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The Olympic Village felt like a contained universe.
Rows of identical modern apartment blocks stretched in neat lines, each building draped in banners of different nations. Red-and-white Canadian flags hung from balconies two floors above blue-and-yellow Swedish ones. Across the courtyard, a cluster of Finnish athletes leaned over their railing, calling down to teammates below.
Shane had expected it to feel grand.
Instead, it felt… crowded with almost a child-like excitement lingering in the air. Like summer camp for the most elite athletes in the world.
Their building housed several hockey teams. The elevators were constantly full of six-foot-plus men awkwardly folding themselves into corners, sticks balanced upright like flagpoles. Security was tight, badges scanned at every entrance, volunteers smiling brightly at all hours, but inside without the constant glare of camera lenses, the atmosphere was surprisingly relaxed. Quiet conversations on the couches in the common area buzzed late into the night. The common dining hall downstairs was a maze of long tables where languages collided and trays piled high with pasta and grilled chicken.
It was a lot for Shane to take in, weeks of conversations laid ahead of him, with other players, the press, volunteers…his head hurt just at the thought of it. But through all of that Ilya would be by his side.
Both of them were playing for the Canadian team this year, their first Winter Olympics as a married couple. They were married... They had rings, simple ones they both wore on chains during games. They had a home together. A dog and a cat. Joint bank accounts and cars.
And yet the Olympic committee had assigned them to different rooms.
“Logistics” the team coordinator had said with a tight smile. “The Village does doubles only. Random assignment.”
Random, apparently, meant putting the NHL’s most talked-about married couple in separate rooms with single beds barely wide enough for one of them.
Ilya had lasted exactly three hours before deciding that was unacceptable.
Shane still didn’t know what he’d said to Wilson, only that the next morning the goalie had approached Shane with a sheepish grin and a shrug.
“Rozanov promised to sign a jersey for my nephew and take all the early morning media slots. I’m switching.”
Shane had blinked. “You don’t have to-”
“I know” Wilson had said. “But for my sake and of the entire team, I don't want to have Rozy whining our ears off the entire time.”
The locker room at the Olympic arena hummed with a different kind of energy than any NHL rink Shane had ever known.
It wasn’t just the sound, though that was there too: the sharp rip of Velcro, the metallic clatter of sticks against the rubber floor, the low murmur of French and English mixing in easy banter. It was the weight of it. The red maple leaf stitched on every jersey. The knowledge that they weren’t just playing for a franchise anymore.
They were playing for Canada.
Shane sat at his stall, elbows on his knees, lacing up his skates with deliberate care. The white of his Team Canada socks was impossibly clean, the red stripe running bold and bright up the side. His jersey, number and name crisp, hung from the hook behind him.
Across the room, Ilya was laughing too loudly at something their defenseman had said, head thrown back, hair still damp from the morning shower. He insisted on taking one, even if he had a game later and was going to have to shower again anyway. They'd been together for long enough that Shane also knew that it was mostly so that Ilya could seduce him into a morning blowjob every damn day. Not that Shane complained.
Shane tried not to stare at his still half naked husband, whilst trying his very best to not think about the actions that had taken place in the empty communal showers that morning.
Ilya caught Shane watching him and winked. Shane rolled his eyes, but warmth spread through his chest anyway.
A team staffer began handing out the official Olympic supply boxes. Sturdy white cartons with the Olympic rings printed on top. Each player had already received one upon arrival, but apparently it wouldn't be the last.
Ilya had his box open on the bench beside him within seconds, rifling through it with exaggerated curiosity of a child.
He had already loved the contents of the first box, exclaiming excitedly to Shane, that they could put one of the Canada beanies on their cat, Pork. Shane had brought the hairless cat home a few months ago, and although it took some time, Ilya had finally started to tolerate Pork. Even if Pork still hadn't tolerated Ilya.
“Why do we get so many socks?” he asked loudly, holding up a bundle that he had managed to dig out. “Do they think Canadians sweat more than Russians?”
