Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike's Children

Additional Tags:

Instagram, Fluff, Post-Canon, Coming Out, Good Parent Yuna Hollander, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Ilya and Hayden Pike's small army of children, Ilya meets the Montreal team, Rimming, Come as Lube, Face-Fucking, shane in ilya's jersey, makin ilya feel some typa WAY, Smut

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-16 Updated: 2026-01-24 Words: 9,048 Chapters: 4/?

hard launch, soft landing

Summary

A series of vignettes, as told through Instagram.

Or: Ilya and Shane learn to love vocally.

(NOTE: each chapter can be read as a separate piece. one story = one Insta post)

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

mama and dad hollander supporting their boy(s)

The first photo is innocuous. Innocent; well, innocent so far as Ilya can hit a puck.

Their relationship has been publicized for a few weeks now, the buzz around it having died down a bit in the general media. In the hockey world: not so much.

Ilya is worried. He's taken to calling Shane every evening since the leak. Checking to make sure he's eating (he is), that he's sleeping (less so), that the Metros haven't been too harsh, their shoulders too cold (no comment). Ilya will never admit this outloud, but he's so grateful for Hayden during this time. He's frustrated that he can't be the one there to physically comfort his own boyfriend, but he feels eased knowing that Shane's not alone. His boyfriend's unending tendency to spiral, when left unmanned, can be crippling. His team may be a bunch of shits, but he's got a wonderful support network that, for the first time in months, elicits not a lick of envy in Ilya's heart. He can feel nothing but overwhelming gratitude for Hayden, Shane's parents, and yes— Ilya grits his teeth— even Rose. Ilya hadn't realized what a blessing his team is until the news broke: how one man can be left with an plethora of silent sneers, another engulfed in love and support. Ilya knows the treatment his boyfriend is receiving from his fellow Metros is wildly unfair; however, Ilya, having no preconceived American notions that life will hand you what you truly deserve, is ready to fight tooth and nail for Shane's happiness.

They've made it through eleven years of coveted heartache. They can make it through this.

Ilya starts now, stopping by the Hollander's before the Centaurs’ morning team meeting. They're playing Montreal tonight, the final game in the series to decide who will move onto the next round in the playoffs. Ilya's just here to pick up a few dishes Shane left at their home during last Sunday's family meal.

He walks in to find Yuna at the coffee machine, back to him as she starts the brew. Large, white letters spelling out “Hollander” across her upper back, his number sewn in directly below it.

Ilya knows this jersey. It's Yuna's favorite, one that Shane gifted her after his first year with the Metros. It's a little worn, fraying a bit at the sleeves, but she, like every neurotic hockey-minded human, has a routine.

David also has his back turned to Ilya, no doubt working on the Times crossword. He's wearing a Jersey as well, though his is a lighter blue; clear, white lettering spelling out “Rozanov” across his upper back.

Before either party can turn, Ilya's got his phone out, capturing a picture of the two in the mid-morning light. Yuna's pouring herself coffee, her hair tucked around one shoulder so that Shane's last name is on clear display. David is hunched over his magazine, and he's caught at a slight side profile. If one is to look closely enough, they can see the glint of his spectacles, the ones he uses to read. Ilya's last name is put on proud display for the camera.

“That better not show my face,” Yuna snipes, turning her head sharply at the click of the camera. “I haven't even touched a tube of concealer this morning.”

Ilya snorts, locking his phone and moving out of the entryway so he can reach for a hug. Yuna slips around the kitchen island to meet him, and she has to stand on her tiptoes to get her arms around his massive shoulders.

“Only a picture of the jersey, but you know you are lovely woman, even without the make-up.”

“Sweet boy,” she steps back, parting with a quick pat to his cheek. “But flattery won't get me to change my jersey.”

“Oh, no?” Ilya feigns shock. “And what if I bring bribes?” He pulls a bag of kolaches out from beneath his coat, grinning at Yuna's false glare.

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me twice,” David turns away from his crossword wearing a grin. Ilya joins them at the kitchen island, the three of them plowing through enough carbs to give the ghost-presence of his boyfriend a heart attack.

***

Shane opens the Instagram app, taking a few moments to distract himself from the lackluster, stilted captain's speech he's about to force himself through. Ever since Hayden's video leak, and Shane and Ilya's subsequent relationship outing, speaking to his team has felt like disarming a time bomb. That is: if both wires were red, and the bomb went off anyway. At best, his team gives him the cold shoulder. At worst, they've clocked him, sneered at him, or avoided sending him a pass entirely. Every pregame speech he's now forced to give makes him feel like he's talking to an extremely hostile wall.

So, Instagram. He scrolls mindlessly with his right hand, flexing the fingers of his left. The dull thrum of locker room conversation nearly distracts him from his half-hearted attempt at something that should be his distraction. He's about to give up, going to click off the screen of his iPhone when he sees it. Scrolling up a bit more, his thumb hovers in shock.

@officialilyarozanov <3

Nothing else. No text to accompany the picture of Shane's parents in their respective Jerseys. Shane lets out a deep breath, a subconscious smile gracing his lips. He doesn’t think twice about liking the picture, knowing Ilya probably won't see it until after the game. But still, he's happy to know his boyfriend will see Shane's appreciation. The thrill of it, of knowing the world now knows that his parents love Ilya, gets him through his half-assed speech.

Five minutes later, when he's skating out of the tunnel, he catches his parents waving at him from their usual seats. Per Ilya's Instagram post, his mom's sporting a “Hollander” jersey, his dad one for “Rozanov.” Shane grins, sending them a little nod before he goes to take a couple of laps around the rink. When the Centaurs enter the rink, Ilya's the first to skate out of the tunnel. Shane watches as his eyes immediately find the waving Hollander's. Ilya's face lights up in a grin, and he drops his stick to wave back furiously with both hands. When he finally lowers them, his gaze shifts, and he finds Shane's eyes almost immediately. He doesn't pick up his vigorous wave again, but his smile doesn't falter. Shane holds his gaze for a few moments past what's considered friendly, then Ilya breaks off with a wink, skating off to speak with one of his teammates.

