Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Wow...genetic, Established Relationship, Humor, Crack, Romance

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-02 Words: 6,390 Chapters: 1/1

Is this about the cookies?

Summary

Ilya is upset, and Shane has no idea what is happening or what to do. He turns to the one man he knows can empathise.

Notes

*Looks around cautiously*
*Dips toe*

Shane was calling his father.

Yuna reflexively checked her phone to see if it was on silent or if her battery had died. No on both counts. She answered the call and greeted her son cheerfully.

“Hey, honey. It’s me.”

“Hi, Mom.” 

Something was wrong. Yuna could hear the strain and strangeness in her son’s voice the moment he spoke.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing, nothing. Everything’s fine. It’s just…guy stuff,” Shane said hesitantly. “Is Dad around?”

She raised an eyebrow at that. What kind of guy stuff? Specifically, what kind of guy stuff was it that David Hollander could handle but Yuna couldn’t? Most of the “guy stuff” Shane knew, she had been the one to teach him. But if a boy wanted his father, who was she to complain?

“He’s in the bathroom; he should be out in a second.”

They treaded water for a bit after that, making idle chit-chat until the man of the hour appeared. When David made his much-anticipated appearance, Yuna handed him his phone with a hard stare and pursed lips. David blinked at his wife and took the phone as if he were being handed an incendiary device.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey, Dad,” Shane started and then paused for a beat. “Could you take me off speaker phone?”

Yuna huffed softly. She shot her husband a mild glare, gathered up her things, and immediately quit the room. No one had to tell her twice.

“What’s going on?” David asked as he settled into his chair.

“I think Ilya’s mad at me.”

It had started with the cookies. At least, that was Shane’s best guess.

He had been in the kitchen of his cottage, idly leaning against the counter and scrolling on his phone, when Ilya had come in. The man had briefly nuzzled Shane’s neck before heading straight for the snack cupboard. He had paused, stared silently into it, and in a voice that sounded eerily like distant thunder, asked a seemingly innocuous question.

“Where are my cookies?”

Shane had glanced up briefly to see Ilya staring at the empty spot where the dwindling package of family-sized Oreos had been.

“I threw them out,” Shane replied. “They’d gone stale. There are a ton of cookies in the gift basket Antoine gave us, anyway. Try some and tell me what you think.”

A muscle in Ilya’s jaw had twitched as he slowly pivoted to face his boyfriend.

“I do not want Antoine’s cookies,” he had spat. “I want my Oreos.”

Shane had looked up then, confused by the sudden temperature drop, to see Ilya glaring at him.

“What?”

“Then everything kind of spiralled from there,” Shane explained to his father, genuinely mystified.

Ilya had gone off on him like a Russian air raid siren. Shane had stumbled through the first few minutes of the argument, struggling valiantly to catch up, while trying to find a graceful exit. But Ilya was the master of instigating, and it only took a couple of well-placed, if nonsensical, barbs before Shane heard himself saying, “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?!”

They had yelled at each other incomprehensibly for about five minutes after that, with at least one of them having no clue what they were squabbling about. Eventually, Ilya had flounced off to go sulk in the sunshine, leaving Shane floundering in the kitchen.

“He must have really wanted those Oreos,” David observed.

“I mean, I throw out old food all the time,” Shane said defensively. “I have to! He’s like a raccoon! He’ll eat everything that’s unhealthy and not sealed securely in the garbage. It’s never been an issue before. We have other cookies!”

The two men stewed in silence for a moment, just mulling things over. It was Shane who broke into the pensive quiet with a tentative suggestion.

“Do you think, maybe it’s not about the cookies?”

Honestly, David had been about to suggest the same thing, having arrived at the same possibility at the same time as his son.

David Hollander was no stranger to the phantom fight. He only needed one hand to count the number of times he knew with any accuracy why his wife was pissed at him before she explicitly told him. Shane knew this too, which is why his father had been his first port of call. David and Yuna had never had a serious fight within earshot, but he had been witness to numerous instances of David blinking owlishly while the air shimmered dangerously around his mother. Father and son would often have to team up to figure out the mystery. Now, it was Shane’s turn.

