Work Text:
Shane sat exactly where he was supposed to sit, looking for all the world like a mannequin in a hockey jersey.
The Ottawa Centaurs logo loomed behind him.
To his left, sitting so close he was practically in Shane’s lap, was Ilya.
Ilya’s knee was angled toward him, their thighs a whisper apart, as if the concept of personal space was a boring myth he’d dismissed. Every time Shane spoke, Ilya’s nods became more violent, like Shane had just decoded the mystery of dark matter instead of mumbling something about defensive structure.
Shane resisted the powerful urge to scoot his chair away.
The reporter smiled and angled her microphone. “Shane, congratulations on the win. Can you walk us through what you felt went right for the Centaurs tonight?”
Shane nodded. “Yeah, I thought we did a good job sticking to our systems. We stayed patient, trusted each other, especially when the pace picked up in the second. Everyone contributed, and I think that showed over a full sixty minutes.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the reporter jot something down, satisfied.
Then Ilya moved.
He leaned toward his own microphone, his posture shifting into something earnest and solemn. It was a look that set off every internal alarm Shane possessed.
“Yes,” Ilya announced. “Exactly.”
Ilya turned slightly toward the reporter; his hands splayed casually on his knees. “He won’t say this, but it’s true. When your captain is calm, you don’t panic. You don’t chase the game. You just… follow him.”
Shane could feel a warmth creeping up his neck, a blush he had no say in.
The reporter blinked. “You’re talking about Shane’s leadership?”
Ilya’s smile was devastating. “I’m talking about my husband.”
The room sucked in a collective breath. Shane’s brain fizzled out like a bad connection. Husband. Said as if they were discussing muffin recipes.
Ilya continued, unbothered, as if he’d just mentioned the time. “He prepares more than anyone. He takes responsibility even when it’s not his fault. And he finds time to check in on every guy in the room.”
He nodded again, firmly, like he’d just delivered a closing argument in a very important court case. “So yeah. Systems were good. But leadership like that? That’s why we won.”
Shane felt like he was vibrating on a molecular level. He was acutely aware of every camera lens, every poised pen, every headline writing itself in real time.
The reporter’s smile widened into something a little feral. “That’s… very high praise.”
Ilya shrugged one shoulder. “I’m honest.”
Then he turned his head, finally looking directly at Shane. “He deserves it.”
Shane swallowed.
He leaned back toward his microphone. “Ilya’s - uh - very supportive,” he said carefully. “But it’s a team effort. Always is.”
Ilya nodded along, his enthusiasm palpable. “See? Humble.”
The reporter laughed, then glanced down at her notes like someone trying to remember how to do her job. “Okay - um - Shane, looking ahead, what adjustments did you make on the power play that seemed to click so well tonight?”
Shane grabbed the question like a drowning man grabs a life preserver.
He leaned slightly toward the mic. “Yeah, we simplified things. Faster puck movement, better net-front presence. Guys were making smart reads, getting shots through - ”
Ilya nodded along. Then, seamlessly added, “ - because he is smartest man alive.”
Shane stopped. His brain buffered for a second.
“…okay,” he said finally, blinking once as if rebooting his own system. Professionalism, like a grumpy shepherd, dragged him forward. “And credit to the unit for executing.”
Ilya beamed with pride.
While the reporter scribbled furiously, likely adding “SMARTEST MAN ALIVE” in all caps, Ilya reached over. He just tugged gently at Shane’s jersey collar, straightening it with care. Then he fiddled with the mic clipped there, his fingers lingering for a beat too long. Shane stayed perfectly still, his jaw tightening as a stubborn pink bloomed across his cheekbones.
The reporter’s eyes danced between them. “Ilya, let me bring you in - what’s been working so well for you personally on the ice these last few games?”
Shane exhaled. Good. A direct question. Let him talk about his own slap shot, his own diet, his own anything. The torment would end.
Ilya sat up straighter. “Thank you for asking.”
Shane allowed himself to relax. For about half a second.