The warmth spreading through Shane's chest doesn't ease, and he can't wipe the smile off his face, even when one of his teammates checks his shoulder when skating past. He shoots one last glance toward his perfect, supportive parents, then clocks in for the face-off.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

BBQ at Hayden's ft. the Montreal team and all 800 of Pike's little munchkins.

Ilya and Shane show up two hours early, per Jackie's request. As soon as they step into the house, she commandeers Ilya, putting him to work on making the potato salad. She sends Hayden and Shane outside to man the grill. It's here that all four of Hayden's kids spot Shane. And where there's a Shane, logically, there's an Ilya. They all scramble out of the pool, racing toward the sliding glass door with loud, boisterous calls of “Uncle Ilya!” echoing across the patio. Little wet footprints trail behind them, and they don't bother drying off before piling into the living room. The door slides shut to the sound of Ilya answering with “Little Pikes!”

“I think my wife and children are leaving me for your fiancé,” Hayden grumbles, opening the grill with more force than necessary.

“He's just good with kids.”

“And women.”

“Hey!” Shane half-heartedly swats his friend's arm with a spatula. “Watch it.”

The two of them spend the next hour or so grilling enough burgers to feed a small army, or, in their case, half the Voyagers and their collective families. Shane had hesitantly agreed to attend the end-of-season barbecue, still stung by the way his team had treated him after the final game against Ottawa. But Hayden had assured him that when he sent out the invite, he hadn't been subtle in letting everyone know that Shane, his best friend, and his partner had been invited. Naturally, a few had declined the invite, Comeau included. Surprisingly, getting Ilya to come hadn't taken all that much convincing. “Is consolation visit,” Ilya had replied solemnly to Shane's inquiry. “For when I steal you away from Montreal.”

Okay, so preemptive gloating. Still, the Voyagers didn't know about Shane signing on with Ottawa, so as far as they were concerned, they were reluctantly being forced to meet Montreal's newest WAG.

The first guest arrives around 4:00 p.m., a defenseman named Kevin who's been with Montreal for about five seasons and who Shane somehow still knows very little about. He brings his wife and two kids, who immediately join the pack of Pikes. Kevin and his wife join Shane and Hayden outside, each party dancing around the question on the tip of everyone's tongue by making small talk about the playoffs. Luckily, Ilya's relieved of lunch duty after much whining from the kids, and he enters the scene through the back patio door with a small gaggle of children marching behind him. He's ridding himself of his T-shirt, wise in part because it’s an old Boston Bears shirt, unwise in that it means he’s now traipsing around half-naked in front of Kevin's wife. Not the best first impression. He makes it worse by sending their group a half-hearted, little wave, not bothering to come over and introduce himself. In the half a second he's spent just doing that, Hayden's twins have ganged up on him, shoving at his legs to keep him headed toward the pool.

Hayden eases Kevin's obvious built-up tension by laughing it off.

“I swear, they act like they don't get to hang out with him, like, every other weekend.”

That draws Kevin's attention away from the tug-of-war currently playing out at the edge of the pool. They all pretend to ignore the giant splash Ilya makes when he finally cannonballs into the deep end. The high-pitched cacophony of giggles that follows is a bit harder to ignore. Shane notices that even Kevin can't help but smile a bit at the sound.

The tension eases after that. As more guests arrive, more kids are brought into the lot. Ilya is saved from having to introduce himself to the men who've treated his husband like utter dogshit for two months by acting as the children's entertainment, and Shane's teammates are saved from having to make small talk with a man whose on-ice chirps have nearly drawn most of them to committing acts of homicide. All in all, it's a good strategy, one that Shane thinks Ilya's been more purposeful about than he's letting on.

Once all the guests arrive, everyone gathers outside, Jackie included. The men stand around Hayden and Shane, thinking perhaps the burgers will grill faster in close proximity to all their masculinity. The women break off into smaller groups, turning heads in tandem each time they hear a high-pitched scream come from the pool's direction. The kids are each taking turns being launched into the deep end by Ilya. He ducks down beneath the shallow water, allowing them to get their feet on his shoulders, then he jumps up, throwing them off his shoulders into the water. It's all very safe, and he's got a small line wrapped around him, each child diligently waiting their turn.

Shane and Hayden start handing out burgers, and the adults take the opportunity to feed themselves before they have to convince their messy children to leave the fun of the pool and eat. Shane wouldn't say he's comfortable, hyper-aware of the barely-concealed scorn sent Ilya's way, but they're all happy to ignore Ilya's presence for the most part. They talk to Shane as they've always spoken to him, friendly and, after a while, arguably even warm. A separate peace settles over the atmosphere of the barbecue, as long as the pointedly oblivious adults keep ignoring the man keeping their children entertained.

That is, until Ilya wades over to the edge of the pool, slicking his hair back with both hands and looking like a large, Russian GQ model with pool water dripping down his summer-tanned body. When he calls out “Sweetheart!” three Voyagers WAGs’ heads snap over in unison, and Ilya's brownie points with Shane's teammates tank.

Ilya doesn't seem to notice the sharp air of hostility that's swept through the men surrounding Shane. He's only got eyes for his fiancé.

“What is that— oh, I cannot think of name—” Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, waving his hand around in circles in that way he does when he can't think of an English word he's searching for. “They are those little fish. The ones you use to catch bigger fish. You know what I'm saying?”

Shane shakes his head, aware that most eyes and ears are now tuned into their conversation.

“No, I'm sorry. What are you talking about?”

“Fishing! I mean fishing, Hollander. You catch the little fish, you hook it on, and you use it to catch bigger fish. Trout, catfish, other ones like this. But I cannot think of name of little fish.”

Shane swallows thickly.

“Uhh, I don't— I'm not much of a fisherman, babe.”

“What? You live next to big lake in Canada, and you say you never go ice fishing? Are you even real Canadian?”

