Shane back on the dance floor. Because of course she did.
Shane was already looser now, movements less controlled, laughing too easily, leaning into the music like it had personally invited him there.
Rose spun him once, just to see if he would follow.
He did.
“Oh wow,” she said. “He’s gone.”
“I am not gone,” Shane protested, pointing at her with intense focus. “I am just… happy.”
“Yeah, that’s worse.”
Shane laughed, then leaned closer, like he was about to share something important.
“Do you know how hot my husband is?”
Rose blinked.
“…I’m sorry?”
Shane gestured vaguely toward the bar, like Ilya was still there.
“He’s—” he stopped, searching for the word. “—ridiculous.”
Rose pressed her lips together, already losing it.
“Shane—”
“No, listen,” Shane insisted, grabbing her arm like this was critical. “Like… unfairly hot. It’s actually a problem.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” Shane said firmly. “Because I have to behave in public.”
Rose snorted.
“Do you?”
“I try.”
She raised a brow.
“…do you?”
Shane considered that.
“…sometimes.”
A beat.
Then, leaning in again, lowering his voice like this was confidential—
“I’m not going to behave when we get home.”
Rose made a noise somewhere between a choke and a laugh.
“Okay—”
“No, I have a plan,” Shane continued, completely serious. “Like a very good plan.”
“Shane.”
“It involves—”
“Shane.”
“—not leaving the bed for at least—”
“SHANE.”
He stopped.
Blinking.
Rose was staring at him, horrified and amused.
“…you’re cut off.”
Shane frowned.
“I wasn’t even finished.”
“I know,” she said quickly.
Across the room, Ilya stepped out of the bathroom.
Shane spotted him first. And lit up.
“There you are,” Shane said, like Ilya had been gone for hours instead of minutes.
Then, without hesitation, he closed the distance.
Right into him. Arms around his waist. Face pressed briefly into his shoulder. Zero awareness of personal space. Or public setting. Or dignity.
Ilya froze for a second, before deciding to enjoy Shane’s clinginess instead.
“…hello.”
Shane hummed, content, like this was exactly where he was supposed to be.
“You left me.”
“I was gone for two minutes.”
“It was long two minutes.”
Ilya exhaled slowly.
Shane, usually so controlled, so aware, now clinging to him in the middle of a crowded club like he had no intention of letting go.
Ilya’s hands hovered for a second before settling automatically at Shane’s waist.
Grounding him. Steadying him. Possibly also steadying himself.
Behind them, Rose made a soft, delighted noise.
“Oh, he’s clingy now.”
“I am not clingy,” Shane muttered into Ilya’s shoulder.
“You are very clingy,” Ilya said, a little too quickly.
Shane tightened his grip in response.
Ilya cleared his throat. Decided that he needed to redirect before Shane gets embarrassed.
“So,” he said, glancing at Rose. “Shane told me you are shooting X-Squad here again.”
Rose groaned instantly.
“We don’t have to talk about that.”
A beat.
“In fact, I would prefer if we never talked about it again.”
Ilya tilted his head.
“It is that bad?”
“It is so bad,” she said, dead serious. “That’s why I’m here. I needed alcohol and better life choices.”
She gestured vaguely between them.
“Which, by the way—thank you for the premium entertainment tonight.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched.
“Da. We are fun.”
Shane made a small, offended sound against his shoulder.
“Ilya—”
“You started it,” Ilya reminded him calmly.
“I did not—”
“You kissed me first.”
Shane paused.
“…okay, that’s fair.”
Rose laughed. Then, softer—
“And also, you don’t have to worry.”
Ilya glanced at her.
“I am not worried.”
“Sure,” she said, unconvinced. Then, with a grin— “but just so you know, Shane is so gay.”
Shane groaned.
“Oh my god.”
Rose pressed on, delighted.
“I can’t believe I ever thought he liked me.”
She gestured toward them. Specifically, at the way Shane was still half-wrapped around Ilya like he lived there.
“Look at him.”
A beat.
“That man is obsessed with you.”
Silence. Just for a second.
Ilya didn’t respond right away.
Because he knew. But hearing it—said so easily, so casually, like it was obvious— did something to him.
Shane shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him, eyes still soft, still a little unfocused.
“I am,” he said, like this was important to clarify. “Obsessed.”
Rose made a strangled noise.
“Okay, I’m leaving you two before this gets worse.”
She grabbed her drink, already backing away.
“I’ve seen enough. I’ve learned enough.”
A beat.
“Text me when you get home alive.”
Then she turned, disappearing back into the crowd, still laughing to herself.
Ilya watched her go.
Then looked back down at Shane.
“…you are problem.”
Shane smiled.
“You love me.”
Ilya exhaled.
“…da.”
And didn’t let go.
Because this wasn’t about the past anymore.
This was about choosing Shane.
Here. Now. Where everyone could see.
2. Boston Bears Family Day
The Boston Bears Family Day was supposed to be wholesome.
A pre-season tradition. A brief pause in the middle of training camp, where intensity softened into inspiration.
The rink opened to families. Kids wobbling on skates, falling more than they stood. Players crouched low, pretending to coach. Spouses and partners gathered along the benches, laughing, watching, belonging.
It was simple. It was familiar. It was not meant to be complicated.
Because for a long time, the Bears had been Ilya’s team.
Boston still felt like something close to home. Not quite his anymore. Or at least, not in the way it used to be. But close enough that when Cliff Marlow, now captain, invited him to Family Day, it hadn’t really felt like an invitation.
More like an assumption. Like he still belonged there. And maybe in some quiet, unspoken way, he still did.
Which meant, technically, he had no business bringing Shane.
Because Shane Hollander was the captain of Montreal.
Ilya stood at the edge of the rink, watching one of the younger players help a kid back to his feet, and thought briefly that he could have just come alone.
It would have been easier. Cleaner. No questions. No attention.
But then he thought of Shane.
And how, for years, there had never been a space where he could bring him.
Not like this.
So he brought him anyway.
It helped that the Bears had taken their public coming out surprisingly well over the summer—something Ilya hadn’t been entirely sure of until Cliff texted him.
Cliff: Congratulations, man!
Cliff: We should get dinner. Doesn’t have to be dramatic.
Cliff: You owe me one. I’m still mad you left us.
Ilya stared at it longer than he should have.
Ilya: Da. I come to Boston next week.
-----
The place was the same one they used to go to after wins. Loud, a little too bright, tables too close together.
Nothing had really changed.
Cliff was already there, sprawled like he owned the place.
“Look who decided to remember us,” Cliff said as Ilya approached.
Ilya didn’t sit yet.
“You invited me.”
“Barely,” Cliff shot back. “You still took your time.”
Then Cliff stood and pulled him into a quick, rough hug.
“Missed you, man.”
That settled something in Ilya.
Ryan Carmichael clapped him on the back.
“Ottawa treating you okay?”
“Sometimes,” Ilya said.
Victor St. Simon leaned back in his chair.
“You look the same.”
“I am still very handsome, yes.”
“God, I hate him,” Connor muttered.
“Liar,” Ryan said. “You cried when he left.”
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did.”
Cliff dropped back into his seat, watching Ilya a second longer than the others.
“You left us,” he said.
Ilya met his gaze.
“I know.” A pause. “I had to.”
Cliff nodded once.
“Yeah.”
That was it. No big speeches. No dramatic fights.
Dinner moved easily after that. Familiar. Like slipping into something that still fit, even if it didn’t belong to him anymore.
Stories. Chirps. Arguments about plays from three seasons ago.
At some point, Cliff leaned over.
“You coming to Family Day this weekend?”
Ilya hesitated.
“I am still invited?”
Cliff smirked.
“Of course.”
“Okay. I go.”
“Good,” Cliff said. “Bring the husband.”
Ilya glanced up.
“What?”
Ryan grinned.
“We want to meet the guy who stole our captain.”