“Have you two been fighting about anything else?” David asked.

“No, everything’s been great,” Shane said firmly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what, this is ridiculous. I’m just going to ask him what the problem is and address this directly.”

David made a small noise at the back of his throat.

“You would think that’s the most logical thing,” he said to his son, “but from my personal experience, asking what’s wrong tends to go over as well as a lead balloon. They prefer that you read their minds and fix it from there.”

But Shane was not a mind reader, and he wasn’t about to become one unless Ilya managed to magically transform into a hockey puck. Surely Ilya would rather be reasonable and use his words, rather than potentially spoil the mood of their Cottage getaway. Right? 

“Let me know how it goes,” David said lightly. There were some lessons only experience could teach.

Shane soon made his way out onto the deck, now armed with brief Google searches about “De-escalation” and “Conflict resolution with loved ones”, and a Reddit thread that seemed pretty apt for the situation. He planted himself in front of his boyfriend, who seemed determined to burn holes through his chest rather than acknowledge that Shane was blocking his view.

“Ilya,” Shane began in a firm, but warm and conciliatory tone, as suggested by Reddit user knightofthelogictable. Ilya’s eyes snapped to his so abruptly, Shane could have sworn he heard a gunshot. Now, Shane would validate, ala cumbucket67. “I realise that you’re upset about something, and because I’m sure it’s for a perfectly rational reason, and not at all insane, I would like to work through this with you, so we can find a resolution and move forward together.”

And just in case it was about the Oreos, Shane pulled a mini package of the gift basket cookies from the pocket of his cargo shorts and offered them to Ilya as a sacrifice. “Truce?”

Ilya stared at the cookies for a moment before looking up into the warm, hopeful eyes of his soulmate.

“I should kill you in your sleep,” he said dryly. Shane threw up his hands.

“Alright, you know what? Fuck you, I tried. I did all that I could,” Shane raged as he stomped back indoors. “Stay out here and self-immolate for all I care.”

“I just mi–” Ilya paused, realising he had no idea what “self-immolate” meant and what he might be committing to out of spite. He furiously searched for the meaning while his retort window shrank, and found that the love of his life had just told him to “die in a fire” in the most constipated way possible. 

“I just might!” Ilya yelled, but Shane was already firmly indoors, and the moment to display his rapier-like wit had been lost. Ilya was furious.

“So, how’d it go?” David asked later, unaware that his wife was boring holes into the back of his head.

“Lead balloon,” Shane muttered, and took an aggravated bite of his celery stick.

By the time Shane exited the bathroom later that night, Ilya had graduated from glaring at the great outdoors to glaring half-heartedly at the TV instead. Shane would situate himself in the line of fire once more, shifting his weight from foot to foot until Ilya finally cracked.

“What?”

“I guess I was just wondering,” Shane said lightly, “if whatever’s eating you is enough to stop you from eating me.”

The sound that escaped Ilya’s mouth wasn’t remotely human. It was basically the result of a dry spit-take. He turned away, trying his damnedest to stop cracking up and get himself together. He schooled his features to neutrality as best as he could and turned back to Shane. He almost lost it again at the small, but unholy smirk on Shane’s face.

“What are you asking me, if I’m too mad to fuck?” Ilya sniffed. “That is stupid idea from stupid people. Who could ever be too mad to fuck? No one is ever too mad to fuck. Madness does not quench desire.”

The evolution of Ilya’s English language skills would forever be a source of awe and bafflement for Shane. This was a man who started shedding articles like underwear whenever he got worked up, but could still reach deep in his bag of what the fuck and pull out sentences like “madness does not quench desire.” Shane was dying to gain some fluency in Russian so he could appreciate Ilya in his native tongue. The man had to be nothing short of a goddamn poet.

“Sadness, though,” Ilya rambled on. “Sadness can kill your dick. But I am not sad, I am irritated that you dumped my precious Oreos. Irritation is fine. No man has ever been too irritated to fuck.”

“Ah,” Shane said after a beat, perfectly imitating the mood and inflection of Ilya’s own response from their All-Stars meetup. 

