Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, The Minnesota Nomads (Original Characters), Scott Hunter (mention)

Additional Tags:

Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Friendship, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Blood and Injury, Major Character Injury, Hospitalization, domestic comfort, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Psychological Warfare, Manipulative Character, Homophobia, Shane and Ilya's relationship is solid throughout

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of The Minnesota Nomads

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-26 Completed: 2026-06-14 Words: 26,482 Chapters: 13/13

Trust Exercises

Summary

Shane and Ilya have everything they wanted. A home together, engagement rings on their fingers, and a locker room that feels like family. But outside their safe bubble, an unsettling tension is quietly building, leaving Shane constantly on edge. When their illusion of safety is shattered, Shane and Ilya are left to lean on the fierce loyalty of their team to survive the fallout

Notes

This is the second fic in a series. I simply could not let go of the Nomads just yet! I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1

Shane was awake before he meant to be, lying still with Ilya's arm heavy across his chest. The buttery gold of the early June morning filtered through the curtains. He breathed in the scent of their shared life. The crispness of the laundry detergent, the salt of sleep, and the faint spice of Ilya's skin.

He turned his face into the curve of Ilya's neck, offering a kiss to the pulse point there. Ilya made a sound, low and sleepy, not quite awake, and pulled him closer by instinct, There was no rush. No practice, no skate, no flight, no schedule crawling up the back of his neck. Just this - Ilya coming awake in stages, a smile curving his lips. Shane couldn't help but kiss it. Fingers brushed against warm skin, carded through sleep-mussed hair. When the kisses deepened and the air grew thick and purposeful, it wasn't about urgency. It was just another way of saying I'm here and I'm yours.

Afterward, as the adrenaline faded into a cozy, limb-heavy glow, Ilya buried his face against Shane's shoulder.

"I have a plan," Ilya murmured, his voice husky and muffled. 

"Mmm. Dangerous." 

"We stay in this bed. We don't leave until August. Maybe September. We just live here."

Shane laughed softly. He pressed one more kiss to Ilya's collarbone before reluctantly untangling himself from the warmth of the duvet.

"You're the captain now," Shane teased. "I thought that came with at least a few grown-up responsibilities."

Ilya scoffed. He rolled out of bed, standing completely unselfconscious in his nakedness, the morning light catching the lean muscle of his back. He was a masterpiece, grounded and powerful. "Nothing that cannot wait until August." 

He turned, shooting Shane a wicked grin over his shoulder as he headed toward the bathroom. "Plenty of time to fuck my gorgeous fiancé whenever and wherever I want this summer. Captain privileges."

Shane watched him go and then dropped back against the pillows and looked at the ceiling for a while, listening to the shower run. Eight months since Ilya had dropped to one knee at center ice inside a lopsided heart made of hockey pucks. Eight months of road trips and the weight of that C on Ilya's jersey and the season swallowing everything whole. Now it was June, finally, and there was nowhere to be.

By mid-morning, the kitchen was filled with the smell of dark roast coffee and sizzling bacon. Shane was leaning against the counter, still in his pajama pants, watching Ilya flip pancakes wearing Shane's old training shorts and nothing else. His engagement ring caught the light on his left hand with every movement.

They took their breakfast out to the porch. The Mississippi River was a shimmering ribbon of blue-grey, the morning mist still clinging to the banks as the sun climbed higher. Shane drank his coffee and let the quiet sit.

"The florist called back," he said eventually. "About the centerpieces."

Ilya groaned. He leaned back in his chair, propping his bare feet up on the railing. "Still with the flowers. Shane, they sit on the table. People eat near them. How can it be so difficult to pick white flowers?"

"Because white isn't just one color, apparently," Shane replied, hiding a smile behind his mug. "And we still haven't finalized the seating chart. The guys are already arguing about who sits where."

"Tell them they sit on the floor if they complain," Ilya said. He reached out and snagged a piece of bacon from Shane's plate. "Seating charts, color schemes, photographers... It is all fancy bullshit. We could just go to the courthouse. I would still be just as married to you."

Shane looked over at him, ready to offer a retort about how he was the one who wanted the big party for the team, the open bar, the whole production. But Ilya was looking out at the river, his expression uncharacteristically soft. There was a quiet pleasure in his eyes, a stillness that only appeared when they were alone, away from the cameras and the ice.

Despite pretending to complain about the ‘fancy bullshit,' Ilya had been the one to spend two hours looking at catering menus the other night. He was the one who had insisted on a specific photographer because he liked the way they captured the real moments.

"You like the fancy bullshit," Shane accused softly.

Ilya turned back to him, his gaze dropping to the ring on Shane's finger for a second before coming back up. "I like that it means everyone will know you belong to me. Even the florist."

Shane felt his heart do a slow, heavy roll in his chest. He reached across the small table, lacing his fingers through Ilya's. "I think they get the point, Ilya."

"Good," Ilya said, and kissed his knuckles.

They spent the rest of the morning in a state of lazy productivity. They did a load of laundry together, a task that took twice as long as it should have because it kept getting interrupted by roaming hands and kisses against the dryer. They walked along the river trails until the humidity got mean and then retreated back inside to the air-conditioned sanctuary of their home.

By the time they settled on the sectional, the light had gone golden and long across the floors. They pulled up the draft footage. It felt strange, watching it from this side. Not strange-bad. Just the particular strangeness of time passing.

"Look at them," Ilya said. The prospects were in the stands in their expensive suits, sitting stiff and scrubbed clean. "They look like babies. Did we look that young?"

"You did," Shane said, leaning his head on Ilya's shoulder. "But you somehow still walked around like the entire league belonged to you." 

Shane smiled, closing his eyes for a second. He remembered that draft day in Los Angeles vividly. The nervous energy in the air and the roar of the crowd when the Nomads took Ilya at first overall. Then the strange scramble at the draft table and the way his own heart had nearly leaped out of his chest when they called his name at number two.

The media had spent months painting them as oil and water, the two generational talents destined to spend their careers trying to outshine one another. Instead, they had stood on that stage in Los Angeles together, two kids in matching jerseys, staring at a future neither of them had expected.

He remembered the hotel suite they'd shared that first summer and preseason. The awkwardness that had slowly bled into a strange, fierce friendship. They had been two teenagers alone in a new city, hiding from the hype and the pressure behind a heavy hotel door. He remembered the way those walls had eventually started to feel like a sanctuary.

They had fallen in love in the cracks of their rookie year. In the quiet spaces between morning skates and late-night bus rides. It happened in the hushed conversations in their suite when the rest of the world was asleep, and in the way they'd learned to read each other's movements on the ice until they functioned as one soul in two jerseys. By the time they decided to trade the hotel life for a house of their own, Shane already knew he was never going to let him go.

I'm so glad we were drafted together. He didn't say it out loud this time. He just shifted closer, and Ilya's arm came around him without discussion.

The Nomads' pick came in the back half of the first round.

"With the eighteenth overall pick," the GM announced into the microphone, "the Minnesota Nomads select, from the University of Michigan… Logan Kane."

Shane reached for his iPad. "Right wing. Led the NCAA in goals. High release, good IQ, and the scouting reports are absolutely glowing about his character. Standard first-in, last-out rink rat. Leadership qualities. Highly mature."

On the screen, a kid with bright blue eyes and a wide, boyish smile stood up. He hugged his mother with a picture-perfect, cinematic warmth before shaking his father's hand, walking toward the stage with an effortless, easy grace. He didn't look nervous, but he didn't look arrogant either. He looked incredibly humble, waving politely to the cameras. It was like he had rehearsed.

"Reminds me of a certain star center I know," Ilya teased, nudging Shane's ribs.

Shane chuckled. "I wasn't that bad, was I?"

Ilya's hand found the back of Shane's neck, thumb tracing the sensitive skin behind his ear. "Little bit," he laughed. 

Ilya's thumb kept moving. Shane felt the shift of the room going quieter around them, the broadcast becoming wallpaper. The iPad slid from Shane's lap onto the cushions as Ilya leaned in, his breath warm against Shane's lips.

"I thought we were scouting," Shane whispered, though he was already turning into Ilya's touch, his hands finding their way under Ilya's shirt.

"Enough hockey talk for today," Ilya said, his hands beginning to wander with a slow, possessive intent. "I have my favorite player right here. I don't care about rookies. I care about this." They ended up tangling together on the couch, the draft forgotten, as Ilya showed him exactly what those captain privileges entailed.

The sun was down by the time the draft coverage moved into highlights and recaps. Shane was lying across Ilya's chest, and Ilya's hand was moving, absent and slow, in his hair. 

Shane wasn't thinking about rookies or the pressure of the next season. He was thinking about the way the light hit the engagement ring on his hand and the way Ilya's skin felt against his own. He was thinking about lazy mornings, stolen bacon, and flower arrangements. He was thinking about how it felt being so thoroughly loved, and the joy of giving that love back with everything he had. 

Chapter 2

September had turned cold early. The air had that particular kind of bite that found the space between your collar and your skin and stayed there. Shane adjusted the sleeves of his charcoal sweater as he stood in the hallway, thumb catching briefly on the seam near the cuff.

From the kitchen, Ilya's voice carried. "You planning to greet the team from the mirror, or are we doing this?"

Shane laughed under his breath and followed the sound.

Ilya stood at the counter, navy henley slightly rumpled at the sleeves like he'd already forgotten about it. The kind of effortless that still somehow looked intentional.

"Just making sure I look like a respectable co-host," Shane said, slipping into the space beside him. 

Ilya reached out, catching Shane by the waist and pulling him flush against his chest. His thumb brushed across Shane's cheekbone, slow and possessive, before he tilted Shane's head up. "You look like someone I'd rather take back upstairs," Ilya murmured against his lips.

He leaned in for a slow, deep kiss, nipping at Shane's bottom lip with a quiet, hungry intent that made Shane's breath catch. When they finally pulled apart, Ilya lingered close, his forehead resting against Shane's. "But they'll start showing up any minute."

The first cars rolled up soon after. Voices and laughter spilled across the yard as the Nomads began to arrive, drawn by the new tradition Ilya had started the moment they handed him the C. He'd wanted the season to begin here, on their turf, before the league could pull them apart.

Kowalski arrived like a storm, hauling two coolers up the driveway. The tall defenseman had pulled out a "Kiss the Cook" apron from somewhere and was tying it on over a shirt that looked one deep breath away from surrender.

"Where's the meat, Cap?" he boomed, waving a spatula like a sword. "I've got a reputation to uphold!"

Ilya stepped onto the patio, grinning as he clapped Kowalski on the shoulder. "If you burn anything you're buying the pizza. For the whole roster." 

"The Captain has spoken," Butch drawled, settling into a spot by the fire pit with a beer already in hand. He looked up at Kowalski, a familiar, fond smirk on his face. "Though honestly, the apron is a massive upgrade from your standard wardrobe." 

Finn arrived quietly behind them, nodding once in greeting as he carried a tray of brisket that smelled like it had spent twelve hours in a smoker. He didn't say much, he rarely did, but when he set the tray down and glanced at Kowalski's apron, the corner of his mouth twitched. 

"Bold choice," Finn said, his voice low.

That was all it took. Torrey snorted into his drink, and within seconds, Butch and Kowalski were bickering over proper grilling techniques, their voices rising over the crackle of the fire pit.

More players filtered in. Ozzie immediately connected to the Bluetooth speakers to blast the music, Maksym arrived with a six-pack under each arm, and the rest of the core group that had become family over the last few seasons settled into the backyard. 

Shane moved through it all, catching snippets of summer stories and training camp complaints. Every so often his gaze drifted toward the new faces scattered among the veterans. The sharp-featured D-man acquired in the trade from Dallas, the soft-spoken backup goalie, and Logan Kane.

When the group began drifting toward the long outdoor table, Ilya didn't make a production of it. He simply drew the three newcomers aside near the edge of the patio with a subtle tilt of his head, his posture relaxed yet commanding. His hand settled heavily on Shane's shoulder, the touch open and unapologetic. His fingers pressed with casual possession into the fabric of Shane's shirt as he addressed them in that low, authoritative register that always seemed to command attention without effort.

"Welcome to the Nomads," Ilya said, his voice carrying clearly over the background murmur of conversation. "You've probably heard rumors, and you've definitely seen the reality today. Shane and I are together. We're getting married in the spring. In the locker room and in this home, we're family. We protect our own, and we don't hide from each other. What you see here stays here." 

He paused, meeting Shane's eyes with a tenderness that sent Shane's heart fluttering. 

"Not because we're ashamed," Ilya continued. "But because we want the choice of when and how the rest of the world finds out to remain ours. We wouldn't be destroyed if it slipped out tomorrow, but we intend to do it on our own terms, when we're ready."

His eyes moved across each of the new players, calm and unwavering. The weight of his hand on Shane's shoulder never faltered, a silent reinforcement of the words. "That's the only warning you'll get from me. Respect that boundary, and we won't have a problem. Welcome to the team."

The Dallas winger and the backup goalie nodded quickly, their expressions a mix of respect and understanding. 

Logan Kane didn't flinch at the revelation. Instead, a slow, easy smile curved his mouth, charming and almost boyish in its warmth. "Understood, Captain," he said. His gaze shifted to Shane, the smile widening with what appeared to be genuine admiration. "Hollander, I've been watching your tape since I was fifteen. It'd be a hell of a thing to play as your winger someday."

Ilya's hand remained firm on Shane's shoulder, but Shane caught the subtle tightening of his fingers and the brief, almost imperceptible shift in his stance. Ilya had been Shane's winger for years, alongside Torrey, and nothing about that dynamic was about to change, no matter how talented the kid might be.

Later, as the sun dipped and the fire pit roared to life, Logan proved he could fit seamlessly into the team. He laughed at Butch's dry jokes, flipped burgers without earning a single complaint from Kowalski, and moved through the group like he'd always belonged.

"The kid's good," Torrey observed, dropping onto the wide porch swing beside Shane and Ilya, the wood creaking softly under his weight. "Talented as hell, too. That release is stupid quick. He's hungry for a top-six spot, that's for sure."

"He's got a mouth on him," Ilya noted, his arm draped casually along the back of the swing, fingers brushing Shane's neck. "But I don't mind the confidence."

Finn wandered over quietly and leaned against the railing, holding a beer. He watched Logan for a long moment before offering, "Kid sees the ice well." Coming from Finn, it was high praise. 

Shane nudged Ilya's shoulder with a small, affectionate smile. "He's not nearly as handsome as you were at eighteen."

"It's not a competition," Ilya said, pulling Shane tighter against his side and pressing a warm kiss to his temple. "And he doesn't have you. So I'm still winning."

Eventually Shane slipped inside for a glass of water, grateful for the relative quiet of the kitchen as the party noise softened behind the sliding door. He was leaning against the sink, letting the cool marble steady his thoughts, when Logan walked in carrying an empty plate.

"Hell of a house, Hollander."

"We like it," Shane replied politely, watching as Logan slid the plate into the dishwasher and leaned against the opposite counter. Up close, the rookie's eyes were a striking pale blue, almost luminous in the warm kitchen light. 

"You getting settled? Find a place yet?" Shane asked.

"Condo downtown. Walking distance to the rink." Logan hesitated for a moment, then added quietly, his tone sincere, "I meant what I said earlier. I've been a fan for a long time. The way you read the ice… it's like you're playing chess while everyone else is playing checkers."

"Thanks."

Logan took a step closer, his expression turning gently concerned. "It's actually a relief, seeing you two like this. The media makes everything sound so heavy. The contract years, the Cup window, Ilya wearing the C. After Ilya's speech earlier, I was just worrying about you. The pressure of carrying all that history on the ice, plus the weight of a secret relationship… it's a lot. Ilya's built for the spotlight, obviously. But you… well, you're the brains of the operation. You play that precision game. I would just hate for the off-ice noise or the wedding stress to shake your focus. A game like yours relies entirely on perfect mental clarity." 

Shane felt a cold flicker in his chest. 

The words were gentle, almost kind, yet they landed with surgical precision, painting him as the fragile one in their partnership. "I've handled pressure before, Kane," Shane said, his voice cooling noticeably. "We both have. Our focus is fine."

Logan blinked, his eyes widening in what looked like genuine surprise and embarrassment. "Shit, I didn't mean it like that at all." He shook his head, offering a small, awkward smile. The picture of a rookie who'd stepped in it. "I was just… trying to say I respect what you do. That's all. Sorry if it came out wrong. Anyway, I'm really looking forward to learning from you. I know I've got a ways to go before I earn a spot up with you guys."

