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  1. Butt Cream and Sprankle Glitter by

    Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
    • G
    • !
    • ✓

    2025-12-17

    “Arti-SEE-anal butt cream cake,” Ilya says, louder, stubbornly proud. “What? Why you laugh? They say it is arti-SEE-anal butt cream frosting. I say same thing.” Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. “Buttercream, Ilya. Butter-cream.” A sprinkle-shot challenge, a toddler-esque fight with JJ, and a fake fireplace later, Shane realizes this might be the best birthday ever. Shane spends the afternoon leaning against the kitchen counter with loops of icing ideas running through his brain, because he knows Ilya has been pacing for ten minutes straight. Pacing is not new in their apartment—post-game pacing, pre-game pacing, pacing whenever Shane leaves a stray sock on the floor—but this pacing is special. Ilya mutters words in Russian, then French, then some mashed-up bastardization that probably counts as a new dialect. His phone screen glows in his palm, speaker volume turned up so loud the hold music hisses thinly through the kitchen. “‘Froosteenk,’” he snarls at the air, rolling his eyes to the ceiling like the light fixture personally offended him. Shane leans on the island and smirks. “It’s ‘frosting.’” “That is what I say.” Ilya swipes his hand through the air. “Froosteenk.” “Listen, it’s froooosting. Lengthen the vowel.” Ilya scowls harder and jabs the phone screen. “Do not correct me. I know words. I am four languages.” “You are four languages,” Shane says. “You are also saying ‘frosting’ like it murdered your mother.” Ilya spins, the cord on their kitchen window blinds tangling around his forearm as he walks. The operator finally picks up—some cheerful woman whose voice sits at the pitch only golden retriever puppies can hear. “Hello, this is Kara at Sweet Slice Bakery. How can I help—” “I want big cake with…with…” Ilya loses it, hand waving, brows furrowing. “You know. Happy birthday Shane. Chocolate inside. White…” He hesitates. “White…froosteenk.” There is a tiny pause from Kara. “I’m sorry?” Ilya huffs out a breath, glances at Shane, then stomps toward him with the phone held out like it might catch fire. “They make me talk nonsense. I have NHL contract but cannot say cake.” He thrusts the phone at Shane’s chest. Shane takes it, biting his lip to stifle laughter, and switches to the smooth, effortless tone of a man conquering cake orders. “Hi, sorry, uhm, he wants a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting, twelve-inch round, simple ‘Happy birthday, Shane’ in blue piping.” He listens, nodding, wraps an arm around Ilya’s waist when Ilya leans against him like a scowling oak tree. “Pickup Friday morning works.” Kara sweetly confirms and the call ends. Shane hangs up, sets the phone on the counter, and turns toward Ilya with blatant glee. “There. Cake secured. And no one accidentally ordered ‘frosted sin’.” Ilya’s eyes narrow. “That is what she thinks I say?” “You mangled it so hard it sounded like ‘frosted sin.’ Which...honestly sounds delicious. Maybe you invented a new dessert.” “I am terrifying athlete. I fight bears in Siberia.” Ilya grabs Shane by the waist and lifts him until his butt hits the counter. “Little stubborn Hollywood boy should fear me.” The smug retort Shane stored up dissolves when Ilya leans in and kisses him, a smooth mouth pressing against Shane’s and humming softly. Shane curls his fingers in Ilya’s hair and nips his lower lip. “My big, scary Russian,” he murmurs against the kiss, tone thick with affection, “defeated by buttercream.” Friday morning rolls in with the bakery’s doorway chime squealing like a bird with a sinus infection, and Ilya ducks his six-foot-three frame beneath the string of paper cupcakes hanging across the ceiling. He announces himself to the bewildered teenager behind the counter by slapping both palms on the glass and declaring, “We are here for froosteenk doom.” Shane, who is still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, takes a leisurely half-step forward. “We’re picking up the Hollander order.” He flashes the employee a smile so easy the kid practically levitates to the back room. Ilya folds his arms, eyes on the cake boxes lining the counter, chest puffed like the bakery is his arena. “Ask them for extra…sprankle glitter,” he says under his breath. “Sprankle glitter?” “You know. The crunchy little sugar people.” “Sugar…people.” “Yes. You put on top. Sprankle glitter.” Ilya nods with solemn conviction. Shane has no idea what sprankle glitter might be, but he would arm-wrestle every pastry chef in the city if that is what it took to keep this glower directed at desserts. “We’ll see what they have,” he says, palms up, when the box is presented like a sacred relic. The design is simple, blue script gliding over white icing, perfect for the team dinner they’ll hold later. Ilya stares at the words, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, his thumb rubbing over the cardboard lid like he just landed a hat trick. The kid looks at Ilya the way people look at grizzlies in national parks. “Do you, um, need anything else?” Ilya clears his throat. “Do you sell sprankle glitter?” Shane can’t help himself. “He means sprinkles.”

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    2,533
    Chapters:
    1/1
    Files:
    1
    AO3:
    #75488651