Ilya’s lips wobbled in an effort not to burst out laughing again. He had no idea why that particular moment had embedded itself in Shane’s psyche, but the man used it to mock Ilya constantly whenever he rambled. Ilya thought it was hysterical. It was a source of national shame that not enough people knew how funny Shane truly was. Then again, maybe his entire being had simply warped itself to fit around Shane and all his foibles. Ilya honestly didn’t mind.

“Shut up,” he told Shane. “Take off your clothes, get on the bed, and assume the position.”

He didn’t have to tell Shane twice. Shane began slipping off his pyjamas, only to pause almost immediately and level Ilya with his gaze.

“Are we going to cuddle and make out afterwards?”

“Yes, of course, why would you even–” Ilya thought better of finishing the question. “Yes.”

Shane nodded and slowly started to shed his pyjamas again. He made it a little further this time, granting Ilya a tantalising glimpse of the root of his cock before throwing it all in reverse yet again.

“Are we going to kiss during?”

Ilya was convinced this man was trying to kill him.

“Do you want me to kiss you during?” he asked Shane.

“Yes, very much.”

“Then I will kiss you during! I will kiss you everywhere, without stopping, until lips fall off,” Ilya promised, a touch desperate now. “Get in bed now, please.”

Satisfied, the slow tease began once more. This time, when Shane paused to purposefully raise his boyfriend’s blood pressure, Ilya lost it.

“For fuck’s sake,” Ilya growled before launching down the bed, grabbing Shane, and wrestling the laughing man onto it.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Shane’s pyjamas and roughly yanked them off when Shane lifted his hips to accommodate him. Ilya tossed them aside heedlessly and quickly pinned Shane’s hands above his head to cut off any thoughts of evasion.

“The way you treat me,” Shane purred, his grin widening as Ilya settled next to him.

Ilya snorted in response. He kept Shane’s hands pinned at the wrists with one hand and slowly glided down the length of Shane’s body with the other. He finally grasped Shane’s hardening cock, eliciting a breathy moan from his boyfriend.

“If you have complaints about the treatment here,” Ilya said as Shane arched into his fist, “take it up with management in the morning.”

“Any closer to solving the mystery?”

Shane huffed softly at his father’s question. He still had no idea what Ilya had flipped out about, but it seemed moot now. Ilya had gotten up that morning in a fantastic mood. Shane had too—fucking all night had a wonderful way of soothing all wounds. Ilya still refused to say what his problem had been. By the warm light of morning, Ilya had either truly gotten over whatever it was and was now too embarrassed to mention it, or it really had been a non-issue. 

Still, it irked Shane not to know what the hell had happened. He had tried checking in with Ilya in a number of tentative ways, just to see if there was any underlying problem between them. He had tried testing boundaries, invading Ilya’s space a few times as temperature checks. That had backfired, because there was no invading the space of someone who wanted to live inside your skin. Shane’s temperature checks had resulted in him being groped a few times and had led to a spectacularly athletic and messy interlude on their couch.

“Everything seems back to normal, but it's weird not knowing,” Shane confessed.

“Did you try retracing your steps?” David offered, reminding his son of another of their “Why is Mom mad?” stratagems. It was a technique with variable success because they could be a couple of clueless men, who usually only realised there was tension well after the instigating incident had passed. “Anything happen out of the ordinary lately?”

Shane took a moment to think. He had picked up Ilya from the airport and taken him to lunch, both of them feeling terrified and giddy as they tested their new cover and tried not to stare moonily at each other. It had been exhilarating and without incident. Then they had met with Antoine, the brand liaison for the snack company interested in sponsoring their summer camps. Antoine had revealed himself to be a bit of a Shane Hollander fanboy and had been incredibly kind and accommodating. No issues there. Then they had made the long drive to the cottage, with only one horny pit stop along the way. Shane saw no problems.

“No, nothing,” Shane said firmly. “It’s so weird.”

“Well, if it’s important enough, I’m sure Ilya will tell you eventually,” David reassured him. “He doesn’t seem like the type to keep things bottled up for too long. And if he doesn’t bring it up again, well, treasure the peace.”

