Chapter Text
Four months later.
If you asked Ilya Rozanov five years ago what his favourite team to play was, he would have said the Montréal Voyageurs. And the reporters, nodding enthusiastically, would grin a knowing smile and ask about Shane Hollander. Ilya would smile too, throwing a cheeky wink and gifting an inflammatory comment about his rival to the camera before walking off to prepare for the game. They expected a heated tension, some grand, palpable weight between the two captains that bled out from the boards into the rink. Ilya couldn’t tell them just how right they were.
And, If you asked him today, he’d have the same answer. But for entirely different reasons.
Since the night the Centaurs won the Eastern Conference, a few things had changed.
The tabloids had exploded once the news broke of Shane’s injuries. Images of Ilya’s arm wrapped around Shane’s retreating figure through hospital doors had spread to vast corners of the internet, spawning a mountain of rumours across social media. And, with Comeau’s mugshot leaking at a similar time, it hadn’t taken a genius to put two and two together.
Before an official statement had been made by either of them, Gilbert Comeau and Patrice Drapeau had been relieved of their contract, barred from continuing to play in the NHL in any capacity. The commission had made a statement about the incident, of course, carefully leaving out the real reason behind the confrontation. They’d tried to give Ilya a warning too, citing excessive violence. In response, Farah had drafted a simple email with a list of Shane’s injuries from the evening and the police report confirming Ilya acted in what they defined as “irrefutive self-defense”. They didn’t hear a response back.
On the day of the finals, Shane, Yuna, and David watched Ilya play with unreserved fascination, being some of the loudest voices in the audience when the Centaurs played fiercely on home ice for the Cup. And while New York had taken home the win, the team had still been elated with their overall standing in the tournament.
Then they had gotten married, of course. Hayden would vehemently deny any tears were shed during the wedding ceremony between his best friend and the NHL’s biggest asshole, but J.J had the evidence on tape. Since that fateful game, the defenseman had apologized profusely many times to Shane who, after sitting with his feelings for a while, had chosen to forgive his friend. They spent days together at the cottage, the three of them unburdened by the weight of the season and openly shit-talking the dumpster fire that was the Montréal Voyageurs. Ilya had simply sipped his drink as he watched them, plotting.
Shane, naturally, had decided to let his contract expire. When the option for renewal came up, he’d almost laughed out loud.
“We can’t convince you to stay?” Theriault asked, eyes wide as Shane slid the paperwork back towards him.
Shane’s gaze was cold, regarding his soon-to-be former coach with a fury he’d been reigning in for months. “Not a fucking chance.”
A week later, he’d signed with the Centaurs.
Now here Shane was, on the ice with his husband, watching as his new teammates laughed while they stretched together. A united group of players, happy and comfortable with each other on the ice. He couldn’t have asked for anything better.
“It feels weird to be on this side of the ice.” He mused, hearing skates skid to a stop beside him.
Ilya shook his shoulders playfully. “Is that right? You will get used to it.”
Shane looked away quickly as one of the Voyageurs raised their head, glancing in his direction. “I know. It’s just…” He trailed off. “I’m not sure I’m going to enjoy this game.
Ilya sucked in a breath through his teeth. “No worries. I enjoy for the both of us.”
Shane raised an eyebrow, a warning in his voice. “Ilya.”
Ilya raised his hands in mock defense. “Is nothing! As captain I will enjoy emotionally confusing game for new teammate. That is all.”
Shane looked incredibly unimpressed as he turned to face his husband. “Just stay out of the penalty box.”
Ilya fought to keep a smile off of his face. “I make no promises.”
As Shane pushed off, going to join his new teammates, Ilya set his sights on the other side of the rink, watching the Voyageurs move like a hyena waiting to strike.
He lost the battle, grin slipping onto his features.
This would be fun.
_________
The first chirp was tame, in his opinion. As he lined up to center ice, he leaned in a little closer to the player across from him.
“Should I say thank you now or later?”
The opposing center tilted his head in confusion. “What?”
“For getting rid of best player right before new season. Centaurs are very grateful for your mistake.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “Shut up, Rozanov.”
By the time the puck dropped, Ilya was already skating away, leaving the disgruntled player in the dust. Minutes later, the first goal was scored. As a cheer erupted from the crowd, Ilya patted the goalie once on the back with mock sympathy.
“Is okay, is not your fault. New captain cannot skate fast enough to keep up with me.”
The goalie made a sound of outrage, whipping around for the referee. Ilya skated away gleefully before he could be yelled at, chuckling to himself. Barrett threw him a questioning look as he drifted back to the boards, tagging out with Haas, who was excited to be playing a new season with two seasoned all-stars.
“Having fun?”
Ilya continued his laughter. “Immensely.”
