Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Wyatt Hayes, Luca Haas, Troy Barrett, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Challenges, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I Don't Even Know, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Tried, What Was I Thinking?, Please Don't Hate Me, Don't Judge Me, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Inspired by Music, I Ship It, Gay Sex, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Romantic Fluff, Marriage, Smut, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Hollanov - Freeform, Just two competitive spouses doing their thing, You know how Ilya gets when he is curious, ilya - Freeform, Headcanon, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-10 Completed: 2026-03-22 Words: 68,626 Chapters: 8/8

Love me again

Summary

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are solid.

Married. Stable. Established. The NHL’s favorite “we didn’t see that coming” love story turned domestic success.

They have a house. A dog that likes Ilya better. A shared calendar that Shane actually uses.

They’ve learned how to grocery shop without arguing about brands of pasta.

They are, objectively, fine.

Which is precisely the problem.

Somewhere between sponsorship shoots, playoff runs, and arguing over whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher, the fire that once burned hot enough to survive secrecy and rivalry has… softened. Not gone. Not broken. Just familiar.
Comfortable. Predictable.

When a league marketing campaign crowns them “Hockey’s Ultimate Love Story” and assigns a documentary crew to follow them around for the season, Shane jokingly tells Ilya:
“Guess you’re going to have to fall in love with me again on camera.”

Ilya smirks. “Please. I could make you fall in love with me again in one week.”

It’s a joke.

Until it becomes a challenge.

Notes

Hey!!! Thanks so much for being here 🥺

I had Something very different planned for this. I got inspired by The title Love me again by John Newman but that was too much (go watch The video 😉)

So instead i wrote this. Hope You like it 💜🫶🏻

And yes this have the core of the original story but i also added my own magic and head canons in there. You've been warned. Don't hate me 🥺

Chapter 1: Day One-ish

The Ottawa Centaurs’ practice rink always smelled faintly of cold air, rubber, and the particular sharp tang of freshly cut ice, but today there was something else layered over it, something louder, brighter, a little too polished for a regular midseason morning skate.

Lights had been set up along the boards, tall and white and intrusive, reflecting in long streaks across the ice like artificial sunlight. A pair of cameras followed the players with patient, curious movements, the operators gliding along the glass while a small cluster of producers whispered to each other behind clipboards.

The team had been told about it weeks ago, of course, some league marketing initiative, some glossy documentary series celebrating the sport’s biggest personalities, but the reality of it felt stranger than anyone had expected.

Hockey players were used to press scrums and interviews, quick flashes of attention before the real work began. This was different. This was cameras lingering. This was microphones picking up casual conversation. This was the quiet awareness that every glance, every joke, every offhand comment might end up immortalized in a streaming special watched by millions of people who had opinions about everything.

Shane Hollander leaned his forearms against the rink boards, his gloves hanging loosely from one hand, watching the crew set up their equipment with the careful neutrality of someone who had long ago learned how to exist around media without letting it actually reach him. He had perfected the expression somewhere around his second season in the league: calm, cooperative, polite enough that nobody could accuse him of being difficult, but distant enough that very little of his real self made it through the barrier. It had served him well for years.

Unfortunately for that strategy, he was married to Ilya Rozanov.

From the corner of his eye Shane saw him skating lazy circles across the ice, the smooth confidence of his stride unmistakable even among professional athletes.

Ilya had always moved like the ice belonged to him, like the entire rink had been constructed solely for the purpose of letting him glide across it with effortless arrogance. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly beneath the edge of his helmet, and his expression carried the faint, amused smirk that Shane knew meant he was enjoying himself far more than he should.

Which, frankly, was suspicious.

Shane sighed softly and pushed himself away from the boards, skating out toward center ice where the captain finally slowed to a stop, one skate angled casually against the other as he rested both gloved hands on the top of his stick.

“You look pleased,” Shane said, raising an eyebrow.

Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying him with that attentiveness that had always made Shane feel a little too visible, like he was being examined in slow motion.

“Of course I am pleased,” Ilya replied in the smooth, faintly accented English that had never entirely lost its Russian edge. “We are about to become television stars.”

Shane snorted under his breath.

“We’re hockey players,” he corrected. “They’re going to show us practicing, doing interviews, and probably arguing about faceoffs. That’s not television stardom.”

Ilya’s smile widened slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting with quiet amusement.

“You say this now,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “But I have seen the trailer they released yesterday. It is very dramatic.”

Shane narrowed his eyes. “You watched the trailer?”

“I am captain,” Ilya replied simply, as if that explained everything. “I must be aware of the narrative being built around my team.”

“Right,” Shane said dryly. “The narrative.”

He didn’t quite miss the way Ilya’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary.

Across the rink, someone from the production crew called out that they were ready for interviews. The players groaned collectively, a ripple of theatrical suffering passing through the team as they drifted toward the benches. Luca Haas skated past Shane with the gleeful energy of someone who thought the entire situation was hilarious.

“Apparently you two are the main event,” Luca informed them cheerfully, jerking his thumb toward the cameras. “Marketing team’s calling it Hockey’s Ultimate Love Story.”

Shane blinked.

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “They’re calling it what?”

Luca grinned, already backing away.

“You’ll hear it in the interview,” he promised. “They say it with a lot of emotion.”

Then he skated off before Shane could respond, leaving him standing there with a creeping sense of dread.

Beside him, Ilya looked delighted.

“This will be fun,” he murmured.

Shane shot him a look. “This will be humiliating.”

“Same thing,” Ilya said lightly.

The interview setup was absurdly polished for something taking place inside a hockey arena.

Two chairs had been arranged just off the ice, angled slightly toward each other beneath a soft wash of studio lighting. A camera faced them from a few feet away, and another hovered to the side, capturing a wider angle that included the rink stretching out behind them like a backdrop.

Shane sat down first, adjusting slightly in the chair while a production assistant clipped a small microphone to the collar of his Centaurs hoodie. Ilya sat beside him a moment later, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

The interviewer, a cheerful woman with an expression that suggested she was enjoying this assignment immensely, smiled at them once the cameras started rolling.

“So,” she began, folding her hands neatly in her lap, “thank you both for agreeing to be part of the documentary this season. The league is incredibly excited to highlight not just the Ottawa Centaurs, but also one of the most unique stories in modern hockey.”

Shane felt a prickle of foreboding crawl up the back of his neck.

Ilya looked perfectly relaxed.

“We’re referring to the fact that Captain Rozanov and Shane Hollander are married,” the interviewer continued warmly. “Which, as you both know, has become something of a phenomenon among fans. People love your story. The rivalry, the secrecy, the eventual reveal. It’s almost cinematic.”

Shane rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “It’s been… a journey.”

The interviewer smiled wider. “Some fans are even calling it hockey’s ultimate love story.”

Shane let out a soft laugh of disbelief.

“That seems a little dramatic,” he said.

Next to him, Ilya shrugged.

“I think it is accurate,” he said calmly.

Shane turned his head, staring at him.

“You would,” he muttered.

The interviewer chuckled.

“Well, that actually leads nicely into my next question,” she said. “You’ve been together for years now. Married, living in Ottawa, playing on the same team. From the outside it looks incredibly stable. Almost… idyllic.”

Shane hummed thoughtfully.

“Idyllic might be pushing it,” he said. “We still argue about whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher.”

“And about pasta brands,” Ilya added helpfully.

Shane pointed at him. “You’re wrong about the pasta.”

“I am correct,” Ilya replied calmly.

The interviewer laughed again.

“But seriously,” she continued, leaning forward slightly, “do you ever worry that after everything you’ve been through, the secrecy, the intensity of those early years, that life might feel… calmer now?”

Shane opened his mouth, then hesitated.

It was meant to be a casual question, he knew that. Something light for the documentary. But the answer sat strangely in his chest.

Because calmer was true. Their life now was good. Solid. Predictable in the best ways.

They had a house. They have Anya, who adored Ilya with traitorous devotion. A shared calendar that Shane updated obsessively and Ilya ignored entirely.

They were happy.

But sometimes happiness looked suspiciously like routine.

Shane glanced sideways at his husband. Ilya was watching him with quiet curiosity, waiting to see what he would say.

Shane exhaled slowly.

“I mean,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “after everything we went through to get here, calm isn’t exactly a bad thing.”

“Of course not,” the interviewer agreed.

“But,” Shane added, his mouth curling slightly, “I guess sometimes people assume that once you’re married the excitement disappears. Like the big romantic part is over.”

Ilya’s eyebrow lifted faintly.

“Oh?” he said.

Shane grinned at him, the idea forming even as he spoke.

“Well,” he said lightly, glancing back at the camera, “if the league wants a good documentary, maybe Ilya’s going to have to make me fall in love with him again on camera.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Ilya turned his head slowly, looking at Shane with an expression that was equal parts amusement and challenge.

“Please,” he said.

Shane blinked. “What?”

Ilya leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other with casual confidence.

“I could make you fall in love with me again in one week,” he said smoothly.

The interviewer’s eyes lit up.

Shane stared at him. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Shane laughed, shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying him with that infuriatingly calm expression.

“Then you should have no problem resisting,” he said.

Shane felt the familiar spark of competitive instinct flare to life in his chest.

“Oh, I can resist,” he said immediately.

Ilya’s smile sharpened.

“Good,” he said. “Then we have challenge.”

Shane blinked. “We have what?”

“A challenge,” Ilya repeated patiently. “Seven days. I make you fall in love with me again.”

Shane leaned forward, incredulous. “That’s not how love works.”

“Watch me.”

The interviewer was staring at them like she had just been handed the greatest storyline in sports documentary history.

Shane glanced at the cameras, then back at Ilya.

“You’re serious,” he said slowly.

Ilya shrugged. “I do not lose competitions.”

Shane huffed out a laugh. “Oh, you’re definitely losing this one.”

“Then prove it.”

Shane narrowed his eyes. “Fine.”

Ilya’s grin widened. “Fine.”

For a moment they simply stared at each other, the familiar tension of rivalry and affection tangling between them like it had a thousand times before.

Then Shane shook his head, laughing softly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered.

Ilya leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough that the microphones would still catch it. “Seven days, Hollander.”

Shane felt a small, dangerous thrill curl through his chest.

He smiled slowly. “Good luck, Rozanov.”

For approximately three seconds after the cameras stopped rolling, neither of them moved.

The interviewer was still smiling like someone who had just witnessed lightning strike exactly where she had been hoping it would, the production assistant was already whispering excitedly into a headset, and somewhere behind the lights a producer made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like oh my god we’re keeping that.

The rink hummed faintly with the distant sound of skates cutting across ice where the rest of the team had resumed warmups, but inside the small bubble of studio lighting Shane and Ilya remained locked in that familiar, stubborn stare that had once defined entire playoff series between them.

Shane felt it then, that old, electric pull. Not the comfortable warmth of the life they’d built together, not the quiet domestic affection that lived in shared mornings and grocery lists and lazy evenings on the couch. This was something sharper. Something familiar in a way that made the back of his neck prickle.

Competition.

It had always started like this between them.
Ilya’s expression was infuriatingly calm, his mouth curved in the faintest hint of a smile that suggested he already believed he had won something that had barely begun. He sat there with his shoulders relaxed, legs stretched slightly forward, as if he had just proposed the most obvious thing in the world instead of announcing to an entire documentary crew that he planned to seduce his own husband on camera.

Shane finally broke the silence with a slow exhale.

“You realize,” he said, rubbing a hand across his mouth while the assistant removed his microphone, “that you just made our entire marriage sound like a reality show.”

Ilya didn’t look remotely bothered.

“If it is reality show,” he replied smoothly, “we will be very entertaining.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

The interviewer leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright with curiosity that she was clearly struggling to keep professional.

“Just to clarify,” she said carefully, “are you two actually turning that into a challenge?”

Shane opened his mouth to say no. Then he glanced sideways at Ilya. The captain was watching him with that maddeningly patient expression, like he already knew exactly what Shane would do. It was the same look he used before faceoffs, before penalty shots, before moments where the entire game balanced on a single choice.

Shane felt the familiar flare of stubbornness ignite in his chest.

He leaned back in the chair.

“…Yes,” he said finally.

Ilya’s smile widened just slightly.

The interviewer’s grin became positively radiant.

“Oh this is going to be good,” she said.

Ten minutes later Shane stepped back onto the ice and was immediately met with the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

Not by the cameras. By his teammates.

Wyatt Hayes was leaning against the boards with his arms folded across his chest, his expression carrying the calm authority of a man who had already heard the entire story and was currently deciding whether to laugh or start yelling. Troy Barrett stood beside him, trying and failing to hide a smirk behind the collar of his practice jersey. Bood rested both forearms on his stick with the quiet patience of someone waiting for confirmation of a theory. And Luca Haas... Luca looked like Christmas had arrived early.

“Oh my god,” Luca breathed the moment Shane skated close enough. “It’s real.”

Shane slowed to a stop in front of them. “What’s real?”

“The challenge.”

Shane blinked. “How do you know about that already?”

Luca tapped the side of his helmet.

“The documentary crew told the equipment guy,” he said proudly. “The equipment guy told me.”

Wyatt rubbed a hand across his face.

“Of course he did.” Shane groaned softly.“You’re kidding.”

“Absolutely not,” Luca said. “Rozanov has declared war.”

Shane looked past him toward center ice where Ilya had just returned to drills, effortlessly weaving between cones while carrying the puck with lazy precision.

“He didn’t declare war,” Shane muttered.

“He literally said ‘seven days’,” Luca replied. “That’s a deadline.”

Troy finally laughed.

“Please tell me you’re actually doing this,” he said.

Shane shrugged helplessly. “He started it.”

Wyatt’s gaze drifted toward Ilya, who had just executed a sharp turn before sending the puck cleanly into the top corner of the net.

“Of course he did,” Wyatt said.

Bood tilted his head slightly.

“So what’s the objective?” he asked.

Shane hesitated. The words sounded ridiculous even in his own head.

“Ilya thinks he can make me fall in love with him again in one week,” he admitted.

There was a brief silence. Then Luca burst into delighted laughter.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “He’s absolutely going to try something insane.”

“He already has,” Shane muttered.

Wyatt’s expression remained thoughtful.

“And you’re resisting,” he said.

Shane nodded firmly. “Obviously.”

Troy raised an eyebrow. “You realize you’re already married to him. So technically you’re already in love with him. Seems like a flawed competition.”

Shane opened his mouth. Then paused. “…That’s not the point.”

Luca leaned forward eagerly.

“No no, I get it,” he said. “This is like psychological warfare.”

Bood nodded once. “Rozanov is good at that.”

Shane pointed at them. “You are not helping.”

Wyatt finally pushed himself away from the boards, skating out onto the ice with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Well,” he said calmly, “if this nonsense starts interfering with practice, I’m stepping in.”

From across the rink, Ilya called out without even turning his head. “You are alternate captain, Hayes. You have no authority here.”

Wyatt stopped skating. “Did you just...”

Ilya finally glanced back over his shoulder, completely unbothered.

“It is friendly competition,” he said. “Relax.”

Shane crossed his arms. “You’re very confident for someone who’s about to lose.”

Ilya skated closer, slowing to a graceful stop directly in front of him.

Up close, Shane could see the faint flush of exertion across his cheekbones, the dark shine of sweat at the edge of his hairline. The familiar scent of cold air and equipment clung to him, mixed with something warmer that Shane had known for years.

Ilya rested both hands on the top of his stick.

“Seven days,” he repeated quietly.

Shane held his gaze. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.”

“And this is not going to work.”

“We will see.”

Shane leaned slightly closer. “You know the cameras are going to follow everything you do now.”

Ilya smiled. “That’s not intimidating.”

“Why?”

Ilya tilted his head, studying him with quiet focus.

“Because,” he said softly, “I remember exactly how you fell in love with me the first time.”

Something warm and dangerous flickered through Shane’s chest.

He forced himself to scoff. “That was years ago. Things are different now.”

Ilya’s smile didn’t fade. “Not that different.”

Shane rolled his eyes, pushing away from him with a sharp turn of his skates. “You’re delusional.”

Behind him, he heard Ilya laugh quietly.

And somewhere along the boards, Luca Haas announced to the entire team: “I’m starting a betting pool.”

 

The announcement of the betting pool traveled through the Ottawa Centaurs locker room with the speed and inevitability of a puck sliding across freshly resurfaced ice.

By the time practice ended an hour later, it had become an established fact.

No one had formally approved it. No one had technically organized it. But somehow a whiteboard had appeared next to Luca Haas’s stall, and across the top, written in aggressive black marker, were the words:

THE HOLLANDER–ROZANOV CHALLENGE

Underneath it were two columns.

TEAM ILYA
TEAM SHANE

And below that... odds.

Shane stopped dead in the doorway when he saw it. For a long moment he simply stared.
Then he dragged a hand slowly down his face.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Behind him, someone snorted.

“Technically,” Troy Barrett said from across the room, untying the laces on one skate, “it’s a very well structured betting system.”

Shane looked up again.

Next to Ilya’s name was a number. 3:1

Next to Shane’s name... 6:1

Shane pointed at the board. “Why are my odds worse?”

Luca, who was perched on the bench with the satisfied expression of someone who had just orchestrated the most entertaining thing to happen all week, spread his hands.

“Because Ilya Rozanov is extremely persuasive.”

From the far end of the locker room came Ilya’s voice. “I am flattered by your confidence.”

Shane turned.

Ilya had just stepped out of the showers, his hair still damp, a towel draped loosely around his neck as he pulled on a clean Centaurs t-shirt.

The casual domestic familiarity of the sight hit Shane in the chest in a way he refused to acknowledge.

They had been married long enough that moments like this, shared locker rooms, quiet post practice routines, had become normal.

Which was exactly the problem.

Because Ilya was looking at him now with that same calm, self assured expression he had worn during the interview, like the entire world had just shifted into a game he was fully prepared to win.

Shane narrowed his eyes. “You bribed them.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Ilya shrugged lightly, sitting down at his stall.

“Perhaps they simply believe in my abilities.”

Bood spoke up from two lockers away without looking up from his phone. “You bought coffee.”

Ilya didn’t even blink. “It was good coffee.”

Wyatt Hayes sighed deeply from where he was removing his gear.

“This is already a disaster,” he muttered.

Luca hopped down from the bench, marker still in hand.

“Okay but here’s the thing,” he said enthusiastically. “We need clear victory conditions.”

Shane stared at him. “This is not an official sporting event.”

“It kind of is,” Luca argued.

Troy leaned back against his locker, arms folded.
“Technically it’s a seven day seduction strategy.”

Shane closed his eyes briefly. “I regret everything that happened today.”

Across the room, Ilya chuckled softly. “Too late now.”

Shane pointed at him. “You are enjoying this entirely too much.”

“Of course.”

“That’s not a good sign.”

Ilya leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Relax, Hollander,” he said calmly. “You said yourself it would not work.”

Shane folded his arms. “It won’t.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the tension between them humming quietly under the surface.

Then Luca clapped his hands. “Right! So we need examples of successful romantic gestures.”

Shane groaned. “No.”

Wyatt raised a hand. “Please don’t encourage this.”

Luca ignored him completely.

“Flowers,” he said, writing on the whiteboard.

Troy nodded thoughtfully. “Classic.”

“Too obvious,” Shane said immediately.

Ilya tilted his head. “Good to know.”

Shane froze. “Oh no.”

Luca added another item. “Cooking.”

Ilya made a thoughtful sound.

Shane pointed at the board. “You’re giving him ideas!”

Luca shrugged. “Ilya already has ideas.”

Bood finally looked up. “Many ideas.”

Shane turned slowly back toward Ilya. “…How many ideas.”

Ilya smiled. “You will see.”

Shane pressed both hands against his face. “This was a mistake.”

Wyatt stood up, grabbing his bag.

“It’s been a mistake since the moment the cameras showed up,” he said dryly.

As the players began filtering out of the locker room, the noise and laughter slowly faded into the hallway, leaving Shane and Ilya lingering behind almost by accident.

The room grew quieter. Lockers half empty.
Equipment scattered. The hum of distant arena ventilation filling the silence.

Shane sat down heavily on the bench in front of his stall. “You realize this is going to get completely out of control.”

Ilya didn’t look particularly worried. “That is the point of competition.”

Shane rubbed his temples. “You’re the captain. You’re supposed to set an example.”

“I am.”

Shane stared at him. “What example is this?”

Ilya leaned back against his locker, folding his arms.

“That marriage should remain exciting,” he said.

The answer came so simply that Shane almost missed the weight behind it.

For a moment he just looked at him. And something shifted quietly in his chest. Because beneath the smug confidence, beneath the teasing challenge, there was something else there too. Something genuine.

Shane exhaled slowly. “You know we’re already happy, right?”

Ilya’s expression softened just slightly. “I know.”

“So this whole thing is unnecessary.”

“Maybe.”

Shane tilted his head. “Then why are you doing it?”

Ilya didn’t answer immediately. He studied Shane for a long moment, the noise of the empty locker room wrapping around them like a quiet cocoon.

Finally he spoke.

“Because,” he said quietly, “I remember how you looked the first time i told you i loved you, back at the cottage.”

Shane blinked.

Ilya’s voice stayed calm, but there was something thoughtful in it now.

“You looked surprised,” he continued. “Like it scared you a little.”

“That’s not accurate.”

“It is.”

Shane scoffed softly. “You’re romanticizing it.”

Then Ilya smiled faintly. “I would like to see that face again.”

Shane stared at him. Something warm spread slowly through his chest, the kind of feeling that made him suspicious of his own reactions.

Ilya stood, grabbing his bag. He slung it over his shoulder and headed toward the door.

Halfway there he stopped and glanced back.
“Seven days, Hollander.”

Shane leaned back against the locker behind him. “You’re going to lose.”

Ilya’s smile returned, sharp and confident. “We will see.”

Then he walked out.

Leaving Shane alone in the quiet locker room with the lingering realization that the challenge had officially begun.

And if the look in Ilya Rozanov’s eyes meant anything... He had already started planning his first move.

Eventually Shane stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stepped out into the hallway.

The arena corridors were mostly empty now, the harsh overhead lights casting long shadows across the polished concrete floor. The distant hum of the Zamboni echoed faintly from somewhere behind the rink doors, and the air carried the familiar mixture of ice, equipment, and lingering sweat.

And leaning casually against the wall near the players’ exit was his husband."

He looked completely at ease, one ankle crossed over the other, his jacket slung loosely over one shoulder while he scrolled through something on his phone. The posture was effortless, the kind of quiet confidence that made people glance twice when they walked past him without quite knowing why.

Shane slowed as he approached. “You didn’t have to wait.”

Ilya glanced up. “Of course I did.”

“You could have gone ahead.”

Ilya slipped the phone into his pocket. “We drove together.”

Shane opened his mouth. Then closed it again.
Right. They had driven together.

That was the normal routine now, something so automatic neither of them had thought about it earlier. The Centaurs practice facility sat about fifteen minutes outside downtown Ottawa, and their house was close enough that it made no sense to take separate cars most days.

Shane shifted his bag slightly on his shoulder.

“Fair enough.”

They walked toward the parking lot side by side, the heavy arena doors swinging open to reveal the cold bite of late afternoon air. Winter in Ottawa had settled into that gray, stubborn phase where snow clung stubbornly to sidewalks and the sky seemed permanently overcast.

Shane pulled his jacket a little tighter as they stepped outside.

The parking lot was mostly empty now, only a few cars scattered near the entrance. Ilya’s SUV sat near the front, dusted lightly with frost.

They reached it in comfortable silence. For a moment neither of them moved. Then Shane sighed quietly.

“You know,” he said, unlocking the passenger door and tossing his bag into the back seat, “this challenge thing is going to make everything weird.”

Ilya opened the driver’s side door. “It will make things interesting.”

“That’s the same thing as weird.”

Ilya slid into the seat, starting the engine as the heater hummed to life.

Shane climbed in beside him.

The familiar interior of the car wrapped around them, faint smell of leather, a lingering trace of the coffee Ilya had spilled two days earlier, the small dog toy that had somehow migrated from their house to the backseat and stayed there ever since.

For a moment the only sound was the quiet rumble of the engine. Then Shane turned slightly toward him.

“So what exactly counts as winning?”

Ilya adjusted the mirrors with deliberate calm.

“You tell me.”

“That’s not how competitions work.”

“Why not?”

“Because you need rules.”

Ilya finally looked at him. His expression was thoughtful now, not smug or teasing like before.

“What would convince you?” he asked.

Shane hesitated. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Because technically nothing could. He was already in love with Ilya. Had been for years.
The entire challenge was built on a premise that made no logical sense.

And yet… Shane crossed his arms.

“If I’m still completely unimpressed after seven days,” he said carefully, “you lose.”

Ilya considered that. “And if you are impressed?”

“That doesn’t mean I lose.”

“Then what does it mean?”

Shane frowned slightly. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Finally he shrugged.

“I’ll know.”

Ilya smiled faintly.

“Very scientific.”

Shane pointed at him. “And you’re not allowed to repeat anything you did the first time around.”

Ilya’s eyebrow lifted. “Why?”

“Because that’s cheating.”

“That is strategy.”

“No, it’s nostalgia.”

Ilya seemed to think about that as he pulled the car out of the parking space. Snow crunched softly beneath the tires as they drove toward the road.

“So,” he said after a moment, “no repeating old moves.”

“Correct.”

“No assistance from teammates?”

Shane immediately shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

From the back seat, the abandoned dog toy bounced lightly as the car hit a small bump.
Ilya glanced at it briefly, then back at the road.

“You realize Luca will interfere anyway.”

“Luca interferes with everything.”

“That is true.”

Shane settled back into the seat, watching the gray winter streets slide past outside the window.

For a few minutes neither of them spoke. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that had grown naturally over years of living together. Once upon a time silence between them had been tense, charged with rivalry and things left unsaid.
Now it simply existed.

But beneath it, Shane could feel something else too. The quiet awareness of the challenge. Of the way Ilya had looked at him earlier. Of the fact that seven days suddenly felt like a very long amount of time.

“You know,” Shane said eventually, “if you try something stupid like showing up with flowers, it’s not going to work.”

Ilya didn’t look at him. “Good to know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I believe you.”

Shane narrowed his eyes slightly. “That sounded suspicious.”

“I am simply gathering information.”

“That’s called reconnaissance. This is not a military operation.”

Ilya finally glanced sideways at him. “Everything is military operation if you are determined enough.”

Shane laughed under his breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

Ilya’s smile softened just a little. “You married me.”

Shane looked out the window again, watching snow drift lazily across the road in the fading afternoon light.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Then Ilya spoke again, his tone lighter. “By the way.”

Shane glanced back at him.

“What.”

“The challenge started the moment you agreed.”

Shane frowned. “That was like two hours ago…You’re counting from then?”

“Of course.”

Shane shook his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

Ilya turned the car onto their street. “Day one is already underway.”

Shane sighed dramatically. “This is going to be exhausting.”

But despite himself, he felt a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Because as their house came into view at the
end of the block he realized something quietly unsettling.

The spark of competition sitting in his chest felt suspiciously familiar.

And if Ilya noticed that too... He didn’t say a word.

 

The house sat at the end of the quiet Ottawa street with the comfortable, lived in warmth that had slowly become their version of normal. Snow had gathered along the edges of the driveway in uneven mounds, pushed there by weeks of lazy shoveling and the occasional determined effort from Shane whenever he had decided the accumulation had officially crossed into unacceptable levels.

The SUV rolled to a stop in the driveway, tires crunching lightly against the frozen gravel, and for a moment neither of them moved. The heater hummed quietly.

Outside, a thin wind stirred loose flakes of snow across the yard.

Inside the car, the silence felt… domestic. Not awkward. Not tense. Just the quiet pause that sometimes came at the end of long days when the world slowed down and the two of them finally landed back in the same space again.

Shane unbuckled his seatbelt first.

“You realize,” he said as he reached for his bag in the back seat, “that if the documentary crew somehow shows up at our house tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”

Ilya switched off the engine. “They will show up.”

Shane froze halfway through opening the door.

“…What.”

Ilya stepped out of the car like he had just mentioned the weather. “It is documentary.”

Shane followed him slowly, the cold air biting at his cheeks. “They’re not filming inside the house.”

“They asked.”

“And you said no.”

Ilya paused halfway up the driveway. Shane stared at his back.
“You said no.”

Ilya turned slightly, his expression thoughtful. “I said maybe.”

Shane’s jaw dropped. “Ilya.”

“They want authenticity.”

“They want footage of us living our lives!” Shane ran a hand through his hair, already exasperated.
“I can’t believe you.”

“You agreed to documentary.”

“I agreed to interviews!”

“You also agreed to challenge.”

Shane pointed at him. “That is completely unrelated.”

Ilya opened the front door.

Inside, warmth spilled out immediately, along with the unmistakable sound of excited claws scrambling across hardwood floors.

A blur of golden fur launched itself into the hallway.

Anya skidded to a halt in front of Ilya and immediately began wagging his entire body with uncontrollable joy.

“Traitor,” Shane muttered automatically.

Anya ignored him entirely, stretching up on his hind legs to press his paws against Ilya’s chest while whining happily.

Ilya laughed softly, crouching to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Hello, Anya.”

The dog’s tail wagged harder.

Shane stepped inside, kicking off his shoes and dropping his bag beside the stairs.

“You know,” he said dryly, watching the reunion, “I feed him more often than you do.”

Anya didn’t even glance at him. Ilya rubbed the dog’s neck affectionately.

“He has good instincts.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

The house smelled faintly like the candles Shane had lit that morning before leaving for practice, something warm and citrusy that lingered in the air along with the comforting quiet of a place that belonged entirely to them.

Their living room stretched out beyond the hallway, blankets thrown across the couch, a half finished puzzle sitting on the coffee table where Ilya had abandoned it three days earlier. The kitchen lights were still on from that morning, illuminating the familiar clutter of daily life: coffee mugs in the sink, a grocery list stuck to the fridge, Ilya’s protein shaker sitting exactly where he had forgotten it earlier.

It was peaceful. Comfortable. Predictable.

Shane walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, scanning the contents automatically.

“What do you want for dinner?”

From the hallway, Ilya’s voice carried easily. “You are cooking?”

Shane looked up sharply. “I cook all the time.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, stepping into the room with Anya trailing behind him. “But today you sound resigned.”

“I’m tired.”

“You are always tired.”

“That’s because I play professional hockey.”

Ilya leaned casually against the counter. “I also play professional hockey.”

“Yes, but you enjoy chaos.”

Ilya smiled. “That is true.”

Shane grabbed a container of leftover pasta and set it on the counter. “We’re having this.”

Ilya glanced at it. “You bought wrong brand. It is inferior pasta.”

“It’s pasta.”

“There are differences.”

“You can’t taste them.”

“I absolutely can.”

Shane shoved the container toward the microwave with more force than necessary.

“Then you should have gone grocery shopping.”

“I offered.”

“You complained.”

“It is same thing." Ilya only looked amused.

Shane shook his head and leaned back against the counter while the microwave hummed to life.

For a moment the kitchen filled with quiet domestic noise, the soft whirr of the appliance, Anya padding across the floor, the distant wind rattling faintly against the windows.

Then Shane crossed his arms. “So.”

Ilya tilted his head. “So?”

“Have you started yet?”

Ilya blinked. “Started what.”

Shane gestured vaguely. “The challenge.”

Ilya considered him for a moment. Then, very calmly, he said: “Yes.”

Shane frowned. “…When?”

Ilya pushed away from the counter, stepping closer. “Earlier.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Why not.”

“Because nothing happened.”

Ilya stopped in front of him, close enough that Shane could see the faint line of a scar near his jaw that he’d gotten years ago in a game they had both been playing.

“Are you sure?” Ilya asked quietly.

Shane hesitated. Something about the tone made his stomach flip in a way he didn’t entirely trust.

“You sat in a car,” Shane said carefully.

“We talked.”

“That’s not seduction.”

Ilya’s mouth curved slightly. “I disagree.”

Shane opened his mouth to argue.

Then the microwave beeped loudly. The moment broke.

Shane exhaled and grabbed the container, turning away to split the pasta between two bowls.

“Day one,” he muttered. Shane handed him a bowl. “This isn’t going to work.”

Ilya took it easily. “We will see.”

Shane picked up his own fork. “You’re very confident.”

“I usually win.”

Shane snorted. “You’re not winning this.”

Ilya twirled a bite of pasta slowly.

Across the kitchen, Anya watched them both with patient interest, clearly hoping one of them might drop something edible.

“You already smiled twice,” Ilya said casually.

Shane froze. “That doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts.”

“It does not.”

Ilya shrugged lightly. “We are keeping score.”

Shane narrowed his eyes. “You’re making up rules. That’s cheating.”

“That is strategy.”

Shane stared at him for a long moment.

Then he shook his head and laughed quietly despite himself. And the moment he did... Ilya’s smile widened.

Shane pointed his fork at him immediately. “That does not count either.”

Ilya only looked more pleased.

Dinner lasted longer than it should have for two bowls of reheated pasta.

Partly because they kept talking, circling the same argument about pasta brands like it was a long standing philosophical debate. Partly because Anya had stationed herself strategically between them with the hopeful intensity of a creature who believed persistence would eventually be rewarded.

But mostly it lasted longer because neither of them seemed particularly interested in ending the moment.

Shane sat on the kitchen stool with one elbow propped on the counter, absentmindedly twirling pasta around his fork while scrolling through something on his phone with his free hand. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower at the rink, curling faintly at the edges, and he had changed into one of the old Centaurs hoodies he’d stolen from Ilya years ago and never given back.

Ilya noticed these things automatically. He always had.

From across the counter he watched Shane’s expressions shift subtly as he read something on the screen, brows tightening, mouth tilting, the faint crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating. It was familiar in the way that only years of quiet observation could make a person.

And yet tonight there was something different layered over the familiarity. Awareness.

Ilya rested his forearms against the counter, idly dragging the tines of his fork through the remaining pasta while he studied his husband with quiet interest.

The challenge had begun almost as a joke. A small spark of competition in the middle of a documentary interview.

But now that they were here, alone in their kitchen, the house warm and quiet around them, Anya curled lazily near Shane’s feet, it no longer felt like a joke. It felt like strategy.

Not because Ilya doubted Shane loved him. That part had never been uncertain. But the question was something more delicate than that.

How do you make someone fall again when they never truly stopped?

Ilya leaned back slightly against the counter.

Shane looked up from his phone. “What.”

“You are thinking very hard,” Ilya said.

Shane narrowed his eyes immediately. “That’s suspicious.”

“Why.”

“Because you only look that thoughtful when you’re planning something.”

Ilya smiled faintly. “Maybe I am.”

Shane pointed his fork at him. “If you’re about to do something dramatic, I’m warning you now... it’s not going to work.”

“Is that so.”

Shane set his phone down on the counter, leaning forward slightly. “I’m completely immune to your nonsense.”

Ilya hummed softly. “You believe this.”

“I know this.”

“You are very confident tonight.”

Shane gestured lazily around the kitchen. “We’re standing in our house eating leftover pasta. You’re not exactly creating a romantic atmosphere.”

Ilya tilted his head slightly, considering that.

The kitchen lights cast a soft glow across the room, reflecting faintly in the window above the sink where snow drifted quietly outside. The house smelled faintly of citrus and warm food, and somewhere in the living room the quiet hum of the thermostat clicked on. Comfortable. Familiar.

Shane watched him expectantly.

“Well?” he asked.

Ilya set his fork down. “Maybe romance does not require atmosphere.”

Shane snorted. “It definitely does.”

“Are you sure.”

“Yes.”

Ilya pushed away from the counter. Shane immediately straightened slightly.

“What are you doing.”

“Testing theory.”

Shane blinked. “Wait...”

But Ilya was already moving. Not quickly. Never rushed.

He stepped around the counter with slow confidence, stopping only when he stood directly in front of Shane’s stool. The height difference placed Shane slightly above him, but Ilya rested one hand casually against the edge of the counter on either side of Shane, effectively boxing him in without touching him yet.

Shane’s eyebrows lifted. “This feels like intimidation.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not going to win by cornering me in the kitchen.”

“I disagree.”

Shane folded his arms. “You’re very smug for someone who’s about to fail.”

Ilya studied his face for a long moment. And beneath the playful resistance, beneath the teasing confidence, he saw the small flicker of anticipation in Shane’s eyes.

That familiar spark. The same one that used to appear across the ice before faceoffs.

Ilya leaned a little closer. “Tell me something, kotik.”

The Russian word slipped out softly, warm and familiar. Shane’s breath caught for just a second.
Ilya noticed.

“Are you really immune?” he asked quietly.

Shane cleared his throat. “Yes. Completely.”

“Interesting.”

Shane frowned. “Why.”

“Because,” Ilya murmured, “your heart is beating faster.”

Shane froze. “That’s not...”

But the protest never quite finished. Because Ilya closed the distance. The kiss was sudden and hungry in the way that only years of familiarity could allow, no hesitation, no uncertainty, just the confident certainty of knowing exactly how Shane would respond.

And Shane did respond.

His hands grabbed instinctively at the front of Ilya’s shirt, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened almost immediately, the playful argument dissolving into something warmer and far more instinctive.

Ilya felt the shift like a spark catching.

God, he had missed this. Not the kissing itself, they kissed all the time, casual and affectionate and familiar.

But this version of it. The heat. The edge of competition still humming under the surface.

His hands slid to Shane’s waist, steadying him on the stool while he kissed him again, slower this time but no less intent, brushing his mouth along the corner of Shane’s jaw before pressing another lingering kiss just below his ear.

Shane made a quiet sound that was half protest, half something else entirely.

“Ilya...”

“That was fast,” Ilya murmured.

“That doesn’t count.”

“Why not.”

“Because...”

Ilya kissed him again, cutting off the argument completely.

This time Shane laughed against his mouth, breathless and a little helpless, his fingers tightening briefly in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.

Across the kitchen, Anya lifted her head from the floor and watched them with mild interest. After a moment she sighed and went back to sleep.

Eventually Shane pushed lightly against Ilya’s shoulder, breaking the kiss just long enough to glare at him.

“That was completely unfair.”

Ilya rested his forehead briefly against Shane’s.

“You did not resist.”

“That’s because you surprised me.”

“Still counts.”

“It absolutely does not.”

Ilya smiled slowly.

Shane’s hair was slightly messy now, his cheeks faintly flushed, his breathing just a little uneven.

He looked exactly like Ilya remembered. Exactly like the first time he had realized he was losing something far more dangerous than a hockey game.

Ilya didn’t kiss him sweetly. He devoured. Mouth crashing down, tongue shoving past Shane’s lips like he was claiming territory. Teeth clacked, then settled into biting, Shane’s lower lip caught and tugged until it swelled red. Ilya sucked it hard, tasting copper, then plunged back in, wet and filthy, spit sliding between their mouths.

Shane’s hands were already under Ilya’s shirt, clawing at the hard planes of his back, nails raking down to leave angry red lines. Ilya growled into the kiss, hips snapping forward so Shane could feel every thick inch of him grinding against his own leaking cock through thin layers of fabric.

“Been half hard since i called the challenge,” Ilya rasped against Shane’s mouth, accent so thick it sounded like gravel.

Shane laughed, breathless, wrecked, and rocked up into him, grinding shamelessly. “Then stop talking and take what you want.”

Ilya spun him fast. Shane’s chest slammed to the counter, palms slapping down for balance. Ilya kicked his legs wider, yanked Shane’s pants and boxers to his thighs in one brutal tug. Cool air hit Shane’s bare ass; then Ilya’s big hands were there, spreading him open, thumbs pulling his cheeks apart so he could see everything.

“Already wet for me,” Ilya muttered, voice low and filthy. He dragged a thumb over Shane’s hole, then pushed it inside without warning.

Shane jolted, a choked moan punching out. Ilya added a second finger immediately, scissoring rough, curling hard against his prostate until Shane’s knees buckled and precome dripped steadily onto the floor.

“Quiet,” Ilya ordered, free hand clamping over Shane’s mouth. “Or I stop and make you beg louder.”

Shane bit down on Ilya’s palm, hard. Ilya hissed, but his cock throbbed against Shane’s ass in response.

He pulled his fingers free, spat straight onto Shane’s hole, twice, messy, then shoved his own sweatpants down. Cock sprang out heavy and thick, head flushed dark purple, slit already weeping. Ilya lined up and thrust, no slow entry, no gentle stretch. One brutal push and he was halfway in, Shane’s body fighting the sudden burn before yielding with a wet, obscene sound.
Shane’s shout was muffled against Ilya’s hand.

Ilya didn’t pause, kept going, sinking balls deep in one long, relentless slide until his hips slapped Shane’s ass and they both groaned.

“Fuck... so tight,” Ilya growled, forehead dropping to Shane’s shoulder. “Even after I wrecked you last night.”

He started fucking, hard, deep, punishing. The counter rattled with every slam. Shane’s cock dragged against the cold granite, smearing precome in sticky streaks. Ilya’s hand left Shane’s mouth only to fist in his hair, yanking his head back so he could bite and suck the side of his neck.

Shane pushed back to meet every thrust, ass clenching greedily around Ilya’s cock. “Harder... fuck... give it to me.”

Ilya obliged. Pace turned feral, short, brutal snaps that punched the air out of Shane’s lungs.

The wet slap of balls against ass filled the kitchen, loud and obscene. Ilya reached around, wrapped a rough fist around Shane’s dripping cock, and jerked him fast, tight, twisting strokes that made Shane’s thighs shake.

“Come,” Ilya commanded against his ear. “Come on the fucking counter while I fill you up.”

Shane broke, back bowing, hole spasming hard, come shooting in thick ropes across the granite and dripping down the cabinets. The clench dragged Ilya over the edge; he slammed in one last time, grinding deep, and unloaded, hot, pulsing spurts flooding Shane’s insides until it leaked out around his cock with every aftershock thrust.

They stayed locked together, panting. Ilya’s weight pressed Shane into the counter. Come dripped slow down Shane’s thighs, pooling on the tile. Ilya’s softening cock still twitched inside him.

After a long minute, Ilya pulled out with a wet suck, watching his own release leak from Shane’s puffy, red hole. He turned Shane around, kissed him slow and deep, tasting sweat and salt and them, then rested their foreheads together.
“Bedroom,” Ilya said quietly, thumb brushing over the fresh bite on Shane’s neck. “I’m not done. Want you spread out. Want to eat my come out of you before I fuck you again.”

Shane’s spent cock gave a weak, interested twitch.

He let Ilya tug him toward the stairs, shorts still tangled around his ankles, come drying sticky on skin, kitchen a crime scene behind them.

They didn’t bother cleaning up.

Chapter 2: Day One

Chapter Summary

Or the one where Ilya is a menace and Troy is a soft ball of fluff.

Ant the one where i learned what a iliac crest was.

Morning arrived slowly over Ottawa, the gray winter light creeping through the wide windows of the house in a pale wash that softened the edges of everything it touched. Snow had fallen again sometime during the night, not heavily, but enough to powder the backyard and dust the branches of the bare maple tree behind the fence. The sky was the color of cold steel, and the quiet of early morning wrapped around the neighborhood like a held breath.

Inside the house, warmth lingered.

The living room still held the evidence of the previous night.

Upstairs, Shane woke first. He didn’t mean to. It just happened the way it often did after years of training schedules and early practices, his body adjusting automatically to the rhythm of hockey seasons. His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the dim winter light that filtered through the curtains, and for a moment he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling while the quiet of the morning settled gently around him.

Then awareness returned. The bed was warm. The room was quiet. And Ilya was still asleep beside him.

Shane turned his head slightly.

Ilya lay on his back with one arm thrown loosely over the pillow, hair slightly messy against the sheets, his breathing slow and even in the deep calm of someone who had not yet been dragged back into consciousness. The faint line of an old scar traced near his jaw, catching the pale morning light.

For a moment Shane just watched him. It was a habit he would never admit to.

There was something oddly peaceful about seeing Ilya like this, stripped of the captain’s authority, the sharp competitiveness, the constant composure he wore like armor around the team. In sleep he looked younger somehow. Softer. More human.

Shane exhaled quietly through his nose.

Day one.

The thought appeared automatically. And immediately he rolled his eyes at himself. This was ridiculous. The entire challenge was ridiculous.

They had been married for years. They shared a house, a dog, a bank account, and approximately twenty seven different grocery list arguments about pasta brands. The idea that Ilya could somehow make him “fall in love again” in a week was... Well. Technically impossible.

Shane shifted slightly under the blankets.

Unfortunately, his brain had chosen that exact moment to replay the memory of last night in the kitchen. The way Ilya had stepped closer. The quiet confidence in his voice. The way the kiss had arrived suddenly and thoroughly ruined Shane’s attempt to remain unimpressed.