It was late in the afternoon before Shane started sniffing around the enormous gift basket/promotional package that Antoine had given them. It was almost overwhelming, and Shane wondered if the man had included samples of every product ever to come down the company line. He pulled out the info card for the orange-ginger cookies and pored over it. 

Each card was a meticulous listing of ingredients, nutritional facts, and even suggestions on how they could fit into the Shane Hollander diet plan without crashing it. It was honestly impressive. If any of these offerings tasted even halfway decent, then CrunchCrave Snacks might just have made a fan out of him. Shane delicately sniffed the cookie once more before raising it to his mouth,

“Oh, so we are Mr Junk Food, now?”

Shane hadn’t even dented the cookie with his teeth yet. He turned, his mouth full of unbitten orange-ginger confection, to see his boyfriend scowling at him.

“I buy one tiny McGriddle, and I’m hearing about it for the rest of my life,” Ilya continued complaining, advancing on the unwitting man. “I offer to share my dessert with you always, and you literally spit in my face.”

That was not what “literally” meant—Shane must have told Ilya this at least a dozen times. The English language might be barrelling headlong towards an embarrassing extinction, but for the moment, words still meant things. He had never once spat in Ilya’s face after being offered a share of Ilya’s dessert. Any spitting that had ever occurred between them had only happened after explicit, enthusiastic, mutual consent and—

“It is problem for me, yes?” Ilya continued working himself up into a fine lather. “But some candy-coated twink says you should cheat, and suddenly all rules are out the door. Now you shove his dirty, slutty cookies into dirty, slutty mouth!”

Ilya raised a tremulous finger and pointed at Shane. “J’accuse!”

Shane had been speaking French for his entire life and had not once thought to whip out a “J’accuse!” at anybody. Yet, here was this Russian cartoon character unjustly j’accusing him in his own kitchen. This was Shane’s life now. This was the future he was playing 4D chess for. 

Amazing.

To a less astute observer, it would have appeared that Shane was frozen in place, fancy cookie hanging out of his mouth, staring blankly at the mental patient he was in love with. What was actually happening was that new and exciting neural pathways were being established. The final puzzle piece had dropped in Shane’s lap, and myelination had his synapses firing at lightning speed towards an inevitable conclusion. His pupils dilated with the dopamine rush of sudden, unexpected understanding.

“Is this about Antoine?” Shane hazarded slowly after dislodging the cookie from his mouth.

Ilya scoffed loudly, dramatically flashing his hands before crossing his arms over his broad chest and looking away. Shane could only stare at him.

It had been about the cookies.

It shouldn’t have been that surprising when the sponsorship offers started rolling in following their announcement about the Irina Foundation and the Game Changers camps. Between the lore of a legendary rivalry-turned-friendship and the promise of positive inclusivity PR, there were bound to be a ton of offers. Still, a company like CrunchCrave had not crossed Shane’s mind. This had been unsurprising to Ilya, who dryly reminded him that most kids—and people in general—tended to like food that was fun and tasty. Shane had rolled his eyes.

Ilya had Antoine clocked from the second he spotted the man in the lobby. Antoine had been wiping his hands on his slacks, eyes darting around nervously as if there were infinite access points for Ilya and Shane to pop up and catch him off guard. Antoine had finally spotted them, and he had stared at Shane as if he were a Baywatch lifeguard running towards him in slow motion. Oh, this was going to be a fun time for everybody.

“Mr Hollander,” Antoine had breathed his greeting, his eyes glowing while he gripped Shane’s hand in what Ilya knew was probably the world’s dampest handshake. “I am your biggest fan.”

Antoine was about 5’8, 135lbs soaking wet. Ilya doubted he could be Shane’s biggest anything. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, in all fairness. His large, expressive hazel eyes were locked on Shane, and his sandy blond faux hawk was giving “gently electrocuted, but make it fashion.” Ilya wanted to punt him through the rotating glass doors.

“Just ‘Shane’, please,” Shane said, smiling warmly while his hand air-dried. He glanced over at Ilya, subtly reminding Captain Crave-a-Crunch that he wasn’t alone.

“And Mr Rozanov, you are…also…!” Antoine started exuberantly, then simply gave up halfway, turning back to gush over Shane.

