Chapter Text
Bood startled, a little, when the seat next to him was suddenly occupied. He’d been overanalysing a missed seam pass on their last powerplay, trying to figure out if he’d just gotten the angle wrong, or if the puck had wobbled on the end of his blade, or if Dykstra had just not been paying attention to the set play.
“Uh. Hi?”
Bood chanced a glance from his new seat partner towards the front of the plane, where he could see Roz’s curls peeking over the seat back three rows up.
Shit.
Fuck.
He was not equipped for domestic disputes with three hours still left in the air.
When had this happened? They’d been all giggles on the walk across the tarmac – shoulders pressed together, heads tilted into each other, giving each other shit even as Hollander slid into their usual row and Roz stowed their bags in the overhead bin.
Maybe the plane would almost crash again. Give them a decent distraction. A reason to make up. A –
And now Hollander was looking at him like a kicked puppy. Or, at least uncomfortable enough that he probably thought Bood didn’t like him, or something, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. Bood fucking loved Shane Hollander. For his skill on the ice, for that reverse hit on Andersen three nights ago, for his unwavering ability to walk Ilya Rozanov like a fucking dog even if he hadn’t yet realized he had that power.
You’d think after more than a decade he’d have realized it. And yet.
“Sorry, I can sit somewhere else.”
“No!” Fuck. Bood was fucking this all up. That had been too loud a protest. Loud enough that a few heads turned to stare at Bood. “No, sorry, I spaced out. Sit. Relax.”
It had been like this in the beginning. Shane was…odd. A little awkward. Not great at reading the cues that would let him know that the entire Centaurs roster was frothing at the mouth over the idea of having Shane Hollander as their 2C. An embarrassment of riches. None of them could figure out how the league hadn’t tried to kill the trade. Most of them had speculated that Yuna Hollander had something on Crowell that made him keep his mouth shut and just…allow the Centaurs, a historical failure of a team, to sign two of the biggest stars the hockey world had ever seen.
And when they’d all circled around him like children hoping he’d sign their Tim’s cards, he’d gotten even more awkward. Confused. Maybe convinced they all secretly hated him.
It hadn’t taken much for them to turn that around, if Bood’s being completely honest. Bood has hated Montreal on principle for years now, but that was more a divisional thing. Now he just hoped they all suffered for not making sure Hollander had more friends than he knew what to do with.
Hollander leaned back in the seat after a moment of staring at Bood with a furrowed brow. He looked – strangely relaxed, considering. He bent his arm at the elbow to smack lightly at Bood’s shoulder. “Hey, that goal tonight was a beauty.”
“Thanks.” It had been a good fucking goal. He’d seen a razor thin lane through four screens and wristed it at the blue line. Even through traffic it had gone straight over Ahle’s shoulder and into the net. Fuck, they better be replaying it on Sportsnet all week.
He chanced another glance up at Roz, who seemed to be animatedly gesturing while he talked to whoever was sitting next to him – Barrett, probably. But that didn’t give him any additional context. Ilya had been his same animated self while hiding an entire fucking relationship from them: surely he could fake being fine while he was in a fight with his husband.
“So. Montreal.”
Hollander hummed. Bood was fairly convinced the MLH had forced the league schedulers to put off Ottawa and Montreal meeting for as long as possible – three months in and this was the first time they’d be seeing this particular division rival.
Also not a great time for Hollander and Rozanov to be having a fight. They needed those two locked and loaded, even if Montreal was crashing and burning in a karmic way right now.
“It’ll be weird,” Hollander murmured. He shot Bood a wry smile. “I hear the visitors room is garbage.”
Bood grinned back. “Oh it’s a fucking travesty, man. Just you wait.”
Bood had to keep him talking. Keep him from spiralling. Distract him for whatever length of time it took for Roz to come to his senses and apologize for whatever stupid shit he’d done.
“Only team you’ve never scored a goal against, right?”