“What? Just because I live in Canada doesn't mean I have to—”

“It's a minnow.”

Ilya and Shane's heads both snap to Shane's left.

“What?” Ilya snaps, and Shane winces. Tone's too sharp, babe.

Kevin shuffles his feet awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck with one hand.

“Uh, yeah, the little fish you catch to use as bait. They're, uh, they're minnows.”

“Mee-know.” Ilya nods, testing the word out with exaggerated facial movements. “Mee-know. What a weird word. I will never understand this silly language.” And with that, Ilya sends a parting nod Kevin's way before turning back toward the kids and clapping his hands.

“Alright! Listen up. I'm going to teach you a game we play back in Russia. Is very fun. It will, as we say, humble you.” Ilya proceeds to lay out the rules of the game “Sharks and Mee-knows.” One person, Ilya, will start by being “It.” He'll stand in the center of the pool while allowing the kids to gather at one side of the pool. The goal? To swim across to the other side of the pool without getting tagged. If the kids make it to the other side of the pool, they get to remain a “Mee-know.” If they get tagged, however, they have to join Ilya in being “It,” AKA a shark. The kids swim back and forth like this until the last kid is left standing, declaring them the winning minnow.

Two rounds into the game, the adults’ attention wanes. Most are grateful to share a meal with their friends sans kids. Again, gratitude for Ilya's child-friendly entertainment is expressed by everyone completely ignoring his presence. Shane hates it, but he figures it could be worse.

Fifteen minutes into a few rounds of the pool game, and the first set of tears pokes through the pleasant, peace treaty atmosphere.

Again, a synchronized turning of heads of all moms. Again, Ilya is the center of not-so-friendly attention.

He's not looking at them; instead, he’s holding the crying boy up by the crooks of his armpits. He's frowning, his expression very serious as he tilts the crying boy to the left, then the right.

“Okay now, what is this? Why are we crying?”

The little boy sniffles, reaching up to knuckle both eyes.

“I got tagged ‘It!’”

“Yes,” Ilya nods along slowly, “is part of game, da?”

But the boy's tears don't let up.

“But I—” hiccup, “—I got tagged, so that means I lost. I'm a loser!” The wailing comes in at full force. The child's mom, who by now has been identified and is moving to crouch at the edge of the pool, is glaring daggers at Ilya. He pays her no mind, pulling the boy in close to his chest and spinning him around so that his blotchy face meets Shane's. He points in the general direction of Shane and his teammates.

“You see that man there?”

The boy sniffs.

“Um, daddy?”

“Tch, no, the pretty one, in the boring shirt.”

“Sh—Shane?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods his head, spinning the boy back around so he can meet him eye-to-eye. “You know that guy?”

“Yeah, he's daddy's captain.”

“Yes. He plays a lot of hockey, yes?”

The boy nods along, momentarily distracted from his own sadness.

“You think he wins every game?”

The boy shakes his head now, slower, like he's really thinking about it.

“Exactly. He loses many games, yes? Mostly to me. You ever see him cry about it?”

“N—” the boy looks back toward Shane, his big, sad eyes still glossed over with unshed tears. “No.”

“No, he doesn't cry when he loses. He comes back to next game and fights me even harder. Is how he gets better.”

The boy nods again, eyes downcast, but at least the tears have stopped falling. Ilya tucks a hooked finger under his chin, forcing his head up so they can meet one another’s eyes.

“So you must keep fighting me, yes? To get better?”

“But you're the best!”

Ilya smirks.

“Is okay, that's never stopped Shane.”

The boy lets out a long, insufferable huff, not one unrelated to the reaction Ilya elicits from Shane. But he nods, putting on a brave face and joining the little band of “sharks” so they can finish their game. The boy's mom walks back from the edge, but not before sending a warning glare in Ilya's direction. Again, he's too busy to catch it, a fact Shane is grateful for, as the moment was otherwise relatively wholesome.

“That the speech he gave you after he beat our asses to the playoffs?” Hayden pipes up.

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane laughs. Surprisingly, a few of the other guys join in, and the tension that had been lingering all afternoon eases up a bit.

The kids tire themselves out playing with Ilya in the pool for another thirty minutes or so, then scramble out to eat burgers. All except two, Hayden's twin girls, who have decided that Ilya is their own personal chariot and refuse to be put down. He carries Jade on one hip, Ruby on the other. Amber has attached herself to his foot, sitting on top of it and holding onto his calf so that he must lift her up with each step. She giggles the entire trek Ilya makes toward Shane.

“You can't keep them,” Hayden laughs, lounging back in his chair next to Shane as they both watch Ilya lug forward. “You'll have to go find your own.” He shoots a wink in Shane's direction, and Shane absolutely doesn't blush.

“Can two daddies have a baby?” Ruby pipes up, bringing her index finger to the dimple in her chin like she's solving some complex math problem.

“Um, they can, but it's a little complicated,” Shane replies, praying the discussion ends there.

“Oh,” Ruby frowns. She turns to Ilya, curious. “Uncle Ilya, can you get pregnant?”

Ilya laughs, booping her nose with his own.

“No, lapushka, I cannot.”

“Oh,” she says again, still frowning. “What about Uncle Shane? Can he get pregnant?”

“I am trying very hard,” Ilya replies solemnly.

Shane chokes on his ginger ale, coughing out a reprimanding “Ilya!” Hayden snorts into his beer, and even a few of the others around them chuckle a bit. Ilya shrugs it off, bending down and exaggerating mashing his teeth together for a bite.

“It's a salmon patty,” Shane warns, but stands anyway to hand-feed Ilya a bite of his burger. He scrunches his nose up in disgust, eliciting a giggle from the twins.

“Nasty business. Another bite, please.”

Shane rolls his eyes, leaning in to give Ilya another bite of his burger.

“You can't have all of it.”

“Relax, I made you like four of these patties.”

“Yeah, and I already ate three.”

“Oh?” Ilya's eyebrows shoot up. “Is that so? Hungry boy, hmm? Have I perhaps already succeeded in putting a baby in you?”