And if Ilya Sparta-kicked him in the chest, then what? He’d be the bad guy, right? The world was an unjust place, and Ilya suffered greatly.

“We at CraveCrunch would be so honoured to be a part of the Game Changers Initiative,” Antoine bubbled as he led Shane and Ilya to their conference room. “I’ve always admired your commitment to championing health and inclusivity in the league, Shane.”

“The foundation is named for Rozanov’s mother,” Shane replied. Ilya was trailing behind them, but he could hear the frown in Shane’s voice. “It’s a cause that he is deeply passionate about, and something we’re both deeply committed to. This is an equal partnership.”

It wasn’t said unkindly, but the steel beneath the softness was unmistakable. The announcement was still new. They were still in the debut phase of their public friendship, and people were sceptical. Shane obviously wasn't about to let certain misconceptions slide. 

The correction managed to stir up the butterflies that were forever camping behind Ilya’s abs. He wanted to lick Shane’s face like an ice cream cone. Actually, he wanted to plaster himself to Shane’s back and stick his tongue in his ear while making direct eye contact with the Count of Crusty Craveco. Antoine immediately realised his faux pas and nearly folded himself in half trying to get back into Shane’s good graces.

“Oh, of course! I hope you didn’t think I was implying otherwise! We’re just so happy to have you both here, and for such a worthy cause!” Antoine said hurriedly. “Oh my god, I’m so nervous and awkward sometimes!”

Of course, that would get Shane right back in his corner. Ilya rolled his eyes, seeing Shane visibly soften at Antoine’s apology. He trailed into the conference room and raised an eyebrow at the promotional explosion taking place. Trays of baked goods and snacks, loud branding, and posters of gap-toothed, smiling kids getting their lives to corn syrup and red dye #40. It was a lot. It wasn’t the casual “please stop by for a moment” chat that had been implied. This was a full-court press. Shane winced a little behind Antoine’s back and glanced surreptitiously at Ilya before sliding his game face back on.

“You’re probably in heaven, right now, Rozanov,” Shane joked aloud as Ilya took a lollipop from a candy bouquet. “He’s the one with the massive sweet tooth.”

“Actually, I have quite a selection specifically curated for you,” Antoine said eagerly. “I know how conscientious you are about your fitness and nutrition. Your first Men’s Health cover was a–” Antoine took a deep breath “–transformative experience for me…and-and my own wellness journey!” He had hurriedly tacked on when Shane had looked at him curiously.

“Transformative,” Ilya repeated silkily, “you hear that, Hollander? You should have taken that copy with you for Hollander to sign. Or are all the pages too stuck together?”

The last bit was whispered to Antoine as Ilya brushed past him to take a seat at the table. Antoine had flushed crimson to the roots of his hair and had hurried to bring up the pitch presentation. Shane managed to catch some of the interplay, and while he wasn’t sure what had happened, he knew Ilya was being a shit somehow. He frowned briefly at his boyfriend, wordlessly ordering him to behave, and delighting Ilya to no end. Giving Ilya a glimpse of the angry kitten only ensured that he was going to keep acting up to pull Shane’s attention for the entire meeting. Antoine would just have to deal.

“You thought he was flirting with me?” 

“Oh god, Hollander,” Ilya scoffed loudly.

“You think everyone is flirting with me, Ilya.”

“Everyone is flirting with you!” Ilya snapped. “You are just bad at noticing.”

Ilya had lost interest about three minutes into the pitch. He got the gist pretty much immediately. Antoine wanted to get in bed with Shane Hollander; CrunchCrave wanted to get in bed with them both—Shane and Ilya, that is. The company was willing to throw money at the Irina Foundation for the promise of two hockey megastars endorsing its snacks. This wasn’t a casual PR move after all. Yuna Hollander was going to eat them for lunch for trying to get around her…literally.

“We have snacks that can fit into your current diet, as is,” Antoine told Shane, “and you can indulge in almost anything else on your cheat day.”

“Shane Hollander does not cheat,” Ilya drawled as he spun in lazy circles in his executive chair. “Not at hockey, not on his diet, not at anything else.”