The second time he got a word in, the Centaurs were up 2-0. The Voyageurs were struggling to keep their former captain away from their net as he zipped past their defense with ease, narrowly avoiding a few too many bodies intent on slamming him into the boards. It seemed that only J.J and Hayden were committed to playing fair this evening.
Ilya pursed his lips and memorized jersey numbers. He could work with this.
Back out on the ice, he zeroed in on his first target. Number 18 had the puck, determined to carry it past center ice as he deked past Bood, sights set into their team’s defending zone.
Not on his watch.
The crowd rippled in shock as Ilya slammed him into the boards– a clean but rough hit.
The player got up easily, glaring at him. “Dick move, Rozanov.”
Ilya tutted. “Perhaps learn to take hit. The Foundation’s hockey camp still has slots for next year…do you want? Shane is very good teacher.”
He left Number 18 seething by the boards as he lined up for the next face off.
As the game drifted into the second period, he would simply skate by the opposing team’s bench, letting his voice carry.
“You seem distracted. Very sorry, no one on Centaurs is interested in ugly hockey players.”
“Should have stretched before game. Shane does yoga with us, very helpful.”
“Your team used to be good. What happened since last season?”
“For next play, it would be good strategy to start playing real hockey, da? Or did you not learn how because your captain used to do it for you?”
He could see jaws tightening, basking in the feeling of weak shots thrown back at him with more desperation than bite. He could also see Hayden turning his face away, shoulders shaking as he hid his chuckles from his teammates.
By the third period, he was even mocking the coaches.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ilya pitched his voice higher, feigning crying with his hands, “Did someone throw away their only good player because he had boyfriend? That’s too bad.”
“Ref! Get this fucking wise-ass away from our bench.”
The referee looked almost reluctant to send Ilya back to his team, lip upturned into a smirk. “Hop to it, Rozanov.”
He blew a short raspberry before skating away to the Centaur’s side of the boards.
“Last five.” Shane was grinning as he hopped the boards, trading places with Ilya on the ice.
Ilya leaned in, letting his helmet touch Shane’s. “Go show them what they’re missing.”
Shane winked at him as he pushed away to go win the face-off. As Ilya watched him, smiling wide, Evan Dykstra elbowed him in the arm.
“What’s it like, seeing him out there with us?”
Ilya was certain he had the dopiest look on his face. “It is everything.”
Dykstra chuckled at the obvious softness in his tone. “We’re happy he’s here, Roz.”
“Fucking right we are.” Dillon chimed in, others on the bench murmuring their fierce agreement. “We’ve got a real shot at the Cup this year.”
They all turned their attention back to the game just in time to see the puck launched into the net with a vengeance by a flash of red and black, proudly sporting the number 24. Shane whooped as skated around the net, pumping his fist in the air. After a moment of hesitation, he turned to the Voyageurs bench.
“How’s that for throwing a game, assholes!”
Ilya chuckled. Not bad.
As predicted, the Voyageurs had lost badly, unable to get a single goal. When the buzzer went off, the team rushed Shane, lifting him up into the air with a glee they couldn’t contain. Casting a glance back to the Voyageurs, Ilya could have sworn he saw a tear in someone’s eye.
While they lined up for handshakes, Ilya felt very good about humiliating Shane’s former team on their home ice. But he wasn’t done yet.
As Ilya moved the line forward, grasping hesitant hands with the opposing team players, he stayed silent until he neared the end, blue jerseys fading into grey suits with wrinkled white shirts and ugly ties. Here he slowed to a stop, stalling in front of Coach Theriault.
“To think,” Ilya mused, twirling his stick in his hands, “If you weren’t an intolerant piece of shit, you could have won another Cup.”
Theriault looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Want to know something?”
“Fucking what, asshole.”
Ilya leaned in, hand outstretched in what would look like a show of sportsmanship to the crowd, voice suddenly dark.
“Take a good, long look at everything plastered with his number in this rink. The banners, the jerseys, the trophies. You should print it out, get it tattooed. Because after today, you must know that this team will never hold another Cup until Shane retires. He was only reason Montréal was good and you pushed him away. So now you reap consequences of terrible, terrible fuck-up.”
He grabbed the coach's limp hand, grinning as he leaned back like nothing happened.
“Good game.”
He thought he may have even heard a sniffle as his back was turned, skating confidently towards the boards. As Shane’s hand found his, squeezing, he couldn’t contain the blossoming of joy spreading through his body.
His game.
His team.
His husband.
He pulled Shane into a passionate kiss, letting the crowd’s uproar fuel the fire he felt in his chest. Shane’s lips melted against his, slotting together with practiced ease. Faintly he could hear a few hollers and whistles from his– no, their teammates.
Shane pulled back first, muttering into his lips. “You’re ridiculous.”
Ilya could do nothing but smile, grabbing his husband’s hand and pulling him in for another kiss.
“Only for you, lyubov.”