“Not steal,” Ilya said calmly. “I go willingly.”
Connor snorted.
“Man, that’s worse.”
Cliff leaned back, satisfied.
“Yeah,” he said. “Bring him.”
Then, mid-thought, he paused.
“Wait,” Cliff said slowly, eyes narrowing. “You said in that post it’s been going on since rookie season.”
He looked at Ilya.
“Is Jane—”
“Was always Shane,” Ilya cut in.
A beat.
“…Hollander,” Cliff finished.
Silence. Then chaos.
Cliff pointed at him, deeply offended.
“What the fuck, man? You’ve been sleeping with the enemy for years?”
Ilya shrugged, unbothered.
“Da.”
Another beat.
Ryan let out a low whistle.
“I mean… I kind of get it. Hollander is pretty.”
Victor looked personally betrayed. Connor just stared like his entire understanding of the universe had shifted.
Cliff squinted at him.
“I still can’t believe you bagged Shane fucking Hollander.”
Ilya considered that.
Then, because he couldn’t help himself—
“My husband is very pretty,” he said calmly. “And yes, he is mine.”
A small pause.
“All mine,” he continued, his eyes all possessive and territorial. “So maybe you all… shut up.”
That did not, in fact, make them shut up.
-----
And now—
The Bears social media intern nearly fainted.
Because Shane Hollander had just walked through the arena doors.
With their former captain, now Ottawa’s.
Hoodie. Baseball cap. Head slightly down, like that would somehow make him less recognizable. Like one of the most photographed players in the league could just casually exist in public without being noticed.
It did not work.
An equipment manager blinked.
“…that’s Hollander.”
Another one leaned over, squinting.
“I mean, yeah, we all know he’s Rozy’s husband, but—”
He let out a quiet breath.
“…seeing it is different.”
“Yeah,” the first one muttered. “Still weird.”
Shane ignored them.
Mostly.
He stayed close to Ilya as they stepped toward the ice, hands tucked into his pockets, posture just a little too controlled to be casual.
Ilya noticed, of course.
He didn’t say anything.
Just stayed close enough that Shane didn’t have to think about it.
-----
Shane had barely stepped onto the rink—still in sneakers, not even fully committed to being here—when it happened.
Cliff Marlow pointed dramatically from across the ice.
“GET HIM.”
Shane blinked.
“What—”
Too late.
Victor grabbed one arm. Connor took the other. Cliff skated in like backup.
“HEY—”
They lifted him clean off the ice.
Actually lifted him.
“PUT ME DOWN—”
They did not put him down.
They dragged him—laughing, fully committed—across the rink like this had been planned for days.
Kids nearby dissolved into giggles. A few parents turned, startled. Someone, inevitably, already had their phone out.
Ilya watched the whole thing unfold.
Completely useless. Completely complicit.
And, if he was being honest, a little impressed.
Cliff raised his voice like he was announcing to a stadium.
“We have captured the enemy captain!”
Shane twisted, pointing wildly at Ilya.
“Tell them to stop. You’re their former captain!”
Ilya tilted his head. Considered. Then smiled.
He did not help.
Cliff didn’t even look concerned. If anything, he looks delighted.
“Well,” he says, slow, considering, “he’s not our captain anymore.”
By the time they reached center ice, Shane was unceremoniously dropped back onto his feet, already glaring.
“Traitor,” he muttered.
“You came here,” Ilya said, like that explained everything.
And if being kidnapped wasn’t enough, Victor skated over, holding something folded in his hands.
Black. And gold.
Shane saw it immediately.
“…No.”
Cliff grinned.
“Oh, you came to Family Day,” he said. “Everyone wears a Bears shirt.”
“I am the captain of—”
Too late.
They yanked it over his head.
A Boston Bears jersey.
Custom. Number 24. Hollander.
The rink exploded.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT—”
Shane struggled, but Cliff had him by the shoulders like it was nothing, holding him in place while the others stepped back to admire their work.
“You’re one of us now,” Victor said, deeply satisfied.
“Look at that,” Brad added. “Perfect fit.”
Shane shoved at Cliff, pointing at Ilya like this was a betrayal of the highest order.
“This is your fault.”
“Da,” Ilya said easily, like this was the most reasonable outcome.
Then he stepped forward. Close enough to fix it. His hands came up, smoothing the fabric over Shane’s shoulders, adjusting the collar, tugging it just slightly into place.
Not rushed. Not joking. Careful.
For a second, Shane went still. Something in his expression flickered. Quick. Almost unnoticeable.
Then Ilya stepped back. Looked at him. And smiled.
The Bears bench cheered like they’d just clinched another Cup.
Somewhere in the stands, a parent snapped a photo.
And that was the moment it stopped being contained. Because fifteen minutes later, the entire internet saw it.
Shane Hollander. Montreal captain. Standing on Boston ice. Wearing a Bears jersey. With Ilya Rozanov beside him, arm draped casually over his shoulders, looking completely, unapologetically pleased.
-----
🐦 Twitter 🐦
@HockeyCrave ✅
Shane Hollander appears to attend a Boston Bears pre-season Family Day wearing a custom Bears jersey.
Photos show Hollander on the ice with Ilya Rozanov, former Boston captain, including one where Rozanov helps tie Hollander’s skates at center ice and another where he lifts him off the ice during drills.
No trades involving Hollander have been reported at this time.
@nhlstanclub
THEY PUT HOLLANDER IN A BEARS JERSEY???????
↳ @puckgirlie27
NOT THE ENEMY CAPTAIN 😭😭😭
↳ @icedcoffeehockey
this is psychological warfare actually
↳ @delusionalfan88
or marriage idk
@bostonbearspuckprincess
WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE HE BELONGS THERE 😭😭😭
↳ @bearsnation88
because he DOES
↳ @metrosfaithful
no he DOES NOT????
↳ @bearsnation88
be serious he’s literally wearing the jersey better than half the team
↳ @someonewithsense
y’all are SICK
@rinkdetective
no but genuinely… NO ONE STOPPED THIS???
↳ @insiderwannabe
this was a coordinated act
↳ @lockerroomleaks
source: vibes
↳ @rinkdetective
THE WAY ROZANOV IS SMILING IN EVERY PHOTO?? THIS WAS PREMEDITATED
@capspacewarrior
you’re all laughing but let’s be serious for a second
there is physically NO WAY Boston can afford Hollander unless they gut half the roster
↳ @puckeconomist
minimum 2–3 major contracts gone
↳ @armchairgm
and for WHAT??? love???
↳ @nhlstanclub
yes
↳ @capspacewarrior
be serious
↳ @nhlstanclub
i am
@bearsnation88
ilya really said “family day” and brought HOME his family
↳ @hollanovtruthers
SAY IT LOUDER
↳ @softpuckera
the skate-tying photo??? im unwell
↳ @bearsnation88
HE’S LITERALLY KNEELING FOR HIM
@HockeyCrave ✅ (quote tweet)
Shane Hollander appears to attend a Boston Bears pre-season Family Day wearing a custom Bears jersey.
@metrospulse
this feels like a hate crime against montreal
↳ @saveourcaptain
someone get him out of there
↳ @hollanovtruthers
look at his face while rozanov is carrying him
that man does NOT need saving
↳ @metrospulse
i hate you
@pikeenthusiast
do you guys think we can trade hayden for rozanov
(joking)
(unless…)
↳ @realisticgm
absolutely not 😭
↳ @capspacewarrior
rozanov’s contract is miles above that
↳ @pikeenthusiast
okay but emotionally
↳ @someoneelse
emotionally approved
@bostonbearspuckprincess
the way ilya is looking at him in EVERY photo… yeah that’s not recruitment that’s possession
↳ @delusionalfan88
HE ALREADY SIGNED HIM (MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE)
↳ @legalteamstan
technically binding
↳ @someonehelp
YOU GUYS ARE INSANE
@bearsnation88
not gonna lie… seeing ilya back at family day kinda hit
↳ @oldbostonfan
same 😭 he was OUR captain
↳ @centaursfaithful
he still is… just somewhere else now
↳ @hockeypurist99
he left you guys how are you not mad
↳ @bearsnation88
we ARE 😭 but we still miss him
↳ @spicytakesonly
traitor idc
↳ @oldbostonfan
we know you’re hurt bro
↳ @puckgirlie27
the fact they still invited him tho…
↳ @bearsnation88
yeah… that says everything
↳ @hollanovtruthers
and he brought shane
↳ @someoneelse
love wins idk what to tell you
@rinkdetective (quote tweet)
Photos show Rozanov tying Hollander’s skates at center ice.
