Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ryan Price has learned a lot of useless things over the course of his career.

He knows which hotel pillows will wreck his neck and which ones are tolerable if he folds them in half. He knows that the coffee at the practice facility in Boston is somehow worse than anywhere else in the league. It’s watered down and bitter and he hates it. He knows which teammates shower immediately after practice and which ones sit in their gear for twenty minutes, steam rising off their shoulders while they scroll through their phones.

He also knows exactly how long Shane Hollander needs after a loss before he'll talk like a human again. Thirty minutes, minimum. An hour if it was a shutout. Two hours if he let in a soft goal in the third.

He knows that Ilya Rozanov pretends not to care about superstition while secretly being the most superstitious bastard alive. Left skate first, always. Tape from the same roll for the entire season. Won't eat pasta on game days because he had food poisoning once in juniors and his brain has never let it go.

And he knows, factually, publicly, unremarkably, that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are married. 

That part isn't interesting. 

Not really.

Everyone knows. It's in their bios. It’s mentioned casually in interviews. It’s visible in the matching rings they both wear on chains under their gear during games. It’s everywhere. Everything. The league even made a whole thing about it when they got married three years ago with pride month content, progressive marketing, the works. It was groundbreaking for about six weeks and then it just became part of the background noise of the team.

Shane and Ilya are married. The sky is blue. Ice is cold. These are facts.

What's interesting and what Ryan has come to notice over the past two seasons playing alongside them is how love shows up when it's been lived in for a while. When it's not new and shiny and performing for anyone. When it's just… there. 

Constant. 

Unremarkable in its steadiness.

Ryan didn't set out to notice these things. He's not particularly sentimental and he doesn't consider himself a romantic. But there's something about watching two people be so fundamentally, quietly devoted to each other that makes him pay attention. Makes him wonder what it feels like to be known that thoroughly. To be cared for that intentionally.

So yeah. 

He's noticed things.

-

The first time he notices anything is at practice. 

It was one of those early morning practices. 

Which have a specific kind of misery to them.

The lights are always too bright and they buzz faintly in that way that makes Ryan's teeth ache. The coffee is too weak because it’s been brewed hours ago and it’s still sitting in a carafe that's seen better days. Everyone moves like they're still negotiating with their soul about why they agreed to do this for a living. Eyes are half-closed, movements are sluggish, and the conversations are minimal and grunted.

Ryan sits at his stall pulling tape from the roll, the sticky sound rhythmic and soothing in its familiarity. The locker room smells like it always does in the morning. Like stale sweat, sharp tang of cleaning solution, and the lingering ghost of someone's energy drink. Around him are the soft clatter of gear being assembled, sticks being taped, skates being laced, and the low murmur of voices that haven't quite woken up yet.

Across the room, Shane is not dressed.

That alone is suspicious.

Shane Hollander is meticulous in a way that borders on compulsive. First one ready, always. Skates lined up perfectly parallel, stick leaned just so against the bench at a forty-five-degree angle. Gear laid out in the same order every single time: cup, shin guards, breezers, shoulder pads, elbow pads, jersey. He has a system and he doesn't deviate from it.

His hair is still damp from the shower he took at home. Ryan has learned that Shane can't stand showering at the facility in the morning, says the water pressure is wrong and it throws off his whole routine. His eyes are a little shadowed, faint circles underneath that suggest he didn't sleep great, but they're focused. Alert. 

Ilya, predictably, is not ready also.

Ilya is sitting on the bench in nothing but compression pants and socks. His elbows are braced on his knees and he’s staring into the middle distance like he's daring his body to cooperate. His hair is sticking up in about seven different directions, all curly and sleep-mussed, and there's a crease on his cheek from his pillow. His eyes are barely open also, lids heavy, expression vacant in that specific way that means his body is present but his brain is still buffering.

Ryan watches him blink slowly. Once. Twice.

He looks like he's contemplating the existential horror of consciousness.

Then Shane reaches out.

"Put it on," he says quietly.

The hoodie, he means. The hoodie that’s sitting on the bench that he just hooks a finger into that Ilya always wears to early practices. The one that’s grey and soft and worn thin at the cuffs, the Centaurs logo faded almost to nothing. 

Ilya squints at him, one eye slightly more open than the other. "I am awake."

It's possibly the least convincing lie Ryan has ever heard.

Shane thinks so too and grabs the hoodie from the bench. 

Lifts it over Ilya's head anyway.

And Ilya–Ilya Rozanov, terror of the league, human embodiment of chaos on skates, the guy who once got into a fight with three players at once and came out grinning, lifts his arms without protest.

That's the part that gets Ryan.

Ilya lets him.

Just ducks his head like this is the most natural thing in the world, like this is choreography they've performed a thousand times. Shane settles the hoodie down over his shoulders, tugs Ilya’s arms through the sleeves, and allows his thumbs to brush briefly over Ilya's collarbones through the fabric like he's smoothing something delicate. Something that’s precious. He makes sure it sits right. Makes sure Ilya is covered. Warm. Taken care of.

Ilya leans into it without thinking.

Just for a second.

Just enough that his forehead almost touches Shane's chest. 

"Cold," Ilya mutters, voice muffled by the fabric.

Shane snorts softly. "You refused to wear the jacket."

"Jacket is a lie," Ilya says, which makes absolutely no sense but also perfect sense if you've spent any amount of time around him. "This is better."

He catches the cuff of Shane's sleeve between his fingers and tugs him closer, resting his forehead against Shane's chest. Ryan thinks the contact was enough to ground Ilya. Enough to say you're here and I'm here and the world is tolerable because of it.

Shane exhales, and Ryan watches the tension in his posture ease like someone loosened a knot. His hand comes up and rests briefly on the back of Ilya's neck, brushing against the soft skin there, just below his hairline.

They stay like that for maybe five seconds.

Long enough that Ryan has to look away.

Some things feel too intimate to witness. And this…this feels too intimate, even if they are in a locker room full of half-dressed men who have seen each other at their absolute worst. This isn't something simple. This is something else. Something private in a way that has nothing to do with who's watching.

This is the kind of moment that exists in the space between people who have learned each other down to the bone.

