Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Coming Out, Social Media, Established Relationship, Relationship Reveal, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Fluff and Humor, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Pre-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Timeline What Timeline, Ilya Rozanov is a Little Shit, Autistic Shane Hollander, References to Depression, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Crack Treated Seriously, Humor, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-28 Completed: 2026-06-13 Words: 75,201 Chapters: 8/8

The Chaos Theorem (or: Shane Hollander needs a nap and a therapist. He got Ilya instead)

Summary

Welcome to the Ultimate Game.

If you’re looking for a chronicle of redemption or, worse yet, a fairy tale ending with a kiss under the snow, you’ve walked into the wrong locker room. This is the story of a sabotage.

For ten years, the hockey world has feasted on the rivalry between two captains with the same hunger one brings to a public execution. And us? We served them the blood on a silver platter, while in the shadows of hotel rooms in Montreal or Boston, we exchanged fluids and secrets with the precision of two spies in enemy territory.

They believe the ice is a sanctuary of heterosexual secrets. They don’t realize that while they were betting on our next elbow to the face, they were witnessing a long, violent decade of foreplay.

Now, it’s time for El Plan.

Shane is the butterfly flapping its wings on an underwear billboard. I am the tornado about to level the entire NHL.

Grab your popcorn. It’s going to be a beautiful massacre.

My name is Ilya Rozanov, and you can thank me later.

Or: how Shane and Ilya gaslit the entire world by officially "starting to date" in 2020.

Notes

I'm honestly hoping that by writing this, I can purge Heated Rivalry from my system. I need to be free. (English is not my native tongue, so I apologize for any mistakes)

Chapter 1: El Plan

Montreal. March, 2020.

Shane’s Montreal apartment smelled of what Ilya called "sterile success": sandalwood candles, filtered air conditioning, and the heavy silence of a man who had spent too many years weighing every single word before letting it slip.

Ilya tossed his wet gear bag onto a leather chair that cost as much as a compact car and planted himself in the center of the living room. He was a man on a mission. 

They had played against each other that night. A dirty battle, the kind that leaves the taste of blood. Ilya was satisfied. Since joining the Centaurs two years prior and taking the captaincy, the team was finally learning how to snarl. They weren't yet at the level of the war machine he’d led in Boston. Those infinite winning streaks were a fading memory.

They were doing well, or at least that’s what he tried to tell himself so he wouldn't headbutt the boards every night. The reality was they weren't even remotely close to the Playoffs this year. Nor would they be next year, or perhaps the year after. Ilya chewed on the bitter taste of mediocrity disguised as a "long-term project," trying to convince himself that building from the rubble had its own perverse charm.

He could work with it, he told himself with a note of irritation, ignoring the small voice reminding him how frustrating it was to waste his talent in a swamp while the rest of the league raced toward glory.

However, Ilya already had his personal victory.

He liked the sound of the puck kissing the net; he liked the silence that fell over opposing arenas when he decided to close the game. But nothing compared to Shane Hollander whispering obscenities in his ear in the middle of the night, his voice cracked with exhaustion and need.

Shane was his peace offering, the only human being to whom Ilya had ever granted the power to dismantle his arrogance with a simple movement of his lips.

Said boyfriend was watching him now, trying to decipher that military-parade solemnity Ilya wore like a scent that was too strong. He still carried the livid shadow of a hit on his cheekbone, a remnant of the game that clashed with the composure of his pulled-back hair and the rigor of his glasses. It was that contrast that fucked Ilya every single time: the fiercely protected vulnerability of a man you wanted to shake until he screamed or smother under a kiss, with no acceptable middle ground. And with those glasses... it was an analytical temptation that made Ilya’s teeth throb with the urge to bite him.

Ilya took a theatrical pause, spreading his arms as if welcoming a standing ovation from an invisible arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the curtain falls on boredom," he proclaimed, his voice thick with a vibrant emphasis that filled every corner of the sterile kitchen. "It is time."

"For what?"

"For Phase Two, Hollander. The one where we stop being a hypothesis and start being arson."

Shane stiffened, his breath hitching into short, irregular gasps. "Oh," he murmured. "Isn't it early?" he asked, hesitant.

In any other circumstance, Ilya would have tasted the metallic tang of Shane’s anxiety and stopped to smother it under a kiss or a whispered promise. Hell, his own insides were a tangle of frayed nerves, an electric hum that refused to dim. But a predator's adrenaline had temporarily choked out the partner's instinct; Ilya was a bullet already chambered, aimed straight at the heart of the hypocrisy that was suffocating him. He had a target to pulverize and, though he saw Shane cracking under the weight of unsustainable pressure, mercy was a luxury he couldn't afford tonight.

The Plan demanded cold blood, and he was ready to spill it.

That goddamn framework had been dragged, piece by piece, from the depths of sleepless nights, the result of months of grueling negotiations that felt like labor disputes between nations with nuclear weapons pointed at one another. They had survived furious arguments that left the air heavy with static. Ilya had navigated the anxiety attacks that turned Montreal's captain into a man paralyzed by the fear of judgment, with Shane staring at media flowcharts as if they were the only thing standing between him and exile.

It had been a painful birth, an architecture of lies necessary to protect the only truth that actually mattered. Ilya had been the privileged spectator (and often the catalyst) of Shane’s nervous breakdown as they tried to map out their future.

They both wanted to stop breathing recycled air and step into the light. On their own terms, certainly, but with the final goal of spending their damn lives together without having to book separate hotel rooms.

Spending entire games in that suffocating limbo, faking a sporting brotherhood that smelled of formaldehyde, made Ilya feel like he was trying to hold his breath underwater while the rest of the world cheered for his lung capacity.

They had to measure every gesture: be friends, but not too much; respectful, but with enough venom to avoid suspicion from the stat-heads. They avoided catching each other’s eyes during warm-ups, fearing a reflection too bright in their pupils or an involuntary twitch of the neck might betray years of stolen kisses and promises made in the dark.

He wanted to rip his own skin off every time he was forced to treat the love of his life like a variable to be neutralized on the ice.

And the public? The public was hooked on their alleged enmity. They lived to see them beat each other, to analyze every elbow as if it were a personal insult instead of a distorted caress. It didn't matter that they had officially announced they were friends, or that they had shown almost nauseating maturity by co-founding a charity in his mother’s name. It meant nothing that they spent their summers teaching hockey to kids at their camps, smiling side-by-side for photographers' flashes. The world had decided they were the Alpha and the Omega, good and evil, two rival captains bound by an ancestral hatred dating back to when they were eighteen. Any other definition, any nuance of tenderness or banal daily life, would be unacceptable to the collective narrative.

They were prisoners of a myth that facts couldn't scratch: people didn't want the truth, they wanted the clash, and if reality contradicted popular belief, then reality was the thing that needed correcting.

If it had been up to Ilya, he would have kissed him at center ice during the national anthem; But Shane wanted to be cautious, a conditioned reflex Ilya found as irritating as it was necessary. Which was fine, as long as they were moving toward the exit, but they both knew they could never officially debut as the couple they actually were, the one that had lasted ten years. It would be a media massacre, an autopsy performed on a living body.

The hockey world didn't possess the mental category to process two rival captains who loved each other without suspecting foul play. The witch hunt would start immediately: every lost puck, every missed penalty, every time Ilya didn't shatter Shane's jaw against the boards would be re-read as evidence of collusion. The League wouldn't see a clandestine love; they’d see a massive, illegal conflict of interest on ice skates.

People who live on stats and betting cannot conceive that you can want to competitively annihilate the only person you would die for outside the arena. Admitting the past meant admitting that their entire rivalry, the NHL’s most profitable product, had been stained by sex. It would be a federal investigation hell, not a love story.

The world would demand to vivisect a past that belonged to no one but the two of them; they would look for clues in every glance from 2011, dig through old box scores to find the exact moment competition turned into obsession. They wanted blood and scandal, not the mundanity of a love that had survived everything.

So the first step had been the individual outing, a diversionary tactic to habituate the system to controlled doses of reality. But Shane was still there, teetering between the desire for freedom and the visceral terror of total exposure, worn down by an anxiety Ilya read in his darting eyes and the way his feet moved nervously, almost seeking an escape route through the floor tiles. Shane was still too terrified that the world would stop looking at him as the prototype of the upright champion and start dissecting him as a failed social experiment or, worse, a living sporting fraud. Monuments don't change positions, Ilya knew that well: they either stay still or they crumble, and Shane wasn't ready to become rubble.

For Ilya, the time for half-truths was over; the taste of the lie had become too bitter to be swallowed another day. He was ready, Shane wasn't, and since Ilya had never been a man capable of waiting for the ice to melt on its own, he had decided to use dynamite to speed up the process. He didn't ask permission, he didn't send warnings: he simply acted on pure predatory instinct, seizing the moment like when he sees a gap in the opponent's defense and decides to shoot, aware that the noise of the explosion would finally break that silence that was becoming a sentence.

Ilya's coming out had been an act of pure media terrorism. It happened after a crushing victory, with the adrenaline still in circulation and his typical Russian arrogance shining under the floodlights. The journalist, a guy with a tie too tight and the air of someone looking for a pink scoop, had asked him with a smirking smile: "Great game, Ilya. Are you going to celebrate with someone special tonight? Maybe a beautiful girl?"

Ilya had looked straight into the lens, knowing perfectly well that Shane was watching him from some locker room or a hotel bed a thousand kilometers away, probably with white knuckles and an onset of tachycardia. He could have said no. He could have made up a name. Instead, he had shrugged his shoulders.

"Maybe a girl, maybe a boy. It depends on how the evening goes," he replied, with the same tone as someone choosing between sparkling or still water, before winking so blatantly that it should have been considered a crime in at least thirty states. It was a gesture directed at everyone and no one, but Ilya knew there was only one person at that moment who was having a neuro-vegetative collapse in front of the screen.

Chaos ensued. A nuclear fire that burned Twitter's servers even before Ilya could finish unlacing his skates. The world of hockey, usually as slow as a glacier and with the mental flexibility of a bollard, had gone into a total short-circuit. The phones at NHL headquarters had exploded while poor Harris tried to figure out whether they should publish an official rectification or whether it was better to call an exorcist directly. Sports blogs had stopped analyzing his steps to vivisect his every single male interaction of the last ten years.

Hunter had been blatant, heroic, almost biblical in his announcement, as if he were leading the people through the Red Sea of prejudice. But Ilya was younger, faster, and definitely a bigger asshole. He wanted his exit to seem like an insignificant detail because he knew that indifference would piss off the purists more than any moving speech. If Hunter was the pioneer, Ilya was the settler who burned the maps for the sake of seeing people get lost.

Suck it, everyone.

The fans' response had been a tide of disarming positivity, a chorus of support that had left the League's dinosaurs hanging with their jaws hanging. Shane, however, had not been as enthusiastic. When they video-called, he had shouted at him for two hours straight, a flood that had shaken the walls of the hotel room. Ilya had expressed himself there, taking the blows with the seraphic calm of someone who knows he has just set the most beautiful fire of his life, until Shane's terror had consumed itself, turning into a hysterical, almost liberating laugh. Shane had collapsed on the bed, laughing like a madman, while Ilya looked at him feeling for the first time the air going down into his lungs without meeting obstacles.

Ilya had spent the rest of the week in a sort of ecstatic trance. For the first time, oxygen no longer seemed like a rationed good. The weight on his shoulders was still there, but it was no longer a boulder; it had become armor. He was free, or at least he was in that strange and partial way that truth grants you when you decide to throw it in the world's face without apologizing.

“It’s like learning to skate again,” he had told Shane one night as he held him tight in the dark. “It’s scary, your legs shake and you’re sure you’ll fall and break your face in front of everyone. But fuck, Shane... can you feel that speed? It’s beautiful as hell, liubímiy moy.”

Shane had watched Ilya survive the media hurricane with a mixture of relief and almost poisonous envy. He expected the world to burn, and instead, he had discovered that the scandal had a ridiculous expiration date. The clamor had evaporated in a few weeks, leaving Shane with the realization that his prison had become optional. So, a little over a year later, the Golden Boy had finally decided to stop playing his part in that theater of the absurd.

His coming out had been an act of plastic surgery: a dry statement that had removed the last mask without too many frills.

It was no longer an isolated event.

Ilya's gesture, and that of "Saint" Scott Hunter before him, had opened a crack that no commissioner could have sealed with the usual denials. The dams had given way: a defender in Philadelphia, a veteran in Los Angeles, even the young AHL recruits were stopping hiding in the League's basements.

Marcus Crowell had watched his empire of prehistoric masculinity crumble under the blows of tweets and sincere interviews. A procession of truths that made his codes of honor as old and dusty as an unrolled roll.

The Commissioner's poor heart simply hadn't held up to the idea that ice was no longer a sanctuary of heterosexual secrets. Officially, Crowell had retired for "health reasons", a diagnosis that Ilya had promptly translated as a fulminant attack of toxic homophobia. A tragic, terminal pathology; his body had simply imploded when he realized he no longer had the authority to fine anyone for their existence.

Homophobia in the NHL hadn't vanished with Crowell’s retirement; it had simply shifted from corporate policy to a sort of white noise, a nagging hum that everyone heard but no one knew how to turn off. It was in the dull jokes in the locker rooms, in the broadcasters' overly long silences when "private life" was mentioned, and in the League's desperate need to sell hockey as the last bastion of prehistoric masculinity.

To him, the hockey world was like an old computer trying to run a modern game: too many glitches, too much memory occupied by bullshit, and an irritating tendency to crash at the slightest complexity.

Ilya had even suggested to Hunter and Shane that they cut to the chase and start a completely queer new league, so the purists could stop crying and they could stop pretending. Neither of them found it funny. Shane had looked at him with horror and Hunter with that Christian disappointment that Ilya found irresistibly irritating. They didn't have the sense of humor necessary to survive reality, let alone the chaos he dreamed of staging.

But Ilya understood them, deep down. It had to be exhausting orbiting a man like him. Too much power, too much greatness crammed into a single body; a density of charisma that risked sucking in anyone who didn't have the balls to withstand the impact of his presence. Sometimes it was honestly exhausting even for him to be Ilya Rozanov, carrying all that overflowing genius, but someone had to do the dirty work of being perfect.

Thus, the Plan. Or rather, El Plan. Ilya had decided that Spanish possessed that international conspiracy gravitas that English, a language evidently born to sell insurance and order unbuttered toast, could never match. El Plan tasted of revolutions, of smoke, and of decisions made on a razor's edge; English only tasted of apologies and mediocrity. And if there was one thing Ilya Rozanov did not tolerate, besides unreturned elbows, it was a mediocre vocabulary. Whispering it to himself, with that high-end soap opera aftertaste, made him feel less like an exceptional hockey player on a shit team and more like the evil genius he knew he was.

Phase One, the cleaning out of their respective closets, had been filed away with the precision of a well-executed power play. They were both out. Two queer atoms finally occupied the same space without asking permission, but they remained isolated in two adjacent cells.

Phase Two demanded a much dirtier maneuver: The Transition.

Ilya, with his usual and misplaced arrogance, had harbored a bizarre confidence for years in the public’s ability to play along, convinced that once the clues were sown, the world would have the sharpness to connect them.

Placing his hope in the public’s acumen was his only true tactical failure; it’s like staging Shakespeare in a zoo, hoping the baboons catch the tragic irony of the third act. You expect them to grasp the subtle play of mirrors, the choreography of secrets you wave in their faces with the theatricality of a martyr, and instead, they’re too busy picking lice to realize you’re handing them the keys to the kingdom. It’s not just disappointment; it’s the personal offense felt by an artist before an audience that applauds at the wrong time.

The world knew they were gay, but the world was too lazy to imagine they were gay together.

Shane had been convinced that, once he declared his orientation, every single interaction with Ilya would be dissected. He expected headlines like "Hollander is Gay: Was That Look at the Face-off Circle Love or Just Astigmatism?" He had spent sleepless nights monitoring fan forums, convinced someone would finally connect the dots between their synchronized disappearances and the fact that they used the same expensive lip balm.

But no. To the public, they were like two parallel lines destined to clash infinitely without ever merging. They could walk out of the same hotel five minutes apart, but as long as they weren't holding hands, singing ABBA songs on the ice, the narrative of the "Rivalry of the Century" remained intact.

Fans saw Ilya crushing Shane against the boards and thought, "What intensity! Rozanov really hates Montreal!" They didn't see that Ilya’s hand lingered a second too long on Shane’s hip, or that Shane’s breath hitched not from the impact, but because Ilya was whispering how exciting it was to see him so frustrated.

"They're stupid, Shane. It's their only true defense," Ilya would say, watching his boyfriend who had sifted through the internet with the precision of a CIA analyst hunting for a national security breach.

The discussion had taken place in Ottawa during the summer break, on one of those sweltering nights where the humidity sticks to you like a sin. It hadn't been long since Shane’s outing, and the air between them was saturated with a freedom they still didn't know how to wear.

Ilya truly thought they were dealing with idiots.

If they were dealing with Swifties, they would have been burned at the stake of public opinion years ago. Those girls pinpoint an album release date by analyzing the tilt of their queen’s left eyebrow in a grainy drone photo; it would have taken them about twelve seconds to link their appearances in the same hotels and the bite marks Shane tried to hide with concealer. If hockey had a shred of their obsessive paranoia, they would have realized that Mastermind wasn't just a pop hit but Ilya’s entire operating manual for catching Hollander in his net without the world noticing.

But no, they were in the NHL.

It was almost impressive how no one realized they were witnessing the ultimate act of sporting incest, right there in plain sight.

Ilya could have licked Shane’s neck in the mixed zone, and it would have been described as a "new method of Russian psychological intimidation."

It was depressing how easy it was to deceive troglodytes.

"I thought coming out would trigger every damn emergency protocol in the League. I’m out, you’re out," Shane murmured, gesturing with an agitation he couldn't translate into words. He moved across the floor with that nervous coordination of an elite athlete who has lost his rhythm, like a kitten that just discovered the walls of its box are made of glass: vulnerable, stubborn, and terribly confused.

Ilya found it extremely adorable.

Ilya hummed as he scrolled through his phone. "On Reddit, they're debating if I'm too 'masculine' to be with a man and that you’re only attracted to Swedish tennis players with porcelain skin. And the League is just trying to figure out how to monetize your face. Your jersey sales are up thirty percent. Even the old ladies say you’re a 'brave young man,' like you came back unscathed from trench warfare."

It was true. The public response had been, to Ilya's great disappointment, cloyingly positive. A wave of acceptance so warm it would give a diabetic sugar shock. Shane had become the ambassador of progress who could speak about inclusivity without messing up a single brown hair. Ilya, for his part, after the initial weeks of scandalism, had gone from being a threat to Western civilization to being an "interesting bad boy."

He had become the hockey equivalent of an indie film that no one really understands, but everyone pretends to love to seem sophisticated at gala dinners. Hollander got to take home the trophy for sainthood, too, along with the Lady Byng and half the underwear in Montreal.

If the plebeians' reaction was so sickeningly positive, it meant the ground was fertile for the coup d’état. It would all be much simpler if they weren't all so absurdly, deliciously stupid. But then again, a shepherd can’t expect his dullest sheep, or the entire lobotomized flock, to find the way to the fold without a well-placed kick in the ass. This was why Phase Two was necessary: it was the only way to give those beasts the story they wanted, preventing them from catching the scent of the one they were actually living with.

Simple. Clean. Practically an act of intellectual charity.

The hockey world was a rudimentary ecosystem, fueled by ancient stereotypes and enough testosterone to grow chest hair on a mannequin. Throwing ten years of clandestine life to the wolves without the right protection would be aesthetic suicide, even before professional suicide. Truth, without proper editing, is not a narrative; it’s a police report, a dry list of dates and hotel rooms that people would dissect with the same curiosity they bring to a highway accident. Ilya couldn't allow their past to be downgraded to documentary evidence, sold off as a B-list secret just because the public couldn't handle complexity.

But if they started dating now? If they staged a lightning-fast falling-in-love, a sort of erotic epiphany born from the ashes of that hatred the world worshipped as sacred? That, the public would devour with the voracity of a shipwrecked man at a buffet. It was the ultimate cliché, the "enemies-to-lovers" trope that makes girls go wild and melts even the most cynical reporters. It would be the perfect narrative: the two gladiators laying down their sticks because passion had become an uncontrollable force of nature. A lie fresh off the press, crisp and reassuring, to cover a truth that was old, layered, and decidedly too complex for their single-cell minds.

It was a plan of celestial cynicism, the definitive love story born on the ice between two captains who, officially, didn't even know the other might be interested in men.

Oh, the clamor!

Ilya, if his anatomy permitted it, would have given himself a passionate kiss in the mirror to reward such genius. He had turned their lives into an episode of a low-budget TV series, knowing it was the only way to protect the only high-level thing he had left.

Ilya could have waited a bit longer. He could have granted Shane another year of that "anomalous normalcy" they moved in. Shane had been out for less than eight months; his public skin was still thin, his image still in the settling phase between upright captain and symbol of progress. Logic, that part of Ilya’s mind that allowed him to read passing lanes before they were even drawn, suggested not forcing the hand.

But logic was dead the moment Ilya saw the first giant billboards of Shane’s new underwear campaign scattered across Montreal. Seeing his boyfriend's body offered on a silver platter to millions of strangers had sent him over the edge. It was the comments that finished him. That mass of idiots convinced that, because Shane was "out" and technically single, they all had a chance. They had all suddenly become experts in Canadian anatomy, speculating on what Hollander did in his spare time and with whom.

He would deny it until death, even to Shane, that those comments had influenced his haste. He would say it was a matter of strategic timing.

But Ilya was a liar.

The truth was, he couldn't stand another second passing with the world convinced they had a shot with Shane Hollander. He wanted to mark his territory with the same violence with which he ripped the puck from opposing sticks. If the world wanted his boy, they would have to reckon with the fact that Ilya Rozanov had never been a fan of "sentimental socialism": what was his, stayed his.

Seeing him on display like a luxury ham made him feel like someone had tried to steal his puck during an empty-net breakaway. But beneath that possessive fury, buried under layers of Russian arrogance and granite certainty, pulsed a vein of insecurity Ilya loathed to admit.

A nagging little voice, an acidic hum he couldn't turn off, insisted on whispering to him that maybe the world was right. That voice haunted him with the image of a Shane finally free from the weight of the lie, surrounded by millions of adoring gazes, capable of suddenly realizing how the destructive hurricane of Ilya Rozanov was too heavy a load to handle.

Ilya did not doubt the nature of Shane’s feelings; he knew his love was never in question, a fact as immutable as the score at the end of a third period, but that bastard hum gave him no peace. It whispered that love isn't always an eternal anesthetic against wear and tear.

It told him that a man used to the light, once he stops squinting in the darkness of the lie, inevitably ends up finding the smell of blood and burnt rubber unbearable. He feared that Shane, the holy martyr of hockey, would eventually look at the rubble Ilya insisted on calling "life" and choose the sterile cleanliness of his solitary pedestal, tired of the dote of demons Ilya had carried since he was twelve.

So he had decided to implement Phase Two immediately. Out of the pure, desperate, and irrational need to chain reality before reality realized it could do without him.

That was why he now stood in the middle of the living room, wearing his cardboard bravado like it was Kevlar armor. "Phase Two," he repeated, trying to inject a conviction into his voice that would distract even himself from the acidic hum in his head.

Shane exhaled a breath that tasted of final surrender. He abandoned the iPad on the couch as if it were a relic of a previous geological era and spread his hands, a gesture that was half offering, half capitulation. "Are you sure?" he asked, and Ilya saw his fingers vibrate imperceptibly, an earthquake starting at the heart and dying on the skin.

Ilya snapped forward, closing the distance with the hurry of someone who must close a gap before the opponent sees it. He grabbed his hands, squeezing until he felt the heat of the bone beneath the fingertips, kneeling on the sofa to loom over him with his urgency. "I've never been more sure in my life," he replied, his voice scraping the air. "If you're ready, I'm ready."

"Are you?" Shane asked, his voice barely a breath.

"The world can implode for all I care, as long as the debris that hits me smells like you."

Shane raised a hand, his fingers hesitating a millimeter from Ilya’s skin before deciding that contact was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth; he stroked his cheek with a slowness that felt like a goodbye to his old life and a welcome to the fire. His lower lip trembled for an instant.

Ilya felt that touch burn his skin and, for an infinite second, the acidic hum in his head went silent. In that sudden stillness, there was no more room for Phase Two, for the NHL, or for the rest of the idiot world. He could only think of how fucking much he loved this man, a feeling so violent and absolute it stole his breath, a weight that threatened to crush his ribs more than any collision on the boards.

Shane exhaled, a trembling sound that seemed to empty him of any residual caution. 

"I'm scared to death," Shane whispered. His eyes shone with a light Ilya had never seen before, something that looked dangerously like freedom. "But I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And I can't breathe through a plastic filter anymore."

Ilya cupped his face in his hands, thumbs pressing against his cheekbones with an intensity that admitted no argument. He kissed him with a hunger that tasted of smoke and truth, a contact that had nothing of sweetness and everything of necessity. "I’m scared, too. Even on a roller coaster you feel nauseous and your heart is in your throat, but it's the only moment you feel truly alive, ponimayesh... no doubts, just the vertigo of knowing I'm in it with you."

Shane let out a laugh that was pure molasses, a sound that died against Ilya’s shoulder. "God, I love you so much," he murmured.

Ilya buried his face in the crook of his neck, inhaling that scent of neutral soap and home that was his only true religion. "Ya lyublyu tebya bol'she."

"It's not a competition," Shane muttered against his shoulder.

"If it were, I'd win."

Shane's laughter vibrated against his ribs. Feeling him melt like that, in his arms, gave him a sense of omnipotence sweeter than any trophy.

"So, Phase Two officially begins."

Shane pulled back just enough to catch his eye, his lips parting into that exasperated, tender smile he reserved only for Ilya's madness. He gave him a light tap on the cheek, a gesture so domestic and absurd it made the NHL feel like a faded memory.

"Fucking right it does."

Chapter 2: The Like

Chapter Notes

Thank you to everyone who has read this far! English isn't my first language, so if you spot any mistakes, please let me know!

The air in the room was stagnant, heavy with the scent of sex and that lucid exhaustion that forces you to see things exactly as they are. The only fracture in the dark was the cold reflection of the device in Ilya’s hand. They lay there, discarded across the mattress, lungs still fighting to find their rhythm after an hour spent demolishing each other, seeking a truce that never came.

Ilya felt Shane’s heat against his side, a solid weight anchoring him, preventing him from drifting away. The Metros' captain stared at the ceiling as if waiting for the closing credits of his life to scroll across the plaster, biting his lip with self-destructive fervor.

“Are you sure?” Shane whispered. His voice was a cracked thread, ready to snap at the first wrong breath.

Ilya looked at the screen, then at him. Two men forged from muscle and scars, seasoned by blood and ice, yet they were trembling before a glowing reflection.

“Let’s do it,” Ilya said.

“Jesus,” Shane muttered.

Ilya moved his thumb. Everything froze as his fingertip applied a fraction of pressure against the glass. Beneath Shane’s photo, the small grey heart suddenly bled red.

Like.

The ensuing silence was so dense Ilya feared he might hear the walls tremble. Then, out of nowhere, the tension snapped. Ilya burst out laughing. It wasn’t a soft sound; it was a roar of liberation and adrenaline, the laugh of someone who pulls the handbrake at ninety miles per hour just to see if the car is capable of flipping. Shane followed a second later, a raw, husky laugh that shook his shoulders against the rumpled sheets.

Ilya rolled onto his side, propping an elbow on the pillow to look down at Shane. His mind was already dissecting the remains of his public image with the precision of a surgeon performing an autopsy on a warm corpse.

The plan required him to play the defeated predator. The man exposing himself to enemy fire for the first time for a whim of the flesh. He wanted the world to witness his performative capitulation, to think: There it is. That’s where the bastard finally folded.

A 'like' is a calculated ambiguity, a binary signal that, for the masses, would remain background noise, a trivial nod of respect between colleagues.

But Ilya was aiming for the connoisseurs of morbidity, those select few with minds sharp enough to weigh the leaden gravity of a silence or the ferocity of the obvious. He knew there were architects of obsession out there who would see that red heart as the Big Bang of a new religion.

Let them lose sleep wondering if it was a photogenic cheekbone or a moment of weakness. Let them try to reconstruct their love story using the map of a playground to navigate the Kremlin.

He felt almost tender toward them all.

The timing was perfectly, maliciously calibrated.

Had both their teams been in the running for the Stanley Cup, they would have had to wait until one or the other was eliminated before daring to be seen together. But his Centaurs were miserably mired at the bottom of the standings, a failed experiment in real-time, a swamp of losses and "rebuilding" phases that, for once, served a purpose.

They were good people, fair athletes, decent hockey players. (Except for Dillion, who was trash). They just didn’t click, and it annoyed Ilya to no end. And yet, he liked them. Far more than his former teammates in Boston.

They found a way to stand tall even when the arena was half-empty and the silence in the stands became an indictment.

None of them had ever spat bile over his contract, over that mountain of zeros that outweighed their combined salaries. They looked at him with a blind loyalty that made Ilya feel almost sick because of how authentic it was. They followed him into the locker room, waiting for a signal, while he felt like a fraud, a captain using their collective shipwreck to build himself a private raft.

While they would be cleaning out their lockers ahead of schedule, Ilya would be a free man.

A king without a crown who could finally afford the luxury of being a man before an athlete.

Shane, however, was of a different breed. He was going to the playoffs, and in all likelihood, Montreal would hoist the Cup for the third time. Ilya was proud of him; he felt that warmth in his chest that only Hollander’s success could ignite. But there was a bitter aftertaste, a hunger he couldn't extinguish. He wanted to win again. He wanted to feel the ice-cold weight of the Cup over his head once more. And he wanted to do it while holding Shane’s hand.