Hollander scratched at the back of his neck. “That – yeah, I guess that’s true.”
“Not that I think it’ll come to it, but yay or nay on an empty netter?”
Hollander grimaced.
“That’s a no.”
“I’m not, like – I’m not some diva. It’s just –.”
“Player like you can afford a few diva moments, Hollzy. Maybe when you get frustrated you just break a stick on the glass and move on, for once, instead of beating yourself up in silence for the whole game.”
Hollander looked like the thought of inconveniencing the equipment manager for no reason might give him an aneurysm. Bood would have to table that thought until another day. One day, they’d get him to be at least half as dramatic as his husband.
“So we don’t pass to you if you haven’t already scored against those fuckers.”
Hollander looked like he had a point to argue about whether they should consider the Metros to be fuckers but Bood had heard enough about the culture of that room after Roz and Hollzy got outed, and he had a few scores to settle.
Half the fucking team did. He was pretty sure Hayes was gonna do his damndest to start a goalie fight. It’d be rarified air if he managed it – a career Goalie Gordie Howe Hatty doesn’t happen all that often, and a fight was the only thing Hayes didn’t have on his scorecard. Yet.
“It’s just another game on the schedule,” Hollander said, with a – alright, mostly genuine looking shrug. Like he didn’t hold a grudge. Like he wouldn’t light that room on fire if they looked at him wrong.
Dykstra keeps threatening to charm Centre Bell security into letting him through to the player parking lot. He hasn’t mentioned what the fuck he’s gonna do once he gets there, but Bood’s pretty sure he’s recruited a few of the Ontario boys that got called up for the road trip to join him in his nefarious plans.
Bood wondered if Hollander knew how freakishly loyal this team was. And how much of a fucking grudge they could hold on someone else’s behalf.
“You won them three Cups,” Bood pointed out. “And they accused you of letting Roz win. We’ve all been around you two enough by this point to know how fucking dumb an accusation that is.”
Should he have mentioned Rozanov? Was that going to make Hollander upset?
“I’m just ready to get it over with,” Hollander admitted. “Stop fielding twenty questions a week about my former team and how I feel about their record.”
Bood has enjoyed watching them creep their way down the standings with a little bit of glee. Hollander doesn’t need to know that.
There was a commotion ahead of them, and Bood watched with apprehension as Ilya Rozanov flung himself out of his seat and down the aisle, shooting a look over his shoulder before turning to make direct eye contact with his husband.
Hollander’s expression didn’t change. No grimace or glare, no tensing of his shoulders – no ridiculous sappy smile.
Jesus, Bood did not want to be in the crossfire of this. Why had Hollander chosen this seat to sulk in?
Rozanov leaned over the empty seat in front of Shane, one hand dangling over the back of the seat so that his wedding ring was in sight. Probably a good idea. Probably smart. Fuck, Bood did not want to be here to watch Hollander make his husband grovel.
“Shane,” he said, all smarm. Roz kept saying it was charm, but Bood knew him well enough by now to know when he was actually being charming. This was a bad fucking start. “Sweetheart.”
About twelve voices rang out a chorus of “Jar!” all at once, including Bood.
Hollander glanced up at his husband and didn’t say a word.
Rozanov tipped his chin against the top edge of the seat and blinked. “Whole team thinks we are fighting, Shane. Everyone on this plane thinks you are angry with me, and is my fault.”
Hollander blinked. Shot a half-second glance and raised brow at Bood, who couldn’t actually deny that. Three months of plane rides and Bood had seen them sit in separate rows exactly once, when Hollander had a cold he refused to pass to anyone and had quarantined himself three rows up from the broadcast crew. “What?”
Ilya raised his voice, swivelling to make direct eye contact with anyone in spitting distance. Half the plane had been pretending not to be watching the exchange, but no one bothered to hide it now that they’d been caught out. “Is…unconventional for us sit separately,” he continued, voice rising.
“I said unnatural!” Barrett chimed in, without a hint of shame.
