Summary:

Shane Hollander accidentally becomes the internet’s favorite “work wife.” Ilya Rozanov thinks this is the funniest thing that has ever happened and commits to the bit with horrifying sincerity. It started at the press conference in Tampa. Shane Hollander sat ramrod straight at the long table, hands clasped in front of him, the living embodiment of Canadian restraint drilled into his bones since minor hockey. He answered questions about Montreal’s power play the way a man answers a fire drill: calmly, correctly, and without a flicker of surprise. Every response sounded memorized, a careful blend of polite deflection and measured praise for his teammates, calibrated to say nothing memorable unless it involved a goal or a fight. He was excellent at it, so professionally dull it bordered on art. Three seats down, Ilya Rozanov was putting on an entirely different show. Fresh off a hat trick that had buried Montreal yet again, Ilya lounged in his chair like the building had been constructed around him. His tie was already loosened, his top button undone, because rules were for people who needed them. One arm draped along the back of the empty chair beside him, he dissected his own brilliance in that lazy drawl that made reporters lean closer and fans either swoon or grind their teeth. When the inevitable question about their rivalry landed, because it always did and always would, Ilya’s gaze slid sideways for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Shane to feel it land low in his gut like a body check he had not braced for and absolutely should have seen coming. “Rozanov, you and Hollander seem to find each other all over the ice every time you play. Is that something you actively look for, or is it just instinct at this point?” “Of course,” Ilya said, his accent thickening as he took his time with it. “I always know exactly where Hollander is on the ice. Is like…” He paused, tilting his head as if searching for the right English word, though Shane knew damn well it was already chambered. “Is like built-in radar.” A couple of reporters chuckled. Someone from TSN, a voice Shane recognized even while refusing to look up, leaned into it with the grin of a man who thought he was about to strike gold. “You two have been going at each other for years now. That’s quite the partnership you’ve got, alongside one hell of a rivalry.” Ilya tasted the word partnership before answering, eyes flicking to Shane again. Then he turned back to the room, savoring it like good vodka. “Partnership,” he repeated, letting the r stretch. “Yes. Good word. We understand each other very well.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table now, his voice dropping into that conspiratorial register that made everyone listen closer than they meant to. “Sometimes I think Shane knows what I’m going to do before I even decide. Is very… intimate, the way he reads me.” Laughter rolled through the room, easy and appreciative, the sound people make when they think they’re sharing a harmless joke about hockey jargon. Shane felt his face heat instantly and was grateful for the bright lights masking it. He reached for his water bottle on instinct and took a swallow, which turned into a mistake the moment Ilya added, almost casually, “He always knows exactly where I should put my stick.” Shane choked hard enough that the moderator glanced over in concern. He waved a hand, coughing and thumping his chest as if he could knock the humiliation loose, eyes watering as he fought for air. A few reporters shot him sympathetic looks, and someone asked if he was alright. Ilya, the absolute bastard, did not bother pretending to care. He sat there with that faint, infuriating smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, eyes half-lidded and gleaming like he was replaying every filthy thing Shane had whispered to him in a hotel room two nights earlier. “Wrong pipe,” Shane managed eventually. He took a second, more careful sip, kept his gaze firmly forward, and silently begged the floor to open up and end him before the next question landed. The next morning, The Athletic ran the headline: “Work Spouses: How Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov’s Rivalry Became the MLH’s Most Intense Partnership.” By the time Shane was half dressed, brushing his teeth and doomscrolling in front of the hotel mirror, the internet had already done what it always did. Twitter had stripped the phrase down to its most inflammatory core and decided he was now a “work wife.” Shane stared at the screen, toothpaste foaming at the corners of his mouth, then stared at it again as if the words might rearrange themselves out of basic decency. “What the actual fuck,” he told his reflection, voice muffled around the toothbrush. It did not get better. When he reached the Amalie Arena and filtered into the Metros’ locker room for pregame, the familiar smell of tape and sweat did nothing to settle his nerves. He had barely dropped his bag when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Lily: hello wife