He tried to push back the thoughts of his team, of the dirty ice and the resigned faces in the locker room. He didn’t want that sense of betrayal to enter their bed.

For now, he would settle for having Hollander without hiding. But one day, perhaps, he would try to take it all back.

“I have to go back to Ottawa tomorrow,” Ilya murmured, tracing a finger along Shane’s tense jawline. “Home game against Toronto. I have to go out there and pretend I give a damn about those two points, while the whole world tries to figure out why I put a heart on your abdomen.”

Ilya recognized that shadow of guilt Shane sipped on every time he thought about the trade-off. He saw his boyfriend stiffen whenever a savage headline flashed across the screen: What happened to Ilya Rozanov? It was there in black and white, in the stats that no longer dazzled as they had in Boston, in the awards gathering dust elsewhere while he ground out miles on the Trans-Canada Highway just to bridge the distance between their beds.

Ilya would never make him pay for it. He would never use his own decline as a weapon. And perhaps it was that silent generosity that made Shane’s guilt even denser. It was a wordless pact: never name the price of this proximity which now, paradoxically, was serving their purposes like the dirtiest of blessings.

Then Shane exhaled, breaking the spell with a request that tasted like a dare. “Win for me?”

Ilya felt the weight of that question crush his ribs more than any hit against the boards. He knew perfectly well that beating Toronto with that squad of lost souls was a prospect bordering on the grotesque. Yet, Shane’s request was a tribute. A way of asking him to be that predator the League feared once more, even for just one night. Even if he had to fake it.

“For you,” Ilya murmured, cupping his cheek, “I might even attempt such a miracle.”

Shane pulled Ilya down for a kiss that had none of the grace of the movies and all the ferocity of a truce signed in blood. Ilya drank in the heat of his lips as if it were his only energy reserve before a famine, feeling Hollander’s tension finally dissolve into resigned devotion.

“Just try not to get yourself killed in Ottawa,” Shane whispered against his shoulder. “I need you in one piece.”

“Don’t worry about me, Hollander,” Ilya replied, gripping the back of his neck with a fervor that felt like both a promise and a threat. “Worry about them. They have no idea what’s coming.”

Not thirty seconds passed before Shane’s phone vibrated on the nightstand. A sharp buzz.

“Someone noticed,” Shane rasped, opening Twitter. The screen’s glow illuminated his sharp features as he read the internet’s first verdict aloud. “It’s someone called Hockeylover99. They’ve blasted a 4K screenshot of the notification, Ilya. Listen to this: ‘Umm, guys? Is it just me or did Ilya Rozanov just like a photo of Shane Hollander in his underwear? No, because if this is real, I have a couple of questions and approximately zero answers. Is it the end of an era or the start of the Apocalypse? Someone check if Rozanov has a gun to his head. #Hollander #Rozanov #NHL #IMedead.’ It’s already got a hundred retweets in under a minute.”

Shane scrolled through the comments, and one in particular caught his eye. A user named PuckDropper had replied: “What are you all expecting? Aren't they friends? It’s just a like between colleagues, everyone calm down.”

Ilya felt a shiver of pure amusement mixed with a sense of personal insult. Friends. That word, applied to the two of them, was the filthiest joke he’d ever heard. A linguistic blasphemy that made his hands itch. If Twitter’s policies included "terminal stupidity" as a reporting option, he would have flagged that guy’s account instantly.

But Ilya wasn’t there to report; he was there to educate. He would do it with the patience of a trainer who knows that too much meat all at once makes the dog sick. One like for the night was more than enough.

Overdose kills interest; scarcity, however, creates myth.

Let them wonder. Let them grope in the dark. It’s from the smallest crumbs that Hansel found his way to Grandma’s house.

Or was it Snow White?

Shane scrolled, shaking his head in disbelief. “All this chaos for one click? It makes no sense, Ilya. It’s just a heart on a screen.”

“It makes no sense because to you, Snapchat and Instagram are the same thing,” Ilya countered, a smirk curling his lips.

“That happened one time!”

Ilya pinned him back against the mattress. “I just passed you a digital note in front of six million people, Hollander. It says: I like you, do you like me? with two boxes to check.”

“It’s still absurd.”

“I’m courting you via satellite, Shane. It’s not absurd. It’s romantic.”

It was only the first step.

The world would see Ilya Rozanov capitulate to Shane Hollander, and they would never suspect that, in reality, he was simply taking aim.

Ottawa, the next day.

The Canadian Tire Centre loomed through the grey suburban haze like a monument to mediocrity. To Ilya, that arena was the hollowed-out husk of his career, a place where the ice lacked luster and the scent of stale popcorn seemed baked into the concrete.

He entered from the underground parking lot with a heavy tread. He’d been in high spirits since Montreal, but that lingering warmth lasted exactly as long as it took to catch the janitor’s eye. Then, the reality of Ottawa slapped him across the face.

There is a specific brand of depression that strikes champions forced into defeat: the pre-game rot. It’s the resignation of a man who knows that no matter what miracle he performs, the system around him is engineered to collapse.

(Or was it just Ilya?) 

To the journalists outside, this subtle disconnection meant nothing. They wanted to know why the team had the worst defense in the league. They wanted to know if he planned to retire. They wanted him to admit that Ottawa had been the suicide of his career.

“Morning, Cap,” Zane Boodram murmured, adjusting his shin guards.

“Morning,” Ilya replied.

Ilya yanked his skate laces until his fingers throbbed. He loved hockey, or at least, he desperately missed the version of himself that was capable of loving it.

It wasn’t that he played poorly, far from it. He was still the best man in that room, the only reason the scoreboard didn’t read zero every night. Nearly every point the team earned belonged to him, but it wasn’t enough. Scoring on a team that doesn’t recognize itself is like screaming in a soundproof room.

Hazzy walked into the locker room with that noisy, rhythmic gait of a goaltender. He stopped in front of Ilya and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Relax, Roz,” Wyatt said, his voice low. “Don’t let your blood boil for those reporters. They count goals because they don’t know what else to do.”

Ilya stared at the tips of his skates; the white laces suddenly felt too complicated to manage. He had treated these men like cogs in a machine he expected to run on momentum, and now that the machine was broken, he realized he didn’t know how to speak to the humans who comprised it.

He realized he knew nothing about Wyatt beyond his save percentages. He didn’t know if Zane Boodram missed home as much as Ilya missed Russia.

If Shane had asked, Ilya would have answered with a sharp, almost offended "no." He would have denied everything: the loneliness, the locker room silence, the creeping loss of control.

He didn’t want Shane to smell the defeat on him when he slipped beneath the covers; he refused to let that sour, cold sweat of a man who’s stopped fighting cling to the sheets, tainting the only place where Ilya Rozanov was still a whole man.

Yet, in the solitude of his house, too large, too quiet, the Canadian snow felt too warm, too soft, lacking that jagged, cruel frost that makes a man feel alive.

He was an exile, and he was one by choice.

Ilya knew what he would face after his very public coming out. He had given up on Russia long before that. Yet, he couldn't deny that a part of him had hoped his talent would be enough for them to look the other way.

He still remembered the phone call in the dead of night, the flat voice of a bureaucrat informing him of his citizenship's revocation as if reading a grocery list.

In that moment, while his world crumbled, his first thought hadn't been about his bank accounts or calling Shane.

It was a suffocating realization: I will never see my mother again. 

He hadn't told his boyfriend until he’d handed his passport over at the embassy. Shane had hovered like a mother bear, but Ilya had already cried every tear he had.

So no, it hadn’t been a great bargain.

(He’s fine, really.)

He stood up and walked toward the press room.

The room was a concrete cube lit by humming neon lights, far too large for the four or five people sitting in the front rows. There was no sign of the swarm of microphones that had greeted him his first year, back when the city still believed in the "Rozanov Miracle." Even national interest had drifted elsewhere, leaving Ilya in the hands of a few local beat writers.

They asked the usual, idiotic pre-game questions. Ilya responded with canned phrases, ignoring the uncomfortable inquiries about his future, staring at an indefinite point above their heads.

“Ilya, let’s talk about your choice,” a reporter began from the third row, not even looking up from his notepad. “Two years ago, you left a title contender to come here. Everyone knew Ottawa was a rebuild, but no one expected this kind of stagnation. Looking at the standings and the empty seats in this arena, do you feel cheated by your own decision? Is there a part of you that regrets signing that contract, or are you just resigned to the idea that this is the final stop of a career that deserved a different epilogue?”

The silence that followed was so thick Ilya could hear the electric whine of the cameras. He fixed the journalist with a stare, his pupils like two slits of obsidian.

He knew his teammates were watching from the locker room, eyes glued to the monitor, waiting to see if their captain would finally discard them. That question was a collective insult masked as a personal attack; it assumed Ilya was the only one in that room with a soul capable of burning with shame, while the others were just urban furniture in a franchise gone to seed.

“I don’t reflect on my contracts in front of people who don’t even know how to skate,” he answered at last, his voice low. “Disappointment is a luxury I leave to those who write. I am a professional, and as long as I wear this jersey, my only choice is to win the next game. This team is strong; they are the finest professionals I’ve ever shared a locker room with, and I wouldn’t ask for a different group to finish this season. We might surprise you tonight. And when we do, maybe you’ll write something worth reading for once.”

“Are you saying you could win?”

Ilya knew he should pivot. He knew the statistics would betray him, that arrogance was a debt the ice always collected with interest.

But,

Win for me?

“Yes.”

A single syllable. Sharp as a snapping blade. Flashes went off frantically; murmurs rose like a wave against a cliffside.

Time was up.

He left the room with blood pounding in his temples, a rhythmic hammering that seemed to want to expel the air from his lungs. He tried to remember the last time hockey had made him smile without a trophy or a contract involved.

When had it stopped being a game and become this poison that made him tremble with disdain?

Sometimes it felt as if nothing was enough to make him happy. He dragged his statistics behind him like an illustrious corpse, scoring goals that served no one and cashing checks that couldn't buy silence in his head.

In moments like those, with the scent of Ottawa's failure stinging his nostrils, even the two-hour distance from Shane felt like a desert light-years long.

Not for much longer, he repeated to himself like a prayer. Soon.

“Uh, Cap?”

Ilya turned toward Dillion, who looked embarrassed.

“Did you just say we’re gonna win, or is the weed I smoked last night still kicking in?”

Ilya gritted his teeth. He felt frustration rise in his throat like the bitter taste of bile.

It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t right that these men, world-class athletes, started with defeat already stitched into them like a second skin. He looked at them and saw a necropolis of talents flickering out one by one, surrounded by a smile that reeked of resignation.

“Okay,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the background noise like a cold blade. “Get over here. All of you.”

They looked at him, startled. It wasn't common for Ilya to give speeches; usually, he just led by example. But yesterday, in Montreal, something had shifted. His life was about to change.

He’d have Shane soon; why not have this too?

“Look at yourselves,” he began. “You are among the seven hundred best human beings on earth at what you do. Yet you walk in here like you’re attending your own funeral. Why? Because the papers say Toronto is stronger? Because more than half the stands tonight will be blue?”

He leaned forward, knuckles white as he gripped the back of a bench. “You’re already dead in your heads before you even lace up your skates. And it’s unacceptable. It makes me sick to see you like this.”

He struck his chest, right where the 'C' felt as heavy as lead.

“Those guys came to Ottawa thinking they were going for a stroll. They see us as... as...” Ilya paused, his jaw tight. He felt the concept biting his tongue, but the sound wouldn't come, blocked by years of technical jargon that couldn't cover the fury. “As... insignificativity?”

“Insignificance, Cap,” Young suggested softly.

Ilya stared at him. For a split second, the humiliation of not mastering the language stung, but he didn't look away. “Yes. That shit. They see us as pins to be knocked down for their fans' amusement. And the worst part is, you’re proving them right by sitting here with your heads down. And it’s my fault.” The silence in the room became so deep you could hear the hum of the neons. “I have been a poor captain, and for that, I apologize.”

Boyle shook his head. “Roz, that’s not true, you—”

Ilya silenced him with a look. A glance so frigid Boyle stopped mid-sentence. Ilya knew anything said would be a hollow mercy, and he didn’t want mercy. He wanted the truth.

He turned back to the group. The air was changing; resignation was giving way to an electric tension, a shame that was finally starting to burn.

“Listen to me. The Playoffs? Dead. The Wild Card? It’s ash. We aren’t here to save a season that’s already gone to hell. But there are three games left. Three. And I’m not waiting until October to change direction. The future doesn't start next season; it starts ten minutes from now, past that tunnel.”

He leaned in further, invading his teammates' personal space. “I’m tired of hearing that we suck, tired of looking at those stands and seeing a half-empty arena because no one thinks it’s worth the money to watch us. But you know what really makes me sick? The fact that we don’t even have to justify a loss anymore, because it’s become the norm.”

Ilya took a step forward. 

“I promise you, I will be the first one to slam into those boards until the plexiglass begs for mercy. I will give you every ounce of oxygen in my lungs, every heartbeat I have left until I drop dead. But it means nothing if I don’t feel your breath on my neck. If I’m left alone out there, we’ve already lost.”

He looked every single teammate in the eye.

“I want Toronto to leave this building with a gnawing doubt in their heads. I want everyone to understand that Ottawa is no longer a comfortable pitstop between games, no longer a place to come rest your legs and pick up easy points. I want them to leave with the certainty that they’ve walked through a meat grinder.”

Ilya paused, letting the neon hum fill the void.

“I want whoever is watching tonight, whether it’s a journalist who’s already written us off or a fan who stopped coming to games, to be glued to their seat. I want them to look at each other and say, ‘Fuck, they can actually do it.’”

Ilya hammered his fist against his chest again, but this time the gesture was slow, heavy.

“And above all, I want you to look in the mirror when you go home tonight and finally realize that you are inferior to no one. Because we never were. We just stopped remembering. And tonight is the last time we let anyone make us forget.”

He spread his arms, pointing out of the locker room toward an imaginary spot on the ice.

“They want a show? Fine. Let’s give them one they’ll never forget. If Toronto wants the points, they’ll have to spit blood for every single inch of this shitty ice.”

Murmurs of approval rose. Someone stomped their feet. Ilya stared at them, the ferocity in his eyes now contagious. “Are you with me?”

The chorus of “Yes, Cap!” wasn’t an answer; it was an explosion. Boodram vaulted to his feet with a violence that nearly tipped the bench. The 'A' on his jersey caught the light, a metallic flash that seemed to ignite along with his eyes.

“Let’s go tear them apart!” Holmber yelled, slamming his gloves together with a dull thud that signaled the charge.

The shouts turned into a cacophony of blades scraping nervously against the carpet and curses in three different languages. Resignation replaced by a hunger for blood.

“Great speech, Cap,” LaPointe said, slapping his shoulder. “Absolute chills.”

“Fuck off,” Ilya said without bite, a smirk playing on his lips.

“After we make them cry.”

The air in the arena was a thin blade cutting through his lungs, saturated with a cold that tasted of ozone and burnt rubber. Ilya glided along the perimeter of that ice that no longer belonged to him. All around him, the stands were a sea of cobalt blue: Toronto had bought Ottawa’s silence, drowning the city with the weight of capital and predictions. The few Centaurs fans were patches of faded red, tiny pockets of resistance lost in a sea of wealthy, bored indifference.

But you can’t buy the ice.

Toronto moved with a precision that bordered on arrogance.

Ilya felt his body react to that rhythm with a dissonant note: the note of hunger.

He saw it in Chouinard, who no longer skated but carved the frost with a methodical ferocity, seeking physical contact like a man looking for a fight just to feel alive.

He saw it in Dykstra, whose shoulders seemed to broaden under the weight of his armor, a buttress of bone and Kevlar that refused to yield an inch of vital space.

The first goal was a rupture. A sudden crack in Toronto’s marble defense.

Ilya sensed the pressure shift in the air a heartbeat before the puck slammed into the back of the net. The sound was sharp, almost obscene in the stunned silence of the three thousand in blue. The tiny red enclave in the corners erupted in a raucous cry, a single voice clawing at the arena’s perfect acoustics.

By the second period, exhaustion began to settle. It was a metallic taste coating his mouth, the feeling that his legs had turned to molten lead.

Ilya saw the Toronto stars turning livid beneath their visors; their elegance was fraying under the blows of men who had nothing left to lose. They didn't understand how this group could still run, how Hayes could still twist himself into saves that defied physics, a quiet martyr in the middle of a forest fire.

Every time Ilya caught his teammates' eyes, he saw a dark light, a fury that had ceased to be sport and had become a matter of pure reclamation.

When the final siren tore through the air, Ilya felt hollowed out. He stood motionless, lungs desperate for oxygen in the cold vapor clouding his face. His heart hammered against his ribs, a disordered rhythm that made his hands shake.

Then, the thunder.

The ice vibrated under the assault of his teammates' skates. In an instant, the silence of his senses was annihilated by a tangle of white and red jerseys.

The Centaurs’ roars filled his ears, a primal din of joy and months of accumulated rage. They were all over him, a solid mass of muscle and sweat, dragging him toward the net, toward Hayes, who was waiting with open arms.

Ilya looked at the scoreboard through the fog of his own breath and, for the first time since the puck dropped, the pain stopped.

They had won.

📸 @OttawaCentaurs Official Post

Caption: 5-1. The ice has spoken. 🏛️🏒 #CentRising #5to1

💬 Top Comments:

@Luke77 RIP to anyone who bet against Ottawa tonight. You just funded someone’s summer vacation.

@CintyaLoyali Ilya’s interview it was a warning. My Captain, oh Captain. 👑🇷🇺 #CentNation 

@Hayes_30 I’ve seen God, and he’s wearing Wyatt Hayes’ number 30 leg pads. What Hayes did tonight it’s straight-up sorcery. That glove save in the second? A magnet disguised as leather. 🧱🚫 #Vezina #WyattHayes 

@LoganPills They wrote him off. Said Ottawa was his graveyard. Tonight, Ilya used those headstones to sharpen his blades. My King is back. 🤴🏒 #ReturnOfTheKing #NHL

@Sara.B Everyone’s talking about the kids, but can we talk about Zane Boodram? Tonight he looked twenty years younger with triple the grit. That assist for the first goal was a middle finger to Toronto’s entire defense. Poetry in motion. #Boodram #VintageClass #HockeyArt #AssistOfTheYear

@Eudmond34 Everyone needs to chill. Hollander is still the best player on the planet, stats don't lie. The throne is safe and sound in Montreal. Rozanov won a game; Shane wins history. 🥱📈 #Hollander #RealGOAT 

@JessR If Wyatt Hayes is the devil, give me a one-way ticket to hell. Don’t call the exorcist; we don’t want to be saved! What he did between the pipes tonight was sinful. 🧤🔥 #DevilInTheNet #NoExorcist #WyattHayes #VezinaBound

@ChiaraFerragni What the hell did Rozanov say in that room before heading out? Whatever it was, I want a dose of it injected into my veins every morning. 💉🏒  

@_Nick87 Did you hear that sound? That wasn't just a hit on the boards. That was Nick Chouinard reminding Toronto that the neutral zone is private property. 🧱😤 

@Max.Max Tanner Dillon scoring in the Toronto massacre is the only glitch I’ll accept in this reality. #DillonGoal 

@Brandon21 Toronto looked like a beer-league team against us. We bullied them in every corner of the rink. That wasn't hockey; it was a message written in blood. Welcome to hell. 🩸❄️ 

@LuisPollox Five goals on Toronto. Five. I’ve been laughing for an hour and I can’t stop. Someone help me. 😂🏒 

@David63 The data is clear: Toronto wasn't 'tired.' They pushed, they rallied, but Ottawa played a brand of hockey tonight that doesn't belong to this dimension. If Rozanov turned this roster into a commando unit in a single night, I’m terrified of what we’ll see next season. 

@DeborahPastor While Toronto was playing hockey, Evan Dykstra was playing with their heads.

@G_inaScocco I saw Rozanov stare down our goalie after the fourth goal. It was a death threat. I’ve never been so happy for a game to end. 

@Vincent87_Ber Honestly, after the Tanner Dillon goal, I checked the sky for an eclipse or an alien invasion. The world has changed. I am ready for this new religion. 🛐🏒 

@Lucrreziabob 5-1. I kept refreshing the app because I thought it was a system error. Toronto was literally dismantled piece by piece. Ottawa sent a message tonight. I hope you’re ready. 📉🤫 #5to1 

@Nicholas44 Okay, everyone calm down. It was one night, and the season is basically over. Let’s see how they look after the summer break before we scream 'miracle.' Typical pressure-free flash in the pan. 🙄

Reply:@CentaursSince92 [@Nicholas44] Are you for real? We hung FIVE GOALS on the second-best team in the division. Toronto was on a tear and we reduced them to ash. This isn’t a fluke; this is a 'we're coming for you next year.' Wake up. 🤡🖕

@Alfred56_Tiv Watching Ilya tonight was like watching a ghost come back to life just to punch reality in the face. The King never left; he just moved to a different castle. 👑 #TheReturn #Rozanov #81 #LongLiveTheKing

@Samantha.Williams My son asked why I was screaming at the TV. I told him I just saw a miracle. 5 goals! Ottawa is AWAKE. 🏒❤️ #Centfamily #5-1 #MiracleOnIce

The silence didn't linger. It lasted only the length of a held breath before being pulverized by Dykstra’s roar, which ricocheted off the metal walls like a stray bullet.

“FIVE TO ONE! FUCK, FIVE TO ONE!”

That was the signal for the dam to break. The solemnity Ilya had brought with him into the room was swept away by a tidal wave of gloves thrown into the air, chest protectors clattering, and the metallic rattle of a case of beer that LaPointe had dragged into the center of the room like a hunting trophy.

The coach, Mike Murphy, walked in just as the first can was cracked open with a metallic hiss. Usually, he was a man of few words and many wrinkles, but tonight his face looked ready to split from the force of his grin. He clapped his hands with a power that echoed above the chaos.

“Listen up, you animals!” Murphy yelled, trying to drown out the music someone had just cranked to an unbearable volume. “I don’t give a damn if we’re out of the playoffs. I don’t care if the papers say it was a fluke tomorrow. Tonight, you played hockey. Enjoy every goddamn second, because you earned it. Great job, boys. Truly.”

Hayes, still in his goalie gear, stood up on the bench, brandoning a Budweiser as if it were the Stanley Cup.

“Coach!” he shouted. “Be honest: after that glove save in the second, you wanted to kiss me on the mouth, didn't you? Because I wanted to kiss myself. I swear, tonight my left hand is officially sexier than my wife!”

The room exploded in a collective roar of laughter. Young hurled a wet towel at Hayes, who nearly fell off the bench, still laughing like an idiot.

They were light-years away from true glory, a basement-dwelling team celebrating as if they’d won the title, but in that moment, logic mattered to no one. They had mauled the giants, and the taste of blood was sweeter than any standings calculation.

Ilya remained seated, watching them with an unexpected warmth pressing against his sternum. He felt Boodram’s fingers ruffling his hair and heard Chouinard’s shouted compliments, but his attention was hijacked by the incessant vibrations in the palm of his hand.

The group chat, Boring Family, had detonated.

Yuna: ILYA! THAT GOAL! I recorded their Captain’s face because I want to make a poster of it for my room! Call us as soon as you’re done celebrating!

David: Never seen anyone play that well in my life, son. Congratulations!

Shane: Are you serious, Dad?

Ilya had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud in front of everyone.

Ilya: Love you all. I’ll call as soon as I can.

But it was the next vibration, the single, discrete one, that made his heart skip a beat. Shane had moved to their private chat.

Jane: I’ll be dreaming of those hands until I see you again.

Nothing turned Shane on more than a crushing victory. Ilya had just humiliated a sports nation simply to remind Hollander who truly held the reins, and he could feel, viscerally, how Shane was already burning at the thought of paying the price for that sovereignty on his own skin.

Ilya: I dream of every single part of you, every night.

In that confession lay the full weight of a distance that, after a triumph like this, had become almost unbearable.

Jane: Fuck, Ilya.

Jane: When are you going home?

Ilya: Soon.

“Hey, Cap!” Dillon yelled, tossing him an ice-cold beer that Ilya caught mid-air. “What are we toasting to?”

Ilya looked at his boys. At Hayes, trying to drink his beer through the cage of his helmet, which was still strapped on.

“To us,” Ilya said, his voice finally finding a note of rough cheer. “And to the fact that tomorrow, the rest of the world is going to wake up with one hell of a headache.”

“I know I will!” Boyle bellowed.

The wake of the Toronto game didn't fade. While public opinion wavered between idolatry and suspicion, they chose the silence of momentum. They didn't stop to look back, nor to count those betting on their fall.

Boston was a dirty affair, settled with a gritty 2-1 win that felt like armed robbery. The TD Garden welcomed him with a wall of boos, and a cardboard cutout of his old Bruins jersey engulfed in the flames of a flare. They won ugly, in silence, and slipped out of the arena like thieves who had just emptied the central vault under the director’s nose.

Then Florida came to Ottawa for the final dance. And it was there that Ilya understood how easy it is to manipulate a city's heart.

The Canadian Tire Centre, which only a week prior had looked like a derelict hangar, was packed to the rafters. Thousands of "stray sheep" had returned to the fold, ready to swear they had always believed in that failing project. Ilya watched them during warm-ups: brand-new red jerseys, signs chanting his name: a noise that was no longer a protest, but a collective prayer. A handful of wins had been enough to buy their loyalty, and that fragility moved him to something close to tenderness.

Florida played as if they had a personal vendetta against life, but Ilya decided he was going to have his fun in front of "his" new people. He spent half the game mocking their defense and the other half in the penalty box. Toward the end of the second period, after inciting a brawl with nothing more than a smirk of disdain, the referee approached him, breathless.

"Rozanov, for God's sake, enough," the ref muttered, nearly pleading. "If you don't stop provoking them, we won't make it out of here alive tonight."

Ilya barked out a laugh, a rough sound that shook his broad shoulders. "Then we’ll have our fun in the parking lot, Ref."

They almost lost. "Almost" was the operative word. They were crushed, reduced to a tangle of bruises, but with twenty thousand people screaming as if it were the Cup Final, the scoreboard still read Ottawa.

Three for three.

Usually, after games, he vanished. He’d slip on his headphones to call Shane and disappear into their private world. But three for three deserved an exception. 

"Bood, that black eye suits you," Ilya joked, raising his glass. "It almost makes you look like an honest man. You should keep it for next year’s official photo."

Bood laughed heartily, indifferent to the pain. "Fuck, Ilya. It was beautiful. We wrecked them all. Did you see the crowd?"

The euphoria was palpable, but it was a sweet, melancholic joy. They all knew this was the last night. No playoffs were waiting for them; they would watch the other teams take the ice from their television screens while their season died in beauty amidst the laughter of that bar.

Ilya checked his phone.

Jane: Proud of you, moya lubov.

Ilya: I’d be proud of me too if I were dating myself.

Jane: Fuck you, I won 4-1 against New York.

Ilya: Boasting about beating an old man?

Jane: I’m telling Scott you said that.

Ilya chuckled and glanced around once more, letting his phone slide onto the sticky wood of the table.

He watched Hayes gesticulating wildly, desperate to explain the plot of the latest Marvel movie to poor Young, who was nodding with the glassy politeness of someone just waiting for his beer to end so he could bolt. Nearby, Boyle and Boodram were laughing so hard their mugs rattled, watching salt fly everywhere in some absurd competition whose rules Ilya didn't even want to know. A few feet away, Dykstra was filming the whole scene, announcing loudly that he was going to send the video to Wyatt’s wife to show her exactly how the game bonus was being squandered.

They weren't champions. Not yet. They were a messy jumble of bruises, mistakes, and raw talent. But they were good people.

They were his people.

That was the thought that pushed him to pick up his phone again. He typed the message quickly, his fingers almost burning against the glass for fear that a single second of hesitation might drag him back into the dark.

Ilya: I’m about to do it.

He hit send, and the world around him seemed to decelerate. He stared at the screen. Three dots appeared. Then vanished. Ilya imagined Shane on the other end, likely standing in the middle of his perfect Montreal living room, breath short and thumb trembling over the display. Two minutes passed without an answer as the dots flickered in and out of existence.

Ilya decided to take pity on his boyfriend.

Ilya: I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.

Jane: No, it’s fine. I just didn't expect it. Are you okay?

Ilya: Terrified. But good.

Jane: Okay. Let me know how it goes.

Then a second message arrived.

Jane: I love you.

Ilya: I love you more.

Jane: It’s not a competition!

He turned off the screen. For a moment he sat there, phone clenched in his palm, while the realization of what he was about to do sent a cold shiver down his spine. Ilya let his shoulders drop against the worn back of the chair, forcing his muscles to melt into a semblance of relaxation. He took a deep breath, letting the scent of smoke and beer fill his lungs.

"So," he began aloud, raising his voice just enough to cut through the room’s din. "I need some advice."

The words had the effect of a referee's whistle. The table went dead silent. Thirty eyes pinned him down with a density that would have made anyone else flinch.

"But I’m not sure you’re the right people to give it to me," Ilya added with a half-smirk.

LaPotine leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. "What is it, Cap?"

Ilya forced his voice to carry a strain of anxiety. One that didn't truly belong to him anymore, but served to make the performance believable. "There’s someone I like," he murmured, feigning an interest in picking at the label of his bottle. "I want to ask they out on a date, but I don't know if it's a good idea. I don't know if the timing is right."

Young spread his arms as if putting the entire bar on timeout. He looked at his teammates, then back to Ilya with a near-ridiculous solemnity. "Hold everything," he declared. "First of all, let’s get the basics straight: is it a man or a woman?"

