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Hollander: ‘Emotion Has to Be Controlled’ After Late Penalty Sinks Centaurs
OTTAWA — The Ottawa Centaurs dropped a 2–1 heartbreaker Saturday at Ottawa Arena after a late-game cross-checking penalty by captain Ilya Rozanov shifted the momentum against them in the final minutes.
With 2:19 remaining in the third period and the score tied, Rozanov was called for cross-checking an opponent into the boards during a battle along the wall. The ensuing power play produced the decisive goal less than a minute later, silencing a home crowd that had been building toward overtime.
Rozanov declined to speak with the media following the loss. Instead, alternate captain Shane Hollander addressed reporters and delivered a candid assessment, while also acknowledging the emotional intensity of playoff hockey.
“That’s a penalty you can’t take in that situation,” Hollander said. “Tie game, late third, home ice. It’s a basic judgment.”
The penalty call quickly drew focus from reporters.
A reporter asked: “Shane, when your captain takes a penalty like that, does it become a leadership concern?”
Hollander did not shy away from the premise.
“It’s about making the right plays at the right time,” he said. “Rozanov’s a competitive player and plays as hard as everyone out there on the ice, he’s our captain, but even leaders have to manage those moments better.”
Hollander also addressed the emotional context around the play.
“It’s playoff hockey,” he said. “Everything’s heightened. You’re battling for every inch, adrenaline’s high. That intensity is part of what makes us effective, but it has to be controlled. We can’t let our emotions get the better of us.”
He added, “Late in a tie game, you can’t give the officials a reason to put their arm up. We all know that.”
Hollander balanced criticism with broader accountability.
“He’s out there making plays, driving the game,” Hollander said. “But when you give the opposition a chance to score in that spot, it’s costly. We all have to be better moving forward if we want to stay in it. We had our chances to extend the lead earlier and couldn’t capitalize, and that’s part of this loss, too. I’ve always told the guys that this game is more than just one of us. We win together and we lose together, too.”
With the next game also scheduled at Ottawa Arena, Hollander emphasized the urgency of a response.
“We’ve got another home game,” he said. “The intensity isn’t going away. We just have to handle it better and be smarter, cleaner, and more disciplined. That’s how we stay in this series.”
The puck slides around the boards and Ilya reads the angle a half-second before it happens.
He steps into the battle along the wall, shoulder first, blade pinned, the roar of the home crowd swelling with every shove. The clock counts down in red digits – 2:26, 2:25, 2:24 – the promise of overtime close enough Ilya can taste it.
He feels the forward lean into him, feels the stick wedge hard under his ribs and hands at his back. Playoff hockey is measured in inches and bruises and who refuses to give any ground. Ilya has never been good at giving ground.
The puck kicks loose and Ilya’s hands tighten on his stick as he drives forward to clear space, chases the control that’s just out of reach.
The boards thunder. The whistle splits the air.
For a heartbeat he doesn’t register the significance of the whistle, the accusation it’s making. Ilya’s eyes focus on his opponent slumping and sliding against the boards, the puck spinning loose as the play dissolves in front of him. The excited roar of the crowd swells into a mixture of confusion and disappointment, the earlier excitement folding in on itself as the referee’s call settles over the ice.
Cross-checking. Two minute penalty.
The red numbers blink 2:19.
He skates toward the box with his chin level, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth hurt. Blood pounds hard in his ears as the scrape of his blades slicing across the ice sounds all wrong. Shane’s gaze meets Ilya’s for a fraction of a second as they pass each other, but his expression is unreadable.
Ilya sits in the penalty box and watches the ice tilt away from him. Unblinking, he tracks the puck through sticks and skates, and he sees the pass open up before it happens, unable to stop it.
The goal light ignites and what little hope had remained for the Ottawa fans melts away in an instant.
Ilya’s eyes drop from the scoreboard, his gaze focusing hard on a blemish in the ice. He cannot bear to look up, to see the frustration and disappointment on the faces of his teammates, of the fans. The intensity in the arena is all but gone, the final seconds of the game ticking away infuriatingly slow as if they’re punishing Ilya for making such a stupid mistake this deep into the playoffs. He wants out of the penalty box, off the ice, out of the arena.
The sound of the final horn thunders through the arena, signifying the end of a disappointing loss for the Centaurs.
Cameras focus in on Ilya as he steps back onto the ice in the aftermath of a game gone wrong. They focus on the hard set of his jaw as he joins the handshake line, on how he halfheartedly taps his fellow teammates on the shoulder as they dejectedly make their way toward the tunnels. They focus on Shane, on the way he skates past Ilya without looking, the space between them throwing out a different kind of accusation.
