1 – 3 of 3 Works in AnonymousDJ
- AnonymousDJ ×
-
After a difficult car-shopping trip turns emotional, Shane accidentally reveals to Ilya that he’s pregnant. The dealership is bright in a way that feels artificial—too much glass, too much shine. Every surface gleams like it’s trying to convince you of something. New beginnings, maybe. Or expensive mistakes. Ilya has been in heaven since they walked in. He moves through the showroom like he belongs there, hands in his pockets, eyes lighting up every time a low-profile sports car comes into view. Red, silver, black—anything with sharp angles and the promise of speed pulls him in like gravity. “That one,” he says for the third time, pointing at a low, sleek sports car in a violent red. “No, wait—that one. Shane, look at the curves on it.” Shane trails behind, slower, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He stops beside a dark gray SUV, running his fingers along the door absentmindedly. It’s not flashy. It’s solid. Dependable. The kind of car you don’t have to think too hard about. “I’m looking,” Shane replies, but his eyes never leave the SUV. Ilya notices—and frowns. “You didn’t even turn around.” “I saw it earlier,” Shane says. “It’s… small.” “That’s the point.” Shane exhales through his nose. “It’s impractical.” Ilya laughs, bright and easy. “You keep saying that word like it’s an insult.” “It is,” Shane mutters. They’ve been doing this dance since they walked in. Ilya drifting toward cars that look like they were built to be admired. Shane gravitating toward vehicles with wide back seats, reinforced frames, high safety ratings. Every time Shane pauses, Ilya inevitably comments. “That thing’s massive.” “That looks like a dad car.” “God, Shane, it’s ugly.” At first, Shane just rolls his eyes. Then he stops responding altogether. The salesman eventually clocks the dynamic and wisely keeps his distance. Ilya, oblivious, finally settles on a silver sports coupe parked dead center under bright lights. He circles it slowly, reverently. “This,” he declares, “is art.” Shane stands several feet away, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw is set, shoulders stiff. “It’s a death trap,” Shane says. Ilya waves a hand. “Statistically, that’s not true.” “Statistically,” Shane shoots back, “you drive like an idiot.” That earns him a grin. “You love it.” “I tolerate it.” “Same thing.” Shane doesn’t smile. When the salesman offers a test drive, Ilya doesn’t hesitate. Shane hesitates—but he gets into the passenger seat anyway. The interior is sleek and narrow. Everything feels close. Tight. The door shuts with a solid click that echoes louder than Shane expects. Ilya adjusts the seat, clearly pleased. “Listen to that engine,” he says as they pull out. “She’s perfect.” Shane stares straight ahead from the passenger seat. “She’s a death trap.” “Don’t be dramatic.” Ilya pulls out smoothly, confidence effortless. “You just don’t appreciate good design.” Shane exhales sharply. “I appreciate not dying.” They drive for a few minutes in tense silence. The car accelerates smoothly, hugging the road. Ilya is relaxed, one hand on the wheel, humming softly. “This is so much better than those ugly tanks you were eyeing,” Ilya says casually. “I mean, what were you planning to haul? Furniture?” Something in Shane snaps—not all at once, but enough. “Can you stop?” Shane’s voice rises suddenly, sharp and raw, cutting through the car like a slap. “For once, can you just stop acting like everything I want is stupid?” Ilya startles, foot easing off the gas. “What?” “Stop making fun of it,” Shane says, breath uneven. “Every time I l look at something I actually like, you tear it apart.” “Shane—”
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 5,824
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #85537951
-
Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, star players and fiancés of the Ottawa Centaurs, have shared both love and triumph on and off the ice, including two Stanley Cup victories. But when a devastating hit leaves Shane with partial amnesia, he forgets only Ilya—the man he once loved and imagined a future with. The world knows them as Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander—superstars, champions, captains. Ottawa’s golden boys. Two men who changed the shape of a franchise and, without ever meaning to, shifted the culture of the league simply by loving each other openly. They play on the Ottawa Centaurs, share a line, share a home, share a future. Their engagement had broken the internet for a solid forty-eight hours—rings flashing during warmups, a quiet kiss caught by a long lens, Shane’s hand resting so naturally at Ilya’s back it felt like it had always belonged there. There are haters. There always are. But they are drowned out by the roar of fans who chant their names together, by teammates who treat their relationship as the most normal thing in the world, by families who sit side by side in the stands wearing matching jerseys. Together, they have won two Stanley Cups. Together, they have bled for this sport. And together, they understand the risk. Hockey is fast. Hockey is violent. Hockey does not care who you love. They’ve always known that. Ilya learned it first in April of 2014. Back then, Shane was playing against Boston. A hard hit—late, ugly, the kind that makes the arena go silent before anyone even realizes why. Shane went down wrong, helmet snapping back, body going slack as he hit the ice. Ilya had been on the bench. He remembers standing up too fast. The way his vision tunneled. The way his heart stopped beating—not metaphorically, not poetically, but truly, painfully still—as Shane didn’t move. He remembers gripping the boards so hard his knuckles went white. Remembered screaming Shane’s name without realizing he was doing it. Remembered the medical staff swarming, remembered the stretcher, remembered not breathing again until he saw Shane’s chest rise in the tunnel. After that, every hit carried a ghost. Every time Shane stayed down a second too long, Ilya felt 2014 claw its way up his spine. They talked about it, quietly, late at night. About