He gave a respectful nod and slipped back through the sliding door.

A moment later the door opened again. Ilya stepped inside, his gaze sharpening the instant he read the tension in Shane's shoulders. "Everything okay?" he asked, brow furrowed with concern as he crossed the room. 

Shane looked at him and felt the tension ease by a fraction. He reached out, hooking his thumb into Ilya's belt loop and tugging him closer. "Fine," he said, tucking his face into the crook of Ilya's neck and pressing a kiss there. "Just thinking about the season. It's going to be a long one."

Ilya grinned, pulling Shane fully into the cradle of his arms, strong and reassuring. "The best ones always are."

Outside, the fire pit roared, and Logan Kane's laughter echoed over the sound of the river, bright and sharp and perfectly controlled

Chapter 3

Shane stepped onto the ice for the first official morning of training camp, the sharp, familiar bite of chilled air instantly filling his lungs. Beneath his feet, the scrape of freshly sharpened blades carved clean lines into the ice. There was an easy rhythm to the Nomads' movement, their chemistry already knitting back together after summer, and Logan Kane seemed to slot into that fabric without catching a single thread. 

By the third day, the rookie was everywhere at once. Calling out encouraging words after a missed shot and executing crisp, intelligent passes in two-on-one drills that drew approving nods from the coaching staff. He had an effortless way of inserting himself into the group, always quick with a self-deprecating joke or a well-timed encouragement.

In the locker room after one particularly brutal morning skate, the banter flowed freely as the team peeled off gear and shouted at each other across the stalls.

"Kowalski, you call that a forecheck?" Butch called out from his stall, his voice dry. "I thought maybe the puck owed you money, the way you were chasing it."

Kowalski snorted, tossing a balled-up sock straight at Butch's head. "Says the guy who tripped over his own blue line twice. At least I wasn't skating like a newborn giraffe."

Laughter rippled through the room, and Logan leaned against his locker, flashing that easy, boyish grin as he shook his head. "You guys are brutal. Back in juniors we just yelled good effort and moved on."

Torrey clapped the rookie on the back as he walked by. "Welcome to the big league, kid. We roast because we care. Keep up that quick release of yours and we might even let you sit at the cool table."

Logan laughed, fitting into the space as if his name had always been on the locker. The overall mood of the room was high, making the long, punishing days pass just a little faster. 

The sense of family only deepened midway through the week when Knox and JJ dropped in for an impromptu visit. The pair effectively hijacked the facility's lounge after the afternoon session, turning it into a chaotic hub. JJ, armed with a booming laugh and a seemingly bottomless reservoir of terrible puns, immediately launched into old road stories. 

"Alright, boys, who's ready for a Toronto special?" JJ announced, gesturing wildly as he set the scene of a legendary disastrous road game. "You know, the kind where the puck goes into our net faster than Finn can yell that you're out of position." 

Finn, leaning against the wall with a half-smile, rolled his eyes. "Still not letting that one go, huh? I had one bad pass. One."

Knox didn't miss a beat. "One bad pass that led to a goal against, a penalty, and a broken stick. But who's counting?" 

The lounge erupted in laughter. Logan jumped in smoothly, offering a parallel story from his own junior days that earned genuine chuckles and an approving fist bump from Knox. 

"Kid fits right in," Knox murmured to Shane a bit later, nodding toward Logan with approval. 

Watching from across the lounge, Shane felt the familiar, comforting pull of belonging that had always defined the Nomads.

It was during the quieter moments of the week that Logan’s comments would surface, always when he managed to catch Shane alone, away from the rest of the team. The remarks were consistently framed as helpful, delivered with such sincere charm that Shane felt guilty for being unsettled by them at all.

After a long morning sequence, while Shane lingered on the ice to work on his edge transitions, Logan skated over. His cheeks were flushed, his smile completely disarming.  

"Hey, Shane, you looked solid out there today," Logan said, his pale blue eyes wide with friendly concern. "Maybe a touch tight on that last breakout, but nothing major. If you ever want some tips on loosening up under pressure, I've got some breathing exercises that helped me when I was overthinking things in juniors. No shame in needing a little extra confidence boost sometimes, right?" 

The suggestion was light, almost casual. Shane merely nodded, forcing a polite smile. "I'm good for now, but thanks." 

It was a tiny interaction, easily brushed aside, but it left a faint, bitter aftertaste. 

Then came the other moments. Between drills near the boards, in the hallway by the weight room, once even in the parking lot as they headed to their cars. Logan would lean in, his expression turning thoughtful, almost protective. 

"You carry so much out there with the vision plays, man. Respect," Logan told him one afternoon. "If the weight ever feels like it's piling up, especially with all the captaincy pressure on Ilya, I'm always around to talk it through. Sometimes just saying it out loud keeps the focus sharp." 

Or after a slightly off-timed pass during a scrimmage. "Don't sweat the little stuff. We all have days where the confidence wavers a bit. You're still the guy everyone looks to." 

Every single comment was wrapped in admiration, making it impossible to push back without looking defensive. Logan was perfect everywhere else. Working hard, laughing with the guys, earning respect. Shane couldn't shake the feeling that he was rewriting harmless rookie enthusiasm into something sinister. It was like a shadow at the edge of his vision, unformed, tracking his movements, but leaving no evidence behind. 

At home, the shift was impossible to hide from Ilya. In the quiet evenings, Shane grew a fraction more reserved. One evening, as they stretched out on the couch against the backdrop of the sunset sparkling on the river, Ilya pulled him close, a heavy arm settling securely over Shane's shoulders. 

"You've been quiet the last few days," Ilya murmured, his lips brushing Shane's temple in a grounding, familiar touch. 

Shane leaned into the solid, radiating warmth of Ilya's body, breathing in the scent of his skin and the faint trace of aftershave. "It's nothing," he said softly, tracing idle circles against Ilya's thigh. "The new guys are integrating fast, which is great. Everyone's clicking. I think I'm just adjusting. The season's going to come at us fast." 

Ilya studied him. Those perceptive eyes scanned Shane's face with quiet, deliberate care. For a second, it felt like Ilya might push, but instead, he let out a low, affectionate huff and tightened his embrace.

"Alright. As long as you are okay."

Ilya's hand began to move in slow, soothing strokes down Shane's back, deliberately working out the coiled tension in his muscles. Each pass grew heavier, more possessive, until his fingers slipped beneath the hem of Shane's shirt, seeking bare skin.

Shane shivered at the contact. The warmth of Ilya's palm spread across his lower back, then higher, tracing the line of his spine. Without thinking, Shane shifted, turning to straddle Ilya's lap so their chests pressed together.

"Let me take care of you," Ilya murmured against his neck, voice low and rough.

Shane answered by tilting his head, offering more skin. Ilya's mouth found the spot just below his ear, sucking gently, then harder. A quiet groan escaped Shane as those strong hands gripped his hips, pulling him down against the growing hardness beneath him.

Their mouths met in a deep, unhurried kiss that quickly turned hungry. Shane threaded his fingers through Ilya's hair, tugging lightly as their tongues slid together. Ilya's hands pushed Shane's shirt up and off, then skimmed down his bare chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples until they tightened.

"Fuck, Ilya…" Shane breathed, rocking his hips forward.

Ilya made a low sound of approval and flipped them with effortless strength, laying Shane out beneath him on the wide couch. The fading light painted golden patterns across Ilya's shoulders as he stripped off his own shirt, revealing the powerful, familiar lines of his body. He settled between Shane's spread thighs, grinding down slowly, deliberately, letting Shane feel exactly how hard he was.

Their pants came off in a tangle of impatient hands. When skin finally met skin, they both groaned. Ilya's hand wrapped around both of their cocks, stroking them together in a slick, steady rhythm while his mouth claimed Shane's again.

Shane arched up into the touch, nails digging into Ilya's back. "I need you," he whispered against Ilya's lips.

Ilya reached for the small bottle they kept in the side table drawer. The soft click of the cap sounded loud in the hushed room. He coated his fingers generously, then warmed the lube between them before pressing the pad of one finger against Shane's entrance. He circled slowly, teasing the tight rim until Shane relaxed, then pushed in steadily, sinking to the knuckle.

Shane let out a shaky breath, clenching around the intrusion. Ilya hummed softly in reassurance, gently thrusting and twisting his finger before eventually adding a second. He worked them in deep with slow, careful scissoring motions, stretching Shane open while his mouth trailed wet kisses along his inner thigh. His fingers curled deliberately, stroking over that sensitive spot inside him with practiced precision until Shane was moaning, hips rolling back against his hand, greedy and desperate for more.

When Ilya finally pushed inside him, slow and deep, they both stilled for a moment. Foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in. Then Ilya began to move. Long, rolling thrusts that dragged against that perfect spot inside Shane with every stroke.

"God, you feel so good," Ilya rasped, voice wrecked. One hand braced beside Shane's head while the other stroked him in time with his hips.

The pace built gradually. Deep and intense rather than frantic. Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya's waist, pulling him closer, needing more. Their kisses turned messy, breathy moans filling the quiet room as darkness settled beyond the windows.

When Shane came, it hit him hard, spilling over Ilya's fist with a broken cry. Ilya followed moments later, burying himself deep and groaning Shane's name against his throat.

They stayed locked together afterward, sweat-slick and breathing hard. Ilya pressed soft kisses along Shane's jaw and temple, his weight a comforting anchor.

"Whatever it is," Ilya whispered into the quiet, "you don't have to carry it alone."

The next morning at the rink, Logan flashed him another bright, easy grin during a water break, clapping him firmly on the shoulder like an old friend. Shane returned both the smile and the gesture, telling himself, once again, that it was probably nothing.

Chapter 4

The start of the season came, for Shane, with a mix of anticipation and lingering fatigue from training camp. The schedule was a grueling blur of airport terminals, hotel sheets, and the relentless, bruising physicality of October hockey. But on the ice, the Nomads were flying. The chemistry had hardened into something formidable, a collective instinct that made them dangerous.

They took four out of their first five games, culminating in a gritty, come-from-behind win against Boston.

By the time the charter flight touched down back in Minneapolis around midnight, the atmosphere on the team bus was euphoric. The back rows were a wall of sound, fueled by adrenaline and post-game pizza.

"I'm just saying, if I don't get a secondary assist on that third goal, the league office is corrupt," Kowalski shouted over the roar of the engine, gesturing with a half-eaten slice. "I practically guided the puck into the zone with my mind. It's telekinesis, boys."

"The only thing you guide with your mind is your ass to the bench, K," Butch shot back from two rows ahead, not even looking up from his phone. "You were skating backward when the play developed."

Maksym threw his head back, a loud laugh echoing through the bus. He leaned halfway across the aisle "Do not listen to him, Kowalski! If the league does not give you a point, you can have one of mine. I have plenty. Three points tonight, yes? The goalie is still looking for his gloves. I destroyed his whole career in the second period."

"You shot it right through his five-hole, Maks, it wasn't exactly a tactical execution," Finn muttered from the window seat beside him. "He dropped his stick."

"Because he was terrified, Finny! Is psychological warfare," Maks declared, winking at Logan, who was sitting across the aisle, taking in the scene with a wide, appreciative grin.

Up near the middle of the bus, Torrey shifted in his seat, turning around to face Shane and Ilya. "Don't let him fool you. Maks cried during the first intermission because his favorite hair gel got confiscated at airport security. Total breakdown."

"It was legal size!" Maksym defended himself, though he was grinning. "They do not understand the aerodynamic needs of my hair."

Laughter rippled through the center rows. 

Ilya leaned his head back against the headrest, a deadpan expression on his face. "If Maksym spends less time on hair and more time backchecking, maybe Ozzie does not have to make thirty-five saves tonight."

"Hey! My hair is part of team brand, Ilya!”

Torrey shook his head, a fond, exhausted expression on his face. "I swear, I have two kids at home under the age of six, and coming to the rink still feels like walking into a daycare" Torrey sighed, though his eyes wrinkled at the corners. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his face instantly softening as he looked at the screen. "Look at this. Elena lost her first tooth while we were in the third period. Sarah sent a video. I'm missing the tooth-fairy milestones for these idiots."

Shane leaned forward, resting his forearms on the back of Torrey's seat to look at the photo. "She looks just like you, man. Same smile."

"Don't insult my daughter, Hollander," Torrey joked, though he practically beamed with pride. He swiped through a few more family photos, talking softly about his chaotic household, the absolute picture of a content family man.

From the very back seat, Ozzie's voice cut through the chatter. The goalie had his giant noise-canceling headphones pushed around his neck, his eyes half-closed. "Hey, if we're doing a team dinner tomorrow night, my place is out. The plumbing is backed up. Unless you guys want to use buckets."

"Hard pass," Butch called out.

"We can do the steakhouse downtown," Shane suggested, looking back toward Ozzie. "My treat. Celebrate the streak."

A chorus of cheers and banging on the bus ceiling met the offer. In the midst of the noise, Logan leaned forward, catching Shane's eye. "That's awesome of you, Shane. Seriously. It's crazy how tight this group is. I've never been on a team that felt this much like an actual family. You guys really protect your own, don't you?"

The comment was delivered with Logan's trademark earnestness, his eyes bright and admiring. But Shane felt that familiar, fleeting catch in his chest. The way Logan's gaze drifted from Shane to Ilya, just for a fraction of a second, before settling back with a supportive smile.

"Yeah," Shane said evenly, keeping his tone light. "We do."

45 minutes later, the bus finally pulled into the secure underground parking lot of the practice facility. The players filed out, exhausted but still riding the high of the road trip, dragging their heavy gear bags toward the locker room to dump them before heading home.

Once the heavy security doors clicked shut behind them, the rigid professionalism of the public eye vanished. The locker room was their sanctuary, the one place in the hockey world where they didn't have to filter a single thing.

Shane dropped his duffel by his stall and stretched his aching back. Before he could even upright himself, a pair of heavy, familiar arms wrapped around his waist from behind. Ilya buried his face in the crook of Shane's neck, inhaling deeply, his broad chest pressed flush against Shane's back.

"Longest flight of my life," Ilya grumbled, his voice a low, rough vibration against Shane's skin.

Shane laughed softly, leaning back into the solid weight, reaching back to trail his fingers through the hair at Ilya's nape. "We won. Try to look happy."

"I am happy. I am holding my fiancé," Ilya murmured, leaning around to press a slow, bruising kiss to the corner of Shane's mouth.

Across the room, Kowalski groaned loudly as he unlaced his skates. "Ugh, get a room, you two. Some of us are single and suffering, and we don't need the Captain exploiting his authority to get cuddles."

"Perks of being Captain," Ilya called back, not releasing his grip on Shane's waist by even an inch. "I do what I want. If you want cuddles, go find Maks."

"I am very good cuddler, ask anyone," Maks supplied. "But I charge premium rate for Kowalski."

Shane smiled. He felt a deep, overwhelming sense of safety in this room. The guys had known about them for years, and they guarded the secret like a prized puck. Here, they were safe.

The locker room emptied out quickly as players headed for their cars. Shane stayed behind for a few extra minutes to grab a fresh sleeve of hockey tape from the medical room.

When he walked back out into the main hallway, he noticed Logan sitting on a training table near the back exit, his phone illuminated in his hand. He didn't notice Shane enter. He was tapping away furiously on the screen, his face tight with a concentrated, sharp expression that looked entirely foreign on his usually relaxed, boyish features.

As Shane's sneakers squeaked on the linoleum, Logan's head snapped up.

In a fraction of a second, the intense expression vanished, replaced instantly by his bright, easy-going smile. He slid the phone into his pocket with a quick, fluid motion.

"Hey, Shane! Thought you already left," Logan said, jumping down from the table. "Just checking the media analytics from tonight's game. The fans are going crazy online about the win."

"Yeah, it's a big two points," Shane said, his eyes tracking the pocket where Logan had just stashed his phone. A strange, cold prickle of intuition rippled down his spine. "You heading out?"

"Yep, just waiting on my ride," Logan said cheerfully, tossing his bag over his shoulder. "Enjoy the day off, man. Get some rest."

Shane watched him walk down the hall. The interaction was completely benign, yet the silence Logan left behind felt heavy, almost suffocating.

The next morning, the world changed.

Shane woke up to the pale autumn sun streaming through the bedroom windows. Ilya was already up, sitting on the side of the bed, clothed only in grey sweatpants.