Everyone turned toward him, waiting. Ilya looked for a trace of judgment but found nothing. Only a morbid, almost childish curiosity. And then he saw Boyle. Were those tears?

"I thought this day would never come," Boyle murmured, his voice breaking with emotion as he wiped a cheek with the back of his massive hand. "Look at you... all grown up. Our Captain asking for heart-to-heart advice. I’m proud of you, Roz. Truly proud."

"Someone take the beer away from Boyle," Dillon sighed.

"Can we focus here?" Bood barked, slamming a fist on the table. "So? Man or woman?"

It was one of the main reasons why, despite everything, he didn't regret Boston. Here, no one had ever judged him. No one had ever thought to ask him to wait until the others finished their showers. When he had come out months ago, they’d given him a pat on the back, a couple of heavy-handed jokes to break the tension, and that was that.

"It’s a man," Ilya answered.

"Good," Bood said, without missing a beat. "So what’s your problem? I bet he hates you because of your shitty personality. Who’s the unlucky bastard? Do we know him?"

The smile that curled Ilya’s lips had nothing to do with the mask he wore in the arena. When he thought of Shane, Ilya simply stopped calculating.

"Oh my God," Holmber exclaimed, nearly dropping his beer. "Are you blushing?"

"Christ," Dykstra commented, shaking his head with a sort of fearful respect. "This is serious."

"Very serious," Ilya admitted, meeting his teammates' gazes without trying to hide behind his cynicism anymore. "So serious that I want it to become serious. Like... serious serious."

It didn't matter that it was already serious. But Ilya was serious about wanting to keep being serious.

It makes sense, right?

“Is it Harris?”

Ilya nearly choked on his beer. He coughed, then stared at Bood with an expression of pure bewilderment. “Harris?”

“Well, yeah. He’s always around you for the videos, he writes those posts... it seemed like there was a vibe,” Boodram tried to justify himself as the others began to snicker.

“No,” Ilya denied with a vehemence that left no room for rebuttal. “I mean, Harris is great, I love the guy, but no. Absolutely not.”

Bood scratched the back of his neck, visibly struggling. “Okay, not Harris. Then why is it so complicated?”

Ilya took a sip of beer, staring at the amber reflections in the mug. He felt the weight of Shane’s message, still warm in his pocket.

“It’s complicated because he plays for another team,” Ilya said, letting the sentence drop onto the table like a shard of ice.

His teammates froze. The only sound was the muffled chatter of other diners in the bar. Then Wyatt let out a choked sound.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said, slamming his pint onto the table with enough force to make the nearby glasses jump. He stared at Ilya with a mix of terror and brutal enlightenment. “It’s Hollander?”

Boyle choked on his beer, coughing wildly. Someone started to laugh, a “yeah, right” tossed out half-heartedly, as if it were the joke of the year.

Ilya held Wyatt’s gaze in a tomb-like silence. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look down. He remained motionless, savoring the spectacle of their disbelief as it crystallized. As the silence stretched, the laughter flattened, stifled by a realization that tasted like collective madness.

“What... seriously?” Chouinard asked, his voice little more than a wheeze. “Hollander?”

Ilya took a sip of beer with calculated slowness, letting the condensation from the glass dampen his fingers. He sighed, feigning a weariness that masked a fierce amusement. “I don’t stand much of a chance, do I?”

It was like throwing a match into a powder keg. His teammates surged toward him in a tangle of arms and strained necks, making the table groan under the weight of their sudden humanitarian mission.

“Man, you have every goddamn chance in the world!” Dillon yelled, slamming a hand against his shoulder.

“You’re dead sexy, Ilya. He’d be a certified moron to say no to you, Metros jersey or not,” Dykstra added with near-religious conviction.

“Not the ideal situation, granted,” LaPointe muttered, “but life is a bitch. You’ll never know unless you try.”

“Ilya, have you looked in a mirror?” Boyle snapped, cupping Ilya’s face in his hands with an almost terrifying tenderness. “You’re a goddamn masterpiece. If Hollander doesn’t want you, it means he’s taken too many hits to the head without a helmet. That’s a medical issue, not yours!”

Ilya felt a warmth blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He loved these bastards. He had just essentially announced his intention to sabotage the entire sporting integrity of the League by sleeping with the sworn enemy, and them? They didn’t ask about the standings or the scandal. They only cared that his heart wouldn't get trampled.

They were the worst team in the division, yet they were the best group of men on the face of the earth.

Ilya shook his head and fixed his eyes on Hayes. “How the hell did you figure it out, Wyatt?”

Hayes looked embarrassed, his shoulders slumping. “Oh, man...” he sighed, staring at the bottom of his mug. “I’m a goalie. We see everything; it’s our job. I see how you look at him when we’re at the summer camps. It’s the worst-hidden ‘please kiss me or I’ll die’ eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.”

He looked at him as if he had to apologize for being so observant. “I started suspecting it when you came out. Honestly? I felt incredibly sorry for you. I thought you were in love with some random straight guy. Then Hollander made his announcement, but you didn't even blink, so I figured you were just too proud to make a move.” He paused dramatically, his eyes gleaming. “Then there was the Like.”

Wyatt Hayes, in that moment, became Ilya’s favorite person in the entire multiverse. He decided he would never let him go; he’d stuff him in his stick bag, take him on every road trip, keep him close like an amulet of truth. Great minds had to stick together.

“What like?” Homberg asked, confused.

Wyatt looked at him with wide eyes, as if explaining gravity to a rock. “The like.”

The teammates stared at him as if he’d gone mad. Ilya wanted to give him a medal of valor for contributing to the most accurate conspiracy theory in history.

“Explain yourself, for fuck’s sake,” Bood snapped.

“Ilya liked a photo of Shane in his underwear,” Wyatt explained, pointing at the Captain. “It was a romantic declaration! Like, ‘hey, I like what I see.’”

Thirty pairs of eyes turned toward Ilya for confirmation. He simply nodded, keeping a poker face. “He’s right. I did it.”

“I thought it was weird,” Wyatt admitted, “but I didn’t think much of it until some threads ended up on Reddit. That’s when I realized I wasn’t the only paranoid one.”

“Why are you on Reddit?” Boyle asked, stunned.

“Why aren’t you on Reddit?” Wyatt shot back without missing a beat.

“We’re losing the thread,” Bood intervened, restoring order. “Okay. You’re in love with Shane Hollander.”

“Yes.”

Bood sighed, rubbing his temples. “Christ, Ilya. You could’ve said you were ‘interested.’ Saying it like that makes you sound desperate.”

Ilya held his gaze. “I am.”

Wyatt pointed at him again, triumphant. “Told you! ‘Kiss me or I’ll drop dead’ eyes.”

Ilya leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, adopting a look of panic. “What should I do? Should I let it go? Forget him and move on?”

“Fuck no!” LaPointe exclaimed. “Ask him out.” A murmur of violent approval swept the table.

“But the League...” Ilya tried to object.

“Fuck the League,” Dillon interrupted. “You won’t be a hockey player forever, Ilya. Don’t think about what the NHL needs, think about what you need.”

“Agreed,” Dykstra said. “You’re the best. The League won’t be happy, but I’d love to see if they have the balls to kick you out because you fell for the wrong person.”

“It would be a public guillotine for them,” Boodram confirmed.

“Text him, dammit!” Wyatt yelled, raising his pint to the ceiling. “Invite him on a date, go to Montreal, buy him some fucking flowers. Declare your love, man!” He made a kissing-fingers gesture so idiotic that Ilya had to strain not to burst out laughing.

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“I’d worry more if it does work,” Chouinard chimed in. “Imagine next season with you two in a relationship. It would be an incredible mess. Hilarious.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Boodram tried to be rational. “Let’s think about the first date and see how it goes.”

Ilya looked at him strangely. “I didn’t know you were into group stuff, Zane.”

“Shut up, idiot. You’re our Captain. We’re going to live this story as if it’s our own, because we love you and our lives suck.”

Ilya nodded, taking a deep breath and faking a nervousness that almost made his eyes sting. “Okay. I’ll message him as soon as I get home.”

The cheers and backslaps that followed nearly brought the place down. With all the sincerity he could muster, Ilya murmured a “Thanks, I love you guys.”

“We love you too, Cap!” “Win me the Cup next year and I might marry you myself, Roz.” “I don’t think your wife would agree, Boyle.”

“If Hollander breaks your heart,” Dykstra announced, “I’ll break his legs on the ice in October. Guaranteed.”

“I don’t think he’ll say no,” Wyatt mused, deep in thought. “He looks at your ass too often.”

“Really?” someone asked.

“Oh, yeah,” the goalie nodded. “Then he turns all red and looks away. If he says no, Roz, it’s not because he’s not interested. It’s just because he’s Shane Hollander. The only man on earth who follows every single fucking rule.”

Ilya smiled to himself. Hollander had already said yes. Eight years ago. Changing every molecule of his life.

And that business about looking at his ass? Well, it turns out Shane was a bad boy after all.

When Ilya stepped back into his villa, the silence greeted him like an old teammate who was a little too sober. He shed his jacket, letting it fall onto the sofa, and without bothering to flip the switch, he slid his phone from his pocket.

He placed the call.

The dial tone rang three times, a methodical pulse that seemed synchronized with the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

“How did it go?”

Shane’s voice was slightly raspy, the voice of a man who had spent the evening barking orders on the ice or dodging obtuse journalists. Ilya leaned against the window, watching the garden lights bleed into the dark glass.

“So,” Ilya began, and despite the darkness, his lips curled into a smirk that tasted like a dare. “When are you free this week?”

There was a pause. 

“Where are you taking me?”

An hour later, Ilya opened the Centaurs' group chat.

Ilya: He said yes.

The explosion was instantaneous. The screen became a frantic kaleidoscope of notifications.

Wyatt Hayes: I KNEW IT! I’VE ALREADY BOOKED THE VEGAS WEDDING! I’M BRINGING THE FLOWERS! 🌸🌸🌸

Zane Boodram: Don’t screw this up, Ilya. If you treat him the way you treat your defensemen, he’ll bolt before the first course is served. Be on your best behavior.

Charles LaPointe: Everything’s going to be fine, Cap ❤️.

Dylan Boyle: I’m still crying. This is the best thing to happen to this godforsaken city since they invented BeaverTails. 😭😭😭

Tanner Dillon: If anyone tries to say a word, they have to go through all of us first. Go out there and take what’s yours. 👊❤️

Evan Dykstra: Cap, if you need a discreet driver or someone to sabotage the Metros’ dinner plans to buy you more time, just give the word. We’re all in.

Adrian Homberg: If Hollander said yes to you, then the universe is officially on our side! YOU ARE OUR KING AND MY PERSONAL HERO! I LOVE YOU, CAPTAIN! 👑

Nick Chouinard: If that guy doesn’t realize how lucky he is, I’ll personally take him for a ride along the boards next game.

William Young: TAKE HIM TO THE MOST EXPENSIVE PLACE IN CANADA, IT’S ON US!

Ilya let the phone drop onto the bed, chuckling into the dark as his eyes blurred for a brief moment. A single Instagram notification caught his eye.

Shane Hollander likes your post.

Ilya smiled.

Such a bad boy.

Chapter End Notes

Wyatt Hayes: CODE RED! THE GOLDEN BOY RECOIPROCATED! THE LIKE IS REAL!
Boyle: I’m calling your wife. No more screen time for you.

Chapter 3: Tick Tick Boom

Montreal. April, 2020. 

The truth was that Shane Hollander was a coward.

His coming out had not been an explosion of light, but a physical ordeal. He had vomited his soul the night before the announcement and the week before, following the confession in the locker room. Someone had taken it well, others were stunned, many had begun to look at him with a frigid distance, as if the C on his chest had suddenly lost its weight.

Those who could not stomach it, the old dinosaurs, the veterans born of a world that no longer existed, had left long ago, asking for a transfer just to avoid sharing a shower with ‘one like him’. Shane had watched those lockers emptying with a relief that tasted like defeat, accepting that desert as the minimum price for no longer having to lie.

For those who remained, the real problem was not Shane’s orientation.

It was fine that Shane Hollander liked cock, as long as there was no cock around. 

As long as his desire remained an abstract idea, a blurb in a newspaper or a rainbow icon on a social media bio, the team could handle it. They accepted him on the condition that his desire did not have a real face. 

It was a suspension of judgment granted in exchange for a public chastity that Shane had never promised, but that everyone demanded.

The most rotten hypocrisy, however, dripped from the office of Coach Theriault and the front office. 

His coming out was not an act of courage for them, it was a new market segment. It brought more fans, turned every game into a political event, and made the sales of the number 24 jersey soar until it became a fetish. 

The higher-ups did not like that Shane was gay, but they adored the fact that his sexuality was profitable.

And now, Shane felt that glass structure creaking. 

As he put on his shin guards, he wondered what his number 24 jersey would be worth when they discovered the abstraction was over. That the ‘cock around’ was very real, and it was Russian. 

He saw how Ilya spoke about his Centaurs. He saw the raw and absolute love those bastards felt for their Captain. The boys in Ottawa had no victories to celebrate, no trophies to polish, and yet between them there was a respect that did not depend on the result. They loved him because he was Ilya Rozanov, period.

If Shane Hollander stopped being the messiah of the ice, if his hands stopped making magic, would he still be their Captain? Or would he just become dead weight, a ‘different’ man? 

Shane was terrified to find out. 

Ilya had sacrificed everything on his own skin, piece by piece. He had gutted that career at its peak, turning his back on Russia and the mathematical certainty of lifting more Stanley Cups just to be able to have dinner together on a Tuesday night without having to justify his existence to a border official.

All this while Shane thrived in Montreal, dragging the Metros toward the hope of the third cup. 

Ilya had been brave for both of them for too long, carrying the weight of a secret that was fueling only Shane's comfort. 

Since they had decided to activate what Ilya called, with his absurd mania for giving spy-movie names to things, Phase Two, his boyfriend had started skating as if he were eighteen again. 

Watching television that evening, Shane had realized with a bitterness that tasted like gall that his was no longer prudence, it was selfishness disguised as common sense.

Seeing Ilya flourish that way, seeing him laugh again on the ice, had been the definitive push. 

He could no longer look at himself in the mirror knowing that Ilya’s happiness was the price of his professional tranquility. It was time to change. Even if the air in the locker room suddenly seemed too thin to breathe.

Was it scary? Yes. Would he do it anyway? Yes.

Shane had never had the gift of tact. When fear became unbearable, the only way he knew how to survive was to strike first, with the same precision with which he fired a puck into the top corner of the net. 

He said it without emphasis, almost with nonchalance, as he ran his fingertips over the rough leather of his gloves resting on his knees. He only tried to expel those words before the survival instinct, honed in ten years of pre-packaged interviews, locked his throat.

"I have a date tonight. With Ilya Rozanov."

There, it was done.

The Voyageurs' locker room didn't explode. There were no shouts, no throwing of shin guards.

The rhythmic rip of tape being torn stopped abruptly mid-tear; Gallagher, who had been laughing at a joke from Wilson, was left with his mouth open, the sound of his laughter still hanging between his teeth. The silence that followed was dense, dusty, heavy with that stunned surprise that precedes the understanding of a disaster.

Hayden was the only one to attempt a foray into the vacuum that had been created, trying to plug the leak before the embarrassment drowned them all. "Well, man," he croaked, giving Shane a slap on the shoulder that rang out in the silence like a gunshot. "Rozanov is a prick, we all know that. But hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy too."

Shane managed a smile that didn't reach his eyes, grateful for that clumsy rescue attempt. "Thanks, Hayd. It was a surprise to me too, believe me."

Hayden responded with a knowing wink.

"It’s a joke, right?" Drapeau asked from the back, desperately seeking a nod of confirmation, a mocking laugh, anything that would put the world back on its tracks.

Shane shook his head slowly, finally looking up. "No. No joke."

"But... why?" Berkes’ question was almost infantile in its nakedness. There was no anger in his tone, only bewilderment. "I mean, Rozanov? Come on man, are you serious?"

Shane sighed, a long sound that seemed to drain his lungs of all remaining oxygen. He hadn’t expected applause, but that sudden sense of isolation, right in the center of the room that had been his home, burned worse than a slapshot to the ribs.

"Shane, have you really thought this through?" J.J. intervened, taking a few steps closer, his skates scraping slightly on the rubber mat. "I know you have this... this thing for him. But he plays for another team, and he’s a dick."

"I’m aware of that, J.J.," Shane replied, straightening his back. He sought out the eyes of his teammates, one by one, forcing them not to look away. "But if you had bothered to get to know him during the foundation camps, you would have realized he isn't a prick at all. We got very close."

I love him. "I want to try." You won't stop me.

He noticed Comeau, three lockers down, who had started whispering to a teammate, shaking his head with an expression of mockery he couldn't quite hide. Shane shot him a sideways glare; Gilbert fell silent immediately, staring at his laces.

"I’m not asking you to like him," Shane continued. "I’m telling you this for the sake of transparency, because I have too much respect for what we’ve built together. I’m not saying it to ask for permission. I’m going to do it anyway. But it would be nice to have your support when this gets out."

The silence returned, but this time it had the metallic taste of clotted blood. He could see it in their eyes. In that moment, he was a wild variable threatening to stain the only sacred thing they had: the game.

Shane bit his lip. "Please," he murmured.

"And when we lose to Ottawa?" Drapeau asked. "What’s going to stop the press, or us, from thinking you pulled your punches because you’d made a different deal over dinner?"

Shane had to pray to every deity he knew to keep himself from snorting. If only they knew.

"Do you really think that little of me, Patrice?" he asked. "I thought the two Cups we lifted together were enough proof that I don't know how to lose on purpose."

Drapeau looked away, his jaw set in a rigid line.

"It’s just a date," Shane continued, trying to bring the discussion back to a reality less abstract than playoff paranoia. "Ottawa is out of the running this year; we aren't deciding the fate of the League tonight. It might not even work out."

Over my dead body.

"What happens if it does work? He’ll still be playing for Ottawa next season," someone insisted from the back.

"Next season I’ll be the same competitive asshole I’ve always been," Shane replied. The weariness scratching his throat. "Is it really that hard for you to accept?"

"But why Rozanov?" J.J. snapped. "I’ve set you up with plenty of guys, Shane. Plenty. You always said no, and they’re all better than that prick. And they aren’t hockey players."

"It’s not something I can control, Jean. He asked me out and I realized I wanted it too," he snapped back. "The guys you wanted to introduce me to... I wasn't interested."

"But Rozanov, you are?"

"Yes."

J.J. looked away as if Shane had slapped him.

Shane looked around, feeling the humidity of the locker room turn oppressive. "I’ve never asked you for anything that didn't involve the ice. But outside of here, I’m a man. I want what you have: someone waiting for me when the lights go out. And I’d like to think that after everything we’ve been through, you could respect that without making me feel like shit."

No one said another word. Hayden looked around quickly, seeing only hunched backs and tense faces. He tried to offer an encouraging smile, opening his mouth to say something. 

"Hollander."

Theriault’s voice came from behind, like freezing shower. Shane turned; the Coach was on the threshold of his office, a granite silhouette, his face flushed purple with rage.

"In my office. Now."

Ilya had spent the morning measuring the steps between the counter and the window, ignoring the coffee that had by now formed a thin, dark film in the mug. He stared at the phone on the table as if it were an explosive device ready to detonate, or worse, an invitation to a professional funeral.

He knew the Montreal locker room was a shark tank fueled by heavy contracts and ego trips, an ecosystem where loyalty ended exactly where the first drop in ice time began. No matter how much Shane tried to sell him the fairy tale of sporting brotherhood, Ilya knew that in that place, friendships had the expiration date of a carton of milk left out of the fridge.

When he finally answered the phone, Ilya already had his words of comfort ready. Instead, Shane was laughing. A laugh so thunderous and liberating that Ilya seriously wondered if his boyfriend had finally traded his sanity for a shipment of Quebecois synthetic drugs.

"I gather it went well," Ilya ventured.

"It went exactly as we thought it would."

Ilya dropped into the chair, exhaling a lungful of accumulated anxiety. "Good."

"I still can't fucking believe it worked."

"That is because you have a fucking intelligent boyfriend, Shane."

"Fuck..." Shane paused, the sound of Montreal traffic in the background. "You know what? You’re right. Christ, I love you so much right now."

“Let that be a lesson to you the next time you doubt my genius.”

"You should have seen his face," Shane continued, his voice vibrating with adrenaline. "He was furious. When I told him that if we lose the Cup, I’d walk away and the front office wouldn’t have to pay me a single cent in severance, his eyes nearly popped out of his head."

Ilya smirked. It had been his idea to weaponize the Stanley Cup into a piece of contractual blackmail.

The pact was of a brutal simplicity: if Shane won, Theriault and the franchise would have to stop hiding and publicly support their relationship for the entirety of the following season; if he lost, Shane would sign a contract termination a minute after the final buzzer, waiving any buyout and vanishing from the Metros without dragging them through court.

Of course, Shane was going to win.

The Universe, in a rare burst of benevolence toward Ilya, had decided to align the planets through a series of providential injuries among the opposing ranks. With Dallas’s star player out, New York’s starting goalie on the injured reserve, and Toronto floundering with a key defenseman missing, the road to the Finals looked more like a victory lap than a battle.

On the other hand, the management could have refused the deal, but Shane had enough money to pay the exit penalty himself and threaten to terminate the contract unilaterally, walking away before the playoffs even began. 

Ilya knew the Metros, however obtuse, were not prepared to find out what would happen if Shane left immediately. Shane Hollander was a superstar, one of the elite players in the entire league. The prospect of losing him in the middle of such a favorable celestial alignment was the only ghost capable of scaring them more than a kiss between two men on the ice.

He hummed with satisfaction, interlacing his fingers and tapping them together in a slow, methodical rhythm, like the Disney villains Hayden’s daughters adored.

Ilya felt immensely satisfied for two fundamental reasons.

The first was that Shane had doubted him, and now he was admitting he was dead wrong. There was no drug in the world as potent as the taste of being right in the face of a skeptical Hollander. They had started with a threat of being fired and came out with the definitive green light for their life together. 

(Rule number one: never, ever doubt El Plan.) 

The second was a purely personal matter. Shane became fucking horny after a victory. The one he’d secured this morning against Theriault and the entire Metros structure was a massive win, one of those that demanded a physical celebration equal to the risk taken.

So yes, Ilya was happy right now, sitting in his quiet kitchen, but he had the reasonable certainty that he would be a much happier man, and probably a much less dressed one, by the end of the evening.

In hindsight, Ilya could admit, at least to himself, that the risk had been calculated but dizzying. 

If the coach had called the bluff by accepting the immediate resignation, Shane would have found himself on the market as a luxury asset without buyers: no team would shell out that kind of money for a few months' "rental" without the guarantee of a long-term renewal.

El Plan called for Shane to land in Ottawa only upon the natural expiration of his contract. Farah, moving with the discretion of a spy and the efficiency of a hitman, had already begun weaving the web for an eventual acquisition. 

Once they were out in the open, and eventually married, the idea of living apart would be a visceral rejection. 

Neither of them wanted another winter of conflicting schedules and separate lives. Two hours of road were too much. It was a hundred and twenty minutes of life wasted on a highway that Ilya was no longer willing to give up.

The only logical choice was playing in the same city, but Ilya would have rather destroyed his own knee than play for those bastards in Montreal. (Not that the Voyageurs would ever dream of signing him anyway.)

On the other side of the equation, Ilya could see Shane changing. That old stubbornness about being a one-team man, that sacred desire to retire in a Metros jersey, was losing its grip. 

The silence of his teammates after he came out was a daily exhaustion. Shane was losing the motivation to stay loyal to a team that treated him like a stranger.

Had it been up to Ilya, he would have dragged Shane to Ottawa tonight, logic be damned. He would have traded every draft pick and prospect just to see that number 24 jersey hanging in the locker room across from his. But the salary cap was an opponent far more formidable than Theriault’s temper. 

Centaurs’s front office had its resources tied up elsewhere for the coming season, obsessed with shoring up a back end that was leaking from every side. Every available cent was being funneled toward a Swiss prodigy and defensive recruits; they couldn't afford to rebuild a blue line and absorb a superstar salary in the same fiscal year. 

But the year after, LaPotine’s retirement would open a technical void in the roster, a vacancy as second-line center that Ilya had no intention of seeing wasted.

It was the perfect coincidence: the departure of a Center meeting the contract expiration of the top-tier player everyone wanted on their team.

It was pure luck that Theriault and the Metros had taken the bait, terrified by the idea of immediate failure. Shane would win the Cup, they would play another season as rivals but finally together before the world, and then the move would be inevitable.

Ilya felt like a fucking genius simply because the facts were proving him right.

"Your teammates?"

The silence that followed was heavy, vibrating with everything unsaid. It was all the confirmation Ilya needed. 

"I’m sorry."

"What? No victory lap for being right ?"

"No." 

"It doesn't matter," Shane said, though his voice lacked of conviction.

"Shane."

"Really, Ilya," Shane insisted. "Whatever we had, it didn't break today. It’s been fracturing since I came out. You know it, and I know it. They made their choice, and I made mine. None of it will matter once I’m in Ottawa."

Ilya leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "I wish they’d trade you tomorrow."

A dry, huffed sound came through the line, not quite a laugh. "Not a chance. You have exactly one year to fix that disaster you call a defense. I’d like to think I’ve earned the right to play for a real contender."

"Hey," Ilya protested. "We took the last three games."

"Prove to me it wasn't a fluke next season, or I'll be looking for a different jersey in a year," Shane teased.

"I'll show you, Hollander."

"Promises, promises."

Ilya stretched, the movement pulling at his skin, a restless energy settling in his limbs. "I should probably get ready. I’ve got places to be tonight."

"Oh, really?" Shane’s voice dropped an octave, the smile behind it practically audible. "Care to share with whom?"

"A guy. He’s incredibly handsome, but honestly? Banal. A total bore. I can't for the life of me figure out why I’m so taken with him."

"Sounds like a real struggle."

"Extremely. But for some reason, I can't seem to shake him."

"Damn. In that case, I’ll let you go. Wouldn’t want you to be late for a date like that."

"I wouldn’t either. It’s our first," Ilya said, his voice gone soft. "I want it to be special."

The silence that followed was hollow, the kind of silence that happens when the breath is knocked out of you.

"Fuck," Shane finally exhaled. "It is our first date."

"I believe I just said that."

"No, I mean—" Shane stumbled. "The first one. The first."

A tight, stinging knot of resentment flared in Ilya’s chest. It was an old anger, sharp and familiar, directed at every year they had lost to the "what-ifs" and the looking over their shoulders. He thought about the seasons spent paralyzed by the invisible lines they weren't allowed to cross. 

He was done with the strategic placements of hands and the exhaustion of constant self-censorship. That night, he wasn't looking for a grand gesture; he was after the simple, defiant act of reaching across a table and finding Shane’s hand in the light. 

That date needed to be perfect, because he was through paying for a freedom that should have been his from the start.

"Are you as terrified as I am?"

"Fuck yes," Ilya admitted, his teeth catching his lower lip. "I didn't think I’d see this day. Not this soon, anyway."

"You better take me somewhere nice, Rozanov. Somewhere very fancy. I kicked up a hell of a dust storm for you this morning; make sure the view is worth the fallout."

"Look at it this way," Ilya purred, the mischief returning to his eyes even if Shane couldn't see it. "If the dinner is a disaster, there's always the night to recover."

"If the dinner is a disaster, you’re sleeping on the couch."

Ilya brought the orange Porsche to a halt directly in front of Shane’s door. He knew Hollander loathed the color, but Ilya wasn’t looking for discretion.

Shane was breathtaking, wrapped in a clean elegance that seemed to radiate against the drab gray of the street. Ilya stepped out of the car and, with a nonchalance that masked a thundering heartbeat, did the one thing Shane would never have seen coming.

He handed him the roses. There, on the sidewalk, under the unforgiving glare of Montreal’s streetlights.

It was incredible. It was terrifying.

Shane stood frozen, his gaze darting from the scarlet petals to Ilya’s face, as if he were staring at the trigger of a bomb that had just been armed.

“Roses? Seriously?” Shane murmured, but his eyes shone with a light that had nothing to do with a joke.

“Hayes swore he’d haunt me from the afterlife if I skipped this step,” Ilya replied, his dry tone serving only to shield the internal disarray. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Hollander. This is an exception for our public debut.”

During the drive, the car’s interior became a microcosm of stolen glances. They studied one another as if relearning each other’s features under a light that wasn’t filtered through a hotel room or a darkened hallway. 

Shane’s leg tapped a nervous rhythm, an involuntary tic betraying the weight of the moment, until Ilya reached out. He rested his hand on his thigh.

The restaurant was one of those temples of luxury where commoners waited months for a table. It was the kind of venue chosen for a marriage proposal or a seduction with no way out.

Ilya would be lying if he said he’d chosen it for the food.

He only needed the diligence of a few busybodies with their thumbs ready on their screens to not fail him; the internet would handle the rest. The only PR firm in the world that not only works for free but does so with the sadistic enthusiasm of a medieval inquisitor.

“Ready?” Ilya asked, his long fingers already gripped around the handle. 

“Yes,” Shane replied, but the syllable hung in the air a beat too long. “But...”

“But?” Ilya felt a flicker of dread he’d never admit to. Not tonight. Not now that we’re here.

“I missed you,” it was a confession stripped of breath. “And we didn’t even kiss.”

Relief hit Ilya with the force of a low blow, dissolving the tension in his shoulders before he could even process it as gratitude. He cast a glance through the tinted windows, then leaned in. He took Shane’s chin between his fingers, tracing the roughness of his five o'clock shadow, and kissed him. 