"Five minutes," the trainer calls from the doorway, voice echoing slightly off the concrete walls.

Ilya straightens, and just like that, he's alert. Eyes brighter now, sharper. The fog of sleep burned off by whatever that contact gave him. He grins at Shane in an almost sharp and affectionate way. Entirely unguarded, even when he presses a quick kiss to the side of Shane's jaw like punctuation. Like a period at the end of a sentence. Like thank you and I love you and okay, I'm ready now all at once.

Then he's on his feet, grabbing his gear, energy switched fully on like someone flipped a breaker.

Shane watches him go. His mouth is soft, expression fond in a way he never quite lets anyone else see. There's something unguarded in his face for just a moment, something tender and private. It’s there for just a second before he schools it back into his usual neutral calm.

Ryan tapes his stick and thinks, not for the first time, that love doesn't always announce itself.

He believes it more when he finally heads out to the ice to find Shane and Ilya skating side by side like always. And they don't talk—they never do during warm-ups—but their movements are synchronized in that eerie way they have. Mirror images. Like they're sharing the same internal rhythm.

Ryan follows behind, thinking about the hoodie.

Thinking about the way Shane didn't hesitate.

Thinking about the way Ilya let him.

-

The second time Ryan notices is on media day. 

Because media days are a special kind of torture.

It has nothing to do with skating or the actual hockey. Those parts are fine. That's what they're here for. But the rest of it, the interviews, the photoshoots, the forced interactions with sponsors and local press and fans who've won contests to meet the team, all of it is exhausting in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion.

Ryan doesn't mind it, mostly. He's gotten good at the polite smile, the canned responses, the careful navigation of questions that try to bait him into saying something controversial. He's media-trained to within an inch of his life at this point. He knows how to be charming without being quotable.

Shane, though.

Shane hates this shit.

He's polite. He’s always polite, but there's a distance to it. A careful blankness in his expression that makes him look like he's somewhere else entirely. He answers questions in short, clipped sentences. Smiles when he's supposed to but it never reaches his eyes. Stands exactly where he's told to stand for photos and then steps away the second he's allowed.

Ryan has watched reporters try to crack that shell for two years now. They never succeed.

But he's also watched the way Ilya fills in the gaps.

They're at a charity dinner tonight, some fundraiser for youth hockey programs, the kind of event where they're expected to mingle and be personable and represent the organization well. The ballroom is too warm, filled with round tables and the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. Ryan is nursing a beer at the bar, half-listening to one of the assistant coaches tell a story about his college days, when he notices Shane standing near the silent auction table.

He's alone, which is unusual. Ilya is usually within a few feet of him at these things. Shane has his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, looking at a signed jersey in a display case like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. A woman in a cocktail dress is talking to him. He can tell she’s asking him something, smiling brightly and leaning in a little too close.

Shane nods. Answers. Smiles politely.

Doesn't step back, because that would be rude.

But Ryan can see the tension in his jaw from across the room.

Then Ilya appears.

He doesn't rush or make a scene. He just slides into the space next to Shane like he was always meant to be there. His hand comes up to rest on the small of Shane's back. The touch is casual, easy, and the kind of thing that could be friendly or could be possessive depending on how you look at it.

"This one is boring," Ilya says cheerfully to the woman, gesturing at Shane. "I am much better for conversation. You like hockey? I will tell you about the time I scored five goals in one game."

He didn't score five goals in one game. He scored four, once, in juniors. But the woman doesn't know that, and she laughs, attention shifting to Ilya immediately.

Shane exhales.

It's a small sound, barely audible, but Ryan hears it from ten feet away. Watches the way Shane's shoulders drop half an inch, almost like he’s too relieved and releasing all the pressure from his body. 

Ilya keeps talking, animated and ridiculous, spinning some story that's probably sixty percent fabricated. He's good at this, the performance of charm, the easy deflection of attention. He makes it look effortless. The woman is laughing now, completely engaged, and Ilya has angled his body just slightly so that Shane is out of her direct line of sight.

Giving him an exit.

Shane takes it.

He steps back, murmurs something polite that Ryan can't hear, and slips away toward the bar. Ilya doesn't watch him go. He doesn’t break the stride in his story. But his hand lifts in a tiny wave, fingers flicking once, and Shane's mouth twitches into something that almost resembles a real smile.

Ryan watches this happen three more times over the course of the night.

Someone corners Shane near the buffet table, asking about his training regimen. Ilya appears with two plates of food, interrupting with a joke about how Shane eats like a rabbit and it's very boring. Shane escapes.

A reporter tries to get Shane's opinion on the playoff bracket. Ilya leans in and starts talking about his own predictions, which are loud and confident and completely derail the conversation. Shane escapes.

A donor tries to get a photo with Shane, who looks like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Ilya swoops in, throws an arm around both of them, and makes a face at the camera that's so ridiculous the donor laughs and forgets whatever question they were about to ask. Shane escapes.

It's not that Shane can't handle himself. He can. He does. But there's a difference between handling something and being comfortable, and Ilya seems to have made it his personal mission to ensure Shane never has to white-knuckle his way through these events alone.

Later, when they're finally allowed to leave, Ryan ends up in the parking garage at the same time as them. He hangs back, pretending to check his phone, and watches as they walk towards Shane's car.

Ilya is talking. His hands are moving in broad gestures, probably recounting one of the ridiculous conversations he had. Shane is quiet and listening. The corners of his mouth are turned up in a way that suggests he's amused even if he's not laughing.

When they reach the car, Ilya stops mid-sentence and just looks at Shane for a moment.

"You okay?" he asks, voice softer now. Stripped of performance.

Shane nods. "Yeah. Thanks for—" He gestures vaguely back toward the building.

Ilya shrugs. "It’s nothing. You hate these."

"You don't love them either."

"Yes, but I am better at pretending." Ilya grins, sharp and self-aware. Then, more gently: "And I like when you don't have to pretend."

Shane's expression does something complicated. Soft and raw and grateful all at once. He reaches out and tugs Ilya closer by the front of his jacket. 

Rests his forehead against his. 