But he wasn't moving. He was staring at his phone, his shoulders locked in a rigid, terrifying line.

"Ilya?" Shane asked, his voice thick with sleep as he shifted beneath the duvet. "What's wrong?"

Ilya didn't look back. His voice was completely devoid of emotion, a cold, dead tone that instantly froze the blood in Shane's veins.

"Look at your phone, Shane."

Shane reached for his nightstand, his fingers fumbling with his phone. He unlocked the screen. There were fourteen missed calls from his agent, six from the Nomads' PR director, and a barrage of notifications that were causing his phone to vibrate relentlessly in his hand.

It was the team group chat. It was completely blowing up.

Shane opened the thread, his eyes scanning the rapid-fire wall of text.

Torrey: Shane, Ilya, look at the blogs. Tell me you guys wanted this out. Did PR clear a statement or something?

Kowalski: What the actual fuck is this?

Torrey: FUCK. It's an anonymous leak. Who the hell knew besides us? Who did this?

Butch: Nobody knew. We kept this locked down completely. It doesn't make sense.

Maks: This is bullshit. Fucking lies and garbage blogs. Who writes this shit? I will find them and break their hands.

Finn: It says "inside source close to the team." They have details about the off-season.

Ozzie: Someone leaked it? From inside the room? No fucking way. Not a chance.

Maks: No one in this room touches this. We are family.

Knox: Shane, Ilya, guys call me as soon as you're up. We have your backs, whatever you need.

Logan: Just seeing this, guys this is awful. I'm so incredibly sorry someone did this to you both. It's completely messed up. If there's anything I can do to help hunt down where this came from, let me know.

Shane's heart dropped into his stomach. He opened his browser. It was everywhere.

An anonymous post, uploaded to a popular sports gossip forum at roughly 1:15 AM that morning, had been picked up by major hockey blogs and was currently trending on social media. The headline was a sledgehammer.

MINNESOTA NOMADS LOCKER ROOM DRAMA? CAPTAIN AND STAR CENTER REPORTEDLY ENGAGED

According to an inside source close to the team, the 'family dynamic' in the Nomads locker room might be a little more literal than fans think. Word is that Captain Ilya Rozanov and star center Shane Hollander have been secretly dating and recently got engaged. Anonymous sources claim the coaching staff is terrified of how the news will affect team chemistry if it leaks, especially with Rozanov holding the captaincy. Is this a hockey team or a soap opera? More details to come.

Shane stared at the screen, the words blurring together. The room felt like it was spinning, the air suddenly too thin to breathe. The anonymity of the internet felt vast, faceless, and predatory.

But worse than the public exposure was the realization of what this meant for their safe haven. An inside source. Someone inside their circle, someone they trusted, had violated the locker room.

Beside him, Ilya's grip on his phone was so tight the plastic casing groaned under the pressure. His eyes were fixed on the wall, burning with a quiet, lethal fury.

Shane’s instincts screamed at him. But instinct wasn’t proof. In a locker room, accusing a teammate of a betrayal like this without absolute certainty was nuclear. It could destroy the team from the inside out, shattering trust that could never be rebuilt. If he was wrong, the damage would be catastrophic. He couldn't voice it. He couldn't even fully commit to the accusation in his own mind. Not when he didn’t know for sure.

But as he looked down at Logan's text offering to help hunt down the leak, a shiver ran through him. He closed his eyes, and all he could see was Logan Kane sitting on the training table in the empty hallway at 1:15 AM, the blue light of his phone reflecting in his pale, unblinking eyes.

Chapter 5

The text from the Nomads' PR director arrived at 8:30 AM, a cold, blunt command to report to the executive offices at the practice facility immediately.

An hour later, Shane and Ilya were sitting in low, leather chairs across from Thomas Vance, the head of public relations. Shane could feel the tension in the air. Vance was a man whose entire career was built on controlling narratives, but right now, looking at the printouts of the gossip forums and the rapidly climbing social media metrics on his desk, he looked like a man trying to hold back a mudslide with a paper plate.

Vance rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, exhausted breath before looking up. "I'm going to ask this directly, and I need absolute, unvarnished honesty. Is there any truth to this rumor?"

Shane felt his chest tighten, the weight of the morning crashing down on him. But beside him, Ilya didn't hesitate.

"Yes," Ilya said, his voice level and firm. "We are together. We're engaged."

Vance closed his eyes for three long seconds. When he opened them, he let out a sharp, frustrated sigh that rubbed Shane entirely the wrong way. "You should have told me. It is literally my job to manage things like this. An active relationship between two players? A milestone like an engagement? I can't protect you from the fallout if I'm blindsided by it."

"We were not looking for protection," Ilya replied, his tone sharpening. "It is our private life."

"It was your private life," Vance corrected, leaning forward and tapping the desk. "Now it's a direct threat to the franchise's focus. But... we can still handle this. We can put out a statement immediately. A total denial. We call the post a malicious, fabricated attempt to disrupt team chemistry after a hot start. We threaten legal action against the blogs to scare them into pulling the articles."

Shane blinked, a cold sensation washing over him. "Deny it?"

"Yes," Vance said quickly, already pacing behind his desk. "We completely bury it. But if we go that route, you two have to be entirely invisible outside of hockey operations. No being spotted out to dinner together. No shared cars to the rink. We ensure you aren't seen as a couple, period."

"We are on the same line, Tom," Ilya pointed out, his jaw tightening, his Russian accent thickening the way it always did when his temper started to flare. "We play every shift together."

"I mean on-ice conduct, Ilya," Vance snapped, turning around. "No overly affectionate celebrations after goals. No lingering eye contact for the cameras to clip and analyze. We scrub any perception of intimacy. We give the media absolutely nothing to feed on until the story dies."

As the two men continued to argue, the words began to blur in Shane's ears. A tight, suffocating panic started to creep up his throat. Deny it. Walk it back. Force Ilya back into a box where he was just a teammate, just a roommate, just a friend. He thought of their home, the quiet mornings, the safety they had finally found within the walls of their locker room. Vance was asking them to erase all of it in public, to act like it was something to be ashamed of.

He looked at Ilya, whose face was flushing with a dangerous, protective fury as he fought Vance on the logistics of a cover-up.

"No," Shane interrupted.

The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the argument instantly. Both Ilya and Vance stopped, looking over at him.

Shane swallowed down the lump of panic, his gaze locking onto the PR director. "No. We're not denying it."

"Shane, think about the scrutiny-" Vance started, but Shane cut him off, his voice growing stronger, steadier.

"I am thinking about it. We had planned on coming out eventually, on our own terms. It sucks it happened this way. It makes me sick that someone broke our trust to leak it. But the truth is out there now, Tom, and I am not going to spend the rest of my career pretending Ilya is nothing more than a teammate. I'm not going to hide from the world like we did something wrong. We are not ashamed of this."

Silence hung in the room for a long moment. Ilya looked at Shane, the rigid, lethal tension in his shoulders suddenly melting into an expression of profound, quiet pride. He reached across the small gap between their chairs, his hand covering Shane's fingers on the armrest, gripping them tightly right in front of the head of PR.

Vance stared at their joined hands, then looked up at Shane's unwavering expression. He let out a final, defeated sigh, slumping back into his chair.

"Alright," Vance murmured, dragging a hand through his hair. "Alright. If we're doing this, we control the rollout. Not a written statement. The media will think we're hiding behind text. We call a press conference before morning skate tomorrow. You two comment on the rumor, confirm it, and shut down the personal questions immediately. Then we pivot entirely to the Chicago game."

"Good," Ilya said, his grip tightening on Shane's hand. "Let's do it."

The morning skate before the game against Chicago felt like a media circus setting up its main tent. The secure corridor outside the Nomads' locker room was packed deep with reporters, cameramen, and local news anchors, all of them angling for the same quote.

Inside the room, though, the walls had closed in completely. The guys moved with synchronized aggression, a collective shield raised against the outside noise.

When the PR director finally knocked on the door to signal it was time for the press conference, Ilya stood up from his stall. Shane stood right beside him, adjusting the collar of his track jacket.

"Hey," Torrey called out, stopping them both near the door. He clapped a heavy hand on Shane's shoulder, his eyes deadly serious. "We're right in the other room. Let them talk. They don't mean shit."

"They ask stupid questions, give them stupid answers," Maks shouted from across the room, flexing his arms. "Or I go out there and throw microphone into river."

Ilya let out a sharp breath that might have been a laugh. "Save your energy for Chicago, Maks." He looked at Shane, his gaze softening, a silent, centering anchor. "Ready?"

"Ready," Shane said.

The media room was standing room only. The moment they stepped up to the microphones, the camera shutters started clicking in a deafening, frantic rhythm.

For the first five minutes, the beat writers tried to play it safe, asking standard questions about the power play and Chicago's goaltending. But the air in the room was thick with anticipation.

It came from a national reporter in the second row.

"Ilya, Shane," the man said, leaning forward. "There have been rumors circulating online since early yesterday morning regarding your personal lives, specifically alleging a romantic relationship and an engagement. Given your leadership roles on this team, can you comment on the validity of these reports, and whether this has caused any friction in the locker room?"

The room went dead silent.

Shane braced himself, but before he could speak, Ilya leaned into his microphone. His voice was a calm, steady baseline that completely commanded the room.

"The locker room is fine," Ilya said, his eyes locking onto the reporter. "The Nomads are a family. We win together, we protect each other. Nothing changes that." He paused, his shoulder brushing against Shane's. "As for the rumors. They are not rumors. Shane and I are engaged. We are together."

A collective gasp and a fresh fury of camera clicks erupted.

Shane stepped up to his own mic, his voice clear and unwavering. "We wanted to keep our private lives private, but someone made that choice for us. It doesn't change who we are, it doesn't change how we play, and it definitely doesn't change our goal for this season. We're here to play hockey."

The conference didn't last much longer after that. Vance stepped in, shutting down the personal questions and steering things back to the game. But the statement had been made. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they hadn't given the media an inch of desperation to exploit.

By the time they got back to the locker room, the internet was already fracturing under the weight of the confirmation.

Shane sat on the bench, bracing himself as he finally opened social media. He expected a wasteland. But as he scrolled, a strange, overwhelming warmth began to counter the chill in his chest.

The reaction was overwhelmingly positive.

Fans were flooding the team's pages with support. Pictures of Pride flags at the arena from previous seasons were trending. Even the league's official account had tweeted a simple, supportive graphic of the two of them with the caption, Congratulations to Shane and Ilya.

"Told you," Butch muttered, walking past and dumping a fresh stack of towels near Shane's feet. "The world isn't as backward as the idiots on the gossip forums."

"Yeah," Shane said, a genuine smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. "Yeah, it looks like it."

In the quiet alcove of the medical room a few minutes later, away from the rest of the team, Ilya stepped in and shut the door behind him. He didn't say anything at first. He just walked straight into Shane's space, wrapping his arms around Shane's waist and burying his face in Shane's hair.

Shane held him back just as tightly, letting his eyes close. The initial panic had burned off, leaving behind a solid, unbreakable core.

"We are okay," Ilya murmured against his neck. "The noise outside doesn't matter. They can write whatever they want. They don't touch us."

"I know," Shane whispered, leaning back to look at him. "I'm pissed that someone inside breached our trust. I'm furious about that. But you and me? We're fine. We can handle the haters."

"I love you," Ilya said, his eyes flashing with that familiar heat before he leaned down to kiss Shane, a slow, grounding reassurance that sealed the promise.

Later that afternoon, while resting at home before the evening game, Shane's phone buzzed with a direct notification on his personal, unlisted email.

He opened it, expecting a PR memo, but the name at the top made him sit up fast.

Scott Hunter.

The superstar forward for New York. A guy Shane had played against dozens of times, a fierce competitor and one of the biggest names in the league. They weren't close friends, but there was a deep, mutual respect there.

Subject: Support

Shane, Ilya,

I just saw the press conference. I wanted to reach out privately and say how incredibly sorry I am that you guys were forced into this before you were ready. Getting outed by some anonymous coward is low, even for the internet.

I can't imagine the kind of pressure you're under right now, but I wanted you to know that you have my complete support. What you did today was incredibly brave. There are more guys in this league standing behind you than you think.

Keep your heads up and keep dominant on the ice. See you guys in a few weeks.

- S. Hunter

Shane stared at the screen, a lump forming in his throat. He handed the phone over to Ilya, who read it in silence.

"He is a good man," Ilya said softly, handing it back.

"Yeah," Shane agreed, feeling a profound sense of solidarity.

The high of the fan support and Scott's email carried Shane all the way back to the rink for pre-game warmups. The atmosphere in the arena was electric, the home crowd roaring extra loud during player introductions, specifically drowning out the tiny pockets of booing with a wall of cheers when Shane and Ilya's names were called.

They won the game 4-2. The team felt untouchable.

During the post-game celebration in the locker room, the music was pumping, and the guys were riding the emotional high. Torrey was shouting lyrics, Maks was doing some ridiculous victory dance, and Ozzie was handing out recovery shakes like they were champagne.

In the middle of the chaos, Logan walked over to Shane's stall. 

He had a massive, supportive grin on his face, and he immediately clapped Shane on the arm. "Man, what a night. Seriously, Shane. The way you and Ilya handled that presser today? Insane. Truly inspirational."

"Thanks,” Shane said, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

"No, totally. It's awesome," Logan said, his voice dropping to a low hum. He glanced around them as if checking nobody else would hear. His pale blue eyes were wide with an expression that looked exactly like innocent, naive concern. "I mean, it's just crazy to think about the long game, you know? The fan reaction is great now because we're winning. But man, the pressure must be unreal. If things get rocky on a road trip, or if the team hits a skid... people are going to point fingers at you guys instantly. It's a lot of weight to carry as a couple. I just hope you guys can handle that kind of scrutiny without it affecting the room, you know? For the team's sake."

Shane froze.

The words were wrapped perfectly in a blanket of team-first loyalty and rookie deference. On paper, it sounded like a kid worrying about his teammates. But the undercurrent was filthy. A subtle, psychological jab designed to plant a seed of doubt about whether their relationship was a liability.

"We can handle it," Shane snapped, his voice dropping an octave, his body stiffening.

"Oh, I know! I have total faith," Logan said quickly, giving Shane's shoulder a final, friendly pat. "Just looking out. See you at practice, man!"

Logan turned and walked away, immediately slipping back into a conversation with Kowalski, laughing at some joke like he hadn't just dropped a vial of poison into Shane's ear.

Shane stood by his locker, his hands trembling slightly as he packed his bag.

He looked across the room at Ilya, who was currently laughing at something Torrey was saying. Shane swallowed hard, the words tearing at his throat, but he kept his mouth shut.

How could he tell Ilya? Everyone in this room loved Logan. The kid was working his ass off, he was supportive in public, and his comments, aimed only at Shane, were always just ambiguous enough that if Shane complained, he would look like a paranoid, insecure veteran picking on a well-meaning rookie.

Am I crazy? Shane thought, pulling his duffel strap over his shoulder.

He forced a smile as Ilya caught his eye from across the room, burying the suffocating bad vibes deep down where no one else could see them.

Chapter 6

The media fallout didn't disappear after the Chicago game, it just shifted shape. The initial shockwave of the confirmation gave way to a relentless, low-grade buzzing from the national sports networks. Every hockey morning show had a segment debating "locker room dynamics," and while the overall fan response remained a massive wall of support, the comment sections on the major sports blogs quickly became a toxic wasteland of burner accounts and bitter assholes hiding behind a computer screen.

But if the internet wanted to throw stones, the Nomads turned their locker room into a fortress. By Tuesday morning, the team group chat had mutated into a non-stop, hyper-protective meme war designed entirely to keep Shane and Ilya laughing.

Kowalski: [Image Attached: A heavily photoshopped picture of Ilya and Shane in full gear, but their hockey sticks have been replaced by giant, sparkling magic wands.] 

Kowalski: Found this on Twitter. Apparently, this is how you guys generate chemistry on the first line. Elite wizard shit.

Maksym: This is inaccurate. Ilya is Russian. His wand should be bigger.

Butch: Shut up, Maksym.

Ozzie: [Image Attached: A poorly edited photo of a wedding altar, except it's inside a penalty box and Coach is standing there dressed as a priest.] 

Ozzie: Just previewing the wedding venue for you guys. If Ilya gets a matching minor, you can do the vows during the first period. 

Torrey: I'm not sitting next to Maks at the reception if he wears that custom track jacket.