Shane sighed softly.

Trial run, he reminded himself firmly. Last night didn’t count. Last night had been a preview. A rehearsal. A warm up game before the real challenge started.

Today was the actual beginning. Which meant he had to be prepared.

Shane pushed himself up onto one elbow and studied the sleeping man beside him again, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“You’re not winning this,” he murmured under his breath.

Beside him, Ilya stirred faintly. Shane froze. But Ilya didn’t wake, not fully. His breathing shifted slightly, his brow furrowing for a moment before relaxing again. One hand moved lazily across the sheets until it found Shane’s hip beneath the blanket, resting there automatically like muscle memory.

Shane glanced down at the hand. Then back at Ilya’s sleeping face. He hesitated. The warmth of the contact was… annoyingly pleasant.

Still asleep, Ilya shifted slightly closer, his arm tightening faintly around Shane’s waist without opening his eyes.

Shane huffed softly.

“Unconscious affection doesn’t count either,” he whispered.

Ilya’s lips twitched. For a terrifying second Shane thought he had been caught. But Ilya only exhaled slowly, still drifting somewhere in the soft fog between sleep and waking.

Shane lay there for another minute. Then, quietly, he slid out of bed.

Downstairs, the house creaked gently with the subtle noises of morning.

Anya lifted her head the moment Shane appeared on the stairs, ears perked with immediate interest.

“Morning,” Shane whispered.

Her tail thumped happily against the floor. He crossed the living room, scratching behind her ears before heading into the kitchen where the coffee maker waited patiently on the counter.

Outside the window, snow drifted lazily past the glass.

Shane filled the machine with practiced efficiency, leaning against the counter as it began its quiet gurgling routine.

He liked mornings like this. Quiet ones. Moments before the world demanded things from them, practice, media, teammates, the ever present camera crew now following their lives around like curious ghosts.

For a few minutes the only sounds in the kitchen were the coffee brewing and Anya’s nails clicking softly across the floor as she wandered in to investigate.

Shane stood at the counter in an old gray hoodie, his, technically, though it had been Ilya’s first, and loose sleep pants, barefoot against the cool tile. The mug was warm in his hands, steam curling up like quiet secrets.

He took a slow sip, letting the bitterness bloom across his tongue, grounding him. His body still carried the faint ache from last night’s “trial run”, a delicious, secret soreness that made every shift of weight remind him of Ilya’s hands, his mouth, the way he’d whispered filthy Russian promises against Shane’s throat until they both shattered. But the Challenge had rules now. Real ones. Day one started at sunrise, and sunrise had come too soon.

Footsteps, soft behind him. Shane didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He knew the cadence of Ilya’s bare feet on the floor the way he knew the rhythm of his own heartbeat during a penalty kill, steady, unhurried, inevitable.

“You’re up early,” Ilya said, voice still gravel rough from sleep, thick with that morning rasp that always made Shane’s stomach do a slow, helpless flip.

Shane leaned back against the counter, mug cradled between both palms like a shield. “Practice day.”

“You are always awake before alarm.” Ilya’s tone held lazy amusement, the kind that said he already knew exactly why Shane was up before the sky had finished turning pink.

“That’s called discipline,” Shane answered, and even he could hear the faint defensiveness in it.

Behind him, Ilya let out a low, sleepy chuckle that felt like fingertips trailing down Shane’s spine.

Ilya filled the doorway like he belonged there, because he did. Dark sweatpants slung low on narrow hips, waistband riding just beneath the sharp cut of his iliac crest. No shirt. Just miles of warm skin, the familiar map of scars and muscle Shane had traced with fingers and tongue more times than he could count. His hair was a disaster, curly strands falling into his eyes, sticking up at odd angles from where Shane’s hands had been last night. One large hand rubbed absently at the back of his neck, a gesture so unconsciously intimate it made Shane’s throat tighten.

Morning light slanted through the window, catching the ridge of Ilya’s collarbone, the faint dusting of hair across his chest, the slow flex of his biceps as he shifted his weight. He looked soft in a way he never allowed on the ice, unguarded, tousled, devastatingly his.

Shane swallowed coffee to cover the sudden dryness in his mouth. His pulse had kicked up somewhere between “good morning” and the sight of Ilya’s bare feet.

“Coffee?” he managed.

Ilya’s gaze lifted, lazy and warm. “Please.”

Shane reached for the second mug, the blue one Ilya always used, chipped on the handle from the time Shane had dropped it during an argument that had ended with both of them laughing on the floor. He poured slowly, aware of Ilya watching every movement. When he turned to hand it over, their fingers brushed Shane was almost sure. Electricity. Quiet. Familiar.

Ilya took the mug, held Shane’s eyes for one long heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken moved between them, heavy and sweet, like the first note of a song they both knew by heart. Then Ilya lifted the mug to his lips and hummed low in his throat.

“Good,” he said, the single word somehow carrying gratitude, approval, and a quiet promise all at once.

Shane raised an eyebrow. “I make it every morning. You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I am appreciating.” Ilya’s mouth curved, small and private. “You make it perfect. Every time.”

Shane felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. Stupid. They’d been doing this domestic dance for years now. Still, the way Ilya said it, like it mattered, like Shane mattered, always caught him off guard.

Anya trotted into the room then, tags jingling softly, and made a beeline for Ilya. She planted herself at his feet, tail thumping once against the tile, looking up at him with the kind of adoration usually reserved for religious icons.

Shane pointed at her, mock accusing. “You see this? Twenty-four hours and she’s already picked a favorite again.”

Ilya crouched immediately, balancing the mug in one hand while the other found the perfect spot behind Anya’s ears. She melted against his leg with a contented huff.

“She has excellent taste,” Ilya murmured, voice fond. He glanced up at Shane through his lashes. “Smart girl.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Traitor.”

For a long moment they simply existed there, coffee cooling between them, snow falling outside, Anya’s quiet breathing, the soft tick of the wall clock. Domestic. Peaceful. And underneath it all, humming like a live wire, the Challenge.

Shane tilted his head, studying Ilya over the rim of his mug. “So.”

Ilya straightened slowly, mug still in hand. His eyes were darker now, pupils expanding in the low light. “So.”

“Day one.”

Ilya’s mouth curved again, slower this time. Dangerous. “Day one.”

Shane lifted his mug in a mock toast. “Last night didn’t count.”

“Trial run,” Ilya agreed, voice dropping half an octave. “Very… educational.”

Shane’s laugh came out softer than he intended. “Exactly.”

Ilya took a step closer. Not crowding, but close enough that Shane could smell the faint cedar and sleep scent of his skin, the warmth radiating off him like a furnace.

“I agree,” Ilya said simply.

Shane blinked. “…You do?”

“Yes.” The word was calm. Too calm.

Shane narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “That was too easy.”

Ilya sipped his coffee again, unhurried. When he lowered the mug, his gaze was steady, amused, and something else, something that made Shane’s stomach clench in anticipation.

“I enjoy fair competition,” Ilya said. “Makes winning sweeter.”

Shane studied him. The faint smirk. The way his thumb brushed absently over the chipped edge of the mug. The quiet confidence that had always driven Shane half mad on the ice and twice as much off it.

“You’re planning something,” Shane said. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course.”

“What.”

Ilya set his mug down on the counter with careful precision. Then he closed the last step between them, until Shane had to tip his head back slightly to hold his gaze. One large hand came up, slow, and brushed a stray strand off Shane’s forehead. The touch was gentle.

“You will see, miliy,” Ilya murmured.

The endearment landed like a match struck in dry grass. Soft Russian consonants, intimate, possessive. Shane felt it bloom somewhere behind his ribs, warmth, want, the stupid, helpless tenderness that only Ilya ever managed to pull out of him without even trying.

He tried to cover it with a skeptical frown. “You’re going to be insufferable if you win day one, aren’t you.”

Ilya’s thumb traced the shell of Shane’s ear, light enough to make him shiver. “I am going to be insufferable either way,” he said, voice velvet “But if I win… I think I will be very generous winner.”

Shane’s breath caught. “And if I win?”

Ilya leaned in until their foreheads almost touched. “Then you will have earned it,” he whispered. “And I will enjoy watching you take what you want. Very slowly.”

Shane’s heart slammed against his ribs. He could feel the heat of Ilya’s body, the faint tremor in his own fingers where they gripped the mug too tightly.

“You’re playing dirty already,” he accused, but his voice came out rough.

Ilya smiled, slow, wicked, tender all at once. “Day one just started, solnyshko. I have not even begun to play.”

He pressed the lightest kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth, barely there, a tease, a promise, then stepped back, taking his mug with him.

Shane stood frozen against the counter, pulse roaring in his ears, skin buzzing where Ilya had touched him.

Anya whined softly, looking between them like she could sense the sudden charge in the air. Ilya glanced down at her, then back at Shane. His eyes were bright with mischief and something deeper, something that looked dangerously close to devotion.

“Finish your coffee,” he said quietly. “We have all day.”

Shane exhaled, shaky. “You’re going to ruin me before lunch, aren’t you.”

Ilya’s smile turned soft. Almost shy. “I hope so,” he answered.

And just like that, day one truly began.

 

By the time they arrived at the Centaurs’ practice facility later that morning, the sky had settled into that heavy gray color that Ottawa winters seemed to perfect, low clouds pressing down over the city, snow flurries dancing across the parking lot in uneven gusts of wind. The practice rink itself rose out of the cold like a familiar fortress of glass and steel, the front entrance already buzzing with the quiet activity of staff, trainers, and early media arrivals.

Shane stepped out of the SUV and immediately pulled his jacket tighter around his neck.

“You know,” he muttered as they walked toward the entrance, “this city has approximately six months too much winter.”

Beside him, Ilya didn’t look remotely bothered by the cold. “You complain every year.”

“Because every year it’s still cold.”

“That is how winter works.”

Shane shot him a look. “Your attitude is very unhelpful.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched faintly, but he didn’t respond.

Inside, the familiar smells of the rink wrapped around them: ice, rubber, sweat, the faint chemical bite of freshly cleaned locker room floors. It was a scent that lived permanently in the bones of the building, something every hockey player knew instinctively.

The hallway outside the locker room buzzed with early activity.

A couple of assistant coaches were already arguing quietly near the video room. Equipment staff moved carts back and forth across the floor. Somewhere down the corridor, Luca’s unmistakable voice carried loudly through the building.

The locker room smelled like it always did on practice mornings: sharp winter air clinging to jackets, the faint metallic tang of skate blades, old leather gear, and the faint undercurrent of someone’s protein shake gone slightly wrong.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the scuffed floors and the rows of wooden stalls that had seen years of victories, losses, and every ridiculous team tradition in between. Snow still dusted the shoulders of the coats hanging by the door, melting slowly into dark spots on the tile.

Shane was halfway down the corridor, gym bag slung over one shoulder, mind already half on the ice, edge work today, power play setups, and the quiet, private countdown in his chest that had started the second he woke up next to Ilya this morning, when the voice drifted out through the half open door.

“I’m telling you, the odds should shift if Rozanov starts using romantic monologues.”

Shane stopped mid step so abruptly that his bag bumped the back of his knee. His pulse gave one hard, startled kick.

Beside him, Ilya paused too, one hand still on the door handle. He didn’t look surprised. Of course he didn’t.

“You hear that?” Shane asked, voice low.

Ilya’s mouth twitched, just the tiniest hint of amusement, the kind that lived only in the corners of his eyes when he was about to be impossible. “Yes.”

He pushed the door open. The room detonated.

“THEY’RE HERE!”

Luca Haas shot up from the bench like he’d been launched, arms flung wide, grin splitting his face so wide it looked painful. The whiteboard that had been innocently tracking practice notes yesterday had undergone a full overnight renovation. Someone, probably Luca, the traitor, had added fresh columns in aggressive red marker: ODDS, CURRENT FAVORITE, DAY ONE PROJECTIONS, and a terrifyingly detailed timeline labeled “PROJECTED SEDUCTION TIMELINE – HOUR BY HOUR.” Arrows. Percentages. Little doodles of hearts and hockey sticks. A sad face next to Shane’s name.

Shane stared at it for a full three seconds, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “You people have too much free time.”

Troy Barrett leaned back against his locker, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. “This is the most entertainment we’ve had all month, Hollander. Cut us some slack.”

Wyatt Hayes sat on the bench lacing his skates with deliberate calm, but the slight upward curve at the corner of his mouth gave him away. He glanced up, voice dry as ever. “Morning, Rozy. Morning, Hollander.”

Shane jabbed a finger toward the whiteboard like it had personally offended him. “I want it on record that I did not approve this. None of this. I’m filing a formal complaint with management.”

“Too late,” Luca sang, waving his phone like a trophy. “Betting pool closed ten minutes ago. Sorry, not sorry.”

Bood looked up from his phone just long enough to smirk. “Rozanov still favored. Heavily.”

Shane let out a sharp scoff, dropping his bag into his stall with more force than necessary. “Of course he is. Because you all have the collective brain cells of a...” He stopped, searching for something appropriately scathing and coming up empty because his brain was too busy short circuiting at the sight of Ilya’s name written in bold letters with a little crown doodled next to it.

Ilya set his own bag down with the same calm efficiency he used for everything, checking his gear, rolling his shoulders, existing like he hadn’t just spent the morning whispering “miliy” against Shane’s mouth while snow fell outside their window. He looked completely unbothered. Serene, even. It was infuriating.

“You doubt the judgment of your teammates?” Ilya asked mildly, stripping off his hoodie in one smooth motion. The undershirt underneath rode up just enough to show a strip of skin Shane had kissed less than twelve hours ago.

“I doubt their intelligence,” Shane shot back, yanking his own jacket off with unnecessary violence. “And their taste. And their sense of self preservation, because if any of you actually think I’m losing day one...”

“Rude,” Luca interrupted cheerfully, not even pretending to be offended.

The room settled, sort of. Skates clattered. Tape ripped. Sticks leaned against lockers with soft wooden knocks. Conversations drifted, someone complaining about traffic, Wyatt asking if the new goalie pads were any good, but every few seconds eyes flicked toward them. Curious. Amused. Waiting.

Shane could feel the Challenge humming in the air like static before a storm. It sat under his skin, warm and electric, making his pulse feel too loud in his ears. He was halfway through pulling his practice jersey over his head when Luca’s voice cut through again, bright and relentless.

“So what’s the first move today, Captain? You gonna hit him with the classic Rozanov death glare, or are we going full romance novel protagonist?”

Shane groaned, voice muffled by fabric. “Can you not encourage him? Jesus Christ, Luca.”

Luca spread his hands wide, the picture of innocence. “This is for science. Team bonding. Cultural enrichment.”

Wyatt didn’t even glance up from his laces. “This is absolutely not science.”

Ilya stood slowly, rolling his shoulders again, the movement pulling the undershirt tight across his chest. He adjusted the collar with careful fingers, then looked straight at Shane.

“Patience,” he said, voice low and calm and far too gentle for a locker room full of professional athletes.

Shane’s eyes narrowed instantly, heart doing something complicated in his chest, half irritation, half helpless affection, all of it tangled up with the memory of Ilya’s mouth against his ear this morning promising things that were definitely against every rule they’d set. “That sounded ominous.”

Ilya’s gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what.”

“Whatever you’re planning in that devious Russian head of yours.”

“I am planning nothing.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

The room had gone noticeably quieter. Even the usual clatter of gear had faded. Troy had stopped mid lace. Bood had lowered his phone. Every single one of them was watching now, the air thick with anticipation.

Ilya stepped away from his stall slowly. The same measured stride he used when he was skating in on a breakaway, knowing exactly how this was going to end.

Shane recognized the look in his eyes immediately, quiet confidence, the kind that had broken Shane’s heart and put it back together more times than he could count. The kind that said Ilya had already decided how this moment was going to play out and nothing in the world was going to stop him.

“Rozanov,” Shane warned, voice dropping. His arms folded across his chest like armor, but his pulse was hammering so hard he was sure the whole room could hear it.

“Relax,” Ilya said softly.

“You say that every single time right before you do something completely insane.”

“Not always.”

“Most times. And I’m not doing this here.”

Ilya stopped directly in front of him. Close enough that Shane could smell the faint trace of their shared shower gel on his skin, close enough to see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes that only showed up in this exact lighting.

“Why not?” Ilya asked, voice barely above a whisper now, intimate in a way that felt illegal in front of twenty watching teammates.

“Because...” Shane’s voice cracked slightly. He swallowed. “Because we’re at work. Because there are rules. Because you’re trying to win day one by embarrassing me in front of the entire team and I swear to God, Rozanov...”

Ilya leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Not quick. Not teasing. A full, lingering press of lips that tasted like the coffee Shane had made him this morning and the quiet promise they’d whispered to each other before leaving the house. Ilya’s hand came up to cup the side of Shane’s neck, gentle, possessive, thumb brushing just under his jaw like he was memorizing the flutter of his pulse.

The room exploded.

Cheers erupted so loud the walls seemed to shake. Sticks slammed against the floor in a chaotic rhythm. Luca whooped like he’d just won the Cup, throwing his arms in the air. Troy burst out laughing so hard he nearly fell off the bench. Even Wyatt, stoic, unflappable Wyatt, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “unbelievable” while shaking his head, a rare, genuine smile breaking across his face. Someone started slow-clapping. Another voice yelled, “That’s how you do it, Rozy!”

Shane’s brain short circuited. Heat flooded his face, his chest, every inch of skin Ilya was touching. But beneath the mortification, beneath the overwhelming awareness of twenty pairs of eyes on them, was something warmer. Deeper.

The stupid, overwhelming rush of love he still couldn’t believe was his to keep. Because Ilya was kissing him like they were alone. Like the entire team and their ridiculous whiteboard didn’t exist. Like day one of the Challenge was already won and lost and didn’t matter half as much as this.

When Ilya finally pulled back, his forehead rested against Shane’s for half a second. Close enough that only Shane could hear the soft Russian murmur.

“Day one, solnyshko. I told you I would play.”

Shane’s breath shook out of him. His hands had somehow found Ilya’s waist, gripping the fabric of his undershirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

“You’re going to pay for this,” he whispered back, voice wrecked and fond and trembling with something that felt dangerously close to awe.

Ilya’s smile was small, private, devastating. “I hope so.”

The cheers were still going. Luca was demanding a recount on the betting pool. Someone was already updating the whiteboard with a giant red heart and the words “ROMANTIC MOVEMENT ACHIEVED.”

Shane didn’t care.

He was too busy staring at the man in front of him, the man who had once been his rival, his enemy, his everything, and feeling the full, terrifying weight of how much he loved him.

Day one had officially begun. And Shane was already losing.

Shane barely had time to draw a full breath before Ilya closed the distance again.

This kiss was different.

Slower. Deeper. Warm and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world and twenty odd teammates weren’t currently losing their minds around them. Ilya’s hand slid from Shane’s neck to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading gently into short, damp hair, tilting him just enough to fit their mouths together perfectly.

Shane felt the soft exhale against his lips, tasted the faint bitterness of morning coffee still lingering on Ilya’s tongue, felt the quiet certainty in the way Ilya kissed him, like this was the most natural thing in the universe and nothing, not even an entire NHL locker room, could make it less true.

It lasted maybe five seconds. Maybe seven. Long enough for Shane’s hands to fist involuntarily in the front of Ilya’s undershirt again. Long enough for heat to bloom low in his stomach and crawl up his throat in a flush he couldn’t hide.

When Ilya finally pulled back, barely an inch, forehead still resting against Shane’s, the room was still roaring. Luca was doubled over, wheezing with laughter. Someone (probably Bood) had started a slow, sarcastic clap that quickly turned into full applause. Sticks rattled against metal. A voice from the back yelled, “Get a room!” and another answered, “They have one, they just won’t use it!”

Shane stared up at Ilya, chest heaving, lips tingling. His voice came out rougher than he wanted. “You cannot just do that.”

Ilya looked infuriatingly calm. Eyes soft. Mouth curved in that small, private smile that had always undone Shane, even back when they were supposed to hate each other.

“Why not,” he asked, genuinely curious, like Shane had just presented him with a fascinating tactical question on the ice.

Shane gestured wildly at the chaos surrounding them, Luca wiping actual tears from his eyes, Troy grinning like he’d won the lottery, half the room on their feet now, phones already out because of course someone was filming this for the group chat.

“Because everyone is watching!” Shane hissed, voice cracking on the last word.

Ilya shrugged one shoulder, the movement so casual it bordered on elegant. “They watch hockey every day. They watch me hit people. They watch you score pretty goals. This is just… different kind of watching.”

“That’s not the same thing!” Shane’s hands were still tangled in Ilya’s shirt. He didn’t let go. Couldn’t, maybe. “This is... this is personal. This is us. Not a goddamn power play.”

Luca, still catching his breath, managed to wheeze out, “Rozy’s coming in strong on day one. I’m telling you, the man’s got strategy.”

Shane rounded on him, pointing an accusing finger. “This is harassment. Workplace harassment. I’m filing a report. I’m calling HR."

Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying Shane like he was the most interesting thing in the room. Which, to him, he probably was.

“You are my husband,” he said simply.

Shane’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “That doesn’t mean...”

“I am allowed,” Ilya finished, voice quiet but firm.

The words landed like stones in still water, rippling out through the sudden hush that had fallen over half the room. “I am allowed to kiss my husband. In locker room. On ice. In parking lot. In kitchen at three a.m. Wherever I want. Because he is mine.”

The room exploded again, louder this time. Whistles. Hoots. Someone yelled, “Preach!” Troy leaned forward on his bench, elbows on his knees, grinning wide enough to show every tooth.

“That’s technically a solid argument,” he said, nodding sagely. “Can’t argue with marriage, Shane. He’s got you there.”

Wyatt, Wyatt, who usually stayed above the fray, finally looked up from his skates. He shook his head slowly, the movement full of long suffering affection.

“Rozanov,” he said, voice low and measured, “please stop seducing your husband during work hours. Some of us are trying to focus on hockey.”

Ilya appeared to actually consider this. He rubbed his thumb absently along the edge of Shane’s jaw, gentle, absentminded, like he couldn’t help himself.

“We are not on ice yet,” he pointed out reasonably. “No pucks. No drills. Just… morning.”

Shane dragged both hands down his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes like he could physically block out the reality of the situation. “This is a nightmare. This is actually a nightmare I’m having while still asleep. I’m going to wake up any second now and you’re going to be making breakfast and none of this will have happened.”

But he wasn’t waking up.

And Ilya noticed, the flush creeping up the back of Shane’s neck, the way his ears had gone pink, the slight tremble in his fingers where they still gripped Ilya’s shirt like a lifeline.

Ilya leaned in again, just enough that his next words were for Shane alone, breath warm against the shell of his ear.

“You are blushing, solnyshko.”

Shane’s eyes snapped open. He glared, but it lacked heat. Mostly it was helpless fondness and the tiniest edge of panic.

“I hate you,” he whispered.

Ilya’s smile softened into something achingly tender. He brushed his nose against Shane’s, the barest nuzzle. “No you don’t.”

Shane exhaled shakily. “I should.”

“But you don’t.”

Behind them, the whiteboard was already being updated. Luca had climbed onto the bench for better reach, scribbling furiously: “DAY ONE – KISS COUNT: 2 (PUBLIC). ROZANOV LEADS BY ROMANTIC DECLARATION.” Hearts. Arrows. A tiny doodle of a wedding ring.

Shane glanced over Ilya’s shoulder at the chaos, then back at the man in front of him, the man who had once been the enemy on the other blue line, the voice in his ear during every major moment of his career, the ring on his finger now matching the one on Ilya’s.

His throat felt tight. Not from embarrassment anymore. From something bigger. Something that had been building for years and still managed to steal his breath every time he let himself really look at it.

“I’m going to get you back for this,” Shane said quietly. “Day one isn’t over.”

Ilya’s eyes lit with quiet delight. “I am counting on it.”

He pressed one last kiss to Shane’s forehead, then stepped back just enough to give him room to breathe. But his hand lingered on Shane’s wrist for a second longer, thumb brushing over the pulse point there like he was checking it was still racing for him.

Shane swallowed hard. Looked around at the grinning faces, the updated board, the phones still recording.

Then he looked back at Ilya.

And despite everything, the noise, the audience, the absolute circus his life had become, he felt a small, helpless smile tug at his mouth.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

Ilya’s answering smile was soft. Certain. Devoted.
“I know.”

Luca’s voice cut through again, bright and merciless. “Okay but seriously,.new bets on how long until Hollander cracks and kisses him back in front of us all?”

Shane groaned.

Ilya just laughed, low, warm, the sound that always lived somewhere deep in Shane’s chest.

 

Practice had barely ended when the documentary crew reappeared.

They had learned quickly that the Ottawa Centaurs locker room was the place where the real story lived, not the polished press conferences or the tidy marketing interviews, but the messy, loud, unfiltered world where hockey players actually existed. Cameras had a way of disappearing into the corners when the room filled with sweat and noise and the clatter of gear hitting the floor, but the crew was still there, quiet and patient, capturing the chaos.

And today there was plenty to capture.

The team filed into the locker room in various states of exhaustion after drills, skates scraping across the rubber floor while conversations overlapped and rose in volume. Someone threw a towel at Luca. Someone else argued about a missed pass during scrimmage. The whiteboard with the betting pool had gained new numbers.

And near the back wall, two cameras had been set up for interviews.

Shane noticed them immediately.

“Oh no,” he muttered under his breath as he dropped onto the bench in front of his stall.

Across the room, Ilya was already pulling off his gloves, sweat darkening the collar of his practice jersey. “What.”

“They’re doing interviews. That means they’re going to ask about the challenge.”

Ilya shrugged. “Probably.”

Shane leaned back against the locker with a long exhale. “This is spiraling.”

“It is documentary.”

“That doesn’t make it less embarrassing.”

From across the room, a producer called out:
“Luca, Troy. Can we grab you two for a quick interview?”

The interview setup had been thrown together in the far corner of the auxiliary media room just off the main locker corridor, two folding chairs under portable softbox lights that cast a warm, almost cinematic glow against the cinderblock walls. Cables snaked across the floor like black veins. A single camera on a tripod framed the scene, red light steady and unblinking. The faint hum of the lights mixed with the muffled thump of music from someone’s phone in the locker room next door, a low bass line that felt like a heartbeat.

Luca Haas practically vibrated as he dropped into the chair closest to the interviewer. His knees bounced, fingers drumming an erratic rhythm on his thighs, eyes bright with the kind of glee usually reserved for overtime winning goals.

Troy Barrett moved more slowly, like a man walking to his own execution. He sank into the second chair with a long suffering exhale, legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. The posture screamed resignation, but the faint upward twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him, he was enjoying this more than he’d ever admit.

The interviewer, mid thirties, sharp bob, warm professional smile, settled opposite them, clipboard balanced on one knee.

“So,” she began, voice soft but carrying easily in the quiet space, “we’ve been hearing a lot today about the… challenge between Rozanov and Hollander.”

Luca’s grin split wide enough to show every tooth. “It’s incredible. Like, genuinely one of the best things I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”

Troy let out a quiet snort, the sound half amusement, half exhaustion. “You’re twenty three. Your life experience is limited.”

Luca waved him off without missing a beat. “Doesn’t matter. This transcends age.”

The interviewer laughed softly, then leaned in a fraction. “You two have been teammates with them for a while now. I’m curious, did you ever suspect their relationship before it became public?”

Luca shook his head so fast his hair flopped into his eyes. “Zero. Nada. I thought they legitimately wanted to murder each other. Like, full on blood feud.’”

Troy lifted an eyebrow, the gesture slow. . “I had suspicions.”

The interviewer’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Really?”

Troy nodded once, gaze drifting toward the doorway that led back to the locker room. Muffled voices drifted through, someone laughing, the clatter of a water bottle hitting the floor, the low rumble of Ilya’s voice saying something in Russian that made Shane groan loud enough to carry.

“We were on the same road trip,” Troy said, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Late February, many seasons ago. Snowing so hard the flight got delayed six hours. Everyone was stir crazy. Ilya and I ended up in the same hotel room suite because the team ran out of singles. One of those weird late night conversations where the lights are off and everyone’s too tired to lie properly.”

Luca turned in his chair so fast the metal creaked. “He did? He came out to you?”

Troy shrugged, the movement small. “Not in so many words. He just… talked. About how he was seeing someone. How it was complicated. How it made everything feel bigger and scarier and better all at once.” He paused, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like the memory still carried weight. “I didn’t push. I just listened. Figured if he wanted me to know who, he’d say.”

The interviewer tilted her head. “And he didn’t say Shane’s name.”

“No.” Troy’s mouth curved faintly. “But you spend enough time around guys day in, day out, you start noticing things. The way they look at each other when they think no one’s watching. The way they move around each other on the ice, like they’re reading each other’s thoughts before they even happen. The way arguments never quite land the way normal fights do.”

Luca nodded so hard he nearly tipped forward. “Like hockey instincts but for romance.”

Troy pointed at him with one finger, a rare spark of genuine amusement in his eyes. “Exactly.”

The interviewer smiled. “So when did you finally realize it was Shane?”

Troy leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, gaze distant as he pulled the memory forward.

“There was this moment during a game,” he said slowly. “Nothing dramatic. Just a faceoff near the boards in the second period. Ilya and Shane were jawing at each other like they always did back then. Real intense. Real competitive. Faces inches apart, talking shit about line changes or zone entries or whatever. The usual.”

Luca nodded vigorously. “Oh yeah. They hated each other. Iconic hate.”

Troy’s smirk was small but sharp. “They absolutely did not.”

The interviewer leaned in. “What tipped you off?”

Troy exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “Ilya scored later that game. Beautiful one timer from the slot. Crowd went nuts. And the first person he looked at before he even celebrated with the bench, was Shane.”

Luca blinked. “Oh.”

Troy spread his hands. “And Shane looked furious. Like he was personally offended that Ilya had scored on his watch. But Ilya… the look on Ilya’s face when their eyes met across the ice…” He shook his head slowly, almost fond. “That wasn’t rivalry. That was pride. That was ‘look what I did for you.’ That was love wearing a mask of competition. And then they prove me right when they came out.”

A brief, silence settled over the little interview corner. The lights hummed. Somewhere in the locker room, Shane’s voice rose in protest at something Luca had probably said earlier.

Luca leaned toward the camera dramatically, breaking the quiet. “I would like it on record, right here, right now, that their relationship is the greatest love story in professional hockey. Full stop. Enemies to lovers. Rivals to husbands. Playing on the same goddamn team and still arguing about who makes better carbonara. It’s poetry.”

Troy groaned, dropping his head back against the chair. “Oh my god, Haas. Reel it in.”

Luca pointed enthusiastically toward the doorway. “I’m serious! They were enemies! And then they fell in love! And now they’re married and still bickering like an old married couple and it’s beautiful. I want this framed. I want it in the Hockey Hall of Fame. I want children to learn about it in school.”

The interviewer was fighting a laugh, pressing her lips together. “So you’re rooting for Ilya in the challenge?”

“Absolutely,” Luca said without hesitation. “Because watching Ilya Rozanov aggressively romance his husband is the best thing that’s ever happened to this team. Better than playoffs. Better than the Cup run. I’m living for it.”

Troy rubbed his temples. “You’re going to give them both heart attacks.”

Luca grinned wider. “Worth it.”

Back in the locker room, Shane had his face buried in both hands, fingers pressed so hard against his eyelids he saw stars. The flush that had started at his neck earlier had now spread to his ears and the tips of his cheekbones. He could feel every eye in the room on him, amused, affectionate, merciless.

“I can’t believe they’re saying this on camera,” he muttered into his palms. “I can’t believe this is going to be broadcast. I’m going to have to move to Antarctica.”

Across from him, Ilya leaned back against his stall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching the interview through the open doorway with calm, quiet satisfaction. His expression was soft around the edges, pleased, proud, a little smug, but mostly just… content.

Like he’d spent years building something fragile and impossible and now the whole world was finally seeing it the way he always had.

Wyatt, unlacing his skates with deliberate slowness, glanced between them and shook his head. “This documentary is going to destroy your privacy forever.”

Shane groaned louder. “I know. I know.”

Ilya didn’t move. He just kept watching the screen in the other room, the way Luca gestured wildly, the way Troy’s reluctant smile grew despite himself.

Shane peeked through his fingers. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Ilya’s gaze slid to him, warm, steady, devastating in its gentleness.

“They are telling the truth,” he said simply. “Our story is good. Why should I not enjoy people knowing it?”

Shane dropped his hands, exhaling hard. “Because it’s embarrassing. Because it’s ours. Because I don’t want the entire league knowing how soft you make me.”

Ilya’s smile tilted, small and private. “They already know. They have known for a long time. They just did not have the words for it until now.”

Shane stared at him for a long beat. The noise of the locker room faded to background static, the clatter of gear, the low hum of conversation,

Luca’s distant laugh still echoing from the interview. All of it blurred around the edges until there was only Ilya: steady, certain, looking at Shane like he was the only thing in the world that had ever mattered.

Shane closed his eyes for a second, breathing him in. “Day one isn’t even half over and you’re already winning.”

Ilya’s voice dropped lower, just for him. “I always win when it is you.”

Shane opened his eyes. Met Ilya’s gaze. And despite the cameras, the teammates, the documentary crew, the ridiculous whiteboard still glowing with updated odds, despite everything, he felt something settle deep in his chest.
Peace. Pride. The kind of love that had once felt like a war and now felt like home.

He huffed a soft laugh. “You’re going to be unbearable for the rest of the season.”

Ilya’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Good. I like when you are annoyed at me. Means you are paying attention.”

Shane reached out and brushed the back of two fingers against Ilya’s wrist. A secret touch. A promise.

“Keep talking like that,” he whispered, “and day one ends with me dragging you home early.”

Ilya’s smile turned slow and dangerous. “I am counting on it, solnyshko.”

From the interview corner, Luca’s voice rang out again. “... and that’s why the Hollander-Rozanov enemies to lovers arc deserves its own canadien TV show!”

Shane groaned again, but this time there was laughter buried in it.

Ilya just watched him, quiet and sure and so stupidly in love it hurt in the best way.

 

The interview lights had softened by the time Luca finally bounced out of the chair, still grinning as if he had personally orchestrated the entire narrative of the documentary. A production assistant guided him off camera while quietly thanking him, and Luca waved cheerfully at the crew like he had just finished hosting his own television show.

Troy remained seated.

He shifted slightly in the chair, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck as the crew adjusted the lighting and the interviewer glanced briefly at her notes.

The locker room noise filtered faintly through the wall behind them, muffled laughter, the dull thud of sticks hitting the floor, someone shouting something about practice tomorrow. It was a familiar background hum, the sound of a hockey team existing in its natural habitat.

“Thanks for staying, Troy.”

He shrugged one shoulder, the movement loose but tired. “Yeah. No problem.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him the way people do when they’ve already heard the public version of a story and are hoping for the private one.

“So we’ve talked a little about Shane and Ilya,” she said, voice gentle, “and obviously their relationship has become a big part of the story this season. But there’s actually another relationship connected to the team that fans might not know as much about.”

Troy’s eyebrow lifted, just a fraction, the barest flicker of recognition. He already knew where this was going. He’d known the second she’d asked him to stay after Luca bounced out of the chair like he’d been shot from a cannon.

“Oh?” he said, the single syllable dry, almost amused.

The interviewer smiled, small and knowing. “You and Harris Drover.”

For a heartbeat Troy simply blinked at her. Then a quiet laugh escaped him, low, rough around the edges, carrying equal parts disbelief and resignation.

“Man,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I should’ve known that was coming.”

She chuckled softly. “He’s the Senior Director of Communications for the team, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And you two are engaged.”

Troy leaned back in the chair, the metal creaking faintly under his weight. His posture loosened, shoulders dropping the last inch of guarded tension he’d been carrying since the interview began. The change was subtle, but unmistakable: fondness settling into the lines around his eyes, quiet pride warming the edges of his voice.

“Yeah,” he said again. Softer this time.

“How long have you been together?”

“Almost four years.” He exhaled the number like it surprised him too, like time had slipped through his fingers while he wasn’t looking.

The interviewer nodded thoughtfully. “And he’s currently on vacation?”

Troy snorted, the sound fond and exasperated at once. “Yeah. He is.”

“Planned timing?”

“Not exactly.” Troy’s gaze drifted toward the floor for a second, scuffed tile, a stray piece of athletic tape stuck in the corner, before returning to her. “He needed it. Burnout’s real. Even for the guy who pretends it isn’t.”

She tilted her head. “How are you handling the separation?”

Troy let out a slow breath, long and measured, like he was measuring the weight of the answer before he gave it voice.

“It’s weird,” he admitted. The honesty landed heavy in the quiet room, simple and unadorned. “Really fucking weird.”

He rubbed his palms together slowly, the dry rasp of calluses audible in the hush.

“Harris is usually around all the time during the season,” he went on. “Even if we’re on the road, or buried in press scrums, or dealing with some crisis that needs fixing at three in the morning… he’s still part of the routine. Part of the building. You walk in, you see him in the hallway with his phone in one hand and a coffee in the other, already three steps ahead of whatever disaster’s about to happen. And now he’s gone for a week and the place feels…” He searched for the word, brow furrowing. “Off balance. Like a skate that’s missing an edge.”

The interviewer nodded gently. “So the building feels different without him.”

“Yeah. It does.” Troy’s voice dropped lower. “And not just because he keeps everything running smooth. It’s… quieter. Not in a good way. Like the air’s thinner.”

She smiled slightly, careful. “That sounds like more than just a professional compliment.”

Troy laughed again, quiet, almost private. “No. It definitely is.”

There was a brief pause. The kind that invited more without demanding it.

She asked softly: “How did you two meet?”

Troy leaned back again, gaze lifting to some middle distance above the camera. The memory pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“First season I started with the team,” he said. “I was still figuring out how not to sound like an asshole in every media availability. Harris was in charge of coordinating all the media stuff scheduling, talking points, making sure none of us said something that’d end up on SportsCenter for the wrong reasons.”

The interviewer waited. Patient. Curious. “And?” she prompted gently.

Troy’s smile turned wry. “And it was love at first sight.”

She blinked, genuinely surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He huffed a small laugh at himself. “He walked into the media room that first day button down sleeves rolled up, tie loosened like he’d already been at it for twelve hours, hair a little messy from running his hands through it. He looked at me and said, straight faced, ‘Barrett, if you give one more sarcastic answer in an interview, I’m going to start writing your quotes for you.’”

The interviewer laughed softly. “That seems reasonable.”

“I disagreed. Strongly.”

She grinned. “So what changed?”

Troy shrugged, the movement slow, almost tender. “Nothing dramatic,” he said. “No big moment. No dramatic confession in the rain or anything like that.”

He looked toward the camera for a second, not at the lens, but through it, like he was seeing something else entirely.

“Just… time.”

The room felt quieter somehow. Smaller. The hum of the lights seemed to fade.

“He’s stubborn,” Troy continued, voice softening further. “Like, really stubborn. The kind of stubborn that’ll stay up until four a.m. rewriting a press release because one sentence doesn’t feel right. But he’s also the kind of person who cares about things deeply. About the team. About the players. About doing his job right, even when no one’s watching. He remembers birthdays. He remembers what guys like in their coffee. He remembers when someone’s kid has a recital and makes sure they get the night off if they need it.”

Troy’s throat worked once. He swallowed.

“And he cares about me,” he said quietly. “Not the hockey player. Not the guy who scores goals or takes hits. Just… me. The guy who hates mornings and forgets to eat and gets quiet when things go wrong. He sees that guy. And he stays.”

The interviewer’s expression had gone soft, unguarded. “That sounds like the real thing.”

Troy met her eyes. Steady. Certain. “It is.”

Then he added, almost under his breath: “I miss him. More than I thought I would. More than I want to admit on camera.”

She nodded, slow. “I think a lot of people will understand that.”

Troy huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He glanced toward the doorway again, toward the locker room, toward the life that kept moving even when one of its most important pieces was temporarily missing.

“He’ll be back next week,” he said, like saying it out loud made it more real. “And everything’ll feel right again. Until then…” He shrugged. “I’ll survive. We always do.”

The interviewer smiled, gentle, warm. “Thank you, Troy. For being honest.”

He gave her a small nod. “Yeah. Anytime.”

The red light on the camera blinked once, then stayed steady.

In that small, lit corner, Troy Barrett sat quietly with the weight of missing someone who mattered more than words could carry, and the quiet certainty that he’d wait as long as it took.

Because some things—some people—were worth every empty hallway, every too quiet morning, every second of absence that only made the return feel like coming home.

 

Dinner begins as something simple.

That is, in hindsight, the first mistake.

The kitchen smells like garlic melting slowly into butter, rich and warm and almost painfully familiar, the kind of scent that doesn’t just sit in the air but sinks into the bones of a home. It clings to the cabinets, to the faint scratches in the marble island where knives have slipped over the years, to the quiet corners of a space that has held a thousand ordinary evenings just like this one. The overhead light hums softly above them, its pale glow spilling across the stove and the countertops, catching in the steam rising from the pot of boiling pasta.

Shane moves through the kitchen with the comfortable, unthinking rhythm of someone who has cooked this exact meal so many times his body no longer needs instructions. One hand stirs the sauce slowly, wooden spoon scraping against the pan in a lazy circle while his other hand reaches automatically for the salt. He is wearing his glasses and they have slipped a little down his nose from the heat, and he nudges them back up absently with the back of his wrist.

Pasta. Not because it’s impressive. Because it’s safe.

Because when you’ve spent the better part of a decade building a life with someone, there’s something comforting about a meal that doesn’t require performance. No recipes to follow. No pressure to get it perfect. Just garlic, butter, tomatoes, pasta, and the quiet understanding that both of you will eat it no matter how it turns out.

Ilya is watching Shane from behind.

Watching the way he moves, the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other while he stirs the sauce. Watching the soft crease that forms between his eyebrows when he tastes something and decides it needs more salt. Watching the way the sleeves of his sweatshirt have been pushed halfway up his forearms without him noticing.

Shane knows he’s watching. He can feel it the way you feel sunlight through a window, warm and steady and impossible to ignore.

Ilya hadn’t moved from his spot against the opposite counter in what felt like forever.

He leaned there with his arms loosely crossed, one hip cocked, weight shifting every so often from one bare foot to the other in a rhythm so subtle it might have been unconscious. His own sweatshirt, gray, soft from too many washes, hung loose on his frame, hood bunched at the nape of his neck. The sleeves had ridden up without him noticing, exposing the corded strength of his forearms, the faint white scar from a long ago high stick curving along the inside of his left wrist like a signature. His curly hair was still damp from the shower they’d shared an hour ago, curling messily at the temples. He looked soft in the lamplight.

Dangerous in the quiet way that only people who knew him best could recognize.

He could feel it the way you feel sunlight sliding across your shoulders on the first warm day of spring, steady, insistent, impossible to ignore even when you pretended otherwise. It raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck, sent a slow, liquid warmth pooling low in his stomach.

He kept his eyes on the sauce, kept stirring, but every nerve ending was tuned to the man standing six feet away.

“You’re hovering,” Shane said at last, voice low, almost fond beneath the mock irritation.

Behind him, Ilya’s fingers stilled where they’d been tapping an absent rhythm against his bicep.

“I am standing,” Ilya answered, calm as ever.

Shane let out a quiet snort that was half laugh, half exasperation.

“You’ve been ‘standing’ in that exact spot for...” He glanced at the clock on the microwave. “...six minutes and forty three seconds.”

“That is because it is good spot.”

Shane rolled his eyes so hard he was sure Ilya could feel it from across the room.

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is strategic.”

Shane stirred with slightly more force than the sauce required, the spoon scraping softly against the bottom of the pot.

“You’re not being strategic,” he said. “You’re judging my cooking.”

“I am not judging.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I am observing.”

Shane turned then wooden spoon still gripped in one hand, the other braced on the edge of the counter. He fixed Ilya with a long, deeply skeptical look.

Ilya met his gaze without flinching. Just watched him back, steady and warm and so openly affectionate it made something in Shane’s chest twist painfully sweet.

“You know what normal people do while dinner is cooking?” Shane asked.

Ilya tilted his head the tiniest fraction, like a curious animal. “What?”

“They sit down. On the couch. Or at the table. Or
...they read a book. They scroll their phone. They exist in another room.”

Ilya considered this with exaggerated seriousness, brow furrowing just enough to mirror the little crease Shane had worn earlier over the sauce.

“But then,” he said slowly, “I cannot watch you.”

Shane blinked. The words landed soft, simple, devastating. “why do you need to watch me?” His voice came out quieter than he intended, almost uncertain.

Ilya’s mouth curved, just the barest lift at one corner, in the way that had always unraveled Shane during post game interviews, during faceoffs, during every moment he’d ever tried to pretend he didn’t feel this pull between them.

