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Shane should have known this would happen.
“C’mon, Hollander, it’s not that big of a deal–”
“Is the biggest deal, Barrett!”
“I swear to god Roz, if that’s another fucking dick joke–”
Rolling his eyes, Shane tuned out the banter around him and focused his attention on the jersey he needed to change into for practice. Ilya’s jersey. He never should have agreed to the stupid bet, but he had been so sure he would be able to outscore Ilya in their last game that he didn’t even stop to think about the consequences.
Namely, having to wear his husband’s jersey around like he was a WAG.
Not that there was anything wrong with that, of course– Shane was thrilled the first time the team WAGs called him an ‘honorary WAG’.
“Shane,” Ilya’s voice was closer, suddenly, the warmth of his husband’s hands appearing on his waist. “Are you going to put it on yourself, or will I need to make you?”
Heat flashed down Shane’s spine, and he clenched his eyes shut. They were not going to get a talking to from Wiebe about workplace conduct again. “Shut up,” he gritted out, putting as much irritation into it as he could manage (not much. Even he could hear the fondness).
Ilya hummed happily, his hands drifting from Shane’s waist to his stomach until his arms were encircling him. Shane leaned back into him without a second thought, continuing to stare at the jersey even as his husband started playing with the fabric of his shirt.
“So?” Ilya murmured, “Are you going to put it on?”
“I kinda have to, don’t I?”
“Oh, definitely!” Troy’s voice had Shane startling upright, turning out of Ilya’s hold to find half the locker room watching them with eager eyes. “We’ve been making bets about what Roz is gonna do.”
“Please, no more bets,” Shane begged weakly, shrugging out of his shirt and tugging the jersey off its hanger. “I don’t know if I can handle another.”
“Calm down, Hollander,” Ilya teased, “Will not kill you to wear your husband’s jersey.”
Shane shook his head and gently shoved at Ilya, ignoring Hazy’s mutter of “Might kill you though, Roz.”
“Will you all just get on the ice? I’ll be there in a minute.”
Whistling dramatically, Ilya clapped. “You heard the captain! To the ice!” He flicked the captain's ‘C’ on Shane’s borrowed jersey on his way out, his eyes alight with mischief. Shane couldn’t even be bothered to protest, too busy heaving a sigh of relief as the locker room emptied.
He loved Ilya and he really didn’t mind wearing the man’s jersey (he really, really didn’t mind. He had maybe been thinking about it for years.) but the eyes on him were starting to make him a little panicky. Naturally, Ilya had noticed that and taken them away.
Heart full of both love for his husband and exasperation at his antics, Shane tugged the jersey over his head without another thought. He would be fine. It was only one practice. With that in mind, Shane left the locker room and skated down the tunnel to the ice.
Ilya didn’t look at him right away, too busy teasing Haas about something or other– maybe the poster again, maybe Haas made the mistake of blushing at one of Ilya’s innuendos– Shane had stopped bothering to ask. He skated over to Troy, sharing a quick smile with the man before settling beside him to do some pre-game stretches. And sure, maybe he was doing a stretch that was more useful for a goalie, and maybe he had aimed his back to Ilya, and maybe he was spending just a bit too much time with his hips pressed flush to the ice and his back in a perfect arch…
He definitely wasn’t to blame for what happened, though.
One moment he was bantering with Troy and enjoying the stretch in his hips and thighs, and the next they were both startling upright at the sound of a crash from across the rink. Shane nearly fell over with how quickly he spun, and had to grip onto Troy’s shoulder for stability.
“Ilya?” he called in disbelief, staring at the crumpled mass of his husband next to the boards. Panicked, he rushed to the man’s side, hardly even registering the howls of laughter from Hayes and Bood. “Are you okay? What happened?”
Ilya was staring up at him wordlessly. That wasn’t good, right? He shouldn’t just be silent– Ilya was never silent.