“Oh my God, you're unbelievable,” Shane groans, moving to step away. Ilya stops him with an “ah, ah, ah” mouth wide open, waiting for one more bite of salmon patty.

“Please, I must fuel up. The twins and I are having a, as they say, ‘makeover.’”

“You're having a makeover,” Jade corrects. “We are the makeup people.”

Ilya's nodding along seriously, sending Shane a pointed look.

“You see? They are makeup people. I must do as they say.”

Shane feeds him the last bite of his burger, then watches fondly as he shuffles toward the sliding glass door with Amber still clinging to his foot. Three other children trail after him.

“Make sure to change out of your swim trunks!” Shane yells.

“You think I am animal?” Ilya calls over his shoulder. One of the kids must say something Shane doesn't catch, because Ilya starts barking as they enter the house. The noise is muffled when he shuts the door.

“Wow, he's, like, shockingly good with kids.”

Shane turns, catching Cassy, his teammate Tom's current girlfriend, staring oggle-eyed at the patio door.

“That's because he is a kid,” Shane huffs, sitting back down to join Hayden on the lounge chairs. Her gaze doesn't leave the patio, and Tom steps up to her, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist.

“Hey, I'm good with kids too,” he half-jokes, half-grouses.

“Mmm,” she hums absentmindedly, already leaving his embrace to join her friends at the edge of the pool. Tom turns, shooting Shane a poorly-concealed dirty look.

The conversation is, once again, stilted after that. Shane makes it another twenty minutes before he stands, patting Hayden's shoulder so as not to worry him.

“Just gonna check on Ilya and his new fan club,” he offers, parting with a tight smile. When he enters the house, toeing his shoes off at the door, he hears the distinctive sound of The Wiggles playing on the TV around the corner. Shane doesn't hear anything else. When he tiptoes around the corner of the side hall that opens up into the livingroom, he has to bring both hands to his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

Ilya's sitting at the foot of one of the Pike's recliners. Arthur's sitting in the chair, his feet resting on Ilya's shoulders. He's working his way through Ilya’s curls, placing a butterfly clip here, making a small braid there. There have to be at least twenty hair pieces buried, clipped, or curled into Ilya's hair.

In his lap sits Amber. She seems to be carefully applying blue eyeshadow to the tip of Ilya's nose. He's already got a lovely shade of (hopefully not Jackie's) ruby red lipstick painting his lips and cheeks, and bright pink eyeshadow on his eyelids.

One hand is manned by Ruby, who’s painting his nails neon green. The other is held by Jade, who's chosen a deep red. At his feet sit two of the boys who followed him in earlier. They appear to be switching off colors for his toenails, painting a mismatched rainbow for him.

Shane digs his phone out of his pocket, snapping a few pictures before any of the kids notice his presence. When Jade sees him, yelling out an exuberant “Shane!” Ilya peeks one eye open.

“No, no,” Shane laughs, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “Don't mind me, just came to make sure you're holding up alright.”

“Mm,” Ilya replies, closing his eye again. “All is well here. Am in very capable hands.”

“I can see that,” Shane says around a laugh, sitting at the base of the recliner opposite Ilya's. “You look very pretty.”

“Thank you. Little Pikes do fine work. Perhaps you hire them as new stylist, da? Take some of the boring out of your closet.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but Ilya can't see it. He's eventually roped into letting the twins paint his toenails, and he joins Ilya in his miniature spa day. Unlike Ilya, who must let his nails dry, Shane has complete use of his hands. He opens the Instagram app, uploading one of the photos he just took. He crops out the two boys at Ilya's feet, not sure about their parents’ social media policy, and smiles down at the photo of the four Pike children giving his fiancé a makeover. He captions it with a little “spa day,” then sits back to allow the kids access to his fingernails.

When Shane checks his phone an hour later, he sees Jackie's tagged him in a photo she took of the two of them. She must have snapped it while Shane had to close his eyes for Amber's little machinations. Who's to say. Either way, he shares the post to his story, tagging Ilya with a little heart next to his name.

For all his anxiety, Shane would say he still ended up having a pleasant day with his team. The first one in a while.

Chapter End Notes

are they the Voyagers? the Metros? fuck idk. why tf are book and show canon different?

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Shane officially leaves the Metros for Ottawa. Naturally, he and Ilya fuck about it.

Ilya crawls into bed late, having waited too long to take Anya out for her evening walk. He finds Shane's already showered, glasses on, book out. Surprisingly, the subject is not hockey. Ilya dips his head down to read the title and lets out a quiet huff of laughter. It's a Russian children's book, one Shane is no doubt using to accelerate his learning. Ilya's heart lurches in his chest, and he can't not pull his fiancé in tight now, burying his nose in his fluffy, damp hair.

“Don't think you can cuddle your way out of this one,” he grumbles, turning the page to— Ilya quickly glances at the open book— one naming all the animals in a pond.

“Mmm,” Ilya sighs, mouthing kisses into the soft spot beneath Shane's ear. “And what am I getting out of today?”

“You know what.”

“No, I have terrible memory. You must remind me.”

“Not so terrible that you couldn't forget to goad Montreal into clambering down a warpath.”

Ilya smirks against Shane's shower-warm skin, still not letting up.

“Warpath?” He hums. “Or, perhaps, they are all sad that the little hockey player in their phone is not theirs. I am thinking—” he presses a kiss to Shane's jaw, “—they are not happy you are mine.”

“I'm thinking they're not happy to know how long I've been yours,” Shane says shakily. He drops the book to the side of the bed, reaching for his phone. He pulls up Ilya's latest post on Instagram, thumb hovering over the picture like he can't quite decide if he likes it or not.

They stare down at the picture together. Anyone can tell Shane is young here, early twenties, maybe even late teens. There's still a lot of baby fat around his cheeks. His haircut is boyish and messy. His eyes are wide, a baby deer caught in headlights. Whoever's taking the photo must have said something funny, because his puffy, kiss-bruised lips are hinting at a smile.