"Love you," Shane murmurs.

"Yes, I know," Ilya says, smug and pleased. "I am very lovable."

Shane huffs a laugh, and they get in the car.

Ryan stands in the parking garage, keys in hand, and thinks about protection.

The many types of protection. The physical kind. The emotional kind. But also, the quiet kind. The kind that looks like redirection and interference and making space for someone to breathe.

Because Ilya doesn't just protect Shane.

He protects the version of Shane the world doesn't get to have.

And Shane, careful, private Shane, lets him.

That feels important somehow.

Ryan gets in his own car and drives home, thinking about the way Ilya's hand had rested on Shane's back. The way Shane had leaned into it, just slightly, like a tree bending toward sunlight.

-

The third time Ryan notices is when Ilya says he’s fine. 

Everyone else believes him.

Shane doesn't.

It's a Tuesday, mid-January, and they're in the middle of a brutal stretch of games. Four games in six nights, all away, spread across two time zones. Everyone is tired. Everyone is sore. Everyone is running on fumes and caffeine and sheer fucking stubbornness.

They're in the visiting locker room in Nashville, between the second and third periods. Down by two. Playing like shit. The energy in the room is tense. So fucking tense that they can feel the frustration simmering just below the surface.

Coach is talking. Something about puck possession and neutral zone play, but Ryan is only half-listening. He's watching Ilya, who's sitting at his stall with his head tipped back against the locker, eyes closed.

Normal, mostly. Ilya always looks like he's half-asleep between periods.

But there's something off.

Ryan can't put his finger on it exactly. Maybe it's the way Ilya's breathing is a little too controlled. Maybe it's the way he's holding himself too still, like movement hurts. Maybe it's the faint tightness around his eyes, visible even with them closed.

Whatever it is, Shane sees it too.

Ryan watches Shane's gaze flick to Ilya, then away, then back. He watches the way Shane's jaw tightens, the way his hands flex once against his knees.

Coach finishes his speech and the team starts to stir, pulling their helmets back on and tightening their gloves. Ilya stands up, rolls his shoulders and grabs his stick.

"I'm good," he says to no one in particular. "Let's go."

His voice is normal. Confident. The same as always.

Everyone files out toward the tunnel.

Shane doesn't move.

"Ilya," he says quietly.

Ilya stops. Turns back. "What?"

"You're hurt."

It's not a question.

Ilya's expression doesn't change. "I'm fine."

"Ilya."

"Shane." Ilya's tone is patient, almost amused. "Is third period. I am fine. We play."

They stare at each other for a long moment. Ryan lingers near the door, pretending to adjust his gloves, absolutely eavesdropping.

Shane doesn't argue. Doesn't push. Just holds Ilya's gaze and says, very quietly, "Okay."

But Ryan sees the way Shane's eyes track Ilya as they head back onto the ice. The way he stays closer than usual during the warm-up. The way he keeps glancing over, checking, assessing.

Third period starts.

Ilya plays like he always does. Fast, aggressive, relentless. Scores a goal six minutes in, ties the game with three minutes left. Skates his shifts, takes his hits, gives them back twice as hard.

He looks fine.

But Shane doesn't leave his side.

Normally they don't play together much. Shane's a defenseman, Ilya's a winger, their ice time only overlaps occasionally. But tonight, every time Ilya's line is out there, Shane is too. Covering for him. Creating space. Taking hits that were clearly meant for Ilya.

Ryan notices. The coaches probably notice too, but they don't say anything because they're winning now. They were tied and then up by one and you don't fuck with what's working.

They win in overtime. Ilya gets the assist. The team celebrates, all loud and relieved, and Ilya grins. He accepts the helmet taps and shoulder shoves like everything is normal.

Shane watches him like a hawk.

Back in the locker room, Ilya sits down heavily and finally, finally lets his face show what he's been hiding. Pain. Exhaustion. The tight grimace of someone who's been playing through something they shouldn't.

He reaches for his skate laces and his hand shakes.

Shane is there before Ryan even sees him move.

He doesn't say anything. Just kneels down in front of Ilya and starts unlacing his skates, quick and efficient. Ilya opens his mouth like he's going to protest, then closes it. Leans back. Lets Shane take care of it.

"How bad?" Shane asks, voice low.

"Rib," Ilya admits quietly. "Maybe two. From last game. Is fine, just—" He winces as Shane eases his skate off. "—sore."

"You should've told me."

"You would worry."

"Yeah," Shane says. "I would."

He finishes with the skates, then stands and goes to find the trainer. He comes back with an ice pack and some tape. Then, he sits next to Ilya and waits while the trainer does a quick assessment. Bruised ribs, nothing broken but definitely painful.

The trainer leaves. The rest of the team filters toward the showers. Shane stays.

He doesn't lecture Ilya. Doesn't tell him he was stupid for playing hurt. Just sits there with his shoulder pressed against Ilya's. 

Solid. 

Steady. 

"I can ice it myself you know," Ilya says eventually.

"I know."

"Shane—"

“I know you can.”

“Shane—”

"No, Ilya."

Ilya huffs a laugh. 

Then winces a second later, "You are stubborn."

"Yeah," Shane agrees.

He reaches over and adjusts the ice pack on Ilya’s stomach, making sure it's positioned right. His hand lingers just for a second, but it's careful. Gentle.

Ryan showers quickly and gets dressed. He tries not to intrude but is unable to stop watching them because Shane doesn’t leave until Ilya is ready. He doesn’t leave until he helps him into his shirt.

“Be careful, baby” Shane mutters, low and worried, when Ilya loses his balance while helping him put on his sweat pants. 

The endearment slips out so naturally that Ryan doesn't think Shane even realizes he said it. It's not for show, half the team is already gone, and the few guys left aren't paying attention. It's just... what Shane calls him. 

Who Ilya is to him.

Ilya's expression softens, some of the tension around his eyes easing. "I'm okay," he says quietly. "Just moved too fast."

Shane helps him step into the sweatpants, one leg at a time. His hands are careful as he pulls them up and his movements are fuck, they are efficient, but so tender. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly how to help without making Ilya feel helpless.

