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Ilya grinned wider as Shane huffed. “This game, seriously?”
Monica, the new Ottawa social media manager, busied herself wrapping the microphone around Ilya’s chest. “The fans voted for it.”
“Of course, they did,” Shane said.
“And they voted for Ilya.”
“Of course, they did,” Ilya preened. Shane’s look did little to dampen his spirits. “They know my husband is too media trained to give Montreal shit.”
“Don’t give Montreal shit,” Shane said.
Ilya gestured. “My point exactly.” He pulled Shane closer, undeterred by his unimpressed face and crossed arms. “Monica will cut anything bad.”
“Plus, this is your third game against the Voyageurs,” Monica said. “How bad could it be?”
Ilya skated to the center almost giddy. Montreal was subdued. The last couple games they lost against Ottawa and their ex-captain cut through their arrogance like nothing else. Of course, they could also be subdued due to Harris’ announcement that Ilya would be mic’d up for today’s game. For human interest unrelated to anything as passive aggressive as setting Ilya loose on the Voyageurs.
Montreal’s new starting center, Jenkins, was a transfer from Detroit. He fell short of expectations, to say the least.
“You’re still here?” Ilya asked. “I thought they were giving everyone a turn at center this season. Where is janitor?”
Jenkins scowled. “Always running your fucking mouth. You won’t—”
Ilya won the faceoff.
Ilya checked Comeau hard against the board, not nasty enough for a ref’s whistle. Shane would be displeased if he was sent to the penalty box so soon into first period, even if said penalty was against fucking Comeau.
“Want to touch a real man?” Comeau snarled. Ilya swept the puck out of Comeau’s grasp and whacked it to Troy.
He bit back the first few responses that came to mind because, despite what Shane believed, Ilya listened to some of his media training. Also, Monica had a cute dog. He shouldn’t make her life harder. “Is real man nearby?”
Ilya darted towards Rosner, a left winger who’d been at Montreal nearly as long as Shane. He was fairly forgettable. Rosner passed too quickly, not realizing the right winger circled back, and Luca scooped the puck.
“Pass to your team, not opponents,” Ilya explained magnanimously as they raced down the ice. “Now you know more about hockey so you can play better.”
Rosner stayed silent. He was a touch nut to crack. It was the most exciting thing about him. Luca passed to Troy who circled behind the goal and slapped it into the net with a sharp backhand.
“Never change, inferior Roz,” Ilya said. He left Rosner to collide into his teammates.
“Wow,” Ilya said.
Jenkins determinedly stayed quiet as they met in the faceoff circle.
“Very wow. What is the word?” Ilya mused theatrically. “Shocking. Astonishing.”
Jenkins lips pressed tight together.
“Incredible, but in a negative way,” Ilya said.
They bent for another faceoff.
“Most unbelievable.”
Jenkins twitched. “I’m not going to ask so you can—”
Ilya won the faceoff.
Montreal scored next which was less fun.
“Aw do you feel like you still have a chance?” Ilya cooed at Comeau. “Maybe under a different captain. Always a fun position. No bad positions with him really.”
“Fuck off, f—” Comeau visibly remembered Ilya was mic’d and the f turned into a b. “Bitch.”
Next time. Ilya blew a kiss and skated away.
Shane responded with a beautiful snap shot and Ilya cheered on the bench with the team. The one downside to playing different lines was being unable to congratulate his husband on the ice.
“Fucking yes!” Ilya screamed. He leaned closer to Troy. “I see why you called him a babe. My husband is hot.”
Troy shot him a betrayed look and Ilya grinned. “I told you that in confidence, you dick.”
“Tell me something about Rosner.” Ilya and Shane sat on the bench as the third line battled for the puck. Ottawa was up by one, thanks to Shane. Ilya needed to score at least two, both to beat his husband and honor his husband by helping demolish his trash ex-team. Someone had to be vindictive. Shane was too forgiving.
“Since when do you need my help to be an asshole?” Shane asked.
“The personal touch would be nice,” Ilya said.
Shane had yet to look away from the ice. “Sounds like you’re losing your touch. On a mic’d up game too. Embarrassing.”
Ilya tapped their sticks together, which finally earned him a sideways glance.
“You should support your husband,” Ilya said.
Familiar challenge entered his gaze. Ilya straightened instinctively. “Score a hat trick and I will.”
“Done, moya lopata,” Ilya said.
Shane frowned.
“It’s—”
“Shush.” Shane thought, frown deepening when Tanner lost the puck. “Shovel?”
“Da.”
Rosner checked Ilya against the wall and they battled for the puck. Well, Rosner battled. Ilya’s blade found the puck and he shot it between Rosner’s legs. Rosner almost looked annoyed.
“It’s cute when you try. Like a penguin.” Ilya pushed against the boards. “Next time, inferior Roz.”