“You’re Canadian now” someone shot back.
“Only on the ice!" Ilya replied, a grin plastered on his face, obviously proud of his comeback.
Shane shook his head, reaching for his own box. Inside were the usual things: extra laces, tape, base layers, branded hoodies and joggers, deodorant, shaving kits, pain relievers.
And, tucked awkwardly into a small sealed packet at the bottom…
Shane froze.
Across the room, Ilya made a delighted sound.
“Oh my God” he said, holding up a strip of condoms between two fingers. “They think of everything.”
Several players snorted. One of the rookies turned crimson.
“Rozanov.” their captain, Morin, warned mildly.
“What?” Ilya looked innocently around the room. “It’s responsible. Very progressive Olympic committee. And I don't need anyway.”
His eyes slid to Shane.
Shane felt heat crawl up his neck at the realisation of what Ilya had just shared in front of the entire National team of Canada. He shoved the packet deeper into his box like it might combust if exposed to air.
Ilya grinned wider.
“Do you think they counted?” Ilya went on. “Like, statistically? Average number of encounters per athlete per game?”
“Focus.” Shane muttered without looking up, tugging hard on his laces.
“I am focused,” Ilya said. “On preparation.”
Wilson groaned. “Please stop.”
But there was laughter, and it broke some of the tension coiled tight in Shane’s chest. This was a big game. It was historic. But it was also still hockey players in a room, teasing each other before a game.
Shane finally looked up, catching Ilya’s gaze. There was something softer there beneath the mischief.
They’d both fought for this. For years, Ilya hadn’t even known if he’d ever be allowed to wear the maple leaf. Now he was pulling the jersey over his head like he’d been born to it.
Shane stood, grabbing his own Jersey and sliding it on. The fabric felt heavier than his NHL one. Or maybe that was just the moment.
As they lined up to head down the tunnel, Ilya brushed his hand briefly against Shane’s at his side.
It was quick, but unbelievably grounding.
They won.
It wasn’t easy, nothing at this level ever was, but the final buzzer sounded with Canada ahead by two. The arena erupted, red flags waving in the stands, the anthem echoing through the rafters as Shane stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his teammates.
With his husband.
Back in the locker room, the mood had transformed from tense focus into chaos. Music blasted from someone’s speaker. Gloves and helmets were tossed into stalls. There was shouting in both official languages and at least three dialects of hockey chirping.
Ilya was radiant. Flushed from exertion, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bright.
He wrapped an arm around Shane’s shoulders and pulled him close for a sweaty, unselfconscious hug.
“You were unbelievable moya lyubov” Ilya said into his ear.
“So were you.” Shane replied, voice low.
They didn’t linger. Not here, not now. But the look they exchanged said enough.
Later, showered and changed into matching red team-issued hoodies, they followed the rest of the guys to a nearby bar outside of the Olympic Village, that had been unofficially claimed by multiple national teams.
Shane nursed a sparkling apple juice, watching Ilya accept congratulations from teammates and even a few opponents who wandered over. Ilya thrived in this. The crowds, celebration, the electric buzz of victory.
By Ilya's third drink, his laugh was louder. By his fourth, his English had grown delightfully sloppy around the edges.
“Ilya.” Shane murmured at one point, leaning close so only he could hear. “We have another game in two days.”
“I am in peak condition.” Ilya declared, gesturing expansively and nearly knocking over someone’s glass.
Shane caught it before it tipped. “Maybe switch to water.”
Ilya squinted at him. “You are very bossy for someone who blushed about condoms this morning.”
Shane’s face heated instantly. “Keep your voice down.”
Ilya grinned like he’d just scored the winning goal all over again, before he placed a fast kiss onto the side of Shane's temple.
Predictably, he did not switch to water.
By the time they left, Ilya was warm and loose-limbed, leaning heavily into Shane’s side as they walked back through the crisp night air of the Olympic Village.