"Lift your arms a little," Shane says, reaching for Ilya's hoodie.

"I can—"

"I know you can." Shane's voice is patient. "Let me anyway."

Ilya exhales and lifts his arms just enough. Shane guides the hoodie over his head, gentle and slow, making sure the fabric doesn't catch on the ice pack still taped to Ilya's ribs. He smooths the hem down, fingers lingering at Ilya's waist for just a moment.

"Better?" Shane asks.

"Yeah." Ilya's hand comes up to rest on Shane's shoulder, squeezing once. "Thank you."

Shane just nods. He then crouches down to help Ilya into his shoes. Ilya leans into him, just a little, using Shane's shoulder for balance, and Shane's hand comes up automatically to steady him at the hip.

When Shane finishes tying the laces, he stands and meets Ilya's eyes. There's a question there— ready? need anything else?— and Ilya answers it with a soft smile.

"Okay," Ilya says quietly.

Shane reaches for Ilya's bag, slinging it over his own shoulder along with his gear. 

Then, they leave. 

Ryan watches them leave together with Shane's hand hovering near the small of Ilya's back. Close enough to catch him if he needs it. Close enough to remind Ilya he's not alone.

The locker room feels quieter after they're gone.

Ryan sits there for a moment, staring at the empty space where they'd been, and thinks about what it means to love someone like that. To see past what they say to what they need. To offer care without making them feel small for needing it.

To just... stay.

Ryan doesn’t want to admit that he tears up for a second. 

Because he thinks about the difference between believing someone and knowing someone.

Everyone believed Ilya when he said he was fine.

But, Shane– Shane knew better.

And more than that—Shane didn't need Ilya to admit it out loud. Didn't need a confession or an explanation. Just saw what was true and adjusted accordingly. Stayed closer. Took hits during the game. Cut conversations short. Ended the night early without explanation.

Protected him in the only way Ilya would allow.

That kind of knowing, Ryan thinks, doesn't happen overnight. That's years of attention. Years of learning someone's tells, their limits, the space between what they say and what they mean.

That's love that's been earned through a thousand small moments of paying attention.

And Ryan thinks that's worth tearing up for. 

-

The fourth time Ryan notices is after a loss. 

Shane goes quiet after losses sometimes.

He’s noticed that before because Shane doesn’t get angry. He’s not the type to get angry. Or sulk. He’s the type to just be…inward. Inward like he's sorting through something that doesn't need commentary. Replaying shifts in his head, analyzing mistakes, cataloging what went wrong with the kind of methodical precision that's probably useful in the long run but seems exhausting to live with in the moment.

Ryan has learned to recognize the signs: the way Shane's face goes blank and distant, the way he showers quickly and dresses in silence, the way he puts his headphones in on the bus and stares out the window at nothing.

Most of the team has learned to leave him alone when he gets like this. Give him space. Let him process. He'll come back when he's ready.

Ilya, for all his reputation as chaos incarnate, understands this instinctively.

They lose to Colorado, 4-1. Bad game. Sloppy. Shane let in two goals he should've had, and Ryan can see it eating at him even before they're off the ice. The way his jaw is tight, his movements jerky. The way he doesn't make eye contact with anyone in the handshake line.

In the locker room, Shane strips off his gear in silence. Doesn't throw anything—he's not that kind of angry, never that kind of angry—but there's a controlled violence to his movements. Sharp. Precise. Like he's holding himself together by force of will.

Ilya is across the room, unlacing his skates, talking quietly with one of the wingers about something inconsequential. But Ryan sees the way his eyes track to Shane every thirty seconds. Checking. Monitoring.

When Shane heads to the showers, Ilya waits exactly two minutes and then follows.

Ryan doesn't mean to notice these things. He's not trying to catalog their relationship. But it's hard not to when they're right there, existing in the same space, and the contrast is so stark.

On the bus back to the hotel, the team is subdued. A few guys are on their phones, some are sleeping, some are talking in low voices. The usual post-loss atmosphere: heavy and a little defeated.

Shane sits by himself near the front, headphones on, staring out the window. His expression is blank. Unreachable.

Ilya boards the bus last, as always. He usually sits near the back with a cluster of the younger guys, loud and ridiculous, providing entertainment for everyone. But tonight he walks past all of them and drops into the seat next to Shane without a word.

Shane doesn't acknowledge him. Just keeps staring out the window.

Ilya doesn't try to talk to him. Doesn't joke or distract or ask if he's okay.

He just sits.

Pulls out his own phone, puts in his earbuds, angles himself slightly toward the window so their shoulders are nearly touching.

They sit like that for the entire thirty-minute ride. Not talking. Not looking at each other. Both staring out opposite windows like they're looking at the same thing anyway.

It's such a small thing. Unremarkable, really. Two guys sitting next to each other on a bus.

But Ryan sees it for what it is: Ilya matching Shane's silence. Meeting him where he is instead of trying to pull him somewhere else. Inhabiting the same quiet space without resenting it or trying to fix it.

At the hotel, Shane finally speaks. "Thanks," he says quietly as they stand.

Ilya just nods.

They walk inside together, still not talking, and disappear into the elevator.

Ryan watches them go and thinks about the kind of love that doesn't need to fill every silence. The kind that's comfortable existing in the uncomfortable spaces. The kind that says I'm here without needing to say anything else.

He thinks about his own relationships—past girlfriends, flings, the occasional attempt at something serious. How often he felt like he had to perform even in private. Had to be on, be entertaining, be worth the effort.

How exhausting that was.

How lonely.

Shane and Ilya don't perform for each other. That's the thing Ryan keeps coming back to. They just… are. Together. In whatever form that takes in any given moment.

Sometimes that looks like Shane dressing Ilya in the morning. Sometimes it looks like Ilya running interference at events. Sometimes it looks like Shane staying close when Ilya is hurt.

And sometimes it looks like sitting in silence on a bus, shoulders nearly touching, both staring at nothing.

All of it counts.

All of it matters.

Ryan gets to his room and lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about partnership. About what it means to really know someone. To love them not despite their complicated pieces but because of them. To understand that sometimes the most loving thing you can do is just be present without trying to change anything.