The last part was said perhaps a little more sharply than was necessary, but Ilya was beyond over this. That earned him his 17th glimpse of the angry kitten, and Ilya had to physically stop himself from blowing Shane a kiss. 

“I’ll have my mother reach out,” Shane said, rising to his feet. “Negotiations are her wheelhouse.”

“But I know you wouldn’t endorse a product you don’t have full confidence in,” Antoine said quickly.

Ilya could see the flash of panic in the man’s eyes, probably fearing Shane would walk out on the promotion, never to be seen again. It was time for his Hail Mary.

“I personally curated this selection. I would love to know you tried them and approved of what I procured for you,” Antoine continued earnestly. “It has been my dream to meet you and make a good impression. I just…really want you to try my cookies.”

Shane was momentarily speechless, being somewhat overwhelmed by Antoine’s sincerity. Ilya watched slack-jawed as Shane drifted closer to the other man and smiled at him tenderly.

“Antoine, you are so incredibly kind,” Shane said softly and reached up to gently brush his knuckles under Antoine’s shimmering eyes. His voice then dropped to a suggestive whisper. “I would love nothing more than to try your cookies.”

“Oh, fuck off! None of that happened, Ilya!”

Ilya rolled his eyes. Fine.

“I would just love it if you tried our cookies,” Antoine appealed earnestly, clasping his hands together and making Shane laugh.

“You’re so incredibly kind, Antoine,” Shane replied and nodded. “I would love nothing more than to try your cookies.”

He had then nodded to Ilya, indicating that the meeting was now definitely over. Ilya had been mentally out the door for at least an hour by that point. He didn’t even get to leave unscathed, getting saddled with the largest, most nonsensical gift basket in the world. Shane wouldn’t even let him dump it in the nearest bin.

“This is why you’ve been biting my head off for the past two days? Over brand promotion?”

“The cookies are cursed,” Ilya insisted. “Probably filled with his hair and questionable emissions.”

“You’re so fucking gross.”

“He wants to bind you to him while he poisons me from the inside, Shane,” Ilya said with a firm nod. “Mark my words.”

“Okay,” Shane said with a sigh and shook his head. “Antoine is a brand ambassador. Those–” Shane nodded to the gift basket “–are promotional items. They just want us to eat their chips on TV. Maybe he was a little, I don’t know, overly enthusiastic. But he was just trying to land his pitch; he wasn’t trying to fuck me. Not everyone in the known universe is trying to fuck me.”

Ilya’s brows knitted together as he stared down his nose at this sweet, summer child. His expression mellowed into one of pity and frustration, which had Shane rubbing his face tiredly.

“What?”

“So lucky that I got to you first,” Ilya sighed. “No, no, Shane, if I hadn’t moved when I did, you would be with some inferior, mediocre man who doesn’t know how to fuck you.”

“Oh my god,” Shane muttered beneath his breath.

“You would be Scott Hunter’s live-in nurse now if I hadn’t saved you.”

“I resent the implication that I would just be forever hopelessly devoted to the first guy who got to fuck me,” Shane huffed, “just because I so happen to be hopelessly devoted to the first guy who got to fuck me.”

“Every so often, I lie awake and wonder, ‘Does he really love me, or did he just imprint on my dick like sexy, helpless duckling?’”

“So dumb,” Shane sighed and fisted his hands in Ilya’s tank top to yank Ilya flush against his body. It was such an obvious, dirty trick designed to throw Ilya off-kilter and make him completely pliable. It always worked; it was always going to work, but at least it couldn’t be said Ilya wasn’t aware.

His eyes went soft, and his chest warmed. He wedged his thigh between Shane’s and gripped the counter on either side of Shane’s body, bracketing him. His eyes fell to Shane’s freckles, and he was reminded that stupid Antoine had tricked him into neglecting his duties. Shane had been out in the sun recently, and he probably had a few new freckles that Ilya had yet to meet. He had a whole recount to do, and this diabetes peddler had managed to distract him. Shane tugged on his tank top harder as he gazed at Ilya’s lips and smiled softly. Ilya couldn’t help but smile back.