Maksym: I will wear white tuxedo. Upstage the brides.

Finn: Grooms.

Maksym: I will look beautiful.

When Shane walked out onto the ice for morning skate that day, he found the solidarity wasn't just digital. Every single player on the roster had wrapped the knobs of their sticks in bright rainbow Pride tape.

Maks skated past Shane, aggressively tapping his colorful stick against the boards. "We match today, Hollander! Very stylish. If reporters ask, I tell them it makes my slap shot twenty percent more fabulous."

Shane couldn't help the laugh that burst from his chest, the weight in his shoulders lifting just a fraction. He looked across the ice at Ilya, who was watching the guys with a rare, soft expression that eventually sharpened into his standard, competitive focus. The team was locked in. They were absorbing the impact for them.

And on game nights, the defiance translated into absolute dominance.

Against St. Louis on Thursday, the Nomads played a flawless, suffocating brand of hockey. The first line was telepathic. Five minutes into the second period, Ilya forced a turnover at the defensive blue line, chipping the puck off the glass to unleash Shane on a transition rush. Shane carried it wide, drawing the St. Louis defenseman toward the corner before sending a blind, cross-ice backhand pass directly through the seam.

Ilya was already there, dropping to one knee to hammer a relentless one-timer into the top corner before the goalie could even set his feet.

The arena erupted, a deafening roar of twenty thousand fans that felt intensely validating. When Shane caught up to him against the glass, Ilya grabbed the front of Shane's jersey, pulling him into a brief, hard helmet-knock that sent a clear message to every camera in the building. We aren't hiding.

But the story of the week wasn't just the veterans. Logan Kane was playing out of his mind.

On the third line, the rookie was a relentless engine. Later in the same period, Logan intercepted a clearing attempt, used a filthy toe-drag to escape a diving defenseman, and slipped a perfect, no-look pass to Kowalski in the slot for an easy tap-in. The kid was fast, he was smart, and he was completely earning the adoration of the coaching staff and the fans. He was the perfect rookie.

Which was exactly why what happened on Friday morning felt so incredibly wrong.

It was supposed to be a standard, low-intensity battle drill during Friday's practice. Puck protection along the boards in the defensive zone. Coach had paired the forwards up to work on using their bodies to shield the puck under pressure.

Ilya was locked in a battle with Logan along the left wall.

Even in practice, Ilya didn't know how to play at half-speed. He had his body positioned perfectly, his legs dropped low to anchor his weight as he shielded the puck from the rookie. Logan was pushing hard against his back, trying to get a stick in to disrupt the play.

It was normal hockey. A standard, grinding sequence.

Until it wasn't.

Shane was standing near the blue line, waiting for his turn in the rotation, his eyes fixed on them. He saw the exact second the dynamic shifted. Logan threw his entire body weight forward with a sudden, hyper-aggressive surge that went entirely beyond the scope of a standard practice drill. It was a violent, driving push, right into the numbers.

Ilya's skate caught the ice at the worst possible angle. With his balance compromised, Ilya went down hard, his left shoulder slamming violently into the unforgiving edge of the boards. The sound of the impact, a sickening, hollow thud, cut straight through the ambient noise of the rink.

Ilya let out a growl of pain, immediately rolling onto his side and clutching his left shoulder, his face contorting in a way Shane had rarely seen.

"FUCK!" Ilya barked, his eyes squeezed shut as he stayed down on the ice.

The whistle blew a moment later, three sharp, panicked blasts from the assistant coach. Players immediately rushed over, the lighthearted energy of the morning vanishing in a heartbeat.

Shane was the first one there, dropping to his knees beside Ilya, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against his ribs. "Ilya. Ilya, don't move. Is it your shoulder?"

Ilya didn't answer right away, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles were jumping. He managed to push himself up to a sitting position, his left arm hanging awkwardly, completely immobile. "It jumped," he muttered, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. "Dislocated. It went out and back in."

The team trainer was already sliding across the ice, medical bag in hand, gently taking over the assessment.

In the middle of the huddle, Logan was already on his knees on the other side of Ilya. His face was completely pale, his blue eyes wide with a frantic, desperate terror that looked entirely genuine.

"Oh my god, Ilya, I am so, so sorry," Logan stammered, his voice cracking, loud enough for the entire team and the coaches to hear. "I lost my footing, man. I was just trying to match your leverage and my edge gave out. I didn't mean to drive you in like that. I swear to god, I didn't mean to. Coach, I just lost my edge."

"Keep back, Kane, give them some room," Torrey said, his voice tense but not angry, his hand reaching out to pat the rookie's helmet in a comforting gesture. "Accidents happen, kid. Just breathe."

"I know, but it's the Captain," Logan pleaded, looking around at the rest of the team with a devastated, guilt-ridden expression. "I feel sick. Ilya, man, I'm so sorry."

Ilya slowly shook his head, his eyes still closed as the trainer began helping him to his feet. "It's hockey, Logan. Get up."

Shane helped stabilize Ilya's right side as they began the slow, agonizing walk off the ice toward the tunnel. But as he turned, Shane caught a glimpse of Logan standing near the faceoff dot.

The rookie was watching them retreat, his hands resting on his hips. The frantic, pale-faced panic was gone. Just for a fraction of a second, before Kowalski skated over to offer a sympathetic tap on his shin pads, Logan's face was completely blank. Cold. Analytical.

A cold sweat broke out across Shane's neck.

Twenty minutes later, the diagnosis came down in the quiet privacy of the medical room.

Shane sat on a training table, his hands pressed tightly between his knees, while the team doctor finished examining Ilya's shoulder. The room was suffocatingly quiet compared to the chaos of the rink.

"The good news is there's no structural tearing," the doctor said, wrapping a compression sleeve around Ilya's upper arm. "But it's severely strained and inflamed. If you play on this tomorrow night against Winnipeg, one bad hit will pop it right back out, and then you're looking at surgery."

"I can play," Ilya growled, his voice stubborn, though he winced as he tried to lift his arm even three inches.

"You can't," the doctor countered firmly. "You're out for Winnipeg. We'll re-evaluate before the Tuesday road trip. A game or two of rest now saves your season, Ilya. That's final."

Ilya let out a long, furious string of Russian profanities, slamming his good hand down against the treatment table. The doctor gave Shane a sympathetic look before picking up his chart and stepping out, leaving them alone.

Shane immediately moved over, stepping between Ilya's knees. He carefully placed his hands on Ilya's uninjured shoulder, leaning in until their foreheads rested together. "Hey. It's okay. It's just a couple of games. We can handle Winnipeg."

"I should be out there with you," Ilya muttered, his dark eyes burning with a mixture of pain and intense frustration. "Especially now. With the media. With everything. I am the Captain. I'm leaving you alone on the ice."

"You aren't leaving me alone," Shane whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, trying to absorb some of the frantic vibration rolling off him. "The guys have our backs. We're going to be fine. Just focus on healing."

Shane reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of the compression sleeve before moving up to cup Ilya's jawline. Ilya leaned into the touch instantly, letting out a heavy, shuddering sigh as he wrapped his right arm securely around Shane's waist, pulling him in.

"I hate being broken," Ilya muttered against Shane's chest, his grip tightening.

"You're not broken," Shane whispered, carding his fingers through Ilya's hair, tilting his face up so he could look into his eyes. "You're resting. There's a difference." He leaned down, capturing Ilya's mouth in a kiss.

When they pulled apart, Ilya sighed, the fight draining out of him as he leaned heavily into Shane's touch. "Logan… He needs to watch his weight."

"Yeah," Shane said softly.

His stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot. He wanted to say it. The words were right on the tip of his tongue. He didn't lose his edge, Ilya. He drove you on purpose. He's been chipping at me for weeks and now he took you out.

But as he looked at Ilya's exhausted, pain-lined face, the words died in his throat. Logan had apologized frantically in front of the entire roster. The coaches had written it off as a rookie trying too hard in a battle drill against a massive opponent. Torrey had comforted him. If Shane brought it up now, it would look like the paranoia from the media leak was finally breaking him. It would look like he was losing his mind.

Plus, it was the last thing Ilya needed on his plate at the moment. When Ilya's shoulder healed and the media storm died down, then Shane would tell him. 

"He's just a rookie," Shane lied, the words tasting like ash in his mouth as he smoothed a hand down Ilya's arm. "He made a mistake."

But as he held his fiancé in the quiet medical room, a terrifying reality settled deep into Shane's bones. Ilya was going to be up in the press box tomorrow night. And Shane was going to be on the ice, completely unprotected, with Logan Kane right behind him

Chapter 7

Sitting in the locker room before the Winnipeg game, the silence on the left side of Shane's stall felt heavy, almost physical. For years, that space had been occupied by Ilya's grounding presence. The quiet, methodical taping of his sticks, the low murmurs in Russian, the steady, unspoken reassurance of his shoulder pressing against Shane's. Of course Ilya had missed games in their time on the Nomads, but this time, his absence felt oppressive. 

Tonight, Ilya was up in the press box, his injured arm immobilized in a sling under his suit jacket. And sitting in his place on the first line, vibrating with a terrifying, pristine energy, was Logan Kane.

"Alright, boys, look alive," Coach barked, clapping his hands together as he stepped into the center of the room. "We're missing a big piece of our puzzle tonight with Rozanov out, but the expectation doesn't drop. Kane, you're jumping up to the top line with Hollander and Torrey. Use your speed, hunt the puck, and play your game. Let's get these two points."

"You got it, Coach," Logan said instantly. He turned to Shane, his face solemn and determined. "I won't let you down, Shane. I know I can't replace Ilya, but I'm going to give you everything I've got out there."

"Just play your position," Shane said, his voice flat, his chest tightening as he laced his skates. He didn't look Logan in the eye. He couldn't.

Across the room, Torrey caught Shane's eye, giving him a supportive nod. The rest of the team was focused, buckling down to cover the absence of their captain. They thought they were just playing a tough game against a heavy Winnipeg team. They had no idea that the call was coming from inside the house.

The puck dropped, and the trap was sprung.

Within the first three shifts, Shane realized exactly what kind of game Logan was playing. It was a masterclass in sabotage disguised as perfection.

During their first offensive zone entry, Torrey chipped the puck deep down the right wall. Shane read the play perfectly, driving hard toward the net to pull the Winnipeg defenseman with him and open up the slot, a textbook sequence he and Ilya had executed a thousand times. Logan used his explosive speed to win the race to the puck in the corner.

Shane was completely open in the high-danger scoring area, his stick on the ice, screaming for the pass. Logan looked right at him. Shane saw the kid's pale blue eyes lock onto him through his visor. But instead of making the easy, high-percentage pass to the slot, Logan pivoted hard, walked the puck up the half-wall himself, and fired a blind, cross-ice pass back to Finn at the point.

Finn, caught off guard by the sudden change in rhythm, had to scramble to keep the puck in the zone, stretching out his stick just to keep it from clearing the blue line. The play lost all its momentum, sputtering out into a whistle.

"Sorry, Shane!" Logan called out as they skated back to the bench, his voice breathy and apologetic. "The lane looked choked up from my angle. Thought it was safer to reset at the point."

Shane didn't answer. He climbed over the boards, his heart hammering against his ribs in a slow, suffocating burn of realization. Logan hadn't made a mistake. He had intentionally frozen Shane out.

By the second period, the pattern hardened into a nightmare. Logan was playing with an aggressive, relentless dominance. He was winning every battle along the boards, backchecking like a demon, and carrying the puck through the neutral zone with a flashy, high-speed confidence that had the home crowd roaring every time he touched it.

But he was systematically erasing Shane from the ice.

Whenever Logan had the puck, Shane became a ghost. Logan would choose a heavily covered Torrey, a defenseman at the point, or a low-angle shot from the goal line before he would ever feed Shane. And because Logan's execution was technically flawless – he wasn't turning the puck over, he wasn't making obvious blunders – the coaching staff was eating it up.

Worse, Logan was intentionally breaking the line's structural timing. He would push too deep into the zone when he was supposed to stay high, or exit the zone a second too early on the breakout. It forced Shane to constantly scramble, burning his lungs to cover the defensive gaps Logan was leaving behind. On the ice, Shane looked a step slow. Disconnected. Off-kilter.

With five minutes left in the period, Logan stripped a Winnipeg defenseman of the puck behind their net. Instead of centering it to Shane, who was completely uncovered in front, Logan executed a brilliant, incredibly difficult wrap-around shot, stuffing the puck inside the post before the goalie could slide across.

The red light flushed. The arena exploded.

"Goal scored by number fourteen, Logan Kane!" the announcer boomed over the PA system.

The bench erupted, the guys jumping up to bang their sticks against the boards. Logan skated down the line, beaming, soaking in the adoration of his teammates. He bumped Shane's shoulder as he passed, his grin dazzling.

The media analytics were already updating. The live television broadcast cut to a split-screen of Logan celebrating and Shane skating back to the bench with a tense, rigid expression.

"An unbelievable goal by the rookie," the color commentator analyzed over the airwaves. "He has completely stepped into the vacuum left by Ilya Rozanov tonight. You have to wonder, though... Shane Hollander looks entirely out of sync. He's got no points tonight, a minus-one rating, and he just looks lost out there without his fiancé on his wing. The pressure of the last week might finally be catching up to the veteran."

Shane sat on the bench, staring blindly at the ice, his fingers gripping his stick so tightly his knuckles turned white. He felt a cold, terrifying isolation creeping into his chest. Logan was rewriting the narrative of the team in real-time, and he was using his own brilliance to make Shane look like a liability.

The Nomads held onto the lead, grinding out a brutal 3-2 win. But despite the grueling game, the spirit of the Nomads didn't leave Shane out in the cold. As soon as they were back in the room, Kowalski slung a massive, sweaty arm around Shane's neck.

"Hey, Hollander! Hardest working man on the ice tonight," Kowalski boomed, planting a loud, obnoxious wet kiss right on the side of Shane's hockey helmet before Shane could wrestle away. "You skated about fifty miles covering the neutral zone. I see you, buddy. You're getting the first slice of pizza."

"Get off me, Kowalski, you stink," Shane laughed, though he let himself be hauled into a brief, fierce group hug as Butch joined in, aggressively ruffling his hair.

"Seriously, Shane, great composure out there," Butch said, his voice dropping its usual sarcastic edge, replaced by genuine, quiet respect. "Winnipeg plays heavy, and you took the brunt of it so the rookie could run wild. Elite veteran shit."

Shane felt a wave of warmth wash over him. The suffocating isolation cracking open under the weight of his brothers' hands. They didn't see a failing veteran, they saw their teammate who had sacrificed his own lungs to secure a tight win. 

Shane quietly peeled off his armor, his body aching from the double-shifts he'd been forced to skate to cover Logan's structural gaps. He wanted nothing more than to grab his keys, find Ilya, and go home.

As he pulled a heavy black hoodie over his head, a shadow fell across his stall.

It was Logan. He had already changed into his post-game suit, his tie perfectly knotted, his hair slicked back. He looked immaculate, completely untouched by the twenty-two minutes of hard hockey he'd just skated.

"Hey, Shane," Logan said softly. He leaned against the partition of Shane's stall, his voice dropping into that familiar, confidential tone that made Shane's skin crawl. "Great win tonight. We really pulled together."

"Yeah. Good game, Kane. Congrats on the goal," Shane said, keeping his voice dead and tightly controlled, refusing to look up as he packed his toiletries into his duffel.

"Thanks, man. It felt amazing," Logan said. He paused, tilting his head, his pale blue eyes wide with that sickening, toxic mimicry of friendly concern. "But hey... I just wanted to check on you. You looked really heavy out there tonight. Like you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Shane stopped, his hand freezing over his bag.

"I know it must be so hard," Logan continued, his voice dropping an octave further, smooth and poisonous. "Stepping onto the ice knowing that everyone in the building is looking at you, wondering if you can still perform without Ilya out there to carry the line. People are already talking, Shane. They're saying you look completely lost on your own. It's got to be a massive psychological toll, realizing that your relationship might actually be the thing that breaks your game."

The words hit Shane like a physical blow to the solar plexus. The sheer, calculated malice of it was dizzying. Something fierce sparked in Shane's blood. The sheer audacity of this kid trying to execute a psychological hit inside his locker room. Shane stood slowly, drawing himself to his full height. He stepped right into Logan's personal space, his jaw tight, eyes burning with a hard intensity that made Logan's smooth smile falter by a fraction. 