“You are so handsome.” Ilya informed him solemnly.
“You’re drunk” Shane replied, though he tightened his arm around Ilya’s waist.
“Maybe…,” Ilya conceded. “But still correct.”
The hallway to their room was quiet, most athletes either still out celebrating or already asleep. Shane fumbled slightly with the keycard, one hand steadying his husband.
Inside, the room was small but familiar now. Two single beds that they had shoved together beneath a single tangled duvet, their red-and-white gear draped over chairs, Olympic-branded toiletry bags lined neatly on the desk.
Shane barely had the door closed before Ilya turned into him, pressing him gently back against it.
“Ilya.” Shane started, half exasperated, half fond.
But Ilya’s hands were already on his hips, his forehead dropping to Shane’s shoulder.
“You carried me” he murmured. “Very romantic.”
“You would have walked into a fountain.” Shane scoffed out a laugh.
“Worth it.”
Ilya lifted his head, eyes softer now, less wild. The alcohol hadn’t dulled the intensity in his gaze.
“You were incredible tonight.” Ilya said quietly. “I am so proud to play beside you.”
Shane swallowed. The noise and celebration felt far away now, replaced by the quiet hum of the room and the steady beat of Ilya’s heart against his chest.
“I’m proud of you too,” Shane replied.
Ilya kissed him then. Not frantic, not yet, but full of all the things they couldn’t say in the locker room.
The kiss deepened as Ilya’s hands slid up Shane’s back, tugging him closer. Shane laughed softly against his mouth.
“You’re going to regret this in the morning.” Shane warned.
“Probably,” Ilya admitted, already guiding them toward the narrow beds they’d claimed as their own. “But that is future Ilya’s problem.”
Shane let himself be pulled down, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight, the red hoodie slipping from his shoulders.
The half-empty supply boxes sat on their desks, condoms still tucked somewhere inside, where they'd also stay for the foreseeable future.
The days began to blur together in the way only tournaments could.
Morning practice, media availability, team meetings, lunch in the dining hall. Afternoon skate or recovery sessions. Another game, another win.
Canada moved through the first few rounds with flawless precision. Their systems were tight. Their lines were clicking. The locker room after each victory felt looser, louder, more certain.
By day three, the red-and-white gear felt broken in. The Village felt almost normal.
Shane had settled into a rhythm.
He woke early, as always, slipping carefully out of their pushed-together single beds so he wouldn’t wake Ilya if he’d had a late night watching game tape or video calling with Shane’s parents to see Anya and Pork. He’d pull on a Team Canada hoodie, pad quietly to the small kitchenette a floor down for coffee, nodding to other early risers, usually Wilson and some Swedish players that they shared the building with, all equally silent before caffeine.
Ilya, in contrast, thrived in the chaos of the Village.
He’d stop to talk to volunteers. Pose for selfies with athletes from other sports. Trade pins with anyone who asked. He moved through the space like it belonged to him.
It was in the dining hall on the afternoon of day three that Shane first noticed it.
The hall was enormous. High ceilings, bright lights, long buffet lines offering everything from sushi to pasta to grilled meats. Flags hung from the rafters, and athletes in every color imaginable filled the space with a constant hum of conversation.
Shane carried his tray. Grilled chicken, rice, steamed vegetables, as always and scanned for the team.
Most of the Canadians were already seated at their usual cluster of tables near the back. Wilson was in the middle of an animated story. Nico was poking at a salad with suspicious intensity.
Ilya, however, wasn’t there.
Shane spotted him across the room, near one of the windows.
He was leaning back in his chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, posture relaxed but attentive. Across from him sat one of the rookies, Maxwell, the younger winger who’d nearly choked on his water during the condom joke. His tray sat mostly untouched.
They were deep in conversation.
The rookie was talking with his hands, brows drawn together, clearly earnest about whatever he was saying.
Shane paused for half a second.
Then he shook it off.