It was a theft. A sharp, ruthless taste that left Shane breathless. Ilya pulled back just before the kiss could deepen, savoring his boyfriend’s low grunt of protest.

“No more kissing, Hollander. It’s a first date,” Ilya hissed. “I’m a gentleman. I’m trying to stick to the rules of courtship.”

“Who taught you that word?” Shane shot back, but the way he fought a smile betrayed him.

They stepped out of the car. Shane squared his shoulders, his gaze fixed and determined as if he were taking the ice for the third period of a cup final.

He was stiff, gorgeous, and clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Ilya placed a firm hand on the small of his back. “Steady, lyubimiy moy,” Ilya whispered near his ear. “The world has never been more in order than it is tonight.”

To most passersby, they were just two well-dressed men, but Ilya noticed a couple of kids near the entrance exchange a look of pure disbelief. Phones emerged from pockets with a speed Ilya found admirable.

There they are, he thought with fierce relish. Do your jobs, tsifrovyye ovechki.

The restaurant’s interior was bathed in low-key jazz. The kind of music designed to fill the gaps in the conversations of the wealthy without ever intruding. The servers moved with the discretion of trained ghosts, and the other guests seemed too immersed in their porcelain plates to heed two men sitting in the amber glow of the window.

Shane held his menu up, pretending to study the wine list, but his eyes sought Ilya’s over the edge of the cardstock. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Ilya mirrored it with the same intensity.

Shane, predictably, sought refuge in the only territory where he felt untouchable. “Did you see the report on the Admirals’ special teams? If they keep playing that wide on the blue line...”

Ilya shook his head, a lazy smile stretching his lips. He closed the menu without even glancing at the prices. “No hockey, Hollander. We’re on a date, not on one of your tedious podcasts.”

Shane blinked, caught off guard. “What do you want to talk about?”

“We could talk about how terrified you are that I might reach under this linen tablecloth,” he murmured, his voice reduced to a sensual rasp. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Feeling how much you’re mine while you try not to come in your pants in front of all these fine people.”

“Ilya!”

It was too loud, too charged with a delicious horror, causing an instantaneous silence to fall over the neighboring tables. Shane froze instantly, the flush crawling violently up his neck to his temples.

Ilya didn’t miss a beat. He turned with slowness toward the next table, where four people were staring with ill-concealed curiosity. “Excuse him,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, jerking his chin toward Shane. “My date took a few too many hits to the head during practice. Sometimes he forgets how to behave among civilians.”

The four diners offered nervous smiles and returned to their conversations, but one of them kept watching with narrowed eyes. The kind of expression reserved for an unsolicited miracle or a system error. He looked at Shane, then Ilya, then back to Shane with a frequency that was becoming intrusive.

It was evident his internal database was attempting a desperate facial recognition. But the context, two rival captains sharing a Pinot Noir instead of trading slashes against the boards, was sending the whole system into buffering.

Ilya, because he was merciful, decided to take pity on him.

He leaned toward, lowering his voice as if sharing a troubling secret. “I keep telling him hockey is too violent for his pretty face, but he won’t listen.”

Ilya didn’t know if the man’s tremor was due to the shock of realization or something more visceral. He didn’t care.

“You’re an asshole,” Shane muttered, impossibly red.

“But I’m your asshole, moy pomidor,” Ilya countered, brushing his shoe against Shane’s under the table. Shane made a face of annoyance, but he sought the contact, pressing back.

“Now order, Hollander. Before that, the man calls the authorities, convinced the apocalypse has just begun.”

As dinner progressed, Shane’s fabled defenses began to crumble under the weight of what Ilya called "programmed biological suicide". With his metabolism reduced to its barest essentials after weeks of monastic austerity, Shane had surrendered to a glass of ruby red with the same desperation an amnesiac hiker in the desert might show for a vat of gin.

“I believe I’ve earned this glass,” Shane had decreed, staring at the liquid with the solemnity of a man about to christen an aircraft carrier. “It’s a special occasion.”

The result was a bout of alcohol-fueled bravado that stripped away the final layers of diplomatic varnish. 

It was, therefore, glaringly obvious, practically inevitable, that Shane would launch headfirst into the thing he hated second-most in the world, right after homophobes:

The EBUG.

“We’re here, being paid millions. We follow diets that would make a Tibetan monk weep, and we train until we’re spitting up lung tissue.”

“That’s just you, Hollander,” Ilya interrupted. “My metabolism is a Russian anarchist; it doesn’t take orders from anyone, least of all a nutritionist with a God complex.”

“And then,” Shane continued, ignoring him, “if misfortune decides it’s time for a double injury, the League trots out Dave. Dave, who just a moment ago was calculating mortgages or finishing a radioactive tuna sandwich in the press box. Dave puts on the jersey, glides onto the ice with the grace of a walrus in hypothermia, and we’re expected to treat him like the elite of the species. It’s as if, during an air raid, the general said: ‘Don't worry, the mailman is here. He can ride a moped; he can surely pilot an F-35.’”

Ilya laughed.

It was a jagged, raucous sound that shattered the room’s curated silence. A nearby server jolted, losing his stride and causing the glasses on his tray to chime; he hurried away, glancing at Ilya as if he’d just witnessed a psychotic break in real-time.

Ilya didn’t give him a second look. He kept laughing until his lungs burned, ignoring the offended solemnity of the surrounding tables.

“Stop it! You should be offended, too!”

When Ilya finally managed to catch his breath, he leaned toward Shane.

He was beautiful. Outrageously so, his features sharpened by the wine and that flash of madness he’d just displayed. But above all, he was his.

“I should marry you right now,” Ilya said.

Shane blinked, caught off guard by Ilya’s sudden pivot toward that ruthless sincerity. He slid his hand across the tablecloth and rested it atop Ilya’s. 

Ilya looked down. He watched Shane’s skin against his own, the knuckles scarred by years of play. He swallowed hard, feeling a knot in his throat that refused to yield.

Shane Hollander was holding his hand. In public.

“Maybe you could convince me to skip tomorrow’s game and fly to Las Vegas.”

Someone get me to the nearest hospital, Ilya thought with a spike of genuine terror. He was certain his heart was trying to kick through his ribs to go and demand an explanation from Shane. It was a heart attack, he was sure of it, and it was a profoundly stupid way to die: killed by the alcohol-fueled audacity of a Canadian captain who had decided to be free right before dessert.

The image of Shane Hollander deserting the first game of the Playoffs to flee to Nevada and exchange rings in front of an Elvis impersonator was the kind of dream Ilya would burn down an entire arena for.

“Don’t provoke me, Hollander,” Ilya said, shaking his head while trying to ignore the fact that his pulse had long since exceeded the limits of emergency medicine. “I’m going to pay the check before we decide to do something Yuna would kill us for.”

“My mother wants us to get married.”

“Without her?”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought.”

The click of the lock was the starting pistol.

There was no need for lights, nor for preambles. He knew that entryway, that hallway, and the body of the man before him better than the blue lines of any arena in the league.

Ilya pinned him against the door with a jolt that made the wood groan. He gripped Shane’s face with one hand, his fingers pressing hard against his jaw, and kissed him with a hunger that tasted of long-overdue possession. Shane answered instantly, his hands clawing at Ilya’s jacket with a force that threatened to snap the seams.

“Blyat, Hollander,” Ilya murmured against his lips, his voice reduced to a guttural rasp. “I don’t know how I didn’t bend you over that table in front of everyone.”

Shane let out a wordless, needy moan.

“You would’ve liked that, wouldn’t you?” Ilya began to kiss his neck. “Letting them all see what a needy little slut you are.”

“Ilya—” Shane breathed. It was a prayer.

Ilya knew exactly what his boy needed.

He forced Shane’s head to the side and sank his teeth into his neck, right where the skin was drawn tight over the muscle. Shane shoved his hips against Ilya’s and groaned, offering up his throat with a brazenness that drove Ilya mad.

There would be no way to cover the mark tomorrow.

“You’re mine,” he growled.

“I’m yours,” Shane panted. “And you’re mine.”

Ilya stripped Shane’s belt. He freed Shane from his trousers, letting them fall in a heap at their feet. He spun him around abruptly, slamming his chest and face against the freezing wood of the door. Shane pressed his forehead against the smooth surface, his breath fogging the grain.

Ilya spat on his hand; the lube was too far away, and if he waited another minute, he would implode. He inserted two fingers with a sharp thrust, feeling Shane flinch for a second before yielding.

“You’re so tight, Shane. You’re always so goddamn tight,” Ilya hissed into his ear, adding a third finger. He began to press upward, seeking that magic spot Ilya adored. When he found it, Shane arched his back, a jolt that sent him slamming even harder against the door. Ilya kept up the pressure against his prostate, steady and unrelenting, savoring the way Shane’s breath turned into a broken rattle.

Shane choked back a curse against the wood. “Christ, I’m ready, Ilya. Please.”

Ilya stripped off his own clothes with short, furious movements. He gripped Shane’s hips, his fingers digging into the flesh like talons, and drove into him with a single, brutal lunge.

The impact was total. Shane let out a hoarse cry that seemed to bounce off the sterile walls of the apartment. Ilya gave him no time to catch his breath. He began to move with heavy, punishing thrusts, each strike a sharp jar that sent Shane’s body thudding against the door. 

The sound of skin on skin mingled with their shattered breathing and the dull thuds of the wood. Ilya felt their sweat slicking his back, making his grip on Shane’s hips slippery and even more desperate.

“I love you,” Ilya gasped, pinning him to the paneling. Shane turned his head, his face contorted with effort and pleasure. He braced his hands against the door, his knuckles white.

“I love you,” Shane panted, his voice breaking under every thrust. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Shane came first, a violent orgasm that shook him from head to toe, his forehead rhythmically striking the door. Ilya followed a heartbeat later with a groan, driving deep into him until the very last shudder.

They stayed like that, pressed against one another in the darkness of the hallway. The only sound was their heavy breathing and the thrum of Ilya’s heart hammering against Shane’s back. Ilya kissed his sweaty shoulder, feeling the heat of the bite on his neck that was already darkening into a deep, violet bruise.

Shane pulled away slowly, his legs visibly trembling.

“What a mess,” he murmured breathlessly, looking at the disaster at their feet. “We need a shower.”

“The shower can wait,” Ilya replied, trailing a thumb over Shane’s lower lip. “Are you okay?”

Shane chuckled. “Better than okay.” He leaned in to kiss him. “It was perfect.”

Ilya smiled and took his hand, pulling him toward the bedroom. “Come here, Hollander. We still have the whole night to make sure you can’t skate straight for tomorrow’s game.”

TRENDING CANADA: #Hollander #Rozanov #NHL

@Lizzie_77 [VIDEO: Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander are walking toward the restaurant entrance. Ilya has the flat of his hand pressed against the small of Shane’s back, right between the shoulder blades. Before crossing the threshold, Ilya leans toward Shane’s ear, whispering something; Shane ducks his head, his shoulders hitching slightly as he hides a smile.] 

Caption: Um... guys? Is this actually them? Tell me I’m not dreaming. Either I’m hallucinating, or this looks a lot like a date. I saw them pull up, and my first thought was "what the hell is Rozanov doing in Montreal?" Then I saw Hollander, and then THE HAND. #NHL #Montreal

@ThomasWright: OMG I KNEW IT. I’m actually shaking. That hand on the back is NOT "just colleagues" behavior. 😭😭😭

@Mark Sutherland: I’m sorry, but didn’t these two absolutely loathe each other? Until yesterday, they were trying to put each other through the boards. This reeks of a PR stunt from a mile away. 🙄

Reply @ArthurPendelton: @MarkSutherland PR? Do you have eyes? Nobody acts this well, not even in Hollywood.

@NikolaiVolkov: I was there too!!! Rozanov whispered something, and Shane went bright red.

@ChloeHenderson: What a pathetic downfall.

@Jimmy Levesque: They’re both out as queer; it’s obviously just a dinner between colleagues to talk league business and generate some hype. Everyone, calm down.

@Lola_44:  @Jimmy Levesque "Colleagues"? Are you blind? They are literally brushing against each other in every damn shot. You put your hand on your colleague's spine like that? 💀

@ESPNCANADA [IMAGE: A shot of Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander at the restaurant entrance. Ilya’s hand is flat against Shane’s back, right between the shoulder blades.]

Caption: Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander out for a dinner between colleagues.

@MeganFoster: ARE THEY HOLDING HANDS? I’m actually screaming. Tell me this isn’t a photoshop. 😭😭😭

@XavierDupont: "Business dinner," they say. Yeah, sure. Because two "colleagues" look at each other exactly like this. WAKE UP. [Attached: A zoomed-in photo of Shane looking at Ilya with glassy, softened eyes]. It’s as clear as day. 🤡

@LiamOReilly: CAPTAIN WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MONTREAL?

@JeanMarcGagnon: This is sickening. Our captain letting himself be touched like that by that Russian butcher. Embarrassing. #NotMyCaptain

@TylerBrooks: But Ilya though? He looks totally gone. He’s never even looked at the Stanley Cup with that face. Hollander destroyed him. He literally reset the man to factory settings.

@ClaraMendez: They finally folded. Eight years of checking each other into the boards just to end up lacing fingers over a white truffle. Hockey’s dignity is dead, but my heart has officially exploded. 😭

NHL_humor [IMAGE: A close-up of the table. Their hands are laced together over the white tablecloth, directly in front of their wine glasses. Ilya is laughing genuinely, head thrown back, while Shane gestures animatedly with his free hand.]

Caption: A "friendly" dinner between Rozanov and Hollander.

@CalebRoss: IS ILYA ACTUALLY LAUGHING? Who the fuck knew Rozanov was even capable of that? 💀💀💀

@SusanBrown: INTERTWINED HANDS? ✨

@MathieuDubois: Someone explain to me how we’re still supposed to consider them rivals. Look at the hands. LOOK AT THE EYES. Wake up, people, this isn't a board meeting.

@CraigMacLean: "Friendly." Sure. I don’t lace fingers with my buddies like that while they laugh at my jokes. [Zoom on the intertwined fingers]. 🤡

@DarrenOConnor: The real question is: is Hollander actually that funny or was Rozanov just aiming for fifth base last night?

MTLNEWS [IMAGE: A high-resolution, zoomed-in shot of Shane Hollander. His face is flushed, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes are fixed on Ilya with an expression of raw, unguarded intensity.]

Caption: Close-up of Shane Hollander during last night's outing.

@MarcAntoineRoy: Shane is gone. Just look at his eyes. He’s either wasted or in love; either way, we’re screwed. 😡

@LucGauthier: Shane, what the actual fuck are you doing?

@BradJennings: Even assuming it’s a real date... is it even legal for them to do this? Conflict of interest?

@DerekVance: This is 100% PR. Both queer, both captains, both single. It’s the perfect fanfiction to sell tickets. Don’t fall for the bait.

@LolaVance: @DerekVance "Don’t fall for it"? Just look at him! Shane is in literal adoration. And Rozanov looks like he’s lost his last remaining brain cell. If this is PR, I’m a toaster.

@PuckDaily [IMAGE: A grainier shot of Rozanov and Hollander exiting the venue. Ilya is whispering something into Shane’s ear; Shane’s head is tilted toward him, one hand resting instinctively on Ilya’s forearm.]

Caption: Both captains were seen leaving the restaurant together shortly before midnight.

@PierreLefebvre: I hope management takes action. This is disgraceful and unprofessional from both of them. Bench Hollander tonight.

@OwenMiller: I’m sorry, but what the actual fuck??

@ChloeDubois: GOOD LORD, WHAT IS HE DOING WITH THAT HAND??

@AliceMartin: I am literally screaming, call an ambulance.

@NadiaGervais: Delulu is the solulu, and today I am VINDICATED. This was a DATE. Don’t you dare try to tell me it’s PR.

@RobertMacDonald: I miss the old Hockey.

@LeoTremblay: @RobertMacDonald Go to bed, Gramps.

Ottawa Centaurs Group Chat

[09:15] Wyatt Hayes: @IlyaRozanov Wake up, Ice Man. Spit it out: did he like the roses? You actually gave them to him, right? Tell me you went full Romeo.

[09:22] Zane Boodram: BBQ at my place tonight. We need a full debrief.

[09:28] Evan Dysktra: A kiss? Was there at least a kiss on the cheek at the door?

[09:29] Nick Chouinard: @IlyaRozanov, say something. You still in one piece or did Hollander poison you?

[09:32] Tanner Dillon: @IlyaRozanov answer before Hayes shows up at your front door.

[09:36] Dylan Boyle: @ZaneBoodram, I’m bringing the beers. Roz needs a heavy interrogation tonight.

[10:02] Ilya: Sorry. We overslept.

[10:05] Ilya: No BBQ tonight. I’m staying in Montreal until tomorrow.

[10:05] Wyatt Hayes: ON THE FIRST DATE?! 

[10:05] Nick Chouinard: Absolute legend.

[10:06] Zane Boodram: WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK.

[10:08] Tanner Dillon: I can hear the Montreal fans screaming from here, they’re probably already burning his jerseys.

[10:08] Charles LaPointe: Rozanov, you dog.

[10:06] William Young: UNTIL TOMORROW? BRO, FOR REAL?

[10:07] Adrian Homberg: @WilliamYoung Hollander got a taste of the Russian special and he’s hooked.

[10:08] Dylan Boyle: @AdrianHomberg gross.

[10:08] Evan Dykstra: @AdrianHomberg dude…

[10:30] Ilya: 😏

Chapter 4: I'm God's favourite.

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone! Thank you all for the comments. This chapter is very social media-heavy and light on the prose, let's put it that way. I kind of spiraled into a fever dream and this is what came out. Hope you enjoy!

LIVE TIMELINE: ROUND 1, GAME 1 - MONTREAL METROS VS. FLORIDA PANTHERS

@BrandonMiller: The Bell Centre is a cauldron of hate. Florida is here to crash the party as last-minute gatecrashers. Miller and Sjöberg have the green light to play dirty on Hollander. Let’s see if the Wild Card has teeth or just cold feet. #PanthersTerritory #StanleyCup #FLA-MTL

@ElizabethWard: Everyone on their feet for the anthem! #MontrealMetros #Game1 #NHL #MetrosNation

@JustinCaputo: GOAL! Just 45 seconds in and Hollander has already shredded the neutral zone. A snap shot, the ring of iron, and the puck’s in the net. Florida stayed in the locker room to celebrate their qualification. 1-0. 🚨 #Hollander #Metros

@SarahJenkins: Hayden Pike, what a man you are. 👑 #Loyalty #Pike

@LolaVance: Let’s be honest: who’s only here to see if Rozanov is in the stands? 👀 #HollanovWatch #BellCentre

@JenniferRowe: @LolaVance For God’s sake, two friends go to dinner and they have to be together because they’re both gay? Get a life and change your username.

@MarcusVance: Miller plastered Shane against the boards. Shane took the hit without blinking and stripped him of the puck. If this is the price for seeing him play like this, may Rozanov take him out to dinner every single night. 

@ChristianGeller: First period: 3-0. The third goal is signed by Boileau, assisted by an omnipresent Hollander. The Metros are sucking the oxygen right out of the Panthers. The gap between the league leaders and a Wild Card has never been this embarrassing. 📊 #Metros

@SimonLeclerc: Can anyone there tell me if they see Rozanov? Rumor has it he was spotted at the North entrance in a nondescript hat. Confirmations? 🕵️‍♂️🏒 #Rozanov #Metros

@DavidStPierre: @SimonLeclerc No, he’s not there, idiot. You know why? Because they AREN’T together. Stop turning the playoffs into a soap opera and watch the 3-0 lead. 🙄 

@KyleDonahue: Someone call 911 and report a kidnapping. The Florida goalie is being held hostage by an ocean of blue jerseys. The Cats' defense is still back at the party celebrating their 8th-place finish. 🧤🆘 

@StephaneRousseau: GOAL! Hollander starts the second period with the same fury. He dances around three men in a phone booth and picks the top corner with disarming malice. 4-0. Stop the match, this is bullying. 🚨🚨🚨🚨 #HollanderMode 

@NathanCross: Hollander opens the wounds, Pike pours the salt. They look like they’re playing a video game on "easy" mode. It’s a connection so precise it’s almost violent. 🛡️⚔️ #Metros #Shayden

@ElliotFraser: 5-0 Metros. The Florida coach looked like he was reading an obituary during the timeout. Welcome to the playoffs, boys. 

@HannahBrooks: Them again. Hollander puts it right on Hayden Pike’s tape for the tap-in. They move as if they share a single brain. 6-0. Can you hear the silence coming from Sunrise? 🤫

@AustinHebert: Mass exodus. Panthers fans are fleeing as if there’s a fire. Actually, the fire is on the ice and its name is Shane Hollander. 🚪🏃‍♂️ #NHLPlayoffs

@JonathanReid: Seven-nothing. Hat trick for Hollander. At this point, if Shane asked for the keys to the arena and decided to lock us all inside, nobody would dare say no. 

@DrRebeccaStone: Hollander’s conditioning at the 50-minute mark is paranormal. Everyone else is winded; he looks like he just stepped out of the shower. 

@ElenaBelova: @IlyaRozanov81 I need you to take him to dinner before every game if these are the results. He’s possessed. #Hollanov 

@ChrisMorrison: 8-0. Even the rookie Lefebvre scores. At this point, Florida would look better just withdrawing the team and claiming a sudden flu epidemic. 

@MeganTaylor: Hayden, if you’re planning on getting a divorce, I’m ready. 💍 #HusbandMaterial #Pike

@OlivierNadeau: 3 goals and 4 assists. Shane Hollander rewrote the laws of biology. 7 points in a single playoff game against a terrified Wild Card. 

@JeanMarcGagnon: They should have kept Hollander on the bench. It’s a public disgrace. 

@LeoTremblay: @JeanMarcGagnon Sure, let’s bench our best player and let the Panthers win just because you’re a homophobe. Jackass.

@MayaLin: Let’s play a game, I’ll start. Name three of the best players in the NHL? Hunter, Rozanov, and Hollander. Can you tell me what they have in common? 💅🌈  

@ElizabethWard: FINAL HORN! 9-0. Shane Hollander glides toward the locker room with the face of a man who just finished his grocery shopping. Florida has been demolished. #MetrosWin 

THE MONTREAL CHRONO – POST-GAME SPECIAL

THE WEIGHT OF THE 9-0 BY MARC-ANDRÉ LEROUX

"The score is an anomaly, nothing more," Hollander began, adjusting his shirt collar with a distracted gesture. "Nine-nothing or one-nothing, the result remains the same: we won Game 1. My concern isn't the scoreboard; it’s the consistency of our game. We denied Florida any air from the opening face-off. They came in here riding high after their Wild Card run, but the playoffs are a different sport entirely. Hayden was exceptional at reading the double-teams. But tomorrow is another day, and they won’t gift us those spaces again. If we think we’ve already won the series just because they finished eighth, we’ve already lost."

[ 💬 Comments: 1,482 ]

User Vee_K • 2 min ago Stunning analysis, Captain. But next time, make sure your shirt collar is an inch higher. That purple mark on the left side of your neck had absolutely nothing to do with a high-stick.

Montreal, April, 2020  

Game 2. 

There was never going to be another 9-0. 

Ilya was certain that the previous blowout had been a gift from the hockey gods, a reward for their audacity the night before. 

Not that it had stopped them from going out again. In hockey, logic is the first thing tossed into the bin once the playoffs start. You don’t mess with luck during the post-season, and Hollander had decided that rare steaks and red wine were an acceptable sacrifice to keep the karma sweet. 

(Ilya certainly hadn’t complained while pretending not to notice the cameras pointed in their direction.)

On the sixty-inch screen, Florida had taken the ice with the blind rage of a death row inmate determined to take the executioner down with him. Miller, a defenseman whose hockey IQ was stuck on the back of a cereal box, was charging anyone in a blue jersey with the grace of a drunken bulldozer. 

It was pathetic. 

Ilya watched Shane’s teammates with a disgust he could hardly mask. 

They were clusters of homophobes with poor coordination, capable of missing a basic ten-foot pass and then looking around with the confused aura of someone who had just discovered their own opposable thumbs. 

If Hollander didn’t possess the patience of a Tibetan martyr, Ilya knew for a fact he would have already taken a stick to them in the locker room.

And yet, there was a strange form of justice in it all. 

Shane had returned to the ice with a mark on his neck that could have burst the veins of the purists, yet the team continued to act as his shield. They were out there, absorbing the blows just to give Shane those two seconds of oxygen needed to humiliate the opposition. 

Perhaps they weren’t doing it for Shane. Maybe they did it for the win bonus or that fucking silver trophy, but the result was the same.

The first goal was easy; the second, an assist for that prick Cameau, who only had to avoid tripping over his own skates to tap it in. The Panthers managed to tuck one in by pure fluke, a greasy rebound that wouldn't have convinced a referee with cataracts, bringing the score to 2-1. 

From that moment on, the game ceased to be hockey and became a farce of low blows and interference worthy of a brawl outside a suburban pub.

When Shane iced the game 3-1 with an empty-netter, closing the deal with the detached expression of an accountant balancing the books of a bankrupt firm, the dam broke. Miller delivered a gratuitous slash to Berks’ ankles, and in an instant, the ice was flooded with gloves and helmets.

It was a furious, uncoordinated mess, a tangle of limbs and insults that the refs desperately tried to quell, looking like nursery teachers during a riot on death row. 

Pike was in the thick of it, a crazed blue blur trying to climb Miller with the desperate ferocity of a terrier intent on throat-slitting a polar bear. 

Ilya sighed, watching Hayden try to tower over the German defenseman who was three times his size. Pike seemed to lack the biological filter that suggests a prey animal shouldn’t bite the calves of an apex predator. All heart, zero self-preservation: the usual martyr for the cause who hasn't yet realized that against a lion, you don't need courage, you need a rifle. Though, with the aim Pike regularly displayed with a stick, he’d probably manage to shoot himself in the face while trying to figure out which end the bullet came out of.

Ilya finished his wine with a smirk at the thought of Hayden blowing his own head off because he was an idiot. 

Unlikely, but not impossible.

Amidst that chaos of torn jerseys and lost teeth, Shane stood apart. He was motionless near the blue line, leaning on his stick. He looked, quite simply, hollowed out. 

Ilya felt a pang of pity for his boyfriend. 

He was the Captain of a team of idiots that had just beaten a team of failures.

He pulled out his phone. 

Ilya: That was easy. 

Less than half an hour later, his phone rang. 

Shane: Fuck off. I think I have a bruised rib.

 Ilya: Hurry home. So I can kiss it better.

Ilya chuckled and opened the game's Twitter feed

@BradJennings: Florida took the ice with only one goal: broken bones.

@KeithOConnor: Technical analysis of the brawl: Miller looked at Pike with the same confusion as a man finding a pissed-off raccoon in his washing machine.

Ilya laughed out loud at that one, and the temptation to retweet was powerful. But he refrained. He kept scrolling until he reached the ones he had opened the app for in the first place.

@LolaVance: Anyone seen Rozanov? Ilya is in Montreal, the Metros win, the universe makes sense.

@VanessaDupuis: But is no one talking about the hickey on Hollander’s neck? Rozanov mauled him.

@MathieuPerron: Shane ignoring the final brawl is peak "I have a better date than this" energy. He won, he’s marked up, and he has a Russian waiting for him at home. Florida can burn for all he cares.

Ilya let the phone slide onto the sofa, the display dying like a fading star in the darkness of the living room. The words were charged with that morbid curiosity that always precedes the recognition of a new world order. And it all revolved around that name.

Hollanov.

Ilya rolled it over his tongue. It was a phonetic atrocity. A name conceived by someone who hated both the harmony of Slavic tongues and the precision of Anglo-Saxon ones. It was a bastard term, a violent portmanteau that erased individual identities to create a two-headed monster. 

It sounded more like the name of a nerve gas than a love story.

And yet, Ilya couldn't stop thinking about it. The more he found it repulsive, the more he felt a sick desire to claim it. 

He wanted to tattoo it onto his skin, perhaps on his wrist or the crook of his elbow, where the blood flows closest to the surface.

The entire world, without even knowing it, was already murmuring the name of his victory.

Hollanov. 

Atrocious. Magnificent. His.

It was all too perfect to be a coincidence. Ilya felt a sense of omnipotence that almost took his breath away: the idea that the universe had finally stopped improvising to perform the script he had written in the secret of his own ego. 

Maybe he should have sent a letter to Trump. Yes, he probably should have. 

He wanted to tell him to stay calm, not to worry too much about his walls and his tariffs, because Ilya had just discovered a much more effective way to build an empire: convincing the Almighty to act as your guarantor.

"Dear Donald," he might have written, "I am winning the most rigged game in history, and I am doing it with God’s blessing. And you know what? God isn't a homophobe."

Both Ilya and the toupeed President knew what it meant to take what they wanted without asking anyone's permission, but Ilya had just obtained the divine seal on his possession.

The electronic lock clicked. Shane crossed the threshold, evidently in pain, every step a grimace barely held in check under the weight of the hits he’d taken. He had a furious look in his eyes, a rage that lit them with a dangerous light. 

Shane didn’t greet him. He stood still in the entryway, his features taut. "Next game," he said, his voice a promise of destruction, "I’ll make them cry so hard they'll leak baptismal water."

As Ilya closed the distance, feeling the feverish heat Shane brought with him, he fervently hoped that God had gone for a nap. He didn’t want that omniscient eye to wake up and decide to revoke its favor upon seeing how he intended to celebrate his good fortune.

The problem wasn't that people weren't connecting the dots. 

The problem was that they were doing it with the sluggishness of a sedated sloth, and this tempo was completely out of sync with the milestones of El Plan.