“Transformative,” Ilya whispered and huffed softly. “He wasn’t wrong about that at least, but it is weak word.”

“Hmm?”

“I remember that cover you did,” Ilya continued, “the one that changed Romeo’s life. Changed mine too.”

The Men’s Health cover had been diabolical—all sweaty abs and smouldering stares. They had still been in the shaky beginnings of their dangerously undefined situationship, and Shane’s image was inescapable. Yuna Hollander was always working overtime to ensure her son’s face was everywhere. That cover still managed to stop Ilya cold. Lily had chirped Jane about it after it dropped, and Ilya had learned that Shane had been tired, overstimulated, and pissed off by the time the photographer got that money shot. Bratty Shane would always have his heart. 

The cover had been one thing, but the photoshoot had Ilya clutching his pearls—just softcore gay pornography with some workout tips attached. Yuna, Ilya had decided then, was the Kris Jenner of the hockey world, just posting her son’s tits and ass everywhere and expecting people (Ilya) to be normal about it. People (Ilya) could never be normal about this. What had they been thinking?

“I wore the fuck out of that photoshoot,” Ilya admitted with a grin. His smile widened when he saw the understanding dawning in Shane’s eyes and the familiar blush darkening his freckles. “You turned me into a deviant. I think I still have a couple of those magazines in a box somewhere.”

“A couple?” Shane echoed. “You bought more than one?”

Ilya must have purchased nearly every physical copy within running distance that day. He had been both titillated and furious. Sure, he and Shane weren’t anything officially (or at all), but the only person who had remotely earned the right to perceive Shane Hollander in such fashion was Ilya Rozanov. The newsstand vendors of Boston had laughed and winked at his purchases, thinking Ilya was going to defile his rival’s publication in some petty manner, probably tossing them in a heap and setting them on fire. He had, indeed, defiled them atrociously, just not in the way anyone would have imagined. He had also spent at least an hour looking into hackers who could crash the Men’s Health site before the photoshoot ultimately distracted him for good.

“If you still have them, maybe you can find one and give it to me,” Shane suggested thoughtfully. “I could sign it and send it to Antoine as a thank you for—I’m kidding! I’m kidding!”

“You are asshole,” Ilya growled at his laughing boyfriend, “and unserious person.”

Shane slipped his hands beneath Ilya’s tank and ran them soothingly all over Ilya’s skin, getting the man to unclench his jaw and melt into Shane once more. Ilya dipped his head and nuzzled Shane’s neck as he pressed against him.

“So you’ve got to stop getting mad at me whenever someone flirts with me…allegedly,” Shane chided.

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Ilya mumbled against the nape of Shane’s neck. “I was mad at him.”

“Yeah? Well, I was the one you were yelling at and being a dick to, so pull your shit together.”

Ilya pulled back slightly to hit Shane with his most miserable “please don’t be mad at me any more” puppy eyes. “But you know that–”

“Doesn’t matter what I know, knock it off,” Shane said firmly. “You know I’m only yours, and you still manage to be a jealous dick anyway.”

Ilya’s eyes glowed despite the chewing out in progress. “Only mine?”

Shane kissed him then, because they’d had this conversation a hundred times already, and he had a feeling they’d have it at least a million more. Shane felt his head grow fuzzy as the kiss deepened, and Ilya’s hand came up to grip his jaw. Shane pulled back, breaking the kiss.

“Have a cookie,” he ordered Ilya.

“I–what?”

“That’s your penance,” Shane told him as he reached for another orange-ginger cookie. “I need someone with a kid’s palate to tell me if these are actually any good. Plus, you’ve got to try them and let me know if you’re on board. I’m not making a single decision about the Foundation without you. I’m not going to bother getting Mom to deal with them either if their food would suck for the kids and if you’re really not into it, so…”

Shane held up the large cookie between them and looked at Ilya expectantly. Ilya pouted for a second longer before rolling his eyes, gracelessly acquiescing, and dipping his head to take a giant bite of the ridiculous cookie.

“And that’s how we found out that Ilya might have a slight sensitivity to cardamom,” Shane told his dad.

“Slight?”

“I mean, he did dramatise it a bit at the Urgent Care.”

