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The practice had been grueling, the air in the arena was freezing, and by the time the whistle blew, the team was almost falling to the floor with how much their legs hurt.
Shane didn't head straight for the locker room. Instead, he spent an extra twenty minutes in the hallway with one of the team’s newest rookies, a nineteen-year-old defenseman who was currently drowning in the stress of finding an apartment. Shane, having navigated the cutthroat real estate of both Montreal and Ottawa, patiently walked the kid through navigating lease agreements and which neighborhoods had the best proximity to the rink, his veteran instincts overriding his desire for a hot shower.
By the time Shane finally pushed through the heavy doors of the locker room, the space was already thick with the scent of eucalyptus, liniment, and the low rumble of post-practice chatter. Ilya was already back from his own shower, sitting at his locker with a towel draped around his hips, his skin still radiating heat and smelling of the soap Shane liked.
As Shane passed by to drop his gloves, Ilya reached out. It was a practiced, instinctive movement, his large hand cupping the back of Shane’s damp neck, pulling him into his space. The locker room was full of teammates, but in this corner, it felt private. Ilya tilted Shane’s head up, his thumb stroking a line along Shane’s jaw before leaning in for a quick kiss.
"You are late, Malysh," Ilya murmured against his lips, his blue eyes searching Shane’s face for signs of fatigue.
Shane leaned into the touch, letting out a breath he’d been holding since the middle of practice. "Helping the kid with his lease. Apparently, no one told him that 'utilities included' is a lie." He pulled back with a weary but affectionate smile. "I’m going to jump in the shower now, then I have that physiotherapy appointment. If I'm not out in ten minutes, come fetch me."
He squeezed Ilya’s hip as he stepped away, grabbing his toiletry bag and heading for the of the shower area.
Fast forward twenty minutes. Shane had emerged from the showers in a blur of motion, dressing quickly and checking his watch. He had a meeting with the team’s physical therapist across town and was already cutting it close. In his haste, his locker was a rare, chaotic mess—discarded tape, a stray sock, and his phone, which had slipped out of his bag and remained tucked precariously into the heel of a plain black sneaker.
Troy, the team’s resident instigator, was still peeling off his gear when he spotted the corner of the device. He grinned, a predator spotting easy prey. He reached out and snagged the phone, holding it up like a trophy.
"Hey, Cap!" he shouted across the room to Ilya, who was now half-dressed in a crisp white shirt. "Hollander left his phone. What are the odds his passcode is just 1234?"
A small crowd formed instantly. In the world of professional hockey, an unattended phone was a liability. It was a blank canvas for the kind of chaos that kept morale high during a long season.
"No way," Miller, a veteran winger, piped up. "He’s the Golden Boy. It’s probably something incredibly earnest, like the date he made the All-Star team."
"I bet it's his own birthday," Troy chuckled, swiping fruitlessly at the screen. "Boring, plain black case. Minimalist background. Let’s see what the 'Golden Boy' is hiding."
Ilya watched from his locker, leaning back with his arms crossed over his massive chest. He looked every bit the Captain—composed, dangerous, and entirely unimpressed by Troy’s lack of progress. He didn't move to stop them; he simply watched Troy fail.
"Dammit," Troy muttered after his fourth attempt. "I tried his jersey number, their public anniversary date, and even your number, Ilya. Nothing’s hitting. Come on, man. You’re his husband. Give us the four digits. We just want to put a dog filter on his profile picture."
Ilya’s eyes narrowed. He knew the passcode. It was four digits that had been burned into their collective memory before they even liked each other. The date they met at the Prospect Cup back in 2009—the start of a rivalry that had defined their lives. It was the only sequence of numbers Shane never had to write down.
"I do not give up my husband’s secrets for free," Ilya said, his Russian accent thick and velvety. "What is it worth to you?"
Troy didn't hesitate. "I’ll take your turn on the next bag skate. And I’ll handle the post-game media scrum on Tuesday so you can go home to your 'Princess' early."
Ilya’s smirk grew. The irony was too perfect. "Give it to me," he said, holding out a massive hand. "I will not tell you the code. But if you tell me what you want done, I will decide if it is funny enough to allow."
"Make his wallpaper a picture of your face!" Miller suggested.
Ilya glanced at the screen. The lock screen was already a candid photo of the two of them on a boat, Shane laughing while Ilya tried to keep a sun hat on his head. "Too easy," Ilya murmured.
"Change his Instagram bio to 'I love Russian men'!" Troy yelled.
Ilya ignored the shouting. He knew Shane Hollander better than anyone; he knew exactly what would prick at Shane’s professional dignity while remaining technically "affectionate" enough to be a joke between husbands.