“I enjoy the view,” Ilya said.

Shane groaned immediately, the sound torn between mortification and helpless affection. He turned back to the stove like the words had physically struck him, free hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck where heat had bloomed sudden and fierce.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“The flirting thing.” Shane waved the spoon vaguely in the air. “The... the thing where you say something completely normal and somehow make it sound like foreplay.”

Ilya straightened from the counter in one smooth motion, placing a hand dramatically over his heart.

“This is not flirting.”

“Right.”

“This is appreciation.”

Shane laughed despite himself, short, breathless, the sound catching in his throat. “Appreciation.”

“Yes.” Ilya took one step closer. Then another.

Close enough now that Shane could feel the warmth of him at his back, the faint cedar and soap scent that always clung to Ilya’s skin after a shower. “I appreciate the way you concentrate. The way your mouth does that little twist when you think the sauce needs something. The way you look like you belong here. In our kitchen. Making dinner for us.”

Shane’s hand stilled on the spoon. He stared down into the pot like it might offer him an escape route.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.

“I am honest.”

“You’re...” Shane exhaled hard, set the spoon down on the rest with careful precision. “You make me feel like I’m seventeen again. Like I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

Ilya’s laugh was low, warm, vibrating against Shane’s shoulder blades even though he still hadn’t touched him. “Good.”

Shane turned in the small space between them, back braced against the counter, arms folding defensively across his chest like armor. But his eyes, his eyes betrayed him. Soft. Searching. A little dazed.

“Ilya.”

Ilya’s gaze dropped to Shane’s mouth for half a second, then lifted again.

“Solnyshko.”

The endearment landed like a match struck in dry grass.

Shane swallowed. “You can’t just… look at me like that while I’m trying to cook.”

“Why not?”

“Because...” Shane gestured helplessly at the stove, at the simmering pot, at the whole domestic scene they’d somehow built together over years of fights and flights and quiet mornings. “Because then I forget what I’m doing. Because then I want to kiss you instead of finish dinner. Because you make everything feel… bigger. More important. And I’m not used to that yet. Not completely.”

Ilya stepped into his space then giving Shane every chance to pull away.

He didn’t.

Ilya lifted one hand, brushed the pad of his thumb along the edge of Shane’s jaw, gentle enough to make Shane’s breath hitch.

“Then forget dinner for a minute,” Ilya murmured. “Kiss me instead.”

Shane stared up at him, heart hammering, cheeks flushed.

Shane reached up, cupped the back of Ilya’s neck, fingers threading into damp hair. And then he kissed him.

Soft at first. Careful. Like he was still learning the shape of this thing they’d built, even after all this time.

But Ilya kissed him back like he’d been waiting years for permission, and maybe he had.

The sauce kept simmering behind them, forgotten for now.

And in the warm, golden kitchen, two men who had once been enemies stood wrapped around each other, hearts beating in time, and nothing else mattered half as much.

 

They stand there for a moment, the stove crackling softly in front of them, the quiet hum of the house settling around them in the comfortable way it does when the world outside has finally gone quiet.

Shane leans back just slightly into Ilya’s chest without meaning to. Ilya notices immediately. He always does.

“You are very cooperative for someone resisting seduction,” he murmurs.

“I am tolerating you.”

“You are melting.”

“I am not melting.”

“You are slightly melting.”

Shane opens his mouth to argue... and then a loud, catastrophic crash explodes behind them.

Both of them jump. They spin around just in time to see Anya standing proudly in the middle of the kitchen floor next to the fallen trash can.

Garbage everywhere. Shane stares. Ilya stares.
Anya wags her tail like she has just accomplished something extremely impressive.

Shane drags a hand slowly down his face. “Of course.”

Ilya exhales a helpless laugh. “This is sabotage.”

“Your dog.”

“Our dog.”

“She loves you more.”

“That is because I am good parent.”

“You literally feed her cheese under the table.”

“She appreciates generosity.”

Shane grabs a roll of paper towels with the exhausted resignation of a man who has cleaned up after this exact dog many times before.

“This was supposed to be date night.”

Ilya crouches down to upright the trash can, picking up a crumpled napkin and what appears to be the remains of a banana peel.

“It still is.”

“With garbage.”

“Romantic garbage.”

Shane throws a balled up paper towel at his head.

Ilya catches it with impressive reflexes and grins.

And suddenly something about the scene: the pasta boiling over slightly on the stove, the dog enthusiastically licking sauce off the tile, the smell of garlic and trash bags mixing in a way that absolutely should not be romantic, breaks something loose in Shane’s chest.

He starts laughing. Really laughing. The kind that bends him forward against the counter, shoulders shaking as he tries and fails to regain control of himself.

Ilya pauses mid cleanup. And watches him.
The sound fills the kitchen in a way that feels brighter than the overhead light. For a moment, something quiet and heavy settles in Ilya’s chest.

This. This right here. This is the part people never see. Not the rivalry that once defined them. Not the dramatic documentary interviews. Not the carefully framed shots of them walking into arenas side by side like something out of a sports myth.

Just this.

Shane in sweatpants and socks that don’t match, glasses crooked on his nose, laughing so hard he has to grip the counter while their dog commits minor kitchen crimes.

Ilya stands slowly. Walks over. Reaches out and brushes his fingers lightly along Shane’s jaw.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Shane looks up, still smiling, cheeks slightly flushed from laughing. “What?”

Ilya studies him for a moment. Then he says quietly, “I am winning.”

Shane squints at him. “Winning what exactly?”

“This challenge.”

“What metric are you using for that very bold claim?”

“You are laughing.”

“That’s because Anya destroyed our kitchen.”

“But you are happy.”

Shane crosses his arms slowly.

“You’re very smug for someone currently holding a banana peel.”

Ilya glances down. “…this is unfortunate.”

Shane snorts again. Then something softer settles into his expression. “You know what the weird part is?”

Ilya’s attention sharpens instantly. “What?”

“I don’t actually think we ever stopped.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly. “Stopped what?”

Shane hesitates. Not because he doesn’t know the answer. But because saying it out loud feels strangely vulnerable after so many years of pretending they don’t need to say certain things anymore.

Then he says quietly, “Falling in love with each other.”

Ilya goes very still. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. Quieter.

The hum of the stove becomes louder somehow.

Shane shifts his weight. “I think we just… got used to it,” he says slowly. “You know? It stopped feeling like something new. It stopped feeling like the beginning of something. It just… became our life.”

Ilya watches him carefully. “And that is bad thing?”

Shane shakes his head. “No. Not bad.”

He glances down at the counter, fingers tracing the faint groove in the marble where someone once cut vegetables without a board.

“But sometimes I miss what the beginning felt like. That… electricity. The way everything felt like it mattered so much more.”

Ilya takes a step closer. “And you think that is gone.”

“Not gone,” Shane says quietly. “Just… buried under ten years of laundry and road trips and arguing about grocery lists.”

Ilya studies him for a long moment. Then he reaches out, gently hooking a finger into the collar of Shane’s shirt and pulling him a step closer.

His voice lowers, warm and certain. “Shane.”

“What.”

“You did not forget.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“No.”

Ilya leans in slowly until their foreheads touch.
The warmth of his breath brushes against Shane’s mouth.

“You are just about to remember.”

Shane’s breath catches slightly despite himself.

“Oh yeah?”

Ilya smiles faintly. “Yes.”

And then he kisses him. Slow. Not rushed, not dramatic, just the quiet certainty of someone who has kissed this person a thousand times and still means every single one of them.

Behind them, Anya knocks over the recycling bin with another spectacular crash.

Neither of them notices.

For a few seconds after the recycling bin crashes to the floor, neither of them moves.

The kitchen is a disaster now.

Paper, cans, a plastic bottle rolling lazily across the tile, Anya standing in the middle of it all like the proud architect of chaos. The pasta water is boiling too aggressively, the garlic butter sauce has started to thicken in the pan, and somewhere in the middle of the mess Shane
Hollander is still pressed chest to chest with his husband.

Ilya’s mouth is warm against his. Slow at first.
Patient. Then deeper, more certain, the way his kisses always are when he decides something and commits to it completely.

Shane exhales against him, one hand automatically curling into the front of Ilya’s shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
Which, technically, is not helping his case in the challenge.

He realizes this. He also does absolutely nothing to stop it.

Ilya’s hand slides up the back of Shane’s neck, fingers tangling lightly in the short hair there, holding him steady while he kisses him again, longer this time, the kind of kiss that starts playful but turns serious somewhere in the middle without either of them meaning it to.

Shane opens his mouth. Stops. Then shakes his head slightly, trying not to smile. “You’re laying it on thick tonight.”

Ilya shrugs. “It is challenge.”

“That’s not how seduction works.”

“Oh?”

“No one trusts a guy who suddenly becomes charming out of nowhere.”

“I am always charming.”

Shane barks out a laugh. “Your entire personality is sarcasm and threats.”

“Effective combination.”

“Debatable.”

Behind them, Anya chooses that moment to pick up a plastic bottle and begin chewing it with aggressive enthusiasm.

The sound echoes through the kitchen.

Shane sighs deeply. “We should probably deal with… all of this.”

Ilya glances around the disaster zone. The fallen trash can. The recycling. The dog. The pasta boiling over. Then he looks back at Shane.

“…maybe.”

Shane folds his arms. “Captain.”

“Yes.”

“You’re supposed to be responsible.”

“I delegate.”

“To who?”

Ilya gestures toward Anya.

“Assistant.” Anya wags her tail proudly. “Yet you married me.”

“That was clearly a lapse in judgment.”

“Four year lapse?”

Shane pauses. Then quietly admits: “…I might have doubled down.”

Ilya smiles softly at that. Not smug this time. Just warm.

They start cleaning together after that, the easy rhythm of long familiarity slipping back into place without effort. Shane wipes the counter while Ilya gathers the recycling. Anya follows them both like a furry supervisor, occasionally stealing something she absolutely shouldn’t have.

It takes fifteen minutes to restore the kitchen to something resembling order.

By the time they finish, the pasta has cooled slightly and the sauce needs reheating.

Shane leans back against the counter, exhaling. “Well.”

Ilya hands him a fork. “Well.”

Shane twirls a little pasta onto it, tasting it thoughtfully. Then nods once. “Okay, that’s still good.”

“Of course it is.”

“Because I made it.”

Ilya leans casually against the counter beside him. “Because I supervised.”

Shane nudges him lightly with his elbow. “You supervised the dog.”

“Important role.”

They eat standing there in the quiet kitchen, sharing the same bowl, passing the fork back and forth like they’ve done a thousand times before.

No cameras. No teammates. Just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of the fork against the ceramic bowl.

After a while Shane says quietly: “You know something?”

Ilya glances at him.

“I think we’re very bad at formal date nights.”

Ilya considers that. “Yes.” he laughs.

“We always end up doing this instead.”

“What is wrong with this.”

Shane shrugs. “Nothing.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Actually… this might be better.”

Ilya studies him for a moment. Then says softly:
“When we first met, you hated me.”

Shane snorts.“I kind of did hate you.”

“You told reporter I was ‘arrogant Russian.’”

“Okay, that was accurate.”

“You rolled your eyes every time I spoke.”

“You deserved it.”

“And yet…” Ilya tilts his head.“…you married me.”

Shane looks down at the bowl in his hands, twirling the fork slowly.

His voice is quieter when he answers. “You want the honest answer?” Shane looks up again. And there’s something thoughtful in his expression now. “Because underneath the arrogance… you were always the person who stayed.”

Ilya’s brow furrows slightly. “Stayed?”

Shane shrugs one shoulder. “Through hotel rooms. Through injuries. Through all the messy career stuff. You’re stubborn about people you love.” Shane nudges the fork toward him again. “It’s actually kind of terrifying.”

Ilya takes the fork. But instead of eating, he watches Shane for a long moment. Then says quietly: “You are also stubborn.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“You fight me constantly.”

“You deserve that too.”

“And yet you stay.”

Shane meets his eyes. Another quiet moment settles between them. Comfortable. Deep.

Then Ilya leans slightly closer and murmurs:
“I am still winning.”

Shane groans immediately. “You’re insufferable.”

“Is because you are already in love with me.”

Shane points the fork at him. “This is a temporary condition.”

“Very temporary. Only… more than a decade.”

Shane laughs softly, shaking his head. And after a moment he says: “You know what the real problem with this challenge is?”

“What.”

“It assumes one of us has to win.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “And?”

Shane takes the fork back, twirling another bite.

Then he says quietly: “But I think we already did.”

Chapter 3: Day Two

Chapter Summary

Or when Ilya is a beautiful husband on the ice as well.

The arena always feels different on game nights.

Not louder, but tighter somehow, like the entire building is holding its breath before the first drop of the puck. The air smells faintly of fresh ice and tape adhesive, the distant echo of skates cutting across the rink bleeding through the concrete walls of the locker room tunnel.

Day Two of the challenge happens to fall on a game night.

Which means Shane Hollander is in his element.

He moves through the locker room with the quiet focus that always settles over him before games, one shoulder leaning against his stall as he retapes the blade of his stick with precise, practiced motions.

Across the room, Ilya Rozanov was finishing the last adjustments to his pads.

He moved with the same deliberate grace, broad shoulders rolling under the black compression shirt, fingers tugging the final strap across his chest until it sat just right. The captain’s C was still stitched over his heart, still carried the same weight, but these days the ring on his left hand caught the fluorescent light every time he moved, a thin black band that had been there for four years now, simple and unmissable. He wore it under his glove on game nights, taped over so it wouldn’t catch on anything, but he always felt it. A small, secret anchor.

So here they were. Day Two.

Luca’s head whipped around, same as always, catching the direction of Ilya’s gaze. His grin bloomed instant and wicked. “Cap’s observing again,” he stage whispered, loud enough for half the room to hear. “Very intense observation. Very romantic.”

Troy didn’t even look up from his skates. “You’ve been staring at your husband for six minutes now. Clock’s ticking, Rozanov.”

Ilya exhaled through his nose, the sound fond rather than annoyed. “Husband,” he repeated quietly, tasting the word like it still surprised him sometimes. He didn’t take his eyes off Shane. “I like when you say it.”

Shane’s hands paused on the tape. He felt the heat climb his neck, same as it had when they were seventeen and hated each other’s guts, same as it did now at past thirty when they woke up tangled together every morning. He forced himself to keep winding, voice dry. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Da,” Ilya agreed easily. “But you married me anyway.”

Wyatt groaned from his stall, flopping backward until his head thumped the locker behind him.

“Jesus Christ, you two. It’s day two and you’re already this disgusting? I need hazard pay for emotional damage.”

Luca leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes glittering. “Is this the part where you start the psychological warfare? Because I’m ready. I brought popcorn. Metaphorical popcorn. In my soul.”

Shane finally lifted his head. Their eyes met, and the room seemed to hush around them, the way it always did when the two of them locked in like this. Shane felt that familiar pull, deep in his sternum: love, exasperation, want, all twisted together so tight he couldn’t separate them anymore.

“There is no warfare,” he said, but his voice came out softer than he meant, almost tender. “You already won. Years ago. You’re just showing off now.”

Ilya’s mouth curved, slow, private, the smile he saved only for Shane. “Maybe I like showing off for you.”

Shane’s breath hitched. He hated (loved) how easily Ilya could still do this to him. One look, one quiet sentence, and Shane felt eighteen again, heart racing on stolen glances across the ice. He swallowed. “You’re cheating. We’re already married.”

“Rules don’t say I can’t use existing advantages,” Ilya murmured. He stood then, pads settling with a soft creak, and crossed the room in three unhurried strides. The rest of the team pretended, very badly, not to watch.

He stopped in front of Shane’s stall, close enough that Shane had to tilt his chin up. Ilya reached down, casual as breathing, and brushed a stray piece of tape lint off Shane’s shoulder. His fingers lingered a second too long, thumb grazing the edge of Shane’s collarbone through the compression shirt.

Shane’s pulse jumped. “You’re not playing fair.”

“I never said I would.” Ilya’s voice dropped lower, meant for Shane alone. “Day Two objective: make you remember why you said yes. Every time.”

Shane stared up at him, chest tight with too many things at once, annoyance, affection, the bone deep certainty that he would say yes again tomorrow, and the day after, and every day until they couldn’t anymore.

“You’re an asshole,” he muttered.

Ilya’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Your asshole.” He winked.

Shane huffed a laugh despite himself, shaking his head. “God help me.”

“Already did,” Ilya said softly. Then he leaned down, pressed a quick, firm kiss to Shane’s forehead, right there in the middle of the locker room, in front of God and the entire team, and straightened. “See you on the ice, Hollander.”

He walked back to his stall like nothing had happened.

Luca let out a low whistle. “Jesus. That was devastating. I’m emotionally compromised.”

Wyatt clutched his chest. “I need a cigarette and I don’t even smoke.”

Troy just smirked, finally looking up. “You two done yet? Or do we need to give you the room?”

Shane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, helpless, helplessly in love. He could feel it glowing under his skin, bright and stupid and permanent. Day Two, and Ilya was already winning. Again.

Ilya sat back down, picked up his jersey, and glanced over one last time. Their eyes met across the space.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

The message was clear in the quiet tilt of his head, the soft curve of his mouth:

I’m going to make you fall in love with me every single day for the rest of our lives.

The room fills with quiet laughter as players finish dressing, the familiar rhythm of pre game routines taking over, tape being torn, gloves snapping into place, the low murmur of strategy talk.

Shane immediately makes the mistake of walking past Ilya’s stall. Because Ilya reaches out and catches the edge of his jersey. Not forcefully. Just enough to stop him.

Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying him like he was the most interesting thing in the entire arena. “You look nervous.”

Shane scoffed, folding his arms across his chest even though Ilya’s fingers were still loosely hooked in his jersey. “I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

“Ilya.”

“You are thinking too much.” Ilya’s thumb brushed once, idly, against the fabric, right over Shane’s ribs. The touch was feather light, but it sent a spark straight down Shane’s spine.

“I’m literally about to play an NHL game,” he shot back, trying for dry and landing somewhere closer to breathless. “That tends to require thinking.”

Ilya leaned back a fraction more in his chair, still not letting go of the jersey, the picture of relaxed captain energy. “But not about me.”

Shane studied him, searching that calm gaze. “Are you… giving me a pep talk? Right now? In the middle of your evil seduction plan?”

“Maybe.” Ilya shrugged one shoulder, the motion easy, almost boyish. “I still want to win.”

“Obviously.”

“But not like this.” Ilya’s voice dipped lower, sincere in a way that made Shane’s stomach flip. “Not if it takes your head out of the game. I want you focused. I want you happy. I want you mine. All three can be true.”

Shane’s expression softened despite himself. The fight drained out of his shoulders, replaced by something warmer, deeper. God, he loved this man, loved the way Ilya could switch from playful menace to quiet devotion in a single breath.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Ilya raised an eyebrow, the smirk returning full force. “Based on what evidence?”

Shane leans down slightly, close enough that only Ilya can hear him. Then he murmurs: “You’re the one who can’t stop looking at me.”

For the first time all evening, Ilya actually looks caught off guard. Just for a second.

Then he smiles slowly. “Maybe I enjoy the view.”

Shane straightens, shaking his head as he grabs his helmet. “Focus on the game, Rozanov.”

Ilya stands too. Towering slightly over him.

“Always.”

But as Shane turns to head toward the ice tunnel, Ilya adds quietly in Russian: “Удачи, любимый.”

Good luck, my love.

Shane pauses halfway down the hallway. Doesn’t turn around. But the corner of his mouth lifts into a small smile before he skates onto the ice.

And behind him, Wyatt nudges Troy with wide eyes. “Did he just call him something in Russian?”

Troy smiles faintly. “Oh yeah.”

“What did it mean?”

Troy watches Shane step onto the ice under the arena lights.

Then he says softly: “Something that definitely counts in the challenge.”

And the game finally begins.

 

The roar of the crowd hits like a wave the moment they step onto the ice.

It’s not just noise, it’s pressure, energy, electricity humming through the arena, bouncing off the glass and steel beams and pouring down onto the rink in a thousand overlapping voices.

The Ottawa Centaurs logo glows beneath the ice as players circle for warmups, blades cutting sharp white arcs across the fresh surface.

Game nights always feel bigger than the rest of the week.

But tonight something else hums underneath it.

The challenge.

Shane tells himself it’s ridiculous to think about it right now. There’s a game to play. A real one. Sixty minutes of hockey that actually matters.

As he glides across the ice, warming up his edges, his eyes drift automatically toward center.
Toward the captain.

Ilya Rozanov moves through warmups like he was born on ice, long, efficient strides, shoulders loose, body relaxed in the way elite athletes only manage when they’re completely in their element. The arena lights catch in the dark visor of his helmet as he accepts a pass, fires a clean shot past the backup goalie, and circles away without celebration.

Focused. Sharp. Dangerous.

Shane tells himself he’s only watching because that’s what teammates do. But then Ilya glances up. And catches him looking. Even across half the rink Shane can see the faint, knowing tilt of his head. Shane immediately looks away.

"Smooth,” Troy muttered as he skated past Shane, close enough that their shoulders brushed. His voice carried the grin Shane could hear even without looking.

Shane didn’t flinch. “I wasn’t staring.”

“You were staring.”

“I was observing.”

Troy nearly skidded to a stop, blades scraping a sharp hiss against the ice. He spun, facing Shane with wide, delighted eyes under the cage of his helmet. “Oh my god. You two are contagious. I’m gonna need antibiotics after this.”

He accepted a pass from Luca, cradled the puck for half a heartbeat, then snapped a wrist shot toward the net. It rang iron with a satisfying clang that echoed up into the rafters. “Focus on warmups, Barret.”

Troy laughed, bright and unrestrained, the sound cutting through the pre game din. “Focus? Me? I’m the picture of professionalism. You’re the one eye fucking your husband like it’s foreplay.”

Luca, circling back from the boards with a fresh puck, caught the tail end and cackled. “It is foreplay. Day Two foreplay. I’m living for this content.”

Shane rolled his eyes so hard his helmet shifted slightly. “Both of you can fuck off.”

 

First Period

The puck drops hard against the ice.

The game starts fast.

Ottawa pushes early, aggressive forechecking and tight passing forcing the opposing defense to scramble. The familiar rhythm of competition settles into Shane’s bones almost immediately: skate, pivot, pass, read the play.

For a while the challenge disappears completely.
There’s only hockey. Only instinct.

Midway through the period Shane picks up a loose puck near the boards and accelerates down the right wing. A defender closes in, stick reaching for the puck, but Shane slips past him with a sharp cut toward the slot.

He sees Ilya before anyone else does. Of course he does. The captain is already there, perfectly positioned between two defenders, reading the play before it fully develops.

Their eyes meet for half a second. That’s all it takes.

Shane sends the pass. Clean. Fast. Ilya receives it in stride and snaps the shot past the goalie’s glove. The net ripples. The arena explodes.

Shane coasts to a stop near the boards, breath fogging the inside of his visor as teammates rush past him toward Ilya.

The celebration forms around their captain in the usual chaotic cluster of gloves and helmets.

But when Shane skates over, Ilya reaches for him first. Always first. He grabs the front of Shane’s jersey and pulls him into the group, helmet knocking lightly against Shane’s as he leans close enough that only Shane can hear him over the roar of the crowd.

“Nice pass.”

Shane snorts. “Nice goal.”

Then Ilya murmurs: “Still winning.”

Shane pushes away from him immediately. “Oh my god.”

Ilya’s grin is brief but unmistakable.

Intermission. The locker room buzzes with post period energy. Water bottles hiss. Equipment clatters softly. The team gathers around the strategy board while coach Wiebe breaks down adjustments for the second period.

Ilya stands near the center of the room, helmet off now, damp hair sticking slightly to his forehead as he listens. Commanding without trying.

Shane sits on the bench a few stalls away, tugging his gloves off and rolling his shoulders.

But every few seconds his gaze drifts. Back to Ilya. Again.

Across the room Troy notices. Again.

He leans over toward Luca and whispers loudly:
“Round two of staring contest.”

Luca’s eyes widen with delight. “They’re both doing it.”

“Yep.”

“Who’s winning?”

Troy considers. Then grins. “Oh, this is mutual destruction.”

Shane finally catches the whispering. “Barret.”

Troy straightens instantly. “Yes?”

“Focus.”

The room chuckles quietly.

The coach finishes his notes and the players begin preparing to head back out for the second period. Shane stands, adjusting his jersey. And suddenly Ilya is in front of him.

“What.”

Ilya studies his face carefully. “You are smiling.”

“Because we’re winning.”

“That is not why.”

Shane folds his arms. “You’re very annoying during games.”

“Is good leadership quality.”

“No it isn’t.”

Ilya leans slightly closer. “Also…”

Shane sighs. “What.”

“You looked at me first.”

Shane stares at him in disbelief. “You scored a goal. That’s normal.”

“You admire my work.”

“I admire the scoreboard.”

Ilya smiles slowly. “Liar.”

Shane pushes past him toward the tunnel. But not before muttering under his breath: “You’re still losing.”

Behind him Ilya laughs softly. Low. Warm. And Wyatt nudges Troy. “I swear this is the most competitive marriage in professional sports.”

Troy watches the two of them head back toward the ice. Then smiles. “Probably.”

The second period begins faster.

Not just the pace of the game, though that ramps up quickly enough as the opposing team comes out harder, more aggressive, clearly irritated about the scoreboard, but the tension that seems to exist in a separate orbit around Shane and Ilya.

The Centaurs lead 1–0.

The arena hums with anticipation.

And somewhere beneath the noise of the crowd, the scrape of skates, and the sharp whistles of the officials, the challenge between them is still very much alive.

Shane can feel it. He tells himself it’s ridiculous.
But every time he circles through center ice, every time he glances up during a line change, there’s this quiet awareness of where Ilya is on the ice.

Which is a problem. Because Ilya always knows where he is.

Halfway through the period Shane jumps over the boards for his shift just as the puck turns over near the blue line. The play opens quickly, Ottawa transitioning from defense to offense in seconds.

Shane accelerates. The cold air burns slightly in his lungs as he pushes forward, stick ready, eyes scanning the ice automatically.

And then... Ilya intercepts the puck near the neutral zone. Smooth. Controlled. Like he expected it. Of course he did. Shane cuts toward him, ready for the breakout pass. Ilya skates straight at him instead. Which is… not normal.

Shane frowns slightly behind his visor. “Ilya...”

But the captain glides past him at the last second and slips the puck neatly between Shane’s skates. A perfect pass. Behind him.
Exactly where Shane’s momentum is already carrying him.

Shane catches it instinctively and immediately drives toward the net. The defenders react a second too late. Shot. The puck rockets past the goalie’s blocker and slams into the back of the net. Goal.

The crowd erupts again.

Shane skids to a stop against the boards, adrenaline rushing through his veins as teammates rush toward him.

But this time, when the group celebration forms
Ilya hangs back. Just slightly. Watching.

Shane notices immediately. Of course he does.
He pushes out of the cluster of teammates and skates straight toward his husband.

“You planned that,” Shane says breathlessly.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Planned what.”

“The pass.”

“It was logical play.”

“You waited for me.”

“Coincidence. You scored. So technically…”
Ilya leans closer, voice dropping just enough that it disappears beneath the roar of the crowd.
“…I helped you win.”

Shane stares at him. “Oh my god.”

Ilya’s grin flashes briefly beneath his visor.

Later in the Second the game tightens.

The opposing team pushes back harder, physical along the boards, forcing Ottawa to fight for every inch of ice. The energy ramps up with every shift, players crashing into the glass, sticks clashing, the tension building steadily.

Shane is halfway through a shift when a defenseman slams him into the boards behind the net. Hard. Not illegal. Just rough.

The impact rattles through his shoulder, knocking the breath out of him for a split second.

Before he can even react... Ilya is there.
His husband crosses the ice in three long strides and plants himself between Shane and the defenseman with quiet, dangerous calm.

“Watch it,” Ilya says coldly.

The defenseman raises his hands slightly. “It’s hockey.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow behind his visor. “Yes.” His voice lowers. “But he is mine.”

The defenseman blinks. “…what.”

Shane, still catching his breath behind him, mutters: “Ilya.”

“What.”

“You cannot say that during a game.”

“I did.”

“That’s extremely weird.”

The referee skates past, eyeing them suspiciously. “Play hockey, gentlemen.”

Ilya backs away slowly. But before he turns, he glances briefly over his shoulder at Shane.
“You okay.”

Shane rolls his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

Ilya nods once. Satisfied. And skates away.

From the bench Troy nearly chokes on his water bottle. “Did he just...”

Luca clutches Troy’s arm. “He did!”

Troy hides a smile behind his glove. They just stare at the ice.

“That absolutely counts for the challenge.”

Second Intermission.

The locker room is louder this time. The team leads 2–0 and the mood is loose but focused as players peel off gear and gulp down water between shifts.

Shane sits on the bench rolling his shoulder carefully. Across the room Ilya finishes talking with Coach Wiebe and then walks over.

“You are hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are rubbing your shoulder.”

“That’s because I got checked into the boards. That happens in hockey.”

Ilya crouches slightly in front of him, studying his expression. “I am concerned.”

“You’re always concerned.”

“That is because you are reckless.”

Shane smirks slightly. “You literally started a fight on a game last month.”

“They deserved it.”

Ilya studies him for another moment. Then reaches out and adjusts the collar of Shane’s jersey slightly where it twisted during the hit.
The gesture is small. Automatic. Familiar.

And suddenly the locker room noise fades slightly around them. Shane looks down at him.

“You know the cameras are here, right?”

“Yes.”

“So this is either very strategic…”

“Or?”

“…or you’re just like this.”

Ilya straightens slowly. “What is wrong with being like this.”

Shane quietly says “Nothing.”

 

The third period begins with the kind of tension that only exists when a game isn’t quite decided yet.

Two goals is comfortable. Two goals is also dangerous.

The Centaurs bench knows it. The opposing team knows it. The entire arena seems to feel it humming under the surface like a live wire waiting for the wrong touch.

Shane pushes off the boards as his line jumps onto the ice, the cold air filling his lungs as he settles back into the rhythm of the game. The earlier hit in the second period left a dull ache in his shoulder, but it’s the manageable kind, the sort that fades into the background once adrenaline takes over.

Across the ice, Ilya is already there.

Watching the play unfold with that unnervingly calm focus that always makes Shane think of a chess player studying a board ten moves ahead. There’s a certain stillness to him even in motion, long, economical strides, sharp awareness of every player moving around him.

Shane has always trusted that. Even before anything else. Even back when they were just rivals who occasionally ended up on the same hotel room. That trust has never really changed.

The puck slides toward the corner, and Shane chases it down, bracing his shoulder against the boards as a defender closes in. They battle for control for a few seconds, skates grinding into the ice, sticks clattering against the wall.

Then Shane manages to knock the puck free. It slides out toward the blue line. And Ilya is there again. Of course he is.

He gathers the puck smoothly and fires a quick shot through traffic toward the net. The goalie blocks it, but the rebound kicks out into the slot, and suddenly three players converge at once.

Chaos. Scrambling sticks. A defender dives for the puck. Shane lunges forward... But the whistle blows before he can reach it. Offside. The play dies instantly.

Groans ripple through the crowd as players slow and glide toward their respective benches.

Shane exhales through his mouth, resting his gloves on the top of his stick as he coasts toward the faceoff circle.

A few seconds later Ilya skates up beside him. Not close enough to draw attention. Just close enough that Shane hears him.

“You hesitate.”

Shane glances sideways. “I didn’t hesitate. The whistle blew.”

“You were thinking.”

“About the play.”

“About me.”

Shane gives him a long, flat look. “Ilya. I love you but this is a professional hockey game. You cannot psychoanalyze me during a stoppage.”

“I can multitask.”

Shane shakes his head, pushing a hand briefly through his damp hair beneath the helmet.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that? I spend three full periods trying to focus on hockey and you keep turning this into some kind of psychological experiment.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly, studying him with that same quiet curiosity he always has when Shane starts getting animated. “You are the one who said challenge was about remembering.”

Shane narrows his eyes. “I said remembering what it felt like at the beginning.”

“Yes. I know what you said.”

“This,” Shane gestures vaguely between them with his glove, “was not the beginning. The beginning was mostly us arguing and occasionally trying to murder each other on the ice.”

“That was foreplay.”

Shane actually chokes on air. “Ilya!”

“What.” he says faking innocence.

“You cannot say that during a game.”

Ilya’s mouth twitches with amusement. “I just did.”

Shane opens his mouth to respond, but the linesman skates over to prepare for the faceoff and gives them both a look that clearly says if you two could stop flirting and play hockey that would be great.

Shane mutters under his breath as he skates into position. “You’re still losing, by the way.”

Ilya doesn’t respond immediately. He just skates backward toward his position, eyes still fixed on Shane.

Then he says calmly: “You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s true.”

“You sound like man trying to convince himself.”

Shane snorts. “You’re projecting.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re the one who started this ridiculous challenge.”

“I started it because you were pretending everything was fine.”

Shane pauses slightly at that.

The referee drops the puck before he can answer.

Five Minutes Left. The opposing team finally scores. A lucky deflection off a defender’s skate slips past Ottawa’s goalie, and suddenly the arena noise shifts into something tighter, more anxious.

2–1.

Five minutes left.

The energy on the ice sharpens immediately.
Every shift becomes faster. More physical. More desperate.

Shane hops over the boards again, chasing the puck along the boards as Ottawa tries to burn the clock down. His legs ache now, the familiar exhaustion creeping in as the game nears its end, but he pushes through it automatically.

Across the ice Ilya intercepts a pass and clears the puck down the length of the rink.

The crowd cheers. Another faceoff. Another scramble.

Finally, with under a minute remaining, the opposing team pulls their goalie. Six attackers.
Empty net. The pressure becomes relentless.

Shane digs his skates into the ice as he battles for the puck near center, muscles burning as he manages to poke it loose from a defender.

For a split second the lane opens. The empty net waits across the rink. Shane winds up... But instead of shooting, he passes.

The puck slides perfectly toward Ilya. Who has a clear path. Ilya catches it smoothly. And for one moment everything slows. The empty net. The roaring crowd. The final seconds ticking down.
Ilya could take the shot. Instead he glances toward Shane.

Just once.

And then he says quietly, almost lost beneath the arena noise: “Your goal.”

Shane blinks. “What?”

But the puck is already sliding back toward him.
A perfect return pass. Shane doesn’t even have time to argue. He fires. The puck glides across the ice and taps gently into the empty net.

3–1

The final buzzer sliced through the roar like a knife, sharp, final, victorious.

The arena detonated.

Ten thousand voices became one tidal wave of sound, crashing against the glass, rattling the rafters, shaking the very ice beneath their skates. Red lights flashed behind both nets in frantic celebration, the Jumbotron replayed the last goal in slow motion, and the organ thundered a triumphant chord that vibrated in Shane’s chest like a second heartbeat. Confetti, black and red, drifted down from somewhere high above, catching the lights in lazy spirals, sticking to sweat damp jerseys and helmets.

They had won.

Not just won, dominated. A hard fought, ugly, beautiful 3-1 grind that had the visiting team looking shell shocked in the final minutes. And the dagger? The empty net goal Shane had just buried with thirty two seconds left.

Teammates mobbed him near the boards, Luca crashing into his side with a whoop that cracked through his helmet cage, Wyatt slapping his back so hard the impact rang through his pads, Troy giving him a single firm nod that carried more weight than any shouted praise. Sticks tapped against helmets in rapid fire rhythm, gloves thumped shoulders, voices overlapped in a chaotic symphony of profanity laced joy.

Shane let himself be carried in the current for a moment, grinning under his helmet, chest heaving, adrenaline still singing in his veins like champagne bubbles. But his eyes were already searching.

Ilya was gliding backward along the far boards, stick loose in one hand, the other raised in quiet acknowledgment to the bench. His hair was plastered to his forehead beneath the helmet, sweat gleaming on the sharp line of his jaw. Even in the middle of pandemonium, he moved like he owned the silence between heartbeats. The C on his jersey caught the lights every time he turned.

Shane broke away from the knot of bodies and skated toward him.

Ilya met him halfway, effortless as always.

Shane pulled up sharp, blades spraying fine ice shavings. He yanked off his helmet, shaking out damp hair, and fixed Ilya with a look that was half accusation, half wonder. “You did that on purpose.”

Ilya lifted one shoulder in that maddening half shrug. “You were open.”

Shane snorted, breath fogging between them in the cold. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“You absolutely could have taken that shot yourself.” Shane’s voice dropped lower, almost lost under the continuing roar. “Wide open lane. You had time. You had the angle. You had the whole damn net begging for it.”

Ilya didn’t deny it. He simply looked at Shane, steady and unguarded now that the scoreboard had stopped mattering. The competitive edge that had sharpened his features all night softened, just a fraction. Enough for Shane to see the quiet pride there, the private warmth that had always lived beneath the captain’s mask.

“Yes,” Ilya said simply.

Shane studied him for a long beat. The arena noise seemed to recede, still loud, still wild, but muffled, like someone had turned down the volume on the world. Teammates streamed past them toward the handshake line, Luca flashing a thumbs up, Wyatt hollering something unintelligible but for these few seconds it was just the two of them on a shrinking patch of ice.

Shane’s throat felt tight. Not from exertion. Not from the hit he’d taken in the second period.

From something heavier, softer. “Why didn’t you?”

Ilya didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look away. “Because you would have done the same for me.”

The words landed like a body check he hadn’t seen coming, clean, square, impossible to argue with.

Shane opened his mouth to protest, habit, reflex, the old instinct to push back, but nothing came out at first. He exhaled slowly through his nose, watching his breath curl white between them.

Inside, the feelings crashed together: gratitude, exasperation, a fierce, aching love that had been there so long it felt like part of his skeleton.

“Yeah,” he admitted finally, voice rough. “I would have.”

Ilya’s mouth curved, not the full smirk he wore for cameras or chirps, but something smaller, private, the one he saved for mornings in their kitchen or late nights when the house was quiet.

“I know.”

Shane huffed a laugh that was mostly breath. “You’re such a smug bastard.”

“Da,” Ilya agreed, soft and amused. “But your smug bastard.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He reached out, tapped the heel of his glove once against Ilya’s chest, right over the C, like he was checking that the heart underneath was still beating the same rhythm as his own.

They turned together then, skating side by side toward the tunnel. The handshake line waited ahead, quick gloves, murmured good games, the ritual civility after sixty minutes of war, but for these few strides the ice belonged only to them.

The crowd’s roar followed at their backs, a living thing, but it felt distant now.

Shane glanced sideways at Ilya. “You’re still losing the challenge, you know.”

Ilya laughed under his breath, not sharp, not defensive, just warm. The sound was low, rough from shouting on the bench all night, and it settled somewhere deep in Shane’s ribs like it always did. “We will talk about this at home.”

Shane raised an eyebrow under his helmet. “Oh, we’re talking now? Thought you preferred dramatic gestures and empty net assists.”

Ilya tilted his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I prefer winning. In all things. But mostly I prefer you smiling like that.”

Shane’s chest squeezed. He looked away for a second, toward the tunnel lights, toward the black mouth of the hallway where the rest of their lives waited, but he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “You’re cheating.”

“Maybe.” Ilya’s voice dropped even lower, meant for Shane alone. “Or maybe I just know exactly what makes my husband stupid in love with me. Even when he pretends not to be.”

Shane shoved him lightly with an elbow.“Shut up.”

“Make me,” Ilya murmured, and the promise in it sent a shiver racing down Shane’s spine despite the sweat soaked gear.

They reached the handshake line. Quick nods, gloved taps, the visiting captain’s quiet “good game” carrying a grudging respect. But Shane’s focus kept sliding back to the man beside him, broad shoulders, steady stride, the faint smile that hadn’t left his face since the buzzer.

They stepped off the ice together, blades scraping over the rubber matting, the tunnel swallowing them in cooler air and fluorescent hum. The roar of the crowd faded behind the doors, replaced by the muffled echo of their own skates, the low murmur of teammates ahead.

Shane bumped Ilya’s shoulder once “You’re still losing.”

Ilya glanced down at him, eyes soft in the dim light. “Am I?”

Shane didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Because the truth was written in every line of his body, the loose, easy way he moved now, the way his hand brushed Ilya’s as they walked, the way his heart hadn’t stopped racing since that empty net pass.

Day Two.

And Ilya was winning spectacularly. Again. Just like always.

 

The walk back to the locker room after a win always feels different. Lighter. Looser.

The sharp edge of competition dissolves into something warmer as the adrenaline starts to fade, replaced by laughter, tired shoulders bumping into each other in the hallway, the familiar chaos of helmets being pulled off and gloves tossed toward stalls.

The Centaurs file through the tunnel in a loose group, sticks tapping against the rubber floor as they move.

Shane is halfway through pulling his helmet off when Wyatt catches up to him from behind.
“That empty net pass was suspicious.”

Shane sighs immediately. “Oh my god, it begins.”

Wyatt walks backward in front of him, grinning like a man who has been waiting all night for this exact conversation. “No, no, hear me out. Rozanov, notorious goal thief and certified stats monster, suddenly decides to gift wrap an empty net goal to his husband.”

Shane steps around him and keeps walking. “It was a normal play.”

“Normal play?” Wyatt repeats incredulously. “That man has stolen goals from his own teammates before.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

Shane pushes the locker room door open and tosses his helmet into his stall. “It was a strategic adjustment.”

Wyatt leans against the next locker. “Strategic romance, you mean.”

Across the room Luca is already sitting down, bouncing slightly in his chair with excitement. “I saw it too.”

Shane rubs a hand over his face. “Of course you did.”

Luca grins. “It was very cinematic.”

Troy, calmly removing his gloves a few stalls away, adds in a thoughtful voice: “I’d say it qualifies as a romantic assist.”

Shane groans. “That’s not a category.”

Wyatt immediately points at Troy. “It should be.”

Behind them the door opens again.

Ilya walks in.

The room quiets automatically for a second, not because anyone expects a speech but because that’s just the way things work when the captain enters after a win.

He removes his helmet slowly, curls slightly damp with sweat, and drops it into his stall before glancing across the room.

His eyes land on Shane first. They always do. Shane notices. He also notices Wyatt noticing.

Wyatt slaps the top of Shane’s locker. “Ah, there it is.”

“There what is?”

“The look.”

“There is no look.”

“There is absolutely a look.”

Shane turns around, exasperated. “What are you even talking about?”

Wyatt gestures dramatically toward Ilya. “That.”

Shane glances over. Ilya is watching him with that same calm, thoughtful expression he had on the ice earlier.

Shane sighs. “That’s just his face.”

Wyatt squints. “His face is flirting.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Tell that to the documentary crew.”

Shane freezes slightly. “…they got that on camera?”

Luca raises both hands enthusiastically.
“Everything!”

Shane drops his head into his hands. “Oh my god.”

Across the room Ilya finally walks over.

The locker room noise resumes around them, players talking about plays, sticks clattering, the equipment manager moving between stalls, but there’s still that subtle shift whenever Ilya stops near Shane.

“Good game,” His husband says. His voice is calm, steady, but there’s warmth in it too.

Shane leans back against his locker, arms folded.
“You could have scored.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly. “But you did.”

“That wasn’t the point.”

“It was efficient.”

Shane studies him for a moment, then shakes his head slowly. “You’re infuriating.”

“I am generous.”

“You’re manipulative.”

“I am strategic.”

“You’re absolutely using the challenge as an excuse.”

“For what.”

Shane gestures vaguely between them again. “This.”

Ilya’s expression softens slightly. Then he says quietly, but with more weight than before: “You think I need excuse to support you.”

The words land differently than the earlier teasing. Shane pauses. “…no.”

“Good.”

A moment of silence stretches between them, comfortable but charged.

Then Wyatt loudly clears his throat behind them.
“Just so everyone is aware, I’m officially awarding Ilya one emotional assist and half a romantic point.”

Shane groans again. “You cannot invent scoring systems.”

“Watch me.”

Luca pulls out his phone immediately. “I can make a chart.”

Troy chuckles softly. “Please don’t.”

Wyatt looks delighted. “Oh, we absolutely should.”

Shane points a finger at them. “If this ends up on the documentary I’m blaming all of you.”

Wyatt spreads his arms. “Buddy, it’s definitely ending up on the documentary.”

Ilya, who has been quietly listening to the entire exchange, leans slightly closer to Shane. His voice drops lower.“You are still smiling.”

Shane blinks. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“That’s because we won the game.”

“And because you are happy.”

Shane hesitates. Just briefly. Then he shrugs. “Maybe.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Ilya’s mouth.
“Good.”

Across the room Coach Wiebe claps his hands.
“Alright, boys. Media in five.”

Groans ripple through the locker room.