He thinks about Shane's quietness after losses. The way he turns inward. The way most people would find that frustrating or isolating.

And he thinks about Ilya, who doesn't.

Who just sits with him.

Who matches his energy instead of trying to shift it.

Who loves him enough to let him be exactly who he is, even when who he is is silent and distant and processing alone.

That's not the kind of love that makes for good movies or romance novels. It's not dramatic or quotable. It won't show up in highlight reels.

But it's real.

And it's theirs.

And watching it exist, Ryan thinks, is kind of a privilege.

-

The fifth time Ryan notices is at the airport. 

The airport is chaos.

It's always chaos, but today it's particularly bad. Their flight got delayed—weather in Chicago, something about ice on the runways—and what was supposed to be a quick two-hour hop home has turned into a six-hour ordeal of waiting and uncertainty and the particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being in transit too long.

The team is scattered throughout the gate area. Some guys are sleeping, sprawled across uncomfortable chairs with jackets over their faces. Others are on their phones with their headphones in, killing time however they can. A few are playing cards at a table near the windows.

Ryan is getting coffee, his third cup, and it still tastes like burnt plastic, when he spots Shane and Ilya.

They're tucked into a corner near the far windows, away from most of the team. Ilya is slumped in one of those rigid airport chairs, legs stretched out in front of him. His head is tipped back against the wall. Eyes closed, face slack with exhaustion.

They'd played last night. A brutal game that went to overtime. They won, but it was hard-fought, physical, the kind of game that leaves you wrung out and aching. Then up at 5 AM for the flight, except the flight didn't leave, and now it's almost noon and they're all running on fumes.

Ilya looks like he's barely holding it together.

Shane is sitting next to him, close enough that their shoulders touch. He's got both their carry-ons at his feet, organized and ready to grab when they finally board. His own tiredness is visible in the shadows under his eyes.  

But he's not sleeping.

He's watching Ilya.

Ryan moves closer without really meaning to, drawn by something he can't name. He finds a seat a few rows away and pretends to check his phone while he observes.

Ilya shifts in his sleep, his neck bending at an uncomfortable angle. He's going to wake up with a crick in it, that much is obvious. The airport chairs aren't designed for actual rest. They're designed to keep you uncomfortable enough that you won't stay long.

Shane sees it immediately.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn’t even bother to wake Ilya up. Instead, he reaches into his bag, not the carry-on, but the small backpack he always has with him, and pulls something out.

A neck pillow.

And it’s not one of those inflatable ones that everyone buys in airport shops and immediately regrets. It’s a real one. The kind you'd have at home. Memory foam, with a soft grey cover that looks well-used.

Ryan watches as Shane unfolds it carefully, quietly. Then he reaches over and cups the back of Ilya's head with one hand.

Ilya doesn't wake. Just makes a soft sound, still deep in sleep.

Shane maneuvers the pillow around Ilya's neck with the kind of careful precision that speaks to practice. Like he knows exactly how to move Ilya without waking him. Like he knows how to support his head and make him comfortable.

When the pillow is in place, Shane doesn't let go immediately. His hand lingers at the nape of Ilya's neck, his thumbs brushing once against his skin. A touch that's equal parts affection and assessment, checking to see if he’s settled. If he’s okay. 

Then Ilya's head tilts, listing sideways, and Shane sees it coming before it happens.

He shifts closer, adjusting his position so that when Ilya's head finally droops, it lands on Shane's shoulder instead of the hard airport wall.

The movement is so smooth that Ryan knows this isn't the first time. 

Shane settles back against his own seat, Ilya's weight against him now, and pulls out his phone. He scrolls one-handed, the other arm coming up to rest loosely around Ilya's shoulders. Keeping him steady. Keeping him close.

It's such a small thing.

A neck pillow. A shoulder to sleep on.

But Ryan can't look away.

Because Shane packed that pillow. Brought it with him specifically because he knew this might happen. Because he knows that Ilya doesn't sleep well on planes. Knows that he gets uncomfortable in airport chairs. Knows that delayed flights turn him into an exhausted disaster.

Shane planned for this.

Carried extra weight in his bag so that when Ilya inevitably crashed, he'd have something soft to rest against instead of craning his neck at painful angles.

Ryan thinks about his own travel routine. The things he brings for himself. Phone charger, headphones, maybe a book he thinks he will read, but never does. 

The bare essentials.

He's never packed something for someone else. Never thought that far ahead. Never loved someone enough to carry their comfort with him.

Ilya shifts again, burrowing closer into Shane's shoulder, and makes a soft, sleepy sound that might be Shane's name.

"I know," Shane murmurs. "I've got you. Go back to sleep."

His hand comes up, fingers threading gently into Ilya's hair. Soft. Soothing. 

And Ilya, Ilya, who maintains careful boundaries in front of the team just melts into it. 

Trusts it completely.

Shane goes back to his phone, scrolling through something with his free hand while the other stays in Ilya's hair. His thumb occasionally moves, gently stroking Ilya’s temple. Moving his curls out of the way. It feels absent-minded. 

Natural. 

Ryan watches them for another few minutes, and something in his chest pulls tight.

I want a love like that. 

Suddenly, the announcement comes over the speakers: their flight is delayed another hour.

Around them, the team groans. Someone swears. The card game breaks up as people shift. Everyone feels restless. Frustrated. 

Shane doesn't move though. 

He just keeps scrolling his phone. Keeps his hand gentle in Ilya's hair, keeps being exactly what Ilya needs in this moment.

An anchor. A comfort. A safe place to rest.

When their flight finally boards, two hours later, Shane wakes Ilya carefully. A gentle hand running through his curls: "Hey. Time to go."

Ilya blinks awake slowly, disoriented. "We boarding?"

"Yeah. Come on."

Ilya straightens, and Shane takes the pillow from around his neck, folds it carefully, and tucks it back into his bag. Ilya doesn't ask about it. 

Because of course it was there.

Of course Shane had it.

They gather their things and join the line, and Ryan watches as Ilya reaches for Shane's hand…

And squeezes it. 

Shane squeezes back.