There's nothing truly incriminating in his gaze. It's the rest of the photo that's got the internet frothing at the mouth. The picture was taken from above, somebody standing on the bed. Shane sits beneath them, legs criss-crossed in tangled sheets. He's not wearing pants, just boxers, but everything's tastefully covered by the giant Boston Bears jersey he wears, the hem of it covering him to mid-thigh. The number eighty-one sits proudly on his chest, “Rozanov” written in clear lettering directly above it. If the world didn't know any better, he'd look like the perfect little puck bunny. And because Ilya is the man who posted the photo, everyone knows exactly who the cute, twenty-something puck bunny belongs to.

The caption really, really isn't helping.

@realilyarozanov “Canada, you must relax. At least I didn't drag your precious golden boy back to Boston.

Shame too. He makes such a cute little медведь.”

“I can't believe you're rage-baiting my entire country.”

“I can't believe you let me take that photo,” Ilya groans into the crook of his neck. “You were so— mmmm —incredibly sexy in my jersey. I have no idea how I let you leave that night.”

Shane brings the phone closer to his face, tipping his head down to look over the rim of his glasses at something in the photo.

“That was, what, our third or fourth time meeting up at your place?”

“Yes, you remember, I scored goal in overtime. Got you for three whole hours as my prize.”

Shane snorts.

“I think wrangling me into that jersey was your prize.”

“Mmm, yes,” Ilya mouths lazy kisses up and down the column of Shane's throat, eliciting a shiver from the body trapped beneath his fingers. “I cannot tell you how many times I got off to that photo. You let me have so few.”

“Ilya!”

“What? Is true. That was first night you let me come on your face. It was so perfect. I wanted picture of that, too.”

“Oh my G—”

“And you rode my face like a champion that night. Must have been the jersey.”

Shane lets out an exaggerated sigh, running his fingers through Ilya’s hair. Ilya, for his part, has taken to trailing open-mouthed kisses down Shane’s sternum.

“Do you—” Shane swallows, fingers stilling to curl into Ilya's hair, nails scratching at his scalp. He clears his throat and tries again. “Do you still have that jersey? You think?”

Ilya pauses, lifting his head to rest his chin against Shane’s breastbone, eyebrows raised.

“I do not know, but I think I like where this is going.”

Shane can feel his cheeks warming, but he’s already planted the idea in his fiancé’s horny lizard brain. No going back now.

“Is it still in storage?”

“Mmm, maybe not that exact jersey, but…”

Ilya rolls off him, earning him a grumbling “Hey!” from Shane, but he’s already in their closet, shifting through the corner where they keep all their game day gear. Shane’s left mostly naked and alone for all of three minutes, listening to Ilya mumble Russian expletives to himself under his breath, the sound slightly muffled by their wracked clothes. Finally, a triumphant “Aha!” breaks through, and Ilya’s marching back into the bedroom, an Ottawa Centaurs jersey held up on proud display.

Shane grimaces.

“You think you can fuck me while staring at that ugly mascot?”

Ilya smirks, crawling up onto the bed with an exaggerated show of getting one leg situated, then another. He waves the jersey in Shane’s face like a flag.

“Do not be mad because your team lost to our happy little creature. Besides, I’m not fucking you in this.”

Shane’s face falls.

“Oh?”

“No, you will put this very attractive jersey on your very attractive body, and then you will crawl up here and ride my very attractive face. Like, as they say, ‘the good old days.’”

Shane gives him a half-hearted eyeroll, but his cock is already at half-mast. He takes the jersey from Ilya and puts it on swiftly. When his head pokes through the collar, Ilya’s already positioned himself at the head of the bed, hands folded behind his neck to prop himself up on his pillow.

“Good, Hollander. Now boxers off.”

Shane feels a thrill jolt through him at the sound of his last name rolling off Ilya’s tongue. It’s been a while since they spoke on a last-name basis. The callback to their earlier years together has Shane’s cock filling at an embarrassing speed. He decides to make the best of this moment, put on a little show for his ‘rival.’ He rises to his knees, pulling at the waistband of the boxers slowly, eyes never leaving Ilya’s. He can tell Ilya’s trying to maintain eye contact, but his attention slips once Shane’s got the boxers down mid-thigh. He turns, ignoring the blush that once again rises to his cheeks, and shifts his body to the side so that he’s straddling Ilya’s hips. Then, he bends forward, resting his forearms on either side of Ilya’s calves. When he speaks, it’s to Ilya’s feet.

“Go on,” he manages to say without shaking, knowing his ass is out on full display. He hears a sharp inhale, followed by a fractured “fuck, Hollander.” Feels Ilya’s hands grab at his waist, sliding down to grope at both ass cheeks. He spreads them, and Shane keens, burying his face in the sheets next to Ilya’s legs.

“So pretty, baby,” Ilya says offhandedly, like he’s speaking to himself. His thumbs dig in, one of them brushing against Shane’s hole, and he feels it flutter. “So tight.”

”Ilya.”

“Shh, shhhh, don’t worry, little champion, I take care of you, yes? I show you how grateful I am for big win.”

Shane’s head snaps to the side, glaring at Ilya with as much ferocity as he can offer in such a vulnerable position.

“The game was literally a month ago.”

“Mmm, yes. Was such a big win. Scored such a perfect goal at the end there.” He’s not even looking at Shane’s face, preoccupied with sliding his palms up and down the backside of his thighs. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of Shane’s boxers, tugging them off as Shane shifts his weight from one leg to another. Ilya’s hands leave Shane’s body long enough for him to know that he’s taking the time to fold his boxers and set them to the side, a gesture that has Shane feeling achingly fond. He moves to take off his own socks, but Ilya stills his hand mid-tug.

“Leave the socks,” Ilya demands, not unkindly. Shane lets out an annoyed huff.

“Ilya—”

“What? Is my fantasy. When I fuck little rookie Shane, he leave his socks on.”

“Yeah, because you always kept your apartment at, like, negative twelve degrees.”