HE BROUGHT HIM TO FAMILY DAY
AS FAMILY
I REPEAT
AS FAMILY
↳ @softpuckera
i’m going to throw up
↳ @nhlstanclub
in a good way
↳ @softpuckera
IN A DEVASTATING WAY
@centaursfaithful
can everyone relax for a second
ilya rozanov is literally OUR captain now
↳ @bearsnation88
he’ll always be ours
↳ @centaursfaithful
respectfully no 😭
↳ @metrospulse
and hollander is OUR captain so what now
↳ @centaursfaithful
okay but if anyone is recruiting hollander shouldn’t it be ottawa???
↳ @armchairgm
oh you’re insane
↳ @puckeconomist
you cannot afford him either
↳ @centaursfaithful
emotionally we can
↳ @nhlstanclub
NOT EMOTIONALLY 😭
↳ @metrosfaithful
absolutely not
shane hollander stays in montreal
↳ @saveourcaptain
you will have to pry him from our cold dead hands
↳ @centaursfaithful
what if he wants to be with his husband
↳ @metrosfaithful
he can VISIT
↳ @bostonbearspuckprincess
okay but be honest for one second
he looks REALLY good in black and gold
↳ @bearsnation88
THANK YOU
↳ @metrosfaithful
STOP
↳ @puckgirlie27
i hate that you’re right
↳ @centaursfaithful
NO??? OTTAWA COLORS ARE RIGHT THERE
↳ @someonewithsense
why are we dressing him like a doll 😭
@capspacewarrior
final statement:
this is not happening
it cannot happen
it will not happen
↳ @nhlstanclub
counterpoint: love wins
↳ @capspacewarrior
STOP
-----
Meanwhile, on the ice, the chaos had already settled into something almost normal.
Cliff was still laughing every few minutes, like the sight of Shane Hollander in a Bears jersey was a gift that kept giving. Ryan had crouched down beside a very serious eight-year-old, explaining something about edge work with the patience of a saint. Victor was already halfway through convincing someone they should get matching jerseys made.
Life had moved on. Like this wasn’t completely absurd. Like this was just… Family Day.
And Shane, still in black and gold, turned to Ilya.
“You’re unbelievable.”
There was no heat in it now. Just disbelief. A little helpless. A little fond.
Ilya tilted his head, considering.
“Da.”
A beat. Then, softer—
“Thank you for coming, Shane.”
Shane blinked.
“What?”
Ilya didn’t answer right away.
For a moment, he just looked at him. Not at the jersey. Not at the scene around them. Just Shane.
“Before, I don’t bring anyone here,” he said quietly.
The noise of the rink didn’t disappear, but it felt like it did.
Kids laughing somewhere in the distance. Skates carving into ice. Voices overlapping. All of it blurred at the edges.
“I just…” Ilya exhaled, something uncharacteristically unsteady in it. “I always imagined it.”
Shane stilled.
Because suddenly this wasn’t a joke.
Not the jersey. Not the chaos. Not the team.
This.
Ilya’s voice, softer than he’d ever heard it in public.
The way he was looking at him. Open and certain, like this had always been meant to happen.
Something in Shane’s chest tightened.
For years, everything between them had been hidden in fragments. Hotel rooms. Late nights. Stolen moments that disappeared the second morning came.
And now, this.
Center ice. Full daylight. People watching.
And Ilya choosing him anyway.
Shane swallowed, his eyes glistening with tears he refused to let fall.
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
His voice, when it came out, was quieter. Rougher.
Ilya’s eyes seemed to glisten too. And in his attempt not to cry—
“Your accent is terrible,” Ilya murmured suddenly, like he needed to break it before it broke him.
Shane huffed a small laugh, eyes still stinging.
“Yeah, well,” he said, breath uneven, “you’re stuck with it.”
Ilya smiled.
Not the easy, cocky grin. Something smaller. Real.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he said back.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Shane glanced, just briefly, toward the stands.
At the parents. The phones. The world that was now watching them.
Then he looked back at Ilya.
And stepped closer.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. Not hidden. Not stolen.
Soft at first. Familiar. Certain.
Like something they had done a thousand times before.
Only this time, they didn’t have to stop.
Somewhere behind them, Cliff yelled something incoherent.
Someone cheered.
And maybe for the first time, it wasn't because one of them shot a puck.
-----
Official Joint Statement — Montreal Metros & Boston Bears
In light of recent photos, we confirm that Montreal captain Shane Hollander attended the Boston Bears’ pre-season Family Day as a personal guest of former Boston captain Ilya Rozanov.
The visit was privately arranged and informal in nature, and should not be interpreted as indicative of any professional or organizational developments.
To be absolutely clear, there are no trade discussions or roster movements involving Captain Hollander at this time.
We kindly encourage the public to refrain from speculative roster constructions.
Both organizations remain fully committed to their respective players.
-----
“Why did they have to release a statement?”
“I think your mother,” Ilya said, a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.
Shane groaned.
“Also good,” Ilya added lightly. “Clears our name.”
Shane rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance left in it.
“Hey, Shane.”
Shane looked at him.
Ilya tilted his head slightly, softer now.
“We had fun, yes?”
Shane smiled.
“Yeah.”
3. The Russian Menace (Online Version)
By the start of the season, their time together had become scarce.
Games. Travel. Training.
Schedules that no longer aligned the way they had over the summer, when waking up next to each other had been the default, not the exception.
Ilya did not like it. Not even a little.
And when Ilya Rozanov was left to his own devices, he became a problem.
Because now, with nothing stopping him, he had decided that his free will would be used for one very specific purpose: making sure everyone knew Shane Hollander was his husband.
Publicly. Repeatedly. Relentlessly.
And so, the Russian menace struck. Off the ice. Online.
-----
📸 Instagram 📸
@ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer ✅
[Image: Post-workout. Tank top, shoulders flushed, gym lighting doing him favors. Slight pump, hair damp, expression focused but relaxed.]
Continue the grind. Catch us live tomorrow at the Bell Centre against the New York Admirals. Go Metros! 🔥
Tickets available online or at the gates.
💬 Comments 💬
@puckgirlie99
oh he KNOWS what he’s doing
@hockeydaily
locked in for tomorrow
@nhlstanclub
respectfully—
@brocheck77
good pump cap keep grinding 💪
@rinkrat91
LETS GO METROS
@admiralsnation
admirals in 6 btw
@metrosfaithful
CAPTAIN 😭🔥
@nyadmiralsfan
we are shutting him DOWN tomorrow
@someonewithtaste
this lighting is illegal
@oldschoolhockey
back in my day we didn’t post gym selfies
@puckgirlie99
oh my god the arms
@statsguy88
career high incoming
@randomlurker
why is this man glowing
@admiralslover
he’s not even that good
@admiralsdefenseleague
log off
@IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
all day, all night, in the bedroom, in the living room, in the bathroom, in the shower, on the couch, on the floor, on the wall, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic
@IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
my husband, my light, my sunshine, my star, my coffee in the morning, my knight in shining armor, my reason for waking up, my peace, my problem, my lawnmower
@IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
Ты такая сексуальная, моя любовь.
-----
🐦 Twitter 🐦
@nhlstanclub
[screenshot of Ilya’s comments]
SOMEONE TAKE HIS PHONE AWAY.