Ilya had always taken younger players under his wing. He’d done it in the NHL, too. Offering advice, helping them navigate media, teaching them small tricks about positioning and reading defenders. It was one of the things Shane admired most about him.
Still, something about the exchange lingered in the back of his mind.
He joined the team table, and when Ilya eventually slid into the empty seat beside him twenty minutes later, he looked perfectly normal.
“Good chicken.” Ilya said, stealing a piece from Shane’s plate without asking.
Shane rolled his eyes. “You had your own.”
“It looked lonely.”
Shane bumped their knees under the table. “What were you two plotting?”
“Nothing,” Ilya replied lightly. “Just talking.”
“About?”
Ilya shrugged, reaching for his water. “Hockey.”
That, at least, was believable.
Canada won again that night.
Another decisive victory. Another anthem. Another locker room full of adrenaline and laughter.
The rookie winger scored his first Olympic goal.
Maxwell looked stunned when it happened, like he hadn’t quite processed the puck crossing the line. Ilya was the first to reach him in the corner, grabbing his helmet and shaking him affectionately before pulling him into a tight hug.
Shane watched it with a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name.
Pride, maybe.
And something sharper.
Back at the Village, they skipped the bar this time. The coaching staff had been clear about staying focused. Instead, most of the team gathered in one of the common lounges downstairs to watch highlights from other games.
Shane and Ilya returned to their room early.
Ilya flopped onto their makeshift double bed, arms spread wide. “We are unstoppable.” he declared.
“Don’t say that.” Shane replied automatically, hanging up his jacket.
“You are superstitious.”
“You are reckless.”
Ilya grinned at him. “Yes.”
They showered in quick succession, the showers almost completely empty. Shane changed into sleep pants and a Team Canada t-shirt, settling at the small desk with his tablet to review clips from the game.
Ilya lay on his stomach on the bed, scrolling through his phone, occasionally making small satisfied noises when he found a particularly flattering highlight of himself or a funny Tik Tok.
There was a knock at the door.
Shane glanced at the clock.
10:42 p.m.
He stood, frowning slightly, and crossed the room.
When he opened the door, the second rookie Nico, their defenseman barely out of junior, stood in the hallway. His hair was still damp, hoodie pulled up like he was trying to be inconspicuous.
“Uh-hey.” the rookie said. “Is Rozanov here?”
Shane blinked.
“Yes.”
“Can I talk to him? Just for a minute?”
Shane hesitated.
Behind him, Ilya had already sat up. “Who is it?”
“One of the rooks.” Shane replied dryly.
Ilya was on his feet in seconds, crossing the room with that easy, unbothered stride. He brushed past Shane, fingers grazing briefly over his lower back as he went.
“Hey,” Ilya said warmly to the rookie. “What is going on?”
“Can we just-?” The rookie gestured vaguely down the hall.
“Of course.”
Shane’s frown deepened.
“Ilya.” he started.
But Ilya only flashed him a quick grin. Bright, almost mischievous.
“Back soon.” he said.
Then he slipped out into the hallway, the door closing softly behind him.
Shane stood there for a moment, hand still on the knob.
Suspicion, irrational and unwelcome, prickled under his skin.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Ilya.
It was that Ilya was magnetic. Larger than life. People gravitated toward him constantly. Rookies idolized him. Veterans respected him. Strangers flirted with him. It sometimes felt like he had to share his husband with the entire world.
Shane had always known that.
He let go of his grip on the knob and leaned back against it.
From the other side, he could hear low murmurs of conversation. The rookie’s voice was quiet, earnest. Ilya’s tone was softer than it usually was in the locker room.
The conversation lasted no longer than a minute.
Shane crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, jaw tight.
When the door opened again, Ilya slipped back inside, expression neutral but eyes bright.
The rookie offered a quick, “Thanks, man.” before disappearing down the hall.
Shane watched him go.
Then he turned to his husband.
“What was that about?”
Ilya kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his hoodie, maddeningly casual.