Wyatt immediately perks up again. “Oh this is perfect.”

Shane already knows what’s coming. “No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not doing it.”

“I absolutely am.”

Wyatt points between Shane and Ilya. “They are going to ask about the pass.”

Shane grabs his towel. “I hate you.”

Wyatt grins. “No you don’t.”

Ilya murmurs quietly beside him: “You love him a little.”

Shane stares at him. “…stop helping Wyatt.”

Ilya shrugs. “Impossible situation.” Then he adds softly, almost teasing but not quite: “Also… you still owe me answer.”

“What answer.”

Ilya meets his eyes. “Who is winning.”

Shane grabs his jersey and starts toward the showers. But as he passes Ilya he mutters under his breath: “Still me.”

And Ilya laughs again, low, quiet, and entirely unconvinced.

 

The media room after a game is always warmer than the locker room.

Too many bodies. Too many lights. Too many microphones pushed forward on thin metal stands, waiting for answers that everyone in the room already half expects.

Shane hates it.

Not the attention exactly, he’s been doing press since he was a teenager, but the repetitive rhythm of it. The same questions. The same polite answers. The careful balance between honesty and diplomacy that professional athletes learn early if they want to survive interviews without becoming headlines for the wrong reasons.

Tonight, though, there’s a slightly different energy in the room.

The documentary crew is here. Two cameras hover quietly near the back wall, red lights glowing, capturing everything. Shane notices them immediately as he sits down in one of the chairs at the table.

Across from him, Ilya pulls out the chair beside him with the calm confidence of someone who has done this a thousand times before. He sits slowly, shoulders relaxed, one hand resting lightly on the table. Composed. Unbothered.

The reporters shuffle papers, adjust recorders, glance between the two of them with thinly disguised curiosity.

They know the narrative. The league has been pushing it for weeks now. Hockey’s Ultimate Love Story.

Shane can practically hear Wyatt laughing about that somewhere in the building.

The first question comes from a familiar reporter near the front.

“Shane, great game tonight. Two points, including the empty netter at the end. Walk us through that play.”

Shane exhales slowly through his nose.

Here we go.

“Well,” he begins calmly, folding his hands together on the table, “it was a late game situation with their goalie pulled, so we were really just trying to control the puck and avoid turnovers. Ilya picked it up near center and moved it quickly. I had a clear lane by the time he sent it over, so it was just about getting the puck on the net.”

Simple. Professional. Perfectly reasonable.

The reporter nods. Then turns slightly.

“Ilya, that pass surprised some people. Most players take the empty net themselves in that situation. Why give it up?”

Shane already knows this is coming. He keeps his eyes forward. But out of the corner of his vision he can see Ilya lean slightly closer to the microphone.

“I trusted my teammate.”

The reporters scribble something down.

Then one of them asks, carefully: “Your teammate… or your husband?”

There it is. The room shifts subtly with interest.

Shane glances sideways. Ilya doesn’t hesitate.
“Both.”

The answer is simple. Direct. Completely sincere.
And somehow that makes it worse. Because Shane can feel his face warming slightly.

Another reporter raises her hand. “We’ve been hearing a lot about the documentary following the team this season. What’s it been like having cameras around during games and practices?”

Shane answers this one quickly.

“It’s been… an adjustment,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “You try to focus on the hockey, obviously. The cameras fade into the background after a while, but it’s definitely a little strange knowing parts of your day to day life might end up on screen later.”

The reporter smiles slightly. “Does that include your life at home?”

Shane opens his mouth. Stops. Because Ilya is suddenly looking at him. Not in a teasing way. Not the competitive challenge look. Just… watching. Curious. Waiting.

Shane clears his throat.

“I think the documentary is mostly focused on the team dynamic,” he says finally. “The season. The locker room culture.”

Another voice calls from the back. “Ilya, does the attention on your relationship ever become distracting during the season?”

Ilya leans back slightly in his chair, considering the question. For a moment the playful edge that’s been following him all night disappears.
When he answers, his voice is calm and steady.
“No.”

The reporter tilts her head. “No?”

“No,” Ilya repeats. “My relationship is not distraction. It is part of my life. Same as hockey.”

He pauses briefly. Then adds quietly: “I am good at both.”

A ripple of quiet laughter moves through the room. Shane shakes his head slightly, though the corner of his mouth lifts despite himself.

Another reporter jumps in quickly. “Shane, do you feel the same way? Balancing marriage and playing on the same team as your spouse?”

Shane exhales softly. His instinct is to make a joke. Deflect. But something about the way Ilya answered makes that feel wrong. So he says the truth instead.

“It’s… actually easier than people think,” Shane says slowly. “We’ve been doing this a long time. We understand the job, the schedule, the pressure that comes with it. And honestly...” He glances sideways. Just briefly. “having someone who understands exactly what you’re dealing with every day is… pretty valuable.”

The room goes quiet for a second. Then a reporter grins. “So you’d say the partnership works on and off the ice?”

Shane snorts. “Most days.”

Beside him Ilya murmurs quietly, just loud enough for the microphone to catch it. “Every day.”

Shane shoots him a look. “Don’t start.”

“I am agreeing with you.”

“You’re escalating.”

“I am supporting my husband.”

The room laughs again. Somewhere in the back the documentary camera zooms slightly closer.

The interviewer smiles. “Well,” she says, “it certainly makes for good television.”

 

The drive home is quiet in the way late nights often are, soft, like the city itself has finally exhaled after holding its breath for hours.

Ottawa at this hour feels different than it does during the day. The streets are nearly empty, wide and dark under lamps that cast long, honey colored pools across wet pavement. Traffic lights cycle through red, yellow, green for phantom cars, their colors smearing faintly on the windshield as Shane guides the SUV through familiar turns. The heater hums low and steady, pushing warm air against the chill that still clings to their jackets from the arena parking lot, cold metal railings, exhaust fumes, the sharp bite of winter night seeping through every seam. The radio is off. No music. Just the soft tick of tires over expansion joints and the occasional distant siren fading into nothing.

Shane’s exhaustion has settled in fully now, not the bright, electric burn of game adrenaline, but the deeper, slower kind that seeps into muscle and bone like slow moving molasses. His shoulders feel heavy against the leather seat, eyelids thick, but his hands stay steady on the wheel. Every few minutes he flexes his fingers, rolls the tension out of his knuckles, the way he always does when his body is still processing the hits, the sprints, the final empty net goal that sealed it. Victory sits warm in his chest, but so does the ache of sixty minutes at full throttle.

He’s content. Bone deep content. And quietly, stupidly happy.

Beside him, Ilya sits with his head tipped back against the headrest, long legs stretched out as far as the footwell allows. His eyes are half lidded, dark lashes casting faint shadows, but he’s not sleeping. Shane can always tell. There’s a particular stillness to Ilya when he’s thinking, a subtle tension in the line of his jaw, the way his thumb brushes once, absently, over his ring .

He’s thinking. The quie kind of thinking that means something is brewing behind those steady eyes.

Which is exactly why, after three blocks of comfortable silence, Shane glances sideways and says, voice low and rough from shouting on the bench: “You’re planning something.”

Ilya doesn’t open his eyes. “I am always planning something.”

Shane snorts softly, the sound barely disturbing the quiet. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It should be.” Ilya’s mouth curves, just the faintest lift at one corner. “I am very good at planning.”

“It really shouldn’t be.”

They pass another block, streetlights sliding across Ilya’s profile in slow golden strokes. Shane keeps his eyes on the road, but he can feel the weight of Ilya’s attention now, even with his eyes closed.

“This is about day two, isn’t it,” Shane says, more pointed this time.

Now Ilya opens his eyes. He turns his head just enough to look at Shane, and that small, knowing smile blooms, quiet, confident, the one that always makes Shane suspicious and fond in equal measure.

“You are very perceptive tonight, kotyonok.”

Shane groans, long and theatrical, but there’s no heat in it. “Oh no.”

“What.”

“That tone.”

“What tone.”

“That ‘I’m about to do something ridiculous and I’m extremely pleased with myself’ tone.”

Ilya considers this for a beat, head tilting slightly. “Maybe.”

Shane keeps his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I swear to god, if this involves something public again, like that time you dragged me to that rooftop bar and started reciting bad poetry in Russian to a table full of strangers...”

“It does not.”

Shane glances at him quickly searching for the lie, finding only calm sincerity.

“…Really?” He narrows his eyes. “That’s suspicious too.”

Ilya exhales a quiet laugh, the sound rough and warm in the close space of the car. “You are impossible to surprise when you assume everything is conspiracy.”

“Experience has taught me caution.”

“Experience with me.”

“Exactly.”

The car slows as Shane turns onto their street.

The neighborhood is hushed, houses dark except for a few lights glowing like small beacons in the cold. Snow dusts the lawns in thin, pale sheets; bare branches scratch softly against the night sky. Shane pulls into the driveway, tires crunching over salt and ice, and kills the engine.

The sudden silence feels heavier than the engine’s hum had been, intimate, cocooned. Just their breathing, the faint tick of the cooling motor, the distant bark of a neighbor’s dog.

“Simple,” Ilya says into the quiet.

Shane turns in his seat, studying him now, profile sharp in the dashboard glow, eyes soft. “Simple? That’s a new strategy.”

“Maybe.”

“Alright.” Shane leans back against the door, arms crossing loosely. “Let’s hear it.”

Ilya rests his elbow on the center console, expression thoughtful, almost tender. “You remember the rink near the river.”

Shane blinks. “…The outdoor one? The one the city floods every winter?”

“Yes.”

Shane leans back slowly, processing. “That rink is for kids.”

“It is for hockey.”

“It’s also usually full of twelve year olds screaming and doing snow angels on the boards.”

“Not late at night.” Ilya’s voice is calm, measured. “There is ice. There are lights. It is quiet after midnight.”

Shane watches him carefully, heart doing a slow, surprised roll in his chest. “You want to go skating. “We already skate every day. You want to go skating… alone.”

“Yes.”

Shane frowns slightly, but there’s no real protest in it, just genuine surprise. “That’s your big romantic strategy?”

Ilya’s eyebrow lifts, amused. “You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed.” Shane rubs the back of his neck, feeling the heat climb there. “I’m just… surprised. Usually your idea of romance involves dramatic gestures and at least three levels of psychological warfare. Like the time you filled our hotel room with candles and then pretended the fire alarm was part of the mood lighting.”

Ilya laughs softly at the memory. “This is different.”

“How?”

“Because in one of the hotel rooms back in the day, Boston, I think...you told me you loved this outdoor rink. Also you kind of told me you liked me.”

Shane freezes. The memory hits like cold air through an open window, sharp, vivid, embarrassing. Nineteen years old, road trip, too much cheap beer, too much adrenaline, too much Ilya skating circles around everyone like he was born on blades. Shane staring. Too long. Saying stupid things.

“You remember.” It’s not a question.

Ilya’s smile is faint, almost gentle. “You were very bad at hiding it.”

“I was nineteen!”

“You were obvious.”

Shane rubs his face with both hands, groaning into his palms. “Oh my god.”

“You said my skating was beautiful.”

“That is a normal compliment!”

“You stared at me for fifteen minutes before telling me that.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

Shane drops his hands, staring at Ilya in half laughing disbelief. “I hate that you remember this.”

“I remember everything.”

“That’s extremely unfair.”

Ilya’s voice softens, just a fraction. “I remember because it was important.”

Shane lowers his hands slowly. The teasing drains out of him, replaced by something warmer, quieter. “You never told me that.”

“You did not ask.”

“That’s not how conversations work!”
Ilya shrugs one shoulder, easy. “It worked eventually.”

Shane shakes his head, still smiling despite himself,helpless, fond, a little overwhelmed. “So your big master plan is taking me back to the place where I accidentally had a teenage crush meltdown and basically confessed without confessing.”

Ilya’s smile deepens, soft at the edges. “Yes.”

Shane studies him. Longer this time. The quiet sincerity in his expression. The lack of smirk. Just Ilya, his husband, looking at him like he’s still the most interesting thing in the world after all these years.

Shane exhales slowly through his nose. “That’s actually kind of good.”

“I know.”

“Don’t get smug.”

“I am not smug.”

“You’re a little smug.”

“Maybe a little.”

Shane opens the car door. Cold air rushes in, sharp and bracing. He steps out, boots crunching on the driveway salt, and glances over his shoulder as Ilya follows.

“So when exactly were you planning this midnight nostalgia skating trip?”

Ilya reaches the front door beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush. “Tomorrow.”

Shane stops with his hand on the doorknob. “Tomorrow? We have practice at nine. You’re suggesting we go skate outside at midnight the night after practice.”

“Yes.”

Shane stares at him. Then laughs, quiet, incredulous, delighted. “You’re insane.”

Ilya leans slightly closer as Shane unlocks the door. His voice drops, warm against Shane’s ear.

“You like when I am insane, kotyonok.”

The Russian pet name slips out easily, soft, familiar, intimate. It lands like it always does: low in Shane’s stomach, warm in his chest.
Shane pauses for half a second, key still in the lock.

From inside the house, nails suddenly click rapidly against hardwood. A blur of golden fur charges toward them. Anya, tail wagging so hard her whole back end swings. She launches directly at Ilya with unrestrained joy, paws scrabbling at his thighs.

Shane points at her, mock stern. “See? Even the dog is biased.”

Ilya crouches immediately, laughing quietly as Anya climbs halfway into his arms, licking his chin with desperate enthusiasm. “No, she is not biased. She is just smart.”

Shane kicks the door closed behind them, locking out the cold. “You two are a conspiracy.”

Ilya scratches behind the dog’s ears, voice calm and certain. “Tomorrow night.”

Shane sighs, long and theatrical but the smile never leaves his face.

“Fine.”

Ilya looks up from Anya, eyes bright. “Fine?”

“Yeah.”

“Very enthusiastic.”

“Don’t ruin it.”
Ilya grins full, unguarded, the one that still makes Shane’s heart stutter after all these years.

Inside the entryway, Ilya kicked off his sneakers without bothering to untie them, toes flexing against the mat. Shane was already peeling his hoodie over his head, static crackling as dark hair stood up in soft spikes. They were both wrecked, muscles heavy, joints stiff, but the win still buzzed under their skin like leftover electricity, bright and restless.

Shane tossed the hoodie onto the bench and looked at Ilya, really looked, at the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, the quiet satisfaction that lived there now instead of the old sharp edges.

Tomorrow night. Midnight. Just them. An outdoor rink. No cameras. No crowd. No challenge, really just memory, and love, and the simple act of skating together because they could.

Shane stepped closer, bumped Ilya’s shoulder lightly.

“You’re still losing,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Just affection. Thick, unshakable affection.

Ilya caught his wrist, thumb brushing over the pulse point. “We will see, Hollander.”

Shane didn’t pull away. He just smiled, small, tired, helplessly in love, and let Ilya tug him toward the stairs.

Tomorrow night.

He already couldn’t wait.

 

Shane reached for Ilya first, hands finding his waist, pulling him in until their foreheads touched.

“We fucking did it,” Shane murmured, voice rough and proud.

Ilya answered with a slow, tired smile. “Yeah. We did.”

The kiss started gentle, lips brushing, tasting salt and victory, but it deepened fast, hungry in the way only exhaustion and adrenaline can make it.

Hands roamed under damp shirts, mapping familiar lines of muscle and bone. Shane tugged Ilya’s jersey off in one motion; Ilya retaliated by shoving Shane’s sweatpants down just enough to palm him through his briefs. A low, pleased sound rumbled out of Shane’s throat.

They stumbled toward the bed in a clumsy tangle, shedding the rest of their clothes along the way. When the backs of Ilya’s knees hit the mattress he sat, pulling Shane down to straddle his lap. For a moment they just breathed against each other’s mouths, hearts hammering in sync.

“Want you,” Shane whispered, fingers tracing the dip of Ilya’s spine. “Been thinking about this the whole last period.”

Ilya huffed a soft laugh against his jaw. “Me too. Every time you looked over after a goal.”

They kissed again, slower now, savoring, while Ilya reached blindly for the nightstand drawer.

The cap of the lube bottle snapped open with a familiar click. He warmed a generous amount between his fingers before sliding his hand down between them.

Shane exhaled shakily when the first slick fingertip circled him, teasing the rim before pressing inside, slow and careful. Ilya watched his face the whole time, watched the way Shane’s lashes fluttered, the way his lips parted on a quiet moan.

“Good?” Ilya asked, voice soft.

“So good.” Shane rocked down onto the finger, then two, letting Ilya stretch him open with patient, curling strokes. The lube made everything glide, warm and easy, and soon Shane was grinding in slow, needy circles, chasing the pressure against his prostate.

When Ilya added a third finger Shane’s hand flew to his own cock, stroking himself lazily while he rode the stretch. Their mouths met again, messy and open, all tongue and shared breath.

“Ready?” Ilya murmured.

Shane nodded, eyes glassy and dark. “Want to feel you. All of you.”

Ilya withdrew his fingers carefully, slicking himself up with more lube until his cock glistened. He guided Shane up just enough, then steadied him as he sank back down, slow, so slow, watching every flicker of expression as the thick head breached him, then the rest followed in one long, smooth glide.

Shane’s head dropped forward onto Ilya’s shoulder with a broken moan. “Fuck… yes.”

They stayed like that for a heartbeat, just feeling, Ilya buried deep, Shane clenching around him, both of them trembling from how good it was.

Then Ilya started to move, small rocking rolls of his hips at first, finding the angle that made them both gasp.

Ilya’s hands slid up Shane’s back, cradling him close while they found a rhythm, slow, deep, unhurried. Every slide dragged against sensitive spots; every grind earned a soft whimper or a curse whispered into skin. Ilya kissed along Shane’s throat, tasting sweat and the faint sweetness of his shampoo.

“Love how you feel,” Ilya breathed against his pulse. “Love you.”

Shane’s arms tightened around Ilya’s neck. “Love you too... fuck, right there.”

The pace stayed steady but grew hungrier, slick sounds filling the quiet room along with their ragged breathing. Shane’s hand found his own cock again, stroking in time with the way Ilya rolled up into him. The heat built fast, coiling tight in their bellies.

Ilya came first, head thrown back, a low, wrecked groan tearing out of him as he pulsed deep inside Shane, hips jerking through the aftershocks. The feeling of him spilling triggered Shane’s own release; he cried out softly, spilling over his fist and onto Ilya’s stomach in hot, messy stripes.

They clung to each other afterward, panting, hearts thundering against ribcages. Ilya pressed lazy kisses to Shane’s temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

"We need a shower.” Shane said.

“Five more minutes,” Ilya murmured, arms tightening. “Just… stay like this.”

Shane hummed agreement, already melting against him, warm and sated and safe.

Five more minutes turned into ten. Then twenty.

The win, and everything that came after, felt perfect.

Chapter 4: Day Three

Chapter Summary

Or the one with the ice rink ☺️

Morning comes quietly in their house, the way only winter mornings can, soft and unhurried, as if the world itself is still half asleep. Pale gray light slips through the frost laced kitchen windows like a secret, painting everything in muted silver and turning the wooden floors into a gentle glow. The air carries the faint, comforting scent of last night’s woodsmoke from the fireplace and the warm, sleepy musk of the blankets they’d left rumpled upstairs. No alarms. No rush. Just the occasional creak of old beams settling, and the distant, muffled whisper of wind brushing against the leaves. It feels like the house is holding its breath, cradling them both in the last few stolen minutes of peace before the world intrudes.

The documentary crew arrives just after eight, their van pulling up with the respectful hush of people who know they’re stepping into someone else’s sanctuary. They’re quieter than the reporters who used to swarm after games, voices low, footsteps careful, boards, cables coiled like sleeping snakes. But even their gentleness changes the air. The house feels suddenly awake, aware. Cameras on tripods unfold like patient sentinels. A soft lighting panel hums to life near the living room window, bathing the space in a warmer, kinder gold that mimics sunlight without the glare. Wires snake across the floor in neat, taped paths.

Anya circles the crew twice with her head tilted in suspicious curiosity, ears perked, tail low but wagging just enough to say she’s deciding. Then she sniffs one cameraman’s boot, deems him acceptable, and promptly plants herself against Ilya’s leg like a living shield, her warm weight a steady anchor.

Ilya watches it all from the doorway, arms loosely crossed, a faint half smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He feels the familiar knot of exposure tighten in his chest, not fear, exactly, but the old instinct to guard what’s his. Shane had disappeared upstairs minutes ago with a quick kiss to Ilya’s temple and a murmured,

“You’ve got this. I’ll be right here if you need me.” The memory of that kiss lingers like heat on his skin, steadying him.

The producer, a woman with kind eyes and a soft voice, approaches. “We thought we’d start with individual interviews today,” she says gently, as if offering him an out he doesn’t need. “Just a few questions about the season… and about you two. Nothing you haven’t handled before.”

Ilya nods once. “That is fine.” His voice is calm, but inside, a quiet tide of memories is already rising, years of hiding, of pretending, of loving in fragments. He lets them guide him to the couch near the window. The winter light catches along the sharp edge of his shoulders, tracing the line of his jaw, softening the captain’s armor he still wears even at home. He sits, hands resting loosely together in his lap, posture relaxed but naturally composed, the way years on the ice taught him.

Anya follows, curling at his feet with her head heavy on his boot, her warm breath puffing softly against the leather.

The camera adjusts with a soft mechanical whir. A quiet red light flickers on, like a heartbeat.

For a long moment, no one speaks. The house seems to lean in with them, creaking once, as if listening. Then the interviewer’s voice floats from behind the lens, gentle, almost reverent.

“Ilya Rozanov… a lot of people know the public version of your relationship with Shane now. The headlines, the press conferences, the way the league finally caught up. But we’re interested in how it actually began… from your perspective. The real one.”

Ilya exhales slowly through his nose, the sound barely audible. Not uncomfortable. Just… thinking. His gaze drops to the floorboards, tracing the grain of the wood as if the answer is carved there in invisible ink. Inside, his heart does a slow, familiar ache, the kind that comes when you touch old scars that no longer hurt but still remember the shape of the wound.

“When I first met Shane,” he begins, voice calm and steady, each word measured like a puck on fresh ice, “I did not think about love.” A faint, rueful smile flickers across his face, warming the edges of his eyes. “I thought about competition. About how he could push me. How he made every shift feel like war, and how much I needed that.”

The crew stays perfectly still. Letting him breathe. Letting the silence hold the weight.

“He was… very intense,” Ilya continues, the fondness threading through his tone like sunlight through frost. “Always angry when he lost. Jaw tight. Eyes like fire. Very serious about hockey. I liked that. More than I wanted to admit.” His fingers tap lightly against his knee, a small rhythm that betrays the memories surfacing. “At that time, I believed many things about myself that were not true. I believed hockey had to be everything. That the rest of me, the parts that felt too much, wanted too much, were not allowed to exist. That if I ignored them long enough, they would disappear.”

He pauses, the smile fading into something quieter, more honest. The interviewer waits, patient.

“I was in denial for many years,” Ilya says softly, almost to himself. “Not only about Shane. About myself. About what I wanted when the lights went out and the crowd was gone. I told myself it was rivalry. Tension. Something temporary that would burn itself out.” Inside, the old shame flickers, brief, harmless now, but he feels it all the same: the nights alone in hotel rooms, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering with want he refused to name.

The interviewer leans forward slightly, voice gentle. “When did that start to change for you?”

Ilya’s eyes lift toward the window. Outside, the yard lies dusted with the thin, glittering snow that fell overnight, every branch etched in white like a painting. The light catches in his lashes for a moment.

“It changed slowly,” he answers. “But there was one moment that mattered most. The one that cracked everything open.”

He leans back against the couch, arms folding loosely across his chest as if settling deeper into the memory. His voice warms, carrying the scent of pine and lake water even here in the winter house. “The cottage.”

A small, private smile curves his mouth now, the kind that belongs only to Shane. “The first time I said I love you to him was there.”

The interviewer tilts her head, curious but soft. “Can you tell us about that day? What made it the turning point?”

Ilya exhales, a soft sound that carries years of relief. For a second, the captain disappears entirely. What’s left is just a man, bare, remembering something sacred. His chest tightens with the sweetness of it, the way his throat had gone dry that day, the way his hands had trembled when he finally let the words out.

“It was summer,” he says, voice low. “Very quiet. Sun everywhere. The lake was so still. We had gone there to be together alone for a few weeks, no phones, no schedules, no one watching. Just us.”

His gaze drifts toward the staircase where Shane had vanished earlier, and Ilya feels a pull in his chest, the invisible thread that always tethers him to the man upstairs. “Shane was nervous. More than I had ever seen him. We were in bed and he woke me talking too fast about this huge lifetime plan he had been carrying for hours”

The interviewer smiles faintly. “Why was he nervous?”

Ilya laughs under his breath, the sound warm and fond. “Because he thought I might leave. He thought if he laid it all out, the charity we could start together, the way we could pretend to be friends in public until the world was ready, the day we could stop hiding, he thought I would panic and walk away.” Ilya’s fingers tighten together in his lap, the memory vivid: Shane’s voice cracking on the words, eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that made Ilya’s entire world tilt. “I had spent so many years pretending that nothing between us was real. Pretending the way my heart raced around him was just adrenaline from the game. Pretending I didn’t wake up thinking about his laugh, his hands, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.”

His voice lowers, thick with emotion now. “But at the cottage… it became very obvious that I was lying to myself. Every single day.”

The interviewer’s next question is almost a whisper. “What made you realize that? What was the moment?”

Ilya closes his eyes for half a second, breathing in the memory like fresh air. Inside, his heart swells until it aches beautifully, the low light from nightstand, Shane’s bare shoulders.

“A lot of things,” he says softly. “But mostly… him. He was making me feel at home for the first time in my life. Not a hotel room. Not an arena. Just home. And he was talking, really talking, about starting that charity, about building something that was ours, about one day being free to hold my hand in public without the world exploding.” Ilya’s throat works. “And I remember being in bed with him thinking… I wanted every single day of my life to look like this. To feel like this. Quiet. Safe. His.”

The room is utterly silent now. Even the crew seems to hold their breath. Ilya’s eyes shimmer just slightly in the winter light, the emotion raw but steady.

“That is when I understood something important,” he continues, voice thick. “Love is not only the big moments. Not only the fights on the ice or the passion or the dramatic parts everyone sees.” He gestures lightly with one hand, as if painting the air. “Love is also very quiet. Love is wanting to wake up in the same place as someone every single day. To make coffee together in silence. To watch the snow fall and know they are breathing beside you. To choose them over and over, even when the world makes it hard.”

A long beat passes, the weight of it settling like fresh snow. Then he adds, quieter still, “So I told him.”

The interviewer’s smile is gentle, encouraging. “What did you say? Exactly?”

Ilya’s expression shifts, something warm, private, almost shy crossing his face. His voice drops into the accent he only lets out when he’s emotional.

“I said… ‘Ya tebya lyublyu.’” He pauses, letting the Russian linger like a vow. “Then I said it again in English, because Shane does not trust my Russian when I am being emotional. He always thinks I am saying something else.” A soft laugh escapes him, the memory bright. “I said, ‘I love you. Simple as that.’”

The crew ripples with quiet laughter, the tension breaking for a breath. The interviewer leans in. “And how did he react? What did he do?”

Ilya looks down briefly, cheeks warming even now. “He said… ‘Holy shit.’ Just like that. Then he stared at me for a full ten seconds, eyes huge, like I had punched him in the best way possible.”

Ilya’s smile deepens, eyes crinkling. “Then he grabbed me and kissed me so hard i started crying. And he kept whispering ‘I love you’ back between every breath, like he was afraid if he stopped I would disappear.”

Ilya’s voice catches, just for a second, the relief of that day flooding back, warm and overwhelming. “I was relieved,” he says simply. “More than anything. Relieved because after that moment… I never had to pretend again. I could finally breathe. Finally be whole.”

The interviewer lets the silence sit, respectful. Then, softly: “You mentioned the cottage earlier. It sounds like it’s sacred to you both.”

Ilya nods slowly, the motion full of quiet reverence. “It is my favorite place in the world.”

“Why?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

His answer comes immediately, certain. “Because it is the only place in the world that belongs only to us.”

His gaze drifts again toward the staircase, toward where Shane is waiting upstairs, probably pacing with that nervous energy Ilya knows so well. The love in his chest feels vast, endless.

“At the cottage,” Ilya says, voice low and full of everything he cannot put into statistics or press conferences, “there are no reporters. No cameras. No teammates. No expectations. No fear. It is just Shane. His laugh echoing off the water. His hand in mine while we sit on the dock at sunset. His breathing beside me when the stars come out.” A small, aching smile. “And that… that is enough. It has always been enough.”

The camera keeps rolling for a few seconds after he finishes, capturing the way the winter light catches the quiet peace in his eyes. Ilya says nothing more. He simply sits there, calm and thoughtful, one hand resting on Anya’s warm head as she presses closer, her tail thumping once against the floor in quiet solidarity.

Upstairs, he knows Shane is listening. And for the first time in years, the thought brings only joy, no fear, no hiding. Just the deep, steady certainty that this is their life now. Real. Open. Theirs.

“Those denial years,” she says softly, careful not to push. “You mentioned them briefly. Would you… be willing to tell us more? Not the headlines. The parts no one saw.”

Ilya doesn’t flinch. He never does anymore. But inside, something ancient stirs— not pain exactly, but the echo of it, like pressing on a bruise that has long since turned yellow and faint. Anya shifts at his feet, sensing the change, her warm head pressing heavier against his boot as if to remind him: you are safe now. He rests one hand on her ear, thumb stroking slowly, grounding himself in the present before he lets the past rise.

“Yes,” he says, voice low and steady, though the words feel heavier than the pucks he once carried in his chest. “I can talk about it now.”

“Those years… they were not loud,” he begins. “That is what people do not understand. Denial is quiet. It is patient. It sits with you every single day and whispers that you are fine. That everything is under control.”

I met Shane when I was seventeen. He was seventeen too. First time we played against each other, he checked me so hard into the boards I saw stars. And instead of being angry… I felt alive. Electric. Like the ice had finally woken me up after years of skating half-asleep. I told myself it was respect. Rivalry. The thrill of a real opponent.” A faint, bitter smile ghosts across his mouth. “I was very good at lying to myself even then.”

The crew is motionless. The house itself seems to listen, old beams creaking once, softly, as if the walls remember every secret ever spoken inside them.

“After that, it became a pattern. Every game against his team, I would look for him. Not on purpose. Or so I told myself. But my eyes found him on the ice like a compass finds north. The way he skated, low, angry, beautiful. The way he cursed under his breath when he missed a shot. The way sweat darkened his hair at the temples.” Ilya’s voice drops. “I told myself it was because he was good. Because he pushed me to be better. But at night… in the hotel rooms… the lie started to crack.”

“I dated women,” he continues quietly, the confession steady but heavy. “Nice women. Good women. Journalists, models, the kind the league liked to see on my arm at events. I was kind to them. Gentle. But every kiss felt… borrowed. Like I was borrowing someone else’s life. And afterward, when they slept, I would stare at the ceiling and feel hollow. Not because of them. Because of the lie I was still telling. Because even then, when I closed my eyes, it was Shane’s face I saw. His voice I heard cursing at me across the ice. His hands I imagined.”

He laughs once, softly, without humor. “I became very good at pretending. On the ice, I was the perfect Russian captain, stoic, focused, unbreakable. In the locker room, I joked with the boys, drank vodka when they wanted, talked about girls like it was normal. And every time Shane and I met at the All Star Game or in playoffs, I would shake his hand like nothing lived under my skin. Like my pulse wasn’t screaming his name.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, the winter light catching the sharp line of his jaw. Anya whines softly, sensing the ache, and he strokes her head again, steadying.

“I told myself I was protecting us both. That loving him would ruin him too. That the league was not ready. That Russia was not ready. That I was not ready. I built walls so high I could not even see over them anymore. Years of it. Seasons blurring together. Every time we fought on the ice, every time we scored on each other, every time our eyes locked across the rink… I pushed it down deeper. Turned it into anger. Into fuel. Into anything except what it was.”

“And then… the cottage. That first summer we finally stole for ourselves. The moment I stood on that dock with the sun on my back and Shane looking at me like I was his whole world… every single lie I had told myself for years simply… dissolved. And for the first time, I was not afraid of what was left underneath.”

Ilya sits back, the tension leaving his shoulders slowly, like steam rising off a frozen lake in spring. His eyes clear, the old shadows retreating back into memory where they belong.

“Those denial years taught me something I never expected,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “They taught me how heavy a secret can be. And how light you feel when you finally set it down.”

The red light on the camera keeps glowing.

Outside, the snow begins to fall again, soft, silent, forgiving.

Upstairs, Shane is still waiting. And for the first time in the telling of it, Ilya feels no shame at all. Only the deep, steady warmth of having survived the winter inside himself… and finally stepping into the sun.

The winter light has softened further, turning the living room into a quiet sanctuary of pearl and silver. Frost still clings to the edges of the windowpanes like delicate lace, and the faint scent of fresh snow drifts in whenever the crew opens the door. Anya has not moved from her post at Ilya’s feet, her breathing slow and steady, a living reminder that the world outside this room can wait.

A couple of minutes later, the staircase creaks softly, once, twice, the familiar rhythm Shane’s footsteps always make when he’s trying not to disturb anything. He appears at the top of the stairs first as a shadow, then as the man himself: hair still slightly sleep-mussed, wearing the old gray hoodie Ilya stole from him three years ago and never gave back. His shoulders are relaxed, but Ilya knows him too well, the tiny crease between his brows, the way his fingers flex at his sides. Shane has never loved solo interviews. The spotlight feels too sharp when he’s alone in it, too much like the years he spent performing perfection for everyone else.

He pauses on the last step, eyes finding Ilya instantly. The look they exchange is small, private, wordless: I’m here. You good? Always.

Shane’s mouth curves in the faintest smile, the one that still makes Ilya’s chest feel too full, like the first warm breath after a long shift on the ice.
The producer glances up. “We were just finishing with Ilya, but if you want to join us now...”

Shane lifts one shoulder, easy. “Yeah. I’m good with that.” He crosses the room in that loose, athletic stride that still carries the echo of every arena he’s ever owned, then drops onto the couch beside Ilya, not close enough for the cameras to make it obvious, but close enough that their knees brush once. Under the coffee table, his socked foot finds Ilya’s and rests there, hidden. A quiet anchor. Ilya feels the contact like a small sun against his skin, steadying everything.

The interviewer settles back into her chair behind the camera, adjusting her notes with gentle hands. The red light is still glowing, patient.

“Actually, that’s something we wanted to ask about,” she says, voice warm with genuine curiosity. “It’s clear that you both spent a long time avoiding saying how you felt. The denial, the pretending, the years of pushing it down. Looking back now… do you ever wish you’d admitted it sooner? To each other, to yourselves?”

The question lands softly, but it still carries weight.

Shane lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but there’s something raw underneath it. His hand finds the back of the couch, fingers drumming once before stilling. Inside, the old ache flickers, years of nights alone together in hotel rooms, heart hammering with what he couldn’t name, the terror of disappointing everyone who had bet on him. “Oh, absolutely,” he says, voice low but certain. “Every damn day. I think about all the time we wasted being idiots. All the hotel rooms I left shaking because I couldn’t let myself stay. All the texts I deleted before I sent them. Yeah… I wish we’d figured it out sooner. I wish I’d been brave enough.”

Ilya answers at the exact same moment, calm and steady, like he’s been waiting for this exact question his whole life.

“No.”

Shane turns immediately, eyebrows shooting up, the surprise genuine and a little startled. “You don’t?”

Ilya shakes his head, once. His hand drops automatically to rest on Anya’s back, fingers sinking into warm fur as if the dog is the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth right now. Inside, his chest feels strangely peaceful, grateful, even, for the long, brutal road they took.

“No.”

Shane’s knee presses harder against Ilya's a silent what the hell. “Why not?”

Ilya exhales slowly, the sound carrying the weight of every quiet night he spent staring at ceilings.

“Because if we had admitted it sooner, we might not have survived it.”

The room grows quiet again, the kind of quiet that feels alive. The crew doesn’t move. Even the furnace seems to hush. Shane watches him carefully, eyes searching Ilya’s face like he’s reading a playbook written in a language only he understands.

“What do you mean?” Shane asks, softer now.

Ilya shrugs slightly, but there is nothing casual in the way his thumb strokes Anya’s spine in slow, soothing circles. His voice stays thoughtful, almost gentle, the way it only gets when he’s handing Shane something fragile.

“We were young. Very competitive. Very stubborn. Angry at the world and even angrier at ourselves. If we had tried to build something real during those years… the pressure might have broken it. The league, the media, our teams, our families, everything would have come down on us at once. We would have torn each other apart trying to protect the secret and protect each other at the same time.” He glances briefly at Shane, the look full of old tenderness and newer certainty. “But by the time we finally said it… we already knew each other. Inside the fights. Inside the silence. Inside every stupid penalty and every stolen glance. We had already learned how to love each other without words. So when the words finally came, they had somewhere safe to land.”

A small pause stretches between them, warm and electric. Shane’s expression shifts, surprise melting into something deeper, something that looks a lot like awe. He nods slowly, eyes never leaving Ilya’s. “…okay. That’s actually fair.”

His voice cracks just a little on the last word, and he clears his throat, trying to hide it behind a half laugh. Inside, his heart is doing something complicated: gratitude and regret and love all braided together so tightly he can barely breathe.

“I still hate the waiting. But… yeah. Maybe we needed to become the men we are now before we could hold this without dropping it.”

The interviewer smiles, faint and respectful. “So you think the timing mattered.”

Ilya nods once. Shane huffs. “I mean… I still think we could’ve saved ourselves a few years of emotional chaos.”

“You enjoyed the chaos,” Ilya says, the corner of his mouth lifting in that rare, devastating half smile that always makes Shane’s stomach flip.

“I did not.”

“You argued with me every single time we saw each other.”

“That’s because you were extremely irritating.”

“I was flirting.”

Shane turns toward him in open disbelief, eyes wide, mouth already forming the protest. “You were not flirting.”

“I was.”

“You checked me into the boards so hard in the playoffs my helmet flew off.”

“That was playful.”

Shane stares at him, incredulous, but there’s laughter trying to break free in his chest. “That was a penalty. Five minutes. I sat in the box cursing your name and your entire bloodline.”

Ilya lifts one shoulder, completely unrepentant, eyes sparkling with quiet mischief. “You noticed me.”

“I always noticed you.” The words slip out so naturally, so raw, that Shane doesn’t realize the weight of them until a beat later. His cheeks flush, just slightly, just enough that only Ilya would catch it.

Shane clears his throat, trying to recover. “Well. Obviously. You were my biggest rival.”

Ilya watches him with quiet amusement, the kind that says I know exactly what you just admitted. His hand slides across the cushion until his pinky brushes Shane’s, hidden from the camera but not from them. The touch is small, but it says everything: I know. I love you anyway. I always did.

The interviewer takes the opening gently, voice warm. “So now that you’re married… teammates on the same line… and apparently competing in this whole new challenge the fans are calling ‘make each other fall in love again every single day’… what does that actually look like day to day? In this house. In the quiet mornings like this one.”

Shane groans, dropping his head back against the couch cushions, but the sound is pure affection. “I blame the documentary for that. Entirely.”

Ilya looks entirely unapologetic, one eyebrow arched. “You started it.”

“I made a joke on camera!”

“You made a challenge.”

Shane points at him, mock accusing, but his eyes are bright with laughter and something deeper, something that feels like coming home every single time he looks at Ilya. “You accepted it.”

“Of course I did.”

“Because you can’t resist winning things.”

“That is correct.”

The interviewer laughs softly behind the camera. “So what’s the score right now?”

Shane immediately answers, grinning: “I’m winning.”

At the exact same time, Ilya says calmly, voice like velvet over steel: “I am winning.”

They both turn toward each other on the couch, knees bumping, eyes locking in that old, familiar challenge that has always been their love language. Anya lifts her head, sensing the shift, tail thumping once against the floor in amusement.

“You are not winning,” Shane says flatly, but there’s a laugh caught in his throat and warmth flooding his chest so fiercely it almost hurts.

“I am absolutely winning,” Ilya counters, leaning in just enough that their shoulders touch. “Last night I made you coffee exactly the way you like it before you even opened your eyes. That is three points.”

“You passed me an empty net goal in a game. That was strategic manipulation.”

“That was romantic support.”

“That was hockey.”

“That was love.”

Shane drops his head back against the couch again, groaning long and theatrical, but the sound dissolves into helpless laughter. “Oh my god.”

He covers his face with one hand, peeking through his fingers at Ilya with pure, devastating fondness. Inside, his heart feels too big for his ribs, grateful, overwhelmed, stupidly in love with this stubborn, beautiful man who still fights him over everything and somehow makes every fight feel like foreplay. “You’re impossible. I can’t believe I married you.”

Ilya’s smile is small and private, the one that belongs only to Shane. “You can. You did. Twice, technically, once in secret, once in front of everyone.”

Shane’s hand finds Ilya’s openly now, fingers threading together right there on the couch for the cameras, for the crew, for the world. No more hiding. The winter light catches on their wedding rings, turning the metal into quiet fire.

The room feels warmer somehow. Fuller. Like the house itself is smiling.

 

The park is quieter than Shane expects, as if the city itself has stepped back to give them this small pocket of night.

Snow has been falling for hours, slow, weightless flakes that drift like whispers, catching in the glow of the streetlamps and settling along the boards of the outdoor rink in soft, unbroken drifts. The ice itself glows faintly pale blue under the halo of yellow floodlights, every scratch and divot from earlier skaters softened by fresh powder. The air smells of cold pine from the trees lining the park, mixed with the faint metallic bite of winter and the clean, crisp scent of snow itself. Somewhere far off a car hisses past on slushy pavement, but here the sound dies before it reaches them. The world feels muffled, intimate, like the rink has pulled a blanket over the two of them and everyone else has politely looked away.

Shane steps out of the passenger side of their car and immediately draws his coat tighter around his chest, breath blooming into thick white clouds that hang for a long moment before dissolving. The cold finds the exposed skin at his neck and wrists instantly, sharp and bracing, but he barely notices. His eyes are on the rink. On the wooden bench half buried in snow. On the way the lights turn falling flakes into tiny sparks of gold.

He turns slowly toward Ilya, who has already rounded the hood and is standing beside him, hands in his pockets, watching Shane’s face with that careful, quiet intensity he saves for moments like this.

“You really brought me here,” Shane says, voice low.

Ilya lifts one shoulder in that familiar half shrug, the motion small. “I said I would.”

Shane looks back at the rink. The memory surfaces unbidden, sharp and vivid: a hotel room years ago, post game adrenaline and fucking still buzzing under their skin, sheets tangled, arguments about skating technique turning into something softer, more dangerous. He’d said it offhand, almost embarrassed: “There’s this little outdoor rink near where I grew up. Nothing fancy. Just… quiet. I used to go there alone sometimes. It’s kind of my favorite place to skate.”

He hadn’t meant anything by it. Or maybe he had and hadn’t let himself admit it.

“You remembered that,” Shane says now, quieter still.

Ilya’s gaze flickers to him, steady. “Of course.”

Shane lets out a soft, incredulous breath that fogs the air between them. “Jesus, Rozanov.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. “That is good reaction?”

Shane laughs under his breath, the sound warm despite the cold. “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s a really good reaction.”

They move to the bench together. Snow has already collected on the slats, soft and powdery; Shane brushes some away with his glove before sitting. Ilya drops down beside him, their shoulders brushing as they bend to unlace boots and pull on skates. The motion is familiar, practiced, years of locker rooms and hotel rooms and quiet mornings at home, but tonight it feels different. Slower. Snowflakes land on Shane’s dark hair and melt slowly into tiny beads of water; a few settle along the collar of Ilya’s coat like pale stars. Neither of them brushes them away. It feels wrong to disturb the stillness.

When they finally step onto the ice, it groans faintly under their weight, a low, welcoming creak, before settling into the smooth glide of steel on frozen water. Instinct takes over immediately. They don’t need to speak. They fall into the same lazy rhythm they’ve always found together, slow circles, easy crossovers, the kind of skating that isn’t about speed or drills but about simply being on ice with the person who makes every other surface feel wrong.

For long minutes they don’t talk. Just skate.

Shane watches the way snow catches in Ilya’s eyelashes, the way his breath clouds in perfect time with Shane’s own. He watches the effortless way Ilya moves, still so fluid, so sure, even after the long practice earlier today. There was a time when watching Ilya skate like this would have lit a fire of competition in Shane’s chest. Now it lights something else entirely. Something warmer. Deeper. A quiet, steady ache of gratitude that this man, this stubborn, beautiful, impossible Russian is still here, still choosing him every day.