At this stage of their story, Ilya had expected at least TMZ to have snatched up the gift he was handing them on a silver platter. 

Instead, nothing. Everything remained confined between the whispers of obsessed fans and keyboard-warrior skepticism.

The most obvious solution would have been to kiss Shane in public. But that was too easy, too lazy. Ilya didn’t feel that generous; a world of such mediocrity didn’t deserve for him to stoop to their level of banality. 

He wanted them to suffer a little longer in their uncertainty, because the stupid deserve nothing but doubt.

Ilya’s plan was clear: he would show up at the Eastern Conference Final in front of a world that was already certain that he and Shane were a fixed point in the universe. 

But according to his calculations, while Shane was playing away games in Florida, the press should have already been analyzing their "plausible" romance with journalistic scrutiny.

Instead, a void. A black hole of idiocy.

Shane had shown up with a hickey the day after their dinner. A hickey. What else was Ilya supposed to do to make it more obvious? Carve his initials into the man's forehead with a skate blade? Sure, a few brilliant minds among the fans had figured it out, but they weren't loud enough to draw the attention Ilya required. Critical mass had not yet been reached.

But Ilya was prepared for this. After all, God had chosen him as His strongest soldier for the toughest battles, and the war against human imbecility was undoubtedly the challenge of the century.

If the world was too slow, he would simply push harder.

@NHL_HUMOR ✅
[Image description: Shane Hollander at center ice, arms raised toward the Bell Centre stands. Over the photo, a giant red font reads: "FIRED"]

Caption: BREAKING NEWS: The Montreal Metros have fired Shane Hollander with immediate effect. 🚫🏒 Management stated: "There is no 'I' in team." The Captain’s response: "True, but there is a 'ME'." 💅✨
#ShaneHollander #MontrealMetros #NHLHumor #CarryJob #Hollanov

❤️ Liked by @rozanov81 ✅

@hockey_parody_daily ✅
Exclusive footage from the Metros' practice in Miami. Shane stated: "Water is just ice that hasn't realized who’s in charge yet." 🌊👑

❤️ Liked by @rozanov81 ✅

@NHL_GAZETTE ✅
[Image description: Photo of Shane Hollander stepping off the team bus for the flight to Florida. He’s wearing a charcoal grey suit, dark sunglasses despite it being evening, and walks with a stiffness that betrays his physical pain. A visible bandage is plastered over his left cheekbone.]

Caption: Captain, you’re sexy even with the bruises.

❤️ Liked by @rozanov81 ✅

@NHL ✅
[Image: Shane Hollander. His jersey is disheveled and his arms are high as he celebrates the final horn.]

Caption: METROS WIN. 3-0 series lead. #playoffs

@rozanov81 ✅: 🔥

@BradJenning: Someone please take Rozanov’s phone away.

@Jean-Jacques Boiziau✅ (Personal Profile)
[Team group photo on the ice. Shane is in the middle of the scrum.]

Caption: This is a TEAM. Proud of us! 🔴🔵 #TeamWork #3-0

@rozanov81 ✅: Nice nativity scene, Boiziau. Next time try to have everyone else out of focus and keep Hollander in plain sight. It’s a shame to hide him like that.

@HAYDEN_PIKE_OFFICIAL ✅ (Personal Profile)
[Selfie of Hayden Pike and Shane Hollander on the team plane. Pike is making a peace sign with his fingers; Shane looks completely wrecked beside him.]

Caption: Brothers on ice. 3-0. No one stops us! 👽🏒

@rozanov81 ✅: Pike, put that hand down.

@BerkosWolz ✅ (Panthers Goalie)
[In full goalie gear on the ice.]

Caption: The door is barred. Metros, come get some.

@rozanov81 ✅: I almost feel sorry for you.

@MillerDavid ✅ (Panthers Defenseman)
[Selfie]

Caption: Voyageurs, we’re waiting for you.

@rozanov81 ✅: Try not to trip on the ice; it would be a shame if Hollander had to waste time dodging you.

@MTL_METROS ✅ (Official Account)
[Shane Hollander sitting in the locker room after Game 3. He is shirtless, with a towel draped over his shoulders; sweat beads on his chest, and the dark purple mark on his neck is perfectly visible. He smiles at the camera with a triumphant exhaustion, holding the game-winning puck.]

Caption: Three-nothing. Our captain thanks you for the support. See you for Game 4, Florida! 🔴🔵🔥 #GoMetros

@MeganFoster_99: @ShaneHollanderofficial ✅ Captain, can I have your number? Asking for a friend.

@rozanov81 ✅ (replying to @puck_simp_99): I’m the friend.

@MeganFoster_99: BRO WTF.

LIVE FEED: #FLAvsMTL – GAME 4 (SERIES 0-3)

7:45 PM – PRE-GAME

@FlaPanthers ✅
The heat is on, the claws are sharp. Are you ready for the comeback? 🐾🔥 #TimeToHunt #NHLPlayoffs

@rozanov81 ✅
You’ve confused a hype video with a brochure for an assisted living facility for seniors who are afraid of the ice. The only thing you’ll be hunting tonight is the puck at the back of your own net. Good luck, you’re going to need it. #LoserCard

8:15 PM – PUCK DROP

@Metro_Stats ✅
Puck drop! Game 4 is underway. The series can end tonight. 🏒

@rozanov81 ✅
I’m looking at Florida’s top line and wondering if they just learned to skate yesterday or if this is a social experiment on human resistance to shame. Skate, don’t cruise.

8:45 PM – GOAL! 1-0 METROS

@NHL ✅
SHANE HOLLANDER! The Captain wastes no time. Montreal takes the lead! 🚨 #HollanderMode

@rozanov81 ✅
Hollander is cutting through your defense like you’re practice cones on a Monday morning. Ekblad, move those legs. You’re as slow as Moscow traffic in rush hour.

@Hollanov_Fan
Shane looks like a God among mortals tonight, Ilya do you agree?

@rozanov81 ✅ Yes.

@rozanov81 ✅
Miller, the puck is that black thing that just zipped past you while you were admiring the ceiling architecture. #Embarrassing

9:30 PM – END OF SECOND PERIOD

@Metro_Radio ✅
Panthers tie it up and take a quick lead. 2-1. The Metros' defense seems to be struggling.

@rozanov81 ✅
Florida is celebrating goals that have the grace of a car wreck. Nothing but chaos and luck. Tkachuk, stop hitting Hollander after the whistle and try playing hockey for once. Oh wait, I forgot: you can’t. All you know how to do is whine to the refs. Pathetic.

@PantherPride
Go back to Russia, Rozanov!

@rozanov81 ✅
Keep screaming, maybe your goalie will hear you and finally learn how to close his five-hole.

10:15 PM – TIE GAME! 2-2

@NHL ✅
TWO FOR NUMBER 24! Shane Hollander levels the score! 🚨🚨

@rozanov81 ✅
🔥

11:00 PM – THIRD PERIOD

@FlaPanthers ✅
Total pressure! Montreal is on the ropes. 🐾🚨

@rozanov81 ✅
Gudas, you look like a drunken lumberjack. If I felt like it, I’d come to Florida and buy you just for the pleasure of firing you in writing.

@MTL_Metros ✅
HAT TRICK! THE CAPTAIN! 3-2! FLORIDA IS SILENCED! 🚨🚨🚨 #Sweep #GoMetros

@rozanov81 ✅
Hollander, don't shake hands with Barkov. He doesn't even deserve a look from you.

12:15 AM – FINAL SCORE: 3-2

@NHL ✅
The Montreal Metros advance to the second round! A 4-0 series sweep against Florida.

@rozanov81 ✅
@FlaPanthers enjoy the sun, it’s the only thing you can handle without humiliating yourselves.

"Harris. I hope you're calling to congratulate me," Ilya began. "I’ve just discovered I’m the most influential athlete in the NHL without even touching a puck tonight. My social media engagement is higher than the entire league’s combined."

"Ilya, shut your mouth and listen to me very carefully," Harris’s voice came through crackling, heavy with a nervous exhaustion that bordered on total mind crisis. "The Panthers’ PR head just kept me on the phone for thirty minutes. He says you are systematically bullying their players. They asked me, with extreme concern, if your account had been hacked."

"No hacking, Harris. You can tell them not to worry. It doesn't take a hacker to highlight the fact that they’re trash."

"You called Tkachuk illiterate under his personal photo! You threatened to buy out Gudas’s contract just for the pleasure of firing him via voice note! You compared an entire NHL franchise to a catalog of defective Swedish furniture!" Harris bellowed. "Ilya, you have to stop. Now. They’ve threatened a formal complaint to the League for unsportsmanlike conduct."

"Tkachuk doesn't know how to use the subjunctive. It’s a pedagogical observation, not an insult," Ilya countered, his tone that of someone receiving a medal of honor rather than a reprimand. "And I was serious about Gudas. I mean, have you seen the man play?"

"Stop it, or I’ll have to take measures."

Ilya pulled the phone away, looking at it with mock bewilderment as if the device itself could feel his disapproval, then brought it back to his ear. "So, let me get this straight. Are you telling me I should stop supporting my boyfriend?"

There was a seismic pause on the other end of the line. "Boyfriend? Ilya, didn't you two start... seeing each other, or whatever this is, like, yesterday?"

"He’s my boyfriend in my heart," Ilya emphasized, his tone brook no argument. "I still have to ask him officially, but he’ll say yes. He has no better alternatives on the market."

"Unless he dumps you first after the stunt you pulled today!" 

"Listen, Harris, let’s be logical," Ilya said. "I can’t publicly insult his shitty team, even if they deserve it. They are still his employers, and I am a devoted partner. But I can insult the people he’s playing against! It’s a perfectly legal gray area."

"No, it isn't!" Harris was spinning out of control now. "Not even the WAGs do that, Ilya!"

Ilya narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing. "Are you calling me a dog, Harris?"

"NO! WAGs are... Wives And Girlfriends! The players' wives!" Harris cut himself off. "That’s not important right now! The point is that no one in an athlete's inner circle acts like a fourteen-year-old troll! Stop insulting the other players, I’m dead serious."

"Homophobe."

"What?"

"You’re asking me to censor my love. To hide my nature. It’s discriminatory, Harris. I never expected this from you. You’ve sold out to the system, Harris. You’ve become one of those institutionalized homosexuals who prefer decorum over passion."

"Insulting members of another team is not passion!"

"I am supporting my man!"

"Stop doing it like this!"

"HOMOPHOBE."

Ilya hung up.

He reopened Instagram. He scrolled through the feed until he found yet another celebratory post from the Metros: a group photo in the Miami locker room, with Shane sitting in the center.

Is your Captain single by any chance?

Send.

Shane called exactly thirty minutes later.

"Moy lub—"

"Stop it."

"But—"

"Stop it."

And so, Ilya’s reign of terror came to its end.

He had plenty of followers now, though. The metrics from that hour of freedom were obscene, almost pornographic in their rate of expansion.

The hashtag #Hollanov had become a sentient organism. 

There was no way TMZ wouldn't be talking about it tomorrow, bringing the story into the living rooms of those who couldn't tell a puck from a coaster.

Only one thing was missing.

Ilya: We need to speed things up. You know what to do.

The notification arrived just a second later, illuminating his profile with a clinical, bluish light.

Rose Landry: I'm on it.

Chapter End Notes

Harris & Shane: Enough is enough. Stop it.
Ilya: "HOMOPHOBES."

Chapter 5: Amateur Scandal Management: Anatomy of a Betrayal

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone! Thanks for all the comments, there are so many of you! I’ll reply to everyone as soon as I can.

THE ECLIPSE OF GIANTS: A CONFERENCE SEMIFINALS ANALYSIS

By Jean-Baptiste Picard | Pro Technical Analysis – May 6, 2026

The conclusion of the opening round has redrawn the league's power map, shifting the gravity away from traditional markets toward the Canadian axis and the rigid systems of the Metropolitan Division. This post-season has dismantled assumptions once thought immovable.

The most striking data emerges from the Atlantic Division, now bereft of the Boston Raiders. Following a regular season defined by a troubling lack of continuity, the Massachusetts squad faces a competitive vacuum that demands a scorched-earth roster overhaul. Simultaneously, the New York Admirals’ exit in a decisive Game 7 exposed structural flaws in high-pressure management. Despite possessing superior depth on paper, the Big Apple’s franchise succumbed to a finishing deficit that barred them from the tournament’s inner sanctum.

Amidst this transition of power, the Montreal Metros have asserted clinical supremacy. Their four-game sweep of the Florida Panthers was the byproduct of constant asymmetric pressure. Shane Hollander solidified his role as the tactical catalyst, orchestrating transitions with a meticulousness that rendered every opponent counter-attack futile. More than a victory, Montreal’s performance was a masterclass in tempo control, allowing the Metros' core to enter the second round with their physical workload perfectly optimized.

The bracket now offers a clash rooted in history: a derby against the Toronto Guardians. This promises to be a collision of opposing paradigms, where Montreal’s systemic solidity will be tested against the aggression and desperation of a city that has spent decades awaiting its consecration.

On the other side of the Eastern Conference, the showdown between Carolina and New Jersey will define the finalist tasked with challenging the North’s burgeoning hegemony. Currently, statistical projections continue to favor the Carolina Hurricanes. Their ability to stifle play in the neutral zone, paired with a redundancy of elite talent across every line, positions the Raleigh franchise as the definitive litmus test for Hollander’s ambitions.

The road to the Finals appears to be a duel between Montreal’s efficiency and Carolina’s systemic dominance. However, for the Metros, any championship speculation must first survive the physical and psychological attrition of a series against Toronto.

[ 💬 Comments: 1,482 ]

User Guardians.Updates • 2 min ago 🚨 BOMBSHELL: Word is the Toronto official account has pre-emptively BLOCKED Ilya Rozanov. They don't want him anywhere near their mentions. The fear of Ilya’s trash-talking is more real than their actual defense. 🍁🚫😂 #GuardsNation #TorontoVsIlya

Ottawa Centaurs ✅ @Centaurs_Official

The Ottawa Centaurs organization does not condone or endorse the recent comments shared on social media by a member of our team. We extend our sincerest apologies to the Florida Panthers organization, their fanbase, and the NHL for the inappropriate tone displayed. We remain committed to the values of sportsmanship and mutual respect. #NHL #Centaurs

@SeanConnolly: Finally! Rozanov is a generational talent, but he acts like a spoiled child. It was about time the front office distanced itself from this circus.

@AlinaSokolova: "Sportsmanship"? This is literally the most entertaining thing to happen in these playoffs! Ottawa, you guys are boring. Let the man live.

[TMZ SPORTS — EXCLUSIVE] 

ICE ON FIRE: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are the Real Deal! Inside the Romance Rocking the NHL

While Canada holds its breath for the playoffs, a fire is raging outside the rinks that neither ice nor official PR statements can extinguish. Despite the media frenzy reaching a fever pitch, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have chosen the path of absolute silence.

According to our exclusive intel, the spark was ignited far from the spotlight, shortly after both players went public with their coming out. It was reportedly Hockey’s "Bad Boy," Ilya Rozanov, who made the first move by sliding into Hollander’s Instagram DMs. From there, what started as professional banter reportedly evolved into a date in Montreal and, swiftly, into something far deeper.

Our sources claim that Hollander’s Miami suite during the series against the Panthers was practically under siege by floral deliveries. Hotel staff reported a non-stop parade of couriers that turned the Captain’s room into a high-end flower shop. While Hollander was dismantling the Panthers on the ice, Rozanov was emptying South Florida’s nurseries: dozens upon dozens of long-stemmed red roses, rare orchids, and monumental arrangements allegedly crowded every surface, making it difficult for the Captain to even reach his bed.

But the definitive proof of how serious this bond has become it happened behind the closed doors of a strictly private dinner in Montreal. Sources close to both entourages confirm that Ilya Rozanov has already faced the dreaded "meet the parents" showdown. Mr. and Mrs. Hollander seem reportedly thrilled with the new dynamic.

From Florida with Love (and Controversy) If you thought Rozanov was staying on the sidelines during the Metros' playoff run, you weren't looking at social media. The Centaurs’ Captain supported Hollander with a vocal ferocity that left many stunned. Rozanov essentially went on a digital rampage against Florida players via Twitter and Instagram. His conduct was so aggressive it triggered a diplomatic incident: several analysts and fans are now calling for the NHL to take disciplinary action against Rozanov for unsportsmanlike conduct.

An Unprecedented Scenario If things continue this seriously, next season we could face a situation unprecedented in professional sports history: two captains of rival franchises, in a relationship, ready to go to war for the same goal.

[ 💬 Comments: 1,482 ]

User: Lius.76 • 2 min ago Give me a break. It’s TMZ, they peddle BS every other week. "Flowers in Florida"? Who was the source, the vase?

When Love Becomes Legend

By "The Netminder" – May 7, 2020

We all fell for it, or perhaps, we simply chose to turn a blind eye. When the first photos of them surfaced weeks ago, dining in a quiet spot far from the usual team circuits, the official narrative pivoted instantly toward "mutual respect between champions." But today, that veneer of professional courtesy has shattered. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov appear to be far more than just rivals on the ice.

Why did we dismiss those shots so easily? Their demeanor went well beyond friendly; they shared looks that had very little to do with hockey. Sources close to the players confirm that the two left together that night. Ilya never returned to Ottawa, not for the following several days, at least. It takes little imagination to deduce he wasn’t spending those nights in a hotel.

The pair seems to have gone from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. Word has it that Ilya has already been formally introduced to the Hollanders. It is a move that elevates a potential fling into something deeply serious and established.

After all, their personal arcs had already rewritten the league’s playbook. When Rozanov came out, the shock was palpable: the quintessential playboy had transformed, almost ironically, into a bisexual icon for young queer athletes. For Hollander, the path was a mirror image, yet distinct. Rumors regarding his sexuality had echoed through NHL corridors for years; his official confirmation was merely the final piece of a mosaic everyone had already assembled. But Shane is more than a name on a scoresheet: he is the face of queer Canadian youth, an Olympic champion, and a record-breaker who has proven that talent has no orientation.

We are talking about two heavyweights of the sport: two superstars who have spent years systematically dismantling every league record. It is almost inconceivable that we are actually writing this headline; that an event of this magnitude is concretely unfolding.

This moment is destined to alter the landscape of the sport forever. While they weren't the absolute first to step out of the closet, destiny seems to have reserved a different kind of "first" for them. This is the collision of two legendary careers choosing to intertwine. It had to be them: the first players of this caliber to live their relationship in the light of day. Once again, Shane and Ilya have secured a historic trophy; one that won't sit in a glass case, but one that definitively changes the rules of the game.

Yet, beyond the media frenzy, it’s the human element that has stunned those within the league’s orbit. Sources describe Ilya Rozanov as a man completely detached from his public persona. The inscrutable superstar has seemingly given way to a version of himself that is utterly infatuated, nearly unrecognizable to those accustomed to his stoicism. Shane is no different; he appears equally captivated, swept up in a chemistry that seems to have dismantled his usual professional defenses.

Insiders report Hollander is in peak mental and physical form: centered, satisfied, and thriving personally. Contrary to those who feared such a distraction might hamper his performance, the facts suggest the opposite.

The Metros' captain is aiming for the Cup, as always, but there is a lingering sense that he has already claimed the season's most significant prize far from the rink.

[ 💬 Comments: 1,482 ]

User: PuckAndChaos • 2 min ago At this rate, if Shane posted a blurry photo of his elbow, Ilya would comment: "Anatomical perfection."

Metros Up 3-0: The Scoreboard Is Deceptive

THE HOCKEY TIMES - May 13, 2020

MONTRÉAL – The series lead against Toronto is substantial, but the manner in which the Metros are achieving these results demands a harsh critique. Winning three consecutive games while scoring a total of only four goals, against an opponent fielding backups due to an overwhelming injury list, cannot be seen as a display of strength. While a spot in the Conference Finals is within reach, the gap between this team and the standard required to lift the Stanley Cup seems to widen with every period played.

The Weight of Individual Talent

In this landscape, Hollander continues to prove he is a generational talent. He is the kind of athlete who, even on an off night, impacts the game and maintains a higher standard than anyone else on the ice. His ability to read the play and resolve critical situations is the sole reason Montréal holds a 3-0 lead. However, relying exclusively on his skill set is a risk the front office can no longer ignore. One man, no matter how extraordinary, cannot withstand the physical toll of a deep postseason run against more structured and healthy rosters.

A Disconnected Roster

The primary issue lies in the collective puck management. The Metros appear to be a tired group, lacking the necessary mental sharpness during the game's decisive moments. What is most concerning is the evident lack of communication between units: passes are frequently off-target, defensive rotations are out of sync, and mutual support during puck possession is nearly non-existent. Instead of fluid play, we are seeing isolated rushes that regularly collapse against the Guardians' defense.

Despite Toronto being in clear physical and technical distress, the Metros have never managed to establish a comfortable lead. Winning 1-0 means remaining constantly one play away from a tie. An unacceptable situation for a team that should be dominating the ice given their vastly superior roster.

Doubts About the Title

At the start of the playoffs, Montréal was everyone’s pick to win it all. After these three games, that certainty is wavering. A team that struggles to put away an opponent playing at half-strength will likely fail to hold up against the winners from the other side of the bracket. If the Cup is truly to return to Montréal, an immediate change of course is required.

Winning isn't enough when the performance remains mediocre. The 3-0 lead is a stranglehold on the series, but if the team cannot rediscover how to play as a collective, the Stanley Cup dream risks shattering as soon as the level of competition rises. Relying on the luck of opponent injuries and the miracles of Hollander will not last forever.

Ottawa, May 13, 2020

“Boyle, if you get a single smudge on my sofa, I swear you’ll have to learn how to skate on your teeth.”

Boyle, a bowl of chips teetering in his left hand, a beer in his right, and a plastic cup clamped between his teeth, froze instantly. He had the glazed look of a deer caught in the high beams of a pickup truck barreling through the dead of night. He attempted a lopsided grin, trying to keep everything balanced while the empty cup dangled from his chin.

There were peanut shells where peanut shells had no business being, and the scent of charcoal drifting in from the patio was slowly assassinating the expensive fragrance Ilya paid a premium to keep in the air.

“This den of yours is an insult to the working class, Cap,” Hayes croaked from the garden, his voice already raspy from the first round of drinks. “I was honestly wondering how the hell you spent your salary.”

Ilya shot him a look of feigned annoyance. “Don’t overdo it. Taxes are eating me alive.”

“Oh, sure, poor destitute millionaire,” Bood chuckled. He was stationed at the grill alongside Dillon, who was handing him tongs and spices with the solemn urgency of a surgical assistant in a heart transplant.

They were both wearing embarrassing aprons. One featured a muscular torso in a bikini, the other read Kiss the Cook (if you dare). Ilya was ready to swear on his life that he had never purchased them, let alone authorized them within his property lines. They had likely been smuggled in under Young’s jacket.

“You know, most of my extras come from ad campaigns,” Ilya retorted, leaning against the frame of the French doors. “It’s called ‘brand management.’ You should try looking into it sometime. Ah, wait, I forgot... for that, you actually need a face that doesn't look like it survived a head-on collision with a train.”

A chorus of creative insults and raucous laughter rose through the charcoal smoke.

“You guys hear about Murphy? It’s official, he’s out,” LaPotine suddenly called out, swaying his beer bottle. “I’m sick of this circus. We change coaches more often than we change sock tape.”

“Who are they sending to the gallows this time?” someone shouted from the back of the garden.

LaPotine shrugged, his gaze fixed on the bottom of his bottle. “Crickets, for now. No one’s exactly dying to come to Ottawa.”

The atmosphere turned heavy for a moment, thick with the frustration of men who knew they were worth more than their current spot in the standings.

"Hey," Ilya cut him off, his voice grating like a blade on ice. "I only invited you over to watch Shane demolish Toronto. Less bullshit about management, more beer in the glasses."

Evan gestured toward the screen with an annoyed flick of his head. The 2-0 lead for the Guardians felt like a verdict; Game 4 was sinking fast. "Not tonight," he muttered with a grimace. "Good thing the Metros took the first three. I can’t believe I’m actually rooting for those assholes." He pointed a finger at Ilya. "Mark this moment, because it’s never happening again."

Ilya didn’t answer. Shane was down again, leveled by a blind charge against the boards that seemed to make the very walls of the room tremble. He struggled to his feet while his teammates’ jerseys flashed past him, their eyes downcast or turned elsewhere. Meanwhile, the officials skated around the carnage with vacant stares and arms at their sides, ignoring the cheap shots that continued to rain down on Shane.

"That looks like a bad hit," Homberger murmured.

Ilya pulled out his phone to text Yuna: Are you seeing this?

Her reply was instant: I'm going to buy a rifle.

Get two.

He put the phone away, rage tightening in his chest as he watched Shane get shoved against the plexiglass yet again.

"They've been targeting him since the opening face-off. There’s no way the ref didn't see that."

"But his teammates are the first ones to leave him out there to die. Look at them, they won't lift a finger. They're scum."

"I guess that answers the question of how the Metros took the news, Cap," LaPotine muttered. "They’re playing for the Cup, dammit. Are they really stupid enough to let Hollander get injured?"

"Some people are allergic to other people's happiness."

A murmur of agreement closed the conversation. Everyone went back to staring at the game as the silence in the room grew heavy.

"I’m surprised Hollander is still speaking to you after the mess you stirred up on Twitter," Hayes piped up, stepping back in from the patio. "I mean, I read the TMZ article."

Ilya hummed, his gaze pinned to the screen as Shane collapsed onto the Metros' bench. He pressed his lips together when he saw him close his eyes, head leaning against the glass, visibly drained. 

“You’re my God, Cap,” Young exclaimed, jumping to his feet with eyes shining with near-fanatical adoration. “Literally my God. Calling the Florida defensemen ‘IKEA mannequins’ in the official comments was…” he kissed his fingers loudly, a gesture of pure ecstasy. “Chef’s kiss.”

“I’m sure Harris didn't see it that way,” Dillon said, snickering.

“The truth is, they just can’t stand me stating the obvious,” Ilya said. “Shane slaughtered them. I just provided the soundtrack for their funeral.”

“I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that you’re fuckiing Shane Hollander.”

“I’m not fucking him, Boyle. We’re in a relationship.”

“Does Hollander know that?”

Ilya shot him a look that could have curdled milk.

Boyle’s hands flew up instantly, nearly sending the bowl of chips into orbit. “I’m just saying,” he added quickly, backpedaling as the rest of the team held their collective breath, “it’s a hell of a pace for something serious. I mean, you’ve been seeing each other for… what? Ten days?”

“You really need to pump the brakes,” Bood chimed in, brandishing a pair of grease-stained tongs. “It’s like you hit fast-forward on a three-hour movie. You went from ‘maybe we hate each other’ to ‘meet the parents’ in less time than it takes Boyle to kill a beer. And Boyle is fast.”

Boyle nodded solemnly in agreement.

“Are you calling me irresponsible?”

“We’re just saying, well… maybe it’s a bit early to call it official, right?” Homberger clapped him on the shoulder, a brotherly gesture meant to steer the conversation back to safer ice. “Just enjoy the ride, Cap. You don’t need to plan out the rest of your life during the second round of the playoffs.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“We know,” Nick said, his tone indulgent. He glanced at the others uncomfortably. “It’s just… we don’t want to see you get burned if things don't pan out, you know?”

“Why wouldn't they? Shane and I are fine.”

In truth, “fine” was a massive understatement.

Swapping that J for an S had made him kick his legs on the bed like a blushing schoolgirl. Every now and then, he still picked up the phone just to stare at the screen and read his name.

Still, Ilya could understand his teammates' skepticism. To the outside world, their story looked like a train wreck waiting to happen: he was back in Ottawa, while Shane was locked down between Montreal and Toronto for the playoff bubble.

It hadn't been Ilya's choice, to be clear. He wasn't a deserter; he was an exile.

Shane had been immovable regarding his “no sex during playoffs” clause, a superstition Ilya found colossally idiotic. Especially considering they’d hooked up the night of the first win against Florida and it had been magnificent.

But Ilya, for all his posturing as a hard-ass, was terrifyingly weak when it came to Shane Hollander’s whims. He would do anything, even endure this forced celibacy, while waiting patiently for Shane to realize one sacred truth: the Hockey Gods do not forget a lucky ritual.

During Game 4 against Florida, Ilya had spent the night systematically dismantling their opponents on social media, fraying their nerves one tweet at a time, and the Metros had won.

Now that Shane had muzzled him, forbidding even a single comment on Toronto’s posts, the situation was spiraling. The Guardians were on the verge of taking the game, clawing back into the series the exact moment Ilya went silent.

He didn't believe in coincidences. Statistics were an exact science: if you stop chirping the enemy and they start scoring, the goalie isn't the problem. The guy who broke the ritual is.

God clearly sensed that Ilya was planning to stay silent during Game 4 and was channeling His displeasure through an embarrassing goal by Tavares, of all people.

His silence was feeding the enemy. How Shane couldn't see that defied all reason.

Ilya’d feared this would happen, and he’d tried to propose logical solutions to bypass the issue.

“I could use my burner account.”

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening.

“What burner account?”

“The one I use to chirp Hunter when I’m bored.”

Shane, who until that moment had been blissfully unaware of the existence of that minor masterpiece of anonymous trolling, had hung up on him.

A few seconds later, the verdict arrived via text.

Shane: No social media, no comments, no burner accounts. Don’t make me have my mother confiscate your phone.

Shane had even forbidden him from interacting with the Metros; apparently, his "likes" and comments under his teammates' photos had sparked full-blown panic in the locker room.