David and Yuna Hollander had been alerted to the crisis via a flood of texts in the family group chat. The messages had been the last will and testament of one Ilya Grigoryevich Rosanov. It had been heartwarming and comforting to know that even on his deathbed, Ilya’s mind was filled with thoughts of Shane, and breathless (literally!) love confessions for their son. Even if said faithless son had apparently conspired with Count Cravula (??) to do away with Ilya and run off together to the French Riviera.

“Why the French Riviera?” David asked.

“Honestly, I think it’s just because it has the word ‘French’ in it, and because Antoine and I both speak French? I’ve decided to take a little break from trying to understand how Ilya’s mind works.”

And that was the exact lesson David had hoped to teach his son. If the problem were serious enough, the opportunity would come for the necessary resolution. Until then, it would behove any Hollander man to store his energy and protect his peace. Speaking of which…

“You know, funnily enough, I think your mother may be a bit miffed at me,” David murmured.

“Oh no, what did you do?”

“I honestly have no idea. I can’t imagine what,” David confessed.

“Well, did you retrace your steps? Has anything weird happened recently?”

David took a moment to think. He and Yuna had had a wonderful date night with dinner and a movie a few days ago. They had started their garden reformation project, and it had gone well. Their only child had called in, obviously distressed, and instead of confiding in and seeking comfort from his mother, making use of her no-nonsense efficiency and time-tested problem-solving skills, he had sought his father's counsel. A father who, by the way, had yet to tell the full and accurate story to his wife, who had had to piece together the rambled remnants of the tale as if she were assembling a confidential document that had gone through the shredder. And who continued to take hushed phone calls from their son while she was left to burn holes in the back of his head. They had also made a supermarket run, and it had ended without bloodshed.

“No, nothing,” David sighed, wondering if he was just imagining things. “It’s so strange.”

“FIRST HE POISONS ME! THEN HE ABANDONS ME! JUST SAY YOU WANT ME DEAD, SHANE!”

All this bellowing from a man who was allegedly convalescing. The same man who had taken to their bed, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead like an overwhelmed Victorian woman collapsing onto her fainting couch. Never mind that he’d been set right by the equivalent of a dose of Children’s Benadryl. All those allergen tests they’d run, yet they had refused Shane’s suggestion to check if Ilya was part Tinkerbell, slowly dying from a lack of attention. That was the real medical mystery.

“Well, his lungs certainly sound strong,” David mused. “Sounds like you’re needed elsewhere, kiddo.”

“Give my love to Mom, and tread carefully,” Shane told his father before hanging up.

He made his way to their bedroom and leaned against the entryway. Ilya had burritoed into their bed, just a mass of blankets with a pair of softly glaring eyes and a shock of curls peeping out. Love, fondness, and amusement squeezed in a messy tangle in Shane’s chest in an almost painful way. He couldn’t bite back his smile.

“You rang?”

“You do not love me,” Illya accused.

“Not true, I love you a stupid amount,” Shane corrected him. “Even though I think you’re a chaos demon stuck in the body of a Greek god.”

The lump of sheets vibrated briefly from Ilya’s happy wiggle and preening at the praise.

“So you think I am hot,” Ilya sniffed. “Does not mean you love me. You did not even try to suck out my poison.”

“Not how allergies work, buddy.”

“Oh, and you know this how?” Ilya challenged him. “You work for Poison Control? You are allergy expert?”

You know what? Touché.

“You’re right, I don’t know that for a fact.” Shane pushed away from the doorway and slowly approached the bed. “Would you still like me to try and get the poison out?”

And look, Ilya knew he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of ever winning a fight in this house if he kept folding like origami for a pretty face and a smug smile, but he could never bring himself to care about something like that. There were certainly other, better ways to win at life, and Ilya Rozanov had been hitting the jackpot on a near-daily basis lately. The wiggling to unwrap himself became frantic as Shane peeled off his T-shirt and sweatpants and placed them neatly on the bedside chair.

“Come heal me,”  Ilya gasped when he finally emerged from his cocoon.

Shane happily climbed into bed and got to work. Let it never be said he didn’t do his due diligence.

The End