Finally Shane breaks the silence, voice soft enough that it almost disappears into the falling snow.

“You planned this.”

Ilya glides backward now, facing him, hands loose at his sides. “Yes. I told you I would do this.”

“For the challenge.”

Ilya pauses for half a second, long enough for Shane to notice. Then he shakes his head once, slow and certain. “No.”

Shane slows, skates carving a gentle arc. “No?”

“I wanted to bring you here anyway.”

The words land like a soft body check, unexpected, solid, warm. Shane feels something in his chest loosen, like a knot he hadn’t realized was still there.

“Why?” he asks, quieter now.

Ilya thinks about it as they circle again, the rhythm of their blades the only sound between them. Then he answers simply, without flourish: “You said you loved skating here.”

Shane exhales slowly, watching the snow drift through the cone of light above them. His throat feels tight in the best way.

“I did say that,” he murmurs.

“You did.”

“And you just… remembered it.”

Shane shakes his head a little, smiling in that quiet, disbelieving way that always appears when Ilya does something unexpectedly tender.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“Because most people forget stuff like that. Little throwaway comments from years ago. Especially when we were still…” He gestures vaguely between them. “…figuring out how not to kill each other.”

Ilya’s expression stays calm, but his eyes soften.

“I do not forget things about you.”

The honesty is so straightforward it steals Shane’s breath for a second. He feels it land somewhere deep, right under his ribs, warm and unshakable.

They drift toward the boards without meaning to, slowing until the ice carries them to a gentle stop. Shane rests his forearms along the top rail, turning so he’s facing Ilya. Snow has gathered along the edge of his eyelashes now; he blinks once and a flake melts against his cheek.

“You know,” Shane says softly, “this might be the nicest thing you’ve done for the challenge so far.”

Ilya’s mouth curves, just a faint, private lift at one corner. “So I am winning.”

Shane watches him for a long moment. Then he laughs under his breath, the sound fond and helpless. “…You might be.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow, playful now. “Only might?”

“Well,” Shane says thoughtfully, leaning his hip against the boards, “the empty net goal was still pretty impressive. Strategic genius, really.”

“That was teamwork.”

“That was emotional manipulation.”

“That was romance.”

Shane snorts, but the smile refuses to leave his face. They stand there quietly for a moment, the snow falling thicker now, the lights above casting long, warm shadows across the ice. The cold bites at Shane’s fingertips, but he barely feels it. All he feels is Ilya, close enough to touch, steady as always.

Then Shane pushes off the boards and skates closer. When he stops, they’re barely a foot apart, breath mingling in white clouds between them.

“I never confessed anything when I told you about this place, by the way,” Shane says, half, teasing, half, serious.

Ilya nods, amused. “I know.”

“You keep telling the story like I had some dramatic emotional breakthrough about this rink.”

“You said you loved skating here,” Ilya counters gently. “And you looked at me.”

Shane groans softly, rubbing a gloved hand over his face. “That does not mean anything.”

“You were staring.”

“I was not staring.”

“You were.”

Shane laughs quietly, shaking his head. “…Okay. Maybe a little.”

Ilya steps closer now, the distance between them shrinking until Shane can see the faint flush of cold across Ilya’s cheekbones, the way snowflakes cling to the dark strands of hair at his temples. “You liked skating with me,” Ilya says, voice low.

Shane nods, no hesitation. “Yeah,” he admits. “I did. I still do.”

A pause settles between them, soft, charged, full of everything they no longer have to hide.

Shane reaches out and lightly hooks his fingers into the front of Ilya’s jacket, pulling him just that much closer. The movement is easy. Natural. Like breathing.

“You know what the worst part about this challenge is?” Shane murmurs, eyes on Ilya’s mouth.

“What?”

Shane smiles softly, helplessly. “You’re really good at it.”

Ilya’s eyes warm, dark and steady. “I have advantage.”

“Oh yeah?” Shane tilts his head. “What’s the advantage?”

Ilya lifts one gloved hand and brushes a few stray snowflakes from Shane’s hair with surprising gentleness, fingers lingering just long enough to trace the shell of his ear. “I already love you.”

Shane’s breath catches, sharp, sweet, almost painful in how much it means. Then he laughs quietly, shaking his head as he leans forward and kisses him.

The kiss is slow and warm despite the freezing air, less fireworks and more homecoming. Shane tastes snow and pine and the faint trace of the mint gum Ilya always chews after practice. Ilya’s hand slides to the back of Shane’s neck, steady and sure, holding him there like he’s afraid Shane might disappear if he lets go.

When they finally pull apart, Shane rests his forehead against Ilya’s, eyes closed, breathing him in.

“…Okay,” he murmurs.

“Okay?”

Shane smiles, small and private. “You might actually be winning.”

Ilya looks quietly pleased, the expression softening every sharp line of his face.

Shane squeezes the front of Ilya’s jacket once more before letting go. “But I’m not giving up yet.”

“I would be disappointed if you did.”

They push off the boards together and skate again,.slower now, side by side, shoulders brushing every few strides. Shane’s hand occasionally finds Ilya’s, fingers tangling for a heartbeat before releasing, neither of them pretending it’s accidental.

Ilya notices everything. He always has.

The way Shane’s breath curls brighter when he laughs. The faint flush blooming across his cheeks from cold and something warmer. The soft, focused way his brows draw together when he skates, even here, even on imperfect ice.

There was a time when watching Shane like this would have sparked instant rivalryz every glide a challenge, every smile a taunt.

Now it only sparks one thought, steady and unshakable: I love him.

The realization still feels new sometimes, not because the feeling is new, but because he spent so many years refusing to let it breathe. Now it fills every quiet space between them, easy and endless.

Shane glances sideways, catching him staring again. “You’re staring.”

“I am thinking.”

“That’s worse.”

Ilya smiles faintly. “Probably.”

They slow near the center of the rink, skates carving lazy figure eights in the thin layer of fresh snow gathering on the surface. Shane studies him, curious.

“Okay,” he says. “What are you thinking about?”

Ilya hesitates not out of doubt, but because saying these things aloud still feels like stepping onto thin ice sometimes. For most of his life emotions stayed locked inside his chest, safe and silent. But Shane is watching him now with that patient, open look that always makes hiding impossible.

So Ilya exhales, slow, and lets the words come.

“I was thinking about the first time I realized I loved you.”

Shane blinks. “…When I told you about this place?”

Ilya laughs quietly, the sound warm in the cold.

“No.”

“Okay, good. Because I would’ve remembered that.”

“It was not dramatic moment like in movies.”

“Somehow that’s very on brand for us.”

They drift closer to the boards again, gliding almost lazily until Ilya rests one hand along the top rail. Shane leans beside him, waiting.

“It happened during a game,” Ilya says slowly.

Shane raises an eyebrow, amused. “A hockey game?”

“Yes.”

“That’s extremely predictable.”

“It was not predictable for me.”

Shane’s smile softens. “Okay. Tell me.”

Ilya watches the ice for a moment, letting the memory surface fully.

“It was early in our careers,” he says. “We were still playing for different teams. Still… fucking every time we saw each other and pretending it meant nothing.”

Shane smirks, but there’s fondness in it. “You loved that era.”

“I did. I still do.”

“Me too.”

Ilya bumps his shoulder lightly, then continues, voice quieter.“But during that game… you scored.”

Shane tilts his head. “I’ve scored a lot of goals against you.”

“Yes. Very annoying.”

“I’m sensing resentment.” Shane laughs softly.

“But after you scored,” Ilya says, “you turned toward your teammates and you smiled.”

Shane frowns slightly, searching his memory.

“Okay…”

“And I remember thinking something strange.”

“What?”

Ilya looks at him directly now. “I thought… I want to see that smile every day.”

The words settle gently between them, simple and devastating. Shane’s expression changes instantly, softens, opens, eyes going liquid in the yellow light.

“…Oh.”

Ilya shrugs a little, almost shy. “At the time I did not understand what that meant.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I assumed it was competitive instinct.”

“That’s the most you answer possible.”

“It was easier explanation.”

Shane studies him with quiet, aching fondness.

“And when did you realize that explanation was bullshit?”

Ilya smiles slightly. “At the cottage.”

Shane groans, tipping his head back. “God, that place really changed everything. Thank you, Scott Hunter, I guess.”

A comfortable silence falls, broken only by the soft hiss of snow against the floodlights. Then Ilya pushes lightly away from the boards and skates backward a few feet, facing Shane again.

“There is something else I was thinking about,” he says.

Shane raises an eyebrow, teasing. “Should I be nervous?”

“No.” Ilya smirks.
“That’s not reassuring.”

Ilya stops in front of him, close enough that Shane can feel the faint heat radiating off him in the cold. “This challenge,” Ilya says, “you think it is about making each other fall in love again.”

Shane shrugs. “Isn’t it?”

Ilya shakes his head slowly. “No.”

“Then what is it about, professor?”

Ilya reaches out, brushing a few snowflakes from Shane’s sleeve with careful fingers. “It is about remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

“Why we fell in love in the first place.”

Shane watches him quietly now, the teasing fading into something deeper.

Ilya continues, voice softer but steady. “For many years everything between us was difficult. Secret. Complicated. Full of fear and anger and pretending.”

Shane nods. “Yeah.”

“But now…” Ilya gestures lightly around them, the quiet rink, the falling snow, the empty park. “We have house. Anya. Team. Life together.”

Shane smiles faintly. “We’re disgustingly domestic.”

“And sometimes,” Ilya adds gently, “when life becomes comfortable, people forget to notice each other.”

Shane’s gaze sharpens slightly. “You think we forgot?”

Ilya shakes his head immediately. “No.”

“Then what?”

Ilya looks directly at him, eyes dark and earnest. “I think we became used to something extraordinary.”

Shane blinks, caught off guard.

Ilya’s voice drops even lower, almost a whisper against the snow. “You are still the person who makes my life brighter. Still the person I want to wake up next to every morning. Still the person whose laugh makes everything feel possible.” His mouth curves slightly. “And you are still very beautiful when you skate.”

Shane laughs under his breath, cheeks flushing darker despite the cold. “Jesus, Rozanov.”

“It is true.”

Shane shakes his head but steps closer until their chests almost touch. “You’re really leaning into the romance tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Trying to secure the win?”

Ilya considers that. Then he says softly, “No.”

Shane tilts his head. “No?”

“I am reminding you.”

“Of what?”

Ilya reaches out, gently curling his gloved fingers around Shane’s hand. Their skates bump lightly together as he pulls Shane’s hand to his chest, right over his heart.

“That I am still in love with you.”

Shane stares at their joined hands for a long second,.the black glove against Ilya’s dark coat, the steady thump of Ilya’s heartbeat beneath layers of wool and down.

Then he squeezes lightly, voice rough with emotion.

“Well,” he says quietly, “that’s kind of unfair.”

“Why?”

“Because now I have to step up my game tomorrow.”

Ilya smiles, small, warm, victorious in the gentlest way. “I look forward to it.”

Shane grins back, eyes bright.

And together they push off across the ice again, side by side, skating through the falling snow like two people who have spent years learning each other’s rhythm and still haven’t tired of the song.

The snow keeps falling, soft and steady. The lights glow on.

And if their hands brush more often now, if their shoulders stay pressed together a little longer, neither of them bothers to call it accidental.

They never have to pretend anymore.

Not here.
Not with each other.
Not ever again.

 

By the time they leave the rink, the snow has thickened.

Not a storm, nothing dramatic, but enough that the car is dusted in white when they walk back across the quiet parking lot. The park lights glow softly behind them, fading as they move toward the darker street, their skates slung over their shoulders and their breath clouding in the cold night air.

Shane’s hair is damp with melted snow, hair sticking out in different directions under his beanie. Ilya notices immediately. He always does.

“You look ridiculous,” Ilya says calmly as he unlocks the car.

Shane snorts. “Your hair is literally frozen.”

“It is dignified frozen.”

“That’s not a thing.”

Ilya opens the passenger door for him anyway.
Shane pauses halfway into the car, giving him a look that is equal parts amused and suspicious.
“Did you just open the door for me?”

“Yes.”

“…You’re really committed to this challenge.”

Ilya shrugs slightly as Shane climbs in. “I am romantic person.”

Shane laughs under his breath. “Jesus, if the team could hear you right now.”

“They would be jealous.”

“They would absolutely roast you.”

Ilya closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side, brushing snow from his shoulders before climbing in. The car fills with the low hum of the heater when he starts it, warm air slowly pushing back the cold that followed them inside.

For a moment neither of them moves. They just sit there.

Snow taps gently against the windshield. Shane flexes his fingers in front of the heater vents, sighing quietly as warmth returns to them.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Worth it.”

Ilya glances sideways at him. “The rink?”

“The rink. The snow. The whole stupid romantic setup.”

“You liked it.”

Shane leans his head back against the seat, turning to look at him. “…Yeah,” he says softly. “I really did.”

Ilya nods once, satisfied.
Then he pulls the car slowly onto the road.

The drive home is calm. The kind of quiet that only happens when two people know each other well enough that silence isn’t awkward. The city lights blur past the windows, reflecting off the thin layer of snow on the streets.

Shane rests his elbow against the door, watching the snow fall through the glow of the streetlights.

After a few minutes he says quietly, “You know what I was thinking about out there?”

Ilya keeps his eyes on the road. “What?”

Shane smiles faintly. “How weird our life is.”

“That is vague statement.”

“I mean it,” Shane says, turning slightly in his seat. “Like… if someone had told twenty year old me that one day I’d be married to my biggest rival and playing on the same team as him… I would’ve laughed in their face.”

“You did laugh in my face many times.”

“That’s different.”

Ilya’s mouth curves faintly.

Shane continues, voice softer now. “But somehow it all worked out.” He looks at Ilya for a moment, thoughtful. “You ever think about that?”

Ilya does. More often than he admits. Ilya glances at him briefly before returning his focus to the road. “I think we were very stubborn.”

Shane chuckles. “That’s one way to put it.”

“But we were also very patient.”

“Patient? That’s not a word people usually use for us.”

“Maybe they should.”

The car turns onto their street, tires crunching softly through the snow. Ilya slows as their house comes into view, warm light glowing through the front windows. Home.

He parks in the driveway and turns off the engine, the sudden quiet settling around them.

Shane drops his skates by the door and stretches slightly, rolling his shoulders.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Hot shower immediately.”

“That sounds like good plan.”

Shane starts toward the hallway, then stops suddenly and turns back.

“You coming?”

Ilya pauses mid step. Shane raises an eyebrow.
“Don’t tell me Captain Romance is suddenly shy.”

Ilya laughs quietly under his breath. “I am not shy.”

“Good. So let me blow you in the shower. ”

Shane reaches out, grabbing the front of his sweater and tugging him closer. Because even after years together, sometimes the simplest gestures still feel right.

The steam was already thick in the bathroom by the time they stepped inside. Shane cranked the water hotter, letting it pound against the tiles while he stripped out of damp clothes with quick, impatient movements. Ilya followed more slowly, peeling off layers, eyes tracking every line of Shane’s body like he was still memorizing it after all this time.

Shane stepped under the spray first, groaning low as the heat hit his shoulders and ran down his back in rivulets. He turned, water dark hair plastered to his forehead, and crooked two fingers.

“Come here, husband.”

Ilya stepped in, the glass door clicking shut behind him. The space was small enough that their bodies brushed immediately, wet skin sliding, heat everywhere. Shane didn’t waste time on preamble. He sank to his knees on the warm tile, hands sliding up the backs of Ilya’s thighs, thumbs pressing into the muscle there.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed, one hand bracing against the wall, the other dropping instinctively to Shane’s wet hair.

Shane looked up through the spray, smirking.

“You’re already half hard. Thought you weren’t shy.”

“Shut up and put your mouth to better use.”

Shane’s laugh was muffled as he leaned in. He licked a slow, deliberate stripe along the underside of Ilya’s cock first, teasing, tasting clean skin, then took him in deep without warning.

Ilya’s head thunked back against the tile.

Shane hummed around him in approval, the vibration making Ilya’s hips jerk. He worked him with steady, filthy rhythm: tight lips, swirling tongue, one hand wrapped around the base to stroke what his mouth couldn’t reach. The other hand cupped Ilya’s balls, rolling them gently, then tugging just enough to make him swear in Russian.

Water streamed over Shane’s shoulders, down his back, dripping from his lashes when he glanced up. Ilya’s fingers tightened in his hair, not guiding, just holding on.

“Shane...” It came out rough, almost a warning.

Shane pulled off just long enough to rasp, “Come in my mouth. I want it.”

Then he dove back down, sucking harder, cheeks hollowing, throat working. Ilya lasted maybe another thirty seconds, hips stuttering, abs clenching, before he came with a choked groan, pulsing hot against Shane’s tongue. Shane swallowed every drop, slow and deliberate, milking him through it until Ilya’s knees threatened to give.

When he finally pulled off, lips swollen and shiny, he pressed a soft, almost tender kiss to the inside of Ilya’s thigh.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice wrecked.

Ilya hauled him up by the arms, kissed him hard, tasting himself, groaning into Shane’s mouth.

“You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

They stayed under the spray a while longer, soaping each other up with lazy hands. Shane worked shampoo into Ilya’s hair, fingers massaging his scalp until Ilya’s eyes fluttered closed. Ilya returned the favor, running soapy palms down Shane’s chest, his sides, between his legs, slow, thorough, teasing without pushing.

When the water started to cool they finally stepped out. The bathroom was fogged, mirrors useless. They grabbed towels, still damp from earlier, and dried each other with the kind of care that only comes after years.

Ilya took his time toweling Shane’s hair, then his shoulders, down his arms. Shane did the same, rubbing slow circles over Ilya’s back, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck when he turned him.

Then Ilya dropped the towel and pushed Shane gently backward until the backs of his thighs hit the edge of the vanity.

“My turn,” Ilya said, voice low.

Shane’s breath hitched. “Yeah?”

Ilya sank down without another word.

He didn’t tease the way Shane had. He went straight for it,.mouth hot and wet, taking Shane deep on the first slide. Shane’s hands flew to the counter behind him, knuckles white.

“Fuck... fuck, Ilya... ”

Ilya’s hands gripped Shane’s hips, holding him still while he worked him with slow, devastating pulls. Tongue flat along the underside, then flicking against the head on every upstroke. He hollowed his cheeks, sucked hard, let Shane feel every inch of throat when he swallowed around him.

Shane’s head dropped forward, watching through half lidded eyes as Ilya’s lips stretched around him, cheeks flushed from heat and effort.

One of Ilya’s hands slid between Shane’s legs, fingers pressing behind his balls, rubbing slow circles that made Shane’s thighs shake.

“Jesus Christ... right there...don’t stop.”

Ilya didn’t. He sped up, wet and noisy and shameless, until Shane was panting curses, hips jerking in tiny helpless thrusts.

“I’m... fuck, I’m gonna...”

Ilya pulled off just enough to growl, “Give it to me,” then took him deep again.

Shane came with a broken moan, hips bucking, spilling down Ilya’s throat. Ilya swallowed greedily, kept sucking softly through the aftershocks until Shane was trembling, oversensitive, laughing breathlessly.

“Evil,” Shane managed when Ilya finally pulled off, lips red and slick.

Ilya stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed him slow, letting Shane taste himself.

“You started it.”

Shane wrapped both arms around him, pulling their damp bodies flush. “Best fucking plan.”

Ilya smiled against his mouth. “Told you.”

Chapter 5: Day Four

Chapter Summary

His strategy will get ya get ya baby 😉

https://youtu.be/Sz_wWzgh-vQ?si=56obCL5eaEl6U8mZ

All i'm going to Say 😉

The locker room smelled like fresh tape, damp gear, and the faint metallic tang of yesterday’s ice still clinging to everyone’s skates. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh white pools across the scarred wooden benches and the clutter of sticks, gloves, and half unzipped bags. The game was half a hour away and media scrums even further, but the room already thrummed with the low, familiar pre game current half focus, half restless energy.

Three stalls down, Wyatt was holding court again.

“I’m telling you,” he insisted, waving a fresh roll of white tape like it was Exhibit A in a murder trial, “white tape is psychologically superior. Goalies track white better on the ice. It’s science. Perception. Edge.”

Bood stared at him with the flat disbelief usually reserved for conspiracy theories about the flat earth. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is a thing,” Wyatt shot back, undeterred. “You tape your stick black or neon or whatever tragic color scheme you’re running this week, and the puck looks like it’s camouflaged. White pops. It’s an advantage.”

“That makes absolutely no sense,” Bood said, already turning back to his laces.

“It makes perfect sense if you understand psychology,” Wyatt pressed.

Shane, two stalls over, didn’t even glance up from the careful spiral he was wrapping around his blade. He smoothed the last layer with his thumb, feeling the familiar texture settle under his fingertip. Routine. Comforting. Predictable.

Which was exactly why the sudden explosion from the locker room speakers felt like someone had lobbed a live grenade into the middle of the carpet.

Heavy drums. A deep, insistent chant.

The opening beat of SEVENTEEN’s “SUPER” slammed through the room, bright, relentless, triumphant.

Shane froze mid motion, tape still pinched between his fingers.

“Oh no,” he said quietly.

Across the room Luca Haas’s eyes went cartoon wide. “WAIT.”

The chorus detonated. Wyatt didn’t hesitate. He slammed the butt of his stick against the floor like a war drum, grinning like a man who’d just been handed permission to cause chaos.

“CAPTAIN’S DJING TODAY!” The room ignited.

Luca started clapping to the beat, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a kid at a concert. Bood let out a low, surprised laugh. Troy Barrett walked past Shane toward the equipment racks, already nodding along, shoulders loose, like this was somehow now part of standard morning protocol.

Shane turned his head slowly, very slowly, toward the source.

And there he was. His husband stood in front of his stall like he was about to deliver a tactical breakdown to a war room. Arms crossed over his chest. Chin lifted. Head nodding once, precisely, every few beats in solemn approval of the track. He looked utterly serious. Utterly pleased with himself.

Shane stared. “You’ve known about K-pop for… what? Three weeks?”

Ilya glanced over, calm as lake water. “I am quick learner.”

The chant echoed louder, bright, victorious, and Wyatt attempted to join in, mangling every syllable with enthusiastic confidence.

“AYE AYE AYE...something something!”

“That is not even close,” Luca wheezed, laughing so hard he had to brace himself against his stall.
Then the chorus built again, massive and sparkling.

Ilya suddenly lifted his chin, voice cutting clean through the music with unshakable confidence.
“I LOVE MY TEAM!” he belted in his thick Russian accent. Then he pointed around the room “I LOVE MY CREW!”

The locker room detonated. Wyatt doubled over, clutching his stomach. “CAPTAIN JUST MADE HIS OWN LYRICS!”

“That is the lyric,” Ilya said, dead serious. “And it is correct message.”

Shane pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying, and failing, to keep the laugh from cracking through his ribs.

“I showed him one music video,” he muttered to Troy, who was leaning against the wall beside him, shoulders already shaking.

“You created this monster,” Troy replied, wiping at his eyes.

The song kept blasting. Half the team attempted terrible, joyous dance moves. Luca tried, and mostly failed, to mimic the precise hand choreography from the music video. Wyatt stomped around the center of the room like he was leading twenty thousand fans in a stadium. Bood clapped along anyway, grinning like he couldn’t help it.

And through it all Ilya stood there, nodding like an extremely satisfied conductor who had just heard his orchestra play perfectly.

When the track finally faded out, the room collapsed into breathless, giddy silence.

Shane exhaled slowly. Maybe that was it. One chaotic captain moment. Done. Then the next song started. Bright percussion. A brassy, triumphant synth trumpet. The unmistakable, swaggering opening of BTS’s “IDOL.”

Wyatt threw both arms in the air. “LET’S GOOOO!”

Half the room immediately started bouncing. Luca pointed at the speakers like he’d just spotted royalty. “This one is legendary!”

Ilya nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Excellent energy.”

Then, with perfect gravitas: “CAN CALL ME ARTIST! CAN CALL ME IDOL!”

Shane looked at him, incredulous. “You sound like you’re reviewing wine.”

Wyatt was already in the middle of the carpet attempting what could only generously be called choreography. It looked like someone had described the dance to him once over a bad phone connection and he’d decided to freestyle from memory.

“That is wrong on every level,” Luca said, still laughing. Bood clapped anyway.

Shane leaned back against his stall, arms crossed, watching the beautiful disaster he had, indirectly, unleashed.

“I showed him one music video,” he repeated quietly, mostly to himself.

The song eventually wound down, leaving the team flushed and giggling. And that was when Shane noticed Ilya lift one finger. The universal DJ signal: one more.

Shane narrowed his eyes. “…What are you doing.”

“Next song,” Ilya said, calm as if he were announcing line changes. Shane felt dread coil slow and warm in his stomach.

Then the speakers came alive again. Bright. Dramatic. Playful.

TWICE – “Strategy.”

Shane froze. “Oh absolutely not.”

Across the room Ilya turned slowly. And looked directly at him. That small, dangerous smirk appeared, the one that always meant trouble.

Wyatt sensed it instantly. He jumped onto a bench like a referee calling icing.
“EVERYONE SHUT THE HELL UP.”

The locker room fell silent so fast it was almost comical. Ilya stepped forward into the open space in the center of the carpet. Then… he started dancing.Not joking. Not half assing it for laughs. Real choreography. Clean steps. Sharp, precise arm movements. Perfect timing with the beat.

Luca screamed. “WHAT?!”

“CAPTAIN GOT MOVES!” Wyatt bellowed, slamming his stick against the bench like a gavel.

Shane stared in absolute, stunned disbelief.
“When the fuck did you learn this?!”

Ilya didn’t answer. Because the chorus hit. And he started walking toward Shane while dancing.
Every movement smooth. Every step locked to the rhythm. And the entire time his eyes stayed locked on Shane, dark, amused, utterly unafraid.
Then he sang. Soft at first, almost intimate.

“Winning is my trademark…” Another step closer.
“Soon you’ll never wanna leave…”

Wyatt grabbed Luca’s shoulder like he might actually pass out from secondhand embarrassment and delight.

“My strategy… strategy…”

Ilya spun smoothly, clean, practiced, then pointed directly at Shane.

“…will get ya, get ya, baby.”

Shane felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, slow and unstoppable. His pulse hammered in his ears louder than the music. The entire team was losing their minds behind him, shouting, clapping, wolf whistling, but he could barely hear them over the sudden, dizzy rush in his chest.

Ilya kept coming. Close enough now that Shane could see the faint sheen of sweat at his temples from the exertion, the quiet spark of triumph in his eyes. Still singing. “Winning is my trademark…” Another measured step. “Soon you’ll never wanna leave…” His finger lifted again, pointing straight at Shane’s chest like an arrow finding center. “My strategy, strategy…”
He leaned in, just slightly, just enough that Shane could feel the warmth of him through the layers of gear and tape. “…will get ya, get ya, baby.”

The final beat dropped. Ilya finished the pose with perfect, practiced precision, finger still extended, eyes never leaving Shane’s.

The locker room detonated.

Wyatt screamed from the bench: “CAPTAIN’S GOT GAME!”

Luca clapped so hard his hands turned red. “HE LEARNED IT FOR THE CHALLENGE!”

Troy was doubled over, towel pressed to his face, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Shane dragged a hand slowly through his hair, trying to find oxygen. “You practiced this.”

“Yes.”

“In the house. When I was... what? Sleeping?”

“Yes, I did.”

“For the challenge.”

Ilya tilted his head slightly, smile small and private. “The song is good.”

Shane grabbed his stick from the rack, mostly to give his hands something to do. “I regret showing you the music video.”

Ilya only smiled, faint, warm, victorious in the gentlest possible way. Then he turned toward the tunnel leading to the ice like nothing unusual had happened at all. The team followed him out in a loose, laughing pack, still buzzing, still shouting over each other.

Wyatt slapped Ilya on the shoulder as they passed through the doorway. “Rozy, that was legendary.”

Ilya accepted the praise with a single nod, calm as ever.

Shane lingered for half a second, long enough to feel the echo of Ilya’s gaze still burning against his skin, long enough to feel the stupid, helpless grin trying to crack across his face.

He shook his head once, muttered under his breath, “Unbelievable.” Then he followed.

The bright lights of the arena tunnel opened up around them as they stepped onto the ice. The rink stretched wide and shining under the rafters, clean, cold, waiting.

Shane glided out first, feeling the familiar bite of fresh ice under his blades. Behind him, Ilya skated up beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed once. Shane glanced sideways. Ilya was already looking back. That same small, dangerous smirk.

Shane exhaled a laugh he couldn’t quite hold in.
“You’re ridiculous.”

“I am winning,” Ilya said simply.

Shane rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest stayed.

And as the rest of the team spilled onto the ice behind them, still laughing, still singing mangled choruses under their breath, Shane felt something settle, deep and steady.

This team. This chaos. This man. All of it. Exactly where it was supposed to be.

 

The bright lights of the tunnel opened up around them as they stepped onto the ice, the sudden rush of cold air hitting Shane like a familiar embrace. The Centaurs’ arena smelled of fresh Zamboni exhaust, hot popcorn drifting down from the concourse, and the sharp, clean bite of frozen water. Above them the rafters soared, black and red banners swaying gently in the recycled air, while thousands of voices rolled together into one living thing, expectant, hungry, already building toward the moment the puck would drop.

Shane skated out behind the group, blades cutting smooth, deliberate lines through the freshly resurfaced sheet. The noise swelled as Ilya emerged first, captain leading the line, broad shoulders squared under the black jersey, the bright red C glowing on his chest like a beacon.

Fans banged on the glass as he glided past, a rhythmic thunder that vibrated up through Shane’s skates. He felt the familiar lift in his own chest: pride, affection, the quiet certainty that this man, his husband, was exactly where he belonged.

Then he noticed someone standing at the boards near the visitors’ tunnel.

Scott Hunter.

Arms crossed. Expression deeply unimpressed. Very clearly having heard every second of the locker room K-pop catastrophe through the open doors.

Scott raised one eyebrow slowly, slow enough that it felt theatrical. His gaze flicked from Shane to Ilya, then back again. “…Rozanov.”

Ilya nodded once, polite, unruffled. “Hunter.”

Scott gestured vaguely toward the tunnel with his stick. “What the hell was that?”

Before Shane could open his mouth, Wyatt, still buzzing from the morning’s chaos, called out from behind them, skating backward with exaggerated flair. “Seduction strategy!”

Scott considered that for a long beat. Then he nodded thoughtfully, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Carry on.”

Shane sighed, deep, theatrical, the kind of sigh that carried years of dealing with both of these idiots, and pushed off across the ice. The cold burned his lungs in the best way, waking every muscle. Behind him, Ilya’s skates cut smoothly through the surface as he caught up. When he drew level, he leaned in just enough that only Shane could hear. Voice low. Satisfied. Smug in that quiet, devastating way of his.

“Strategy is working.”

Shane shook his head, but the small, traitorous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth refused to disappear. Inside his chest something warm and unsteady bloome, half exasperation, half helpless fondness. Because Ilya was ridiculous. Because Ilya was relentless. Because Ilya was his.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, one very dangerous thought took root. Ilya might actually win Day Four.

The roar of the Ottawa crowd hit like a physical wave the moment the teams returned for warmups proper. Home crowd. Black and red jerseys filling every seat, scarves waving, signs flashing Ilya’s name in block letters twenty rows deep. The noise grew louder when Ilya skated out first again, captain’s prerogative, gliding slowly down the length of the boards, helmet tucked under one arm, letting the fans drink him in.

On the opposite side of the rink, the New York Admirals were already circling through their own warmups. And right in the middle of them, Scott Hunter.

Even after all these years it was instinct: the same reflex from every playoff series that had ever pitted them against each other. Spotting the rival captain across the ice was as automatic as breathing. Scott noticed them a moment later. His grin appeared immediately, sharp, knowing, the kind that said he’d already decided how much trouble he was going to cause tonight.

Ilya skated toward center ice. Shane trailed beside him, already bracing himself. Because when Ilya and Scott got within chirping distance, things rarely stayed quiet. They stopped a few feet apart, sticks resting lightly on the ice.

Scott tilted his head. “Well if it isn’t Captain K-Pop.”

Shane groaned under his breath. “Jesus.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes slightly. “You have spies.”

“Oh we have ears,” Scott said, grin widening. “Apparently you tried to hit a high note.”

“I did hit the note.”

Scott tilted his head the other way. “…Did you though?”

Shane muttered, barely audible over the crowd noise, “He absolutely did not.”

Scott barked a laugh, bright, genuine, and the sound carried across the open ice. The two captains began circling slowly during warmups, skating lazy arcs around each other like they’d done a hundred times before. Years of grudging respect layered thick over the old rivalry, the kind of history that let them chirp without real venom.

Scott flicked a puck lazily toward the boards with the toe of his stick. “So the documentary crew’s here tonight.”

Ilya nodded once.

Scott smirked. “Planning any musical performances during the game?”

“Only if you request.”

“Please don’t.”

They skated another loop. Scott glanced toward the stands behind the Admirals’ bench, where a familiar figure sat in a dark hoodie and ball cap: Kip, Scott’s husband, watching with quiet amusement.

“My husband came with us on the trip.”

Ilya followed his gaze. “Kip?”

“Yeah. The one and only.”

Ilya nodded thoughtfully. “Shane and I are free after game.”

Scott raised an eyebrow, half laughing already. “Are you asking me out right now?”

“Double date dinner.”

Shane nearly tripped over his own skates. He recovered quickly but shot Ilya a look that said, You scheduled a double date mid warmup?

Scott snorted. “Honestly? I’m in.” He shrugged one shoulder. “We fly back tomorrow anyway.”

Shane rubbed his forehead through his helmet, the motion futile under the cage. “You two are unbelievable.”

Scott grinned at him, wide, unrepentant. “Kip loves you guys.”

Ilya tapped his stick once on the ice, decisive. “Then it is settled.”

Scott glided backward, preparing to join his team for a drill. But before he went, he pointed his stick toward Ilya. “Try not to embarrass yourself with any singing tonight.”

Ilya smirked, small, dangerous. “No promises.”

Scott skated off laughing, the sound swallowed by the growing roar of the crowd.

Shane looked sideways at his husband. “You planned a double date with Scott Hunter. During warmups. You didn’t even ask me.”

Ilya’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You would say yes.”

Shane exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath fogging inside his visor for a second. “I hate that you’re right.”

A whistle sounded, sharp and final, signaling the end of warmups.

The arena lights dimmed slightly as the teams headed toward their benches. The crowd noise rose another notch, anticipation thickening the air like static before a storm.

Ilya skated beside Shane toward the Centaurs’ bench, then bumped his shoulder lightly.

“Also,” he said casually, “Day Four of challenge.”

Shane narrowed his eyes. “You are not counting chirping Scott as flirting.”

Ilya’s smirk deepened, slow and satisfied. “Everything is part of strategy.”

Shane shook his head. But when he skated to center ice for the opening faceoff a few minutes later, he caught Ilya watching him from the bench. That same look, warm, focused, unapologetically in love. And Shane felt something soft settle deep in his chest again. Because ridiculous strategies aside… Ilya Rozanov still looked at him like he was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

And honestly? Shane was starting to think the challenge might be working.

 

The game itself was brutal in the best way.
Ottawa fans were loud on a normal night. Tonight, with the Admirals in town, with old rivalries skating onto the same sheet of ice again, the energy sharpened into something almost electric. Every hit echoed louder. Every whistle drew a deeper groan. Every goal brought the roof down.

Shane crouched at center ice for the opening draw, gloves resting on his knees, stick blade flat against the dot. Across from him the Admirals’ center squared up, but for half a heartbeat Shane barely noticed him. Because from the bench he could feel Ilya watching.

It was the strange, familiar awareness he’d developed over years of playing with him, loving him, the way he could always tell when Ilya’s attention settled on him like a physical touch. It wasn’t distracting. It was grounding. Steady. A reminder that no matter how fast the game moved, no matter how hard the hits landed, there was still this.

He glanced toward the bench. Ilya stood leaning forward slightly over the boards, helmet on, captain’s C bright against black and red. Their eyes met for half a second. Ilya lifted two fingers and pointed them at his own eyes. Then pointed them at Shane.

I’m watching you.

Shane snorted softly under his breath, the sound lost in the roar. Of course you are.

The referee dropped the puck. The game exploded into motion.

The Admirals played fast, Scott Hunter’s teams always did. They pushed through the neutral zone hard, quick passes snapping like whips, aggressive forecheck forcing Ottawa’s defense to move the puck faster than they wanted.

Bodies slammed into boards. Sticks clashed. Skates carved sharp arcs into the ice.

Troy Barrett crushed an Admirals winger into the glass with a satisfying thud that reverberated through the arena. “WELCOME TO OTTAWA!” he shouted over the noise.

The crowd roared approval.

Shane looped back toward the blue line just as the puck squirted free along the boards. He caught it cleanly, instinct, muscle memory, and accelerated through center ice, the familiar rush of speed settling into his legs like second nature.
For a few glorious seconds it was just him and the ice: the sound of blades cutting forward, the game narrowing into pure instinct, the cold air whipping past his face.

He crossed the Admirals blue line. Dropped the puck to Luca Haas cutting hard down the wing. Luca’s shot rang off the crossbar, close, but no goal.

The crowd groaned in unison.

Play reset. The first real collision between captains came midway through the first period. Ilya hopped the boards for his shift just as Scott Hunter’s line changed onto the ice. Of course.
Shane noticed immediately. So did the rest of the team.

“Oh this’ll be good,” Luca muttered from the bench, leaning forward like he was watching a prize fight.

Scott collected the puck near the boards in the neutral zone just as Ilya closed the gap. They collided shoulder to shoulder, hard, clean, not dirty.

Scott grinned wide. “Still mad about the singing?”

Ilya stole the puck cleanly and skated past him without breaking stride. “You wish you had range like mine.”

Scott barked out a laugh and chased him down the ice, sticks clashing, bodies jostling. Shane watched the two of them with the weary fondness of someone who had witnessed this particular brand of chaos for far too many years. They chirped like this constantly. Half competition. Half friendship. All ridiculous.

Later in the shift, Ilya pinned Scott briefly against the boards while fighting for the puck in the corner. Scott leaned in closer, close enough that only Ilya could hear.

“So dinner after?”

“Yes.”

“Kip’s gonna ask about the documentary.”

“He can.”

Scott smirked. “He’s rooting for you.”

Ilya paused just long enough to glance toward Shane skating through the slot, waiting for a pass. “Good.”

Scott noticed the look. Shook his head with exaggerated exasperation. “You two are disgusting.”

The puck squirted loose. Play continued.

Late in the second period the game tightened.

Score tied 2–2.

The crowd grew louder with every shift, every near miss, every blocked shot. Shane hopped over the boards again with Ilya and Luca, the three of them skating into position for the faceoff like they’d done a thousand times.
As they circled into place, Ilya drifted slightly closer, close enough that their shoulders brushed once.

“You are playing well tonight,” he murmured, voice low under the roar.

Shane raised an eyebrow inside his cage. “You flirting mid game?”

“Encouragement.”

“Same thing.”

Ilya smirked small, private, the kind that still made Shane’s stomach flip after all these years.

The puck dropped.

Shane won the draw cleanly, sharp and precise.
Luca carried it into the zone, slipping past a defender with that quick, deceptive speed of his before feeding the puck back toward the blue line. Ilya was already there, stick cocked, weight shifted. He wound up. Slapshot. The puck rocketed through traffic, through legs, past sticks, past the goalie’s desperate glove.

GOAL.

The arena erupted, black and red exploding to their feet, noise crashing down like a tidal wave.
Shane threw his arms up immediately, laughing as Ilya skated past the net with that small, victorious smile, the one that belonged only to moments like this.

The team piled into him along the boards, sticks tapping helmets, gloves thumping shoulders.

Troy yelled over the noise, voice cracking with glee. “Rozanov!”

Shane shoved Ilya lightly when they broke apart, affectionate, playful. “Nice shot.”

Ilya leaned in for a heartbeat, close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him through layers of gear.

“Strategy.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Stop calling everything strategy.”

“Everything is strategy.”

By the time the final horn sounded, the Centaurs had secured the win.

4–2.

The crowd rose to their feet as the team gathered near the crease, sticks raised briefly in acknowledgment, quiet gratitude amid the roaring celebration.

Across the ice the Admirals regrouped near their bench. Scott skated toward center ice during the traditional post game captain handshake. He grabbed Ilya’s glove and shook it once, firm, respectful.

“Good game.”

“You too.”

Scott glanced toward Shane skating up behind Ilya. “So dinner?”

Shane sighed, long, resigned, but smiling underneath it. “You’re really committing to this.”

Scott grinned, wide, unapologetic. “Kip already picked the restaurant.”

Ilya nodded approvingly. “Good husband.”

Scott gestured between the two of them with his stick. “You guys ready to be questioned about your marriage for two hours?”

Shane groaned. “Oh god.”

Scott laughed, bright, easy. “Relax. Kip just likes love stories.”

Ilya’s hand settled briefly at the back of Shane’s neck as they skated toward the tunnel, warm, familiar, possessive in that quiet way he had.
“Then we will give him good one,” Ilya said simply.

Shane glanced sideways at him, heart doing that stupid, familiar flip again. “You’re very confident tonight. Because we won?”

Ilya’s mouth curved, small, private, devastating.

“No.” He leaned closer, voice softer now, just for Shane. “Because challenge is going well.”

Shane shook his head, smiling despite himself as they disappeared down the tunnel toward the locker room, shoulders brushing, skates clicking in perfect time.

Day Four wasn’t over yet.

And apparently… neither was Ilya’s strategy.

Inside Shane’s chest the warmth spread wider, steady, unshakable, brighter than the arena lights.

Because ridiculous or not… Ilya Rozanov was still winning.

And Shane, god help him, was more than happy to lose.

 

Dinner happens later than any of them originally planned.

Post game media dragged even longer, reporters circling like hungry birds, microphones thrust forward, questions about line chemistry, the rivalry with Scott Hunter, the documentary cameras that had been trailing them all season.

By the time Shane and Ilya finally step out of the cold Ottawa night and into the restaurant Scott and Kip chose, the sharp edge of adrenaline has already begun to fade into that pleasant, bone deep exhaustion that settles after sixty minutes of real hockey. Muscles ache in a satisfying way, shoulders feel heavy but loose, and every breath carries the faint echo of the arena crowd still ringing in their ears.

The restaurant is warm in that quiet, understated way only truly expensive places manage to achieve. Soft golden light spills from shaded sconces along the dark wood paneled walls, catching on polished glassware and the subtle gleam of silver cutlery. A low fire crackles in a stone hearth near the back, sending faint waves of cedar smoke into the air. The murmur of late diners blends with the distant, rhythmic clink of plates from the open kitchen and the soft jazz piano drifting from hidden speakers, nothing intrusive, just enough to make the space feel intimate rather than empty. It’s the kind of place that clearly sees its share of NHL players: no one stares, no one points, no one asks for autographs. The staff move with practiced discretion, as if celebrity is just another ingredient in the nightly mise en place.

A hostess in a simple black dress smiles politely and leads them toward a round table near the floor to ceiling windows. Outside, Ottawa has settled into the calm hush of late winter evening streetlights glowing amber against fresh frost, the Rideau Canal a dark ribbon in the distance, occasional headlights cutting slow paths through the quiet streets.

Shane exhales slowly as he shrugs out of his coat, the wool still carrying the sharp bite of outdoor cold. His sweater clings slightly to the lingering sweat from the game, muscles pleasantly sore beneath the fabric. He feels the familiar post game heaviness settle into his limbs, the good kind, the kind that says the body did what it was built to do. Across from him, Scott Hunter already looks entirely too relaxed for someone whose team just lost. Which, Shane thinks with a flicker of irritation, is very on brand for Scott. He’s leaning back in his chair like he owns the place, one arm draped casually along the backrest, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Beside him, Kip sits with warm eyes and an open, delighted expression, as if the entire evening is a gift he didn’t expect.

Kip had hugged them both the moment they arrived, actually hugged them, arms tight and sincere. Shane had stiffened for half a second out of pure surprise before awkwardly patting Kip’s back, cheeks warming under the unexpected affection. Ilya had accepted it with his usual calm grace, one hand briefly squeezing Kip’s shoulder in return.

Now the four of them sit around the small table, menus resting mostly ignored in their hands because the conversation starts almost immediately and refuses to slow.

Kip studies Shane and Ilya with open, thoughtful curiosity. There’s something bright and gentle in his expression, like someone examining a particularly interesting puzzle, not to solve it, but simply to appreciate its pieces.

Shane notices it immediately. It makes him slightly nervous, the way Kip’s gaze lingers without judgment, just genuine interest. Kip leans forward a little, elbows resting lightly on the tablecloth.