“I think a lot of it is routine,” Ilya continued, thoughtfully. “Like, Shane goes to bed at same time every night. It’s very annoying. But it works. He tracks his sleep, his hydration, his heart rate - ”
Shane’s head snapped just a fraction toward him. “Ilya.”
“And he never ever cheats on leg day,” Ilya barreled on. “Even in off-season. It’s inspiring. Also little terrifying.”
The reporter laughed again. From the darkness came a whispered, “Oh my god.”
“Ilya,” Shane muttered, his media smile still stapled in place. “Please answer the question.”
Ilya blinked, looking baffled. “I am answering.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms. “I play better because he works harder than anyone. That’s the answer.”
The reporter looked delighted. “That’s very - ”
“Look at him,” Ilya interrupted softly, tilting his head admiringly toward Shane. “Even his stress is cute.”
“Ilya,” he warned.
“Sorry,” Ilya said immediately, hands up in a picture of innocence. “Continue, Captain.”
Shane answered the next question with the calm, even tone of a man who has accepted that his life is a deeply annoying sitcom.
Beside him, Ilya nodded along proudly, his eyes shining with affection, already leaning back into Shane’s space, their shoulders now touching.
The reporter didn’t even try to hide her smile. She just let it spread across her face, knowing she had stumbled into the best interview of her career.
~
Shane stood in the exact center of their kitchen, arms folded, weight shifted just slightly onto one hip - a stance that screamed he’d already mapped out this entire argument.
Ilya watched him from the doorway, leaning against the frame like this was the opening scene of a very good play. Or, better yet, foreplay.
“You embarrassed our entire media department,” Shane said. “Janice texted me three separate times. One of them was just my name, in all caps. I could feel her despair through the screen.”
Ilya, barefoot and grinning like he’d won a prize, dragged the vacuum cleaner out of the hall closet with grunting effort. “I thought she liked me. She always laughs at my jokes.”
“She laughs because she’s nervous,” Shane corrected, unmoved. “You called me your husband on live television. Six times.”
“Yes,” Ilya agreed cheerfully, plugging the vacuum into the wall. “Correct. It is fact.”
Shane gestured toward the expanse of their living room floor. “You’re on probation. Consider this your community service.”
Ilya’s eyes sparkled with unmistakable delight. “He’s strict tonight,” he murmured to himself. The motor whirred to life. “You look hot when you dole out consequences. Is problem.”
A furious blush crawled up Shane’s neck and onto his cheeks instantly. “Do not,” he said, pointing a finger, “try to flirt your way out of this.”
“I’m not!” Ilya protested, pushing the vacuum forward in a lazy, crooked line. He looked serenely pleased with himself. “I am flirting my way through it.”
Shane turned sharply away, pretending with great focus to inspect the already-spotless granite countertop.
“You should supervise,” Ilya called over the whirring. “Make sure I’m doing it to your standards. What if I miss a spot?”
Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not walking you around the apartment like a dog on a leash.”
Without missing a beat, Ilya clicked the vacuum off, wound a length of the cord around his hand, and presented the end to Shane with a hopeful expression.
Shane stared at the offered cord.
“…unbelievable,” he muttered, the words thick with exhausted fondness. But his hand moved anyway, taking the proffered end of the cord.
Ilya looked thrilled, as if he’d just been handed the keys to a city.
“Can’t wait until you finish disciplining me,” Ilya said lightly, bending to yank the coffee tablecloth off for shaking. “Whole thing is very attractive. Will think about it all night, probably.”
“Ilya,” Shane warned, but his voice cracked on the second syllable, betraying him entirely.
“You're blushing again,” Ilya observed fondly, shaking the cloth out the patio door. “Is my favorite color on you.”
Shane’s phone, forgotten on the counter, chose that moment to buzz.
He frowned.
HAYDEN (8 new messages)
The first was a screenshot. A tweet, already swimming in thousands of likes.
Ilya Rozanov talks about Shane Hollander like he’s a newly discovered Renaissance painting made of sunshine and moral integrity.