“Nothing dramatic.”
“Ilya.”
Ilya looked up at him, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
“Yes?”
Shane folded his arms. “Why are rookies having secret meetings with you in the hallway?”
Ilya’s mouth curved slowly into a grin.
“Secret meetings?” he repeated. “You make it sound very scandalous.”
Shane did not smile.
Ilya stepped closer, close enough that Shane could see the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks from the shower.
“They just had questions,” Ilya said lightly.
“What kind of questions?”
Ilya’s grin widened.
“You are very suspicious tonight.”
“Because it’s weird,” Shane shot back. “First the dining hall, now this?”
For a split second, something flickered in Ilya’s expression, amusement.
Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth.
“Relax” he murmured, tightening his grip on Shane's hips.
Shane let himself fall into his husband's arms, tilting his head to look up.
Ilya’s eyes sparkled.
__________
Shane's morning started early again, leaving Ilya behind, sprawled out of their makeshift bed, still completely naked. Shane stepped out wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, only to come face to face with their captain exiting the room next to them.
“Morning” Morin said
“Morning.” Shane replied, nodding.
They fell into step toward the elevator together, towards the coffee machine and the desperately needed caffeine.
There was a beat of companionable silence.
Then the captain smirked.
“So” he said casually, “good to know you and Rozy are… enthusiastic patriots.”
Shane frowned slightly. “What?”
The captain raised an eyebrow. “The walls are thin, Hollander.”
It took Shane exactly half a second to process that.
Then his entire face went hot.
“Oh my God.” he muttered.
The captain laughed under his breath. “Relax. It’s the Olympic Village. I’ve heard worse.”
Shane rubbed a hand over his face. “We weren’t- It wasn’t-”
“Hey.” Morin cut in mildly. “You’re married. It’s fine. God knows I'd be doing the same if my wife was here.”
The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped inside.
As it descended, the captain added, almost offhandedly. “I hope you're at least using those supply boxes sparsely.”
Shane blinked, brain to jumbled from sleep and the embarrassing detail his captain had just informed him about . “What?”
The captain looked amused. “You know. The little welcome gifts.”
Shane stared at him.
“You mean…”
“The condoms, yeah.”
Shane’s brain short-circuited for a second.
“What do you mean sparsely?" he asked cautiously.
The captain leaned back against the wall, completely at ease. “Apparently a few of the guys are already running low. Not just our boys, the other countries as well.”
Shane nearly choked. “Running low?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“How many did everyone get?”
“Strip of ten, I think.” Morin said. “Standard issue.”
“Ten?” Shane repeated faintly.
The elevator doors opened into the lobby, where a few athletes from another country were already gathered near the coffee station.
They stepped out.
“Yeah.” the captain continued as if discussing stick tape inventory. “Some of the rookies are stressed. They didn’t anticipate the… demand.”
Shane stared at him in disbelief. “It’s been three days.”
Morin shrugged. “Welcome to the Olympics.”
They headed toward the small kitchenette area where coffee was perpetually brewing.
“This isn’t my first time at the Olympics.” Morin added, pouring himself a cup. “Hooking up is pretty normal here. High adrenaline, no regular season schedule, everyone in peak condition, thousands of athletes in one place.”
He lifted one shoulder. “It’s how some of the younger guys blow off steam.”
Shane felt heat creeping up his neck again.
“Oh.” he managed.
The captain shot him a sideways glance. “You look shocked.”
“I just-” Shane hesitated. “I didn’t think…”
The captain grinned. “You didn’t think what? That a bunch of twenty-two-year-olds with too much energy might make questionable decisions?”
Shane huffed out a reluctant breath of laughter.
“When I was at my first Olympics, not yet together with Steff,” Morin continued, stirring sugar into his coffee, “it was the same. You win, you celebrate. You lose, you try to forget. Either way, there’s a lot of… socializing.”
Shane took his own cup, mostly for something to hold.