Not that this forced abstinence had done much good. Watching the game now, Ilya had never felt such a primal urge to insult someone in his life. Or to be behind the wheel of a truck the exact moment Cameau decided to cross the street.

Accidents happen, after all.

But he had made a promise, so he had retreated into private life, vanishing from the digital radar with the offended dignity of a misunderstood philosopher.He sat there in a state of almost mystical anticipation, watching events decline with mounting frustration.

“We’re not doubting that you’re good right now,” Young rushed to say. “But it might not work out down the line. It happens, you know? Two people think they’re a match and then realize they’re just not built for a relationship.”

“That doesn't apply to Hollander and me,” Ilya said, waving the thought away. “We’re perfect together.”

The silence that followed held the solemnity of an emergency consult in a psychiatric ward, where doctors try to explain, with extreme gentleness, to the most delusional patient that the wall is not a door.

His teammates were terrified that Hollander was going to break his heart. As if Shane could actually dump him at any moment just because Ilya was “too much to handle.” 

Sweet children, he thought.

“TMZ is going to dine out on this for years, that’s for damn sure,” Evan muttered with a dry laugh, attempting to loosen the knot of tension tightening in the room.

Dillon shook his head, his expression thick with disgust. “God knows where they dig this shit up. Fucking vultures.”

If Ilya didn't consider American pop culture the terminal symptom of Western decadence, he would have looked around for an invisible camera at that exact moment, staring dead into the lens to let the audience in on the joke.

It would have been the perfect moment for one of those jittery, awkward zooms typical of a mockumentary, capturing the betrayal written across his features: that tiny, unforgivable second where his indifference buckled under the weight of a poorly hidden euphoria.

The scene would have cut sharply then, projecting him onto a velvet sofa in his living room.

He could already see himself there, sitting with his back straight and hands composed, explaining to his audience that Dillon was far too emotional to understand that the media are lazy animals. If they aren’t fed a buffet of prime cuts, they start digging where they shouldn't. Consequently, one must arrange the corpses just right.

Shane was his center of gravity, the most magnetic man he’d ever met, yet Ilya wouldn't have hesitated to call him a social catastrophe. He was a walking disaster, someone capable of tripping over the syllables of a basic greeting; a glitch in the system who, by some inexplicable whim of fate, had managed to secure the friendship of the most untouchable actress on the planet.

A friendship Ilya had decided to exploit to its absolute limit.

Ilya would have introduced Rose Landry as his personal Olivia Pope, but with the added benefit of a red-carpet wardrobe and a reach that extended where political consultants didn't even dare to dream.

If Pope fixed scandals, Rose tailored them. She was a master at planting a lethal "confidential tip" between a dress fitting and a sip of champagne, acting with the poise of someone who knows the world will drink any poison, provided it’s served in a crystal flute.

Rose utilized a network of informants that made Game of Thrones’ Varys look like a rank amateur. They were her "little birds": a pedigree of professional gossips, personal assistants, and ex-lovers who whispered into the right ear just so the rumor would reach the wrong one. The same blueprint as King’s Landing, but with fewer beheadings and significantly more skincare.

Ilya hadn't even needed to stoop to the gutter of blackmail; he hadn't had to remind her: “Hey, you fucked my future husband, now you owe me one.” Rose had accepted el Plan with an almost alarming enthusiasm, confirming the suspicion that even the heights of Hollywood Olympus can become a deadly boring place.

Sure, the flower business in Florida had spiraled out of control, and the dinners with Yuna and David certainly weren't lobster-course affairs, but he could blame no one but himself: giving an actress carte blanche is like handing a flamethrower to a bored toddler.

But it had served its purpose.

Once he finished explaining the evolution of the final stage of Phase Two, the scene would have closed on Shane’s face, sunk deep into the cushions beside him, staring into the void with the expression of a man who has finally accepted that his love life has become the private dossier of a prime-time supervillain.

The sudden roar of the crowd ripped him out of his internal documentary. Reality crashed back into the room through the television speakers, an electric boom that made the windowpanes vibrate. On the screen, Shane had snagged an impossible puck at full speed, pivoting in a phone booth of ice to let fly a snap shot that died exactly under the crossbar, right where the goalie could do nothing but act as a paying spectator.

Someone in the room let out a whistle of admiration as the slow-motion replays showed Shane sliding exultantly against the boards, surrounded by the delirium of the arena.

Ilya searched for Shane’s smile, the one that just barely curled the corners of his mouth and that the camera never quite managed to catch. He lost himself in the constellation of freckles invading the bridge of his nose: tiny sunspots that Ilya considered his exclusive property.

He is beautiful, even if his eyes are weary and he doesn’t raise his arms to the sky after the goal, likely out of sheer exhaustion. He just stands there, shoulders slumped, catching his breath while his teammates join him with an enthusiasm that feels forced. 

“You’re drooling, Cap.”

Ilya exhaled slowly, his eyes still locked on Shane. “I’m going to marry that man.”

“Next time we try to give you advice, remind us of this moment and just how useless it was.”

There were five minutes left in the third period, and Shane felt every second weighing like molten lead in his veins. The ice, now a wasteland of deep ruts and white powder, was a swamp trying to pull him under with every stride.

His lungs were burning. A cold fire tearing at his throat with every short, ragged breath. He tasted the copper tang of blood in the back of his mouth, and his vision blurred at the edges, a warning flare from a body pleading for a truce he couldn't grant. 2-1. The scoreboard was a red smudge accusing him from high above the arena.

“Faggot.” The slur hit him along with a sharp elbow to the ribs, right as he leaned into the boards to protect the puck. It was a greasy whisper, thick with a contempt so dense it felt tangible. Shane grit his teeth, the rattle of his shin guard against the wood echoing in his chest.

“You're used to being on your knees anyway.”

Shane didn't answer. He had no breath for words, and perhaps no strength left for pure rage. It was a dull frustration, hollowing him out as he watched the referee, just a few feet away, turn his head with practiced ease, suddenly fascinated by a puck bounce at the far end of the rink. That silent complicity, that unwritten permission to verbally massacre him until the clock hit zero, hurt worse than the slash he felt across the back of his thigh a moment later.

An acidic heat, born of sweat and tears of sheer exhaustion, pressed against his eyelids beneath the cage of his helmet. He just wanted it to end.

He wanted silence.

Then, the whistle blew.

Shane dragged himself toward the face-off circle, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal. Across from him, Dallas Kent lined up with a smirk.

“Hey, Hollander,” Kent whispered. “I heard Rozanov is already looking for fresh meat in Ottawa. Someone who isn't a whining fairy like you.”

Shane didn't blink. He stared at the puck, refusing to give Kent the satisfaction of a glance, but the poison had already seeped in, crawling under his soaked jersey.

The ref dropped the puck.

But Shane never had a chance to play it.

J.J. launched himself like a sledgehammer into Kent, lifting him off his feet before burying him into the boards. The rattle of the vibrating plexiglass was drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

Simultaneously, Hayden flew past like a projectile, leaping onto another Guardians defenseman trying to intervene. Hayden was spitting insults Shane couldn't even make out in the chaos, a torrent of protective fury that was setting the rink on fire.

In a split second, the ice filled with the screech of blades carving into a hard stop and the muffled thud of heavy gloves hitting the floor. Jerseys were torn and helmets flew as every single teammate threw themselves at an opponent, turning the face-off circle into a tangle of flesh, steel, and rage.

Shane stood frozen for a second, caught off guard by a defense he no longer dared to hope for.

A movement to his right made him snap to. Fists ready for anything.

“Barrett,” he said, devoid of joy. “Got any more insults for me?”

Troy Barrett just looked at him. His jaw was set, his neck muscles taut, but he didn't open his mouth. For a fleeting second, his eyes flicked toward the camera lens above them, a spark of awareness that deadened his gaze.

Evidently, the fear of public opinion made him too much of a coward to finish Kent's job.

Shane openly mocked him, spitting on the ice right at the toes of Barrett’s skates.

“Enjoy the win,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the din. “Because it’s the last one you’re getting.”

@ThomasWright: 5 minutes left. Tension you could cut with a hacksaw. 2-1 Guardians. #Metros #Guardians #game5

@MarcDubois: Shane is breathing through his ears; he’s done. And the Guardians keep hitting him dirty. Ref, you good? Waiting for them to bury him on the ice before you blow the whistle? 🤡.

@AlexandreMoreau: The Metros are playing like strangers who met by chance in the parking lot. If I were Shane, I’d start looking around. 😶🏒

@LukasStahl: I’m blind. I’m deaf. I want to be a ref. #NHL

@ElenaRostova: Someone give the Guardians a spare set of legs for Christmas, because Rozanov is going to snap theirs like twigs the first chance he gets. Wishing you a speedy recovery in advance! 🎄

@RyanNash: Skill level is so low tonight the Zamboni is coming out as an act of mercy just to sweep up our failures. #Metros

@TylerBrooks: Our defense is basically a 'Welcome' mat. We aren't guarding the net, we're hosting an open house.

@ChloeMercier: REEEEF?!

@JonasHolm: We went from a 'Power Play' to a 'Power Prayer' in under two minutes.

@ArthurPendleton: The ref looking the other way while they batter Hollander is a perfect mirror of this league. Disgraceful.

@DanielGauthier: FINALLY!

@JordanHayes: WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?

@SophieLaroche: JJ IS MY HUSBAND! KENT JUST BECAME A POSTER ON THE BOARDS!! LETS GOOOO 🚀💥💥 #MetrosGuardians

@GavinMiller: Hayden literally took flight. Someone give that man a sedative.

@DerekVance: Gloves are down! 🧤 The whole squad is all over the Guardians. Seems they bottled up three periods of repressed rage and let it out in ten seconds. ABOUT DAMN TIME.

@IanMacDonald: Hayden looks like Yoda on steroids.

@NilsJensen: LET’S GOOOOOOOOO

@TristanVandame: Imagine being Shane: you’re being pelted with homophobic slurs (because that’s exactly what Kent was doing, you could see it from his greasy lip-reading), the ref is asleep, and your teammates only wake up with minutes left. I’d have requested a trade between the second and third. 💼💨

@ClaraFontaine: Pike goes after a 220lb defenseman. Hayden’s wife from the couch: "And once again we’re buying new teeth, fantastic."

@SimonBeaudoin: Barrett’s face after Shane spat on him... he looked like a guy who just realized he sent a 5-minute voice note to the wrong person. 💀

@NikolaiVolkov: Ilya Rozanov is watching this game and already buying your kneecaps on eBay, Kent. Next season you’ll be playing hockey with concrete skates. 🛒

@ArthurPendleton: Seeing Shane Hollander walk off the ice alone while the others are brawling is the saddest image of the year.

@KatiaIvanova: Does anyone have a video of the Metros watching Shane get absolutely pummeled? I’d like to use it as a tutorial on 'How to make an entire nation hate you in 60 seconds.' 🛋️🤡

He replied on autopilot, never meeting the reporters' eyes. "We’re focused on our game. We know what needs to be fixed." 

About the brawl, he was categorical: "Playoff tension makes you lose your cool. It’s part of the game."

Then came the direct question: "Shane, what do you have to say about the rumors regarding your relationship with Ilya Rozanov?" 

Shane clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I don’t answer any questions that aren't about hockey," he replied calmly. 

He carried on for another two minutes, talking tactics and plays, until they finally let him go. Only in the tunnel leading to the locker room did he allow his posture to break. The Coach watched him from the corridor, far too smug for a man whose team had just lost a playoff game. 

See? I told you you’d be a problem. 

Shane gritted his teeth and brushed past him without a glance.

He crossed the threshold of the locker room, and the hum of voices ebbed into near-total silence. Shane didn't care. He dragged himself to his stall and began stripping off his jersey, pads, and base layer, groaning as he had to lift his arms. He looked at his ribs; there was a worrying bruise, far too large to be a simple hit. He closed his eyes and forced a deep breath to stave off the nausea, but had to cut it short with a wince of pain. 

"You should have a doctor look at that," J.J. said from the other side of the room, in the stall opposite his. "It looks bad."

Shane had always considered himself a man of peace. 

Being the result of a cross between Japanese rigor and the pathological courtesy of the Canadian prairies was a genetic curse he carried without having chosen it. His grandmother called that prison of silence gaman: the Japanese art of inhabiting pain without letting it alter the line of the jaw or the cadence of the breath. 

To him, "sorry, please, and thank you" weren't national clichés; they were his skeleton. 

On the ice, he had never cared for anything but the puck; he just wanted to play hockey, clean and fast. He gladly left the provocations, the dirty elbows, and the theater of threats to Ilya. It worked that way: Ilya was the noise, Shane was the movement. Violence remained a foreign language, an alphabet his body refused to learn.

Because of this, he couldn't recognize which neural short-circuit, which ancestral exhaustion, or which demon of pain guided his hand toward the steel water bottle resting on the bench. 

For an infinite second, Shane saw the trajectory: the steel slicing through the air aiming straight for J.J.’s face, the impact shattering his cheekbone, the sharp metallic crash against the locker. It was a hallucination of pure violence, so vivid it made his lungs burn. 

Later, he would feel a shiver of shame at the mere memory. Later, he would feel a nausea-inducing horror, humiliated by his own mind. But in that precise moment, as he stared at J.J. with dilated eyes, he felt only a fierce, lucid regret for not having followed through on that impulse.

The intent to kill was so legible on his face that J.J. imperceptibly flinched.

“Look, man, I’m sorry,” J.J. muttered. “We should’ve done something sooner.” 

A murmur of assent rippled through the room. Hayden was the only one who didn't join in; he sat rigid, his jaw locked tight. 

“We’ve talked among ourselves about this situation,” Drapeau began. He wouldn’t meet Shane’s eyes. “And we’ve come to an agreement.” 

“Don’t put this on me,” Hayden snapped, bolting upright. “I’m not part of this shit.” 

“It’s what’s best for the team, Pike,” Cameau shot back. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Hayden replied, looking to J.J. for support that never came. He cursed under his breath, then turned to Shane. “Don’t do it, Shane.”

Shane blinked, trying to stay afloat between the throbbing in his side and the fog rising from his diaphragm. 

Berks cleared his throat, seizing control of the conversation with his air of paternalistic mediator. “Listen, Shane. We don’t have a problem with you being gay. And the insults today were garbage; we should’ve pushed back long before the third period, and for that, we apologize.” 

“I don’t know what to do with your apologies,” Shane murmured, his voice exhausted. “Really, you can shove them wherever you like.” 

Berks took the hit, his eyebrows shooting up in shock at such a lack of courtesy. “Hey, that’s not fair—”

“You’re right, it isn’t fair,” Shane interrupted, and this time he looked up. “It’s not fair that I have to play with assholes. You’re just a group of people who waited for the opponents to punish me on your behalf. And the worst part is that you’re convinced an apology is enough to make me forget the shit I endured today.”

The silence that followed was different from the last. It was the sound of a bond snapping for good.

“That is exactly what we discussed,” Wilson murmured, stepping in. “We need to resolve this issue. Now.”

Shane, in his complete and utter inability to decode human behavior, could still tell that no solution existed.

A problem is something you can fix, Rose’s voice echoed in his ears. 

There wasn't much left to fix between them. 

“Fine.” He slammed his water bottle onto the bench with a flash of anger. “I’m listening.” 

“Give up the Captaincy.”

Shane turned toward Drapeau, the roar of blood thundering in his ears. He hoped he had misheard, that it was just another blow to the head playing tricks on him. 

“Could you repeat that?” he asked, and this time his voice truly trembled. 

“The fear that you might... slip, even unintentionally, is real. The team needs a captain without conflicts of interest.” 

“Conflicts of interest,” Shane repeated. The words left his mouth hollow, stripped of the authoritative weight he had always tried to give them. He tried to laugh, but the sound died in a dry rattle that burned his throat.

Under his fingers, he felt the coarse texture of the felt. To him, that scrap of fabric had never been just a letter. 

It was the exhaust fumes from the Zamboni at five in the morning, when the air in suburban rinks froze his lungs and he was too alone to complain. It was every time he had cried in a public restroom because his muscles were failing and there was no one to tell him he could stop. While his peers lost themselves in the hallways of colleges he’d only seen in movies, falling in love and making mistakes with the lightness of their twenties, Shane was learning how to sleep on buses.

That "C" was the receipt for every birthday spent in a hotel, for every bond never formed outside the locker room, for every fragment of innocence he had barattato for the illusion of belonging to something great. It was the sole witness to the fact that all those sacrifices had meant something. And now, they were tearing it off him as if it had cost nothing.

If he had come out years ago, he would never have held that rank. 

Taking it from him now meant telling him he had been a coward for nothing. It meant admitting he had mutilated his own happiness, denying himself even the joy of a candid photo with Ilya in the sunlight, all to earn a piece of cloth his teammates were now reducing to a bargaining chip with the same indifference one shows when throwing away used tape. 

Once again, the sport he loved had shoved a compromise for his happiness in his face. 

“You asked us to support you in your relationship with Rozanov; we will. But you can’t be Captain then.”

The others nodded, a wall of silent consensus and eyes that carefully avoided his. 

The absurd part was that Shane could actually follow their reasoning. 

If he’d been in their shoes, perhaps he would have looked at a teammate with the same detachment, ready to amputate the infected limb to save the body. Yet that meager, logical understanding didn't stop a terrifying void from opening beneath his feet, the vertigo of one who realizes they’ve built their home on sand.

Shane wasn’t an idiot; he knew perfectly well that when he went to Ottawa, they wouldn’t name him Captain. 

Not because he didn’t deserve it, but because Ilya would have sooner had his own leg amputated with a rusty skate than relinquish command of his team. And Shane, if the roles were reversed, would have demanded the same respect. 

Their love had been born right there: between gritted teeth and hits against the boards, in the immediate recognition of an identical ferocity. He loved him because Ilya would never let him win on the ice, not even after spending the night holding him. They were two men who collided like tectonic plates, and that ruthless symmetry was the only thing that made them possible. 

So, yes, Shane knew he wouldn’t remain Captain for long. It was a tribute he was more than willing to pay.

But it should have been his choice. 

Having that resignation forced upon him was something else entirely.

In a way, it was also a relief. 

If he was no longer their captain for the future, he no longer had to worry about being the man they wanted him to be today. If he no longer had to lead them toward a stability they didn't deserve, then he was no longer obligated to be the best version of himself. 

He would no longer have to endure post-game interviews, standing under the harsh lights while sweat trickled down his back and his wet jersey chafed his skin until he wanted to rip it off. He would no longer have to struggle to decipher reporters' questions while every fiber of his body screamed from sensory overload.

He could stop being generous out of duty. No more teammates asking him for a strip of tape. His tape, of the exact length and thickness, the only kind he could tolerate between his fingers. He could finally answer, "No, fuck off, buy your own," without worrying about locker room chemistry. 

But above all, it was an alibi. A perfect excuse for the record when, the following year, he would slam the door behind him. That decision provided him with the public motive he still lacked: they were the ones who had burned the bridges, while he had carried them to victory.

Shane would win that Cup; he would smile in the photos with the trophy in his hands and the letter still stitched to his chest for one last time. And then, he would kiss his fucking boyfriend in front of the whole world, right there, on the ice. 

He was free to be his worst version. Or simply, his truest.

“Fine,” he murmured. 

“Shane, no…” Hayden muttered, taking a step toward him. 

“It’s okay, Hayd,” he reassured him, raising a hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

Shane didn’t wait for another word. He bent down to gather his things, feeling the weight of the absence on his chest more acutely than the pain in his ribs. He wouldn't undress there. He wouldn't wash away the grime and the exhaustion alongside men who had just declared his honor a bargaining chip that embarrassed them. 

He stopped at the threshold, bag over his shoulder, hand on the cold handle. He turned just enough to look at the locker room one last time. 

“I’ve accepted. So you have no more excuses to hide behind,” he said calmly. “See to it that you don’t look like shit in the next game. I’m tired of playing alone.” He walked out without looking back, letting the sharp click of the door closing do the rest.

The only one to follow him was Hayden, but Shane ignored him. In that moment, the world around him was nothing but a blurred hum. He pulled his phone from the bag with fingers still trembling from residual adrenaline and fatigue. He placed the call as he walked toward the arena’s side exit, trying not to limp in front of security. 

Ilya answered on the first ring. “Are you okay?” 

Shane stopped in the shadows of the underground parking lot, leaning his shoulder against a concrete pillar. “I won’t be Captain next year,” he announced. “They voted.” 

Silence fell on the other end of the line, followed by a curse in Russian. Shane bit his lip, feeling the pain in his ribs sharpen now that the tension was ebbing. “Can you come to Montreal tomorrow?” 

“I’m already on the road. I’ll be waiting for you at home.”

The word "home" followed him to the hotel, and all through the next day, until he walked through the door of his apartment to see Ilya’s shoes in the rack, his jacket hanging up, and the sound of the TV on.

“Sakróvisce?” Ilya appeared from the hallway. He was a mess of awkward shapes: electric hair, one gray sock and the other dark blue, wearing that old tracksuit Shane had discarded years ago because of a bleach stain on the knee. It was short on Ilya, but he still managed not to look sloppy. It was the kind of aesthetic injustice Shane found almost annoying: Ilya’s ability to give meaning to the wrong clothes without even realizing he was wearing a stained suit and mismatched socks. 

He had missed him so much.

The leather of the duffel bag hit the parquet with a thud. Shane took two steps, nearly tripping over his own feet; Ilya caught him mid-air, absorbing the impact with a heavy stability, asking no questions. Shane buried his face against Ilya’s neck, at the spot where his skin smelled only of soap. His breath came in hitches, rasping in his throat, as if his diaphragm were finally learning how to move again. 

“I’ve got you,” Ilya whispered, holding him tight.

Shane pressed his mouth against his. It was a long kiss, born from desperation and ending as a silent way to recognize each other. Shane’s hands sank into the cotton of Ilya’s old tracksuit, clinging to the fabric, while Ilya held his neck with his thumbs, steadying the rhythm of his breathing. 

“What do you need?” Ilya whispered, barely an inch from his lips. 

“I don’t know,” Shane admitted. “I feel hollow.” 

“Come here.”

He led him to the bedroom and then into the bathroom. Ilya began to undress him calmly. He unzipped the hoodie and pulled off the base layer, lifting it with extreme caution. Shane held his breath, muscles tensing, until the fabric slipped over his head, exposing his flank. Ilya stared at it for a moment, his knuckles barely grazing the edge of the bruised skin without pressing, then stripped off his own clothes. Steam began to fill the shower stall as the water turned from cold to a steady heat.

Ilya helped him inside, supporting him by the arm. Under the spray, Ilya took the sponge and soap and began to wash him with slow movements. He started at the shoulders, moving down his back. He massaged his hair carefully, using his fingertips to scrub the scalp until Shane let his head fall back. 

Ilya’s hands went everywhere: over the arms marked by stick-slashes, over the knees, over the wrists. He kissed his temples and cheeks, wiping the water and the salt of the tears Shane could no longer hide from his face. The first sob came out hoarse, a dry sound that echoed against the tiles, followed by another that shook his shoulders violently.

“You did well, Sholnyshko,” Ilya murmured against his ear, holding him from behind as the water continued to run. “You held on long enough. Now leave the rest to me.”

When the heat of the water had softened even his last defense, Ilya turned off the tap. He helped him out and wrapped him in a thick terrycloth towel, patting the skin dry with a gentleness that was almost excessive for a man of his build. He bundled him inside the towel, wrapping him like a burrito to keep the warmth of the shower from escaping. 

“Good boy,” Ilya said as he dried his hair with a cloth, rubbing calmly. “You were so good for me.” 

Shane closed his eyes and let out a small sound from his throat, a moan of pure relief, leaning the full weight of his forehead against Ilya’s solid shoulder. Once dry, Ilya had him slip into a pair of clean boxers and, without asking, lifted him to carry him to bed, laying him down between the fresh sheets.

“Better?” he asked, tucking the blankets right up under his chin. 

Shane tried to answer, but his brain was too foggy to put words together. He only managed a confused murmur, a nearly imperceptible sign of agreement. Ilya kissed the tip of his nose, a light gesture that tasted like a truce. 

“Sleep.” 

Shane wanted to thank him, but the exhaustion dragged him under like an anchor. He closed his eyelids as Ilya lay down beside him and began to hum softly in Russian, a monotonous lullaby that vibrated against the mattress. 

For the first time in an infinite week, the weight in his chest stopped crushing him.

Shane surfaced from sleep with the feeling of lead in his veins. The warmth of the room was a heavy, almost suffocating blanket, and the bluish glare of the TV danced on the walls like an electric aquarium. For a moment, the only sound was Ilya’s steady breathing beside him. Then, a familiar voice cut through the air, cold and analytical, and Shane opened one eye.

The pain in his right shoulder, a reminder of a hit taken in the second period, throbbed in sync with his heartbeat as he recognized the faces on the monitor. Rink Side Analytics.

SLOAN: The numbers say the Metros are still alive in the series, but the ice tonight told a different story. I’ve never seen a team so disconnected. Greg, you’ve lived the playoffs, how do you interpret that passivity in the second period?

RUSSO: It was embarrassing, Mark. When you see your captain taking hits on the edge of the rules and the rest of the line just skates away, you know the problem isn't fatigue.

VANCE: I’ve spoken with an internal source, someone extremely close to Shane Hollander, who describes a situation that is now toxic. To the point where it seems Hollander will not be captain next year.

Shane turned slowly toward Ilya. The Russian didn't move, but the corner of his mouth curled into a hint of a smile. A winning smile.

“What did you do?” Shane asked.

Ilya shot him a look filled with ruthless smugness. “Me? Nothing.”

Shane exhaled a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. 

SLOAN: Stripping the C? From Hollander?

VANCE: Officially, they’ll talk about the "need for a new direction." But the truth, according to my source, is purely punitive. The franchise doesn't accept Shane's stance regarding Ilya Rozanov.

SLOAN: Do they think stripping his C could solve the franchise's problems?

VANCE: Apparently, they haven't found a better solution.

RUSSO: …I have mixed feelings right now.

VANCE: That’s one way to put it.

SLOAN: Hollander is under contract, he’s the face of the Metros, and he’s playing for a third title. Elena, let’s talk business, not feelings. If the "C" really drops, what happens the day after?

VANCE: We have three possible scenarios here. Hollander could decide to stay to honor his contract until the end of next season and then leave as a free agent. Or he could request a trade. The third option could be a contract termination.

SLOAN: What happens in that case?

VANCE: What happens is that thirty-one GMs pick up the phone, Mark. Who wouldn't want Hollander? At that point, a war like we’ve never seen would break out to land him.

SLOAN: And the trade?

VANCE: It’s the least likely of the three. With a trade, he could end up anywhere, and Hollander doesn’t like surprises.

“She’s right,” Ilya agreed.

SLOAN: Is there a possibility he ends up in Ottawa? We all know who plays there.

RUSSO: Let’s be serious, Mark. Hollander is a winner, a trophy predator. I don’t know if a relationship would ever drive him to play for a team like that. Ottawa is a graveyard for the ambitions of a superstar.

“Hey!” Ilya snapped at the TV, bolting upright with genuine irritation. “What a prick.”

“See?” Shane murmured. “They just insulted your team on prime time. Are you still so satisfied?”

VANCE: My source might disagree with you, Mark.

RUSSO: Tell me you’re joking, Elena.

VANCE: My lips are sealed.

SLOAN: Mark, you have to use your imagination here. Imagine a Hollander-Rozanov line; it would be every goalie’s nightmare.

“Tell him, Sloan!” Ilya shouted at the TV. Shane managed a smile.

RUSSO: Two men don’t win a Cup!

VANCE: But they can spur their other teammates to do better!

RUSSO: Maybe, maybe not! Rozanov is certainly no saint, we all know that. What I’m hearing is a lot of rushed rumors; he’ll probably get tired of Hollander in no time. Then the Centaurs’ management would have a massive problem on their hands.

SLOAN: They’re professionals.

RUSSO: So are the Metros, but if what Elena says is true, then I don't think being professional is any kind of insurance. Hollander should request a trade and be done with it. His own people will probably let him die on the ice next season if what we saw tonight is any indication.

VANCE: Hollander isn’t made of glass.

RUSSO: Tell me that again when he wrecks his knee beyond repair because none of his guys were there to prevent the hit. If Hollander knows what’s best for him, he’ll leave the Metros in September.

The commentators kept talking, their voices reduced to background hum as the discussion shifted to goalie statistics, but Shane had stopped listening. He slid against Ilya’s bare chest, letting the weight of his head sink against the warm skin, right where the heartbeat was calm, steady, almost arrogant in its confidence.

Ilya looked troubled, staring vacantly at the television. The smugness was gone, his shoulders slumped.

“I’m not waiving the No-Trade clause,” Shane reassured him.

“I know,” Ilya wrapped his arms around him with a possessive slowness, his fingers tracing invisible furrows along Shane’s back, cataloging the bruises. His lips formed a thin line. “Maybe we should have waited.”

Shane blinked. “What?”

Ilya shrugged. “I was hasty, and you got hurt. I’m sorry.”

“Ilya,” Shane propped himself up on his elbow, “I accepted this,” he reminded him.

Ilya didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the TV. His eyes were suddenly sadder, suddenly silent. Shane opened his mouth to add something, a reassurance, a bit of logic, any kind of bullshit to fill the silence, but he closed it immediately.

He wanted to tell him that the Metros' disaster wasn’t anyone’s fault. The locker room had been a powder keg for months. The castle of lies had collapsed the exact second Shane stopped playing the part of the perfect, straight captain.

But he let the sentence die in his throat. He knew the words would become stones thrown into a bottomless well: he wouldn't hear the thud, wouldn't see a splash; he would only receive the echo of a darkness that didn't belong to him.