WHO EVEN TAUGHT HIM THESE WORDS?
↳ @puckgirlie99
NO LET HIM COOK
↳ @hollanovtruthers
HELLO????
↳ @delusionalfan88
HE IS INSANE 😭
↳ @metrosfaithful
ilya please we are trying to be serious before a game
↳ @capspacewarrior
this is not in the playbook
-----
And as the season progressed, so did Ilya’s online antics, leaving traces not only on Shane’s official social media pages, but also on random fan accounts.
🐦 Twitter 🐦
@puckgirlie99
shane hollander is the most attractive man alive idc
↳ @IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
yes. this is correct… too bad his taken
↳ @IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
everybody relax, shane is mine. my husband ❤️
@nhlstanclub
ilya rozanov is in his WAG era
↳ @ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
yes. i cook. i clean. all for my husband @ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer
@hollanov
THEY ARE INSANE. THEY ARE IN LOVE. THEY ARE EVERYTHING.
[Video edit of them staring at each other across the ice]
↳ @ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
yes. very hard playing with my husband
↳ @ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
no. not that way. he is second best hockey player. hard to score against metros
↳ @ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
kidding also that way, shane is very pretty playing
@metroshockey
Hollander on tonight’s win: “We stuck to the system and executed.’”
Metros get even with a 4-2 win against the Centaurs.
[Video: Captain Hollander during his post-game interview]
↳ @ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
Ah yes my husband is very happy he beat best hockey player today
↳ @ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
now, he go home and rub it in my face
↳ @ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
i don’t complain. he can rub it everywhere
-----
And when there was no post to reply to, Ilya simply made his own.
🐦 Twitter 🐦
@ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
he scored today, i am proud
@ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
he did not text me back, i think he is busy being handsome
@ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
[photo of an angry kitten]
I miss my husband so much ☹
@ IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
My archrival 🏒😾🔥
[Photo 1: Shane Hollander on center ice mid-game, jaw set, eyes sharp, completely locked in. Arena lights catching on his visor. Intensity personified.]
My arched rival 🍃🥵 🥰 😍❤️
[Photo 2: Lakeside at golden hour. Shane on a yoga mat, mid-stretch, relaxed, sunlit, wearing short shorts and a tank top. Soft. Warm. Entirely unfair.]
💬 Comments 💬
@puckgirlie99
NOT “MY ARCHED RIVAL” 😭😭😭
@metrosfaithful
CAPTAIN PLEASE CONTROL YOUR MAN
@bearsnation88
no let him keep going
@softpuckera
THE SECOND PHOTO???? ILYA WE SEE YOUR VISION
@hollanovtruthers
he said enemy to husband pipeline
@delusionalfan88
ILYAAAAAAAA 😭
@rinkrat91
bro said 🏒😾🔥 and then 🥰😍❤️
@oldschoolhockey
what is happening to this league
@yogagirlie
ok but his form is actually really good
@puckgirlie99
WHY IS HE FLEXING LIKE THAT IN A YOGA POSE
@metrospulse
this man has NO shame
@capspacewarrior
i am begging someone to take his phone
@randomlurker
the duality is crazy
@ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer ✅
Ilya…
@IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
yes, моя любовь? 😊
-----
Ilya was having fun. Too much fun, maybe.
Enough that he stopped thinking about it.
Enough that he didn’t notice when the tone started to shift.
🐦 Twitter 🐦
@hockeyredditlurker
this is so one sided 😭
↳ @anotherfan
does shane even LIKE him back
shane hollander, blink twice if you need help
↳ @delusionalfan88
guys… i’m starting to feel bad
There were more tweets. More threads. Quieter, but sharper.
@armchairanalyst
i get that they just came out but this is… a lot
@neutralfan22
like i’m happy for them but does ilya have any other personality trait
@oldschoolhockey
this is embarrassing ngl
@brandwatcher
shane spent YEARS building a reputation just for this guy to come in and make everything a joke
@metrospulse
someone save hollander
@randomlurker
he looks like he’s trying too hard
@puckgirlie99
okay but… has shane ever posted about him like this
↳ @anotherfan
i don’t think so
↳ @puckgirlie99
oh
↳ @hockeyredditlurker
man… that’s actually kind of sad
-----
Ilya stared at his phone longer than he should have.
Scrolled. Read. Scrolled again.
The comments blurred together after a while.
Funny. Supportive. Unhinged.
But every now and then, there was that same tone.
One-sided.
Does he even love him back?
Ilya is embarrassing himself.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just locked his phone. Set it down. Picked it up again.
Until—
“Shane.”
Shane glanced up from the couch.
“Yeah?”
A pause. Ilya hesitated. Unusual enough that Shane noticed immediately.
“What is it?”
Ilya exhaled. Then, quieter than usual—
“Do you have… problem with my tweets?”
He frowned, searching.
“My comments.”
Shane blinked.
“…what?”
Ilya shrugged, aiming for casual and missing it completely.
“Online,” he said. “It’s… silly.”
Silence.
Shane stared at him.
“Oh my god.”
He reached for Ilya’s phone so fast he nearly dropped it.
“Ilya—”
“I don’t think it’s bad,” Shane added quickly, already shaking his head. “Not like that. I mean—”
A small breath.
“I kind of know who I married.”
Ilya stilled. Just slightly.
Shane didn’t look up from the screen. Still scrolling. Still reading.
“They say it is one-sided,” Ilya said, quieter now.
Shane stopped.
“What?”
Ilya looked away.
“Like I am… obsessed with you,” he said, the word catching just a little. “And you don’t care.”
A beat.
“They say you need help.”
“Ilya—”
“I know,” he said quickly. “It is silly. I know what we have.”
But he didn’t sound like he believed it.
“Il—”
“I don’t care,” Ilya insisted.
He absolutely cared.
“Ilya.”
Shane’s voice cut through it.
Ilya looked at him.
Shane was already typing.
Fast. Focused. Slightly terrifying.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
Three minutes later—
📸 Instagram 📸
@ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer ✅
[Image: Early morning light filtering through half-drawn curtains. Shane is seated on the edge of a bed, still in sweats, hair messy, looking over his shoulder—caught mid-laugh. Behind him, slightly out of focus, Ilya is half-buried in blankets, one arm thrown over Shane’s waist like he refused to let go even in sleep. The photo isn’t posed. It’s soft. Intimate. Clearly taken without permission—and kept anyway.]
I don’t usually do this, but @IlyaRozanov_81 is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
He’s loud, annoying, and refuses to let me have a single quiet moment online. But he’s also the most loyal, stubborn, and extraordinary person I know.
I get to be loved by him every day. That’s not something I take for granted.
So no, this isn’t one-sided.
I am also obsessed with my husband.
If anything, I’m the lucky one.
💬 Comments 💬
@nhlstanclub
OH???
@puckgirlie99
I AM SCREAMING
@metrosfaithful
CAPTAIN??? HELLO????
@hollanovtruthers
THIS IS NOT A DRILL
@delusionalfan88
HE SAID OBSESSED BACK 😭😭😭
@hockeyredditlurker
okay i take it back
@anotherfan
nvm they’re insane about each other
@armchairanalyst
well that answered that
@metrospulse
“i’m the lucky one” ???????
@someonecrying
i need to lie down
@oldschoolhockey
…okay i respect it
@puckgirlie99
THE PHOTO?????
@softpuckera
THAT MAN IS LITERALLY HOLDING HIM IN HIS SLEEP
@nhlstanclub
HE BROUGHT RECEIPTS
@IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
YES HE LOVES ME
@IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
SUCK IT
-----
Shane groaned from across the room.
“ILYA—”
Ilya didn’t even look up.
“Mwa.”
4. Player of the Game Interviews
The first Ottawa-Montreal game of the regular season following their coming out had been highly anticipated.
The rink was full. Playoff-level intensity. Big hits. Fast transitions.