“And you?” the captain asked lightly. “You and Rozanov behaving yourselves?”
Shane nearly dropped the cup.
“We’re fine.” he said quickly. Morin didn't need to know that Ilya and he had a minimum of two orgasms daily since starting the Olympics.
The condoms still lay unused in both of their boxes. For a while now, their sex life had consisted of swallowing or clenching. Not like they had to worry about any unplanned pregnancies.
The captain chuckled. “I figured. Married guys tend to be less chaotic.”
Still, Shane’s mind snagged on the image of the rookies. Wide-eyed, nervous, suddenly thrust into the most intense tournament of their lives, seeking distraction in whatever form they could find.
And then, unbidden, another thought slipped in.
He and Ilya at twenty-one.
Before the rivalry had softened. Before they’d learned how to navigate each other without sparks flying. Before marriage and mortgages and careful routines.
If they’d been at the Olympics together at that age?
Shane swallowed.
They probably would have been worse.
Reckless. Competitive in ways that had nothing to do with hockey. Fueling each other’s adrenaline instead of grounding it.
He felt his face warm all over again.
The captain noticed.
“Oh my God” he said, amused. “You just pictured it, didn’t you?”
Shane glared at him. “Can we not?”
The captain laughed outright this time, clapping him once on the shoulder.
“Relax, Hollander. It’s normal. You guys are fine. The rookies will figure it out.”
Shane nodded, taking a long sip of coffee to steady himself.
As they headed back toward the elevator to grab their gear for morning practice, Shane’s thoughts drifted briefly to the previous night. The murmured conversation in the hallway, the way the rookies had sought Ilya out specifically.
A quiet, unsettling possibility began to form.
Not scandalous.
Not inappropriate.
Just… connected.
He glanced down the hall toward their room.
Inside, Ilya was still asleep, sprawled across two single beds pushed stubbornly together, utterly unconcerned with thin walls, supply boxes, or stressed rookies.
_____
Shane was toweling off after morning skate when his Olympic-issued phone - standard black, preloaded with team apps and security features - buzzed sharply in his locker.
One buzz became many.
Around him, other players reached for their devices at the same time.
“What now?” someone muttered.
Shane unlocked his screen.
A notification banner filled the top:
Olympic Village Committee – Official Announcement
He opened it.
Due to unexpectedly high usage of complimentary health supplies distributed to athletes, the Olympic Committee is aware of a temporary shortage of condoms within the Village.
Additional shipments are being arranged.
In the meantime, athletes are reminded to prioritize safe practices and act responsibly until the issue is resolved.
Thank you for your cooperation.
There was a beat of silence in the locker room.
Then someone started laughing.
“Oh my God.” Wilson said.
“No way.” one of the rookies muttered, staring at his phone in horror.
Across the room, Ilya read the message and let out a delighted bark of laughter.
“They made an official announcement” he said, grinning. “We are very productive.”
The captain dragged a hand down his face. “I cannot believe this is a team-wide and discipline-wide notification.”
The loud forward was wheezing. “Temporary shortage. That’s so diplomatic.”
Shane closed his eyes briefly.
He didn’t know whether to be impressed by the logistics team or deeply concerned.
Ilya was still chuckling as they left the rink.
Back in their room that afternoon, Shane glanced toward the supply boxes still stacked neatly against the wall. They hadn’t thrown them out, the cardboard was useful for storing extra tape and gear.
Ilya stood in the center of the room, phone still in hand, grin spreading slowly across his face.
“This is historic.” he said.
“It’s embarrassing.” Shane corrected.
Ilya looked at him like he’d just missed a punchline.
“You don’t find it fascinating?” he asked. “Entire global event temporarily halted by enthusiasm?”
Shane opened his mouth to respond-
-and then froze as Ilya strode toward the desk.
“Ilya…” Shane said carefully.
Too late.
Ilya knelt and began pulling open both of their Olympic supply boxes, rummaging through the remaining contents with suspicious efficiency. He emerged moments later holding several sealed strips of condoms, his own and Shane’s, fanned out in one hand like playing cards.