the risks. About concussions and broken bones and the way the game takes pieces of you and never gives them back. They promised each other honesty. They promised each other presence. They promised that no matter what—no matter the cameras, the league, the rules—they would choose each other first. That promise is tested again in 2017. It happens fast. Too fast. The puck is dumped deep, Shane chasing hard, skates digging in. There’s a collision near the boards—shoulder to shoulder, brutal but clean—and then something goes wrong. Shane’s edge catches. His head snaps back. He goes down. And this time… he doesn’t move. The arena goes deathly quiet in that way every hockey fan recognizes instantly. No cheering. No booing. Just the sharp scrape of skates slowing, players looking around, realizing something is wrong. Ilya sees it from center ice. Sees Shane’s body twisted unnaturally. Sees his stick slip from his fingers. Sees the stillness. The past slams into him like a freight train. But this time— This time Ilya doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t stay back. He doesn’t wait for officials. He doesn’t care about protocol or penalties or the watching eyes of thousands of fans and millions more at home. His fiancé is unmoving. Ilya drops his gloves and sprints. “ILYA—!” someone shouts, maybe a ref, maybe a teammate. He doesn’t hear it. He drops to his knees beside Shane, hands shaking as he cups his helmeted face. “Shane. Shane—hey, love, look at me. Please. Please.” His voice cracks on the last word.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 11,048
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77247666
-
During a high-stakes game between their teams, everything changes when Shane takes a brutal hit and goes down hard, blood staining the ice. The arena falls into stunned silence as trainers rush forward and fans hold their breath. All eyes turn to Ilya. The question hangs heavy in the air, unspoken but undeniable: How does a rival react when the man he loves is lying broken on the ice? The arena shook with thunderous energy. Thousands of fans dressed in rival colors waved signs, shouted chants, and slammed their palms against the boards. It was a spectacle every time the two teams met, but tonight felt charged—dangerous, electric. Shane Hollander skated warmup laps, feeling the weight of all those eyes. Cameras followed him as usual; he was the league’s golden boy, the face of his franchise. A clean-cut hero. The perfect foil to Ilya Rozanov. Shane allowed himself one quick glance toward the other end of the rink. Ilya was stretching near the blue line, long legs and broad shoulders outlined in his dark away jersey. He looked like a storm contained within a man—intense, focused, carved from granite. Everyone saw rivals. Polar opposites. Enemies destined to clash. No one saw the truth. The hands tangled beneath blankets. The whispered confessions in Russian and English. The quiet mornings in Ilya’s apartment, sunlight spilling across intertwined legs. The soft kisses before they split for practice, pretending they weren’t choosing love over the expectations of an entire league. Shane dragged his gaze away as the whistle blew. He couldn’t afford to get lost in thoughts of Ilya—not when they were minutes from going head-to-head. Not when every camera zoomed in for the slightest hint of tension. But his chest tightened with something warm and painful. Tonight, they’d have to pretend they didn’t matter to each other. Midway through the second period, Shane felt good—sharp. His skates cut through the ice like they were part of him. He took a pass, dodged a defender, then stole the puck right off a stick. The crowd roared, vibrating through his bones. Ilya was on the ice too, shadowing him from a distance that would look normal to anyone else. But Shane recognized it—the protective tether Ilya couldn’t fight, even in a rivalry game. Shane accelerated along the boards, eyes locked on the net. He had a lane. One beautiful, narrow lane. Then he never saw the defender coming. A massive body slammed into his blindside. Shane was lifted off his feet, crashing into the boards so hard the impact rattled his teeth. His helmet snapped back. Pain exploded behind his eye. His breath vanished. The world tilted. The puck slid away as Shane crumpled, his cheek hitting the ice, coldness searing his skin. A metallic taste filled his mouth. He lifted his hand, blinking at the smear of red on his glove. Blood. He heard the crowd gasp. Distant shouting. The shrill whistle of the refs. But it all sounded muffled, underwater. Then he heard something else. A roar—angry, feral, unmistakable. Ilya. Ilya Rozanov was already moving before any whistle blew. His eyes widened the instant Shane hit the ice—an expression so raw, so terrified, that his teammate beside him startled. But Ilya wasn’t afraid of losing momentum. He was afraid of losing Shane. He threw his gloves down so violently they slid across the rink. The defenseman who delivered the hit barely had time to straighten before Ilya collided with him like a freight train. “What the—Rozanov!” the player barked, raising his hands. Too late. Ilya’s fist slammed into his jaw with a crack that echoed. He grabbed the man’s jersey, hauling him down, yelling in a mix of Russian curses and English threats. His fist rose again — Two teammates tried to drag him away. He elbowed one in the ribs and threw the other off with a growl, all restraint gone. More players poured in. Sticks flew. Helmets toppled. Punches landed in a frenzy. A full-team brawl erupted—one massive, chaotic explosion across the ice. The crowd rose to their feet, torn between horror and exhilaration. But Ilya saw none of that. His gaze kept darting toward Shane’s motionless body. His chest heaved. Panic twisted his face in a way no broadcast replay could quite capture. He wasn’t fighting to win. He was fighting because someone had hurt the man he loved. And if someone was going to pay for it, it wouldn’t be Shane.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,018
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76149691