"Are you done?" Shane asked, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with icy authority.

Logan blinked, his mask slipping for a millisecond. "Shane, I was just-"

"Save it," Shane snapped, stepping closer, forcing Logan back an inch. "I know exactly what you're doing on the ice, Kane. You froze me out on the entry in the first, you forced Finn to scramble to cover your ego at the point, and you're playing your own game out there instead of the system. You think because you scored a wrap-around goal, you're the smartest guy in the building? You're a rookie. You've played five minutes in this league." 

Logan's face went entirely rigid, his eyes darkening as Shane took a step further into his space. Logan retreated another step, his back hitting the wall as he glared up at Shane.

"And let me make something entirely clear to you," Shane whispered, his words precise and razor-sharp. "My relationship isn't a liability. I've won championships while you were still playing juniors. If you ever come near my stall again with that fake concern, or try to lecture me on my game, I will ensure Coach hooks you to the bench so fast your head will spin. Get the hell away from my stall. Now."

The sheer force of Shane's pushback left Logan completely stunned. A tiny, ugly sneer flickered across the rookie's face, the true monster finally showing its teeth, before he desperately tried to pull the mask back on as he noticed Torrey walking past.

"Whoa, sorry, man. I didn't mean to upset you," Logan stammered, his voice suddenly jumping back into that loud, submissive posture, raising his hands defensively so Torrey could see. "I was just checking in. I really want us to have chemistry out there. For the team's sake."

"Everything good here, boys?" Torrey asked, his eyes darting between Shane's tense, commanding frame and Logan's anxious expression.

"Yeah, Torrey, everything's fine," Logan said quickly, giving Torrey a reassuring smile that looked a little more strained than usual. "Just talking about the breakout timing. See you guys on Tuesday."

Logan turned and walked out of the room, his shoulders tight, stepping into the hallway to face the flashing cameras of the media.

Shane stood by his stall, breathing heavily. He had drawn a line in the sand. He looked up and saw Ilya walking down the corridor from the press box, his face lined with worry and protective instincts. Shane met him halfway, stepping into Ilya's space and letting Ilya wrap a safe, heavy arm around his waist.

He's trying to isolate me, Shane thought, his fingers tightening firmly around Ilya's jacket, anchoring himself to the man he loved and the team that had his back. But I am not going down without a fight.

Chapter 8

The kitchen was bright, the morning sun falling across the island in slats, but the usual soundtrack of their off days - the clatter of Ilya making espresso, the booming volume of sports radio - was entirely missing.

Shane stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but sweatpants, his body aching with the heavy exhaustion of a man who had skated nearly thirty minutes the night before.

At the counter, Ilya was attempting to navigate a brand-new carton of oat milk. His left arm was strapped tightly against his torso in a black medical immobilizer, leaving him to clumsily work with only his right hand. He was gripping the carton against his ribs, his jaw clenched in fury as his thumb failed to pop the plastic seal.

"Fucking American packaging," Ilya growled under his breath, a deep, frustrated line carved between his eyebrows.

Shane let out a soft laugh, crossing the kitchen tiles and stepping directly into Ilya's space. He reached out, capping his hands gently over Ilya's wrist to steady him. "Let me."

Ilya didn't let go immediately, a stubborn tension stiffening his shoulders before he finally exhaled a long, defeated breath and let Shane take the carton. Shane popped the cap, poured the milk into the frother, and started the machine. When he turned back, Ilya hadn't moved. He was staring down at his immobilized arm like he wanted to fight it.

Shane stepped close again, sliding his hands up Ilya's chest to rest against the warm skin of his shoulders. "Hey. Look at me."

Ilya looked, his eyes burning with a mixture of pain and profound irritation. "I look like idiot. Cannot even make coffee for my fiancé."

"You look like a guy who saved his shoulder from surgery so he can play the rest of the season," Shane murmured, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to Ilya's lips. It was tender, slow, and full of a quiet reassurance that made the rigid tension in Ilya's jaw finally melt. Ilya leaned into it, his right hand coming up to cup the back of Shane's head, his fingers tangling in hair, holding Shane there as if he were the only solid thing in the room.

When they parted, Shane leaned his forehead against Ilya's good shoulder, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

"Tell me about the game," Ilya prompted softly, his fingers gently stroking Shane's back. Shane hadn't wanted to discuss it the previous night, instead distracting Ilya with his hands and mouth until neither were concerned with the game. "From the box, it looked... messy. The timing was off."

Shane swallowed hard, the memory of Logan's icy, poisonous words from the night before echoing in his head. They're saying you look completely lost on your own. He couldn't tell Ilya yet. He couldn't risk Ilya ripping his shoulder apart trying to put the rookie through a wall.

"It was heavy," Shane admitted. "Winnipeg caved us in during the second. I felt like I was skating uphill the entire night."

Ilya's grip tightened, his thumb sweeping over the sensitive skin behind Shane's ear. "You got the win. I watched you double-shift in the third. You carried them, Shane." Ilya paused, a small, thoughtful frown crossing his face. "Kane scored a beautiful goal, but he plays selfish on the top line. He ignores your transition routes. Maybe he was just excited to be on the first line, wanting to shine for the cameras, but he broke the system."

Shane let out a quiet, breathy laugh against Ilya's neck. Excited. "Yeah. He was definitely looking for his own shot."

"He will learn," Ilya growled softly, kissing the top of Shane's head. "You are the center of that line. No one freezes you out."

The unyielding loyalty in Ilya's voice was an instant balm to the bruises Logan had left on Shane's psyche. Under this roof, in this kitchen, Logan Kane didn't exist. There was only the two of them.

In the afternoon, the quiet peace of the house was interrupted by a firm knock at the front door. Shane opened it to find Knox standing on the porch in a heavy flannel shirt, a massive brown paper bag from a local Italian joint cradled in one arm. Beside him, JJ leaned against the railing holding two extra-large pizza boxes and wearing a pair of sunglasses despite the autumn overcast.

"We brought carbs," JJ announced, pushing past Shane without an invite and heading straight for the kitchen. "And don't complain about the sodium, Hollander. I saw your time-on-ice stats from last night. You look like you need a blood transfusion."

"Hello to you too," Shane laughed, closing the door behind Knox, who gave Shane a brief, heavy-handed hug that felt instantly like a security blanket.

"How's the shoulder, kid?" Knox asked as he walked into the living room where Ilya was sitting on the sofa.

"Is fine. Strained," Ilya said, though he didn't protest when Knox sat down heavily beside him, immediately inspecting the angle of the immobilizer with the critical, practiced eye of a player who had survived eighteen years of hockey injuries.

Minutes later, there was another light knock at the door before it swung open. Torrey stepped inside, carrying a twelve-pack of beer under his arm. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Knox and JJ already raiding the kitchen cabinets for plates.

"Oh," Torrey blinked, setting his keys on the entry table. "I didn't know we were having a meeting of the minds."

"Torrey," JJ called out from the kitchen, popping open a container of garlic bread. "Did you bring the baby?"

"Sarah has Cash," Torrey said, walking into the living room and dropping the beer onto the coffee table. He caught Shane's eye, his gaze lingering a second too long, filled with a quiet, observant seriousness.

Shane felt a small tight knot form in his stomach. Torrey had walked in on that tense confrontation between Shane and Logan by the stalls the night before. He was here to check the foundation.

"You look like hell, Torres," Knox observed, tossing a slice of pepperoni pizza onto a paper plate and handing it to Torrey.

"Double-shifted with Hollander last night," Torrey groaned, collapsing into a leather armchair. "My hamstrings are screaming at me. I'm too old for Winnipeg's forecheck."

For the next two hours, the living room filled with the well-worn, effortless rhythm of their brotherhood. They watched a matinee game between Boston and Toronto on the big screen, the room exploding into a chorus of groans and shouts when a bad bounce led to a goal.

Shane sat on the floor, leaning back against Ilya's legs, feeling the steady, warm pressure of Ilya's hand resting on his shoulder. Looking around the room at Knox, JJ, and Torrey, a profound sense of safety settled deep into his bones.

Logan Kane could try to chip away at him in the dark corners of the rink all he wanted. He could play his perfect, flawless games and flash his charming smiles for the media. But Logan was entirely on the outside of this. He didn't have this history. He didn't have these brothers who would drop everything on a Sunday afternoon just to sit on a floor and eat bad pizza because their Captain was hurt. Logan was a ghost. This room was real.

*****

The peace of the weekend didn’t survive Monday morning. Shane stayed late after morning skate, working through a progression of edge-work drills until his thighs burned and his lungs ached. He needed the physical exhaustion. It was the only thing loud enough to drown out the lingering echoes of the Winnipeg game. Ilya had already headed up to the video room with the coaching staff, leaving the ice empty save for the rhythmic, lonely scrape of Shane's skates.

When Shane finally called it a day and walked down the rubber matting toward the secondary equipment room to drop off a pair of steel runners, the hallway was completely desolate. The lights over the skate-grinder were off.

He didn't hear Logan approach until the kid's shadow cut off the light from the doorway.

"Working hard, Hollander," Logan said, his voice carrying that familiar, polished cadence. He was leaning against the doorframe, a casual, easy smile on his face. But his eyes were different today. The polite rookie deference was entirely gone, replaced by something sharp, cold, and calculating. "Or are you just trying to prove you can still handle first-line minutes?"

Shane didn't look up from his gear bag. He hung his skates on the drying rack, his jaw tight. "Go home, Logan.”

Logan let out a soft, mocking chuckle, stepping into the small room. "I'm just looking out for the team, man. Everyone's thinking it. You looked completely lost out there in Winnipeg. Ilya's dragging you up the ice, covering your mistakes, and now he's risking his own health, trying to come back before his shoulder is fully healed, because you can't lock down the neutral zone on your own."

Shane stood up straight, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He looked Logan dead in the eye. He knew what this was. Logan's subtle, private jabs weren't working anymore, so the kid was pressing harder, trying to find a nerve to make him snap.

Instead of letting the anger take over, Shane forced his posture to relax. He leaned back against the workbench, tilting his head. "Is that what you think, Kane? That you're looking out for the team?"

"I know I am," Logan said, stepping closer, his voice dropping into a low, vicious register as the mask dropped completely. The happy, media-friendly rookie vanished, leaving behind something hollow and fiercely arrogant. "You're a liability, Shane. This historic franchise is turning into a circus because of your lifestyle choices, and you're too weak to carry the weight. Enjoy the first line while you can. Because the only reason you're even still up there is because you're fucking the captain. Once I lock down that top wing spot permanently, we'll get a real center in the middle who actually belongs in this league, and Ilya won't have you distracting him anymore." 

"Is that right?" a booming, thunderous voice shattered the quiet of the room.

Logan jumped, his head snapping toward the dark hallway.

Kowalski stepped into the light of the doorway, his massive frame filling the space. He was still half-dressed in his under-gear, his face flushed an angry, dangerous red.

Logan's face went entirely pale for a fraction of a second before his mask slipped into place. He raised his hands, a nervous, sheepish smile plastered across his face. "Whoa, K. You scared me. I was just… I was just pushing Shane a little. You know, friendly locker room motivation. Looking out for a teammate after a tough game."

Kowalski didn't smile back. He stepped into the room, his chest nearly brushing against Logan's, forcing the rookie to back up until his spine hit the metal shelving.

"I heard every word that came out of your mouth, kid," Kowalski growled, his voice vibrating with disgust. "And if you ever use the word teammate to describe yourself again, I will personally throw you through that glass partition. Get your gear and get out of this room before I wrap this stick around your throat. Move." 

"Kowalski, man, you're misinterpreting—"

"Out," Kowalski barked, a single, sharp word that echoed like a gunshot against the concrete.

Logan swallowed hard, his jaw tight as he realized his leverage was completely gone. He didn't look at Shane. He kept his eyes locked on Kowalski as he slipped past him, his footsteps echoing as he retreated down the tunnel.

The room fell into a heavy, ringing silence. Shane stood by the workbench, his hands trembling slightly as the adrenaline finally spiked.

Kowalski turned to him, the anger in his eyes instantly softening into a profound, protective worry. He looked at Shane, tracking the rigid tension in his shoulders. "How long has he been saying things like that to you, Shane?"

Shane let out a shaky breath, looking down at the concrete floor. "It doesn't matter. He's just a rookie trying to –"

"Don't do that," Kowalski interrupted firmly, his massive hand coming down to steady Shane's shoulder. "I heard what he said. He's a toxic rat. I'm not letting you carry that out to your car alone, Shane. We're going to the captain's office."

"No, wait –" Shane tried to protest, his throat tight with a sudden, panicked wave of exposure. "Ilya's shoulder… he shouldn't…"

"Ilya is the Captain," Kowalski said, his voice leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "And the boys are still in the lounge. Move."

Five minutes later, the heavy steel door of the inner coaching office locked from the inside with a definitive, heavy click.

The room was tight, smelling of coffee and dry-erase markers. Ilya was sitting on the edge of the desk, his left arm still anchored in his black medical immobilizer, but his entire posture went rigid the moment Kowalski marched Shane into the room, followed closely by Torrey, Butch, Ozzie, Maksym, and Finn.

"What is happening?" Ilya asked, his eyes instantly locking onto Shane's pale face. He stood up, crossing the small room in two strides, his right hand coming up to cup the back of Shane's neck. "Shane? What's wrong?"

"Sit down," Kowalski told the room. He didn't mince words. He looked straight at Ilya, then at the rest of the group. "I just caught Kane cornering Shane in the secondary equipment room. The kid thought they were alone. He dropped the rookie act completely."

"What did he say?" Torrey asked, jaw tightening, his usual relaxed demeanor completely vanishing.

Kowalski took a deep breath, his face flushing red again with pure disgust. "He told Shane he was a liability. He said the only reason Shane is still on the first line is because he's fucking the captain. And he told him the second Shane has a mental collapse, he's taking over that top wing spot, freezing him out, and bringing in a real center who belongs in the league." Kowalski looked at Shane, his gaze softening. "I'm sorry, kid. They have to know it all."

The silence that hit the room was absolute, heavy, and suffocating.

Ozzie froze, his face draining of all color. Maks let out a low, dangerous curse in Russian, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles popped loudly in the quiet office. Butch's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing into two slits of pure, physical menace.

But it was Ilya's reaction that made the air completely leave the room.

The voice that came out of Ilya was barely human. It was a low vibration that made the hairs on Shane's arms stand up. A terrifying growl of pure, lethal rage.

"He said this to you?" Ilya whispered. He didn't look at Kowalski. He stared down at Shane, his right hand tightening against the nape of Shane's neck, his fingers trembling with a frantic, protective adrenaline. "He comes into our room, he takes everything we give him, and then he waits until our backs are turned to whisper this toxic shit to you?"

"Ilya, it's fine, he's just –" Shane started, but his voice cracked, the emotional weight of the season finally breaking through his defenses under the collective gaze of his teammates.

"It's not fucking fine," Butch growled from the corner. He stood up, his face grim. "Has he done this before?"

"I don't know," Kowalski said, looking at Shane. "But it didn't sound like a first-time script."

Ilya's chest was heaving, his dark eyes searching Shane's face, tracing the exhaustion he had been trying so hard to hide. "Shane," Ilya begged. "Look at me. Tell me the truth. What else has he said to you?"

Shane looked around the room. He saw Torrey's rigid stance, Finn's silent fury, Maks and Ozzie looking like they were ready to dismantle the facility brick by brick to get to the rookie. And the wall completely collapsed.

"It's been everything, Ilya," Shane whispered, his hands gripping the fabric of Ilya's shirt for balance. "Every day in passing. A comment in the gym about how tired I look. A little jab by the video board about how the media is right, that I can't carry the transition routes or lock down the neutral zone unless you're on my flank. He's been smiling in front of the cameras and then whispering in my ear that I'm tearing the team down."

A collective, furious intake of breath rippled through the guys. Torrey let out a sharp curse, slamming his hand against the wall, while Finn just stared at the floor, his face completely blanked out by a terrifying, quiet calculation.

Ilya wrapped his one good arm around Shane's waist and hauled him tightly against his chest, burying his face in Shane's hair, holding him so hard it took Shane's breath away.

"He is dead to this team," Ilya vowed into the quiet room, his body shaking with an unyielding finality. "Tomorrow, he is finished."

Ilya looked at each of the guys in turn, his voice deathly calm. "We're meeting Coach before the doors open tomorrow morning. The kid doesn't skate with us again."