With surgical precision, Ilya opened Instagram. He bypassed the security prompts with a familiarity that suggested this wasn't the first time he'd handled the device. He navigated to the profile settings and found the display name.
Slowly, he typed: Ottawa’s Favorite Princess 👑.
"What are you doing?" Troy tried to peek over his shoulder.
"Ensuring security," Ilya lied smoothly. To make sure Shane couldn't fix it the moment he got his hands on it, Ilya navigated to the account settings. He triggered a temporary security lockout by "forgetting" the password and redirected the recovery email to his own burner account—the one he used specifically for gaming and trolling Shane.
He tossed the phone back to Troy. "It is done. Do not touch anything else or I will have you traded to the Canucks by nightfall."
The room went silent as Troy looked at the screen. Then laughter erupted that could be heard down the hallway.
Thirty minutes later, the heavy door to the locker room swung open for the second time. Shane walked in, looking harried, his hair a mess from the physiotherapy table and his jacket half-zipped.
"Has anyone seen—" he started, then stopped.
As he walked toward his locker, the atmosphere changed instantly. The entire team—from the rookies he’d been helping to the veteran defensemen—stopped what they were doing. As one, they dropped to their knees or bowed deeply from their benches.
"Your Highness," Troy intoned, pressing his forehead to his hockey gloves with mock solemnity.
"The Princess has returned to the realm!" Miller cried, throwing a handful of athletic tape into the air like confetti.
Shane froze, his stomach dropping as he realized the locker room was far too coordinated. "Oh, no. What did you do?"
He lunged for his locker, grabbing his phone. The screen was a chaotic wall of notifications. Troy tagged you in a post.The NHL official account mentioned you. 2,000 new comments on your profile.
Shane opened his Instagram. His eyes went wide as he saw his new identity. He turned slowly toward Ilya, who was calmly sipping a neon-pink protein shake, looking like a man who hadn't a care in the world.
"You did this," Shane said, his voice a mix of disbelief and simmering heat. "Troy doesn't know how to bypass my two-factor. He doesn't even know how to use the coffee machine in the lounge."
Ilya didn't look up from his shake. "I am the Captain, Shane. I must maintain morale in the room. The boys needed a laugh after such a long practice. It is leadership."
"Ilya, I have a meeting with the league office tomorrow regarding the charity gala!" Shane hissed, waving the phone. "I can't show up at the Department of Player Safety or a board meeting as 'The Princess'!"
Ilya finally met his gaze, his eyes dancing between Shane and the phone in his hand. "You are my Princess. The league will understand your status. Perhaps they will even bring you one of those fancy chairs."
It was near midnight in the city. Outside, the house was buried under a fresh layer of silent, white snow. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the aggressive tapping of Shane’s thumb on his phone screen.
"It’s been four hours," Shane muttered, slumped over the kitchen island, his face illuminated by the blue light of the device. "I’ve tried every recovery hint. I know you changed the email to that stupid account you use for 'Call of Duty'. Give me the new password, Ilya. I’m serious. The PR team has already called me twice."
Ilya was leaning against the counter, a glass of water in his hand, watching his husband with a look of immense, predatory satisfaction. "Only if you say it."
Shane looked up, his face flushed with a mix of exhaustion and affection. "Say what?"
"That you are the prettiest princess in Ottawa," Ilya said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding far too smug for a man wearing a faded team hoodie and pajama pants.
Shane stared at him for a long beat. He looked at the 👑 emoji next to his name on the screen, then back at his husband. He let out a long, dramatic sigh and leaned forward, resting his forehead against Ilya’s chest.
"I am the prettiest princess in Ottawa," Shane whispered into the fabric of Ilya's hoodie. "Now give me my password, you absolute fucking idiot."
Ilya laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that Shane felt in his own chest, and pulled him into a proper hug. He reached into his pocket and handed over a small slip of paper with the new password.
"Thank you," Shane grumbled, already typing.
"Wait," Ilya said, stopping him with a hand on his wrist. "I forgot to tell you. I spoke to the equipment manager before we left the arena."
Shane paused, a sense of genuine dread pooling in his stomach. "Why? Ilya, why?"
"I ordered a custom nameplate for your locker," Ilya smiled, leaning down to kiss Shane's forehead. "It should be installed by tomorrow morning's skate. It says 'Princess' in very nice, gold script. A gift from your Captain."
Shane closed his eyes, leaning into the man he both loved and wanted to strangle. "I'm divorcing you. I'm moving back to Montreal."
"No, you are not," Ilya replied, turning off the kitchen light and leading him toward the stairs. "You like the crown too much."