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Before the first practice after winning round one, Ilya stood in the middle of the locker room and waited for the chatter to die down. “Some people are saying that Shane Hollander tripped on purpose,” he said. “This is not true. They think that just because we are in love, we would play worse hockey. This is not true. Many of you have seen us play against each other for our entire careers. All of you saw us play against each other for the last seven games. Did we go easy on each other?”
There were murmurs and shakes of the head that made it clear that the majority of the room, at least, was with him. He was sure no one was stupid enough to believe the accusations, but he also felt a wave of relief that he knew that for certain. “Just because the hockey world now knows we are together, they think this is the first time something is between us. We have been in love for many years, since before some of you even joined the league.” He looked at Luca, who blushed even though there was no reason to. Even now they were in the postseason, the way Luca reacted to him was still a little funny. “And we have both always, always played our best hockey we could, no matter who was on the other side of the face-off.
“You think I would love a man who would insult me like that, who does not believe I could win a playoff game without him throwing it? You think I would willingly drive to Montréal in snowstorm for a man like that? Hollander is hot, but he is not that hot.” There was a smattering of laughter, and Ilya smiled too, relieved that every face he looked at showed that his team believed him. “We earned our place in this round. Every one of you contributed to some of the best hockey we have ever played, and I am proud of every one of you. I am proud to be your captain, and soon I will be proud to be the captain who led his team to Ottawa’s first Stanley Cup!” A cheer went up, and he grinned even wider. “Forget the Montréal Voyageurs. Forget Shane Hollander. Focus only on how we are going to sweep New York, and of Scott Hunter’s sad face when we do.”
There was a louder cheer, and he glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Hurry up and get your gear on. Teams who are late to practice do not win Stanley Cups.”
When Ilya turned to leave, already fully dressed, Coach Wiebe was standing just outside the open door. He nodded at Ilya, and Ilya nodded back, and then he straightened his shoulders and went to play hockey.