“Is not my fault you are bad Canadian.”

“What? What does that even mea—”

Ilya rubs his thumbs back and forth over Shane’s sock-clad calves.

“Can’t handle cold, won’t eat maple syrup because of stupid diet. Practically an American.”

“Hey!”

“Enough talking, Hollander,” Ilya groans, lying back on his small mountain of pillows. He wraps his hands around Shane’s upper thighs and tugs. “Come, I’ve been keeping seat nice and warm for you.”

“Oh my God,” Shane grumbles, shifting his weight to his knees and shuffling backwards toward Ilya’s face. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yes, that’s the spirit,” Ilya replies, greedy hands pulling at Shane’s hips. “Just what baby Shane would say. You finally understand role play.”

“You—” but he doesn’t finish his sentence, as Ilya’s chosen that moment to lick a broad, wet path from his perineum up to his hole. “Oh!” Shane uses one hand to grip Ilya’s upper thigh, balancing himself against the hard muscle there. His other hand grabs for the hem of the jersey, bunching it up against his stomach so that it won’t get in Ilya’s way. Ilya brings both hands back to Shane’s ass, spreading his cheeks with both thumbs so that he can lick, again and again, at Shane’s fluttering hole.

“Oh, I— Oh,” Shane mumbles, head dropping down and fingers fisting the jersey material in pleasure. He scoots his ass back, letting Ilya take on more weight, and Ilya groans, happy to tongue Shane’s asshole until he suffocates. He quits with the kitten licks quickly, puckering his mouth to suck at the rim, only to pop off and blow cool air against it a moment later. Shane shivers, trying very hard not to bear his full weight on his perfect fiancé and crush his perfect face. Said fiance doesn’t seem to care, diving back in to spearhead some sort of personal campaign against Shane’s asshole. His thumbs spread him further, and he’s finally licking inside of Shane, tongue-fucking him in a way that sounds wet and messy and has Shane so incredibly turned on that he starts babbling nonsense. Ilya groans into his body, and the sound vibrates up Shane’s spine. He is, unfortunately, already embarrassingly close to orgasming.

Of course, that’s the moment Ilya pauses in his ministrations to speak up.

“You remember first time I do this to you?” he asks, blowing the words against Shane’s spit-slick asshole. Shane moans when he feels a dry thumb dip in, teasing the rim of his hole.

“Yes— God— kind of hard to forget.”

“You were so pretty,” Ilya sighs, dipping his thumb in and out of Shane’s hole, teasing. Maddening. “Said the prettiest things. Couldn’t get you to shut up.”

“Jusus fucking Christ, Ilya, please—”

“Just like that,” Ilya turns his head, biting playfully at Shane’s ass cheek. “Such a little brat. Always. Wanted to live down there, let you suffocate me if it meant you’d keep saying all those pretty things.”

“I’ll suffocate you now if you don’t get your mouth back on— Oh!”

Ilya’s thumb shifts, making room for his finger, which slides in knuckle-deep with perfect ease. He feels Ilya laugh against his skin, kissing his way down to where his finger’s now lazily curling inside Shane, the tip of it rubbing back and forth against his prostate.

“Oh fuck,” Shane groans. “Fuck, you found that fast.”

“Is like hockey. Lots of practice,” Ilya speaks around another fit of laughter before he shuts himself up to begin mouthing at Shane’s hole, tongue peaking out to join his finger in taking Shane apart. The movement of his finger is relentless, soon joined by another, and he's scissoring in and out of Shane, his tongue filling the empty space between his fingers. Shane knows he's mumbling stupid, meaningless shit. Knows he's wantonly pushing himself back against Ilya's face, riding him the way Ilya had begged of him earlier. Ilya’s relentless in his teasing of Shane's prostate, and Shane feels his stomach muscles clench, his balls start to tighten. He thinks Ilya must be able to tell what's coming by the rigidity of his body, because he grasps Shane's hip hard with his free hand, stilling him mid-gyration and plunging his fingers deep into Shane's body. The pads of his fingers rub against his prostate relentlessly, his tongue circling around Shane's abused rim in languorous circles. Shane feels his orgasm build, the fingers of his free hand clawing at Ilya's thigh. Ilya groans, shifting his hips so that Shane finally focuses on his hard-on. Shane drops the scrunched-up jersey, careless of the way it falls into Ilya's face. He reaches for Ilya's clothed election, cupping it with a shaking hand and pumping once, twice—

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groans against the meat of his ass, digging his teeth into the flesh there once more. It's this, the sharp pain of Ilya’s teeth, the tenacity of his fingers, the sting of fingernails digging into his hip, that has Shane crying out. His moan comes out more of a high-pitched wail, his come shooting out across Ilya's lower chest and stomach. Shane watches with a detached sort of fascination as he paints his fiancé’s stomach with his own spend, stars still dancing in his periphery. When he comes down, he slumps to the side, then twists himself around so that his cheek is pillowed on Ilya's upper thigh, his legs curled in on themselves.

Ilya just watches him through hooded lids. Without saying a word, he pulls the waistband of his pants and boxers down just past his erection. Shane watches, still dazed and slow as he sinks down into his own skin, his body jittery and sensitive post-orgasm.

“Good boy,” Ilya sighs, running his fingers through Shane's sweat-soaked hair. “Always so good for me, solnyshko. So good.” He runs his other hand up his own body, letting Shane's come coat his palm and fingertips. Then, he wraps his hand around his own cock, pumping himself lazily, eyes not leaving Shane's. Shane’s brain short-circuits at the sight of his fiancé getting himself off with his come. A breathy keen leaves his lips, and he leans forward to mouth at Ilya’s knuckles.

“Off the bed,” Ilya grunts, shifting forward to roll off the bed himself. “On your knees.”

Shane doesn't need to be told twice, shuffling off the bed before sliding to his knees in front of Ilya. He moves to take Ilya's cock into his mouth, but Ilya shakes his head, grabbing Shane by his hair and holding his head still. He brings the head of his cock to Shane's lips, jerking himself off with more rigor than before. He pauses to collect more of Shane's come off his chest, then resumes quickly.