Shane’s brow furrowed. It seemed like genuine confusion.
Roz pursed his lips.
“I also said you better fucking apologize before this plane lands, so hop to, idiot!”
“But we’re not–.”
Ilya struck a pose. One arm out, like he was about to speachify, the other pressed to his chest, right over his heart. “Everyone is listening, yes? Players, staff, broadcast crew? Gerald?” Gerry glanced up from his laptop with a frown, unaware of why he was being singled out. They liked Gerry, but Gerry was no Harris. Harris would have clocked Roz and Hollzy arguing and mediated before they got to this point. Before Bood had spent twenty minutes trying to distract Hollander from whatever stupid shit his husband had done to piss him off enough to abandon him to the clutches of Troy Barrett.
Not that Troy had been a great ally for Roz, apparently.
“Shane, moy verkhiny bagazhynyy otsek.” Hollander eyed Roz contemplatively for a moment before rolling his eyes, so Bood murmured another quiet ‘Jar’ even if he didn’t know what the fuck weird term of endearment Roz had used this time. “I apologize,” Roz continued. “Please forgive me for being terrible husband.”
Hollander stared back at him for a long, long moment. “Luggage compartment?” he finally asked, while everyone within hearing distance waited with baited breath.
Roz blew out an impatient breath. “Yes, you’re very smart. Very pretty. Best with languages. And I am terrible, horrible, no good, very bad husband. Do you forgive me?”
Bood wondered if Roz had memorized that phrase reading bedtime stories to Pike’s kids.
Shane rolled his tongue over his teeth. This was a shitty apology, in Bood’s opinion. Then he rounded on Bood, which didn’t seem fair at all. What had Bood done? “Why does everyone think we’re fighting? Do you think we’re fighting?”
“...aren’t you?”
Roz cackled. Head thrown back, a full set of jibs on display, eyes crinkling near to shut as he laughed, and Bood, for a moment, tensed for Hollander to snap at him.
Hollander just stared at him with the same fond, dumb lovestruck look he was always staring at Roz with. “We aren’t fighting!” Hollander announced, in that captain’s voice he hadn’t completely lost yet. “I can go a single plane ride without being attached at the hip to Ilya Rozanov!”
The air of tension Bood hadn’t fully realized was present seemed to dissipate with that proclamation, although a few members of the team gave each other incredulous looks.
It wasn’t that they didn’t believe him. It was just…there was really no empirical evidence to support that claim. In the four-ish months they’d been privy to the Shane-and-Ilya experience, there hadn’t been much apart time for Roz and Hollzy. They centered different lines, sure, but even on the bench, talking out different shifts with linemates usually involved them shoulder to shoulder and squabbling over the same water bottle, or sharing smelling salts and giving each other googly eyes. They’d started a PDA jar specifically for Roz two days into training camp, although Hollander had been caught doing and saying enough coupley shit to have contributed plenty to it on his own. It was nauseating. It was…kind of sweet.
Bood would never, ever tell Roz he thought so.
From the seat across the aisle, Haas cleared his throat. “So you are not getting divorced?”
Complete silence had never sounded so loud.
Then Roz laughed again, leaning sideways into the aisle to ruffle Luca’s hair. “Was that a joke, Haasy?”
Haas looked so fucking proud of himself Bood was a little afraid he’d float right to the roof of the cabin and stay there. He shot Barrett a triumphant look over the seatbacks.
“Well how the hell was I supposed to know?” Barrett called back. “They claimed a fucking row in preseason and haven’t deviated from the routine since!”
“And you just assumed Ilya did something to piss me off?”
“He does that a lot!” Dykstra chimed in from a row back.
Bood had kind of assumed that was more of a foreplay thing for them than an actual relationship issue. Roz pushed buttons like it was a second job, but Hollander always got this look in his eyes when Roz was doing it that made Bood pretty fucking positive it was a turn on for them.
He never wanted that assumption confirmed.