Both teams desperate for points.
For most of the season, the Centaurs had struggled.
They weren’t as established. Not as polished as the top teams. There were games where nothing seemed to connect. Passes just off. Timing just late. Systems not quite clicking the way they should.
But tonight everything did. Every line was sharp. Every transition clean. Every decision just a step faster than Montreal.
And at the center of it was Ilya Rozanov.
Three points. A goal and two assists. A dominant night.
The captain. The Russian menace.
Ottawa took it 3–1.
The broadcast caught him just outside the locker room.
Helmet off. Hair damp. Still catching his breath.
“Great game tonight, Ilya. Three-point night. What was working for you out there?”
Ilya shrugged.
“My team played well,” he said automatically. “We executed. Stayed disciplined. Good energy.”
Ilya almost didn’t have to think. Years of interviews had given him lots of practice to come up with classic post-game interview answers.
The reporter smiled.
“This has been a tough stretch for the Centaurs. Does a win against a contender team like Montreal mean more?”
Another shrug.
“Da.” A beat. “We need this. Big help for confidence.”
Then came the last question. The one every player got.
“Anyone you want to greet or dedicate tonight’s performance to?”
Normally, the answers were predictable.
Parents. Teammates. Fans.
Ilya thought for a moment. Then leaned slightly closer to the microphone.
“Da.”
The reporter nodded, waiting.
Ilya answered, calm as ever.
“My husband.”
The arena reacted immediately. Laughter. Cheers. Because everyone knew exactly who that meant.
But Ilya wasn’t finished. He looked directly into the camera. Completely serious.
“Shane.”
A beat. Then, like this was the most natural continuation in the world—
“Please make chicken parmesan tonight.”
The reporter blinked.
“…what?”
Ilya nodded.
The reporter let out a breath, already losing composure.
“Chicken parmesan,” he repeated
“Da.”
Ilya continued, entirely unbothered.
“I played very good game.” A small grin. “I beat him tonight. I deserve good dinner.”
Another beat.
“And he makes it better than restaurant.”
The reporter laughed, giving up entirely.
“So this is… a request?”
Ilya nodded again.
“Da.”
Then glanced back at the camera, one last time—
“Please,” he concluded with a wink.
The interview ended.
-----
🐦 Twitter 🐦
@HockeyCrave ✅
Ottawa captain Ilya Rozanov after a 3–1 upset against Montreal:
“Shane. Please make chicken parmesan tonight.”
[Video: Player of the Game interview clip]
@nhlstanclub
NOT HIM USING A POST-GAME INTERVIEW FOR DINNER REQUESTS 😭
↳ @puckgirlie99
THIS IS MARRIAGE IDC
↳ @softpuckera
the way he said PLEASE at the end???
@metrosfaithful
we just lost and now our captain has to cook for THEIR captain 😭
↳ @someonecrying
this is psychological warfare
↳ @delusionalfan88
no this is LOVE
@oldschoolhockey
what is happening to this sport
@centaursnation88
3 points and still thinking about dinner… respect
@armchairanalyst
this is either the healthiest relationship in the league or the most distracting
@hockeyredditlurker
idk this feels weird to me
↳ @anotherfan
same like… keep it private?
↳ @hollanovtruthers
OR let people be happy damn
@metrospulse
someone save shane hollander
↳ @puckgirlie99
SAVE HIM FROM WHAT HE LOOKS FINE 😭
@capspacewarrior
he beat him AND asked for dinner immediately after
elite mentality
@softpuckera
“he makes it better than restaurant” 😭😭😭
↳ @nhlstanclub
THE PRIDE IN HIS VOICE
@randomlurker
no but imagine losing a game and your husband goes on live tv like “cook for me”
↳ @someoneelse
i would log out permanently
↳ @delusionalfan88
i would cook
@puckgirlie99
they are so domestic it’s actually insane
@oldschoolhockey
bring back shame
↳ @centaursnation88
no ❤️
@hollanovtruthers
this is the same man who said “my husband” in interviews like he pays taxes on it
@nhlstanclub
ILYAAAAAAAAAAAA 😭
@puckgirlie99
shane hollander wife era 🍝😾
↳ @thinkpiecehockey
idk something about this feels weird… why is he being treated like the “wife” here
↳ @metrospulse
men can cook for their spouses btw
↳ @hollanovtruthers
he said PLEASE 😭 that man was requesting dinner not enforcing gender roles
↳ @tradwifeera
im just saying… if ilya rozanov wifed me up id be the poster trad wife idc
expect me in a linen dress at sunrise baking bread, making fresh pasta, plating that chicken parmesan like my life depends on it
↳ @puckgirlie99
gurl??
-----
By that point, Shane had gotten a lot of practice keeping up with Ilya—who, now that they were public, enjoyed their freedom a little too much.
And little by little, he learned how to retaliate.
Good thing he had been so proud of the salad he made last week that he’d taken a picture.
📸 Instagram Story — @ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer
[Image: A neatly plated salad. Clean. Balanced. Very “athlete diet.”]
my dinner because i have free will 😊
Across the city, Ilya Rozanov was still at the arena, an hour and a half into post-game rehab for a minor injury.
His phone pinged and he immediately checked it.
Paused. Stared. Then immediately opened their chat.
Ilya: solnyshko
Ilya: you deserve chicken parm tonight too ☹
Shane replied almost instantly.
Shane: It’s in season, asshole. I have my meals prepped.
Ilya stared at the message.
Unimpressed. Deeply offended. Emotionally wounded, even.
A full minute passed. Two.
Then his phone buzzed again.
Moya lyubov❤️ sent a photo.
Ilya opened it. Their oven. Chicken parmesan. Mid-bake. Golden at the edges.
Shane: You’re lucky I love you ❤️
Ilya sat up straighter. Immediate recovery.
Ilya: О боже
Ilya: MY LOVE
Ilya: I AM LUCKIEST GUY IN THE WORLD
A pause.
Ilya: you use david’s recipe?
Shane: Of course.
Another pause.
Ilya: Ok ❤️
Ilya: I am home in 30 minutes
Ilya: PT is almost done cutting my leg
Shane smiled at his phone.
Shane: Ilya, that’s recovery
Shane: You owe your entire career to your PT
Shane: I miss you already
Shane: Drive safe
Ilya: I love you 😘💋
Shane: I love you too ❤️
And now, Ilya rethinks why he is in recovery when he feels like life couldn’t get any better.
-----
Shane Hollander, if anything, was competitive.
And so, a single Instagram story was not nearly enough retaliation. If anything, it became motivation.
The unfortunate victim of Shane’s side quest to get even with his husband was Tampa.
Four-point night. Including the game-winning goal. A statement performance.
The reporter caught him just off the ice.
“Shane, incredible performance tonight. Four points, including the winner. How did you find that extra gear late in the game?”
Shane shrugged.
“Just trying to help the team.”
Classic.
A few more questions followed.
And just like Ilya, Shane had plenty of media training when it comes to post-game interviews.
Execution. Momentum. Trust in the system.
Default answers. Delivered perfectly.
And then the last question. The one Shane had been waiting for.
“Anyone you want to greet tonight?”
Shane smiled.
“Yeah.”
The reporter leaned in.
Shane looked directly into the camera. Completely serious.
“My husband has a dentist appointment tomorrow.”
The reporter blinked.
“…I’m sorry?”
Shane nodded.
“Yeah.” Still smiling. “He hates the dentist.”
The arena reacted instantly. Laughter, spreading all at once.
Shane didn’t stop.
“We’re on a road trip, so I can’t go with him.” A small shrug. “But he gets nervous.”
The reporter stared at him, trying to keep up.
“So this is… a reminder?”
Shane nodded again.
“Yes.”
Then he looked back at the camera. Softer now.
“Ilya.”
The arena was already losing it.
“I’m sorry I can’t come, baby.”
A beat.
“But I believe in you.”
Another.