Chapter 9

When Logan Kane walked into the locker room at 8am Tuesday morning, his usual boyish smile in place, the room went entirely silent.

Nobody greeted him. Nobody looked at him. When he tried to sit at his stall, Torrey purposefully reached over, grabbing a heavy gym bag and throwing it into Logan's space, completely freezing him out.

"Hey, what's going on, guys?" Logan laughed nervously, looking around the room, trying to maintain his friendly rookie act.

Ilya rose from his stall at the far end of the room. He didn't say a single word as he walked down the rubber matting, radiating a cold, lethal authority that made the entire room hold its breath. He stopped directly in front of Logan, his dark eyes staring down at the kid like he was looking at something dead on the highway.

Logan swallowed hard, his confidence fracturing. "Look, Cap, if this is about what Kowalski heard… It was a total misunderstanding. I was just worried about Shane's conditioning after the Winnipeg game. I meant nothing but friendly concern for a teammate. I was just trying to push him to be better for the room–"

"Shut your mouth," Ilya said. The words weren't loud, but they carried the weight of a sledgehammer. "You do not speak to him. You do not look at him. You are not a teammate. You are nothing."

Ilya turned his back on the rookie, looking across the room toward the office door, where Coach was standing, watching the scene with a grim, knowing expression. The veteran leadership had already made their stance clear before the doors even opened. They refused to step onto the ice with a rat who tried to break their family from the inside.

"Kane," Coach called out, his voice flat and uncompromising. "Pack your shit. You're a healthy scratch for Wednesday night. Stay out of my locker room."

Logan's boyish mask shattered entirely. The panicked, sweating rookie vanished. His features settled into something cold, flat, and chillingly empty.

He didn't rush. He packed his bag with slow, deliberate movements, the heavy stares of the Nomads doing nothing to bend his spine now that the act was over. He swung the heavy canvas strap over his shoulder and walked toward the exit.

At the threshold, he stopped. He didn't look at Shane, he knew better than to draw Ilya’s immediate wrath, but he turned his head just enough to look back at the whole room. A sharp, mocking smirk curled the corner of his mouth.

"You guys really love the drama, don't you?" Logan said, his voice entirely devoid of its usual charming pitch. It was smooth, conversational, and completely remorseless. "Have fun protecting your little glass house. I can’t wait to see what finally shatters it.”

The heavy thud of the door slamming shut echoed off the concrete walls, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

For several seconds, nobody moved. The tension in the room was a live wire, buzzing with the urge to chase Kane down the hall and rearrange his jawline. Kowalski was already halfway off his bench, his knuckles white where he was gripping the edge of his stall, his chest heaving with a furious, protective breath.

"Don't," Ilya commanded.

The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the room's collective urge for violence like a knife. His jaw was set so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek, but his authority was absolute.

"He’s gone," Ilya said, finally turning his head to sweep his gaze across the entire room, locking eyes with Kowalski, then the rest of the roster. "He is nothing. We do not waste our energy on garbage. We have a game tomorrow."

A collective exhale rippled through the stalls. Kowalski slowly sank back onto his bench, though he kept cursing under his breath, shaking his head as he laced his skates with aggressive, jerky movements. The heavy silence broke into a low, angry rumble of twenty men muttering to one another, closing the gap Logan had tried to tear open.

Ilya didn't join the chatter. He turned his back to the room and went  to Shane’s stall. The captain persona melted, replaced by something raw and intensely focused. He stepped into Shane’s space, crowding out the rest of the locker room, and looked down at him sitting on the bench.

"Shane," Ilya murmured, his voice dropping to a register meant only for the two of them. He reached out, his hand coming down flat against the back of Shane’s neck, his thumb pressing firmly into the tense muscle there. A grounding, physical anchor. "Look at me."

Shane swallowed hard, his throat dry. He could feel the eyes of the room drifting away, giving them an illusion of privacy, but Logan's parting shot still felt like frost on his skin.

He forced his chin up, meeting Ilya’s fierce gaze. He wanted to shrug. He wanted to laugh it off, to roll his eyes and tell Ilya that Logan was just a pathetic rookie throwing a tantrum on his way out the door. It’s fine. He didn't get to me. Don't worry about it.

But with Ilya’s hand warm against the back of his neck grounding him, the lie died in his throat. His shoulders trembled just a fraction under his pads, and for a split second, his eyes pleaded with his fiancé to just take the weight of it.

"I'm–" Shane started, his voice a tight, raspy friction. "It’s fine, Ilya. He's just trying to–"

"Do not lie to me, Shane," Ilya interrupted softly, no heat in the words.

Ilya stepped a half-inch closer, his body completely shielding Shane from the rest of the room’s line of sight. He squeezed the back of Shane's neck, the pressure firm and steady, forcing Shane to stay anchored right there in the present.

"Listen to me," Ilya murmured, his accent thick and low. "He is nothing. He thinks he left a crack in the foundation, but he does not know what we are built on."

Ilya slipped his fingers under Shane’s chin, gently pulling his gaze until Shane was looking directly into his eyes, which burned with a fierce certainty. 

"You are the heartbeat of this team, Shane. You are everything." Ilya’s thumb stroked the side of Shane’s jaw. 

The rest of the team emptied out, quietly heading to the ice for practice. The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind the last player, Shane’s composure finally buckled. With a shaky exhale, he stood, burying his face directly into the crook of Ilya’s neck, right where the jersey met his skin.

Ilya didn't hesitate for a single second.

The moment Shane leaned in, Ilya’s good arm wrapped around him, pulling him flush against his chest. Ilya squeezed him so hard the plastic of Shane’s shoulder pads dug into his own ribs, but neither of them cared. He just held him steady, an unyielding wall that shut out the rest of the arena.

They stood like that in the quiet room for a long moment, their breathing the only sound. Shane closed his eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of ice and Ilya, letting the steady beat of his fiancé's heart drown out Logan's voice.

Slowly, the tight, defensive line of Shane's shoulders unknotted. He let out one last breath against Ilya’s neck, blinked away the last of the heaviness, and pulled back.

"I'm good," Shane said with a nod. His voice was still a little rough, but his eyes were clear.

Ilya didn't drop his hand right away. He studied Shane’s face for a beat, looking for any lingering trace of Logan's poison. Finally, he gave the back of Shane’s neck one last squeeze, pressing their foreheads together. 

"I know you are good," Ilya murmured. "I just like to remind you sometimes."

The last bit of tension drained from Shane's shoulders, his lips twitching into a faint, familiar smirk. "Right. Message received, Cap. Thanks."

Ilya nodded toward the door. "Move it. Coach is going to skate us into the dirt if we make him wait any longer.”

*****

That night, the house was quiet again. Shane lay flat on his back in bed, exhausted from the emotional weight of the day. Ilya was tangled up against his right side, his arm wrapped securely around Shane's waist, his heavy leg draped over Shane's thighs to anchor him in place.

Ilya's breathing was deep and even, a comforting, steady anchor in the dark.

Shane reached over to the nightstand, picking up his phone to set his alarm for morning skate. As the screen lit up, illuminating the dark room in a pale blue flash, his thumb habitually swiped across the notification banner.

A Google Alert for his own name popped up, linking to a massive hockey aggregate forum.

Shane frowned, his thumb tapping the link before he could stop himself. He scrolled past the standard analysis articles, until his eyes caught a newly created thread that had just started gaining rapid, volatile traction in the last hour.

The post was completely anonymous.

USER_9942 [10:12 PM]: Don't let the media fool you about the "supportive locker room" in Minnesota. Hollander looked like garbage the last two games because he's mentally broken. Rozanov's injury is just the start of the collapse. They are turning a historic franchise into a circus. If the league won't handle them, the fans need to show them they aren't welcome in our rinks.

A cold, sudden chill spiked straight down Shane's spine, the phantom weight of the ice settling right back onto his chest.

He stared at the screen, his chest tightening as he read the words over and over. The fast-moving cascade of radicalized, toxic comments below it was already spiraling. Users were already exchanging specific location details, tagging the team's public calendar, and egging each other on to "make a statement" in person.

The intent was heavy, precise, and dangerous.

Shane's heart started to hammer a frantic, panicked rhythm against his ribs. He looked down at Ilya, sleeping peacefully beside him, completely safe in the dark.

His finger hovered over the screen, a desperate urge pulling at him to wake Ilya up, to show him the text, to alert team security right this second. But as his eyes tracked the dark lines of physical exhaustion under Ilya's eyes, he hesitated.

It's just internet vitriol, Shane forced himself to think, swallowing down the bitter taste of panic. It's just angry cowards behind burner accounts. If I wake Ilya now, he'll stay up all night. There's nothing we can do about it tonight.

The guys had just stood up for him in the most devastating, unified way possible, turning the locker room into a sanctuary where Kane couldn't touch him anymore. But this felt different. It was a terrifying reminder that while the room was a safe fortress, there was still a vast, unpredictable ocean of strangers outside those walls who were furious about their existence.

He chose to protect the quiet of their bedroom, deciding he would handle it rationally first thing in the morning. He would flag the thread to team security at the rink without making a scene, just to ensure there was an extra eye on their upcoming public events. 

With a trembling hand, Shane locked the phone and slipped it face-down onto the nightstand. He turned his body until he was pressed tightly against Ilya's side, hiding his face in the warm crook of Ilya's neck. He forced his eyes closed, listening intently to the steady, unbothered rhythm of his fiancé's breathing, trying to let the warmth of their room shield him from the cold, violent undercurrent waiting for them outside.

Chapter 10

The baseline hum of a team charter was usually a comforting sound, but now the cabin felt thick with restless anger.

Shane stared out the oval window into the dark expanse of cloud cover, his phone resting face-down on his tray table. He didn't need to look at it. The thread he had flagged to team security on Thursday morning hadn't died down. It had been scraped by larger, more volatile fringe blogs, creating an online hornet's nest of radicalized rhetoric.

The team was furious. First Kane, now this. The moment security briefed the group, the atmosphere shifted to something tight and fiercely defensive. At the rinks and the team hotels, the official protocols were suffocating. Whenever Shane or Ilya walked through the team lobbies or to the bus after a game, they found themselves in the midst of league-assigned security guards.

On the ice, the response was a uniform, physical statement. Ilya's shoulder had healed remarkably well, and though the medical staff had urged caution, he had flatly refused to sit out. His return to the first line against St. Louis was a masterclass in relentless, aggressive hockey. Together, he and Shane dictated the entire pace of the game, playing with a terrifying, synchronized edge that completely suffocated the St. Louis offense. It was a loud reminder to the entire league that the Nomads' top line was completely untouchable.

The second stop on their trip, Chicago, was a brutal, physical game. With three minutes left in the third and the Nomads holding a fragile 3–2 lead, Chicago pulled their goalie. The final shift was pure chaos. Shane won the draw, but a heavy defenseman pinched down, throwing a late, borderline hit that rattled Shane against the glass. Before the whistle could even blow, Ilya flew into the play, his eyes wild as he dropped his gloves and pinned the defenseman against the boards, taking a roughing minor just to send a message. They killed the penalty, holding on to the win, but the energy in the building remained incredibly nasty.

Walking down the back exit toward the idling team bus after the game, the night air was biting, the path cordoned off by heavy metal barricades and a line of local security guards. Shane was walking half a step behind Ilya, a gym bag slung over his shoulder, when a sudden commotion shattered the hum of the bus engine.

A figure lunged over the barricade to their left, slipping past a distracted arena guard and sprinting directly into the illuminated lane toward them.

"Hey! Shane!"

Before Shane's brain could even process the movement, the guys reacted out of pure, protective panic.

"Watch out!" Kowalski yelled, his voice echoing loudly off the concrete. He threw his massive frame sideways, putting himself between the runner and Shane, his arms up to form a human wall. Simultaneously, Butch grabbed the sleeve of Ilya's jacket, physically hauling him back as Torrey shoved his hand against the small of Shane's back, urgently driving both of them up the steps of the bus.

"Get on the bus," Torrey muttered, his voice tight and breathless as he pushed them into the aisle.

Inside the bus, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense. Shane stumbled forward, Ilya immediately pivoting to block the aisle, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a terrifying, protective adrenaline as he looked Shane over for injuries.

Outside, through the thick glass of the windshield, the arena security guards had already taken over, easily swarming the intruder and pinning him against the wall. Kowalski stood back, hands on his hips, his posture instantly shifting from aggressive to deeply unsettled as the situation became clear.

Because it wasn't an assassin.

It was a kid. A teenager, maybe sixteen, wearing a faded Minnesota jersey with Hollander stitched across the back. His eyes were wide with terror, tears streaking down his cheeks as the guards gripped his arms. He wasn't carrying a weapon. He was clutching a silver Sharpie and a pristine, folded team calendar.

"Wait," Shane breathed, pushing past Ilya's arm to press his hands against the glass. "Stop. It's just a kid."

The tension in the bus slowly melted into a heavy, nauseating quiet. Outside, the guards began leading the trembling teenager away toward the arena office, and the mistake settled over everyone at once.

Shane sank into the front row of seats, rubbing a hand over his face. His heart was hammering against his ribs. They were all completely on edge from the crushing weight of the environment they were living in.

"We're all jumpy," Ilya muttered, sliding into the seat beside him, his heavy hand coming up to rest on Shane's thigh, his fingers gripping tight. "Everyone is waiting for something to happen."

"It was just a fan," Shane whispered, looking out at the empty alleyway as the bus engine roared to life. He looked down at his lap, a profound wave of guilt washing over him. "He just wanted an autograph. We scared him."

Shane looked up, catching the eye of one of the team's travel coordinators. "Do me a favor?" Shane asked the guy. "Get his information from the arena staff before we clear out. Let's send him a signed jersey. Make sure he knows we're sorry about... all of this."

The staff member nodded grimly, his face pale. "Yeah. I'll handle it, Shane."

By the time they flew back to Minnesota, the road trip felt like a mountain they had barely managed to climb. They had survived the ice, the travel, and the arena security protocols. Coming home felt like crossing a finish line.

Because the threat online had focused on their official team schedule and public arena appearances, returning to Minneapolis felt like stepping inside a fortress. To celebrate making it through the stretch and to finally breathe outside the sterile walls of hotel rooms, the core group organized a quiet team dinner at a private, low-key steakhouse downtown. No press, no public listings, and no team security detail. The dinner was exactly what they needed. For three hours, the ghost of the internet didn't follow them.

"I'm just saying," Butch drawled, leaning back in his chair with a glass of wine, "Kowalski better not be playing bodyguard on the ice at practice tomorrow. Us old-timers need a chance at a forecheck."

"Hey, the kid came out of nowhere!" Kowalski defended himself, pointing his fork at Butch. "I was anticipating a threat. Standard defensive awareness."

"You looked like a giant, panicked teddy bear," Torrey laughed, cutting into his steak. "The poor kid thought he was about to get checked into the press box."

Ilya let out a low rumble of laughter beside Shane, cutting his own prime rib and taking a bite. "It was good positioning, Kowalski. Just wrong target."

Around eleven, the exhaustion of the road finally settled into Shane's bones. The room was loud, Ozzie and Maksym deep into a heated debate about their fantasy football lineups at the other end of the table, but Shane's body was ready to collapse. He caught Ilya's eye, giving a subtle nod toward the door.

"We're going to head out," Ilya announced, pushing his chair back and grabbing his jacket.

Kowalski raised a glass from the head of the table, a fond smile on his face. "Get some rest, boys. See you at the rink."

Shane smiled, waving goodbye as he followed Ilya out the back exit of the restaurant. The evening air was crisp, a welcome relief from the overheated dining room. They walked down the concrete stairs into the dim, subterranean quiet of the restaurant's private parking garage.

The garage was mostly empty, their black SUV parked under a flickering halogen light near the far exit ramp. The echo of their footsteps was the only sound against the concrete.

Shane reached into his pocket for the keys, the cool metal sliding between his fingers. He expected to feel that wave of relief that usually came with being home, but as the heavy steel door clicked shut behind them, cutting off the warm noise of the restaurant, a sudden, cold prickle of unease raised the hairs on his arms. The garage felt too quiet. Too isolated.

"Let's just get home," Shane murmured, quickening his pace as they approached the passenger side.

"Yeah," Ilya said, his voice dropping into that relaxed, private register as he unlocked the doors with a click of the fob. "Tomorrow we have a late practice, we can sleep –"

A sharp, scuffling sound echoed from the dark shadows behind a concrete pillar to their right.