The next message followed instantly.
HAYDEN:
WHAT do you SEE in that man??? Psych eval. Now.
Another screenshot loaded beneath it.
ILYA ROZANOV BEING SHANE HOLLANDER’S #1 FAN (COMPLETELY UNHINGED)
(3:42 min compilation)
Shane scrolled helplessly, his sense of dread solidifying into a heavy lump in his stomach.
Trending:
#MyHusband
#LetShaneSpeak
#CaptainAndHisMenace
#RozanovsFanclubPresident
From the living room, Ilya called out, his voice buoyant with curiosity, “Are we trending?”
“Yes,” Shane said.
“Which one?” Ilya asked, genuine interest coloring his tone.
“All of them, Ilya. You’re trending in multiple categories.”
Ilya materialized beside him instantly, drawn by the magnetic pull of potential vanity. He peered over Shane’s shoulder, his chin nearly resting on it. “That one is good,” he said, pointing to the ‘Renaissance painting’ tweet.
Another tweet popped up in real-time on the screen, as if to hammer the final nail: HE DOES NOT NEED TO TOUCH HIM THAT MUCH. THE MIC WAS FINE. HIS COLLAR WAS FINE. CONTROL YOURSELF, SIR.
Directly underneath it: yes he does actually. let him cook.
Ilya’s grin returned. He leaned closer, his breath a warm puff against Shane’s ear. “See? People have spoken.”
Shane just stood there, holding the vacuum cord in one hand and his buzzing phone in the other, utterly defeated by the incorrigible force of nature that was his husband. The corner of his own mouth, against his will and every ounce of his better judgment, began to twitch upward.
Ilya leaned in and kissed his temple.
Shane didn't argue. He couldn't. It was the unassailable truth at the center of the entire universe they’d built.
His phone buzzed again.
HAYDEN:
I am staging an intervention.
Shane stared at the message, then lifted his gaze to Ilya - who was humming pointlessly in the middle of the living room rug.
"I am confiscating your phone," Shane said, his voice a model of calm authority that he absolutely did not feel.
Ilya tilted his head, considering. "You tried that once. I remember. My password is your birthday. Not a strong security system."
Shane closed his eyes, briefly mourning the loss of that particular tactic.
His own phone buzzed again.
CENTAURS TEAM CHAT (99+ new messages)
Wyatt:
IS IT TRUE???
Troy:
someone define “spiritually husband” i’m confused
Nick:
captain blink twice if you need help. we have a code.
Evan:
bro my mom just texted me “who is ilya and why is he obsessed with you” send help
Someone dropped a screenshot.
Breaking: Shane Hollander maintains perfect composure while his teammate professes eternal devotion live on air.
Another followed immediately.
Power Ranking NHL Couples Based on Vibes Alone
- Whatever Shane and Ilya have going on
"I am never doing media again," Shane muttered to the countertop.
Ilya shut the vacuum off. He drifted back to Shane's side, leaning in to look at the screen, resting his chin comfortably on Shane's shoulder as if this were a shared movie night. "This one is new," he said, tapping a screenshot of a fan-drawn cartoon where Ilya was depicted as an exuberant golden retriever.
Shane’s phone buzzed with a more formal notification. An email.
From: Harris
Subject: We need to talk.
A professional dread, entirely separate from the social media frenzy, washed over Shane.
Ilya read the subject line over his shoulder. "Tell him love wins."
"I am not telling Harris from PR that 'love wins,'" Shane said, his voice weak.
"You could add dog emoji," Ilya suggested, as if this were a serious negotiation. "Softens the message. Makes it professional."
Another buzz. A Twitter notification this time, flashing on the screen.
Shane Hollander standing there like 😐 while Ilya Rozanov gives a TED Talk on why he's perfect
Shane Hollander: sticks to systems
Ilya Rozanov: sticks to Shane
The absurd accuracy of it was the final straw. Shane let his forehead fall forward onto the cool counter.