“What’s going on?” Shane asked Bood, frowning as the man held up a finger and only continued to laugh. He turned to Hayes with the same question and was met with the same frustrating response.
“Uh, I can answer that, I think?”
Shane snapped his head up, narrowing his eyes at a slightly sheepish looking Harris clutching his phone.
“I promise I wasn’t trying to catch anything like that on video– I just wanted some shots of you guys warming up for a promotional video, but, uh–”
Without further comment, Harris handed over his phone. Shane pressed play immediately, squinting down at the screen.
On the screen was a tiny Ilya bickering happily with Hayes and laughing at Haas, his smile wide and his eyes crinkled. Shane couldn’t help but to smile softly at the image, momentarily forgetting what he was even watching the video for, but then–
Ilya’s head turned to the side as he started to skate over to Bood, and Shane suddenly realized that he could see himself in the frame. And wow, maybe he would stop doing that stretch in the middle of practice, actually.
Clearly Ilya was having some thoughts about his pose as well, as Shane could faintly hear him muttering in Russian as his eyes remained locked on Shane until–
He went straight into the boards.
Ilya went down hard– far harder than he should have, really, considering the decade of NHL experience he had under his belt– and didn’t get back up. Instead, his head stayed tilted towards Shane, and he let out a dreamy sigh as he watched Shane get up and head over.
Shaking his head, Shane returned the phone to a giggling Harris. “Seriously, Ilya?” he teased, dropping into a squat to get closer to the man. “You’ve seen me do that stretch before, what the hell happened to you?”
As if a spell had broken, Ilya finally blinked and spoke. “You are in my jersey.”
“Yes? You knew I was going to be, we literally had a bet–”
“My name is on your back.” Ilya’s voice was soft and almost reverent as he stared up at Shane. He had a dopey grin on his face, and Shane couldn’t help but to mirror the expression.
He was startled out of their bubble by Bood clapping loudly beside them. “Alright, this is getting less funny and more gooey, so… please know I’m gonna tease you both relentlessly about this later, but I’m gonna go.”
“Yes, yes, Bood– go on, we did not even notice that you were here it does not matter–”
“Fuck you, Rozy,” Bood laughed, his skates hissing across the ice as he left. Hayes muttered an agreement before he left as well with Harris following shortly after, the man’s phone camera already back up and aimed at Troy.
Once they were alone, Shane sat fully on the ice and continued to smile down at his husband. “Its a good thing the bet was for a practice and not a game,” he teased mildly, “I think the commentators would have lost their minds if you did that mid-game.”
“Would not have happened mid-game,” Ilya argued, “Would have happened during warm-ups, and then I would spend the whole game showing off for my husband.”
Shane laughed softly, one of his hands rising to ghost across Ilya’s face. It wasn’t even funny, really, Shane just needed somewhere for all the love in his throat to go. Somewhere that wasn’t a heated confession of said love in the middle of practice.
“Does that mean you’ll keep it together for the rest of practice to show off for your husband?”
Ilya hummed consideringly as he finally sat upright. “No, I think I will continue to, uh– make fool of myself, yes? I think my husband likes it.”
Knowing damn well he couldn’t deny it without getting called on his bluff, Shane stood and offered Ilya a hand up. “Maybe try not to fall over again though, yeah? It might upset your husband if you hurt yourself during practice. And if he’s upset, I don’t think he’ll be willing to wear the jersey for you at home later.”
Ilya straightened immediately, his cheeks flushing and his eyes getting a distant look in them that Shane recognized all too well. “You will wear jersey tonight?” he asked, his voice quietly intense.
“If you’re careful.”
With a determined nod, Ilya brushed off the last of the ice crystals that clung to his uniform. “I will be so careful, Hollander.” One of his hands reached out, squeezing Shane’s gently. “Just– no more stretching, yes?”
Shane laughed incredulously, filled with an indescribable amount of love for the ridiculous man in front of him. “No more stretching.”