“Don’t cancel.”
And finally, gentle and certain—
“You can do it.”
Shane ended the interview with a small, innocent smile.
-----
Somewhere in a different city, Ilya Rozanov had seen the interview.
Unfortunately.
Because now, not only was he going to the dentist, the entire league thought he was nervous about it.
He stared at his phone.
Replayed the clip. Once. Twice. Closed it.
Opened their chat.
Ilya: shane
Ilya: i am scary big russian man
Ilya: now they think i am afraid of dentist
A pause.
Shane: But you are, my love? 😊
Ilya frowned.
Ilya: da
Ilya: but they dont have to know
Shane laughed quietly to himself.
Shane: I’m serious though
Shane: I know how you get
Shane: I wish I could be there with you
Ilya stared at the message a little longer than he meant to.
Ilya: It is fine
Ilya: I survive worse things
Another pause.
Shane: I have an idea
Ilya: what
Shane: When you get nervous
Shane: Just rub your wedding ring
Ilya went still.
Shane: That’s my vow
Shane: I’ll always be with you
Shane: Even when you’re sitting there pretending you’re not scared
A pause. Longer this time.
Ilya: I hate you
Shane: No you don’t
Another pause. Softer now.
Shane: I love you, Ilya ❤️
Ilya exhaled slowly.
Ilya: da…
Ilya: i love you too, moya lyubov 😘
And for the first time that day, the dentist didn’t feel quite so terrifying.
The league, however, still did.
Because Player of the Game interviews had somehow become a new layer in their competition.
1–1.
5. Pride
Late April at the cottage was supposed to be quiet.
The lake had just begun to thaw, the air still carrying that last edge of cold. The kind that made staying inside feel earned.
Dinner was simple. Familiar. David’s chicken parmesan.
Of course.
Ilya was halfway through his second serving, eating like it was the most important part of his evening. Across from him, Shane pretended not to notice.
Yuna, however, noticed everything.
She set her glass down. Gently.
“So,” she began.
Shane didn’t look up.
“What?”
“June is coming up.”
“Moooom.”
Ilya paused mid-bite, glanced between them, then quietly went back to eating.
He had learned. When Yuna Hollander started like this, it was better to let it happen.
“Pride Month,” Yuna clarified.
A beat.
“We’ve been getting inquiries.”
Of course they had.
Shane leaned back, dragging a hand down his face.
“Please tell me you’re not about to turn this into a campaign.”
“I don’t pitch,” Yuna said calmly. “I position.”
Ilya nodded, still eating.
“Good positioning.”
Shane stared at him.
“You’re not helping.”
“I am agreeing with your mother.”
David snorted at the end of the table, entirely unbothered.
Yuna continued.
“You are, whether you like it or not, the first openly married couple in this league.”
No emphasis. No sentiment. Just fact.
“That comes with attention. Narrative. Opportunity.”
Shane exhaled.
“We’re not trying to be… a thing.”
“I know,” Yuna said. “But you already are.”
Silence settled over the table. Outside, the lake shifted softly against the shore.
Ilya set his fork down. Not rushed. Not hesitant.
He looked at Yuna. Then at Shane.
“Shane,” he said, quieter now, “I think this could be good.”
Shane frowned slightly. “What?”
Ilya shrugged. “Kids see it. Maybe they are scared. Maybe they think they cannot play.” A beat. “Then they see us.”
Shane went still.
Yuna smiled. Small. Victorious.
“It doesn’t have to be a campaign,” she added smoothly. “Just being visible makes a difference.”
A pause.
“For the next generation.”
Shane exhaled slowly, thinking it through.
“…okay.”
It wasn’t dramatic. But it was a decision.
Yuna didn’t push. She didn’t need to. But because she $ee$ the green in rainbow—
“Well,” she said lightly, “there is also a world of opportunity here. If you do it right.”
Shane groaned. “Mom, I am not monetizing being gay.”
“Of course not,” Yuna said calmly. “Your call.”
Then she looked at Ilya.
“But if you ever decided you wanted to—” she said mildly, “I can make things happen.”
Ilya didn’t even hesitate.
“New car.”
Shane snapped his head toward him.
“You are not getting a new car.”
“I am joking,” Ilya said immediately, holding up a hand. “I am practical now.”
A small pause.
“I drive boring Jeep.”
Shane stared at him.
“…you love that Jeep.”
“I tolerate it,” Ilya replies, grinning at the fact that he knows the word “tolerate”.
That finally earns a laugh.
-----
📸 GQ Magazine — Digital Cover
[Cover Image: Studio-lit, stark and deliberate. Ilya in a black tailored suit, tie slightly loosened, posture relaxed but grounded. One hand in his pocket. The other resting at Shane’s wrist. Shane beside him in a charcoal suit, clean lines, composed, his hand loosely curled around Ilya’s cuff like an anchor.]
Headline: LOVE, OUT LOUD
Subheading: Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander on hockey, visibility, and what it means to be seen.
-----
The Hockey Husbands – Love, Out Loud
By Reids Rochelle
There is a particular kind of stillness that comes with the off-season—one that doesn’t exist anywhere near the rink.
I find Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov in the middle of it.
Not at an arena. Not at a media day. Not under lights or noise or expectation. Just a quiet cottage, late April, where the lake is beginning to thaw and the world feels, briefly, paused.
They don’t look like history. They look like a couple figuring out what to do with a free evening. And yet, whether they intended to be or not, they have become something larger than themselves: the first openly married couple in the league, a label that follows them into every room, every interview, every photograph.
They carry it differently. Not as spectacle. But as something they are still learning how to hold.
[Photo: Another still with the same set-up as the cover image. Studio-lit, controlled. Both in tailored suits. Ilya in black, tie loosened, one hand resting at Shane’s wrist. Shane in charcoal, posture composed, fingers lightly curled at Ilya’s cuff]
It is immediately clear, even in still images, that what exists between them is not performative. They are not always touching. They don’t need to be.
It shows in smaller things. In the way Ilya leans slightly toward Shane without realizing it, like proximity is instinct. In the way Shane, even at rest, angles himself just enough to close any distance between them.
Intimacy, here, is not something displayed. It is something that remains, regardless.
The language around them, however, is far less quiet.
They are “the first.” The “openly married couple.” The future of representation in professional hockey.
It is a narrative the outside world seems eager to define.
Inside it, they are far less interested in labels.
“We didn’t come out to be the first anything,” Shane tells me.
There is no hesitation in the answer. No attempt to shape it into something grander than it is.
“We just didn’t want to hide anymore.”
He pauses, considering the weight the world has attached to that decision.
“If that helps someone else feel like they don’t have to either, then that matters.”
Ilya’s response, when asked about the same thing, is immediate.
“People say love is distraction,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “For me, it is opposite.”
He shrugs, as if the conclusion is obvious.
“I play better because I am loved.”
[Photo: Mid-spread. The two seated side by side, jackets off, sleeves rolled. Shane leaning back, relaxed but composed. Ilya turned slightly toward him, mid-conversation, expression unguarded.]
It is this contrast that defines them.
Shane, deliberate in his words. Careful. Controlled.
Ilya, direct. Unfiltered. Certain.
Together, they form something balanced. Not entirely opposites, but complements.
And it is perhaps this balance that has made the attention surrounding them so difficult to categorize. Because the attention is constant.
Questions about professionalism. About distraction. About visibility.
Questions that assume something must be compromised.
“There’s a difference between privacy and secrecy,” Shane says.
It’s a distinction he returns to often.
“We chose privacy before,” he continues, glancing briefly at Ilya. “Now we’re just choosing not to hide.”
Ilya’s version is simpler.
“People will look anyway,” he says. “So we let them see something good.”
The conversation shifts, almost naturally, to what comes next, not just in terms of their careers but also in terms of what they do with the space they now occupy.
The answer is not branding nor strategy. It is responsibility—though neither of them use that word.