Shane's head snapped up, his instincts instantly screaming at him.

A figure stepped into the flickering light. He was wearing a heavy, dark hoodie pulled low, his face completely obscured, but his posture was erratic. Twitchy, fast, and radiating a chaotic, violent energy.

"Hey! Circus boys!" the man shouted, his voice echoing loudly against the low ceiling.

Shane's stomach dropped into a bottomless, freezing void. It was the same terminology from the forum thread. The dinner hadn't been safe. Someone had leaked exactly where they would be without their security detail.

"Get in the car, Shane," Ilya commanded instantly as he stepped out from behind the driver's side door, putting his body directly between Shane and the stranger.

"You think you can ruin this team?" the man hissed, his hand diving into the front pocket of his hoodie. "You think people want you in our city?"

"Get in the car!" Ilya repeated urgently. He didn't wait for the man to close the distance. Ilya charged forward to neutralize the threat.

The man lunged.

Shane didn't get in the car. He couldn't. His fear for Ilya overrode every ounce of self-preservation he possessed. He sprinted around the hood of the SUV, shouting Ilya's name.

In the dim light, a sudden, wicked flash of silver caught the halogen glow.

A knife.

Ilya threw a heavy right hook, his fist connecting solidly with the man's jaw, but the attacker recovered quickly, wildly slashing the blade in a frantic, panicked arc. He wasn't trying to scare them. He was aiming directly for Ilya's unprotected throat.

As Ilya stepped back from the reach of the blade, he stumbled. The man raised the knife again, taking advantage of Ilya's moment of vulnerability.  Shane didn't think. He threw his own body into the space between them.

He didn't feel the blade go in. Not at first. There was just a sudden, violent jolt against his ribs, a hard, concussive impact that knocked the wind completely out of his lungs.

Then came the fire.

A white-hot, blinding agony exploded across his left side, so intense it turned his vision completely white. His legs gave out, the concrete floor rushing up to meet him with a hard, unforgiving slam.

"Shane!" Ilya's voice was panicked, almost inhuman.

Shane lay on his side, his hands instinctively clutching at his ribs. The fabric of his charcoal sweater was already hot, soaked through with a thick, fast-rushing wetness that spilled over his fingers. He tried to draw a ragged breath, but his lungs refused to cooperate, collapsing inward like a crushed paper bag. Every desperate attempt to inhale met a hard, suffocating wall of pressure inside his chest.

Through the haze of pain, he heard the frantic, brutal sounds of violence. Ilya was fighting their attacker, his fists landing with sickening, heavy thuds, completely blind to his own safety as he tried to dismantle the man with his bare hands.

The heavy steel door of the restaurant exit suddenly banged open, clattering loudly against the concrete wall.

"Hey! What the fuck!" Ozzie's voice echoed through the garage.

"Maks! Help!"

Shane tried to turn his head, his vision blurring as he saw two figures running down the ramp. Maksym and Ozzie had walked out of the restaurant ten minutes after them, completely oblivious, only to stumble straight into a war zone.

"Holy shit! He's got a knife!" Ozzie yelled.

Maks didn't hesitate. He hit the attacker like a freight train, tackling him away from the car and slamming him face-first onto the concrete, pinning his arms behind his back with the brutal, efficient leverage of a pro athlete. Ozzie dove in a second later, kicking the bloody knife far across the garage floor and locking his weight over the man's legs, securing him completely.

"I got him! I got him! Ozzie, call 911!" Maks roared.

The sounds around him felt warped, like he was listening to them from underwater. He heard the scrape of sneakers on concrete, the heavy, gravelly grunt of Maks throwing his weight into holding the guy down.

Then Ozzie's voice cut through the haze, entirely stripped of its usual humor. "My name is Oskar Englund. I'm in the private parking garage outside of The Granite Club. My friend has been stabbed. We need an ambulance right now."

Then, the world narrowed down to nothing but the sound of frantic, uneven breathing. Ilya was on his knees beside him, trembling violently, his face dead-white. His hands came down over Shane's, pressing hard against his bleeding side, trying desperately to stem the blood spilling onto the floor.

"Shane? Shane, look at me. Stay with me, please. Look at my eyes," Ilya begged, his Russian accent thick, his voice cracking with a terrifying, unvarnished panic. "Do not close your eyes. Look at me."

Shane tried to focus on him. He tracked the dark, terrified lines of Ilya's eyes, the tears spilling down his fiancé's cheeks, but the pain was starting to recede, replaced by a heavy, seductive numbness that pulled at the edges of his mind.

"I'm... here," Shane tried to whisper, but the words were cut off by a wet, broken cough. A metallic taste flooded his mouth, and a line of dark, frothy crimson spilled past his lips. Beneath Ilya's frantic palms, a faint whistling sound escaped the wound with every shallow shudder of Shane's chest. The sickening hiss of air bubbling through blood.

"Ozzie! Where is the ambulance?!" Ilya screamed over his shoulder, his hands slipping in the slick heat of the blood as he tried to seal the sound coming from Shane's ribs. "Tell them to hurry! Please! He can't breathe!"

"They're coming, they're blocks away!" Ozzie shouted back. He dropped to his knees on the cold concrete right beside Ilya, tossing the cell to the ground, the tinny voice of the operator still asking questions over the speaker phone. Without a second thought, Ozzie pressed his own hands directly over Ilya's slick, trembling fingers, adding his strength to the pressure on the wound. "Hold on, Shane. Help is coming. Just try to breathe."

Shane reached up with a weak, trembling right hand, his fingers catching weakly on the sleeve of Ilya's shirt. He wanted to tell him it would be okay, but his vision was tunneling, the edges blurring into a dark violet haze. His lips felt numb and cold, stained with the airless blue of a body starved of oxygen.

As the wailing scream of sirens began to echo far down the concrete ramp, the silver moonlight from the stairwell dimmed and then disappeared into a deep, impenetrable dark.

Chapter 11

The transition from dark to light was agonizingly slow. For a long time, Shane was suspended in a terrifying nothingness, his mind playing disjointed loops of the parking garage. The thrum of rapid footsteps, a sudden shadow, the sharp tang of fear.

Then came the physical reality. The first thing he registered wasn't the pain, though that was hovering like a dull, throbbing blade in his side. It was the suffocating weight on his chest. Every tiny pocket of air he managed to pull into his throat felt shallow, restricted by a tight, rigid pressure that wouldn't allow his ribs to expand. A heavy plastic oxygen cannula was tucked into his nose, hissing a steady, cold stream against his dry skin.

But beneath the cold, there was a familiar, grounding warmth wrapped around his fingers.

He blinked against the harsh fluorescent glare of the hospital room, his vision swimming before finally settling on the slumped figure beside his bed. Ilya.

Ilya was asleep, his hair messy, his broad shoulders curved forward in a way that looked incredibly uncomfortable. There were deep, bruised circles under his eyes. But what really caught Shane's focus was Ilya's right hand and forearm. Thick white gauze was wrapped tightly around his knuckles, extending up his wrist, and a second bandage was taped securely over his forearm, stark against his skin. He looked depleted. It sent a sharp pang straight through Shane's chest, an ache completely separate from his physical injuries.

Shane squeezed Ilya's fingers, trying to anchor himself to the solid weight of him.

Ilya jerked awake, his posture snapping rigid. His eyes, wide and wild with a lingering panic, locked onto Shane's. For a fraction of a second, Ilya looked like he was still fighting the attacker in his nightmares. Then, the terror softened into desperate relief.

"Hey," Shane's voice was a rough, dry scratch.

"Shane. Bozhe, Shane." Ilya stood, leaning over the bed, his hands framing Shane's face with a heartbreaking gentleness. "You're okay. Don't be scared, okay? Everything is fine. You are safe. I am right here."

He repeated the words, almost rambling, his voice tight and breathless, and Shane realized with a pang that Ilya was trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to reassure Shane. 

Ilya pressed a fervent, lingering kiss to Shane's knuckles, his lips warm and shaking against the skin. 

Shane's eyes tracking the white linen on Ilya's arm. "Your hand..." he rasped, anxiety spiking through the haze of his medication. "Are you okay?" 

"It’s nothing," Ilya dismissed instantly. "Just scratches. Defensive wounds from after... after you went down. I had to make sure he couldn't hurt you anymore. Do not worry about me, Shane. Please."

But Shane was worrying. Ilya's mouth moved to Shane's hair, breathing him in as if to prove to himself that Shane was actually breathing back. He dropped down to press a soft, desperate kiss to the corner of Shane's mouth, his touch so careful, so intensely focused, that Shane felt tears prick the corners of his eyes.

Shane tried to adjust his position on the bed, wincing as the movement sent a sharp, agonizing pull through his left side. He looked down, noticing a thick, clear chest tube snaking out from beneath his hospital gown, draining into a plastic canister on the floor. "How long was I out?" 

"Fourteen hours," Ilya murmured. He didn't sit back down. He stayed, hovering over Shane, his thumb smoothing over Shane's cheekbone over and over again, as if Shane might vanish if he stopped touching him. "You have been out for fourteen hours. But the doctors... they fixed the internal bleeding. They fixed everything. You are going to be fine."

Shane let his eyes close for a moment, dragging up the fragments of memory. "The restaurant. We were leaving the dinner... walking into the parking garage. Someone... someone rushed at us. I remember a fight." Shane opened his eyes, looking up into the brilliant, shattered blue of Ilya's. "I remember you wrestling with him. I thought he was going to kill you."

Ilya's chest hitched, a broken sound escaping his throat. He closed his eyes tightly, a single tear slipping down his cheek. When he spoke, his voice cracked, losing all its usual steel.

"The knife... it went between your ribs. It punctured your left lung. That is why you couldn't breathe. It collapsed. The doctors had to put a tube in your chest so the lung could expand again." Ilya's hand began to tremble against Shane's cheek, his composure fracturing. "And the doctor... he told me..." Ilya choked on the words, a wild panic flaring in his eyes. "He said two centimeters. Two centimeters higher, and the blade would have put a hole in your heart. You would have bled out on the concrete before the ambulance even left the station." 

"Ilya…"

"No, do not Ilya me." His voice was agonizingly thick as he buried his face in the mattress next to Shane's shoulder, his fingers gripping the hospital sheets until his knuckles turned white. "I almost lost you. Again. You were turning blue, and there was so much blood. You stepped in front of a blade for me! Two centimeters, do you understand? Two centimeters, and I would be planning your funeral right now. Why did you do that, Shane? Why would you do that?" 

"Because it was you," Shane said. It hadn't been a choice. It was simply a fundamental law of his universe. "And I would do it again. If it's between you or me, Ilya, I will always choose to protect you. I love you."

"I love you so much," Ilya choked out, leaning down to press their foreheads together. His breath was unsteady against Shane's skin. "You scared me. Yebat', Shane, you scared me so much."

Shane wrapped his fingers around the back of Ilya's neck. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

They held onto each other in the hushed room, the steady beep of the monitors the only sound breaking the silence, as they let the reality sink in that they had both survived the night. Ilya kept kissing his forehead, his temple, his jaw. Eventually, he drew back, though his hand remained tightly clamped around Shane's. He cleared his throat, trying to blink away the moisture in his eyes and regain a shred of his composure.

"The police came," Ilya muttered, his voice still thick. "I told them what happened in the garage. They caught the bastard. Maks and Ozzie held him down after…  until the police arrived. The detectives said they will need to get an official statement from you later, when the doctors say you are stable enough."

Shane nodded weakly. "And my parents?"

"They are on a plane right now," Ilya said, smoothing a thumb over Shane's wrist. "I called them as soon as we got to the hospital. They will be here by tonight." He paused, looking toward the heavy wooden door. "I... I better tell the guys you are awake. They have been losing their minds in the waiting room since last night. They refuse to leave."

Shane's brow furrowed. "Wait. The whole team is here?"

"Of course they are here, Shane. They are our family."

Ilya stepped to the door and opened it, murmuring something into the hallway. A moment later, the door pushed open wider, and Maks and Ozzie stepped in first.

Ozzie looked visibly shaken. The usual bright, hyperactive energy that defined him was gone. His face was pale, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He stepped up to the right side of the bed, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at the monitors and the chest tube before his eyes finally landed on Shane.

"Damn, Hollander," Ozzie said, his voice stripped of its usual humor, cracking on the syllables. "You really know how to ruin a team dinner."

Shane managed a faint smile. "Sorry about that, Oz."

Ozzie didn't laugh. He reached out, his hand trembling as he pressed it firmly against Shane's shin over the blanket. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Shook his head once, like whatever he'd meant to say had come out wrong before he even tried. "Just don't do it again."

Maks stepped up right beside Ozzie, clapping a heavy hand on Ozzie's shoulder before looking down at Shane with a massive sigh of relief. "Seriously, Hollander, you try to kill us all with stress?" He let out a rough, breathy laugh. "Don't do that to us again. Ilya looked like he was going to murder the entire hospital staff until they let him see you."

"I was very calm," Ilya muttered from the other side of the bed, though his tight grip on Shane's hand completely gave him away. 

Once the ice was broken, the room became a revolving door of quiet reunions. One by one, the guys came in to see for themselves that Shane was okay, needing the visual proof to finally let go of the breath they'd been holding for fourteen hours. Kowalski gripped Shane's shoulder, unable to speak beyond a gruff, choked "Good to have you back, kid," his eyes red-rimmed. Finn offered quiet, steady words that anchored the room. Each visit was brief but heavy with unspoken love and relief. 

By the time the last of the guys stepped back into the hallway to give them space, the heavy pain medication was pulling at Shane again. The relief of seeing his team, of knowing they were surrounded by a wall of protection, allowed the last of his adrenaline to fade. His eyelids felt like lead, and he was blinking slowly, fighting a losing battle against sleep.

Ilya sank back into the chair beside the bed, immediately reclaiming Shane's hand, lacing their fingers together. The exhaustion was finally catching up to him, too. Shane could see it now, the way Ilya's eyes struggled to stay open, the way his shoulders sagged with the crushing weight of relief. He had spent fourteen hours refusing to leave, refusing to believe the worst. 

Ilya used his free hand to gently push a stray lock of hair off Shane's forehead. "Sleep, Shane," he murmured softly, his voice low and soothing. He leaned in, brushing a final, tender kiss against Shane's temple. "Close your eyes. I am right here. I am not going anywhere. You are safe."

Shane looked down at their joined hands, his own pale and hooked to an IV, and Ilya's wrapped in white medical cloth. He hated seeing Ilya hurt. "Promise me you'll let the nurse look at those bandages later," Shane whispered, his voice slurring slightly from the pain medication and exhaustion.

Ilya offered a small, weary smile, his gaze softening. "I promise. If it makes you rest, I will let them do whatever they want."

Shane managed a faint nod, his eyelids growing too heavy to fight. "Don't lie to a guy with a chest tube, Rozanov."

A genuine, exhausted huff of laughter escaped Ilya's throat, his bandaged fingers squeezing Shane's one more time. "I would never."

Chapter 12

Shane's recovery at home was a slow-motion routine of ice packs, sweatpants, and Ilya hovering like an anxious shadow. It had been eight days since the parking garage. Shane's parents had stayed with them for 5 days, helping however they could. It had been good, having them around. The physical pain in Shane's side had dulled from a sharp, breath-catching blade to a heavy, constant ache that twinged violently if he twisted the wrong way.

But while their apartment was a bubble of soft blankets and low lighting, the outside world was burning.

The front page of every sports site, the top of every news broadcast, and every trending topic on social media carried their names. The initial narrative – Minnesota Nomads Star Forward and Captain Finance Attacked – had taken a dark, calculated turn over the last forty-eight hours.

It started with a formal visit from Detective Ramirez and the Nomads' General Manager, who sat in Shane and Ilya's living room looking grim. The guy with the knife – Wade Carlsson, they'd learned was his name – had cracked within hours of his interrogation. Desperate to avoid a maximum attempted murder charge, he'd handed over his phone.

Ramirez slid a manila folder across the coffee table. Inside were printed transcripts of encrypted messages detailing the exact itinerary for the Nomads' post-game dinners.

"We traced the burner account to Logan Kane's personal IP address," Ramirez explained quietly. "But it goes much deeper than just leaking your coordinates. Our digital forensics unit spent the last twenty-four hours tracing the digital breadcrumbs. Kane was the creator of the anonymous forum threads that spent weeks escalating the toxic, homophobic rhetoric, calling for someone to teach you both a lesson. He's also verified as the original source who outed your relationship to the media in the first place."