“I have to start by saying something,” he says, voice thoughtful but warm, carrying the quiet confidence of someone who’s spent years loving a public figure without ever craving the spotlight himself. “Watching the two of you interact on the ice tonight was honestly fascinating.”

Scott groans quietly beside him, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Oh my god, here we go.”

Kip ignores him completely, eyes flicking between Shane and Ilya with that same gentle intensity.

“I mean it,” he continues. “You’re obviously competitive. That part is clear even if someone’s never watched hockey before. But once you know what you’re looking for, there’s this… underlying affection between the two of you that’s impossible to miss. It’s in the glances during stoppages, the way you orbit each other without touching, the small smiles when the other makes a good play.”

Shane immediately sits up straighter, defensive instinct kicking in. “There is not.”

Scott snorts into his water glass. “Oh, there absolutely is.”

Kip nods enthusiastically, undeterred. “Yes! Exactly. Like during that second-period shift when Ilya scored, Shane, you threw your arms up faster than anyone else on the ice. And the look on your face wasn’t just ‘good goal.’ It was pride. Personal pride.”

“I was celebrating a teammate’s goal,” Shane says quickly, though even he hears how thin the argument sounds.

“You were looking at your husband,” Scott counters, smirking.

Shane points a finger across the table. “I hate you.”

Ilya, sitting beside Shane with one arm resting casually along the back of his chair fingers just brushing Shane’s shoulder, looks deeply entertained by the entire exchange. His expression is calm, but his eyes sparkle with quiet amusement.

“You were also looking at me when I scored,” he adds mildly, voice low and even.

Shane turns toward him, eyebrows raised. “That was because you were celebrating in the middle of my defensive zone like an idiot.”

“You smiled.”

“I always smile when my team scores.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly, studying him. “You smiled differently.”

Scott lifts his wine glass like he’s making a formal courtroom observation. “He absolutely did. I saw it from across the ice. It was disgusting.”

Shane drags a hand down his face slowly, groaning into his palm. “This dinner was a mistake.”

Kip laughs softly, bright, genuine, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Oh no. This is fantastic.”

A waiter arrives just long enough to take drink orders, sparkling water for Shane and Ilya, red wine for Scott and Kip, disappearing again with quiet efficiency. The brief interruption only seems to give Kip more time to think. Which Shane suspects might be dangerous.

Kip studies them again, curiosity bright but gentle in his eyes. “I’ve always wanted to ask this,” he says after a moment, voice softer now. “What was it like for you two in the beginning? Because from the outside… it must have seemed impossible.”

Scott hums thoughtfully beside him. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Kip continues, tone careful but no less interested. “Rivals. Same league. Same relentless spotlight. Constant media scrutiny. The pressure of being professional athletes on top of… well.” He gestures lightly between them. “Everything else. The hiding. The fear. The not knowing if this could even last.”

Shane exhales slowly and leans back in his chair. For a moment he just watches the soft glow of the lights reflected in his untouched water glass, the way it fractures into tiny golden shards across the tablecloth.

“It was a mess,” he finally admits, voice quieter than he intended.

Scott laughs immediately, short, knowing. “That might be the most accurate summary of your relationship I’ve ever heard.”

Shane shrugs one shoulder. “It’s true.”

But before he can deflect further, Ilya speaks.
And when he does, his voice carries that thoughtful steadiness Shane has always loved about him, the same calm certainty he brings to faceoffs and post game interviews and quiet mornings when the world hasn’t woken up yet.

“It was complicated,” Ilya says quietly. His fingers rest loosely around the stem of his water glass, thumb absently tracing slow circles along the rim. “For a long time we did not understand what we were doing.”

Shane glances sideways at him. There’s something softer in Ilya’s expression now,.something reflective, almost vulnerable in a way he rarely allows in public.

“I thought it was temporary,” Ilya continues slowly. “Something reckless. Something impulsive that would disappear if I ignored it long enough. I told myself it was just chemistry. Adrenaline. Rivalry that got… confused.”

Shane raises an eyebrow, half smiling despite himself. “We ignored it for years.”

“Yes.”

“Very successfully, apparently.”

Ilya shrugs slightly, the motion small but honest. “I was stupid.”

Scott raises his hand immediately. “Finally something we all agree on.”

But Ilya doesn’t even glance at him. His gaze remains thoughtful, fixed somewhere on the table between them, as if he’s seeing those old hotel rooms and stolen moments all over again.

“The problem,” he says after a moment, “was that every time I convinced myself it meant nothing… I would see Shane again.”
His eyes lift briefly, meeting Shane’s for a heartbeat. “On the ice. At events. In a hotel room. And every single time, the feeling came back. Stronger. Louder. Harder to lie about.”

Shane feels something tighten quietly in his chest, not pain, exactly, but the echo of it. He remembers those years vividly: the long stretch of quiet uncertainty, loving Ilya sometimes feeling like trying to hold smoke, beautiful, impossible, always slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tried to grip.

“And the feeling never went away,” Shane adds softly, almost to himself.

The table grows quiet for a moment. The fire crackles once in the hearth. Outside, a car passes slowly on the snowy street.

Kip watches them with soft attention. “So what changed?” he asks gently.

Ilya turns his head then. Looks at Shane, not quickly, not casually. Really looks at him. Like he’s remembering something sacred.

“The moment I realized I was afraid,” he says.

Scott raises an eyebrow. “You? Afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

Ilya’s voice lowers slightly, the words careful but steady. “Not the league,” he says. “Not the media. Not what people would say.”

His eyes remain on Shane, dark, earnest, unguarded in a way that makes Shane’s throat tighten. “I was afraid that one day Shane would stop waiting for me to figure things out.”

Shane’s breath catches almost imperceptibly. The admission lands like a soft body check, unexpected, solid, warm. He remembers those years again, the nights he’d lie awake wondering if Ilya would ever let himself want this for real, if the fear would always win.

Scott whistles softly between his teeth. “That’s way more romantic than anything you’ve ever said to me.”

Ilya glances at him, dry. “You are not my husband.”

Scott nods thoughtfully. “Fair.”

Shane clears his throat, shifting slightly in his seat. “Well,” he says, trying for lightness, “to be fair, my big romantic moment wasn’t exactly smooth either.”

Kip’s grin grows instantly. “Oh, I’ve heard about this.”

Scott points his fork at Shane like he’s presenting evidence in court. “‘Holy shit’ might be the worst response to an ‘I love you’ in recorded history.”

Shane throws his napkin at him, light, playful. “I panicked!”

“You stared at him like someone had just body, checked you into next week.”

Ilya smiles faintly beside him, small, private, fond. “You did look like someone had just checked you into the boards.”

“That’s because you dropped a life altering emotional bomb on me at the cottage!” Shane protests, but there’s laughter under the words now. “No warning. Just… ‘I love you.’ In Russian first, like you were testing the waters, then English like you were afraid I wouldn’t get it.”

“And you said ‘holy shit.’”

“It was a very heartfelt holy shit!”

Kip is laughing openly now,.soft, delighted. “I actually love that,” he says. “It’s honest. Real relationships aren’t cinematic speeches. They’re awkward and messy and full of moments where people don’t know what to say. That’s what makes them real.”

Shane relaxes a little, shoulders dropping. “Yeah,” he admits. “That’s pretty much us.”

Under the table, Ilya’s hand shifts. Finds Shane’s. Warm fingers close gently around his, steady, grounding. A quiet squeeze that says more than words ever could.

Scott notices immediately. Of course he does.

“Oh my god,” he says, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated exasperation. “You two are disgustingly in love.”

Kip nudges him with an elbow. “You’re literally married to me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Scott considers this carefully, then gestures toward Ilya. “…I don’t dance K-pop choreography at you in the locker room.”

Kip turns to Ilya with bright curiosity. “I heard about that.”

Shane groans immediately. “No. We’re not doing this.”

But Ilya leans forward slightly, expression calm, eyes sparkling with quiet mischief. “It was strategic. I mean literally. The song was called ‘Strategy.’”

Scott laughs, bright and unrestrained. “Of course it was.”

Kip rests his chin lightly on his hand. “Strategic how?”

Ilya takes a moment before answering. And when he does, his voice softens again in that sincere way that always catches Shane off guard.

“Sometimes when you are married for a long time,” he says slowly, “life becomes… comfortable.”

Shane watches him closely now, heart doing that familiar, unsteady flip.

“You love each other,” Ilya continues. “You trust each other. You build a home. A routine. But the small surprises disappear. The things that used to make your heart race become… expected.”
He glances at Shane, direct, unguarded. “So I decided that if Shane and I were going to be followed by cameras all season for this documentary… I would take advantage of it.”

Scott snorts. “You mean embarrass him publicly.”

“Also that. But mostly,” Ilya says quietly, “I wanted to remind him that I am still capable of chasing him. That I still want to. Every day.”

Something warm and unexpected spreads through Shane’s chest,.slow, golden, almost too big for his ribs. He feels the heat rise in his cheeks, the quiet ache behind his sternum that isn’t pain but gratitude so deep it hurts a little.

Kip smiles softly. “That’s incredibly romantic.”

Scott points dramatically at Shane. “Your husband is running a full seduction campaign.”

Shane shakes his head slowly, but the smile tugging at his mouth won’t stay hidden. “You practiced choreography while I was sleeping. You planned that entire locker.room performance. You’re trying to win a challenge.”

“Yes.”

Shane pauses. Looks at him, really looks. Then sighs deeply, the sound half exasperated, half.helplessly fond. “…It’s working.”

Ilya’s eyebrows lift slightly, surprised, pleased. “Oh?”

Shane leans a little closer, voice quieter now but threaded with teasing warmth. “I’m not saying you’ve won yet,” he says slowly. “But the outdoor rink date? The dancing? The way you looked tonight after you scored, skating past the net with that stupid little smile like you’d just won the Cup instead of a regular.season goal?”

Ilya tilts his head. “Yes?”

Shane smiles, small, private, devastating in its honesty. “You’re making a very convincing argument.”

Scott raises his glass dramatically. “To the most ridiculous love story in hockey.”

Kip lifts his glass beside him, eyes shining. “To long marriages and stupidly romantic husbands.”

Ilya lifts his glass last. Looking directly at Shane.
His voice soft. Steady. Certain. “To strategy.”

Shane clinks his glass gently against his, still smiling, heart full in a way that feels dangerously close to too much. “God help me.”

 

By the time dinner ends, the restaurant has grown noticeably quieter.

Most of the other tables have emptied out while they talked, the soft golden lights now reflecting off more empty glassware than full ones. The fire in the hearth has burned low, casting long, warm shadows across the room. Outside the tall front windows, Ottawa has settled into the calm hush of late evening,.streetlights glowing amber against fresh frost, the occasional late night pedestrian bundled in scarves and heavy coats hurrying past.

Shane doesn’t realize how tired he actually is until they stand up from the table.

The long game, the emotional whiplash of the challenge nonsense, the dinner conversation that somehow managed to drag old memories out of places in his chest he usually keeps carefully closed off... it all settles into his muscles at once. The pleasant heaviness spreads through him as he pulls his coat back on, fingers slower now than they had been earlier in the night.

Scott stretches his arms above his head with a groan that sounds extremely theatrical.

“Well,” he says, rolling his shoulders, “that was easily the most emotionally vulnerable dinner I’ve had in at least six months.”

Kip laughs softly beside him, slipping his scarf back around his neck. “You’re the one who brought it up.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You started the ‘holy shit’ story.”

Scott points a finger at Shane. “That’s because it deserves to be remembered forever.”

Shane mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like traitor. Ilya, standing beside him, quietly finishes buttoning his coat. His expression carries that calm, unreadable composure he always slips into after long social evenings, but Shane can feel the warmth of his presence close at his side like a steady, grounding thing solid, familiar, home.

Kip hugs them both again before they leave.
Actually hugs them. Shane stiffens automatically for half a second before awkwardly patting his back, cheeks warming again under the unexpected sincerity.

“You’re both welcome over anytime,” Kip says warmly, stepping back. “It was really nice getting to know you outside of press conferences and hockey. You’re… real. I like that.”

Scott leans against the doorframe with a smirk. “Yeah, next time maybe without the emotional trauma.”

“You brought that on yourself,” Shane shoots back.

They say their goodbyes out on the sidewalk, the cold Ottawa air biting gently at their faces after the warmth of the restaurant. Scott and Kip head toward their car parked further down the street, still bickering lightly under the streetlights,.affectionate, easy, the kind of teasing that comes from years of knowing exactly how to push each other’s buttons without breaking anything.

Shane and Ilya stand there for a moment longer.
Their car waits near the corner, engine already running remotely, heater pushing warm air against the frost on the windows. The quiet of the night settles around them,.crisp, still, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the soft crunch of salt under occasional footsteps.

For a few seconds neither of them speaks.
Then Shane exhales slowly, a long, visible cloud in the cold, and starts walking.

“Well,” he mutters, hands tucked into his coat pockets, “that was… something.”

Ilya walks beside him, their shoulders brushing once. “Yes.”

Shane glances sideways. “You’re awfully calm for someone who just launched a full scale emotional offensive at dinner.”

“I answered question.”

“You gave a speech about being afraid I’d stop waiting for you.”

Ilya shrugs faintly, small, almost shy. “It was honest answer.”

Shane studies him for a moment as they reach the car. He pulls the driver’s door open, the interior light spilling soft gold across the snowy pavement.

“You don’t usually say things like that in front of people,” he says quietly. “So why tonight?”

Ilya slides into the passenger seat before answering. He waits until Shane is inside, door closed, engine humming softly before he speaks.
“Because it is true,” he says simply.

Shane pauses halfway into buckling his seatbelt.
There it is again,.that quiet, matter of fact sincerity that always manages to catch him off guard, like a clean wrist shot finding the top corner when he least expects it.

He closes the door. Starts the engine. The soft hum fills the small space as warm air begins to push through the vents, slowly clearing the condensation from the windshield.

Shane’s hands rest comfortably on the steering wheel, but his mind is still back at the table, replaying Ilya’s words, the way his voice had lowered when he said afraid.

“You know,” Shane says after a few minutes, voice quieter now, “Scott’s not entirely wrong.”

“About which part?”

“The seduction campaign.”

Ilya turns his head slightly. “And?”

Shane keeps his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re being… suspiciously effective.”

“Suspiciously?” Ilya asks, calm but amused.

“You learned choreography. You sang in the locker room,.badly, but with commitment. You turned an entire team meeting into a public romantic display. You even got Scott Hunter to admit he’s jealous of your game.”

Ilya’s quiet laugh fills the car.

Shane exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re committed to this.”

“You are difficult opponent.”

“This isn’t supposed to be a competition.”

“You made it competition.”

“That was a joke.”

“You are losing joke.”

Shane glances at him. “I hate how confident you are about this.”

“I am Russian. Confidence is default setting.”

The car fills with quiet laughter,.Shane’s bright and helpless, Ilya’s softer, satisfied.

By the time they reach home, the city has grown even quieter..Shane parks in their usual spot and shuts off the engine. For a moment neither of them moves. The silence feels comfortable now, heavy in a good way, like the weight of a good blanket after a long day.

Shane finally exhales and leans his head back against the seat. “God, I’m tired.”

“You played good game.”

“You played annoyingly good game.”

Ilya smiles faintly. “You were smiling when I scored.”

Shane groans. “Oh my god, you’re still on that?”

“You were.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

Shane turns his head slowly on the headrest. “I swear to god if you bring that up on camera tomorrow…”

Ilya opens his door, cold air rushing in. “Come inside, Hollander.”

They step out into the crisp night again, the air sharp in their lungs as they walk toward the entrance. Inside, the house is quiet and warm,.Anya’s nails clicking softly on the hardwood as she trots over to greet them, tail thumping against the wall like a metronome.

Shane leans back against the front door once it closes, exhaustion finally settling fully into his bones. Ilya stands beside him, hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching him with that steady, patient gaze.

For a moment they simply stand there in the familiar quiet of their home, the faint scent of pine from the candle on the entry table, the soft glow of the nightlight in the hallway.

Then Shane turns. Studies him. “You really meant what you said tonight?”

Ilya looks at him. “Which part?”

“The part about chasing me.”

Ilya steps closer. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just calm and certain..“Yes.”

Shane feels that same quiet warmth bloom in his chest again,.slow, golden, almost overwhelming.

“You know,” he says slowly, “most people stop trying that hard after a few years of marriage.”

Ilya reaches up and gently hooks a finger in the collar of Shane’s sweater, tugging him a step closer,.gentle, possessive, tender.

“Most people,” he says softly, “are not you.”

Shane huffs out a quiet laugh,.half exasperated, half helplessly fond. “Your strategy is still ridiculous.”

Ilya’s mouth curves. “But it is working.”

Shane doesn’t argue. He just leans in and kisses him,.slow, warm, tasting faintly of the sparks in the water and the lingering sweetness of dessert.

Because ridiculous or not… Ilya Rozanov is still winning.

 

For a moment they just… stand there.

Shane feels the exhaustion in every joint, every muscle fiber that carried him through sixty brutal minutes and then through two hours of emotional excavation at dinner. It’s the good tired, the kind that makes his limbs feel loose and his thoughts slow, but it also makes everything feel rawer, closer to the surface. Every glance from Ilya tonight has landed heavier than usual. Every casual brush of shoulders in the car. Every quiet “I love you” that slipped out at the table like it had been waiting years to be spoken aloud again.

Ilya breaks the silence first, voice low and casual, like he’s commenting on the weather. “You admitted something tonight.”

Shane pauses halfway to the kitchen, one hand already reaching for the light switch. He doesn’t turn around yet.

“…Did I?” he says, aiming for light. “I say things all the time.”

“You said my strategy is working.”

Shane turns slowly. Ilya is leaning one shoulder against the kitchen island now, arms loosely crossed, watching him with that steady, attentive gaze that has always made Shane feel like the only person in the room. Even now, post game messy, hair still damp at the temples, faint bruise blooming along the edge of his jaw from a high stick in the second period, Ilya looks completely at ease. Completely focused. Completely his.

Shane scoffs softly, but there’s no heat in it. “You are never going to let that go, are you?”

Ilya’s mouth curves, just the smallest lift at one corner. “I worked hard. I deserve recognition.”

Shane walks closer without really deciding to. His socked feet are quiet on the hardwood.

“You danced a TWICE choreography at me in front of the entire team,” he says, stopping a few feet away. “And butchered a high note so badly Wyatt nearly fell off a bench laughing.”

“It was emotionally authentic.”

“You flirted with me during warmups. In front of Scott Hunter.”

“Encouragement.”

“And you set up a double date with Scott Hunter. Mid warmup. Without asking me.”

“That was good dinner.”

Shane exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he admits, softer. “It was.”

Another step. Not quickly. Not hesitantly either. Just… naturally. Like gravity. He stops close enough that he can smell the faint cedar of Ilya’s cologne mixed with the clean sweat of the game still clinging to his skin.

“You know what the annoying part is?” Shane says.

Ilya tilts his head slightly. “What?”

“You’re not even being subtle about this whole challenge. You’re just… aggressively romantic.”

Ilya’s eyes soften, dark and warm in the low kitchen light. “Yes,” he says simply. “It is because I love you.”

Shane’s breath catches, just for a second, just enough to notice. “That’s cheating.”

Ilya’s mouth curves again, slower this time. “There are no rules.”

Shane studies him. Really looks. The messy post game hair falling across his forehead. The faint purple shadow near his jaw that will be a proper bruise by morning. The relaxed line of his shoulders, the easy way he holds himself like this house, this moment, this man in front of him are exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Shane’s chest tightens in that familiar, aching way, love and want and something deeper that doesn’t have a name yet.

A quiet second stretches between them, charged, tender, full of everything they’ve carried for years.

Then Ilya reaches out. Not fast. His hand slides lightly along Shane’s arm, slow enough that Shane feels every inch of contact through the thin cotton of his sweater, until his fingers curl around the back of Shane’s neck, warm and sure, drawing him a little closer. Shane doesn’t resist. He rarely does anymore.

“Day four,” Ilya says softly.

“You’re still counting?”

“Of course.”

Shane shakes his head faintly, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth now. Ilya leans in until their foreheads almost touch, breaths mingling in the small space between them.

“You like it,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane opens his mouth to argue, some half, formed protest about fairness or dignity or at least pretending to make Ilya work for it, but the words never make it out.

Instead he kisses him. It’s supposed to be quick. Just a reflex. A small, familiar press of lips to say goodnight, we’re home, we survived another day.
But the moment their mouths meet, something shifts. Ilya kisses him back immediately, hungry, warm, like he’s been waiting for permission all night. His hand tightens slightly at the base of Shane’s neck, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just under his ear, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between them.

Shane makes a quiet, involuntary sound in the back of his throat, half surprise, half need, and Ilya answers with a low hum that vibrates through both of them.

“Oh,” Shane breathes when they break for half a second, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard.

“You started it,” Ilya murmurs against his mouth.

“You were talking too much.”

Ilya’s answering smile is slow, devastating. “Then I will continue talking.”

“Don’t...” But Ilya kisses him again before he can finish. Longer this time. Deeper. One hand sliding down Shane’s back to rest possessively at the small of it, the other still cradling his neck like something precious.

Shane’s hands move on instinct, sliding to Ilya’s waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until their bodies line up perfectly, heat bleeding through layers of cotton and exhaustion. The kiss grows heavier. Slower. Ilya tilts his head, brushing another kiss along the corner of Shane’s mouth, then the line of his jaw, then just below his ear, open mouthed.

Shane exhales sharply, fingers tightening. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Yes,” Ilya whispers against his skin. “I am.”

“That’s...”

Ilya kisses the spot just below his ear again warmer now, then trails his mouth down the side of Shane’s neck, slow and reverent.

“Just how much I love you,” he finishes quietly.
Shane laughs breathlessly, the sound fraying at the edges when Ilya’s teeth graze lightly over his pulse point.

“That’s not… fair,” he manages.

Ilya’s voice is softer now, murmured right against his throat. “Who said I wanted fair?”

Shane’s fingers slide up into Ilya’s hair, holding him there. “You’re impossible to contain.”

“Yet you are kissing me.”

Shane tilts his head back slightly when Ilya’s mouth finds the hollow of his throat, another slow, open mouthed kiss pressed there, tongue flicking once, gentle but devastating.

“God,” Shane mutters, half laughing, half wrecked. “You’re really going all in tonight.”

Ilya pauses just long enough to lift his head and look at him again. Close enough that Shane can see every detail in the low light: the faint flush across Ilya’s cheekbones, the way his pupils have swallowed the color of his irises, the quiet, unshakable certainty in his gaze.

“I always go all in,” Ilya says simply.

Then he kisses him again. And this time neither of them seems particularly interested in stopping. They reach the bedroom without ever fully breaking contact, stumbling a little on the threshold, laughing softly into each other’s mouths, hands everywhere, shedding clothes in a careless trail down the hallway. Shane’s sweater hits the floor outside the door. Ilya’s shirt follows somewhere near the dresser. Jeans, socks, underwear, none of it matters. They’re too desperate, too full of each other, too unwilling to let even an inch of space come between them.

The bedroom is quiet except for the soft hum of the city beyond the blackout curtains, the kind of late night hush that makes everything feel smaller, safer, more theirs. The lamp on Ilya’s side of the bed casts a warm amber glow across the rumpled white sheets, catching in the faint stubble along Shane’s jaw, in the slow rise and fall of his chest as he lies back against the pillows.

They’re naked now, skin still carrying the faint chill of the hallway air, goosebumps rising where fingertips brush. Shane is on his back, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting loose on Ilya’s thigh as Ilya kneels between his legs.

The air smells faintly of soap from their post game showers, the cedarwood candle they forgot to blow out earlier, and the warm, intimate scent of their bodies pressed close.

Ilya reaches for the nightstand without looking, fingers finding the bottle by memory. He clicks it open, pours too much into his palm, always too much, like he’s afraid of not having enough, and warms it between his hands before he touches Shane again.

Shane’s breath hitches when Ilya’s slick fingers circle him, slow, patient, tracing the rim with the pad of his thumb before pressing in, just the first knuckle. He watches Ilya’s face the whole time: the way his brows knit in quiet concentration, the way his lips part slightly like he’s counting breaths, the way his eyes never leave Shane’s.

“You’re staring,” Ilya murmurs, voice low and fond.

“Can't help it,” Shane answers, softer than he means to. His free hand finds Ilya’s wrist, not to stop him, just to hold on. “You look… focused.”

Ilya huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through both of them. He adds a second finger, curling them gently, searching until Shane’s hips lift off the mattress on instinct and a small, helpless sound slips out of him.

“There,” Ilya whispers, almost to himself. He leans down, presses an open mouthed kiss to the inside of Shane’s thigh, warm, lingering, then another higher up, then one more right over the sensitive skin below his navel. “Relax for me, solnyshko.”

Shane does. He always does, eventually. Lets the tension bleed out of his shoulders. Lets his knees fall wider. Lets Ilya take the weight of him, trusting, open, completely his.

When Ilya finally withdraws his fingers, Shane makes a small, protesting noise, instinctive and needy. Ilya smiles against his skin, already reaching for the condom. He rolls it on with practiced ease, slicks himself generously, again, too much, and then he’s back between Shane’s thighs, one hand braced beside Shane’s head, the other guiding himself.

He doesn’t push in right away. Instead he lowers himself until their foreheads touch, noses brushing, breaths mingling in the warm space between them.

“Look at me,” Ilya says quietly.

Shane does. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, but they’re steady, locked on Ilya’s like nothing else exists.

Ilya presses forward so slowly it almost doesn’t feel like movement at all, just pressure, heat, stretch, the softest burn that fades into something fuller, deeper, right. Shane’s fingers dig into Ilya’s shoulders, not hard, just anchoring, as inch by inch Ilya fills him until they’re flush together, hips pressed tight, no space left anywhere. They both go still. Shane exhales shakily “God,” he mutters, breathless. “You’re really going all in.”

Ilya pauses, just long enough to look at him again. Close enough that Shane can see every fleck of color in his eyes, every faint line of tension and tenderness around his mouth.

“I always go all in,” Ilya says simply.

Then he kisses him again. And this time neither of them seems particularly interested in stopping.

The rhythm is slow, almost lazy, long, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside Shane until his toes curl and his breath comes in soft, broken gasps. Ilya keeps most of his weight on his forearms so he can stay close, so he can keep kissing Shane’s mouth, his jaw, the fragile skin under his ear, murmuring soft Russian endearments between each press of lips.

“I love you,” Shane breathes against Ilya’s mouth, the words slipping out like they’ve been waiting there all night.

Ilya stills for half a heartbeat, buried deep, then presses his forehead to Shane’s again.

“I love you,” he answers, voice rough with something tender and fierce. “So fucking much.”

Another slow roll of his hips. Shane arches, fingers sliding up into Ilya’s hair, holding him there.

“I love you,” Shane says again, quieter this time, like a vow.

Ilya kisses the corner of his mouth, the bridge of his nose, the closed eyelid.

“I love you,” he murmurs back, each word punctuated by a gentle thrust. “I love you. I love you.”

They keep saying it, soft, overlapping, almost laughing between the gasps, until the words blur into breath, into the slick slide of skin, into the building heat between them.

Shane comes first, trembling, one hand clenched in the sheets, the other wrapped around the back of Ilya’s neck like he needs to keep him close forever. His body clenches hard around Ilya, pulling a low, wrecked sound from deep in his throat. Ilya follows moments later, hips stuttering, burying his face against Shane’s shoulder as he spills with a muffled groan, every muscle locked tight for one long, shuddering second.

They stay like that a long time after, still joined, breathing together, Ilya’s arms sliding under Shane to hold him properly, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. Neither of them moves to pull away.

Eventually Ilya presses one last kiss to the curve of Shane’s throat, slow, lingering, full of everything he doesn’t need words for anymore.
Shane smiles against his hair, sleepy, sure, completely at peace.

“Day four,” he murmurs into the quiet.

Ilya huffs a soft laugh against his skin. “Still winning.”

Shane tightens his arms around him.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “You are.”

And in the warm amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the city sleeping outside and their home holding them close, neither of them feels the need to argue. Not tonight. Not ever again.

Chapter 6: Day Five

Chapter Summary

Sorry to open an old wound.

Morning arrives slowly in their house.

Not the abrupt, jarring kind of morning that most of their season is built around, no blaring alarms, no hurried coffee before an early flight, no frantic rush to the rink before sunrise. Just quiet winter light slipping through the tall kitchen windows and stretching across the hardwood floors in pale gold ribbons.

Outside, Ottawa is still wrapped in that particular kind of winter silence that settles over residential streets after a snowfall. The world looks soft and muted beyond the glass, cars dusted white, bare tree branches etched against a bright, cold sky.
Inside, the house feels lived in.

Comfortable.

Anya herself is sprawled across that rug now, enormous paws stretched forward, chin resting between them while she watches the unfamiliar movement of people in the house with mild but tolerant curiosity.

The documentary crew has been there before this season. But today still carries a slightly different energy.

Equipment cases sit neatly stacked against one wall of the living room. Two cameras are set up across from the couch, lenses quietly adjusting while one of the crew members checks the framing. A lighting technician adjusts the soft panels so the room stays warm and natural instead of glaringly bright.

It feels less like a production set and more like someone carefully observing a home that already exists.

Shane sits on the couch beside Ilya. Both of them are dressed the same way they usually are on slow mornings, sweatpants, soft worn in shirts, hair still slightly messy in the way that clearly says they didn’t spend time trying to look camera ready.

Shane has one ankle hooked loosely over his opposite knee, leaning back into the cushions like he’s settled in for a long conversation.

Beside him, Ilya sits a little straighter, though there’s nothing stiff about it. One arm stretches casually along the back of the couch behind Shane, the quiet familiarity of that position something he barely seems aware he’s doing anymore.

Across from them, the interviewer settles into a chair. A notebook rests loosely in her lap.

The quiet in the living room feels almost sacred now.

For a moment there’s only the soft, careful movement of the crew finishing their setup: a microphone clipped gently to Shane’s collar with practiced fingers, another to the front of Ilya’s shirt. Cables are taped down one last time. A lighting tech adjusts a soft panel near the window so the winter light doesn’t flare across the lens. Someone coughs quietly behind the monitors.

One of the camera operators lifts a hand, two fingers raised. “Rolling.”

The small red recording light flicks on, steady, unblinking.

The interviewer smiles warmly at them both, the kind of smile that says she knows exactly how much weight this conversation carries.

“Alright,” she says gently, folding her hands in her lap. “We’ve talked a lot this season about how the two of you met. About rivalry, secrecy, everything that came before. But today we thought we’d ask about something a little different.”

Shane tilts his head slightly. The corner of his mouth pulls into a crooked half smile. “Dangerous start.”

The crew chuckles softly behind the cameras.

The interviewer laughs too, the sound light and easy. “Your wedding.”

Shane’s eyebrows lift immediately. Beside him, Ilya straightens just a fraction, spine going a little taller, shoulders squaring, though his expression softens almost at once, as if the single word itself
pulls something quieter, more private, out of him.

The interviewer continues, voice careful but curious. “Your wedding day has become something fans are very curious about. But you two have always been fairly private about it. So I guess the question is… what was it actually like?”

For a moment neither of them answers. Shane glances sideways. Ilya glances back. The silence lasts maybe two seconds, before Shane lets out a soft, slightly disbelieving laugh that breaks the tension like a puck hitting the boards.

“We were terrified,” he says.

A ripple of quiet amusement moves through the crew. The interviewer lifts an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Terrified?”

“Yes,” Shane says immediately, leaning forward slightly like he needs to make sure they understand. “Which is funny because people expect some huge cinematic love story. Candlelight and speeches and dramatic music or whatever.”

He gestures vaguely in the air, hand cutting through the soft light. “But the reality is that the morning of the wedding we were both pacing around like we were about to play Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final.”

Ilya nods once, very seriously. “That is accurate.”

Shane turns toward him instantly, eyes narrowing in fond accusation. “You were worse than me.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rise slightly, genuine surprise. “I was not worse.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was… contemplative.”

Shane laughs outright, bright, helpless. “My dad told me you were standing in the groom’s room like you had seen a ghost.”

“I was thinking.”

“You were panicking.”

“I was preparing emotionally.”

The crew laughs softly again, warm, fond. Ilya allows a small smile to crack through his calm facade.

“…Maybe a little.”

The interviewer leans forward slightly in her chair, elbows resting lightly on her knees. “Why?” she asks gently.

The question hangs in the room for a moment, simple, but heavy.

Ilya grows quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. He glances down at his hands resting loosely together in his lap, long fingers laced, thumbs brushing once, before answering.

“Because,” he says slowly, “that day meant something very big for both of us.” His voice has shifted almost imperceptibly, lower, softer, reflective in a way that makes the room feel smaller. “For a long time,” he continues, “our relationship existed in very small spaces.”
He pauses briefly, searching for the right words, gaze still on his hands. “Private spaces. Quiet moments. Places where no one else could see us clearly.”

Shane’s gaze settles on him now, the easy humor in his expression already softening into something gentler, more open. “That was how we protected it,” Ilya says. “For years.”

The interviewer nods gently. “And the wedding changed that.”

Ilya’s voice remains calm, but there’s a weight beneath it now, something raw but steady.
“When the wedding came, it felt like stepping out into the open for the first time without fear.”
The room is quiet now. Even the crew seems to be listening more closely, cameras steady, no one shifting. “I remember standing there before the ceremony started,” Ilya continues slowly. “Everyone else was already there. Music was playing, soft strings, something classical. And I was waiting.”

He exhales quietly through his nose, almost amused by the memory now. “And I realized I had never been more nervous in my life.”

Shane’s hand has drifted down beside him on the couch without him noticing, palm open, fingers relaxed.

“You’ve played in Olympic games,” the interviewer points out gently. “You’ve played in the Stanley Cup Final. And none of that compares?”

Ilya shakes his head once, decisive. “Hockey is different.”

“How?”

He thinks for a moment, really thinks, before answering.

“With hockey, you can recover,” he says. “If you lose, you play again. There is always another game. Another season. Another chance.”
Then he glances toward Shane, direct, unguarded. “But that moment… standing there waiting for Shane to walk toward me…” His voice softens further, almost a whisper now. “That was something else entirely.”

Shane’s breath catches, just barely, just enough for Ilya to notice.

Shane’s fingers find Ilya’s on the couch, automatic, instinctive. Their hands lace together without hesitation. Ilya notices immediately, his thumb brushes lightly across Shane’s knuckles, slow and steady, as he continues speaking.

“For many years,” Ilya says quietly, “I was the one hesitating. I was the one afraid of what it meant to say certain things out loud.”

The interviewer asks softly, “Afraid of the consequences?”

“Yes.” A small pause. “But also afraid of how important it was to me.”

Shane’s grip tightens slightly, small, reassuring.

“And suddenly,” Ilya continues, “the entire world knew. Our families were there. Teammates. Friends who had watched this strange story unfold for years. I realized in that moment that there was nowhere left to hide.”

The interviewer smiles gently. “And that scared you?”

“Yes.” Another small pause, honest, unflinching. “But it also felt like freedom.”

The room grows quiet again. The interviewer
glances between them. “Did you write vows?”

Shane immediately groans. “No.”

Ilya shakes his head. “We tried.”

“You tried,” Shane corrects, voice fond. “I spent two hours staring at a blank page.”

“You were nervous.”

“I was terrified.”

The crew chuckles softly again. “What made it so difficult?” the interviewer asks.

Shane rubs the back of his neck, habit when he’s thinking too hard.

“Honestly? Because anything I wrote sounded either too formal or too ridiculous. Like… you try putting that kind of relationship into a paragraph and suddenly it sounds like a greeting card.”

Ilya nods slightly, agreement. “That is accurate.”

“So what did you do instead?” the interviewer asks.

Shane shrugs, small, helpless. “We kept it simple.” Then he glances sideways at Ilya again, something softer crossing his face. “I remember the slow dancing though.”

Something shifts in Ilya’s expression at that memory, the smallest change. Warmth. Nostalgia. A quiet glow behind his eyes.

The interviewer smiles. “Tell me about that.”

This time Ilya answers without hesitation. “I am not a very good dancer.”

The crew laughs again, light, fond. Shane immediately shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“You have seen the evidence.”

“That was choreography.”

“It still counts.”

Shane snorts, amused, affectionate. “Your footwork was excellent.”

“Thank you.”

“But that wasn’t dancing.”

Ilya smiles faintly, small, private. Then his gaze drifts slightly, the memory clearly playing through his mind like film. “At the reception there was music,” he says slowly. “Everyone was talking. Celebrating. Glasses clinking. People laughing. But for a few minutes… it felt like the entire room disappeared.” He turns his head slightly toward Shane, eyes steady, warm. “When we started dancing.”

Shane watches him closely now, breath shallow, expression open.

“It was not dramatic,” Ilya says. “No performance. Just the two of us moving slowly together to ‘Diamonds’ by Rihanna.” His voice grows quieter, almost reverent. “And I remember thinking something very clearly in that moment.”

“What was it?” the interviewer asks softly.

Ilya pauses, long enough that the silence feels full rather than empty.

“That for the first time in my life… I was not afraid of how much I loved him.”

The words settle in the room like something fragile and unbreakable all at once.

Shane’s breath catches,.almost imperceptibly, but Ilya feels it in the way Shane’s fingers tighten around his.

Ilya continues, voice steady but softer than before. “For many years I believed loving Shane meant risking everything. My career. My reputation. The life I had built.” He shakes his head faintly, small, almost disbelieving now.
“But standing there that night… none of that mattered anymore.” His fingers tighten slightly around Shane’s. “Because he was already my life.”

Silence fills the room again.

Shane is staring at him now like he’s just heard something entirely new. A little stunned. A little overwhelmed. His throat works once, visible, vulnerable.

The interviewer asks gently, “Did you tell him that?”

Ilya glances sideways, direct, honest. “Not exactly like that.”

Shane finally finds his voice, soft, rough at the edges. “You said something close.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow, curious. “What did I say?”

Shane laughs softly, half memory, half disbelief.
“You leaned down in the middle of the dance, right there in front of everyone, and said, ‘I am very glad you married me.’”

The crew chuckles, warm, touched.

Ilya nods calmly, completely unembarrassed.
“That was true.”

Shane squeezes his hand again, harder this time.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was.”

Then he looks back toward the cameras, shaking his head slightly in disbelief, eyes still bright.

“You know what’s funny?” Shane says.

“What?” the interviewer asks.

“I thought the wedding was going to be the most romantic thing he’d ever say.”

He gestures toward Ilya, half teasing, half awestruck.“But apparently he’s been saving material.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly, small, pleased smile. “I am inspired lately.”

Shane exhales a quiet laugh, shaky at the edges.
“Yeah.” Then he looks at him again,still a little stunned, still a little overwhelmed. “Yeah, you really are.”

For a few seconds after Shane says it, the room stays quiet. Not awkward quiet. Just the kind that settles naturally when something real has been said and everyone in the room understands it. One of the camera operators shifts his weight slightly, careful not to make noise. Somewhere behind the equipment cases a crew member scribbles something into a notebook.

Shane doesn’t immediately look away from Ilya.
There’s a faint crease between his eyebrows now, the thoughtful one he gets when he’s remembering something deeply personal and hasn’t quite decided yet how much of it he’s going to say out loud.

Ilya notices the look immediately, his thumb still moving slowly across Shane’s knuckles, absentminded and warm.

The interviewer watches them both for a moment, gentle, patient, before speaking again.

“So after the ceremony,” she says softly, “after the dancing and the reception… did it feel different? Being married?”

Shane exhales softly through his nose. He leans back slightly into the couch cushions, still holding Ilya’s hand, shoulders relaxing for the first time in the interview.

“…Yeah,” he says after a moment. Then he laughs quietly to himself, self aware, fond. “But not in the way people expect.”

“How so?” she asks.

Shane tilts his head slightly, searching for the right words. “I think people imagine some huge shift,” he says. “Like suddenly everything is dramatically different the next morning. Like there’s this big emotional realization where you wake up and think wow, my life has changed forever.”

He glances at Ilya briefly, brief but loaded, before continuing. “But honestly? The morning after the wedding felt… normal.”

The interviewer smiles, gentle, understanding.
“Normal?”

Shane shrugs slightly, small, helpless. “We woke up. Anya was already scratching at the bedroom door because she wanted breakfast. The house was a mess from the reception after party. Someone…” he gestures vaguely toward Ilya “…had left three empty champagne bottles on the kitchen counter.”

Ilya lifts his eyebrows, mock offense. “You also had champagne.”

“I had one glass.”

“You had two.”

“Okay maybe two.”

The crew chuckles softly again, warm, easy.

Shane continues, voice softer now, more reflective. “But that was kind of the point.”

“What do you mean?” the interviewer asks.
Shane looks down at their joined hands for a second, thumb brushing once across Ilya’s ring finger, before answering. “For years our relationship had always felt… fragile,” he admits. “Not because of us. Because of everything around it. The league, the media, the rivalry, the secrecy. There were always consequences attached to it.”

His fingers tighten slightly around Ilya’s, small, grounding. “And then suddenly there weren’t.”
He looks up again, eyes clear, steady. “The morning after the wedding was the first time it just felt like… life. Like we didn’t have to hide anything anymore.”

Ilya nods slowly beside him, agreement, quiet certainty. “That is true.”

The interviewer turns toward him. “What was that morning like for you?”

Ilya considers the question carefully, expression growing thoughtful again, gaze drifting briefly toward the window where pale winter sunlight is still spreading across the floor in soft, golden bars. “I woke up before Shane,” he says.

Shane immediately snorts, fond, disbelieving. “Of course you did.”

“You sleep very heavily after champagne.”

“That’s slander.”

The crew laughs quietly again, warm background sound.

Ilya continues, ignoring the interruption, voice low and steady. “The house was very quiet,” he says. “Everyone else had already gone home. It was early enough that the city outside was still waking up.” His voice softens slightly, almost wistful. “And I remember sitting in the kitchen for a while with coffee.”

Shane glances sideways at him, surprised. “You never told me that.”

“You were asleep.”

“That’s not the point.”
Ilya smiles faintly, small, private. “I was thinking.”

The interviewer asks gently, “What were you thinking about?”

Ilya pauses, long enough that the silence feels full rather than empty. “I was thinking about how long it took me to get there,” he says quietly.

Shane’s expression softens, something tender flickering across his face.

“For years,” Ilya continues, “I believed loving Shane meant choosing something dangerous. Something uncertain. Something that could collapse at any moment if the wrong person found out.” His thumb brushes again over Shane’s knuckles. “But that morning… I realized something had changed.”

“What changed?” the interviewer asks softly.

Ilya answers simply, voice steady, certain.
“I was not afraid anymore.”

Shane watches him closely no, not smiling. Just listening. Heart in his throat.

“I looked down at my left hand,” Ilya continues, lifting it slightly as if remembering the weight of the ring there that day “and I remember thinking that for the first time in a very long time… my life felt stable.”

The interviewer tilts her head slightly. “Stable?”

He glances at Shane again, direct, unguarded.
“Because no matter what happened after that, games, seasons, careers ending, the league changing, this part of my life was no longer uncertain.”

 

His voice grows quieter. “It belonged to both of us now.”

Shane lets out a slow breath, shaky at the edges.
“That’s… a lot more poetic than the version I remember.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow, curious, fond. “What is your version?”

Shane laughs, soft, helpless. “My version is waking up two hours later, stumbling into the kitchen in boxers and one of your old T-shirts, and finding you sitting there staring at your coffee like you were contemplating the meaning of life.”

“That is accurate.”

“And when I asked what you were doing, you said…” Shane mimics Ilya’s calm voice perfectly, deep, measured “‘I am reflecting.’”

The crew laughs, warm, delighted.

Ilya nods seriously. “I was.”

Shane shakes his head, smiling now. “And then you looked at me and said something that I still think about sometimes.”

Ilya glances toward him, curious again. “What did I say?”

Shane smiles softly now, eyes bright, a little glassy. “You said, ‘It took me too long to understand how lucky I am.’”

Ilya doesn’t deny it. He just nods once, small, accepting.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice rough at the edges, “you figured it out eventually.”

The interviewer smiles warmly, gentle, touched.
“Do you ever miss the secrecy?”

Both men answer immediately, unison. “No.”

Shane laughs after saying it, bright, relieved. “God, no.”

Ilya shakes his head, decisive. “Keeping love hidden is exhausting.”

Shane nods in agreement, quick, emphatic.
“You spend so much energy worrying about who’s watching you, what you’re saying, how close you’re standing. It makes everything feel… tense.” He gestures between them, open, honest. “Now we don’t think about it.”