“Gonna paint that pretty face of yours, Hollander,” he grunts, thighs tense beneath Shane's wandering fingertips. “Gonna show Montreal exactly who you belong to.”

”Ilya,” Shane stutters, palming at Ilya's ass in a fruitless effort to bring him closer. He can feel the heat of his own body, feel his cock twitch at the image Ilya paints before him. Ilya's eyes stay locked on his, his hand moving faster. His face is red, splotchy; Shane knows he's close. He opens his mouth, tonguing at anything he can reach. He licks at Ilya's slit, his cockhead, the pads of his fingers when they reach him in their movement.

“Oh—” Ilya groans, bending forward and gripping Shane's hair tighter. “Oh, oh—”

“Ilya,” Shane moans again, fingers digging into the meat of his ass, pulling, pulling—

“Close your eyes,” Ilya pants. “Oh, fuck, close your eyes, baby, I—”

Shane obliges, hot spurts of come painting his face just as his eyes squeeze shut. Come splashes onto his cheeks, his lashes, dripping down into his mouth. He almost wishes he hadn't come earlier, knowing he'd be losing his mind if Ilya were to jerk him off now.

Ilya pants heavily, dropping his grip to lean down, hands finding purchase on Shane's shoulders. They stay there for a few moments, Ilya catching his breath, Shane reaching up to thumb the come out of his eyes. He hears Ilya chuckle, feels his hands leave his shoulders, only for him to reach for the hem of Shane's (his?) jersey and use it to help Shane wipe the come off his face.

“Ruining a perfectly good jersey,” Shane admonishes, though there's no heat in his tone. He's smiling, squinting one eye open to catch Ilya's signature smirk.

“Depends on your definition of ‘ruin.’” Ilya retorts, leaning in to kiss Shane's closed eyelid. Then his nose. Then his mock-pouting lips.

Later, after they've showered and crawled back into bed together, Ilya fast asleep against Shane's chest, Shane pulls out his phone. He scrolls through the one locked album in his photos, its contents heartbreakingly scant. He can't make himself feel guilty about not deleting these, especially now that he knows he can take as many pictures of his fiancé as he wants. But these are older, relics of an era when their time together was coveted. His heart aches as he gets to the bottom of the folder with one swipe of his thumb. Here they are, ten years condensed down to a handful of sleepy selfies, rare photos taken by his parents, and a couple he'd downloaded from Google searches over the years.

The bottom of the album is where the oldest photos are collected. An early morning selfie, one Ilya sent a few weeks before the Sochi Olympics. Another of him with a toothbrush in his mouth, a Snapchat message pinned to it saying “you up?” He'd looked so soft in that one, the edges of his smirking expression and closed-off demeanor softened by hotel sheets in the background and plaid pajama bottoms hanging loose on his hips. He hadn't even made fun of Shane for screenshotting that one.

He finds the one he's been looking for, uploading it to his Instagram story quickly, trying not to second-guess his post. He then throws his phone to the side, tucking his face into Ilya's curls and smiling sheepishly. He holds his fiancé close, thinking of all the small moments they shared before those first two weeks spent at his cottage. He thinks of small pockets of time between finishing together and saying goodbye at the door. He thinks of deleted photos, of lingering touches, of the messy memories that flow together, coagulating to create the foundation for something so very solid. So very real, tucked beneath Shane's chin and smelling of the soap they share.

He thinks he's happy to have held onto hope for so long. Because sometimes, miracles do occur.

***

@realshanehollander has posted to his story!

[Image description: a young Ilya, perhaps twenty, maybe twenty-one, is lying on his back. He's wearing a Montreal Metros jersey, Shane’s last name and number on clear display for the camera. He's smirking up at the lens, but the expression has lost its edge to the mirth in his eyes. Whoever's taking the photo is sitting atop his stomach, the skin of naked thighs peaking in at the edges of the camera. Ilya grips those thighs off camera, only his thumbs visible. The photo is teasing, but not indecent. Ilya’s expression makes it feel playful, bordering on sweet.]

Caption: “he never talks about the times I won”

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

scrimmage used as foreplay.

@jackiepike has gone live

@jackiepike if any of you were wondering what it's like to play with your partner. #datenight

The video pans to the ice. Jackie's sitting in the box typically reserved for players, but the rink is empty, so her crime goes unnoticed. She moves her camera slowly to her left, where her husband is watching whatever's going on out on the ice with fond amusement. She stays there for a moment, and the sound of skates sliding and halting can be heard in the background. Suddenly, a loud “Oh, fuck off!” is heard off camera. It's so distinctly Shane.

Jackie pauses before moving the screen back to the ice, checking in on the comments.

@hockeygurl19 wait, Hayden's pads aren't on, are y'all practicing?

@katekatee is Shane there? Miss ma'am, what are we bearing witness to

@allenk10 we hardly ever get Insta live footage of practices. what's up, Pikes?

Jackie grins, seeing that she's already got a few hundred viewers tuning into the video. She turns the camera without preamble, the ice coming back into view. It takes a moment for the camera's view to settle and clear, two pixelated blobs suddenly coming into clear view. It's Shane and Ilya, out on the ice in their slacks and button-up shirts. They've just finished up at an event for the Irina Foundation, everyone still in their formal wear. Ilya's collar is loose, the top of his shirt left splayed open to bare his chest. His hair is already sweat-slicked, curls dripping down to wet his collar. Shane’s still done up, collar buttoned, and tie still hilariously on. He's clearly worked up, though, sweat spreading beneath his arms and staining his lower back.

They've both got their skates on, sticks out, and a fuzzy, black blob of a puck on the ice. Jackie dexterously handles the camera, flying to the left as Shane takes the puck toward the goal, only for Ilya to intercept it halfway down the ice, skating in the opposite direction with the sound of Shane's “Jackass!” following him. Jackie gets a good shot of Ilya's laughing expression as he makes his way across the ice. Jackie pulls up the comments again, surprised to see her viewership skyrocketing. She knows the live is probably getting recorded at this point.