Because Ilya was usually a wildfire. He was beauty and fierce laughter, the man who fills every room just by breathing. 

But then, every so often, the fire would go out and only the silence remained. 

It didn't happen all the time, but when it did, it was like watching a door slowly closing in your face.

Ilya would curl into himself. He became a ball of gray wool wound too tight, a tangle where the end of the thread had been swallowed by the exact center of a mute disorder. Shane had tried, at first, to slip his fingers between those knots to find a hold, a gap that would allow him to unroll that mass of thoughts and bring him back to the surface. But the more he pulled, the harder and more repellent the knot became.

In moments like that, English became a useless language for Ilya, a garment of the wrong size that restricted his movements. His mind was too crowded to find the discipline necessary to line up words in an idiom he didn't feel in his bones. "English is stupid," Ilya would say when the frustration suffocated him, and Shane, who had always loved his own roots, ended up hating every single syllable of his mother tongue.

He hated the precision of English because it served no purpose other than to build a wall. Watching Ilya struggle with terms to give a name to the dark was a torment: in that ball of wool, English words were just threads rotting in his hands.

There was a thought scratching at the back of his mind, a terrible comparison he refused to formulate even to himself. He had never seen the face of the ghost Ilya tried to hide, he didn't know the name of the darkness that had preceded him, but he didn't need an introduction to recognize its stride.

Shane was used to swallowing his words in moments like that, pushing back that resemblance which wasn't in the facial features, but in the shape of the void Ilya carried inside. He was afraid that by naming the abyss, it would decide to gape open and swallow them both.

So he had decided long ago not to use his words.

He stretched out slowly, pressing his lips against the curve of Ilya’s neck, where the skin was warmest and the heartbeat seemed to struggle to stay on the surface. He began to kiss him with a desperate slowness, moving up toward the hairline, trying to warm that cold ash with his own breath.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he whispered against his skin. His pronunciation was imperfect, jagged, but the words vibrated with a weight that English could never have carried.

 “Moy lyubimyy,” he said against the skin. “Moy yedinstvennyy.” 

My beloved. My only one. 

He didn’t know if the grammar was correct, but he knew the sound was hitting the knots in the ball of wool. He was trying to wrap it in his hands, to hold it tight until it stopped squeezing.

Shane continued to kiss his skin, moving down his throat, finding every small mole that dotted Ilya’s chest like a forgotten constellation. He kissed them one by one, a mapping ritual to find the man who had lost himself beneath the layer of gray wool. 

“Dusha moya,” he murmured against the sternum, feeling the vibration of Ilya’s breath grow deeper, more present. My soul. 

He went lower still, ignoring the pain in his own muscles. He captured a nipple between his lips.

“Ya vybirayu tebya,” Shane murmured against his warm flesh. I choose you.

He wanted those words to reach the center of the tangle, to tell him that they hadn't done anything wrong, that the "maybe we should have waited" was just a ghost without power. 

He was trying to inhabit him, to convince him that the tangle of wool wasn't a failure, but the place where Shane had decided to stay, consciously, with every muscle in his body. 

“Ya zdes', Ilya,” he whispered against his chest, finally feeling Ilya’s hand lift to claw at his hair. I am here.

Shane continued to slide downward, the tip of his tongue tracing paths of heat along the ribs and the taut line of the stomach, where the muscles began to contract in involuntary twitches. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he repeated against the navel. 

Ilya exhaled a wrecked sound, a groan that died in his throat as the back of his head sank into the pillow and his shoulders arched. Shane felt Ilya’s erection pressing against his cheek through the fabric, a vital, commanding call that was finally shattering the apathy of the tangle.

With fingers that trembled slightly, Shane slid the elastic of the boxers downward. He freed him slowly, exposing him to the still, warm air of the room. Ilya let out a choked groan; his hands snapped forward with blind urgency, gripping Shane’s head with force.

“Shane... moy Shane,” Ilya whispered, his voice breaking. 

Shane took him into his mouth, enveloping him with the warmth of his tongue and lips, sucking and pulling with a methodical, deep rhythm that left no room for anything but that carnal reality. Ilya’s grip on his hair tightened, almost painful, his fingers pushing him deep. 

“Shane... Shane...” 

The name left his lips like an invocation, one syllable after another, faster and faster, rasping. Each time his hips bucked forward, Shane’s name exploded in the air of the room, a promise of return. He felt Ilya’s nails grazing his scalp, fingers pulling at the roots of his hair with a blind frenzy as the pace became suffocating. 

Shane stopped breathing, riding that surge of nerves, letting Ilya use his mouth as a lightning rod for all the darkness he had accumulated. With his free hand, he gripped himself tight, trying not to fall behind while Ilya raced toward the peak. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya said, the words a struggle. “Blyat', Shane, kak ya tebya lyublyu.” 

Ilya’s fingers locked into Shane’s hair, forcing him into even deeper contact as his body stopped obeying him. He came with a jolt, a series of hard thrusts that Shane felt pounding against the back of his throat. The taste was of skin and salt, and Shane squeezed his eyes shut until they burned, taking every hit as if he had to absorb the entire weight of the man.

Shane didn't stop. With his hand still tight around himself, he sought the same messy rhythm. He let out a choked groan, his mouth still full, as his body tensed in a spasm before giving way and collapsing against Ilya’s legs. 

“Did I hurt you?” Ilya murmured after an infinite time, his voice little more than a hoarse breath. 

“No,” he replied, his voice raspy from the effort. 

Slowly, he moved away just enough to start climbing back up Ilya’s body. He kissed the inside of his thighs, then his stomach, tracing a path with his lips back toward the man who had finally unlocked. He continued to kiss him with methodical slowness, moving toward the chest, until he dropped onto him like a heavy blanket, warm with sweat and exhaustion.

Ilya’s arms found him immediately. They closed around his back, squeezing him with a strength that no longer apologized. They stayed like that, locked on top of each other, saying nothing. The tangle was gone; the threads lay scattered everywhere on the mattress, no longer under any tension. 

“We broke the playoff chastity vow,” Ilya murmured into his hair, his low voice vibrating directly against Shane’s temples. The tone was laced with lazy satisfaction. 

Shane huffed, closing his eyes and inhaling Ilya’s scent. “Technically, I wouldn't define a blowjob and a handjob as full sex. It’s just... a minor infraction.” 

“Ah, a minor infraction?” Ilya tightened his grip, his fingers moving down Shane’s spine with deliberate pressure. “Then maybe we should commit a sin truly worth being punished for.” 

Shane smiled against his skin. “I think you’re right. Best not to leave the job half-done.” He paused. “Maybe after a nap, though?” 

“Deal.”

As long as Shane held the end of that thread, Ilya would never truly be lost. He would fish him out every time, slipping his fingers into the mess without asking permission, learning the map of that disorder by heart. 

He knew that Ilya would always come back to him, and that he would always find a way to recover Ilya, wherever he ended up. It was a crooked, exhausting truth, but it was theirs.

They could work with this. 

They could build everything else on top of it, until only the two of them remained, with the sound of the ice waiting for them outside.

@PuckInsiderGlobal ✅ [Link: METROS BOMBSHELL: Hollander betrayed by his own? Meanwhile, Ottawa plots the heist of the century.] Shocking: The Metros' boycott is pushing Shane toward Rozanov. Are the Centaurs ready to reunite them? 🔥🏒 #NHL #Metros #Cent #Hollander

@ChloeNielsen: I’d like to say this looks like a hoax. But it makes so much sense it’s making me nauseous. 🤢📉

@LiamGallagher: Hey Shane, we’ve got an empty locker right next to Ilya’s. We don’t give a damn who you love here; we care that you score and that they don't leave you to die on the boards. Come home. 🏠🏒 #BringHimToOttawa

@AmelieRousseau: Hollander, win the cup and request a trade. I’ll follow you anywhere (except Las Vegas, please no). 🏆💨

@PatriciaVance: Almost all of them have families. I wonder if they’re proud of their homophobic husbands/fathers. Because that’s what this is. Let's not dance around it with "sports rivalry."

@NateKensington: @PatriciaVance I don’t think they’re homophobic; I just think they don’t accept Shane being with a player from another team. And maybe I can see that. It’s a matter of loyalty to the jersey, not who he loves.

@MayaLin: @NateKensington Oh, so we let the captain get beaten up because you don’t like his boyfriend? What kind of logic is that? My three-year-old nephew has better moral judgment. 💩

@GavinMiller: Shane and Ilya are the two best players in the world. Period. Everyone else would just be playing for second place. 🏒🐐

@YuriVolkov: If Hollander leaves because you guys are assholes, I’m gonna lose it and come find you at your houses.

@TristanVandame: If I were Hollander, I’d call my agent RIGHT NOW. Pack your bags and head to Ottawa to be with Ilya. At least there, Rozanov would protect you from even a dirty look from the janitor. 🏛️🇷🇺 #TradeShane

@KyleDonahue: It’s impossible to save Hollander’s shots, let alone save a Hollander shot off a Rozanov assist and vice versa. We might as well just give them the cup now. It wouldn’t even make sense to step on the ice. 🏆🧤💀

@OwenMacDonald: Imagine Rozanov crashing through to make space and Shane burying the puck wherever he wants. If this trade happens, the NHL becomes their backyard. Bring him here! 🏛️🔥

@SarahJenkins: "They don't accept him being with a rival." Oh, poor little snowflakes. Did your hearts melt because your captain sleeps with whoever he wants? I hope your wives look at you with the same contempt we’ll be looking at you with from tonight on. 👩‍👧‍👦🐍

Ilya: Great work with that reporter. 

Svetlana Vetrova: I haven’t had this much fun since New Jersey lost 12-1 to Boston.

Chapter End Notes

I’m very nervous about this chapter. I know it’s not as 'fun' as the previous ones, but I felt it was necessary to dive deeper into Shane’s mind. I promise Chapter 6 is coming soon and we’ll be back to our usual delirious Ilya. Let me know what you think!

Chapter 6: Scotty Doesn't Know

Chapter Notes

I'm back!! Sorry it took me so long but... well, you'll understand when you read it. WARNING: TOWARDS THE MIDDLE OF THE CHAPTER, EVERYTHING TURNS CHAOTIC. READ CAREFULLY AT YOUR OWN RISK.

This author regrets nothing, not even a single comma. Sorry for the headache.

TMZ: L'Affaire Hollander-Rozanov

Forget Beyoncé and Jay-Z, the true definition of a "Power Couple" today lies in the bond between Hollander and Rozanov.

Ilya Rozanov’s silhouette was spotted among the aisles of a supermarket in the heart of the city, an appearance that transformed whispers into a relentless headline. We are in the week of Shane Hollander’s twenty-ninth birthday, and his historical rival has chosen to ignore the boundaries of caution.

Is Rozanov here to support him during the most critical moment of the playoffs, a move that inevitably shifts the focus from box scores to private sentiments?

While this news is enough to make the hearts of society columnists flutter, it is causing a dangerous rise in blood pressure for others.

In this landscape, the Metros’ management displays an evident fragility in handling a situation that falls outside league protocols. Rumors regarding Shane’s potential removal from leadership due to this romance are now ubiquitous, depicting an environment unable to accept the happiness of its most iconic figure.

The atmosphere within the franchise has grown heavy, saturated with a disapproval that lacks the courage to find an official voice. The reports concerning the removal of his captaincy are symptomatic of an institution that does not know how to confront the truth. The locker room appears fractured, with many teammates choosing to isolate Shane, punishing him for his emotional honesty.

This distance is the hallmark of a group that prefers prejudice over loyalty to its leader.

The hypothesis of Shane leaving the Metros is a concept that, until a few days ago, would have seemed absurd. No one could have imagined his departure from Montreal, just as no one had ever considered the possibility of him and Rozanov falling in love. Ilya already plays in Ottawa, he is their leader and their captain, and his presence here transforms speculation into something far more concrete.

Shane seems to have chosen Ilya, embracing a reality that no longer requires justification, even if his professional future remains a total unknown. His tenure in Montreal appears to have reached its end because the environment has ceased to be worthy of his greatness.

If Hollander takes the ice tonight without the marks of command, we will have proof that the organization preferred a rupture over understanding.

Montreal is about to lose its most precious asset over a matter that concerns only the heart. We can only wait and see which version of Shane Hollander crosses that threshold tonight.

The Figures of the Scandal

• 29: The age Shane Hollander turns today.

• 2: The Stanley Cups the Metros seem ready to forget just to punish the man who won them.

• 0: The interventions by Hollander’s teammates during Game 4.

Shane: Beyoncé and Jay-Z? Really?

Rose Landry: I was inspired. 

Cliff Marlow: Is it true? 

Ilya: You’re going to have to be more specific.

Cliff Marlow: You know damn well what I’m talking about, Roz.

Ilya: I really don’t.

Cliff Marlow: I’m talking about Hollander. Is it true, yes or no?

Ilya: Yes, it’s true. We are together. 

Ilya: I should have told you in person.

Ilya: I’m very happy. 

Cliff Marlow: I’m glad for you, but that’s not what I was asking. 

Cliff Marlow: Is Hollander going to Ottawa, yes or no?

Ilya: Do you not care about my happiness? 

Cliff Marlow: Of course I care. We can talk about it later. Answer the question first. Yes or no?

Ilya: I thought you cared about me.

Cliff Marlow: RIGHT NOW I JUST WANT TO KNOW IF I NEED TO LOOK FOR A GOALIE WHO CAN STRETCH LIKE A SPRING. YES OR NO? 

Seen.

Cliff Marlow: Roz? 

Seen

Cliff Marlow: Ok.

Cliff Marlow: I’m going to go jump in the Charles River now. Bye. 

Ilya walked slowly, measuring his strides to grant Shane the necessary time to settle accounts with Farah.

He gripped the cake box with a single hand, his massive fingers making the white cardboard appear fragile, almost ridiculous. He observed the storefronts of the Plateau with a mixture of curiosity and impatience. There was too much white, too many scented candles displayed on light wood shelves, too many people walking as if they had never had to take a hit to the ribs in their entire lives. That whole neighborhood seemed constructed from the thinnest glass, ready to shatter at the first shift in temperature.

He stopped beside a bench occupied by a petite woman, bundled in a wool coat far too heavy for the season. She was watching a group of kids darting across the sidewalks, their snickering cutting through the still afternoon air.

"They have no respect," the old woman murmured, shaking her head with a vigor that made her hat tremble.

"You are right," Ilya replied, pausing to look in the same direction.

The woman nodded, heartened by having found an ally. "In my day, if you didn't say 'thank you' to someone who lent a hand, there was serious trouble. Today they step over you and laugh, as if the world belonged only to them."

Ilya fixed his gaze on an indefinite point beyond the colored rooftops. "Where I come from, if you run while your friend is fighting, you don't have friends anymore. You only have shame. And the marks on you."

The woman cut her nod short. She turned to get a better look at him, squinting to focus on his hard features. "The marks? Well, I meant to say they don't know how to say 'excuse me' when they bump into you..."

"Words are air," Ilya interrupted, without diverting his gaze. "Broken bones are what count. If you aren't ready to sacrifice one for those who follow your orders or for those who cover your back, then you are scrap. You deserve to be kicked out, into the cold, without a jacket. Only then do you understand what it means to need someone."

The silence that followed was broken only by the woman’s ragged breathing. She edged away slightly, clutching her purse to her chest as if that discourse on physical loyalty had struck her personally.

"Yes... of course. A very... very radical idea," she whispered, standing up with a haste that betrayed a hint of panic. "Good day to you."

Ilya knit his brows, watching her walk away.

"It’s the twine," a voice croaked to his right.

Ilya turned. A heap of blankets and felted wool had come to life on the adjacent bench. From a nest of gray beard peered two shiny eyes, experts in deciphering the small dramas of the pavement.

"What?"

The man pointed at the box with a blackened fingernail. "You’re clutching that package wrapped in raw twine while talking about punishments and naked traitors in the frost. She thought there was a bomb in there, pal."

Ilya looked down at the white cardboard. "It’s a cake. For my boyfriend’s birthday."

The homeless man chuckled, shaken by a wheeze that tasted of cheap tobacco. "I don’t judge. I like fundamentalists. They are people who know what they want." He winked a bloodshot eye at him, a greasy sign of understanding that triggered an instinctive alarm in Ilya.

Ilya pulled out his phone with a convulsive movement, almost fighting with his gloves. He typed the word into Google Translate, his fingertips trembling imperceptibly.

Fundamentalist: a person who advocates for the strict and literal interpretation of religious or political dogmas; often associated with fanaticism and extremism.

The blood drained from his face, leaving it a grayish tint that made his dark circles stand out. In his head, his visa was turning to dust at that exact moment, and Shane was looking at him through the reinforced glass of an extradition interview room.

"You’d better disappear before the lady comes back with the police," the man suggested, amused by the panic he read on Ilya's face.

Ilya bolted upright. His heart hammered against his ribs like a puck slammed at full force against the boards. He searched feverishly through his pockets, pulling out a roll of bills. He peeled off three hundreds and held them out to the man, whose jaw dropped.

"Take this. Do not use it for drugs or to finance terrorism," Ilya warned him. "Buy real food. No needles or AKs. Understood?"

He didn't wait for a response. He set off at a breakneck pace, vanishing into the crowd before the police could arrest him for a goddamn cake.

@chloe_mtl ✅ 
I am literally shaking. I was at The Green Leaf and Ilya Rozanov just walked in to pick up a cake reserved under the name HOLLANDER. He told the clerk it was for his BOYFRIEND’S birthday!!! 🍰🔥 #Rozanov #Hollander #Hollanov

@ilyane_updates ✅: CHLOE PLEASE TELL ME YOU GOT A PHOTO. THE TL IS DYING. WE NEED PROOF.

@chloe_mtl ✅ 
[A grainy, high-contrast shot of Ilya Rozanov stepping out of a high-end bakery. He’s clad in a black leather jacket, dark aviators shielding his eyes, and he's carrying a minimalist, ribbon-tied cake box with proprietary branding. There is a sharp, devastatingly arrogant smirk playing on his lips as he looks directly toward the lens.]

Caption: Ask and you shall receive. I caught him right as he was leaving. Look at this man. Look at the box. Look at the SMIRK. He knew exactly what he was doing. 💅✨

@LilyJane: HE SAID THE B-WORD??? OUT LOUD??? IN PUBLIC???

@chloe_mtl ✅: YES. LOUD AND CLEAR.

@Nick21: (Replying to @chloe_mtl) SO IT’S OFFICIAL? WE’RE NOT DELUSIONAL ANYMORE?

@SarahB12: "Good morning. I’d like a cake for MY BOYFRIEND, SHANE HOLLANDER. DID YOU GET THAT? MY. BOYFRIEND. THANK YOU. BYE."

@chloe_mtl ✅: (replying to @SarahB12) He honestly said it so loud I’m pretty sure they heard him in China.

The cake, as Ilya had predicted, tasted like quick-setting cement.

David tried to sink his fork into it, but only produced a sharp clack, like metal hitting concrete. Shane, meanwhile, kept knocking back glasses of water one after another, trying to wash that brick down his throat without choking.

Yuna was the only one to finish her slice. She did so calmly, chewing every mouthful with the patience of someone who had raised a professional athlete prone to anxiety whenever reality failed to respect the margins of his graph paper.

“I still can’t believe what they asked of you,” Yuna said, shaking her head. “Two cups and this is how they repay you? It’s outrageous.”

“She’s prepared a spreadsheet with the names of all your teammates' mothers, Shane,” David said. “No one is safe.”

“It’s shameful, David!”

“Mom, it’s fine,” Shane tried to soothe her. “When I go to Ottawa, I won't be captain anyway. This just happened sooner than expected.” He shrugged. “I knew the locker room wouldn't take it well, but I didn't think it would get this bad.”

Ilya snorted. “Truth is a bitter pill to chew for the weak.”

Shane froze, fork in mid-air. “To swallow, Ilya. The saying is 'a bitter pill to swallow'.”

“No, swallowing is for people without teeth,” Ilya countered. “Truth must be chewed. Even if it breaks the jaw. Like this cake.”

Shane reflected on it for a second. “You know what? That actually makes sense.”

“Of course it makes sense. I said it.”

David chuckled, sipping his wine. “How is the plan coming along?” he asked.

Shane let out a groan while Ilya instantly brightened. “Excellent. Rose and Svetlana have done a magnificent job.”

“I have to admit, I’m impressed,” satisfaction coloring Yuna’s voice. “I couldn't have done better myself.”

“I disagree,” Ilya shot back. “You are far more terrifying than they are.”

“Thank you, dear.” She patted his hand gently. “So, is it all going smoothly?”

“Absolutely,” Ilya declared with satisfaction. “We are about to enter phase four.”

Shane turned slowly toward Ilya. “Did I miss something?”

“You missed a lot, but don't worry, I’ve taken care of everything. The only thing you need to focus on is winning, and being sexy while you do it.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Nyet,” Ilya replied cheerfully. “You will find out at the right time.”

“And when is the right time?”

“When it is no longer the wrong one.”

Shane’s eye developed a concerning twitch before he turned to his parents. “I am formally accusing you,” he said, pointing his fork at them. “It is your fault that, as a teenager, I felt the need to shake the opposing captain’s hand instead of ignoring him. What do you have to say in your defense?”

Yuna raised an eyebrow, unperturbed. “Honey, we taught you sportsmanship and good manners. Sexual attraction to overbearing Russians was not part of the curriculum I provided.”

David choked violently on his wine, coughing into his napkin as he struggled to catch his breath. Ilya, for his part, settled for a grin of pure smugness, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I am grateful they made you so polite. I have had many lovers, Hollander. Experienced lovers, bold lovers, lovers who were great lovers. But you are the best lover of all. Because you are a generous lover.” He accompanied the sentence with a look so suggestive that Shane buried his face in his hands, physically trying to disappear.

David definitively lost every shred of parental dignity. He leaned his forehead on the table, his shoulders shaking with convulsive laughter.

“Please stop using that word,” Shane groaned from behind his fingers. “Stop using all the words. Stop existing for the next ten minutes.”

“You would miss me too much.”

“Not true, I’d have some peace.”

“Liar.”

“Arrogant.”

“Boring.”

“Dumbass.”

Ilya laughed and leaned in to kiss Shane’s flush-warmed temple. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

David huffed and looked at Yuna. “Our children are strange.”

“The warranty has expired. We can’t send them back now.”

@rozanov81 ✅

[A grainy 2008 photo from the World Junior Championship. A 17-year-old Ilya is in the foreground, biting his Gold medal with a smug grin. Directly behind him, a 17-year-old Shane Hollander is glaring at the back of Ilya's head with pure fury while clutching his Silver medal.]

Caption: Happy Birthday to the second best player in the NHL. (Here, he was planning how to steal my Gold. He settled for stealing my heart instead. Very dramatic.)

@Thomas_Wright_Hockey: DID ILYA JUST DROP THE MOTHER OF ALL BOMBS ON A TUESDAY MORNING?? 🤯

@Megan_Rossi_91: WAIT. IS THIS THE CONFIRMATION? 

@Liam_Puck_Drop: ILYA DID NOT JUST DO THIS. The absolute disrespect of using this specific photo for his birthday. I am screaming. 😭

@Sarah_Miller_Puck: Look at Baby Shane’s face! He looks like he wants to murder Ilya with that silver medal. I can’t breathe. 😂😂

@Chloe_Bennett_94: "STEALING MY HEART". SIR, PLEASE. 💀

@YunaH_Hollander ✅ What a memory! Though I recall Shane refused to take that silver medal off for a week because he was so angry. (Ilya, stop teasing him. Or don't.)

@Hollanov_Is_Life: THE MOM REPLIED. I REPEAT: YUNA HOLLANDER REPLIED.

@DavidHollander: ✅😂😂😂. 

@Hollanov_Is_Life: THE DAD REPLIED. I REPEAT: DAVID HOLLANDER REPLIED.

@Gerry.Scotti: IT’S OBVIOUSLY A JOKE. LITERALLY OBVIOUS. PR STATEGY 100 PERCENT. RIGHT? RIGHT???

@YunaH_Hollander ✅

[A vintage photo of Shane as a child, around eight years old, wearing a Centaurs jersey that is way too big for him. He has a serious expression and is holding a tiny hockey stick.]

Caption: Happy 29th Birthday to my forever captain! 🏒 Proud of the man you have become, Shane. Love, Mom.

@rozanov81 ✅ He was already such a cute Centaur. 😊

@Freddyray1 "ALREADY?" WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN?

@DavidHollander ✅

[A recent photo of David and Shane together on the ice after a game. David has his arm around Shane’s shoulder; both are smiling broadly.]

Caption: Happy Birthday, son! Always proud to watch you play. To another great year!

@rozanov81 ✅ 🥺❤️🏒

@Kevin_O_Connell: Great photo, David! Happy Birthday to the Captain!

@Jessica_Brooks_82: Is David Hollander the most chill dad in history? His son’s rival is basically moving into the guest room and he’s just like "Nice photo, son!" 😭

@NHL ✅

[A high-quality action shot of Shane Hollander in his Montreal Metros jersey, mid-skate, with ice spray flying from his blades. The background is slightly blurred, focusing entirely on his intense expression. Overlayed text reads: HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHANE HOLLANDER.]

Caption: Join us in wishing a very Happy 29th Birthday to Montreal Metros Captain, Shane Hollander! 🎂🏒

@rozanov81 ✅ Happy Birthday. ❤️

@PuckTalk_Daily: Ilya is back. Someone confiscate his phone before the NHL issues a fine.

@Rozanov81 ✅: The fine already arrived. I used the paperwork to wipe my skate. 😎

@HarrisDrover: YOU CAN'T SAY THESE THINGS.

@Hayden_Pike_Official ✅

[A photo of Hayden and Shane in the locker room. They are both drenched in sweat, still in their base layers, laughing at something off-camera. Hayden has his arm hooked around Shane’s neck in a playful headlock, while Shane is trying to push him away with a grin.]

Caption: Happy Birthday to my brother and the best Captain in the league! Love you, man.

@rozanov81 ✅ You are a good person, Pike.

@HaydenPike_35 ✅ .....How high was that fine?

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: It is a shame you are terrible at hockey.

@HaydenPike_35 ✅ Do I know you?

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: You will.

@MTL_Metros ✅

[A shot of Shane Hollander on the ice in full Metros gear, tapping his stick against the ice in a leadership gesture.]

Caption: Happy Birthday, Captain! 🎂🏒 Wishing our leader a fantastic 29th year. #Montreal 

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Girliesam1: AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!! THE AUDACITY!! THE FLAVOR!! THE ABSOLUTE DISRESPECT TO THE HATERZ!!!! SIR I AM ACTUALLY SOBBING.

@Jenny2: ILYA PLEASE.

@Snooki65: lya really woke up and chose violence today.

@Shyta5: The pride hearts on the official metros page? i am actually hyperventilating 💀🌈

@_Hab_99: I dare you. I double dare you to take that fascia off him. See what happens to ticket sales. You are NOTHING without Shane. 🛑🚫 #HandsOffTheC 

@NHL ✅

[A split-screen graphic of the Scotiabank Arena ice. On the left, the Toronto Guardians logo; on the right, the Montreal Metros logo. The Stanley Cup is glowing in the center.]

Caption: The ice at Scotiabank Arena is about to melt. Game 5. Toronto is looking to even the series, Montreal wants the match point. Who will write history tonight? 🛡️vs🔵⚪️🔴 #StanleyCup 

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: The Guardians already wrote history. By losing a game to their own Zamboni driver. Who was 42 years old. And worked part-time. 🚜

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Rogerday11: Not rozanov turning the most homophobic sport on earth into a rainbow fever dream.

@GilCameau_MTL ✅

[A black and white close-up of him taping his stick in the locker room. The Metros logo is visible on his shoulder.]

Caption: Are you ready? #Game5 #StanleyCup 🏒🔥

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Does anyone else, every time they see Cameau play, wonder if the Metros were on hallucinogens when they picked him?

@MTL_Metros ✅ We were perfectly lucid. Thank you. 😊

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: I gave you a loophole to escape the shame. As usual, you don't know how to seize an opportunity when you see one.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Auston_MatthewsTO ✅

[A profile shot of him in the locker room, leaning forward to tighten his skates. His tattoos are visible on his forearms, and he looks deeply focused.]

Caption: 🍁💪 #Guardians

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: You have more tattoos than series wins that actually matter. It’s all about priorities, I suppose.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Clara_Puck_Life: The best part is that the players can't even delete Rozanov’s comments. He’s a colleague, he’s a star... what do you even say? 'Hey Rozanov, enough with the hearts'? He’d just reply with more hearts.

@Taylor45_MTL ✅

[Taylor sprinting toward the opposing net during a breakaway.]

Caption: Eyes on the prize. 🏆✨ #FullSpeed

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Shane passes you golden pucks and you turn them into lead. An alchemist in reverse.🧪

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Metros_Girl_88: I'm bringing a "Hands off our Captain" sign to the arena tonight. See you tonight, cowards. 🛑 #HandsOffTheC

@Couillard_MTL_88 ✅

[Couillard celebrating an assist with a teammate, a wide grin on his face.]

Caption: Teamwork makes the dream work! 🤝✨

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: "Teamwork" consists of passing the puck to Shane and hoping he performs a miracle? Very brave of you to take the credit. 🎭

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Puck_Check_Daily Have you noticed? Not a single word. Just hearts. It is the most elegant and ruthless form of trolling hockey has ever seen.

@Simo_Metros: I'm joining in.❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@TO_Guardians ✅

[A high-shutter-speed frame capturing the exact moment the puck ripples the back of the net. In the background, behind the plexiglass, the Scotiabank Arena crowd erupts into a chaotic sea of raised arms and blue scarves. The overhead spotlights catch the spray of ice and the raw exhilaration of the players as they converge to celebrate.]