They board the plane, and Ryan thinks about the pillow in Shane's bag.

-

The one time someone tries to come between them, Ryan sees a different side of their love.

They are at a bar that night. 

A bar that is too loud and too warm. It’s packed with bodies and laughter and the bass-heavy thrum of music that Ryan can feel in his sternum. The team has spilled into the space like they own it which, for tonight at least, they kind of do. Private section, tabs already open, the kind of celebration that only happens after a satisfying win.

They'd crushed Vancouver, 5-2. Dominant from start to finish. Not fucking up a single play. Vancouver didn’t stand a chance to settle into their rhythm before they had won.

Which, Ryan believes, deserved him a shot. 

Multiple shots in fact. 

And then beers for the rest of the night. 

Ryan is three beers in and blissfully buzzed, okay a little past buzzed, when he takes in his surroundings. His teammates are scattered in clusters. Some are playing pool, some are at a table with plates of wings, and some are on the makeshift dance floor making absolute fools of themselves.

It's a good night.

An easy night.

Ryan's eyes continue to track across the room out of habit, cataloging where everyone is. Sometimes he feels the need to do this. It's an old instinct, sue him, from his junior days, always know where your team is, especially when alcohol is involved and inhibitions are low.

He spots Shane and Ilya at a table near the back. They're both nursing drinks. Shane has a beer, Ilya has something clear and probably vodka-based and they're talking with a few of the other guys. Shane is laughing at something, actually laughing, eyes crinkled at the corners. He looks relaxed in a way he rarely does in public.

The game was good for him. Two assists, several key defensive plays. He'd been in the zone, and it shows in his posture now, loose, easy. The usual tension in his shoulders finally released.

That's when Ryan notices him.

A guy, mid-twenties maybe, standing at the other end of the bar. Tall, athletic build, well-dressed in the way that suggests money and effort. Dark hair styled carefully, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He's with a small group of friends, but he's not paying attention to them.

He's staring at Shane.

Ryan watches for a moment, trying to determine if it's the casual recognition that happens sometimes when people notice professional athletes. Doing the mental math of do I know him from somewhere?

But this is different.

The guy's gaze is focused. Lingering in a way that's unmistakable. He's watching Shane the way you watch something you want. His eyes track the movement of Shane's hands when he gestures, the line of his throat when he tips his head back to laugh, the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.

Ryan frowns and turns back to the rookie's story that’s being told at his table, while keeping half an eye on the situation.

Over the next hour, Ryan notices the pattern.

Every time he glances toward Shane's table, the guy is watching. He’s subtle about it. He looks away when Shane might catch him and he engages with his friends enough to not seem weird. But Ryan thinks he’s weird. He thinks he’s weird and not subtle about any fucking thing. 

The guy’s eyes track Shane when he gets up to go to the bar. 

He says something to his friends, and one of them looks over at Shane, then back at him with a grin and a shrug. Like they're encouraging him. Like this is a game.

Ryan is about to write it off. He should write it off, because a guy is looking at Shane. So what? Shane's attractive and people look. It’s not a big deal. 

Shane can handle himself. 

But then the guy makes his move.

He slides into the space next to Shane at the bar with the kind of casual confidence that comes from practice. Close, but not invasively so. He’s in Shane's line of sight.

Ryan can't hear what he says over the music, but he sees Shane's reaction.

Shane glances over, surprised. He smiles politely. The same professional smile he uses for fans and reporters, which is pleasant but distant. Shane says something brief. Turns back to wait for the bartender.

The guy doesn't leave.

Instead, he leans against the bar, angling his body toward Shane, and says something else. His body language is open, friendly, and interesting in a way that's unmistakable if you're paying attention.

And Ryan is paying attention.

Shane's posture shifts. He’s too controlled for it to be dramatic, but Ryan has spent years learning to read him. The way Shane's shoulders come up slightly. The way his hands move to his pockets, then out again, like he doesn't know where to put them. The way his smile becomes more fixed, more professional.

He's uncomfortable.

The bartender appears, and Shane orders quickly. The guy says something and Ryan sees him gesture to the bartender, pulling out his wallet. Offering to pay, probably. Shane shakes his head, gestures to the team tab. The guy is insistent, still smiling, still leaning in.

Shane takes a small step back.

It's subtle. Probably no one else notices. But Ryan sees it. Sees the way Shane creates distance, the way he angles his body away, the way his eyes flick across the room.

Looking for Ilya.

But Ilya is deep in conversation with three of the defensemen, gesturing broadly about something, completely absorbed. He hasn't noticed Shane's absence yet.

The bartender sets down the drinks, and Shane reaches for them quickly. Too quickly. He says something to the guy—probably no thanks, I'm good—and tries to gather the glasses.

The guy touches his arm.

It’s not aggressive. It’s not enough to make a scene, but it’s still a touch. A  touch on the forearm, fingers wrapping gently around Shane's wrist. A gentle stop. He's still smiling, still saying something, and Shane has gone very still.

Ryan knows that stillness. It's the same way Shane goes quiet after losses. Inward. Frozen. Trapped in a situation he doesn't know how to navigate without being rude, without making a scene, without drawing unwanted attention.

Ryan is halfway across the bar before he consciously decides to move.

But someone beats him to it.

Ilya appears at Shane's side like he was summoned. One moment he's across the room, the next he's there. He’s in Shane’s space. Well, in the space between Shane and the guy because that’s exactly fucking right.  

His hand finds Shane's lower back immediately. 

"You need help carrying?" Ilya asks Shane, voice light but his eyes sharp.

Shane's entire body relaxes. The tension drains out of his shoulders like someone cut the strings. "Yeah. Thanks."

The guy steps back slightly, finally releasing Shane's wrist. But his smile doesn't falter. "Didn't mean to intrude. Just wanted to buy him a drink."

"He has drinks," Ilya says pleasantly, gesturing to the glasses on the bar. "And a husband."

There's steel under the pleasant tone. A clear line being drawn.

The guy's eyes flick to Shane's left hand, where the ring sits. Silver. Simple. 

Impossible to miss if you're actually looking.

He has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Oh. Right. I didn't—"

"You didn't look," Ilya corrects. "Is okay. People miss things when they want to."