@sidwithtgepuck oh my GOD where are their helmets??! Are they idiots??

Jackie giggles, typing out a quick reply.

@jackiepike @sidwiththepuck yes.

Other comments keep rolling in, rapid fire, nearly too fast for Jackie to read.

@edhawk88 jesus fuck, where are you guys? and why aren't they in their gear?

@aljeers6 is this some sort of primal foreplay they only teach in canadian sex ed

Jackie can't help but snort out a laugh at that one.

“What?” Hayden asks, shuffling closer to read over his wife's shoulder. “What are they saying?”

Jackie scrolls back to the comment with her free hand, her other still holding the screen steady so that everyone on the live can keep watching the informal scrimmage. When Hayden reads the comment, he squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead to Jackie's shoulder.

“Ugh, gross.”

Jackie hides the comments again, happy to keep the focus on her two friends who are now at center ice. Shane’s got the puck again, but he's stuck, Ilya circling him closely like a hawk does with its prey. They're both panting heavily, loud enough for the sound to be caught on camera.

“We are three-two now, sweetheart. Are you ready to toss in the rag?”

“Does he mean ‘throw in the towel?’” Hayden asks off-screen. Jackie shrugs, keeping the camera on the face-off before them.

“In your dreams, Rozanov,” Shane grunts, pushing through to break the stalemate. The move trips Ilya up, and he stumbles, regaining his footing by balancing on his stick.

“Motherfucker,” he growls, chasing after Shane, but it's too late. Shane's already halfway down the ice, scoring a beautiful goal before Ilya's within ten feet of him.

Shane woops, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He rests his hands on his knees as he idly skates his way back to center ice.

“Three-three,” he chirps, smiling gleefully when he catches sight of Ilya's scowl.

“Call it a draw?” Jackie calls out. Nobody misses the utterly perplexed, bordering on offended, looks sent her way.

“Mrs. Pike, I'm so sorry, but I think your husband's stupid may be rubbing off on you.”

“Hey!” Hayden yells out. “Watch it, Rozanov!”

Ilya sends them a half-hearted salute, then moves to center ice to square off.

“Tiebreaker?” Shane asks through heavy puffs of breath.

“Pike!” Ilya calls over his shoulder. Jackie swings the camera around to capture her husband's reaction. “Come drop the puck for us!”

Hayden's already shaking his head halfway through the request.

“No way, dude. I don't have a death wish.”

“C'mon, Hayden, please?” It's Shane this time, head peeking up from their face-off to send Hayden a pleading look. “I want it to be fair.”

Hayden shakes his head in astonishment, muttering “Jesus fucking Christ,” under his breath, but he's hopping the boards. A diligent friend, through and through.

“You better kick his ass,” he tells Shane, grabbing the puck and holding it above Shane and Ilya's heads.

“Partiality is not good, ref,” Ilya chirps, slapping his stick playfully against Hayden's dress shoes.

“Big word there, Rozanov. Where'd you learn that one?”

The camera catches Ilya's smirk perfectly, and Jackie knows her husband, her beautiful, sometimes-a-little-slow husband, has walked right into a trap.

“Your mo—”

“Ilya, do you want him to drop our puck or not?” Shane hisses, slapping at Ilya's stick aggressively. Ilya grins, turning back to the face-off, and allows Hayden to drop the puck without comment.

Hayden scrambles back to Jackie's side as quickly as he can, shuffling along the ice to avoid the absolute brawl taking shape before them. Insults and expletives are thrown out so carelessly that Jackie wishes there were some way she could bleep out chirps on Instagram live.

“Slow turn there, Hollander. Is maybe time to be thinking about retirement?”

“Ilya—”

“You join Hunter in little hockey nursing home? Where I bring you all your sad, nasty foods in blender because you've lost all your teeth to my backhand?”

“Suck my dick, Rozanov!”

”Make me!” the last bite is delivered through clenched teeth, the two of them hunkering down to grapple for the puck. Jackie doesn’t hold back her giggles, bringing up the comments as Hayden makes an exaggerated gagging sound at her side.

@hockeyfan536 is this… foreplay?

@daaahbears oh my god! They're flirting 🤣

@adisonkkc is this what the mics weren't catching for seven years' worth of games?

Jackie snorts, tilting the phone screen to show her husband the comments. He scowls, pointedly looking back toward the ice. Ilya’s got the puck now, racing it toward the goal like his life depends on it. Just as Shane reaches him, he takes a risky swing, too far out from the goal for the shot to be accurate. The puck flies into the air, teasing like it might swing out of bounds, but it hits the side of the goal, bouncing off metal with a loud clang before sinking perfectly into the net.

“Fuck yeah!”

”Fuck!”

Shouted simultaneously. Ilya’s holding his stick above his head, proudly waving it around like it's a Stanley Cup. Shane’s gripping his temple, shaking his head back and forth. Both seem like overreactions for a suited-up scrimmage. Ilya skates up to Shane's side, planting a loud, obnoxious kiss on his cheek.

“Do I get to choose my prize?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Shane pushes him back with enough force that he's skating away, backwards.

“I don't put out for cocky assholes.”

“Well, now, see darling, historically speaking, I just don't think that is correct—”

“Okay!” Jackie squeaks out with forced cheer. She turns the camera back toward herself, waving into the lens. The frame catches Hayden sitting next to her, head in both hands as he shakes it back and forth.

“This is a nightmare,” he grumbles, words slightly muffled by his palms. Jackie kisses his cheek reassuringly, then waves to say goodbye to the camera. She exits the livestream, but not before God and all the world get to hear Ilya Rosanov belt out:

“Oh no you don't, Hollander! I beat your ass fair and square! Now I get to keep it! Is my reward!”

“You don't own my fucking ass, Ilya.”

“Oh? Is that so? You pawning cute little ass off to other big, strong hockey players? You give me names, I beat them too!”

And they say romance is dead.