Shane's breath caught, a cold weight settling in his stomach. Ilya leaned over his shoulder, his entire body going rigid as Ramirez pulled a stapled bunch of sheets from the folder.

"But it's the text exchanges from the night of the attack that solidify the conspiracy charge," Ramirez said. "Take a look at what he told Carlsson when he hesitated."

Shane pulled the pages closer, his eyes scanning the raw text logs from the night everything broke.

Burner Account [10:14 PM]: They just left the restaurant. Hollander is wearing a grey hoodie. Rozanov is with him.

Carlsson [10:15 PM]: Both of them? You said it would just be Hollander. I'm not tangling with Rozanov.

Burner Account [10:17 PM]: Rozanov won't do shit if you're fast. Just take Hollander out of commission. Break his legs, kill him, I don't care. Just get him off the ice.

Carlsson [10:18 PM]: Why do you care so much about this guy?

Burner Account [10:20 PM]: Because he doesn't belong in the league. He's a weak link hiding behind the captain, and management is protecting him. They're ruining the integrity of the game. Get him off the ice permanently so things go back to how they should be.

Shane stared at the page. Logan had masked his digital trail behind the same toxic, homophobic narrative he'd been feeding the internet for months. The phrases "weak link" and "doesn't belong" echoed loudly in his head. It was the same kind of venom Logan had whispered to him in the dark corners of the arena when no one else was listening.

Logan hadn't just been hiding behind a shield of internet hate; he had weaponized it. He had spent months trying to mentally break Shane, trying to create enough public scandal to shatter the team. And when the media circus failed to separate them on the ice, he had resorted to physical violence. But why? What was his end goal? 

"The league moved immediately once we briefed them," the General Manager broke in, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Before we even announced the formal arrest warrants for conspiracy and stalking, the commissioner issued a lifetime ban. Kane is permanently exiled from professional hockey. His contract is terminated, and his name is being scrubbed from league assets."

"We picked him up at his home in St. Paul this morning," Ramirez added. "He didn't even deny the messages. He actually told the arresting officers he was just doing what was necessary for the team." The detective picked up a paper and read from it. "In his confession, he said, and I quote, 'If Shane is gone, the first line would break apart, and the front office would have no choice but to elevate me to the top wing.'"

Shane shook his head, looking at the evidence in front of him. Kane had driven himself entirely insane trying to steal a spotlight he hadn't earned.

By the time the police and the GM finally left, taking the heavy manila folder with them, the silence in the apartment felt altered. Shane sat on the couch, his legs propped up on the coffee table, watching his phone light up like a Christmas tree. The Nomads' team group chat was firing off so fast the screen was a blur of scrolling text.

Maks: Unbelievable. The league just dropped the hammer. Lifetime ban for Kane. Criminal charges filed. 

Ozzie: Good. Let him rot. A literal sociopath. 

Torrey: Disgusting. I can't believe we shared a locker room with him. 

Finn: Glad the league moved fast. He doesn't belong near this sport, let alone this team. 

Kowalski: I'm going to fucking kill him. If the cops don't keep him behind bars, he's dead. 

Ilya: Do not waste your energy on garbage, K. He is finished. He will go to prison. 

As the group chat continued, Ilya took the phone gently out of Shane's hand, locking the screen and setting it on the cushion between them.

"Are you okay?" Ilya murmured, his eyes soft as he leaned over to press a firm kiss to Shane's temple. "He's gone. He is in a cage where he belongs."

"I know," Shane whispered, leaning his head back against Ilya's shoulder, letting his eyes close. "It's just... wild that it's finally over."

An hour later, a sudden, heavy knock at the front door broke the quiet of the apartment.

Ilya frowned, his shoulders immediately squaring into a defensive posture. He didn't like unannounced visitors, not anymore. He stood up, giving Shane a stern, cautionary look that clearly said, "Do not move," and walked to the entryway.

When Ilya opened the door, a solid wall of his teammates filled the entryway. Knox, JJ, Maks, Ozzie, Finn, Kowalski, and Torrey were crowded into the space that suddenly seemed too small for so many large bodies.

"What is this?" Ilya asked, his voice caught between a gruff captain's reprimand and genuine shock.

Torrey stepped forward with a massive paper bag that smelled heavily of local takeout. "Knox said this was a conversation to be had with our brothers in person. So, we're invading."

Knox clapped a hand on Ilya's shoulder, squeezing hard. "Move aside, Rozanov. Let us see our boy."

The house was instantly flooded with noise, life, and the chaotic, familiar energy of a hockey team. They didn't ask permission. They just showed up, bringing the locker room safety net directly to Shane's living room. Within five minutes, JJ had grabbed extra chairs from the dining room, Maks and Ozzie were setting up plates of food on the kitchen island, and Knox had taken a seat on the sectional opposite Shane, evaluating him with an intense, paternal eye.

"You look terrible, Hollander," Knox grunted, though the corners of his eyes crinkled with deep relief.

"Good to see you too, Knox," Shane laughed, some of the lingering tension in his chest easing. 

For the first hour, they talked about Kane. They had to. The anger was collective. A fierce, protective fury that vibrated through every man in the room. Hearing Knox curse Kane's name with the weight of a retired legend gave the situation a sense of finality. JJ talked about how the NHL Players' Association was already discussing restructuring security protocols to ensure nothing like this could ever happen again.

But as the afternoon wore on, the shadow of Logan Kane naturally faded out of the room, replaced by something much stronger.

They talked about the upcoming road trip. Ozzie gave a hilariously exaggerated breakdown of a blown defensive play from the night before, complete with hand gestures that nearly knocked over a glass of water. Kowalski complained about the team plane's catering. Finn sat in the armchair, offering a calm, centering anchor to the room's high energy.

Shane watched them all, an overwhelming wave of emotion washing over him. Looking at Ozzie's animated face, at Maks's easy laugh, at Knox's steady presence, and at Ilya, who was currently leaning against the kitchen counter, looking relaxed for the first time in a week, Shane realized they were completely surrounded by a wall of unconditional loyalty. They were a family, and they had collectively decided that nothing and no one would ever break their circle.

By the time the sun began to set, casting long, amber shadows across the living room, the guys started packing up. They knew Shane's energy was flagging, noticing the way his eyelids were beginning to droop despite his best efforts to stay present.

"We're heading out," Kowalski announced, standing up and pulling Ilya into a brief, heavy embrace by the door. "Keep him locked down, Cap. We've got the ice covered until you're back."

One by one, the guys gave Shane careful, mindful fist bumps or light touches to his shoulder, their voices dropping to quiet, affectionate murmurs before slipping out into the hallway.

When the door finally clicked shut, the house returned to a profound, peaceful quiet. The air still smelled faintly of the food they'd shared, and the lingering warmth of their presence hung thick in the room.

Ilya locked the deadbolt, turning around to look at Shane. He walked over to the couch, sinking down next to Shane and immediately pulling Shane's head down to rest against his chest.

"You're tired," Ilya murmured, his hand winding into Shane's hair, his fingers massaging gently.

"It's a good tired," Shane whispered, his eyes already closed. "I love them. I love this team so much."

"I know," Ilya said softly, his voice thick with a vulnerable tenderness. "They are good men. They love you, too."

Ilya shifted carefully, putting a grounding hand on Shane's uninjured side and offering his arm. "Come. No more couch. Time for bed."

"I can walk," Shane said, though it was more of a promise than a boast. He didn't protest as Ilya took most of his weight, guiding him up from the cushions with slow, deliberate care.

"I know you can," Ilya muttered softly, wrapping a steadying arm around Shane's waist to keep him balanced as they made their way upstairs to the bedroom.

He helped Shane ease onto the mattress, pulling the heavy duvet back as he sat. Ilya stripped out of his jeans and crawled in right beside him, immediately pulling Shane into his arms, back to chest. There was no urgency, no expectation. It was just a desperate, mutual need for nearness. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss to the back of Shane's neck, then another to his shoulder, his lips moving against Shane's skin in a slow, rhythmic lullaby.

"I love you, Shane," Ilya whispered into the dark room, his hand resting flat against Shane's chest, right over the scar and the steady beating of his heart. 

Chapter 13: Epilogue

Chapter Notes

Three months later.

Shane adjusted the collar of his shirt, staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror, though he wasn't really seeing himself. His mind was drifting backward, charting the course of a whirlwind season that had left him exhausted but grateful for the people in his life. 

He and Ilya hadn't played a single game of the final month of the regular season. The team, the league, and their own physical and mental health had dictated the hiatus. It was a necessary step back to breathe, heal, and let the legal dust settle. Despite their absence, the Nomads had rallied, fighting tooth and nail to secure a wildcard playoff spot. They'd been eliminated in the first round, but under the circumstances, just making it there felt like a triumph.

The public reaction, which had started as a chaotic storm, calmed as the weeks bled into months. The hate was still there, lurking in the dark corners of social media, but Shane had finally learned to accept that it would probably always be there. There would always be sad, bigoted people who couldn't handle their reality, but their misery no longer had power over him. It was entirely drowned out by an overwhelming, roaring wave of support. 

But the real turning point, the moment the heavy weights finally dropped from Shane's shoulders, had happened in a stuffy federal courtroom just three weeks ago.

Shane had sat in the front row for the sentencing, his hand locked tightly in Ilya's, watching as the judge handed Logan a definitive five-year sentence in a federal penitentiary for assault, harassment, and extortion, paired with a mandate for intensive psychiatric therapy to address his sociopathic tendencies. When the handcuffs clicked around Logan's wrists, the reality of it finally set in. 

As the bailiffs began to lead him out of the courtroom, Logan snapped. He twisted in his restraints, his face contorting into a bitter, ugly sneer as his eyes locked onto Shane.

"You think you won something?" Logan had snarled, his voice a vicious, desperate hiss that echoed off the wood-paneled walls. "You ruined everything because you couldn't handle the pressure. You're a coward, Shane. You always have been." 

The bailiffs immediately grabbed Logan's arms, ready to yank him through the side door, but Shane stood up.

"Wait," Shane told the guards, his voice ringing out with a calm, steady authority that surprised even himself.

The bailiffs paused, holding a tense, trembling Logan in place. Shane walked right up to the railing and looked directly into the eyes of the man who had tried to ruin his life.

"I'm okay, Logan," Shane said, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. "You didn't break me. I have a team that has my back, and a fiancé who loves me. I won. And the best part? After today, I am never going to think about you again."

For a fraction of a second, the venom vanished from Logan's face. Shane watched it happen in real-time. The sudden, stark flash of fear in Logan's eyes as the truth hit him. The realization that he had completely lost his power. He wasn't a monster in the dark anymore; he was just a ghost fading into irrelevance. He didn't matter.

The guards pulled Logan through the door, the heavy latch clicking shut behind him, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

Blinking against the memory, Shane looked back at his reflection in the glass. A soft knock on the dressing room door pulled him the rest of the way out of the past, snapping him back to the beautiful reality of the present. 

The door clicked open, and Yuna stepped into the room. She looked radiant, her eyes instantly softening the moment she saw him. "Are you ready, sweetheart?"

Shane reached up, adjusting the silk tie at his throat, a small, genuine smile breaking across his face. "Yeah. I'm ready."

He followed his mother out into the quiet hallway. Waiting just outside was his father, his hands smoothing down the front of his suit. Shane's eyes moved past his father, locking onto the figures standing at the far end of the corridor.

Ilya. And Knox beside him.

They walked toward each other, the distance closing until all five of them met in the small, private holding area just behind the heavy double doors that led to the venue.

Shane felt his breath hitch. He couldn't have looked away if he tried. Ilya looked devastatingly handsome, his suit tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders, his hair brushed back. Looking at him, Shane felt a wave of realization wash over him. This is it. In just a few minutes, this man, the one who had held him together when everything was tearing apart, was going to be his husband. In that moment, Shane was so in love that it was hard to breathe.

Yuna stepped forward first, breaking the silence. She wrapped her arms around Shane, then pulled Ilya into the embrace, squeezing them both tight as she wiped away a stray tear. "My boys," she whispered.

David stepped up next. He reached out and shook Ilya's hand, a firm, respectful grip, before pulling him into a brief, heavy-chested hug. 

David's eyes were distinctly wet as he put a hand on Shane's shoulder and looked into his eyes. "I'm so glad you found your way to this day, son," David said, his voice thick with a quiet, grounding warmth. "I'm so proud of the man you are."

Before Shane could even reply, David pulled him into a tight, fierce embrace, holding him close for a long moment. When he finally let go, he gave Shane's shoulder one last firm pat, a steady smile on his face.

With a final, encouraging nod, Yuna and David slipped through the door to walk down the aisle and take their seats at the front of the crowd.

Knox stepped into the space they left behind. He looked at Shane, then at Ilya, with a proud smile on his face. He wrapped his arms around both of them, pulling them into a tight group hug.

"I'm so proud of both of you," Knox said, his voice thick with genuine emotion. "More than I can say. Go get 'em." He gave them one last grin before slipping away, heading down the aisle to join the guests.

Then, there was only the two of them.

The silence between Shane and Ilya stretched, but it wasn't heavy. It was a moment that didn't need words. All the pain of the past year, the media circuses, the courtrooms, the fear – it all just evaporated. Ilya reached out, his warm hand sliding into Shane's, their fingers intertwining with a familiar, perfect symmetry.

Ilya squeezed his hand, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that made Shane's heart hammer. "Ready?" Ilya murmured, a faint, breathless smile touching his lips.

"Always," Shane whispered.

On the other side of the doors, the music shifted, the swelling chords signaling their entrance. The heavy wooden doors swung open. Hand in hand, Shane and Ilya stepped through. 

The venue was breathtaking, bathed in soft light and draped in elegant white flowers that decorated the rows of seats. As they walked down the aisle together, Shane looked to the sides. The Nomads were there, filling the rows, every single one of their teammates grinning from ear to ear. Near the front, Kowalski was unashamedly dabbing at his eyes with a tissue.

They reached the altar, stepping up together, and turned to face one another. Shane looked into Ilya's eyes, their joined hands resting between them, and the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.

An hour later, the formality of the altar had given way to the chaotic, high-energy celebration of the reception hall. The Nomads occupied three massive tables near the front, already rowdy and clinking their glasses. The speeches were exactly what Shane expected. Half brutal locker-room chirps, half fiercely protective sentiment. 

There was Torrey, the right wing on their line, who grinned as he raised his glass." As their linemate, I just want to say that being the permanent third wheel on the top line is exhausting. Do you have any idea what it's like trying to read a play when your center and your left wing are having an entire telepathic conversation with their eyes right next to you? It's a miracle I scored any goals this year." 

There was Knox, their former captain, who had guided them through their chaotic rookie year. His voice cracked slightly as he looked at them and said, "There are a lot of ways to measure a successful season, but looking at the two of you tonight? This is the biggest win this franchise has ever seen." 

And finally, there was Kowalski, who didn't even make it through his first sentence about how much he loved them before he choked up, waved his hand in defeat, and just yelled, "To the husbands!" into the microphone, prompting the entire room to erupt into a roaring, glass-clinking toast.

Eventually, the loud chaos of the reception hall softened, bleeding into the quiet warmth of the late evening. The patio was bathed in the gentle glow of thousands of twinkling fairy lights, woven through the greenery above like a canopy of stars. A slow, quiet melody drifted through the cool night air. Shane and Ilya were out on the floor, paying absolutely no attention to anyone else around them.

Ilya's arm was wrapped securely around Shane's waist, anchoring him close. Shane rested his hands on Ilya's shoulders, his forehead leaning against Ilya's chin as they swayed to the music. Every line of tension that Shane had carried for the last year was entirely gone, melted away by the steady beat of Ilya's heart against his chest.

Ilya shifted, his fingers digging softly into Shane's hip to pull him even closer, until there wasn't a breath of space left between them. He pressed his lips to the side of Shane's head, his breath hitching in a way that told Shane exactly how overwhelmed with happiness he was.

Shane turned his head, looking into the eyes of the man who would do anything to keep him safe. The man who he belonged to, completely.

"I love you," Shane whispered.

Ilya's eyes softened, a breathtaking smile brushing his lips. "Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Shane leaned forward, closing the small distance to kiss his husband's lips. The rest of the world dissolved into the background, leaving nothing but the steady circle of Ilya's arms.

There was nowhere else in the world he was supposed to be.

Chapter End Notes

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