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“Oh my God!”
By now, they’re used to the excitement when they go out. The intakes of breath, the yells of recognition–they’ve both been famous in the hockey world for over ten years, their faces plastered over TV screens, billboards, and magazines. So when Shane and Ilya are out at the grocery store one day, picking up something to make dinner, it’s not a shock when a man nearby gasps at them.
It’s not one of Shane’s favorite things, if he’s honest. He loves hockey–adores the game, the rush of being on the ice, of being part of a team and winning trophies and cups. He thrives with the routine of his practice schedule and strict workouts, and his forever-whirling brain can truly let go of outside worries and focus solely on the game when he is gliding on his shakes.
It also helps that Ilya Rozanov looks damn good in pads and a jersey.
But the adoring crowds, the screaming, the bright lights…all of the overwhelming people. No, he could do without that. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it. Truly, he is so thankful for the fans. But he finds that every time he has to interact with most people, it’s like he’s putting his hockey mask back on to make a version of himself that’s acceptable for the world, and that mask sucks energy from his very soul. By the end of such social interactions, he’s depleted; exhausted.
So yeah, it’s not ideal that a fan has found them in the wild. Especially in the grocery store, which is already annoyingly loud and bright and overwhelming.
But still, he pastes a fake smile on his face and turns with Ilya, who instinctively wraps an arm around Shane’s waist to ground him, and they both greet the eager man.
“Ilya Rozanov!” the man breathes, hurrying up to them and looking at Ilya like he’s a god (Shane can’t blame him). “Fuck, man. I’ve been a fan since you played for Boston. You’re amazing!”
Ilya just smiles his cocky smile, making Shane want to smile, too. He’s so proud to be his. “Yes, I am,” he agrees, eyes twinkling.
“Fuck right. Can I get a picture?” the man continues, arms fluttering a bit as he struggles to pull his phone from his back pocket and then, rather unceremoniously, shoves it in Shane’s direction.
This is the first thing that throws him off a little. But of course, Ilya is in his element, still grinning and nodding along to compliments, steering the man to face Shane so they’re both posing for a picture.
And even as the man gets a good look at Shane, makes eye contact and everything…he says nothing at all.
He hates that he’s getting flustered. It’s not like he expects everyone to know who he is…most people don’t. He’s not a spoiled celebrity or something, he knows that a lot of people don’t follow hockey, and even some who do don’t bother to memorize what the players look like. But…this man hasn’t acknowledged Shane at all! Obviously, he’s a huge hockey fan who knows a lot about the players, and Shane is, arguably, the best player in the league. Has been for ages. Even if this asshole has a stupid preference for Ilya, he has to know that Shane is not only his past rival, but his damn husband. It’s not like Ilya is a lot better than Shane and he’s some trophy husband, Shane’s been competing against him for ages, has been beating his records for years, has been kicking his ass and taking his dick for longer than this stupid idiot has probably even known–”
“Moya llubov,” Ilya says gently, jolting Shane from his anger. His eyes are sparkling and the little smirk on his perfect face does nothing to calm Shane’s racing heart. “Take picture, yes?”
He’s now seeing red. “Hm,” he grunts, and snaps a few purposefully-blurry pictures with the guy’s phone before handing it back to him.
“Thanks, man!” the fan says happily, ever-enthusiastic.
“Shane,” Shane grunts, incensed that he’s introducing himself right now. “Hollander.”
“Cool, cool,” the man mumbles, too busy looking over his new pictures with Ilya freaking Rozanov to even make eye contact. “I’m Adam.”
“Are pictures good, Adam?” Ilya asks kindly, still grinning in a way that makes Shane want to both drag him to bed and punch his teeth out. “Shane can take more, yes?”
Shane sends his husband an utterly shocked glare. When have they ever offered to take extra pictures with people, especially in the middle of the damn grocery store? He’s about two seconds from taking off his wedding ring and throwing it behind the nearest shelf of cereal.
“Nah, this is perfect, my friends are going to die of jealousy! Thanks for being so cool, man!”
Adam, still red-faced and beaming, turns to go, and Shane is this close to storming out of the store. He can’t even look at Ilya’s handsome, knowing, smug face, can’t live down the fact that Ilya got recognized, but he didn’t.
Then– “Wait, Shane!”
Now, a little smile forms across his lips, and all is right with the world. He shoots Ilya an ‘I-told-you-so’ look before turning to Adam, who called his name from down the aisle. Desperately trying to keep his cool and probably failing miserably, he says, “What’s up?”
“Actually, can you get one more? These are a bit blurry, now that I look.”
He nearly crushes the phone as he holds it, looking through the screen at Ilya’s shit-eating grin.
---
It’s later, when Shane has calmed down and is laying on the couch, playing Sudoku on Ilya’s phone because his own is charging on the counter, that the notification pops up. A like on Ilya’s venmo transaction–to Adam Brenner.
Heart racing, thinking of the fan in the store earlier, Shane can’t resist. He taps on the app and finds the full transaction.
Ilya R paid Adam B - $1000 (private)
Thank you for helping me piss off husband.
Mouth falling open, Shane gasps. “Ilya, I’m going to fucking kill you!” he yells, already standing from the couch.
“Sorry, who is talking?” Ilya calls back, already in the bedroom, his voice full of humor. He clearly knows Shane has figured it out. “I don’t know your name. Is it…Lane Follander? Jane Mollander? You are clearly not famous hockey star like me. Is okay, not everyone can have adoring fans, does not mean–” He is cut off as Shane tackles him to the bed, both of them laughing as their lips connect.
“Asshole.”