The interviewer glances at their joined hands, visible now, unhidden. “That seems pretty clear.”

Shane grins slightly, crooked, fond.

“Yeah, well… now the only thing we have to worry about is him learning K-pop choreography and turning it into a public seduction strategy.”

The crew laughs again, bright, easy.

Ilya looks very calm, completely unembarrassed.
“It was effective.”

Shane groans quietly, exaggerated, affectionate.
“Don’t start.”

But he’s still smiling, wide, helpless, completely in love.

And in the soft winter light pouring through the window, with their hands still laced together on the couch, neither of them looks away. Not for the cameras. Not for the crew. Just for each other. Like they’ve been doing, quietly, fiercely, irrevocably, for years.

 

The house is quiet again once the documentary crew finally packs up.

Camera cases roll out through the front door. Microphones disappear. The soft hum of production chatter fades down the driveway until the only sound left is the distant click of the door shutting and Anya’s nails tapping once against the hardwood floor before she settles back down on the rug.

Silence returns to the house like a familiar friend.
Shane exhales slowly from where he’s still sitting on the couch.

“Well,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face, “that was emotionally invasive.”

Ilya remains beside him, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, looking far too composed for someone who just delivered a speech that basically stunned an entire film crew.

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

Shane glances sideways at him. “You realize you basically gave a monologue about your undying love for me on camera. And you didn’t warn me.”

“That would defeat the purpose.”

Shane narrows his eyes. “You’re still playing the challenge.”

Ilya’s mouth curves faintly. “Of course. But every single word i said was true. You can trust me on that. ”

Shane huffs. But he doesn’t move away. In fact, if anything, he shifts a little closer. Ilya notices immediately. Of course he does. The space between them narrows until their arms touch.

“Shane,” Ilya says quietly.

“What?”

“You said it was your turn today.”

Shane glances at him. “I did.”

“Yet you are sitting very calmly.”

“That’s called strategy as you always say.”

Ilya’s eyebrow lifts slightly. “And how is that?”

“ You’re expecting something dramatic.”

“And?”

“And I’m not going to give you the satisfaction.”

Ilya studies him carefully. Shane Hollander attempting subtlety is always… interesting.

“Mm,” Ilya hums.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I believe you are bluffing.”

Shane opens his mouth to respond... and then Ilya moves. It’s not sudden exactly. He shifts closer, one hand coming to rest against the back of the couch near Shane’s shoulder, the other sliding lightly along Shane’s knee where it’s bent on the cushion.

The movement traps Shane just slightly between the couch and Ilya’s body. Shane blinks.

“…That’s illegal.”

Ilya leans in a little, voice dropping lower.

“You said it was challenge.”

“You’re trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?”

Shane tries very hard to keep his composure. It is not working.

“Ilya. You’re leaning. You’re doing that thing where you loom.”

"Loon? Wasn't that the stupid canadian wolf bird?" He says ofended.

"Not Loon. Loom. It means to appear with force. Like looming clouds in the horizon." Shane laughs slightly.

“I am not looming.”

“You’re absolutely looming.”

Ilya’s mouth tilts upward slightly. “You like looming.”

Shane exhales slowly through his nose. *I married a menace.”

“You married very attractive menace.”

Shane snorts.“I snatched a ten.”

But he doesn’t move away. And Ilya knows it.
Ilya’s fingers drift lightly along Shane’s arm, slow and teasing, his voice softer now.

“You were looking at me earlier.”

Shane blinks again. “When?.”

“During interview.”

“You were giving a speech.”

“You were staring.”

Shane shrugs slightly. “You were being unexpectedly romantic.”

Ilya leans closer still, their foreheads nearly touching now. “And you liked this.”

Shane hesitates. Then mutters quietly:“…Maybe.”

Ilya’s expression softens. His thumb brushes gently along Shane’s wrist. “I always like when you look at me like that.”

“Like what.”

“Like you are still surprised.”

Shane lets out a quiet breath. “I mean… yeah,” he admits. “Sometimes I am.”

Ilya studies him for a second. Then his voice drops to something softer. “Shane. I love you.”

Shane’s eyes flicker slightly.
“You literally said that on camera twenty minutes ago. But i love you too.”

Ilya leans in just a little more, lips brushing Shane’s temple, then his cheek. It’s not rushed.
Just slow, affectionate, familiar.

Shane tilts his head slightly toward him, already relaxing into it.

“Ilya,” he murmurs.

“Mhm.." it's the only thing he can say. Just a noise from his throat.

“You’re absolutely cheating.”

“How?”

“You weaponized romance.”

Ilya chuckles softly against his skin. Before he can reply...

Both of their phones start vibrating violently on the coffee table. At the same time. Once. Twice.
Then again.

Shane groans. “No.”

Ilya glances toward the table. The vibrations continue in relentless bursts.

“That is team group chat.”

Shane drags a hand down his face. “Of course it is.”

Ilya reaches over and grabs his phone, unlocking it. Shane reluctantly picks up his own.

The screen is chaos.

Centaurs Group Chat (18 messages… 23… 31…)

Wyatt Hayes: CLUB TONIGHT

Luca Haas: EVERYONE GOING

Troy Barrett: Team bonding apparently

Wyatt Hayes: ROZANOV, HOLLANDER YOU ARE COMING

Wyatt Hayes: THIS IS NOT OPTIONAL

Shane groans louder. “Oh my god.”

More messages appear instantly.

Wyatt Hayes: DRESS HOT

Luca Haas: DOCUMENTARY CREW MIGHT COME

Wyatt Hayes: ROZANOV HOLLANDER DATE NIGHT AT CLUB???

Shane throws his head back. “I hate them.”

Ilya scrolls through the messages calmly. “This seems fun.”

Shane stares at him. “You want to go to a club. With the entire team. During the challenge.”

Ilya looks at him slowly. “Think about it, kotyonok.”

Shane’s eyes narrow at the Russian pet name.
“That tone means you’ve already decided something.”

Ilya sets the phone down on the table. His gaze is suddenly very deliberate.
“Imagine,” he says slowly, “how easy it will be to flirt with my husband in front of entire nightclub.”
Ilya smiles. “And you will come.”

Shane crosses his arms. “Will I.”

Ilya leans closer again, voice soft and confident.
“Yes. You will. ”

Shane squints at him. “…Why.”

Ilya’s smile deepens. “Because you like when I chase you.”

Shane stares at him for a long moment.
Then mutters: “…I hate how correct you are.”

Ilya’s laugh is quiet and warm.

And somewhere in the back of Shane’s mind, he’s already realizing something very dangerous.

Day Five just got a lot more interesting.

 

Evening arrives slowly in Ottawa.

The sky outside the bedroom window has shifted from pale winter blue to deep violet, the city lights beginning to glow in the distance. Their house carries that soft end of day quiet the hum of the heater, Anya’s occasional sigh from the living room, the distant sound of traffic somewhere far down the street.

Shane stands in the middle of the bedroom staring at his closet like it personally offended him.

Behind him, Ilya is leaning casually against the dresser, arms crossed, watching the entire process with unmistakable amusement.

“You’ve changed shirts three times,” Ilya says calmly.

Shane doesn’t turn around. “I have not.”

“You have.”

“This is the second one.”

“You are lying.”

Shane finally spins around, holding up the black shirt currently in his hands like evidence.

“This one is different.”

“It is the same shirt.”

“It’s not the same shirt.”

“It is black shirt.”

Shane squints at him. “It’s a different black shirt.”

Ilya shrugs slightly. “You look good in all black shirts.”

“That’s not helpful.”

Ilya pushes off the dresser and walks a few slow steps closer, his gaze sweeping over Shane in that thoughtful, assessing way that makes Shane very aware of himself all of a sudden.

Shane is wearing dark jeans and a fitted t-shirt right now, hair slightly damp from the shower earlier.

Ilya stops in front of him. “This one is good.”

“You didn’t even look properly.”

“I looked.”

“For like two seconds.”

“I know what I like.”

Shane folds his arms. “You’re biased. That defeats the purpose of asking.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly. “You asked?”

“…Okay maybe I didn’t technically ask.”

Ilya’s mouth curves faintly. “I thought so.”

Shane sighs and tosses the extra shirt back into the closet. “This is stupid.”

“You are going to club, Shane. People dress nicely.”

“I play professional hockey,” Shane says. “My normal wardrobe is sweatpants.”

“That explains many things.”

Shane glares. “Oh really. Careful, captain.”

Ilya smiles at the title. “You like when I am captain.”

“That depends.”

“On what.”

“Whether you’re using it to boss me around.”

“I never boss.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “You literally captained an entire locker room karaoke routine yesterday.”

“That was leadership.”

Shane snorts.

Before he can respond, Ilya steps a little closer again. Close enough that Shane has to tilt his head slightly to look at him.

“You look good,” Ilya says quietly.

Shane huffs. “You’re trying to distract me again.”

“I am stating fact. I always like how you look.”

Shane shifts his weight. “…You’re still flirting.”

“Always.”

Shane watches him carefully for a moment. Then mutters quietly: “…You’re dangerous lately.”

Ilya’s eyebrow lifts. “Why.”

“Because you’re saying romantic things and being smug about it.”

Ilya considers that. “Effective combination.”

Shane shakes his head, though there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth. Then Shane glances toward the bed where his phone lights up again.

He groans. “Oh my god.”

Ilya picks up his own phone from the dresser.

The group chat is alive again.

Wyatt Hayes: WHERE ARE YOU TWO

Luca Haas: WE ARE ALREADY HERE

Wyatt Hayes:
ROZANOV IF YOU DONT SHOW UP SOON I AM TELLING THE DJ ABOUT THE KPOP INCIDENT

Shane stares at the message. “…He wouldn’t.”

Ilya looks deeply unbothered. “He would.”

Shane drags a hand down his face. “We have to go. Before Wyatt ruins my life.”

“He will try anyway.”

Shane sighs. Then he grabs his jacket from the chair and pulls it on. Ilya watches him the entire time, quiet and thoughtful. Shane notices immediately. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing the staring thing again.”

“I like looking at you.”

Shane pauses halfway through zipping his jacket.
“…You’re really laying it on thick today.”

Ilya steps closer again. Just slightly. “Day Five.”

Shane squints at him. “You’re treating this like a marathon.”

“I have good stamina. I think after all this years you will know that.”

Shane chokes on a laugh. “That was absolutely intentional.”

But he’s smiling now. Really smiling. And Ilya sees it. Feels that quiet satisfaction settle somewhere in his chest.

“Let’s see how well you flirt in a crowded club, Rozanov.”

 

The club is already loud when they arrive.

Not just loud... alive.

Bass thrums through the walls the moment Shane pushes the door open, the sound vibrating up through the floor like a second heartbeat. Lights sweep across the packed room in slow waves of purple and gold, the bar glowing along one side while the dance floor pulses with bodies moving in rhythm with the music.

The Ottawa Centaurs are extremely easy to find.
Mostly because Wyatt Hayes is standing on a small platform near the dance floor waving both arms like he’s directing traffic.

“THE MARRIED COUPLE HAS ARRIVED!” he shouts the second he spots them.

Shane stops mid step. “I hate him.” Ilya, beside him, looks completely unfazed.

Luca Haas nearly drops his drink laughing. “There they are!” Luca says, grinning. “We thought you guys bailed.”

Troy Barrett lifts his beer in greeting from one of the high tables.

“Rozanov, Hollander,” he says.

“Barrett,” Ilya replies calmly.

Wyatt jumps down from the platform and slings an arm over Ilya’s shoulders.

“You took forever,” Wyatt says. “We were about to send a search party.”

“You are very dramatic,” Ilya replies.

Shane slides up beside Troy at the table. “Please tell me he’s been like this all night.”

Troy snorts. “Worse.”

Wyatt points dramatically at them both. “Alright! First round is already ordered because I know you two move like an old married couple.”

“We are an old married couple,” Shane mutters.

Luca hands them both beers anyway. The glass is cold in Shane’s hand, condensation already sliding down the side. He takes a long sip and exhales slowly.

The music shifts again, louder now. Wyatt is already turning toward the dance floor.

“Let’s go!”

“Absolutely not,” Shane says immediately.

Wyatt grabs Luca’s arm and drags him away anyway. Within seconds half the team disappears into the moving crowd.

Shane leans back against the table. “I’m staying right here.”

Ilya finishes half his beer in one slow drink. Then he sets the bottle down. Shane watches him carefully.

“…No.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “No what.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

“Thinking about what.”

“Dancing.”

Ilya looks toward the dance floor where Wyatt is already losing his mind to whatever remix the DJ just started.

“It seems fun.”

Shane laughs. “You cannot dance.”

“That is not true.”

“That is extremely true.”

“I danced yesterday.”

“That was choreography,” Shane says. “And even then you looked like you were fighting gravity.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly. “You are insulting your husband.”

“I’m protecting the public.”

Ilya steps a little closer. “You are afraid.”

Shane scoffs. “Of what.”

“Of dancing with me.”

Shane narrows his eyes. “You’re baiting me.”

“Maybe.”

Shane studies him for a second. Then sighs dramatically. “Fine.”

Ilya’s smile appears slowly.

“But,” Shane adds, pointing at him, “when you step on my foot I’m leaving you there.”

“I will not step on foot.”

“You absolutely will.”

Ilya takes his hand. Shane freezes for half a second. Not because the gesture is unusual, it isn’t. Just because there’s something about doing it here, in the middle of the club, under flashing lights and surrounded by teammates who are absolutely going to notice.

But he lets Ilya pull him toward the dance floor anyway. The music is louder here, the bass vibrating through Shane’s chest as they slip into the shifting crowd.

Wyatt immediately sees them. “CAPTAIN DANCING!”

“Shut up!” Shane yells back.

Ilya ignores him. His hands settle on Shane’s hips like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Shane gives him a look.

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I am excellent dancer.”

“You are a hockey player.”

“Same coordination.”

“Not even close.”

But they move anyway. Not anything dramatic, just easy rhythm, swaying slightly with the music, the space between them smaller than it needs to be.

Ilya’s gaze stays fixed on Shane almost the entire time.

Shane notices. “Why are you looking at me like that.”

“Like what.”

“Like you’re flirting.”

“I am flirting.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The song ends. Another beat drops immediately after... And then a new track starts. For half a second neither of them notices. Then the opening synth line cuts through the speakers.
A familiar melody. Faint at first. Then unmistakable.

“All The Things She Said.”

The world seems to pause. Shane stops moving first. Ilya freezes a second later. The lights are still flashing around them, the dance floor still packed, Wyatt still yelling something somewhere behind them... But suddenly neither of them hears any of it.

Because they both know that song. And more importantly... They both remember the last time they heard it in a club.

Years ago. Different city. Different lives. The memory arrives all at once. Ilya dancing and kissing a girl on the dance floor unaware at first that Shane was watching. Shane standing across the room with Rose Landry, trying to look like he didn’t care. Trying very hard not to stare at the Russian player who had already gotten under his skin in ways he refused to acknowledge.

The tension. The jealousy. The stupid, electric pull neither of them knew what to do with. Back when everything between them was sharp edges and denial. Back when they didn’t have the language yet for what they were feeling. Back when loving each other felt impossible.

Shane exhales quietly. “…Holy shit.”

Ilya’s voice is softer. “Yes.”

They’re still standing there in the middle of the dance floor. Neither moving.

Shane lets out a quiet laugh of disbelief. “Of all the songs.”

Ilya shakes his head slowly. “I remember that night.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Me too.”

Ilya’s gaze drifts over Shane’s face, thoughtful now. “You were with your movie star girlfriend.”

“Rose,” Shane says. "You were with some girl.”

“I do not remember her name. I don't even remember how she looked like.”

Shane snorts. “Wow.”

“I remember you.”

The words land quietly between them. Shane looks up at him. The music keeps playing around them, the chorus rising through the club... But suddenly it feels like the two of them are standing in a completely different moment layered over the present.

“You kept staring at me,” Shane says.

“You kept staring at me.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“I was trying to figure out if I hated you."

Ilya’s mouth curves slightly. “And?”

Shane huffs. “Turned out that wasn’t the problem.”

“No,” Ilya says quietly. “It wasn’t.”

For a second they just stand there in the middle of the flashing lights and moving crowd, both thinking about that younger version of themselves, two stubborn idiots circling each other across a dance floor, too proud and too scared to admit the truth.

Shane shakes his head softly. “God. We were dumb.”

Ilya laughs under his breath. Then his hand finds Shane’s again. Warm. Steady. “But we figured it out.”

Shane looks at him. Really looks at him. And suddenly the memory doesn’t feel sharp anymore.

“…Yeah,” Shane says. “We did.”

Ilya watches him quietly for a moment. The lights sweep over Shane’s face, gold, purple, blue, each flash catching the small smile tugging at his mouth.

Then Ilya says softly: “I was jealous.”

Shane blinks. “Of Rose?”

Ilya shrugs slightly. “You looked happy.”

“Rose is great. But i wasn't happy.”

Then after another song or two, Shane leans closer to Ilya so he can be heard over the noise.
“I need air.”

Ilya nods immediately. “Outside?”

They slip out of the crowd together while Wyatt is distracted trying to convince the DJ to play more K-pop.

The hallway leading toward the back exit is quieter, the bass muffled by the walls. Cold night air hits them the moment the door opens. Ottawa is freezing compared to the heat inside the club.

Shane exhales a cloud of breath and leans against the railing outside. “God that’s better.”

Ilya steps beside him. For a moment neither of them speaks. The distant thump of music filters through the door behind them.

Shane glances sideways. “…You planned this tonight.”

Ilya pretends to think. “Maybe.”

“The song thing obviously wasn’t planned.”

“No. You think i wanted to go to trauma again?”

“But everything else?” Shane presses.

Ilya shrugs slightly. “I thought dancing with my husband in a club would be fun.”

Shane studies him for a moment. Then he laughs quietly. “You know what’s funny. You’re actually winning tonight.”

Ilya tilts his head. “Actually?”

“Don’t push it.”

“But you admit it.”

Shane sighs. “…Yeah.”

The word hangs there in the cold air. Ilya looks pleased, but not smug this time. Just warm.
Satisfied.

Shane bumps his shoulder lightly against him.
“But the challenge isn’t over.”

“I know.”

“I can still make a comeback.”

Ilya smiles slowly. “I look forward to this.”

Shane watches him for a second. Then he shakes his head. “You’re ridiculously in love with me, you know that?”

“Yes. Always”

The answer comes so easily that Shane actually laughs.

Inside the club, Wyatt suddenly bursts through the door behind them. “THE DJ IS PLAYING K-POP AGAIN—”

He stops when he sees them standing there quietly. “…oh.”

Shane groans. “Wyatt.”

Wyatt grins. “Carry on, lovebirds.”

Then he disappears back inside. Shane closes his eyes briefly. “I hate him.”

Ilya chuckles softly.

But he reaches over and takes Shane’s hand anyway. And standing there in the cold Ottawa night, Day Five of the challenge continues somewhere between chaos, flirting, and the quiet realization that falling in love again might actually be easier than either of them expected.

Chapter 7: Day Six

Chapter Summary

Menace

Morning comes slower after a night at the club.

The house is quiet in that soft, early way that feels almost suspended between sleep and waking, the pale winter light just starting to spill through the kitchen windows, the faint hum of the heater running, Anya stretched across the living room rug like she has absolutely no intention of moving anytime soon.

Shane wakes first. Not because of an alarm, not because of practice, today they don’t need to be at the rink until later, but because his brain is still halfway replaying last night.

The club. The song. The way Ilya looked at him on the dance floor like they were the only two people in the room.

Shane groans quietly into the pillow and drags a hand through his hair. “…Fuck.”

He’s still thinking about it. Which is deeply inconvenient if he wants to stay soft.

Eventually he rolls out of bed and wanders toward the kitchen in sweatpants and an old Centaurs hoodie, the house cold enough that the floor makes him wince slightly.

Coffee first. Always coffee first. He’s halfway through pouring it when he hears the familiar soft sound of footsteps behind him.

Shane glances over his shoulder. Ilya looks annoyingly composed for someone who stayed out dancing until nearly two in the morning. His hair is still slightly messy from sleep, and he’s wearing one of Shane’s t-shirts and dark athletic shorts, bare feet silent on the floor as he crosses the kitchen. He looks warm. Relaxed. Dangerous.

Shane narrows his eyes immediately. “…Why do you look like that.”

Ilya reaches for the second mug without answering right away. “Like what.”

“Like you’re about to start something.”

Ilya pours coffee into his mug. “I am drinking coffee.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Ilya leans against the counter across from him, blowing gently across the surface of the drink.
Shane studies him carefully. Years of marriage have taught him many things about Ilya Rozanov.
One of them is recognizing the exact expression he’s wearing right now.

“…You’re thinking. That’s suspicious.”

“Why.”

“Because you’ve been in full seduction mode for five days.”

Ilya’s mouth curves slightly. “That is true.”

Shane folds his arms. “So what’s today.”

Ilya takes a slow sip of coffee. Then he says calmly: “Day Six.”

Shane nods. “Yeah. I’m aware.”

Ilya adds: “Today I retire.”

Shane blinks. “…What.”

“I retire from seduction.”

Shane stares at him. “No you don’t.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a trap.”

“It is not trap.”

“You’ve been plotting for almost a week and now suddenly you’re just… stopping? Absolutely not.”

Ilya watches him with quiet amusement. “Why not.”

“Because that’s psychological warfare.”

“It is experiment.”

Shane points a finger at him. “You’re messing with me.”

“Maybe.”

Shane groans and turns back to the coffee machine, dragging a hand over his face.

“I hate this challenge.”

“You love this challenge.”

“I really don’t.”

Ilya takes another sip, completely calm. “For five days I chased you.”

Shane turns back. “You enjoyed it.”

“Yes. But today,” Ilya continues, “we reverse roles.”

Shane squints. “…Explain.”

Ilya sets his mug down. “Today,” he says simply, “you seduce me.”

The kitchen goes very quiet. Shane stares at him like he just suggested they wrestle a bear. “You’re joking. You’re the most intense flirt I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Still accurate.”

Shane rubs the back of his neck.

“So your brilliant strategy is… what? Sit there and watch me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s creepy.”

“It is scientific observation.” Ilya tilts his head slightly. “You said earlier this week you could make comeback.”

“That was trash talk.”

“Now you prove it.”

Shane exhales slowly. Then he studies him for a long moment. “…You’re serious. You’re really not going to try anything today. No flirting. No seduction. No kissing.”

Ilya pauses. “…Maybe some kissing.”

Shane throws his hands up. “That doesn’t count!”

“Rules are flexible.”

Shane laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

“But today,” Ilya says quietly, “I want to see how you look when you chase me.”

The words land softly between them. Shane’s eyebrows lift. “…You think I don’t chase you.”

Ilya shrugs slightly. “You are subtle.”

“That’s because I’m not a menace.”

“You married menace.”

“That was my first mistake.”

Ilya smiles faintly. Shane watches him for another second. Then he sighs dramatically. “Fine.”

Ilya’s eyebrow lifts. “Fine?”

“You want to make this Day Six rule change?”

Shane picks up his coffee mug and takes a slow sip. Then he steps a little closer. Not dramatically.
Just enough that Ilya notices. “Careful what you ask for, Captain.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow slightly. “Oh?”

Shane leans casually against the counter beside him now. Their shoulders nearly touching. “I’ve been putting up with your nonsense all week.”

“My nonsense.”

“K-pop dancing.”

“Effective tactic.”

“Locker room flirting.”

“Also effective.”

Shane takes another sip of coffee. Then he glances sideways at him. “You sure you want to see how I flirt back?”

Ilya’s voice stays calm. “Yes.”

Shane’s mouth curves slowly. “Alright.”

He bumps his shoulder lightly against Ilya’s as he walks past him toward the hallway. “Hope you’re ready, Rozanov.”

Ilya watches him go. And for the first time in six days, Ilya Rozanov has the distinct feeling he may have just made a very dangerous mistake.

By the time they leave for the rink later that morning, Ilya has convinced himself he’s perfectly prepared for the situation.

He has discipline. He has control. He has spent years playing high pressure hockey games in front of thousands of people. Surely he can handle one day of Shane Hollander flirting with him. Right?

Wrong.

It starts in the hallway outside the locker room.
They’re walking side by side when Shane suddenly slows down slightly.

“Hey,” Shane says.

Ilya glances over. “Yes?”

Shane reaches brushing something invisible off Ilya’s shoulder. “There.”

Ilya blinks. “What was that.”

“Lint.”

“There was no lint.”

“Now there isn’t.”

Then Shane pats his shoulder once and walks into the locker room. Ilya stands there for a full second.

Wyatt Hayes notices immediately. “Ilya?”

Ilya blinks again. “Yes.”

“Why are you staring at the wall.”

Ilya clears his throat. “Nothing.”

Wyatt narrows his eyes suspiciously.

Inside the locker room Shane is already sitting at his stall, pulling on his practice gear like nothing unusual is happening.

Luca leans over to Wyatt. “Is something going on?”

Wyatt whispers back: “Oh my god it’s Day Six.”

Both of them look toward Shane. Then toward Ilya. Then back again. Wyatt grins like a man watching live entertainment. “Oh this is going to be good.”

Practice begins normally. Or at least it looks normal. Drills. Passing lines. Coach Wiebe yelling about defensive positioning.

But every time Shane skates past Ilya... Something happens. Not obvious. Not enough for anyone else to immediately notice. Just small things. A quiet comment. A glance. A brush of shoulders as they pass each other in a drill.

And halfway through practice Ilya finally hears it clearly. Shane skates past him after a play and murmurs quietly: “You look good with the captain patch.”

Then he skates away like he didn’t just say something that makes Ilya completely miss the next pass. The puck slides past his stick.

Coach Wiebe whistles loudly. “Rozanov!”

Ilya blinks. “Yes.”

“Focus!”

“Yes, coach.”

Wyatt nearly collapses laughing across the ice.
“Oh my god,” he wheezes.

Luca skates over. “Did Hollander just flirt with you?”

Ilya glares at both of them. “Be quiet.”

Wyatt points dramatically. “ROZANOV IS BLUSHING.”

“I am not blushing. Russians do not do this..”

“You missed the puck!”

“I was distracted.”

“BY YOUR HUSBAND!”

Ilya exhales slowly. Very slowly. Because across the ice Shane Hollander is watching him with a very calm expression. And a tiny, dangerous smile. And for the first time since the challenge started... Ilya realizes something important.
Shane Hollander might actually be very good at this game.

By the time practice ends, Ilya Rozanov is beginning to understand two very important things.

The first is that Shane Hollander has been playing a long game this entire time.

The second is that Ilya has apparently spent years completely underestimating how good his husband is at quiet, devastating flirtation.

Because Shane doesn’t flirt like Ilya does.

Ilya is dramatic about it. Obvious. Physical. He corners Shane against lockers and kisses him in front of half the team like he’s daring the universe to stop him.

Shane, on the other hand... Shane weaponizes normalcy. And it is extremely unfair.

Practice ends with the usual chaos of players skating toward the bench, sticks clattering, voices overlapping as everyone heads for the locker room.

Ilya pulls his helmet off as he walks in, shaking damp hair out of his eyes, trying to convince himself he is perfectly calm. Completely unaffected. Totally in control. Which lasts approximately thirty seconds. Because Shane is already at his stall when Ilya walks in. Half out of his gear. And smiling in a way that feels suspiciously intentional.

Wyatt notices immediately.

“Oh my god,” he mutters loudly, nudging Luca. “Look.”

Luca swivels in his chair like a fan watching his favorite reality show.

“Day Six content,” he whispers dramatically.

Ilya drops into his seat and starts untying his skates. Ignore them. Ignore Shane. Ignore the fact that Shane is now leaning casually against the edge of his stall, arms crossed, watching him.

“You stare a lot today,” Ilya says without looking up.

Shane shrugs. “Observing.”

“That was my role.”

“Yeah, well. I’m improvising.”

Ilya pulls one skate off and glances up at him.
“…You are enjoying this too much.”

“Am I?”

Shane pushes himself off the stall slightly and steps closer. Not aggressively. Just enough that he’s standing right in front of Ilya now.

The locker room noise fades a little in the background as Wyatt and Luca very obviously pretend not to watch.

Shane tilts his head slightly. “Can I ask you something?”

“You already asked many things today.”

“Humor me.”

Ilya leans back slightly on the bench. “…Fine.”

Shane gestures lightly toward the ice behind them. “How many points did you get last game?”

Ilya frowns. “…Two.”

“Right.”

“And?”

Shane’s mouth curves faintly. “Nothing.”

“That was pointless question.”

“Maybe.”

Ilya studies him. “You are distracting me again.”

Shane leans a little closer. And his voice drops just slightly. “You said you wanted to see how I chase you.”

Ilya’s pulse does something extremely inconvenient. “Yes.”

Shane’s eyes flick down briefly, to the captain patch still stitched across Ilya’s practice jersey.
Then back up. “Just wondering if it’s working.”

Ilya opens his mouth. Stops. Closes it again.

Across the locker room Wyatt actually covers his mouth to keep from shouting.

Luca whispers violently: “OH MY GOD.”

Ilya clears his throat. “You are not subtle.”

Shane grins. “Never claimed to be.”

“That is lie.”

“Okay, sometimes.”

Ilya stands up slowly. Which puts them almost chest to chest. “You are trying to win today.”

“I thought that was the point.”

“You are competitive.”

“You married me.”

“That was questionable decision.”

Shane laughs quietly. Then his hand lifts almost automatically. For a moment Ilya thinks Shane might touch his face. Instead he reaches past him and pulls a loose towel off the hook behind him. But the movement brings him close enough that his shoulder brushes lightly against Ilya’s chest. Just barely. Just enough.

And then Shane says softly: “You missed that pass earlier.”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “You distracted me.”

“I barely said anything.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Shane shrugs. “I said you looked good.”

“That is manipulation.”

“That’s flirting.”

Ilya stares at him for another second. Then he exhales quietly. “You are dangerous today.”

Shane tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Across the room Wyatt finally explodes. “I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE.”

Everyone looks over.

Wyatt throws his hands in the air dramatically.
“HE’S WINNING!”

Luca nods enthusiastically. “Captain you’re losing your own challenge!”

“I am not losing.”

“You missed a puck!”

“That was one time!”

Wyatt points accusingly at Shane. “He broke Rozanov!”

Shane lifts both hands innocently. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re terrifying,” Luca says.

Shane smiles. Ilya shakes his head slowly.“Idiots.”

But when he glances back at Shane again... That calm little smile is still there. And something warm settles quietly in Ilya’s chest.

Because the truth is… He’s seen Shane Hollander play hockey with impossible precision. He’s seen him control a game like it’s a chessboard.
But watching Shane flirt like this... Watching him be soft and confident and just a little bit smug... Might actually be more dangerous.

Ilya leans slightly closer again. His voice low enough that only Shane hears it. “You are enjoying this far too much.”

Shane’s eyes flicker. “Maybe.”

Ilya studies him for another long moment. Then he murmurs quietly, almost fondly: “Careful, moy lyubimyy.” Shane’s breath catches just a little. “You might make me fall in love again.”

Shane smiles slowly. “Working on it.”

And for the first time all day... Ilya has the very distinct feeling that he might not survive Day Six with his dignity intact.

 

The cold outside the arena hits them immediately.

Ottawa in winter has a way of making the air feel sharp enough to wake every nerve in your body, and the moment the doors close behind them the quiet of the afternoon wraps around them in that familiar way, snow packed along the sidewalks, the pale sun hanging low, the city moving slower than it does in the middle of the season rush.

Ilya pulls his jacket closed. Shane shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. They start walking toward the parking lot together. For a minute neither of them says anything. Which, for two people who have spent years orbiting each other through rivalry and friendship and eventually marriage, is not uncomfortable at all.
It’s easy. Comfortable. But today the quiet feels… charged. Because every few seconds Ilya can feel Shane glance at him. Like he’s studying something.

Ilya finally exhales through his nose. “You are still staring. Why.”

Shane shrugs. “Trying to figure you out.”

“You married me.”

“Still figuring you out.”

Ilya snorts quietly. “That is because I am complicated.”

“That’s one word for it.”

They reach Shane’s car, and Shane unlocks it with a quiet click. But instead of getting in right away, Shane leans back against the door.
Watching him again.

Ilya crosses his arms slowly. “What now.”

Shane tilts his head. “You said earlier today you wanted to see how I flirt. And I am observing.”

Shane studies him for a moment. Then he says something softer. “You know you’re easy, right?”

Ilya blinks. “Excuse me?”

Shane gestures vaguely at him. “You’re easy to flirt with.”

Ilya looks genuinely offended. “I am not easy.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I am intimidating. I am mysterious.”

“You pout when you don’t get attention.” Shane laughs quietly. “It’s adorable.”

Ilya stares at him.“You are trying to provoke me.”

“Maybe.”

“You succeed.”

Shane pushes himself off the car. Then he steps closer. Close enough that Ilya can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from years of smiling too much.

“You know what your problem is, Ilya?”

“I have many problems.”

“You assume I’m only reacting to you.”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “And you are not?”

Shane shakes his head slowly. “I’ve been chasing you for years.”

The words land softly between them. For a second Ilya doesn’t respond. Because his brain is still catching up. “You have not.”

Shane laughs under his breath. “Oh my god, you really didn’t notice.”

“That is ridiculous.”

Shane lifts an eyebrow. “Who drove two hours with a butt plug just to be with you?”

“You wanted to fuck.”

“I wanted to see you. Who kept picking fights with me in interviews?” Shane continues.

“You started those.”

“Because you wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

Ilya opens his mouth. “That was different.”

Shane steps closer again. “You asked me to chase you today.” Shane’s voice drops slightly.
“I’ve always been chasing you.”

Ilya goes very still. The parking lot is quiet around them. Just wind and the faint crunch of snow under someone’s boots somewhere in the distance.

Ilya studies him carefully. “You are saying this now. During challenge.”

“Still counts.”

Ilya huffs softly. “You are dramatic.”

“I learned from you.”

Another quiet moment passes. Then Shane says lightly: “So what’s the verdict?”

Ilya folds his arms again, considering him. “You are… surprisingly competent. You are less terrible at flirting than expected.”

“High praise.”

Ilya steps closer too now. Not backing away. Never backing away.

“You are also very smug.”

“I’m having a good day.”

Shane opens the car door finally. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “That is it?”

“For now.”

“You surrender.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Shane slides into the driver’s seat. Then he glances up at him again. Eyes warm. Dangerous.

“You know,” he says casually, “there’s still a lot of Day Six left.”

Ilya pauses halfway into the passenger seat. "You are planning something.”

“Maybe.”

“You look suspicious.”

“Relax, Rozanov.”

Shane starts the engine. The heater hums to life, warm air filling the car. And then he glances over again, that quiet smile still there. “I’m just getting started.”

Ilya leans back slowly in the seat. Watching him.
And somewhere deep in his chest something warm spreads again. Because the truth is... He started this challenge thinking he knew exactly how Shane Hollander worked.

But watching him today… Watching the way he moves through the world with quiet certainty…
Watching the way he looks at him like he’s still something worth chasing after all these years, Ilya realizes something that makes his heart feel dangerously full.

He might have underestimated his husband. A lot.

And if this is what Shane Hollander looks like when he decides to play the game… Then Day Six might end up being the most dangerous day of the challenge so far.

 

They turn onto their street a few minutes later, the familiar row of houses appearing between the trees, snow piled along the edges of the sidewalks.

Shane pulls into the driveway. The engine shuts off. For a second neither of them moves. Then Shane exhales slowly and unbuckles his seatbelt.
“Alright.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Alright what.”

“Next phase.”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “You admit there is phase.”

“Obviously.”

“What is it.”

Shane opens the car door. “Come inside and find out.”

Ilya sighs deeply, climbing out after him. “You enjoy tormenting me.”

“Very much.”

The cold air bites again as they walk up the front steps. Inside, the house is warm and quiet.
Anya immediately appears from the living room, nails clicking against the floor as she trots toward them. Her tail starts wagging the second she sees Ilya.

“Hello, Anya.” The dog practically melts against him. Shane kicks his shoes off and hangs his jacket by the door.

“You absolutely spoil her.”

“She deserves it.”

They move into the kitchen together, the afternoon light spilling softly through the windows again.

Ilya leans against the counter. Watching. Waiting.

“Well,” he says.

“Well what.”

“You promised phase.”

Shane opens the fridge casually. “Patience.”

“I am patient.”

“You are many things. Patient isn’t one of them.”

Ilya crosses his arms. “You are stalling.”

Shane pulls two bottles of water out of the fridge and tosses one to him. Then he takes a slow sip of his own before answering. “I’m thinking.”

“That is worse.”

“Why?”

“Because when you think you become dangerous.”

Shane laughs quietly. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I am not.”

Shane studies him for a second. Then something softer flickers across his expression.

“You know what the funny part is?”

“What.”

“I didn’t plan anything for today.”

Ilya frowns. “That cannot be true.”

“It is.”

“You always plan.”

“Usually.”

“Then what are you doing.”

Shane shrugs slightly. “Just… paying attention.”

“To what.”

Shane steps closer again. And suddenly that quiet, steady focus is back in his eyes. “To you.”

Ilya goes still. Shane continues softly: “You spent five days trying to impress me.”

“That was objective.”

“And it worked.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly. “Yes?”

“Yeah.” Shane’s voice stays warm, honest in that very Shane way that always sneaks past Ilya’s defenses.

“But today I’m realizing something.”

“What.”

“I don’t have to try very hard.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “That is arrogant.”

“No.” Shane shakes his head slowly. “Just honest.”

He gestures lightly toward him. “You’re already mine.”

The words are simple. Matter of fact. But they land somewhere deep in Ilya’s chest anyway.

“You are also mine,” Ilya says quietly.

“I know.”

“And yet you still chase.”

Shane smiles faintly. “Yeah.”

“Why.”

Shane shrugs again. “Because I like you.”

Ilya stares at him. “You married me.”

“Still like you.”

“That is very romantic, Hollander.”

“Don’t mock my love language.”

Ilya laughs softly despite himself. Then he steps forward until they’re standing close again. Very close.

“You are winning today,” Ilya admits.

Shane’s eyebrows lift. “Oh? That’s a big admission.”

“Do not get used to it.”

Shane leans slightly closer. Their foreheads almost touch now.

“Good,” he murmurs.

“Because the day’s not over yet.”

Ilya’s mouth curves slowly. “No,” he agrees quietly.

“It is not.”

And judging by the way Shane is looking at him, calm, confident, warm in a way that makes Ilya’s pulse speed up. Day Six is very far from finished.

Ilya studies him carefully. Then, after a moment, he tilts his head slightly. “…What now, Hollander.”

Shane doesn’t answer right away. Instead he reaches out and takes Ilya’s wrist. Not forcefully.
Just a loose, warm grip.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You are kidnapping me?”

“Something like that.”

“Very suspicious.”

“Trust me.”

“That has historically been dangerous.”

Shane just smiles and gently tugs him toward the hallway. Ilya goes. Of course he does. He could stop this easily if he wanted to. Could dig his heels in, could demand explanations, could turn the whole moment back into a game.

But something about the way Shane is leading him, quietly confident, calm, like he already knows Ilya will follow, makes warmth bloom low in his chest.

“You know,” Ilya says as they walk down the hall, “usually I am the one doing this.”

Shane glances back over his shoulder. “Doing what?”

“Leading you to bedroom.”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “Roles reversed today, Rozanov. ”

Ilya snorts softly.“You are enjoying saying that.”

They reach the bedroom. Shane pushes the door open with his shoulder.

The late afternoon light filters through the windows in soft gold across the bed, the familiar mess of blankets and pillows looking warm and lived in and completely theirs.

Shane turns toward him. Still holding his wrist. For a second neither of them speaks.

Then Ilya murmurs quietly: “You planned this.”

Shane shakes his head. “Nope.”

“You are lying.”

“Maybe a little.”

Ilya’s mouth curves faintly. “Menace.”

“Learned from the best.”

And then Shane kisses him. Not rushed. Not the teasing, quick kisses from earlier. This one is deeper. Intentional. His hand slides up from Ilya’s wrist to the back of his neck, fingers threading gently into his hair as he pulls him closer. Ilya exhales against his mouth, the sound low and surprised.

Because this... this is different from the playful flirting earlier. There’s heat in it now. Real heat.

His hands find Shane’s waist automatically, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens, mouths moving together in that familiar rhythm they’ve known for years.

“Shane,” Ilya murmurs against his lips.

Shane answers by kissing him again. Slower. Hungrier.

Ilya laughs softly into the kiss. “You are very impatient suddenly.”

“You talk too much.”

“Never stopped you before.”

Shane nudges him backward toward the bed.
Ilya lets himself be pushed. He sits down first, Shane still between his knees, hands sliding up Shane’s sides as the kiss breaks long enough for them to breathe.

Ilya studies him for a second, chest rising slightly faster now. “You are winning today.”

Shane brushes his thumb along Ilya’s jaw. “Maybe.”

“That is dangerous confidence.”

“You like it.”

Then he pulls Shane down again. The next kiss is messier. Warmer. Shane’s hands move under the hem of Ilya’s shirt, palms warm against his skin as he pushes the fabric up. Ilya lifts his arms automatically. The shirt disappears somewhere behind them.

“Careful,” Ilya murmurs, fingers sliding into Shane’s hair. “You are escalating very quickly.”

Shane kisses him again, slower this time, hands sliding over the broad line of Ilya’s shoulders, down his chest. Ilya’s hands return the favor a moment later, tugging Shane’s shirt up over his head. Clothes start disappearing without much thought after that. A shirt. Then another.

Hands everywhere now, familiar and searching at the same time, tracing lines they both know by heart but somehow still feel new in moments like this.

Shane presses him back onto the bed. Ilya lets out a soft laugh. “You are very bold today.”

Shane leans down, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You started it.”

“That was five days ago.”

“Still counts.”

Ilya pulls him closer again, hands sliding along his back as the kisses grow deeper, hungrier, the warmth between them building until it’s almost impossible to think about anything else. For a moment the challenge doesn’t exist. The cameras. The teasing. The competition. It’s just the two of them again. The way it always has been.

Shane’s breath is warm against his neck when he murmurs: “Still think you’re winning today?”

Ilya laughs softly, a little breathless now. “I think,” he says, pulling him down for another kiss, “that you might be cheating again.”

Shane grins against his mouth. “Worth it.”

Their clothes are half gone now, tangled somewhere in the sheets, hands still exploring, kisses deeper and slower and impossible to get enough of.

“Day six,” His voice is low, a little smug, a little breathless. “I’m winning today, Rozanov. No arguments.”

Ilya’s laugh is rough, already turning into a groan as Shane crowds him backward toward the bed.

“You think so, Hollander? You’re very confident for a man who lost the last five days in a row.”

“Exactly,” Shane answers, pushing Ilya down onto the mattress with both hands flat on his chest. “Momentum. I’m due.”

Ilya lands on his back, shirt falling open, and watches with dark, hungry eyes as Shane climbs over him, knees bracketing his hips. The city lights paint silver across Shane’s cheekbones, catch in the damp curls at his temples. He looks beautiful like this, determined, a little flushed, completely in control, and Ilya feels the familiar helpless tug low in his stomach.

Shane leans down, kisses him once, slow and filthy, then reaches for the nightstand drawer without breaking eye contact. He knows exactly where they are: the soft black leather cuffs they bought months ago, the ones with the quick release clips and the faint scuff marks from the last time Shane used them on him. The metal buckle clicks softly as Shane pulls them out.

Ilya’s breath catches. “You’re really doing this?”

“You’re really not allowed to touch me tonight,” Shane murmurs, already wrapping the first cuff around Ilya’s right wrist. “Challenge rules. I win if I make you come without your hands on me at all.”

Ilya’s left wrist follows. Shane threads the short chain through the slats of the headboard and snaps the second cuff shut. The position forces Ilya’s arms up and slightly apart, shoulders flexing, chest rising faster now. He tests the give, there isn’t much and the helpless little sound he makes goes straight to Shane’s cock.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes. “You’re evil.”

Shane smiles, sweet and wicked at the same time. “You love it.”

He sits back on his heels, still dressed except for his tie, and starts unbuttoning his own shirt with deliberate slowness. One button. Two. Ilya’s eyes track every movement like he’s starving. When Shane finally shrugs the shirt off and tosses it aside, Ilya’s hips twitch upward on instinct.

“Stay still,” Shane whispers.

He reaches for the drawer again, this time for the lube, and the soft snick of the cap is loud in the quiet room. Ilya watches, chest heaving, as Shane pours a generous amount onto his own fingers, warms it, then reaches back behind himself.