Behind him, Ilya’s playful demeanor shifted instantly. He unwrapped the vacuum cord from Shane's hand and wrapped a firm, grounding arm around his waist instead, pulling him gently back from the edge of the counter. "You did great," he said, his voice dropping. "You were perfect."
Shane peeked up at him. "You are enjoying this. Immensely."
"I do," Ilya admitted freely, his other hand coming up to smooth Shane's hair. "I think internet is finally understanding how hot you are when you are being serious."
"Ilya."
"And strict," Ilya added, a smile creeping back into his voice. "Very important distinction."
Shane’s phone buzzed again on the counter between them.
HAYDEN:
I just saw a compilation titled “Shane Hollander Enduring Love Against His Will”
I’m coming over.
Shane straightened slowly. He picked up the phone, typed back.
Shane:
Bring wine. The good kind.
From where he stood, Ilya gave Shane a gentle squeeze before letting go. “Shane.”
Shane sighed, the sound full of exhausted affection. He set his phone face-down on the counter, silenced, though it still lit up every few seconds like it was trying to escape.
“You’re mad,” Ilya said.
“I’m not mad,” Shane replied automatically.
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“…okay,” Shane amended. “I was mad.”
“And now?”
Shane hesitated. “Now I’m tired.”
Ilya smiled at that. He reached up, thumb brushing along Shane’s jaw, tipping his chin up just slightly. Shane didn’t resist. He never did, not like this.
“I need world to know,” Ilya said quietly, “how perfect you are.”
Shane huffed a soft laugh. “I have one reputation. And it’s boring.”
“False,” Ilya said immediately.
Before Shane could respond, Ilya leaned in and kissed him. Shane melted into it despite himself, fingers curling into the front of Ilya’s shirt like muscle memory.
Ilya pulled back just enough to speak, still close enough that their foreheads brushed.
“You are interesting,” he said, kissing the corner of Shane’s mouth. “You are interesting when you overthink line changes.”
Another kiss, light, teasing.
“You are interesting when you pretend you’re not competitive and then destroy everyone at board games.”
A kiss to his cheek.
“You are interesting when you care too much. When you prepare. When you’re strict. When you’re kind.”
Shane’s face was fully flushed now, heart thudding, annoyance dissolving into something helplessly fond. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Always,” Ilya said, cupping Shane’s face properly this time, thumbs warm against his cheeks, like Shane was something fragile and worth studying. He leaned in and kissed him slowly, like he had all the time in the world to prove a point. Shane made a quiet sound before he could stop himself, hands coming up to rest at Ilya’s waist.
When Ilya pulled back, he stayed close. Foreheads brushing.
“You think you’re boring,” Ilya said, voice low and affectionate, like he was about to confess a secret. “But you’re wrong.”
Shane huffed, flustered. “Ilya - ”
“No,” Ilya said firmly, smiling. “You listen.”
He kissed him again, right at the corner of his mouth. “You’re interesting when you get that look,” he said, tapping between Shane’s eyebrows, “the one that says you’re already replaying the game in your head.”
Another kiss.
“You’re interesting when you forget to relax your shoulders,” Ilya went on, thumbs brushing over them now, grounding. “When you count steps. When you organize things that don’t need organizing.”
Shane laughed breathlessly. “Those are not - ”
Ilya kissed him again, lingering, warm. “You’re interesting when you blush,” he said against Shane’s lips. “When you try to be serious but you’re actually very soft.”
He rested his forehead against Shane’s. “The world can look. The world can talk. That’s fine.”
Shane opened his eyes, meeting his gaze.
“But you’re mine,” Ilya finished softly. “And I’m yours.”
“I can’t even be mad at you,” Shane admitted.
Ilya wrapped his arms around him. “Good.”
Shane tilted his head up and pressed one more kiss to Ilya’s lips. “Next interview,” he warned mildly, “you’re on your best behavior.”
Ilya grinned. “No promises.”
Shane shook his head, smiling despite everything, as his phone buzzed uselessly on the counter.