Caption: We have no intention of stopping now. #GuardiansNation #BelieveInToronto

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: If you’re looking for a miracle in Toronto, don’t look at the ice. Look at the fans who are still delusional enough to pay for season tickets.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Hockey_Fanatic_MTL: SOMEONE TAKE HIS PHONE AWAY PLEASE.

@NHL_HUMOR ✅

[A mock news graphic with a large photo of Shane Hollander looking exhausted and sweaty on the bench. The headline reads: REPORT: Shane Hollander will take over as all Montreal team player roles at the same time.]

Caption: "I Can’t take this shit anymore." - Shane Hollander (probably) 

❤️ Liked by @rozanov81 ✅

❤️ Liked by@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Lolas4: we are literally witnessing a slow-motion car crash but the car is made of rainbows and Rozanov is the driver.

@Wilson_James_MTL ✅

[Wilson controlling the puck at center ice, attempting to set up the play.]

Caption: Controlling the pace. 🧊⚙️ #Voyageurs

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: The only rhythm you control is that of the spectators' sleep. You are so slow that your own shadow has already outpaced you by three meters.

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Puck_Princess_MTL: Ilya is the kind of boyfriend who, if told you aren't allowed to go out, burns the house down and blows you a kiss. In this case, the house is the Metros' Instagram accounts.

@MTL_Metros ✅

[Official team portrait of the Montreal Metros. The entire roster is lined up on the ice in full gear. While it's a team photo, the lighting and composition subtly favor the dead center, where Shane Hollander stands tall with the 'C' on his chest, looking every bit the franchise savior.]

Caption: A real team. 🔵⚪️🔴 #Montreal #MetrosNation 

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: There is only one man in this photo worth the jersey he’s wearing. The rest of you are just statistical static clinging to Hollander’s greatness. 📉🧤

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Elena_G: Flood every official post. They need to understand that if Shane falls, all of Montreal falls with him. ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@WilliamNylander_TO ✅

[William Nylander stepping off the team bus, radiating a calm, polished composure in a designer suit. He looks completely unfazed by the playoff pressure.]

Caption: Hi Montreal. 🍁💪 #GuardsNation #Toronto #Playoffs

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: If you want to get through the city unnoticed, don’t take the subway. Just use the lane Nylander is supposed to be defending. It’s always wide open. ☀️

@Hunterloser: Man, I thought you lived exclusively on Scott Hunter’s page!

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: I’ve evolved.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@NHL_Player_Safety ✅

[A technical post announcing a fine for an unsportsmanlike foul.]

Caption: Player Safety update: Fine issued for unsportsmanlike conduct. ⚖️🏒 #NHL #PlayerSafety

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

Marcus Thorne: Commenting on "Player Safety" with Pride hearts after the league ignored homophobic slurs for years is the highest level of irony ever achieved by a professional athlete.

@Jean-Jaques Boiziau ✅

[ J.J. celebrating after a goal, arms raised to the sky.]

Caption: Glory to the team. 🙌🏒 #Voyageurs #TeamWork

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund:Thank the heavens you wear the same jersey as a God; your contribution is nonexistent. 🧤📉

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@_Chaol: Rozanov is literally bullying a corporation with emojis. I am laughing so hard my face hurts.

@Angry_Hab_99: Don't touch the Captain. ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC 

@LucyGray I don’t know if this will ever work, but I’m trying anyway: @rozanov81 ✅ Can you punch Drapeau for me? 🥊🏒

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Yes.

@LucyGray: Who are you?

@Gagnon_Harri_MTL ✅

Caption: Whatever it takes for the win. 🛡️🧱 #DefendTheCrease

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: The cost is Shane’s mental health, having to cover your mistakes every single shift. You are slow, predictable, and useless. Go back to driving school. 🏎️💨🤡

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Dallas_Kent_19 ✅ 

[Dallas Kent during pre-game warmups.]

Caption: Pressure is a privilege. 🍁🏒 #TorontoGuardians 

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 

see more from @rozanov81

@Richardway11: Someone check if Kent has imploded at the sight of all this Pride. I can hear his toxic masculinity short-circuiting from here. 🏳️‍🌈 ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund And he can’t even delete them. Touching a rainbow is a PR death sentence and he knows it. Trapped in a gallery of hearts he hates. Checkmate. 💅📉

@TO_Guardians ✅

[A high-contrast photo of the Toronto bench. The players are leaning forward, shoulders hunched, breathing heavily with sweat dripping from their visors. The atmosphere is thick with the tension of the playoffs.]

Caption: Intensity. Sacrifice. This is Toronto.  #GuardiansNation #StanleyCup 

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Scouting report for the next Leafs defenseman: poor lateral mobility (great), tendency to ignore the puck (perfect), ten years of experience in floor polishing (ESSENTIAL).

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Metros_Equipment_Room ✅

[A photo of thirty pairs of new skates, aligned with millimeter precision on steel shelves.]

Caption: Sharp and ready for battle. Every detail matters when aiming for the trophy. ⛸️💎 #MetrosGear #StanleyCupBound

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Arth'8.ler: This is the equipment room account. We have 400 followers. How did he find us in three minutes?

@Schneider_MTL11 ✅

[Schneider adjusting his helmet on the bench, struggling to catch his breath between shifts.]

Caption: Intensity at every shift. 😤🏒 #Voyageurs #Playoffs

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Schneider, the only thing intense about you is the effort you put into looking like a professional hockey player.

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Domi88.land: I tried to count the hearts posted today. I lost track after the thirtieth profile. Ilya is not joking. He is building a wall of colors between Shane and anyone who wishes him harm. It is moving and brutal at the same time.

@Beaulier_MTL15 ✅

[Beaulier celebrating after winning a physical battle against the boards.]

Caption: Winning the battles in the corners. 💪🧱 #Grind #Voyageurs

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: You win battles in the corners because it is the only place where your total lack of talent is not so obvious. If you stepped out of that corner once in a while, you would discover there is a net to hit. But I suppose that is asking too much. 🤡📉

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Hollanov_tbr: Update: Ilya has left hearts on 14 different profiles. He is more active on social media than the Guardians' defense is in front of the net.

@NHL_Stats ✅

[A bar graph showing the points leaders in the playoffs. Shane Hollander’s column towers alone above the others.]

Caption: In a league of his own. Shane Hollander is redefining the concept of absolute postseason dominance. 👑📉 #NHLStats #HollanderMode

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Leo.1Moretti: The post has been online for twelve seconds. TWELVE.

@NHL_Official_Shop ✅

[A photo of a white ceramic mug with the NHL logo, very sober, sitting on a dark wood desk.]

Caption: Start your morning like a pro. The official NHL mug is back in stock. ☕🏒 #NHLStyle #MondayMotivation

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Cla6.swald: I just spat out my coffee. Ilya even found the merchandise account for the mugs. It is like a biblical plague, but with more glitter. I can imagine the NHL marketing manager staring at this mug and watching it slowly turn into a rainbow before their eyes.

@HarveyDent: I ordered the mug ten minutes ago. If it arrives with Rozanov’s face winking at me, I swear I won’t even ask for a refund. He is the rightful owner of the internet.

@Drapeau_MTL ✅

[Drapeau screaming toward the stands, neck veins bulging, as he thumps his fist against his heart after a hard-fought victory.]

Caption: THIS IS OUR HOUSE! We fight for every inch! 🗣️🔥😤 #MontrealPride #Voyageurs #Playoffs

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Give me a break, Drapeau. If you had a shred of dignity, you would give Shane half your salary and apologize for forcing him to look at your face in the locker room.

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@OldHab_1967: I have seen captains lift trophies and captains fall from grace. But I have never seen management try to sink their own ship just because they dislike the color of the sails. If you touch Shane’s C, you lose the soul of Montreal. @rozanov81, keep posting.❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@MTL_Metros ✅

[Video of the players entering the arena, wearing designer suits, walking with a confident air toward the locker room.]

Caption: Arriving in style 🎩💼

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: A fashion show for people who can't even handle a puck on the ice. Shane walks like he has the weight of the entire city on his shoulders, while the others look like they’re just showing up for happy hour.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Hockey_News_MTL: Someone in the Metros management is definitely having a nervous breakdown.

@Angry_Hab_99: Don't touch the Captain. ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC 

 

LIVE FEED: #TORvsMTL – GAME 5 (SERIES 3-1)

7:30 PM – PRE-GAME

@TO_Guardians ✅ We are ready #🍁 #NHLPlayoffs

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Every time you post, an angel loses its wings and a Guardians fan loses their dignity. Stop it, for the sake of humanity. #Guardiansofhumiliation.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@MTL_Metros✅: Incredible energy tonight! The crowd is absolutely electric! 🏟️✨

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: The only "energy" we’re going to see is Hollander trying not to fall asleep while he waits for his teammates actually to make it to the offensive zone.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Kevin21:FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SOMEONE STOP HIM.

@Fans_United_MTL: You can strip the piece of cloth from his jersey, but you cannot strip him of the people's support. Shane is our Captain. Ilya is our hero.❤️🧡💛💚💙💜#HandsOffTheC

@ScottHunterAdmirals ✅

[ Scott posing with a can of an energy drink.]

Caption: Fueling the fire. 🔥⚡ #Adv #EnergyDrink #StaySharp

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Are you sure you should be drinking that stuff with your incontinence? Does the heart still hold up, or should we call the coronary unit after the second sip? 🩺🚽

7:50 PM – PUCK DROP

@Metro_Stats✅ : Puck drop! Game 5 is underway. Current series status: 3-2 Voyageurs 🏒

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: There is more traffic and less control in Toronto’s defensive zone than in an airport without a control tower during a strike. #Guardiansthepuckisblack

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

8:02 PM – GOAL! 1-0 METROS

@NHL ✅ : Shane Hollander scores the first goal three minutes into the game. #HollanderMode

@rozanov81 ✅: Is anyone else feeling hot by any chance? ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Hollanov_Fan: Jesus Christ.

@Alice_Puck: Management calls it a 'distraction,' we call him Captain. If the Metros want war, they will get a sea of hearts. ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@MTL_Metros ✅

[A high-speed shot of the puck hitting the back of the net. Shane Hollander is already turning away, his fist clenched in a silent, intense celebration. The crowd in the background is a blur of motion.]

Caption: SHANE. HOLLANDER. 🚨 We take the lead early! 1-0 Metros! 🔴⚪🔵 #Playoffs

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: You can take the C, you can act like a clown, But he’s the only reason this team hasn't burnt down. 

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Jodyroger2: ILYA PLEASE. 

@Rebeccaros1: Imagine being shane hollander and opening your team's ig just to see your boyfriend has turned every single comment section into a pride parade. help.

@Genxya: They want to strip his C? Fine, then we give them the rainbow. Copy and paste everywhere.❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Look up "hypocrisy" in the dictionary, and you'll find the Metros logo right next to it.

@Metros_Fan: Who invited this guy? Keep the drama elsewhere.

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Truth doesn't have a schedule.

@ScottHunterAdmirals ✅

[Scott kissing Kip on the cheek.]

Caption: I’ve already won. ❤️🏆

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Cradle robber.

@Guardians_Radio ✅ Our boys are putting on a masterclass in speed and precision. Every transition is seamless, and the grit they're showing in the corners is exactly what defines Toronto hockey. #Guardianso

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Rielly is marking Hollander with the same effectiveness as a "Keep off the grass" sign during a pitch invasion. Shane uses him as a buoy for his trajectories. Thanks for the tourist service, Morgan. 🗺️🤡 #Guardiansofnothing

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Benjy1: i just scrolled for five minutes straight and it’s literally just 🧡💛💚💙💜. 

@TO_Guardians ✅ GOAL! Nylander!!! 1-1 #game5

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Classic Nylander: scores a goal by accident and then runs to check if his helmet flattened his hair. #Guardianspriorities.

@Hockeyforlife: Man, what did the Guardians do to you?

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: They breathe.

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Found the perfect gift for @ScottHunterAdmirals ✅. No more desperate sprints to the clubhouse mid-hole. Dignity is optional, comfort is not. ⛳👴

- [Link YouTube: Uroclub - The portable urinal disguised as a golf club]

8:50 PM – START OF SECOND PERIOD (1-1)

@NHL_Radio ✅ Penalty for Dallas Kent after the nasty hit on Shane Hollander.

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Hey Kent, I wrote a poem for you: “May the Almighty strike you with a bolt so bright, That if He did, I’d find my faith tonight.” #Guardianspoetry

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Smiller45: The way ilya is treating the NHL official page like his personal scrap book for shane. The levels of unhinged energy are actually astronomical.

@ScottHunterAdmirals ✅

[Scott and Kip at a gala event, both in suits, standing close together.]

Caption: A night to remember. ✨👔

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: You look like a wax figure of a grandfather being taken to his first prom by his favorite grandson. 🕯️👴

@Derek_R_99: This is pathetic. Two grown men playing house. Kip should find a real woman and Scott should find a church. This is an abomination to the sport. 🤮🧤

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: @Derek_R_99 If we're looking for abominations, let's start with your grammar and end with your existence. I’d tell you to go to hell, but I’m pretty sure they have standards. Don’t let the door hit your fragile masculinity on the way out. 

System Message: @Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund has blocked @Derek_R_99.

9:05 PM – GOAL! 2-1 METROS

@NHLlive ✅ Pike scores! 2-1 Metros.

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: If even Pike scores on you, maybe it’s time to sign up for a sewing class.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Gigytre1: Ilya: 'Nice goal, but look at this beautiful chromatic sequence.'

@NHL_Zamboni_Drivers ✅

[An artistic photo of a Zamboni parked in a dark garage, with headlights on.]

Caption: The unsung heroes of the ice. Keeping it smooth, one lap at a time. 🚜❄️ #ZamboniLife #BehindTheScenes

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Sienna Brooks: NOT THE ZAMBONI DRIVERS' ACCOUNT TOO. ILYA STOP.

@ScottHunterAdmirals ✅

[Scott in the tunnel leading to the ice, fist-bumping a young rookie teammate.]

Caption: Pass it on. The next generation is ready. 🤜🤛

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund Did he ask for your advice or did he just ask you what it was like to play hockey before the invention of the internet? Careful with the fist-bumps, Scott, you might dislocate a finger.

@NHL ✅ 🚨🚨 Chaos breaks out at the Bell Centre! The rivalry between Metros and Guardians reaches boiling point.

@Kelly291: I'm a woman, I can only imagine how painful that hit was! I hope Pike is in one piece.

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Maybe it's finally time he stops procreating.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

9:25 PM – THIRD PERIOD (2-1 METROS)

@HockeyRadio ✅ Timeout. Coach Stevens is trying to fire up the squad. 🗣️🏒 #MTLvsTO #Tactics

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Stevens would have better luck just asking Shane for an autograph. At least he’d take home something of value tonight. ✍️

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Julian Ashford: He is everywhere. I opened a weather post about Montreal and there were Rozanov’s hearts. I checked my bank notifications and for a second I feared I’d find a pride flag there. It is a collective hallucination orchestrated by a single man.

@ScottHunterAdmirals ✅

[Scott’s skates on the ice, capturing the sharp blade cutting through the surface.]

Caption: The edge of glory. ⛸️✨

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: It’s amazing how well those blades hold up considering they were originally forged to defend your territory against a T-Rex. 🦖⚔️

@TO_Guardians ✅: It’s not over yet! 💪

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: In Toronto, they don't play hockey; they perform a Greek tragedy in three acts. We’ve just reached the moment where the hero realizes he’s going to die horribly. #Guardiansdeath

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

9:45 PM – GOAL (3-1 METROS)

@HollanderLove SHANE HOLLANDEEEER (3-1 METROS)  #Sweep #GoMetros

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Austy, sweetheart, if you feel a gust of icy air, it’s not the air conditioning; it’s Hollander who just passed you while you were checking your reflection in the plexiglass. 💅💨 #Guardianprincess

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Ultras_MTL_Section4: We do not care who Shane shares a bed with. We care who bleeds on the ice for this jersey. Management should sit down and learn: the Captain is untouchable. Rozanov, today you are one of us.❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@MTL_Metros ✅: Flying high to a 3-1! 🚨🚨🚨

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Who is "we"? Shane is dragging four corpses toward the finish line while you guys just try to stay upright. Thank him and shut up.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@jollyg32: If you listen closely you can hear the metros management screaming into their pillows right now. thank u ilya for the free entertainment. KING BEHAVIOR 👑🏳️‍🌈 ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Rozanov_Army: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Hockeystatistics ✅: The players with the most playoff appearances over the last 13 years: Shane Hollander, Scott Hunter, and Sidney Crosby. (Click here to see the article)

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_FundCaption: I just checked @ScottHunterAdmirals ✅ birth certificate. The "Place of Birth" field just says: "Pangea." 🌍👴

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

10 PM – FINAL SCORE: 3-1 METROS (SERIES 4-2)

@NHL ✅ The Montreal Metros move closer to the end of the second series!

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: If disappointment were a currency, Toronto would be the most solid economy on the planet.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙

@Reales_H: 🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Puck_Report ✅ FINAL WHISTLE: Montreal Metros beat Toronto Guardians 3-1. Montreal leads the series 4-2. Shane Hollander is the undisputed king of the night: 2 goals and 1 assist.

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Dallas Kent running away crying is my new screensaver.

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Janersa: BREAKING: Metros management has called an emergency meeting with Instagram’s lawyers to determine if "rainbow-heart abuse" violates the terms of service.

@TheHockeyNews ✅

[A stylized illustration depicting Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander in profile, separated by a wall of ice bearing the official Metros branding.]

Caption: The silent revolt of hearts. How a simple set of emojis is cornering a billion-dollar franchise. 🏳️‍🌈🏒 #Hollanov #MetrosCrisis

@rozanov81 ✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@MarcusThorne: He is commenting on the article regarding his own insurrection. We have reached Olympic-level meta-trolling.

@SilasVance: This behavior undermines the team's authority. It sets a terrible example for the youths who look up to these athletes. Sport demands obedience and decorum.

@ElenaRodriguez: @SilasVance The only terrible example is a front office that prefers the silence of a closet to the truth of a man. If discipline excites you that much, buy a dog training manual and leave hockey alone.

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund Caption: Scouting Report for Drapeau:

• Talent: Not found.
• Utility: As useless as an ashtray on a motorcycle.
• Volume: Unbearable.

Watching him celebrate next to Shane is like watching a pigeon take credit because a hawk just caught its prey. It’s time to clean up this roster of losers.🤡📉 #JusticeForShane 

@TO_Guardians ✅

[A grainy shot of empty stands with soft blue light.]

Caption: We gave our all, it wasn't enough. We will come back stronger.

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: How poetic. A photo of empty seats to celebrate a team that never showed up. 🎭📉 #Guardiansofwhat?

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@NHL_HUMOR ✅

[Shane Hollander smiling. Over the photo, a giant white font reads: "ILLEGAL"]

Caption: The IIHF reportedly investigating Shane Hollander, claiming his skill level may violate several international laws 💅✨ #ShaneHollander #MontrealMetros #NHLHumor #CarryJob #Hollanov

❤️ Liked by @rozanov81 ✅

❤️ Liked by @Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund

@rozanov81✅: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Gabrince90: Ilya is literally bullying the NHL with kindness. It is the most sophisticated trolling of the millennium. While Shane destroys Montreal, Ilya destroys the sporting patriarchy from his couch. What an incredible night.

@MTL_Metros ✅

[A celebratory graphic of the final score: Metros 3, Opponents 1. Shane Hollander’s name is listed next to two goals.]

Caption: Another night, another WIN! 🔴⚪🔵 The momentum is unstoppable. NEXT STOP: CONFERENCE'S FINAL. 

@Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Calling this a "Metros win" is identity theft. Shane Hollander won a game while five other guys stood around and watched him like they had front-row tickets they didn't pay for. Disgraceful. 

@rozanov81✅ : THE ONLY CAPTAIN ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜.

@Silvia8: "CAPTAIN" HELP IM DECEASED ⚰️

@Leogin47: ... i am physically unable to process the audacity.

@Opalite89: Ilya rozanov you are my king, my god, my entire Roman Empire.❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

@Ilya_Stan: Look at him sipping vodka while destroying the Metros GM’s liver with a simple flick of his thumb. Show me the way, master. 👑❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Metros_Resistance: If management wants silence, we give them the rainbow. It is that simple. @rozanov81 started a war you cannot win.❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@ShaneHollanderofficial ✅

[Shane Hollander smiling at the camera, a birthday candle in his hand.]

Caption: Very proud. I couldn't have asked for a better birthday present. #MontrealMetros

@rozanov81 ✅: Would a ring beat it?

@ShaneHollanderofficial ✅: You can try.

@Girlslife: WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST READ?

@Ser_2 If Shane goes down, we stop buying tickets. ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@MTL_Metros ✅ : Great Night! See you in Carolina!! #MontrealMetros #StanleyCup

@rozanov81: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 

@Marc_Andre_Lefebvre ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Sophie_Tremblay_88 ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Julien_Beaumont_MTL ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Chloe_Deschamps_Design ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Etienne_Villeneuve_Puck ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Isabelle_Gauthier_Real ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Mathieu_Lavoie_MTL ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Camille_Fortin_82 ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@Olivier_Morel_Arch ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

@JessicaTer21: Ilya Rozanov became the first person in history to defeat a billion-dollar league in a PR war with nothing more than his left pinky.

@HockeyNightConfessions Tonigh't summary for the people in the back:

• Shane Hollander carried the Metros on his back like the rent was due. Absolute masterclass.
• Toronto played like an actual embarrassment. Zero energy, just vibes and failure.
• Ilya Rozanov has officially confirmed his relationship with Shane and literally started an insurrection on the internet because he really said: "oh, so i can't call the Montreal Metros bigoted clowns without catching a fine? bet. no problem, here are some hearts instead." ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

Shane was sunk into the sofa, the back of his head pressed against the cushions and his arms heavy, as if Montreal’s gravity had doubled just for him. Ilya was sitting on the rug, positioned between Shane’s legs.

His thumbs pressed with methodical strength against the arch of Shane’s right foot, a slow massage that seemed to be the only thing keeping Hollander from a total nervous breakdown.

“Whoever invented the playoffs was a sadistic bastard,” Shane murmured with his eyes closed. His voice was a hoarse whisper, drained of all energy. “Everything hurts. Even my fingernails.”

Ilya chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through his chest. Without breaking the rhythm, he lifted Shane’s foot and kissed the sole, letting the warmth of his lips linger against the tired skin.

Shane flinched, opening one eye to shoot him a look filled with mock disgust. “That’s gross, Ilya. Seriously? I’ve been walking around without socks half the afternoon.”

Ilya looked up, a flash of amused defiance in his gray eyes. “Do I need to remind you where my tongue was last night, Hollander?”

Shane flushed instantly, a violent red spreading across his freckles and reaching his ears. He tried to pull his leg back, but Ilya’s grip on his ankle was a silent command to stay put.

Ilya’s phone vibrated on the coffee table with the persistence of an annoying mosquito. Ilya reached out, read the notification, and a crooked smile curled his lips.

Shane leaned in just enough to catch the sender’s name. He let out a heavy sigh. “I told you he’d find out. You were too obvious.”

“Poor guy. He’s so stressed. He could use a hobby.” Ilya began to type, his thumbs flying across the screen with speed.

Scott Hunter: Deactivate that account Rozanov, I’m dead serious.

Ilya: I don’t know what you’re talking about. Respect for the game, Hunter. Always.

Meanwhile, in another part of the internet...

@Cliff_Marlow_Official ✅

Chapter End Notes

Ilya: Well done, everyone!!! Thank you.

Cliff Marlow: 😎

Carter Vaughan: YES

Rayan Price: It was funny

Eric Bennet: You owe me one, Rozanov.

Svetlana Vetrova: ❤️

Wyatt Hayes: LET'S GOOOOO 🔥

Brian Connors: Bye bye Metros 🧨

Evan Dykstra: 💎✨

Nick Chouinard: Metros got smoked. 💅

Tanner Dillon: Montreal's on the slide, nowhere to hide. 🤟

William Young: Absolute masterclass. Never doubted of us for a second. 👏🔥

Adrian Homberg: CHILLS. Literal chills.

Rose Landry: It was an honor.

Cliff Marlow: I WAS IN THE SAME CHAT AS ROSE LANDRY AND I’M ONLY FINDING OUT NOW?

Rose Landry left the chat

Scott Hunter: Better luck next time, Marlow.

Zane Boodram: I’m laughing way too hard.

Claire LaPotine: Oh Marlow......

Shane Hollander: I know this is on me but It doesn't make it hurt any less.

Chapter 7: The Sound of Silence

Chapter Notes

I am aware you are expecting another chapter. That is not the case. At least, not exactly. This is a collection of letters I wrote some time ago; they didn't fit the previous chapter, nor could I weave them into the next. Some things simply demand their own space. After much deliberation, I decided to share them.

I apologize if this isn’t the installment you anticipated. However, those who have grown familiar with my prose know that beneath the absurdity and irony, I strive to ground my writing in depth. At this moment, I have little else to say; I am emotionally depleted.

WARNING: This content deals with violence, suicide, bullying, and other sensitive themes. If you are affected by these topics, please skip this section and wait for the next chapter to continue the story. Doing so will not compromise your understanding of the narrative.

Chapter End Notes

I am emotionally depleted; I would appreciate silence. Thank you.

Chapter 8: If Winning is a Sin, Call Me Your Holiness

Chapter Notes

The author steps onto the stage, approaches the mic, and clears their throat:

"We’ve officially reached the end, my dears. I don’t have much to say except thank you. Thank you to every single person who loved a story I honestly thought no one would care about. This chapter is the absolute peak of this story's madness, and, honestly, the well-deserved reward after Chapter 7 put us all through the ringer. You're going to find some completely absurd, unprecedented, and illogical things in here."

This author regrets absolutely nothing.

May 18, 2020. Montréal.

Ilya did not flinch when Shane nearly tore the kitchen door off its hinges. The heavy thud of heels against the floor was a Morse code deciphered with lazy precision: level four exasperation, imminent risk of homicide.

"No, Hayden. Stop screaming. I can't hear you," Shane hissed, gripping the phone until his knuckles turned white.

A frantic buzzing vibrated from the speaker. That static interference was Hayden Pike in the middle of a hyperventilation crisis. Ilya curled deeper into the couch, savoring whatever was sending Pike into a tailspin.

"Nobody is plotting against you." Shane froze, closing his eyes. A vein throbbed against his temple, a small, rhythmic pulse Ilya wanted to trace with his fingers. "Hayd, listen to me... it wasn't intentional, I'm sure of it."

Shane pulled the phone away, pressing the microphone against his thigh to muffle the whining from the speaker. He threw Ilya a pleading look. "Can you put some hearts under Hayden's last post? He feels left out."

Ilya took a long, slow sip of his protein shake. The straw scraped loudly against the bottom of the glass for several seconds, sputtering as it sucked up the last pockets of air, while Pike’s distant rant served as the perfect background soundtrack. Only when the glass was bone-dry did Ilya finally pull away from the straw with a sharp, echoing pop, directly meeting Shane’s furious glare.

"No," he answered, with the serene indifference of a man deciding the fate of an empire.

"Ilya."

"I will wait until he starts posting something truly tragic. Maybe then I will consider it."

"You're a monster," Shane muttered, turning back to the phone with a sigh that tasted like total surrender. "Hayd? Listen... he says he has to think about it."

MEDIA ARTIFACT: UdeM-2020-MTL (Monograph Excerpt 2026)

As most hockey fans will remember, Game 1 of the 2020 Eastern Conference Finals between the Montreal Metros and the Carolina Hurricanes left its mark not because of Shane Hollander’s hat trick, but due to the communication short-circuit that followed. In a desperate attempt to curb their captain's political centrality, the Metros' public relations office tried to push the narrative of collective success through institutional channels:

@MTL_METROS: A team victory. Proud of the collective effort in Game 1. Heads down, on to Montreal. Thanks Boys🔴🔵 #GoMetros #Playoffs

Comment Section (100% Saturation):

• @rozanov81: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

• @mtl_puck_head: ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 Thanks Shane #HandsOffTheC

• @celine_vachon: Thanks Shane. ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

• @andre_dubois: Thanks Shane. ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 #HandsOffTheC

• @federicolucia: Thanks Shane ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜#HandsOffTheC

• @Ilaryblasi: Thanks Shane ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜#HandsOffTheC

• @bepperuggero: Thanks Shane ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜#HandsOffTheC

• @Hunter_Nursing_Home_Fund: Therapist: How do we deal with someone who hates us for no reason? Shane Hollander: By giving them a reason. ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜#HandsOffTheC

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"We spent three days trying to figure out if we could fine a player for distributing the visible spectrum of light. The legal department told us that unless we wanted to sue Sir Isaac Newton, we had to let it go."

— Anonymous NHL Executive, leaked internal memo (May 2022)

"The League tried to block the heart emojis, so Ilya started posting the entire script of Shrek translated into binary code, interspersed with rainbow flags."

— Svetlana Vetrova, Twitch Stream clip (2021)

Chapter End Notes

Okay, now I can finally say it: that final line is the whole reason I wrote this fanfiction. It popped into my head one day and I thought, 'Damn, something really interesting could come out of this.' I don’t even know how to describe what actually came out of it, but I’m completely satisfied with it. I hope you guys enjoyed it too.
That being said, as you might have noticed, I’ve added this story to a series. That’s actually why it took me so long to post it. I wanted to publish this and the first chapter of the next story at the same time. But the madness has no word count limit because I just can't stop typing things down.

A fair warning to anyone who's going to read what comes next: if you thought this chapter was over the top, you have absolutely no idea what’s coming for you.
See you soon!