The first press of his slick fingers against his own hole makes Ilya groan like he’s the one being touched. Shane doesn’t look away from him. He circles slowly, teases the rim the way he knows drives Ilya crazy, then sinks one finger inside with a soft exhale.

“Shane...”

“Shh. You only get to watch.” Shane’s voice is already rougher. He adds a second finger, scissoring gently, eyes half lidded but still locked on Ilya’s face. The stretch burns sweetly; he lets himself feel it, lets Ilya see every flicker of pleasure cross his expression. “God, you’re so fucking pretty like this. Arms up, all mine to look at.”

Ilya’s wrists pull against the cuffs, the leather creaking. “Let me touch you. Just...fuck... just one hand, solnyshko, please.”

“No.” Shane curls his fingers, finds that spot, and his own hips jerk. A tiny sound escapes him. “You’re going to watch me open myself up for you. And you’re going to stay right there.”

He works himself open with patient, thorough strokes, three fingers now, slow and deep, until his thighs are trembling and his cock is leaking against his stomach. All the while Ilya is panting beneath him, muscles straining, eyes black with want. Every time Ilya’s hips lift, Shane presses a hand to his chest and pushes him back down.

When Shane finally pulls his fingers free, they’re both breathing hard. He pours more lube into his palm, way too much, the way Ilya always does and wraps his slick hand around Ilya’s cock. The sound Ilya makes is broken. Shane strokes him slowly from root to tip, twisting at the head, spreading the lube until Ilya is glistening and throbbing in his fist.

“Look at you,” Shane murmurs, thumb brushing over the slit. “So hard. So desperate. And you can’t do anything about it.”

“Shane. Baby. Please.” Ilya’s voice cracks. “I need... fuck, I need to feel you.”

Shane leans down, kisses him soft and lingering, then sits up again. He grips Ilya’s cock at the base, lines himself up, and starts the slowest, most torturous descent of his life.

The first inch is pure heat. Shane’s mouth falls open on a silent moan. He pauses there, letting Ilya feel the tight ring of muscle fluttering around him, then sinks another inch. Another. He rocks his hips in tiny circles, never taking more, never letting Ilya thrust up.

Ilya’s head is thrown back against the pillow, throat working. “You’re killing me. You’re actually killing me.”

Shane laughs, breathless and fond. “Good.” He sinks down another inch. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Hot. So fucking hot. Tight... God, Shane, you’re so tight around me.” Ilya’s arms strain against the cuffs again. “Please move. Please.”

“Not yet.” Shane finally bottoms out, ass flush against Ilya’s hips, and they both groan. He stays there, fully seated, letting himself adjust, letting Ilya feel every clench. Then he starts to ride, slow, rolling movements of his hips, barely lifting off before sliding back down. Every stroke drags over that perfect spot inside him and makes Ilya’s cock twitch deep.

Shane braces his hands on Ilya’s chest, fingers splayed over his racing heart. “I love you,” he whispers, voice shaking. “I love you so much.”

Ilya’s eyes snap open, glassy and wild. “I love you. Fuck... I love you. Let me touch you, please, I need to feel you.”

Shane shakes his head, leans down until their foreheads touch, and keeps riding him in that same unhurried rhythm. Long, deep strokes that make the bed creak softly. “You feel me now. Every inch. Every time I take you all the way in. That’s all you get tonight.”

He straightens again, plants his palms on Ilya’s abs, and starts moving with more purpose, still slow, but harder, rolling his hips on every downstroke so Ilya’s cock grinds against his prostate. Sweat beads along Shane’s collarbones. His cock bounces untouched between them, flushed dark and leaking steadily onto Ilya’s stomach.

Ilya is babbling now, half Russian, half English, praise and pleas and Shane’s name over and over. Every time Shane clenches around him on purpose, Ilya’s hips jerk and the cuffs rattle.

Shane reaches back with one hand, spreads himself open so Ilya can see exactly how he’s taking him, and Ilya actually whines.

“Jesus Christ, Shane.”

“Watch,” Shane says softly. “Watch how much I love having you inside me.”

He rides him like that for long, luxurious minutes, sometimes fast and shallow, sometimes grinding deep and slow, sometimes pausing all the way down just to feel Ilya throb inside him. He leans forward to kiss Ilya’s mouth, his jaw, the frantic pulse in his throat, whispering “I love you” between every kiss. Ilya answers with broken versions of the same words, voice hoarse.

When Shane finally wraps a hand around his own cock, Ilya’s eyes go wide.
“Yes... fuck, yes, let me see you come.”

Shane strokes himself in time with his riding, tight and perfect, until his thighs start to shake and his rhythm falters. He keeps his eyes on Ilya the whole time.

“I’m close,” he gasps. “Ilya...I’m so close.”

“Come on me,” Ilya begs. “Please, solnyshko, come on me, let me feel it.”

Shane does, hard, sudden, hips stuttering as he spills over his fist and across Ilya’s stomach and chest in long pulses. The sight rips a wrecked sound out of Ilya; his back arches off the bed as much as the cuffs allow.

Shane doesn’t stop moving. He keeps riding through his own orgasm, clenching rhythmically, drawing it out until Ilya is shaking underneath him.

“I love you,” Shane pants, still moving. “Come for me. I want to feel you lose it while you are still on me.”

Ilya comes with Shane’s name on his lips and his wrists straining against leather, deep, pulsing spurts that Shane can feel inside him, hot and endless. Shane milks him through every wave, slow rolls of his hips, until Ilya is whimpering from oversensitivity and still whispering “I love you” like a prayer.

Only then does Shane still. He collapses forward, chest to chest, both of them slick with sweat and come, breathing like they’ve run a marathon.

Shane reaches up without looking, flicks the quick release on the cuffs. Ilya’s arms come down instantly, wrapping around Shane so tight it almost hurts.

They stay like that for a long time, still joined, hearts hammering against each other, trading lazy kisses and quiet “I love you”s until the words blur into breath.

Shane presses his smile into the curve of Ilya’s neck. “Day six,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and smug. “I win.”

Ilya laughs softly, arms tightening. “You always win, Hollander. Even when you don’t.”

Shane kisses the words right off his lips, slow and sweet and certain.

They have all night.

The bedroom is quiet afterward.

Not completely silent, Anya shifts somewhere in the hallway, nails tapping faintly against the floor, and outside a car passes slowly down the street, but inside the room everything feels soft and warm and unhurried in that particular way it only ever does after moments like that.

The sheets are tangled.

The late afternoon light has shifted lower, spilling gold across the edge of the bed and the rumpled blankets.

Ilya lies on his back, one arm folded behind his head, chest still rising a little slower than usual as he catches his breath.

Shane is half draped across him.

Not completely, just enough that his shoulder rests against Ilya’s ribs and one leg is tangled loosely with his. Shane’s hair is slightly messy now, flattened in one direction from the pillow, and his fingers are tracing absentminded circles along the center of Ilya’s chest like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

For a long moment neither of them speaks.

Then Ilya exhales softly. “…You cheated.”

Shane snorts quietly against his shoulder. “I didn’t cheat.”

“You absolutely cheated.”

“I followed the rules.”

“You weaponized domestic sex.”

“That’s not a rule violation.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly to look at him. “You lured me into bedroom.”

Shane lifts his head just enough to meet his eyes.
“You followed very willingly.”

“That is not point.”

Shane grins faintly. “Pretty sure it is.”

Ilya watches him for a moment. Then he sighs, though the sound holds more amusement than real frustration. “…You were very good today.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “That sounds like an official captain evaluation.”

“It is.”

“Do I pass?”

Ilya considers. Then his mouth curves slightly.
Shane laughs quietly, dropping his head back down against Ilya’s chest again. Ilya reaches up then, fingers sliding slowly through Shane’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. The gesture is gentle, automatic. Shane melts into it immediately.

“…You realize something,” Ilya murmurs after a moment.

“Hmm?”

“You are very dangerous when you decide to flirt.”

Shane’s voice comes out muffled against his chest. “You’re just realizing that?”

“Yes.”

“Rude.”

“You hide it.”

“I don’t hide it.”

“You do.”

Shane lifts his head again. “I’ve been flirting with you since we were nineteen.”

“That was fighting.”

“That was flirting.”

“That was rivalry.”

“That was tension.”

Ilya narrows his eyes slightly. “…You are rewriting history.”

Shane smiles softly. “Maybe.”

Ilya studies him quietly. Then his expression softens just a little. “You said something earlier.”

Shane tilts his head. “What.”

“That you have been chasing me for years." Ilya watches him carefully. “…That was true?”

Shane blinks. “Of course it was.”

Ilya is quiet for a moment. Then he shakes his head faintly. “I thought it was opposite.”

Shane frowns slightly. “What do you mean.”

“You were always…” Ilya gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “…steady.”

“Steady? You mean stubborn.”

“That also.”

Shane snorts. “And you thought that meant I wasn’t chasing you?”

Ilya shrugs slightly. “You did not look like you needed to.”

Shane’s expression softens in a way that makes something warm twist inside Ilya’s chest. “I always needed to,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya looks at him. Really looks. “Why.”

Shane shrugs, a little sheepish now. “Because it’s you.”

Ilya’s fingers still in his hair pause slightly. “You say that like it explains everything.”

“It kind of does.”

“…Hollander.”

“Rozanov.”

“You are very bad at romantic speeches.”

“I’m aware.”

Ilya laughs softly under his breath. Then he pulls Shane closer again, pressing a slow kiss to the top of his head. “Day Six champion.”

“Do not celebrate yet.”

“Oh?”

“There is still evening.”

Shane lifts his head again, eyes bright with quiet challenge.

“You planning a comeback?”

Ilya’s mouth curves slowly. Shane leans forward just enough to press a quick kiss to his lips.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You want competition.”

“Always.”

Ilya chuckles softly, pulling him back down into the warm tangle of blankets. And as Shane settles against him again, relaxed and content, Ilya realizes something that makes a quiet warmth spread through his chest.

The challenge might technically be about making Shane fall in love again. But lying here like this. Listening to Shane’s slow breathing. Feeling the familiar weight of him against his side. Ilya is starting to suspect something else entirely.

He might be the one falling all over again too.

Chapter 8: Day Seven

Chapter Notes

Day Seven begins quietly.

The kind of quiet that only exists in the early morning when the whole house still feels half asleep, when pale winter light filters gently through the curtains and the world outside hasn’t quite started moving yet.

Shane wakes slowly.

At first it’s just awareness, the warmth of the blankets, the soft weight pressed against his side, the familiar scent of Ilya’s shampoo lingering somewhere on the pillow between them.

He doesn’t move right away.

Instead he just lies there, blinking slowly into the dim light, letting himself wake naturally the way he rarely gets to during the season.

Beside him, Ilya is still asleep. One arm thrown loosely across Shane’s waist, his face half buried in the pillow, hair a little messy from sleep. His breathing is slow and steady, the deep kind that only happens when he’s completely relaxed.

Shane watches him for a while. Not in a dramatic way. Just… quietly.

There’s something about mornings like this that always makes him pause a little. Maybe it’s the rare stillness. Maybe it’s the strange way the years sometimes catch up with him all at once, the memory of a teenage rivalry that somehow turned into this. Into a house. Into shared mornings. Into Ilya Rozanov sleeping beside him like he’s always belonged there.

Shane reaches out absentmindedly and brushes a stray piece of hair off Ilya’s forehead. Ilya stirs almost immediately. He makes a soft, annoyed sound into the pillow and shifts slightly before his eyes open.

For a second he looks disoriented. Then he blinks at Shane. “…Why you staring.”

Shane smiles faintly. “You snore.”

“That is lie.”

“Little bit.”

Ilya squints at him suspiciously before rubbing a hand over his face. “Time is it.”

“Early.”

Ilya groans softly and pushes himself halfway upright against the headboard. The movement is slower than usual. Shane notices immediately.

“You okay?”

Ilya pauses, pressing his fingers briefly against his temple.

“…Head hurts.”

Shane’s expression shifts.

“Headache?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t say anything last night.”

“It started later.”

Ilya leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, rubbing the back of his neck like something aches.

Shane sits up too. “You feel sick?”

Ilya hesitates just a fraction too long before answering. “…Maybe little.”

Shane frowns. “What does that mean.”

“Could be flu.”

“Flu?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not going to practice.”

Ilya shakes his head faintly. “I should.”

“No.”

“It is fine.”

“You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“That is dramatic.”

Shane slides out of bed anyway. “Stay there.”

“I am fine, Shane.”

“You’re not fine.”

A minute later he returns from the bathroom with a glass of water and a couple of pills. “Take these.”

Ilya accepts the glass with a quiet sigh. “You are very bossy this morning.”

“You’re sick.”

“I might be sick.”

“That’s enough.”

Ilya swallows the pills and leans back into the pillows again, eyes closing briefly.

Shane studies him. “You’re staying home.”

“Yes, mother.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“You need anything?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Ilya opens one eye. “Just quiet.”

Shane nods slowly. “Alright.”

He stands up and pulls on sweatpants, still watching him like he’s trying to judge how bad it actually is. Then he leans down and presses a quick kiss against Ilya’s forehead. “Text me if you feel worse.”

“I will.”

“Actually text me.”

“You worry too much.”

“Someone has to.”

Ilya huffs a quiet laugh before closing his eyes again.

“Go to practice, Hollander.”

Shane hesitates one last moment. Then he grabs his bag and heads for the door.

The house falls quiet again once he leaves. Completely quiet. The front door clicks shut. The car starts in the driveway. And a few seconds later the sound fades down the street.

Silence. Then... Ilya opens his eyes.

The headache disappears immediately. He stares at the ceiling for a second. Then exhales slowly and mutters to himself in Russian. “…I hate lying to him.”

But he pushes the blankets back anyway and sits up. Because he has a lot to do.

 

Practice feels wrong without the captain. Shane notices it the second he walks into the locker room. The stall next to his is empty. Ilya’s gear untouched.

Wyatt Hayes is the first to notice. “Wait.”

Wyatt looks around dramatically. “Where’s Captain Menace?”

Shane drops his bag on the bench. “He’s sick.”

Luca Haas gasps like someone just announced the apocalypse. “Sick?”

“Headache. Maybe flu.”

Wyatt squints. “…Rozanov got the flu?”

“Apparently.”

“That man eats raw protein like a medieval warrior.”

Shane shrugs as he starts pulling on his gear. “Bodies still get sick.”

Luca shakes his head. “This feels illegal.”

“What feels illegal?”

“Practice without the captain.”

Wyatt nods seriously. “Yeah, this feels like when the substitute teacher shows up and nobody knows the rules.”

Shane snorts. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Troy Barrett looks up from taping his stick. “He okay though?”

Shane nods. “Yeah. Just told him to rest.”

Wyatt points dramatically. “Husband duties.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying, Day Six champion is taking good care of his captain.”

Shane throws a roll of tape at him. Wyatt catches it, grinning.

Practice starts a few minutes later. And somehow the ice feels different. Ilya’s voice is missing. No sharp Russian commentary during drills. No captain barking instructions during scrimmage.

Even Coach Wiebe looks around once like he expects Ilya to appear out of nowhere and start yelling about positioning.

Wyatt skates up beside Shane during a break. “You miss him.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “He’s been gone for like an hour.”

“Still.”

Shane shrugs, tapping his stick against the ice.
“…Yeah.”

Wyatt grins knowingly. “Cute.”

“Shut up, Hayes.”

But when the next drill starts, Shane still glances once toward the empty spot where the captain usually lines up.

Practice runs longer than usual. Or at least it feels longer to Shane.

Not because the drills are harder, and not because Coach Wiebe is in a bad mood, if anything, things are running pretty normally. Pucks slide across the ice, players cycle through passing drills, the usual shouting and laughter echoing through the rink.

But something is… missing.

It takes Shane a while to realize exactly what it is.

It’s the noise. Ilya is loud on the ice. Not obnoxiously loud, just constant. A running commentary in Russian and English, chirping teammates, calling out plays, correcting positioning like the captain he is. Without that voice the rink feels strangely hollow.

During a scrimmage drill Shane circles back toward the blue line and catches Wyatt skating up beside him again.

Wyatt leans on his stick. “This is weird.”

Shane glances at him. “What is.”

Wyatt gestures broadly at the ice. “Everything.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m serious. Where’s the yelling? Where’s the Russian insults?”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “He’s sick, Hayes.”

Wyatt shakes his head. “I don’t like it.”

“You’ll survive.”

Across the ice Luca skates over, sliding to a stop beside them. “I tried chirping Barrett earlier,” Luca announces solemnly.

“And?”

“He ignored me.”

Wyatt gasps. “See? The system is collapsing.”

Shane rolls his eyes.

Luca taps his stick against the ice thoughtfully.
“You think the captain’s actually sick?”

Shane frowns slightly. “What does that mean.”

Wyatt shrugs. “I mean… Rozanov doesn’t strike me as the flu type.”

“That’s not a real category.”

“I’m just saying.”

Shane pushes away from them before the conversation gets any dumber. “Go do the drill.”

Wyatt calls after him. “TELL HIM WE MISS HIM!”

“I’m not doing that!”

Coach’s whistle cuts across the rink then. “ROZANOV!”

Everyone instinctively looks up. Coach pauses. Then sighs. “…Right. Hollander!”

Shane skates over. “Yes, coach.”

Coach gestures toward the players setting up for the next drill. “You’re running the next line.”

Shane blinks. “…Me?”

“Your captain’s out.”

Wyatt shouts from the blue line: “INTERIM CAPTAIN HOLLANDER!”

“Shut up, Wyatt!” Shane snaps without turning around.

Coach just shakes his head. “Go.”

The rest of practice passes quickly after that, but Shane can’t shake the strange feeling lingering in the back of his mind. Not worry exactly. Just… absence.

When they finally head back into the locker room, Wyatt immediately collapses onto the bench like he’s been through something traumatic. “That was horrible.”

Shane pulls his helmet off. “You’re fine.”

“No, I’m not. We need the captain back immediately.”

Luca nods seriously. “This team has structure. Leadership. Chaos control.”

“And today?”

Wyatt gestures wildly. “Anarchy.”

Shane laughs under his breath. “You guys survived one practice.”

Troy finishes tying his skates and glances over. “You heading home?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell Rozanov to feel better,” Troy says. “The room’s weird without him.”

Shane nods. “I will.”

Wyatt perks up immediately. “And tell him if he dies I want his stall.”

“He’s not dying.”

“You don’t know that.”

Shane throws his towel at him. Wyatt ducks, laughing.

By the time Shane leaves the arena the winter afternoon has already started shifting toward evening, the sky pale and cold above the parking lot.

He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car.
For a moment he just sits there. Then he pulls out his phone and types a quick message.

Shane:
Still alive?

The reply comes a minute later.

Ilya:
Barely.

Shane smiles faintly.

Shane:
Practice was weird without you.

Ilya:
Good.

Shane frowns slightly at the screen.

Shane:
Why good?

Ilya:
So you miss me.

Shane snorts under his breath. Shane shakes his head, sliding the phone into the cup holder before pulling out of the parking lot.

 

Back at the house, Ilya Rozanov is standing on a chair in the living room. String lights are tangled in one hand.
A ladder sits half open beside the couch.

The kitchen smells like something warm and expensive simmering slowly on the stove.

Candles line the table.

And the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs is currently muttering aggressively in Russian while trying to untangle decorative lights.

“…This was stupid idea.”

But he keeps working anyway.

 

By the time the front door opens, the house smells incredible. Shane notices it immediately.

He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him with one foot while juggling his bag and jacket, and pauses halfway through the entryway. "What the hell.”

The air is warm, thick with the smell of garlic and butter and something slow cooked that makes his stomach immediately remind him he hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

He drops his bag by the door. “Ilya?”

No answer. Shane frowns slightly and walks farther into the house.

“Rozanov?”

In the kitchen, Ilya freezes. He had calculated the timing perfectly. Or at least he thought he had.
Shane wasn’t supposed to be home for another twenty minutes. The pasta water is boiling. The sauce is simmering. The string lights in the living room are… mostly up. And Ilya himself is currently barefoot, wearing sweatpants and one of Shane’s old training shirts, holding a wooden spoon like he’s been caught committing a crime.

He looks at the clock. "Shit.”

“Ilya?”

“Kitchen.”

Shane walks in a second later. And stops. Because the scene in front of him makes absolutely no sense. Ilya is standing at the stove.
Cooking. Which is already suspicious. The counters are covered in ingredients. There are candles sitting on the kitchen island. And through the doorway Shane can see the living room glowing faintly with soft golden lights.

For a long moment he just stares. Then slowly raises one eyebrow. “…You’re dying, huh.”

Ilya blinks. “I am sick.”

Shane crosses his arms. “Your flu smells like garlic butter.”

“Good for immune system.”

“And why does the living room look like a Pinterest wedding?”

Ilya glances toward the doorway."Decoration.”

“For?”

Ilya turns back to the stove, stirring the sauce like that explains everything. “For dinner.”

Shane walks closer. Slowly. Suspiciously.“Ilya. You faked the flu.”

“No.”

“You absolutely faked the flu.”

“I have mild symptoms.”

Shane snorts. “Your symptom is lying.”

Ilya finally turns toward him. For a moment he looks like he might try to argue. Then he sighs.
“…Maybe little lie.”

Shane stares at him. “Why.”

Ilya shrugs lightly, like it’s obvious. “Day Seven.”

Ilya sets the spoon down and leans back against the counter, folding his arms. Shane looks around again. The candles. The lights. The food simmering quietly on the stove.

And something in his chest softens immediately.
“You did all this today?”

“Yes.”

“You skipped practice.”

“I regret nothing.”

Shane laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Ilya steps closer now. “Did it work?”

“What.”

“You missing me.”

Shane hesitates. Then exhales. “…Yeah.”

Ilya’s mouth curves slightly.

For a moment neither of them says anything.
The kitchen fills with the quiet bubbling of the sauce and the warm glow of the lights spilling in from the living room.

Then Shane looks at him again. “You know you didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know.”

“So why did you.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly, studying him. When he answers, his voice is softer. “Because challenge was joke.”

Shane frowns faintly. “What do you mean.”

“I never needed challenge to fall in love with you again.”

The words land quietly between them. Shane’s breath catches slightly.

Ilya continues, voice calm but steady. “But I liked excuse to remind you.”

Shane swallows. “Remind me of what.”

Ilya reaches out and hooks a finger through the front of Shane’s hoodie, tugging him a little closer. “That you are still the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Shane lets out a small, helpless laugh. “That’s unfair.”

“What is.”

“You can’t just say things like that when I just walked in the door.”

Ilya shrugs. “You married romantic.”

“You’re not romantic.”

“I cooked.”

“You poisoned pasta.”

“It is excellent pasta.”

Shane steps closer now, close enough that their chests almost touch. “You lied to me.”

“For good reason.”

“You skipped practice.”

“I am captain. I allowed it.”

“That’s not how that works.”

Ilya smiles slightly. Then he lowers his voice.“You going to punish me.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “Oh, absolutely.”

“How.”

Shane glances toward the stove. “First you finish cooking.”

Ilya groans dramatically. “This is cruel.”

“Then we eat.”

“That part I like.”

“And then,” Shane says calmly, “we’ll discuss your crimes.”

Ilya studies him for a moment. Then his eyes darken slightly. “I look forward to discussion.”

Shane laughs and nudges him toward the stove. “Chef, your sauce is burning.”

Ilya turns back just in time to save it. But as he stirs, he glances over his shoulder at Shane standing in the warm kitchen light. And for a moment the smug confidence fades into something softer.

Because tonight isn’t just the last day of the challenge. It’s the night he’s been quietly planning for weeks. And Shane still has absolutely no idea.

 

The pasta turns out to be excellent.

Shane will never admit that immediately, of course. But the moment he takes the first bite, sitting across from Ilya at the small dining table now set under the soft glow of the string lights, he pauses mid chew and stares at his husband with visible suspicion.

“This is good.”

Ilya leans back in his chair, wine glass in hand, watching him with smug satisfaction. “Of course it is good.”

“You cooked this. You burned toast last week.”

“That was tactical error.”

“You microwaved eggs once.”

“Those were experimental eggs.”

Shane takes another bite, slower this time. The pasta is perfectly cooked, the sauce rich and buttery with garlic and herbs, something warm and slow cooked that feels almost absurdly comforting after practice.

He points his fork at Ilya. “Where did you learn this.”

Ilya shrugs lightly. “Internet.”

“You watched a video.”

“Yes.”

“How many videos?”

“…Seven.”

Shane laughs under his breath and shakes his head, leaning back slightly in his chair. “You skipped practice for seven cooking videos.”

“I skipped practice for you.”

Shane exhales slowly. The lights above them glow warm and golden, reflected faintly in the window beside the table where night has fully settled over Ottawa.

“Okay,” Shane says finally. “That’s annoyingly romantic.”

Ilya lifts his glass slightly. “I am occasionally romantic.”

“You’re a menace.”

“That too.”

They eat quietly for a moment. Not awkward silence. Just comfortable. The kind that only exists when two people have spent years together, when conversation doesn’t have to fill every second.

After a while Shane wipes his mouth with a napkin and studies Ilya across the table. “You know the guys were losing their minds today.”

“Why.”

“You weren’t there.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow.

“That is surprising.”

“Wyatt declared the locker room in a state of anarchy.”

“That sounds like Wyatt.”

“Luca tried chirping Barrett and got ignored.”

Ilya nods solemnly. “Tragic.”

Shane smiles slightly. “Troy asked if you were okay though.”

“That was nice of him.”

“And Coach yelled your name during drills before remembering you weren’t there.”

Ilya smirks. “See. I am essential.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I am captain.”

Shane takes a sip of his wine, studying him again.
“You feel even a little bad?”

“For lying.”

“For skipping practice.”

“For making me think you had the flu.”

Ilya considers that.Then shrugs. “…Little bit.”

“Wow.”

“But mostly I feel proud of pasta.”

They fall quiet again for a moment. Then Ilya tilts his head slightly. “Tell me about practice.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “You want the full breakdown?”

“Yes.”

“You hate hearing about drills.”

“I like hearing you talk.”

The answer is so casual it almost slips past Shane. But it lands. He clears his throat slightly and gestures with his fork.

“Coach made me run a line because you weren’t there.”

Ilya perks up. “Temporary captain.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“That is exactly what happened.”

“It was one drill.”

“Still counts.”

Ilya studies him carefully. “How is challenge going, Hollander?”

Shane leans back in his chair, considering. “You want my honest answer.”

“Yes.”

Shane taps his fingers lightly against the stem of his wine glass. “…I think you’re winning.”

Ilya’s eyebrows lift. “Oh?”

“You faked an illness.”

“Strategic illness.”

“You cooked dinner.”

“Excellent dinner.”

“You decorated the house.”

“Beautiful decoration.”

Shane gestures around the softly lit room.

“I mean… look at this.”

Ilya smiles faintly. “You like it.”

Shane studies him for a moment longer. “You know what the annoying part is.”

“What.”

“You didn’t have to do any of this.”

“I know.”

“You already won the original argument.”

“What argument.”

“That I’d fall in love with you again.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly. “And?”

Shane exhales slowly. “You’re not making it difficult.”

Ilya’s expression softens in a way that almost never happens in public.

Shane takes another sip of wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. “You’re being suspiciously nice tonight.”

“I am always nice.”

“You threatened to body check Wyatt into a locker last week.”

“He deserved it.”

“Probably.”

They both smile faintly. The candles flicker gently on the table between them, the string lights above casting soft shadows across the room.
And for a moment the world feels very small.
Just the two of them.

Then Ilya leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

“Shane.”

“Yeah?”

“After dinner…”

Shane narrows his eyes. “…That tone is suspicious.”

Ilya smiles slowly. “I have one more thing planned.”

Shane sighs dramatically. “Of course you do.”

“You trust me?”

Shane leans back in his chair again, studying the man across from him. The man who pretended to have the flu. Cooked a full dinner. Decorated the entire house.And somehow still looks completely calm about it. “…That depends,” Shane says slowly.

“On what.”

“Whether this next plan involves me being kidnapped.”

Ilya laughs softly. “No kidnapping. Just you.”

Shane tilts his head.“Just me what.”

Ilya’s eyes glint slightly in the warm light. “You will see.”

Shane groans. “I hate surprises.”

Ilya raises his glass again. “But you love me.”

Shane clinks his glass against it. “Damn right i do.”

Dinner ends slowly.

Not because there’s much food left, the plates are mostly empty, the pasta reduced to a few stray strands of sauce, but because neither of them seems particularly eager to break the moment.

The candles burn lower on the table. The string lights cast soft golden reflections across the window.

Outside the night has settled fully over Ottawa, the quiet kind of winter evening where the world feels still.

Shane leans back in his chair, swirling the last sip of wine in his glass while watching Ilya across the table. “You’re suspiciously calm for someone who claims to have a master plan.”

Ilya wipes his hands with a napkin, unfazed. “I told you. No kidnapping.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“But you still look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are suspicious.”

“Correct.”

Ilya stands, gathering the plates.

“You cooked,” Shane says automatically, reaching for his own plate. “I’ll clean.”

Ilya pauses. Then shrugs. “Fair.”

They move around the kitchen together in quiet familiarity. Shane rinses dishes while Ilya loads the dishwasher beside him, their shoulders bumping occasionally in the small space. It’s domestic in the easiest way. No urgency. No rush. Just the quiet rhythm of two people who know each other’s movements by heart.

Eventually the last dish clicks into place and Shane dries his hands on a towel.

“So,” he says, turning toward him. “What’s the mysterious final act of your grand seduction plan?”

Ilya doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he gestures toward the living room. “Come.”

Shane sighs. “That’s never a good sign.”

But he follows.

The living room glows softly when they walk in.
The string lights Ilya spent half the afternoon fighting with are now fully lit, draped along the walls and across the shelves in soft golden loops.

Candles flicker on the coffee table. And in the center of the table... There’s a small box.

Shane stops walking. “Okay.”

Ilya stands beside him quietly. Shane gestures toward the box. “What is that.”

“Open it.”

Shane gives him a long look.“You’re very dramatic tonight.”

“Open it.” Ilya says again.

Shane walks closer. Slowly. He sits on the edge of the couch, pulling the small box toward him with two fingers like it might explode.

Then he opens it.

Inside... Two gold wedding rings. Simple. Elegant.
Warm in the soft light of the candles.

For a moment Shane just stares. Then he looks up at Ilya. “Ilya”

Ilya sits beside him on the couch. “You hate the black bands.”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“The ones we wear now,” Ilya says, tapping lightly against the matte black ring on Shane’s finger. “You complain about them every few months.”

“I don’t complain.”

“You do.”

“I make observations.”

“You say they look like gym equipment.”

Shane huffs quietly. “Okay, that was one time.”

Ilya smiles faintly. “I thought maybe… it is time we replace them.”

Shane looks down at the rings again. “They’re beautiful.”

“I hoped you would like them.”

“I do.” But confusion still lingers in his voice. “Why now?”

Ilya is quiet for a moment.

Then he reaches out and takes Shane’s hand gently, turning the black ring on his finger.

“When we got married,” he says slowly, “we didn’t do everything.”

Shane exhales softly. “No,” he agrees.

Their wedding had been beautiful. Small. Private.
Perfect in its own way.

But both of them had been nervous, terrified, really, of standing in front of people and saying the things they weren’t used to saying out loud.
So they hadn’t written vows. They had simply exchanged rings. Signed papers. Danced.

Ilya continues quietly. “We skipped something important.”

Shane’s chest tightens slightly. “The vows.”

“Yes.”

Shane looks at him again. “You said you’d never do vows.”

“I said I was afraid.”

“That too.”

Ilya reaches for the small box and lifts one of the rings from it. The gold catches the candlelight softly.

“This time,” he says, his voice steady now, “I want to do it properly.”

Shane’s breath catches. “Properly.”

Ilya nods.

“This time I say the things I didn’t say before.”

Shane stares at him. “Ilya”

“I know you didn’t plan this,” Ilya says gently. “You don’t have to say anything tonight. I just want you to listen.”

The room feels very quiet suddenly. The candles flicker softly. The string lights hum faintly above them.

And Shane realizes something slowly. “All so you could… what. Re-propose?”

Ilya smiles slightly. “Something like that.”

Shane lets out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“That ruins surprise.”

Shane looks down at the ring in Ilya’s hand.

“You wrote vows.”

“Yes.”

“You. Ilya Rozanov. Wrote vows.”

“I did.”

Shane presses his fingers against his mouth briefly. “Holy shit.”

Ilya laughs softly. “Your reaction to love confessions has not improved.”

Shane drops his hand and looks at him again, eyes shining a little now. “Shut up.”

“Still romantic.”

“Ilya.”

Ilya grows quiet again.

Then he shifts slightly, turning toward Shane fully. The ring rests between his fingers. And for the first time that evening, the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs actually looks nervous.
Not terrified. But vulnerable in a way Shane has only seen a handful of times in their entire relationship.

Ilya exhales slowly. “Can I start.”

Shane nods immediately.“Yeah.”His voice is softer now. “Yeah, you can start.”

Ilya squeezes his hand gently. And begins.

He exhales through his nose. “Okay.”

Shane watches him carefully. Not teasing now.
Not sarcastic. Just… present. Waiting.

Ilya glances down at their joined hands, his thumb tracing slowly along Shane’s knuckles like he’s grounding himself there. When he finally starts speaking, his voice is quieter than usual.
Still steady. But softer.

“You know,” he says slowly, “when we talked about this challenge… I thought it was ridiculous. I know we said we should try to make each other fall in love again. Like it is something you win. Like a competition.”

He glances up at Shane then, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth. “But that was the problem. I never stopped.”
.
Ilya looks back down at the ring again. “When we were young,” he continues, “everything between us felt… impossible. You remember? You were my rival,” Ilya says. “My enemy. The person I was supposed to beat every time we stepped on the ice. And still… every time I saw you, I looked for you first. I told myself it was because I hated you. I spent years pretending I did not care. Pretending you were just another player, just another problem. But you were never just that.”

The room feels warmer suddenly. Shane doesn’t move. Ilya continues slowly, thoughtfully, like he’s walking through years of memory while he speaks.

“You were the first person who made me feel… seen. Not as the captain. Not as the Russian superstar. Not as the guy everyone expected to win. You saw the worst parts of me. The angry parts. The stupid parts. The scared parts. And you stayed. You know the funny thing? I spent so many years being afraid to say I loved you. As if the words were the dangerous part.”

His thumb brushes lightly across Shane’s wedding band. “But the truth is… loving you was the easiest thing I have ever done. When we got married,” he continues gently, “we didn’t say vows because we were both terrified. I thought if I tried to say everything I felt, I would ruin it. And this week,” he says quietly, “everyone kept asking if I could make you fall in love with me again. But that was never the challenge. No.”

He lifts their joined hands slightly between them.

“Because the truth is… I fall in love with you every day already. I fall in love with you when you steal the blankets and pretend you did not. I fall in love with you when you argue with the grocery store about pasta brands like it is international diplomacy. I fall in love with you when you skate,” Ilya continues, his voice warming. “When you focus so hard on the ice that the rest of the world disappears.”

His thumb brushes gently against Shane’s wrist.

“And I fall in love with you when you look at me the way you are looking right now. You are my favorite person in the world, Shane Hollander. You are my home,” Ilya says softly. “You are the place my life finally makes sense. I have won championships. I have captained teams. I have heard arenas chant my name. But none of that ever mattered as much as the moment you looked at me one night and said you loved me back. You changed everything,” he says."You changed what I believed my life could be.”

The ring glints softly in his fingers as he lifts it slightly.

“So tonight… I want to say the vows I should have said then. I promise that I will keep choosing you. Not just on easy days,” Ilya continues. “Not just when things are good. I promise that when life is hard, when hockey is cruel, when the world is loud and exhausting and unfair… I will still come home to you and remember what matters. I promise that I will keep fighting for us. And I promise that no matter how many years pass, no matter how old we get, no matter how many times we argue about pasta… I will never stop trying to make you fall in love with me.”

The ring rests lightly against Shane’s finger now.
Ilya’s expression softens into something deeply, quietly certain.

“Because the truth is,” he says gently, “I fall in love with you again every single day. And if I get the rest of my life with you, that still won’t be enough time.”

The room goes completely still. The candles flicker. And Ilya finishes quietly. “So these are my vows.”

His voice softens into something almost reverent.
“I choose you. Always.”

Then, very softly: “Will you marry me again, Shane Hollander?”

 

For a moment after Ilya finishes speaking, the room is completely silent.

The candles flicker softly along the coffee table, their light dancing against the gold ring in Ilya’s hand. The string lights glow warmly around the room, turning the living room into something almost unreal, soft and golden and impossibly intimate.

But Shane doesn’t move. He’s staring at Ilya like he’s trying to understand how the man sitting in front of him just did that. Just… opened himself like that.

The words are still hanging in the air between them.

I choose you. Always.

Ilya waits. He tries to look calm about it.
But his fingers tighten slightly around the ring, betraying the nervousness underneath.

“…Shane.”

Shane blinks slowly. His mouth opens, then closes again. He runs a hand through his hair and exhales a breath that sounds almost like a laugh.
“…Fuck.”

Ilya tilts his head. “That is not answer.”

Shane looks at him again. And something in his expression softens completely. It takes him another few seconds before he speaks.
Not because he doesn’t know what to say.
But because he’s trying to steady the wave of emotion that just hit him.

When he finally does answer, his voice is quiet.
“You don’t have to ask me that.”

Ilya stills. Shane’s eyes hold his. “You never did.”

The words settle between them gently. Shane shifts a little closer on the couch, their knees brushing now.

“You could ask me that a thousand times,” he says softly, “and the answer would still be the same.” A small breath escapes him. “Yes.”

Ilya’s shoulders loosen slightly, relief flickering across his face. “Yes?” he repeats quietly.

Shane nods, his voice stronger now. “Yes, Ilya. Of course I’ll marry you again.”

For a second Ilya just looks at him. He lifts Shane’s hand gently. The new ring catches the candlelight as he slides it onto Shane’s finger.
It fits perfectly. The gold gleams softly against Shane’s skin. Shane turns his hand slightly, staring at it like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“You like it,” Ilya says.

Shane looks up again. “I love it.”

Then he exhales slowly. “I want to say something too. You said the things you didn’t say at the wedding. So I want to say mine.”

Something gentle settles in Ilya’s expression. “You don’t have to tonight.”

“I know. But I want to.”

He shifts on the couch, turning toward Ilya fully now. For a second he looks almost shy. Then he takes Ilya’s hand. And begins.

“When we first met,” Shane says quietly, “I was pretty sure you were the most annoying person I had ever encountered in my life. You were arrogant,” Shane continues. “You were smug. You walked around like the entire world was your personal stage. And somehow… I couldn’t stop looking at you. You drove me insane,” Shane admits. “But you also made everything feel… brighter. You made hockey feel bigger,” he says. “You made competition feel electric. You made every game feel like it mattered.”

Ilya listens quietly now, his thumb brushing slowly across Shane’s knuckles. Shane’s voice softens.
“And somewhere in the middle of all that… I fell in love with you. I didn’t want to admit it,” he says. “I fought it for years. But loving you was never the mistake. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re the bravest person I know,” he says quietly. “You walked through things that would’ve broken a lot of people, and you still came out the other side with that ridiculous confidence and that stupid smile. And you still look at me like I’m the most important person in the room.”

A quiet moment passes.“You are.”

Shane’s voice grows softer. “You’re the person I want to come home to,” he says. “The person I want beside me after every game, every road trip, every terrible loss and every incredible win. You’re the person who made me believe that loving someone this much isn’t something to be afraid of. So if we’re doing vows now…I promise I’ll keep choosing you. I promise that no matter how chaotic our lives get… I’ll still come back to this. To us. I promise that I’ll keep fighting for you. For this life we built together. And I promise that no matter how many years pass… I will never stop falling in love with you.”

The room feels impossibly warm. The candles flicker softly. Shane’s voice lowers to something almost reverent.

“You’re my home, Ilya.” His forehead leans gently against Ilya’s. “You always were.”

“I choose you too. Always.” Ilya says quietly

The moment lingers a little longer after Shane finishes speaking. Neither of them rushes it.
They stay there on the couch with their foreheads pressed together, breathing the same quiet air, the candles slowly burning lower on the coffee table while the string lights glow softly around the room.

Eventually Shane pulls back just enough to look at Ilya again. His eyes are still bright, but now there’s a small, crooked smile there too. “You know something.”

“What.”

“You didn’t actually get a ring yet.”

Ilya blinks. “What.”

Shane lifts his hand slightly, the gold band catching the warm light.

“You put one on me. But I didn’t put one on you.”

Ilya looks down at the open box on the couch between them. Inside, the second ring waits quietly. Shane reaches for it. The metal is warm from the room when he picks it up. For a moment he just holds it there between his fingers, studying Ilya’s hand before taking it gently.

“Give me your hand.”

Ilya obeys without hesitation. There’s something quietly symbolic about the moment that makes them both a little more careful, a little more aware of what they’re doing.

Shane slides the old black band from Ilya’s finger first. He pauses a second, looking at it. “We should probably keep these.”

Ilya nods. “Yes. Memory.”

“Exactly.”

Shane sets the black band beside the box.

Then he lifts the new ring. The gold gleams softly in the candlelight.

“Ready?” Shane murmurs.

Ilya’s mouth curves slightly. “I already said vows.”

“Yeah, but this is the official ring part.”

Ilya holds out his hand. “Then yes.”

Shane slides the ring slowly onto his finger. It fits just as perfectly. For a second they both just stare at their hands. Two matching gold bands.
Quiet. Simple. Permanent. Ilya turns his hand slightly, watching the light catch on the metal.
“I like it.”

Shane nods. “Me too.”

A small silence follows. Then Shane leans back against the couch again.“So.”

“So.”

“You realize something.”

“What.”

Shane gestures lazily between them. “We technically just got married again.”

Ilya considers that. “Yes.”

“Are we telling anyone?”

Ilya thinks about that for a second. Then he shakes his head. “No. This is ours.”

Shane looks down at their hands again. The rings. The quiet moment they just shared.
Then he nods slowly. "Because some things don’t need an audience.”

That makes Ilya smile. “Exactly.”

Shane points a finger at him. “But we do need a cover story.”

“For what.”

“For the challenge.”

They sit there for a moment, thinking. Then Shane snorts. “Oh my god.”

“What.”

“We’re just going to tell them we both won.”

Ilya tilts his head. “That is technically correct.”

“We both fell in love again.”

Ilya squeezes his hand lightly. “Never stopped.”

Shane nods. “Exactly.”

Ilya leans over and kisses his temple. “Good plan, husband.”

They stay up a while longer that night. Talking.
Laughing. Kissing every now and then in the quiet glow of the lights. Eventually the candles burn low and the house grows darker, the evening settling comfortably around them.

And when they finally go to bed, their hands stay intertwined. Two gold rings catching the faintest trace of light in the dark.

 

The next morning the locker room is loud. Louder than usual.

Wyatt Hayes is already halfway through a story when Shane and Ilya walk in together, both carrying their gear bags.

Wyatt immediately points at them. “THERE THEY ARE.”

Shane groans. “Oh no.”

Luca spins around on the bench. “Day Seven champions!”

Troy looks up from taping his stick. “So,” he says calmly, “who won?”

Shane and Ilya glance at each other. Just for a second. A tiny, private look.

Then Shane shrugs. “Both.”

Wyatt squints. “That’s not how competitions work.”

Ilya drops his bag beside his stall. “In this one it does.”

Luca leans forward eagerly. “What happened?”

Shane starts pulling on his gear. “We both tried. And we both succeeded.”

Wyatt looks deeply suspicious. “That sounds fake.”

Troy chuckles quietly. “I think that means neither of them wants to admit they lost.”

“Exactly!” Wyatt points. “Cowards.”

At that moment the documentary crew enters the locker room too, cameras already rolling.

The interviewer smiles brightly. “So! Final verdict!”

Shane glances up. “Both.”

The interviewer blinks. “Both?”

Ilya nods calmly. “We both fell in love again.”

Shane smirks slightly. “And never stopped.”

Wyatt groans loudly. “That is the most disgustingly romantic non answer I’ve ever heard.”

Luca sighs dreamily. “I love them.”

Troy just shakes his head, smiling faintly.

Across the room Shane bumps his shoulder lightly against Ilya’s as they finish getting dressed. Quiet. Subtle. And hidden from everyone else. Their hands brush for half a second. Two gold rings catching the locker room lights.

Their secret. And theirs alone.

Chapter End Notes

What a ride for me at least. Even tho this is not my first time writing it is my first Hollanov one. Look forward for more. Because it's coming. Bring your tissues and comfort food. All i'm going to Say.

And if you are curious about my previous work you can read Fly me to the moon. Another ship but same sentiment.

Enjoy!!! 💜💜