He picks up two of the drinks from the bar with his other hand still warm and steady on Shane's back and that effectively ends the conversation. 

Good. 

Shane grabs the remaining glasses, and they turn to leave.

The guy watches them go, and Ryan sees something flash across his face. 

Ryan decides he hates that look. 

But, he watches them return to the table. Sees the way Shane leans into Ilya's side immediately and breathes. Sees Ilya set the drinks down and turn to face Shane fully, his hands coming up to frame his face, checking. Are you okay? Did he hurt you? Do you need to leave?

Shane shakes his head, says something quiet. Ilya's jaw tightens, but he nods. Doesn't push. Just keeps one hand on Shane's waist, anchoring him.

The team continues talking, oblivious to what just happened. Someone makes a joke, and everyone laughs, and the moment passes into the background noise of the celebration.

But Ryan is still watching.

And so is the guy.

Twenty minutes later, Shane gets up to use the bathroom.

Ryan sees the guy notice. He sees him wait about thirty seconds and then head in the same direction.

Ilya sees it too.

His expression doesn't change. He's still nodding along to whatever the defenseman is saying, still holding his drink, but his eyes have gone hard. Dangerous in a way Ryan has only seen on the ice, usually right before Ilya drops gloves.

Ilya stands. 

Then follows.

Ryan debates for about three seconds, then follows as well. Some instinct tells him this might escalate, and he'd rather be there just in case.

The bathroom hallway is dimmer than the main bar. Quieter too. There's a short corridor leading to the restrooms. The walls are painted dark with string lights casting everything in warm amber. Ryan can see the guy standing near the men's room door, clearly waiting.

When Shane emerges, the guy straightens. 

"Hey," he says, "Sorry about before. Didn't mean to overstep."

Shane stops. He's trapped between the bathroom door and the guy, the hallway too narrow to easily slip past without brushing against him. "It's fine. Really."

The guy leans against the wall, making himself comfortable. "You come here often? Haven't seen you before."

"I don't really—we're just here for the team thing." Shane gestures vaguely back toward the bar.

"Right, right. Hockey, yeah?" the guy smile widens. "I thought I recognized you. You played great tonight. I was actually at the game."

"Oh. Thanks." Shane shifts his weight.

"I'm Marcus, by the way." He doesn't extend his hand. "You heading back out there?"

"Yeah, I should—"

"Those your teammates?" Marcus nods toward the main bar, not moving from his spot against the wall. "Seems like a fun group. Must be nice, having that kind of camaraderie."

"Yeah, they're great. I really need to get back—"

"Of course, of course." But Marcus doesn't move. Doesn't step aside to let Shane pass. "I just wanted to say, I really admire what you do. The athleticism, the dedication. It's impressive."

His eyes travel over Shane in a way that has nothing to do with athletic admiration. Not even close. Did athletic admiration involve his eyes lingering on Shane’s shoulders? His chest? His hands? 

His lips? 

Shane's jaw tightens. Ryan can see the discomfort written across his face now, no longer hidden by politeness. "Listen, I appreciate it, but—"

"You must work out a lot," Marcus continues, like Shane hasn't spoken. "I mean, you have to, right? To play at that level? What's your routine like?"

"I don't—that's not really—" 

"I've been trying to get more into fitness myself." Marcus pushes off the wall slightly, closing the distance by another few inches. They’re still not touching, but they’re closer now. "Maybe you could give me some tips sometime? I'd love to pick your brain about training, nutrition, all of that."

"I'm sure there are trainers who—"

"But I'd rather hear it from you." Marcus's smile is warm, engaging. The kind of smile that probably works on most people. "NHL All-Star. Best player in the league."

“My husband’s the best player in the league.”

“Is he?”

“Definitley.”

Shane takes a small step back.

But his shoulders hit the wall. 

He’s cornered now. 

"You're very modest. I've been watching you all season. You're incredible out there." Marcus leans against the wall beside Shane, close enough that their shoulders are almost touching. "And I'm sure your husband would agree that you deserve recognition for your talent."

"I need to get back." Shane tries to move past him, but Marcus shifts slightly, still blocking the narrow hallway.

"When are you in town next?" Marcus asks. "I'd love to catch another game sometime. Maybe grab a drink after and talk more about hockey?"

"I don't think that's—"

"Come on, just as friends." Marcus holds up his hands, the picture of innocence. "One drink. I promise I'm not as boring as I seem." He shifts closer again, just an inch. "What do you say? I could make it worth your while. I know all the best spots in the city."

"I'm married," Shane says, voice tight. 

Strained in a way that makes Ryan's chest ache.

"Right, I saw the ring." Marcus's tone is light, dismissive. He glances at Shane's hand, then back to his face. "But that doesn't mean you can't have friends, right? Just two guys, talking hockey, maybe working out together. Nothing wrong with that."

He leans in slightly, and Ryan sees Shane press back against the wall. Almost as if he’s trying to create space that doesn't exist.

"I mean, I'm sure your... partner understands that you need guy friends. Someone to connect with outside of work." Marcus's smile is still friendly, but there's an edge to it now. A persistence. "It doesn't have to be weird. We could just hang out, get to know each other better. I think we'd really hit it off."

Shane opens his mouth, clearly searching for words that will end this without being rude, without escalating—

"He is not interested in being your friend."

Ilya's voice cuts through the hallway like a blade.

Sharp. Cold. Absolutely done with this shit.

He appeared at the end of the corridor, blocking Marcus's exit. His posture is relaxed. Hands in his pockets, weight shifted casually onto one leg, but there's nothing relaxed about his expression.

Not one fucking thing. 

He looks at Marcus the way he looks at opponents who take cheap shots at his teammates. 

Dangerous.

Marcus turns, and his easy smile falters for just a second before he recovers. "Hey, man. We're just talking."

"No." Ilya walks forward slowly, deliberately. Each step measured and controlled. "You wait for him in the bathroom. You follow him out here. You stand too close. You ignore him when he tries to leave. That is not talking."