Shane narrowed his eyes.
“What” he asked slowly, “are you planning to do with those?”
Ilya stood, inspecting his inventory with professional satisfaction.
“Well..” he said casually, “demand has risen.”
Shane stared.
“Supply is limited.” Ilya continued thoughtfully. “It would be irresponsible not to respond to market conditions.”
It took exactly two seconds for understanding to dawn.
“You are not.” Shane said flatly.
Ilya’s grin widened.
“You’ve been selling them.” Shane realized, horrified.
Ilya gave a small, unapologetic shrug.
“We do not use all of ours,” he said reasonably. “It would be wasteful to let them sit.”
Shane ran both hands over his face.
“Ilya. That is so unbelievably unprofessional.”
“It is resource management.”
“It is not resource management!” Shane hissed. “It’s scalping.”
“Scalping is such an aggressive word.”
“You are profiting off other players' hormones!”
Ilya tilted his head. “Five euros is very fair.”
Shane blinked. “Five euros?”
“Yes.”
“For one condom?”
Ilya looked genuinely confused. “Yes.”
Shane let out a disbelieving laugh.
“You are charging them five euros per condom?”
“It is below black market value.” Ilya argued calmly. “Given scarcity.”
Shane couldn’t even form a response for a second.
"It is cold in Canada Shane, Pork needs new sweaters and Anya needs new booties for the snow, how shall we afford that, huh?"
“You are ridiculous,” Shane finally managed.
Ilya tucked the strips neatly back into his hand, completely unbothered.
“That is how business works.” he said.
“This is not business!” Shane exclaimed. “This is the Olympic Village!”
“Exactly!” Ilya replied. “Premium location.”
Shane stared at him, torn between outrage and hysterical laughter.
“And some of those technically still belong to me,” he added.
Ilya’s eyes gleamed.
“Oh?” he said softly. “You are planning to use them?”
Shane flushed slightly. “That’s not the point.”
Ilya stepped closer, lowering his voice with deliberate mischief.
“Could you really say no?” he murmured.
Shane’s heart stuttered despite himself.
“You’re deflecting.” he said weakly.
Ilya leaned in just a fraction more. “Were you planning on saying no to me? You dont want me to fill you up like I have in the past days?”
Shane’s attempt at sternness crumbled.
He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You are impossible.”
Ilya’s expression softened into something warm and familiar.
Shane reached up and kissed him, quick and firm.
“You are still unethical.” Shane muttered against his mouth.
“Very successful, though.” Ilya replied.
There was a sharp knock at the door.
Both of them froze.
Another knock followed - this one more urgent.
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
Shane sighed and stepped back, crossing the room to open it.
When he pulled the door open, he was met with a small crowd.
Three of their teammates stood at the front, including both rookies, looking embarrassed but determined. Behind them, two athletes Shane vaguely recognized from another country’s hockey team lingered awkwardly in the hallway.
“Uh,” Nico said, clearing his throat. “We heard Rozanov might have… leftovers.”
Shane closed his eyes briefly.
Behind him, Ilya straightened.
“How did you-” Shane began.
“Word spreads fast…” Maxwell muttered.
One of the foreign players lifted his hand slightly. “We are willing to pay.”
Shane turned slowly to look at his husband.
Ilya was absolutely radiant.
“See?” Ilya said smugly. “International demand.”
Shane pressed his lips together, fighting a losing battle against laughter.
“You are not turning our room into a storefront,” he warned.
Ilya stepped forward, slipping past Shane into the doorway, strips still in hand.
“Relax.” he murmured under his breath. “It is temporary.”
Shane watched, mortified and helpless, as Olympic-level athletes from multiple countries stood in their hallway like customers outside a pop-up shop.
And despite himself,
He started laughing.
Pork and Ilya after the Winter Olympics 2026 - drawing made by me :)