They raced after the puck.
Ilya scored his second goal in two minutes and raised his hockey stick in celebration. He circled the edge of the arena. Some could argue it was unsportsmanlike—Ilya screamed with the crowd, waving—but he had the thinly veiled excuse of passing the Centaur bench. His teammates cheered as he glided closer.
“Go, Roz!”
“Fucking demolish them.”
But Ilya was only focused on one person. “My pretty, pretty Canadian boy,” he sang. Shane’s fond exasperation didn’t quite cover his pride. “That’s two.”
Shane’s eyes gleamed. “One more, Captain.” Ilya’s face was doing something feral based on Luca’s wide eyes. It couldn’t be helped. Captain falling from Shane’s mouth had a direct line to his dick. He wanted to bite him until Shane sobbed. Instead, he gripped his husband, tapping helmets over the barrier.
“One more.”
Ilya, blood still singing, met Jenkins for a faceoff. The Montreal center tensed as if warding away Ilya’s taunts. As if mind games were reduced to chirps.
Ilya schooled his face and watched the ref skate over. Jenkins glanced at him warily.
Ilya stayed quiet.
The Montreal center fidgeted. Ilya shifted his mouth guard and Jenkins tensed, twisting his stick.
He contemplated spitting just to see if Jenkins would jump.
Jenkins leaned forward. “You’re not going to distract—”
Ilya won the faceoff.
Almost like fate, he and Pike skated in tandem towards their benches during the next line changes. Pike had yet to do anything meaningful except pass, but nothing new on that front. Ilya waved at the Pike children who screamed next to Jackie.
“Your children show their true colors,” Ilya said. Jade and Ruby jumped in Hollander and Rozanov Ottawa jerseys. Arthur wore Montreal but it was Shane’s old jersey which only told Ilya he needed to leave more Ottawa merch during his next visit. Only Jackie and Amber wore Pike’s jersey.
Hayden rolled his eyes. “Not everyone is in Ottawa jerseys.”
“Ah yes, Jackie and the one too young for opinions are wearing Montreal. Good job.”
“Arthur is—”
“Wearing Hollander,” Ilya said. “Basically Ottawa. Is shame when kids don’t support their father. Might be failing on your part.”
Hayden sputtered and Ilya jumped the barrier to the bench.
Shane took left wing to Ilya’s center and he grinned. Even objectively, having Shane Hollander as his winger was heady. Shane Hollander being the love of his life made it addicting.
Two minutes was left in the game, which had no danger of going into overtime. Already Montreal fans left as Ottawa chanted in the stands. Even without a hat trick, Montreal was leaving with tails between their legs. But he wanted a hat trick.
“One more, lyubimiy,” Ilya bent for the faceoff.
“Want to go straight through?” Shane asked. Ilya grinned. Shane rarely chirped. “Weak center.”
Jenkins scowled.
Ilya feigned surprised. “Oh wow. Someone is playing center. I thought it was blowup doll.”
Jenkins bent for the faceoff and Ilya only had eyes on the puck.
“Like sex doll.”
Ilya won the faceoff, passing to Troy and all darting towards the Montreal goal. Comeau charged Troy who slid the puck to Shane and braced. Shane’s blade found it, of course. He handled pucks as easy as breathing and skated circles around Montreal, who should know Shane’s playstyle the best after nearly a decade on ice, yet they floundered. Shane turned, skating backwards to shield from one of the defensemen. Ilya dropped to the middle.
A glance.
Shane passed the puck to Ilya who slapped it the second it connected. Drapeau dropped too late, still focused on Shane, and the puck skimmed under his leg. There was only one place to go. Ilya raced towards Shane, colliding as the buzzer sounded. Shane laughed, a sound so rarely captured in public. Ilya almost forgot why they kept it professional on ice when Shane’s bright eyes found his.
“He likes trains and hates caves,” Shane said. Ilya immediately locked in. “His pet lizard’s name is Terry. His longtime partner is a teacher. He uses purple laces on his right skate during playoffs and has a subscription to National Geographic.”
Other teammates collided into them until they were a pile. Ilya clung to Shane’s jersey, smiling.
“Giving up pucks must be your strategy,” Ilya said. He should head to what should be the final faceoff, but it was only Jenkins.
Rosner ignored him as always.
“Makes sense. I would also want sexy school teacher to punish me.”
Rosner’s helmeted head turned.
“Write lines, maybe go to the principal’s office,” Ilya continued. “I’d dress up like a student too for that ass.”
“Shut the fuck up, Rozanov,” Rosner said. They were the first words he ever directed towards Ilya. They were glorious.
“Terry is scarred though.”
Rosner gaped as Ilya skated away backwards and waved. His fucking Hollander was barely audible.