Ilya looked delighted to have got the whole team going. “Shane is trying new things! Stop persecuting my beautiful husband –” The “Jar!” chorus included at least their radio guy and their color guy, this time. “–for trying to make new friends and broaden his…” he gestured with one hand, “...skyline.”
“Horizons,” Shane corrected, fondly.
“Is what I said,” Ilya shot back, although Bood could see him making a mental note anyway.
“So do you forgive me?” Roz asked, batting his lashes exaggeratedly.
“For what?”
“For being devastatingly handsome and also very good lover.”
There was a collective groan punctuated by Haas’ careful “We will need a new jar by the end of the month.” and Hollander quietly parroting “Devastatingly,” like his husband had just performed a clever trick. This was the nauseating part.
It was still cute as fuck, unfortunately.
“I cannot return to making Barrett show me pictures of puppies until you forgive me, Shane. John and Mark and Jordan cannot continue their nap until you forgive me. Hayesy cannot return to daydreams about men in unitards until you forgive me. Haas –” He cut a glance across the aisle. “Haas cannot pray for our swift divorce so he can have you to himself until you forgive me.”
Luca turned red as a tomato and sputtered denials. Wyatt shrugged his shoulders. The broadcast crew at the back of the plane were already lowering their sleep masks again, crisis apparently averted in their minds. Troy had his head bent low and was very likely sending Harris a blow-by-blow of this whole exchange.
Hollander sighed. “If I forgive you, will you stop bullying Luca for finally having good taste in men?”
Haas went, if possible, even redder. It was almost purple-ish, really.
Roz continued with the dramatics long enough for Shane to lean across the aisle and murmur an apology to Haas.
They were good like that. Both of them. Sometimes teammates got dragged into their squabbles, but neither one of them ever wanted to pit the team against one or the other. Haas was just the unfortunate fanboy who’d had both their rookie cards framed. Bood was pretty sure he’d cried the day Hollander offered to sign a stick for him.
Once Rozanov finally wound himself back down, Bood stood. “As fun as this whole thing was, I’m gonna go sit with Barrett.”
Ilya looked momentarily torn. Either he was upset about missing puppy pictures or he actually felt kind of bad about interrupting his husband's attempt at spending five minutes not plastered to his side. But Bood knew Roz well enough at this point. Once he’d figured out there was no actual fight, it was easy to figure he’d just used it as an excuse to have Hollander’s attention all to himself.
Hollander didn’t look particularly put out as Bood shifted into the aisle, anyway.
They’d spent years getting a few hours of quality time every few months. Bood didn’t begrudge them taking advantage of the ability to spend every fucking second they could together.
He didn’t need to be their foreplay third, though.
By the time he sunk down next to Barrett, Ilya was already sprawled across Bood’s former seat, and his husband’s lap. They were murmuring softly to each other, doing that weird prolonged eye contact thing they’d been doing since center-ice face offs were the longest they spent face to face.
Bood should text Cassie. Let her know he was thinking about her.
“Sorry. I made up the fight thing so he’d stop waxing lyrical about how the Drover’s new chocolate lab rescue had the same coloring as Hollzy’s eyes.”
Bood huffed out a laugh. “You think he’ll ever get tired of reminding us he’s married to ‘second most beautiful man alive’?” His Russian accent was shit, but Troy laughed anyway.
“You’d think the novelty would have worn off by now.”
Bood shot a glance over his shoulder, caught the edges of Hollander’s smile in his periphery. Fuck, he loved love. He turned back to Barrett. “I know we all told coach we were gonna play a clean game, but we were all lying about leaving those dickheads in Montreal with all their remaining teeth, right?”
Troy chuckled. “Haas spent an hour after optional yesterday practicing checking a dummy. Don’t even know where he found the damn thing.”
“So, they’re going home with bruised ribs and egos.”
“Don’t tell Hollander,” he whispered, and Bood mimed zipping his lips.