“Hockey’s already hard,” Shane says. “It shouldn’t be harder just because of who you are.”
Beside him, Ilya nods.
“When you feel like you don’t belong,” he says slowly, searching for the words, “you play different.”
[Photo: Candid-style. Shot near a window. Shane looking out, thoughtful; Ilya behind him, slightly out of focus, watching him instead. Light catching on the edges. The distance between them minimal, intentional.]
The Irina Foundation becomes part of the conversation not as an announcement, but as an extension.
It has always focused on mental health. Now, it expands to support systems for young athletes navigating identity. Access to counseling. Training environments that prioritize safety, not just physically but also emotionally. Quiet resources for those who are not ready to be visible but still need to know they are not alone.
“Inclusivity isn’t separate from mental health,” Shane says. “It’s part of it.”
Ilya adds, simply:
“If you feel safe, you play better. You live better.”
For all the conversation surrounding them, the most striking moment of the shoot is not found in any quote. It is in the final image.
[Photo: Final spread. Both in full hockey gear, upper bodies bare. Shane seated, grounded, steady. Ilya standing between his knees, one hand braced against the chair, the other resting at the back of Shane’s neck. Neither looks at the camera. Their focus is entirely on each other.]
It is not dramatic. It is not staged to provoke. It is, if anything, quiet.
Two people, in the middle of everything that has been said about them, choosing to look only at each other.
They didn’t set out to be visible. But now that they are, they’re choosing what that visibility means.
And for once, the reaction is not singular. It is everything at once.
Admiration. Debate. Celebration. Discomfort.
Ultimately, what their presence suggests is simple: something has shifted.
Somewhere, a young player is watching and realizing, maybe for the first time, that there is space for them in hockey.
-----
🐦 Twitter 🐦
@GQMagazine ✅
Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov for our June cover: Love, Out Loud.
[Cover Photo]
@nhlstanclub
OH?????
↳ @puckgirlie99
HELLO????
↳ @softpuckera
I JUST OPENED THE APP???
@puckgirlie99
ILYAAAAAAA
↳ @delusionalfan88
THE SUIT???
↳ @metrosfaithful
SHANE???????
@rinkdetective
this is the most intimate cover GQ has done in YEARS
↳ @nhlstanclub
and it’s hockey players 😭
@softpuckera
im sorry but ilya rozanov in a suit???
↳ @puckgirlie99
THE HAND ON THE WRIST
↳ @delusionalfan88
SHANE’S POSTURE???
↳ @someonecrying
WHY IS THIS SO INTIMATE
@tradwifeera
if ilya rozanov looked at me like that i would fold immediately
↳ @softpuckera
YOU WOULD NOT SURVIVE
@hockeydaily
“I play better because I am loved.” — Ilya Rozanov for GQ
↳ @puckgirlie99
WHO ALLOWED HIM TO SAY THAT
↳ @nhlstanclub
THIS IS CRAZY
↳ @softpuckera
i need to lie down
@sportscenter
“We didn’t want to hide anymore.” — Shane Hollander
↳ @metrosfaithful
captain 😭
↳ @someoneelse
this is actually so important
@hockeyforgood
Hollander & Rozanov expanding the Irina Foundation to support LGBTQ+ athletes
↳ @softpuckera
oh they’re serious serious
↳ @puckgirlie99
this just made me emotional
↳ @nhlstanclub
they’re actually changing the game
@oldschoolhockey
what happened to this sport
↳ @bearsnation88
winning games still matters btw
↳ @metrospulse
they’re literally still elite athletes
@puckgirlie99
no but can we TALK about the last photo???
[Photo: shirtless, in full hockey gear, looking at each other]
↳ @softpuckera
I AM LOOKING RESPECTFULLY (LYING)
↳ @delusionalfan88
THIS IS INSANE
↳ @nhlstanclub
WHY ARE THEY BOTH BUILT LIKE THAT
@rinkdetective
has the nhl ever considered THIS as a way to boost viewership
↳ @someoneelse
that’s cold 😭
↳ @bearsnation88
you’re not wrong tho
@metrosfaithful
shane hollander had NO business looking like that
↳ @puckgirlie99
LITERALLY NONE
↳ @softpuckera
WHO ALLOWED THIS
@IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
YES MY HUSBAND LOOKS LIKE THAT ALL THE TIME
↳ @nhlstanclub
HE’S BACK
↳ @delusionalfan88
OH NO
↳ @puckgirlie99
“MY HUSBAND”
AGAIN, WE KNOW!!! 😭
@IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
STOP LOOKING AT HIS CHEST
↳ @softpuckera
NO
@IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
YOU CAN LOOK BUT ONLY LITTLE
↳ @nhlstanclub
what does that even mean
@IlyaRozanov_81 ✅
I AM SERIOUS
+1. The Fallout and The Reassurance
Another summer at the cottage, which for Shane means one thing: domestic life with his husband.
Shane wakes up first. He slips out of bed carefully, pulls on a hoodie, grabs his keys, and leaves while the city is still quiet. The grocery store opens at seven. The international aisle is small, inconsistent. He checks two places for one ingredient, stands there longer than he means to, staring at labels, trying to remember which one the Russian blog recommended.
Because Ilya has been away from home too long. And Shane knows what that feels like.
So he builds it quietly. Piece by piece.
By the time Ilya wakes up, Shane is already in the kitchen. Hair messy, sleeves pushed up, flour dusted lightly across the counter. Dough rolled thin. Small circles cut and lined up. Filling portioned carefully, one by one. Something warm. Familiar. Taking shape.
He doesn’t say what it is. He wants it to be a surprise.
“I’ll cook today,” Shane says, casual, not looking up.
Ilya shrugs. “Okay.”
That’s where it starts going wrong.
Because Ilya doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the way Shane pinches each dumpling closed is deliberate—this fold, this curve, because that’s how it’s supposed to look. He doesn’t know Shane has already redone half a batch because they weren’t right. He doesn’t know Shane has been tasting the filling, adjusting slowly, carefully, chasing something he’s never actually had before and only heard about.
He doesn’t know Shane has been thinking about this all day.
“Ilya, don’t—” Shane says too quickly when Ilya reaches for the pan.
“I’m just helping.”
“You’re not—just—give me a second—”
“They will stick.”
“They’re not going to—”
“You need more flour.”
“Ilya—”
“You’re doing it wrong.”
That lands.
Shane goes quiet, but he keeps going, because maybe he can still fix it.
“I’m fixing it,” Ilya says, reaching past him again.
“Ilya, stop.”
“I’m just making sure—”
“That’s not how you—”
“You are overfilling them.”
The spoon hits the counter. Not thrown. Just set down too hard.
“Can you stop?”
Ilya misses it. Again.
“I’m just making sure we do it right,” he says, smiling a little, still teasing, still not understanding.
Shane just stands there.
“Oh.”
It’s quiet enough Ilya almost doesn’t catch it.
“I was just—” Shane swallows hard. “I was just trying to make your favorite.”
Everything in Ilya stops.
“What?”
Shane lets out a small laugh, but it’s wrong. Thin. Already breaking.
“You said last week you missed it,” he says, not looking at him. “Pelmeni. When you were talking to your mom.”
It hits, sharp and immediate.
“I thought maybe I could try,” Shane says, voice unsteady. “So it feels a little like home.”
No.
“I went out this morning,” he continues, words slipping now because he can’t stop them. “I had to go to two stores because I couldn’t find the right flour and I didn’t know if the meat was supposed to be this or—” His breath catches. “I’ve been trying all day to get it right and you just keep telling me it’s wrong.”
The tears come fast after that. Silent. Immediate.
“I didn’t even tell you,” Shane says, pressing his hand to his face, embarrassed. “I wanted you to taste it first and—”
His voice breaks.
“I ruined it.”
That’s it. That’s the thing that shatters Ilya completely.