"I was just being friendly—"

"You were flirting." Ilya's voice is flat. Cold. No room for argument. "With a married man. Who already told you no at bar. Who tried to leave, and you blocked him. Who said he is married, and you pretended not to understand."

Marcus holds up his hands slightly. "Look, I think there's been a misunderstanding—"

"No misunderstanding." Ilya is close now, close enough that Marcus has to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact. "You understand perfectly. You just don't care."

"That's not—"

"It’s true." Ilya's eyes are hard. "I’ve watched you all night. I see you stare. I see you follow. I see you touch his wrist at the bar when he tries to leave. I see you come here and corner him."

He stops directly in front of Marcus, and even though they're roughly the same height, Ilya seems to take up more space. Ryan’s thrilled at that because Rozanov does have a presence to him. An intensity that Marcus sure seems to feel because he takes a step back. 

"You see the ring now?" Ilya asks quietly.

Marcus nods, eyes flicking to Shane's hand.

"Good. So you understand: he is mine. I am his. We choose each other. And you?" Ilya's smile is sharp, humorless. “Are not chosen."

Fuck. 

Mic Drop. 

Marcus nods again, more quickly this time. "Yeah. Got it. Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"You did mean. But now you stop meaning." Ilya steps aside. "Go."

Marcus goes. 

Flees more like it.

And Ilya watches him disappear around the corner before turning to Shane.

Just like that, everything about him changes.

The hardness melts away like it was never there. The dangerous edge disappears. What's left is concern, gentle and immediate.

"You okay?" Ilya's voice is soft now. Careful.

Shane nods, but he's shaken. Ryan can see it in the way he's holding himself. In the way he’s breathing is too quick, too shallow. In the way he won't quite meet Ilya's eyes.

"Hey." Ilya steps closer, hands gentle on Shane's arms. "Talk to me. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I just—" Shane's voice cracks slightly. "He wouldn't leave. I kept trying to be polite, and he just—."

"I know." 

“I hate that you had to see that.”

"Why?" Ilya's hands move to cup Shane's face, gentle but firm. "You think I judge you for being kind? For trying not to make a scene?"

"I should've been more direct—"

"You were direct." Ilya's thumbs brush over Shane's cheekbones, and Shane's eyes close at the touch. "He chose not to listen. That is not your fault."

Shane's jaw tightens, and Ilya feels it under his palms. He also sees the way Shane's throat works as he swallows. 

Ilya doesn't say anything else. He doesn’t need too. Not right now at least. All he does is pull Shane closer. One hand sliding to the back of his neck, the other still cradling his face and he watches as Shane's breath hitches. As he leans into the touch like he's been waiting for permission.

"I hate feeling like that," Shane says quietly, and his voice is rough. Raw.

"I know." Ilya's thumb finds the spot just below Shane's ear, presses gently. The tension point he's learned over years. Shane's shoulders drop half an inch. "I know, sweetheart."

Shane's hands come up to grip Ilya's shirt. 

Ilya guides Shane's head down to his shoulder, hand firm and sure on the back of his neck. Shane goes willingly, face pressed against the curve of Ilya's throat, and Ilya feels the moment he finally lets go. His body sags and all the tight control gets released all at once. 

"I've got you," Ilya murmurs into Shane's hair. His hand moves in slow circles on Shane's back, steady and grounding. "I've got you."

Shane doesn't say anything. Just breathes, deep and shaky, fingers twisted in Ilya's shirt.

They stand like that for a long moment, the noise of the bar muffled and distant, the hallway quiet and dim around them. Ilya keeps his hand moving on Shane's back, up between his shoulder blades, down to the small of his back, up again. The same circuit, over and over. The way he does after bad losses. After hard games. After anything that leaves Shane wound too tight.

Shane's breathing evens out. The tremor in his hands stops.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are clearer. Still shaken. 

But steadier.

Ilya's hands frame his face again, thumbs brushing away the tension in his jaw. "Better?"

Shane nods. Leans forward and presses his forehead against Ilya's. "Yeah."

Ilya nudges against his forehead more. 

“I love you.”

Shane nudges once more, "Ya tak sil'no tebya lyublyu.”

Ilya moves to press a kiss against Shane’s temple. Then another to his hair.

Ryan knows he should leave. Give them privacy. But something keeps him rooted there at the far end of the hallway, watching. Bearing witness to this moment of tenderness after the confrontation. To the way Ilya has transformed completely. From dangerous and cold to soft and protective in the span of seconds.

To the way Shane lets himself be held. Lets himself be vulnerable. Lets Ilya take care of him without protest or embarrassment, even though Ryan is right there watching.

Eventually, they return to the table together. 

And eventually, they go home together too. 

Ryan ends up in a car with a few of the younger guys, all of them buzzed and happy and still riding the high of the win.

He looks out the window as they pull away from the bar and thinks about the past two seasons. 

About how he's been watching Shane and Ilya without really meaning to. How their relationship has existed in his peripheral vision and how he didn't fully understand it all until tonight.

He thinks about the difference between loving someone and choosing them.

How the first is easy. Inevitable, even. How you can love someone's laugh, their face, the way they make you feel. How that kind of love is passive. Something that happens to you.

But choosing someone…that's…that’s different. That's active. That's waking up every day and deciding that this person, with all their complications and needs and rough edges, is worth the effort. Worth the attention. Worth learning and relearning as they change and grow.

Shane and Ilya don't just love each other. They choose each other. Every single day. In ways big and small. In ways that no one else sees and in ways that everyone does.

Ryan wonders what it would feel like to be chosen like that. To be known so completely that someone could read your discomfort from across a room. To trust someone enough to let them see you break. To have someone who shows up, not because it's easy, but because you're worth it.

He wonders if he's ever chosen anyone that thoroughly. If he's ever let himself be chosen.

The car turns a corner, and Ryan thinks: I want that.

Not the exact shape of Shane and Ilya's relationship. But the depth of it. The intentionality. He thinks maybe he's been waiting for love to happen to him. When what he should be doing is choosing it. Building it. Earning it through the careful accumulation of moments where he decides someone else matters more than his own comfort.

It's a simple realization. Almost embarrassingly so.

But it settles into his chest like truth anyway.