“No,” Ilya says immediately, voice sharp with panic. “No, you didn’t—”
But Shane is already shaking his head.
“I did,” he whispers. “You said it was terrible.”
“I didn’t—” Ilya cuts himself off.
Because he didn’t say that. But he made it feel like that. And that’s worse.
Ilya moves fast, hands on Shane’s arms, turning him toward him.
“Hey. Look at me,” he says, softer now, urgent. “Shane.”
Shane won’t. His gaze stays down, lashes wet, shoulders tight.
“I didn’t know,” Ilya says, stripped clean of anything teasing. “I didn’t know, solnyshko.”
“I know,” Shane says too quickly. “It’s fine, I just—”
“It’s not fine.”
That lands.
Ilya lifts his chin gently, thumb brushing under his eye.
“You did all this for me?”
Shane nods. Small.
Ilya exhales like it hurts.
“You went out this morning?”
Another nod.
“Two stores?”
“…yeah.”
Ilya closes his eyes for a second because now he can see it. Shane in the aisle, checking labels, trying to get it right for something he’s never even tasted himself.
“I was so proud of it,” Shane admits quietly. “Before you came in.”
That breaks Ilya.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya says, and this time it’s slow, deliberate. “I’m so sorry.”
Shane shakes his head, but his hands fist in Ilya’s shirt anyway.
“I didn’t know,” Ilya repeats. “I should’ve asked. I should’ve just trusted you.”
Shane’s breathing stutters.
“I wanted you to like it.”
“I will,” Ilya says immediately. “I already do.”
“You haven’t even tasted it.”
“I don’t need to.”
Shane lets out a small, broken laugh.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
And then Ilya reaches past him, but slower this time. More careful.
He takes a small spoonful of the filling.
A beat. Long. Then he nods.
Slow. Certain.
“It tastes like home,” he says quietly.
Shane blinks.
“That’s not even finished”
“I know.”
Ilya steps closer anyway, one hand coming up to cup his face.
“It’s right.”
Shane searches his face, like he’s trying to find the lie.
There isn’t one.
“You did good,” Ilya murmurs. “Better than good.”
Shane’s lip trembles again, softer this time.
“I’m sorry I made you feel like it wasn’t,” Ilya adds, forehead pressing to Shane’s. “That was my mistake.”
Shane exhales, leaning into him.
“You’re not allowed to help anymore.”
“I will not touch anything.”
“You’ll just sit there.”
“I will sit.”
“And eat it.”
“I will eat everything.”
That earns him a small, watery smile.
Ilya presses a kiss to his temple, lingering.
“Next time, you tell me.”
Shane shakes his head.
“No. It’s better when you don’t know.”
Ilya huffs quietly.
“Then next time, I keep my mouth shut.”
A pause. Then—
“I was being annoying on purpose,” Ilya admits, softer.
Shane stills.
“I like when you react,” Ilya continues, a little embarrassed now. “You get this face. I thought you were just… playing with me.”
Shane lets out a quiet breath.
“I wasn’t.”
“I know,” Ilya says quickly. “I know now. I didn’t think.”
That lands differently.
Shane studies him, then sighs, some of the tension easing out.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Da,” Ilya agrees immediately. “…your idiot.”
That finally gets him a real smile.
“Good,” Shane says.
-----
Later, they’re in bed. Lights off, just the dim glow from the hallway spilling in. Shane is already under the covers, scrolling on his phone, calmer now, softer again, like he always is after things settle.
Ilya stands at the edge of the bed for a second, just looking at him.
“Shane?”
“Yeah?”
Ilya hesitates. Small, but Shane notices.
“Come here.”
Shane blinks.
“…I am here?”
Ilya huffs, a little embarrassed. “No—come here.” He lifts the blanket.
Shane stares at him, then softens. “…you want to cuddle?”
Ilya nods once.
“Okay.”
Shane slides in without hesitation, fitting into him like he belongs there. Because he does.
Ilya holds him tighter than usual. One arm around his back, the other cradling his head, pressing him in like he needs to keep him there.
Shane notices. Of course he does.
“…hey. What’s wrong?”
Ilya doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes. Slow. Heavy.
“I was stupid.”
“You already apologized.”
“I know.”
“…okay.”
But Ilya doesn’t stop.
“I do that,” he says quietly. “I push. I tease.” A pause. “I like when you react.”
Shane exhales. “Yeah. I know.”
“I was doing it on purpose,” Ilya admits. “I thought you were just playing back.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know.” He tightens his hold slightly. “I didn’t think.”
That lands.
Shane shifts, settling back against him. “I just wanted you to have something familiar.”
Ilya presses his face into Shane’s hair, overwhelmed by it all over again.
“No one does that,” he says, voice low. “No one ever did that for me.”
Shane’s hand slides up his arm, grounding.
“I didn’t think someone would go to two stores just to get it right,” Ilya adds, quieter now.
“It’s not a big deal—”
“It is.” Sharper than he means. Then softer. “It is.”
A small silence settles. Not heavy. Just full.
“You care for me,” Ilya admits. “And I ruin it. Because I wanted a reaction.”
“…Ilya?” Shane murmurs, feeling the shift.
Ilya shakes his head, but his voice breaks anyway.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“No. Hey… don’t—”
“I was mean,” Ilya says. “For no reason. You were doing something good for me and I—” He exhales, frustrated. “I liked it more than I thought about how you felt.”
Shane’s hands come up, steadying his face.
“Hey. Stop.”
“I’m scared, Shane.”
“…of what?”
Ilya swallows. It takes effort to say it.
“I’m like my father.”
A beat. His voice drops.
“I think… I’ll hurt you like he did with mama.”
That lands heavy. Honest.
Shane doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush. He just looks at him.
Then shifts closer, one hand still on his face, the other resting over his chest.
“Hey. Look at me.”
Ilya does.
Shane’s expression is steady.
“You’re not your father.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
No hesitation.
“Because you’re here,” Shane says quietly. “You’re thinking about it. You’re scared of it. That already makes you different.”
Ilya’s throat tightens.
“My dad was hard on my mom,” Ilya admits. “On me. Nothing was ever right. I hear it in my head sometimes.” His voice drops. “Today, I sounded like him.”
Shane softens immediately.
“Yeah,” he says gently. “You did. A little.”
Ilya flinches.
“But you stopped,” Shane adds just as quickly. “You listened. You apologized.”
A beat.
“You’re not him, Ilya. You don’t stay there.”
Silence.
“And listen,” Shane continues, quieter now, more deliberate. “This—this is marriage.”
Ilya stills.
“We’re going to hurt each other sometimes,” Shane says. “Not because we want to. Just because we’re human. We miss things. We get it wrong.”
Ilya watches him, unmoving.
“But—,” Shane says, softer, “we say something when it hurts. And we fix it. Together.”
A pause.
“I’m not scared of you,” he adds.
That lands deeper than anything else.
“I’m not scared of us.”
Ilya exhales shakily, pulling him closer.
“I don’t want to be like him.”
“You’re not,” Shane says easily. “You’re you.”
A beat.
“And I chose you.”
Ilya’s grip tightens.
“I will always choose you.”
That breaks him open in the quietest way.
Ilya presses his face into Shane’s shoulder.
“Stay with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
A pause.
“Even if you ruin my pelmeni.”
A weak laugh escapes Ilya.
“…it was not ruined.”
“I know.”
And this time, Ilya held him closer.
It isn’t out of fear.
It’s out of choice.
Chapter End Notes
Thank you again for taking the time to read this. It really means a lot to me. 💛
P.S. shameless plug: if you’re interested, I’m currently writing a Tortured Singer-Songwriter Shane x NBA Rising Star Ilya AU fic, so feel free to check it out under my works 👀✨
Afterword
End Notes
Hi, everyone! This is my first fic ever. I got bored and decided to abandon my academic deliverables for this.
Please be nice. :))
I promise the details of their secret wedding will be revealed in the next chapter.
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!