The silence tells more of the story than words ever could. The cameras love it, the silence.
Ilya hates it.
Afterward, when the players are off the ice and in the dressing room, the quiet tension is thick. Rookies go out of their way to stay out of Ilya’s orbit, whispering softly to each other in corners as the televisions mounted to the walls replay footage of the cross-checking penalty and game winning goal on a loop. Ilya keeps his head up, eyes hard as he gazes around the room, taking note of the whispering, of the trainers who move through the space as they check in with various players, of the way Shane methodically places all of his equipment into his stall, of the way Shane doesn’t look up.
Ilya removes the tape from his wrists, the adhesive pulling at the fine hairs on his arms, the accompanying sting predictable in all the ways tonight wasn’t.
His laces are next, the knots fighting his attempts at loosening them. He fights harder, yanking and pulling until they submit to what he wants. Around him, his teammates drop their gear to the floor and the showers start up. A few more voices join the quiet hum of the rookies, though no one dares to speak to Ilya, no one says his name.
Ilya stands and shoves his pads harder than necessary into the depths of his stall. He closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose for three and out through his mouth for four. The scoreboard is burned into the backs of his eyes, the harsh notes of the whistle still grating in his ears. He replays the moment over and over, even as he strips out of his base layer and steps into the spray of the shower, the water hot enough to leave red splotches across his skin. He tells himself he would make the same decision again, that hesitation is weakness. Ilya Rozanov is anything but weak and he does not hesitate on the ice.
He tells himself a lot of things.
It isn’t until the water starts to turn from scalding to lukewarm that Ilya shuts off the shower. He dresses quickly and halfheartedly dries his hair, water collecting at the ends of his curls and weighing them down until it drips down onto his collar. As he fastens his cufflinks, he makes the decision to not speak to the media tonight. He will leave that responsibility to his coaches and his other teammates. To Shane.
His father would call it cowardice, skipping out on the press after a loss this substantial, a loss he had a direct hand in. He would grate on about responsibility and about captains who sit in front of microphones and reporters and take whatever is thrown at them, about men who do not shy away from consequences, but lean into them, about men who take it on the chin and vow to do better. His father has been gone for more than half a decade now and he can still hear the cadence of his words, his clipped disapproval in Ilya. If he was still alive, his father would first blame the Americans for taking away his edge and turning him into something soft while he was in Boston, and then blame the Canadians for smoothing him into something more palatable, something easy. As if Ilya Rozanov has ever been easy.
This is not hiding. This is not cowardice. To Ilya, it’s self-preservation.
He doesn’t have it in him to sit beneath the glow of fluorescent lights and listen to reporters dissect his every move, to launch their barbed insinuations disguised as questions at him. The reporters will come across as neutral in their questioning, but Ilya knows better. He’s been doing this a long time, knows they’re out for blood. He knows they want to place this loss on the shoulders of one person and who better than the captain himself? He doesn’t trust his voice not to crack nor his ability to leave his hands passively on top of the table and not curled into white-knuckled fists.
He doesn’t trust himself to not say something true.
Truthfulness tonight would be messy. There would be no strategy behind it, his words would throw accusations at others. He cannot be the poised, polished version the organization wants him to be, the version who shoulders being captain and publicly holds himself accountable even when he privately disagrees. He cannot sit in front of a room of reporters and talk about learning from his mistakes, about getting caught up in the heat of the moment because none of it is true.
The reporters don’t want Ilya’s truth. They don’t want to hear his frustration at himself, at the other team, at the officials, at his own teammates. It would sound like he’s tired of carrying it all, tired of being the one held to a higher standard and forced to swallow every misstep and soft goal because he’s the captain and that’s what is expected of him. It would sound petulant, an indignant cry that the officials, his teammates, his coaches, all missed the stick being shoved into his ribs first, the hands at his back. It would sound like he was airing his grievances over the game and the way that it’s always played a little dirtier than anyone ever wants to admit, but yet he’s still the one at fault.
It would sound like he’s tired of being the lightning rod because of a reputation he’s never been able to fully shake. It would sound like he knew exactly what he was doing and that he’d do it again because Ilya Rozanov does not back down. That is what the truth would sound like tonight. It would sound like quiet resentment and would be honest in the way that makes people shift uncomfortably in their seats. His words would be too real and raw, too unrehearsed, and wouldn’t fit into nicely packaged soundbites. That is not what the press wants. Not tonight.
As he slides his watch onto his wrist, Ilya watches a few of his teammates head in the direction of the media room for the postgame presser. Someone hovers nearby, hesitating, before deciding against whatever it is they wanted to say. They walk off, only to be replaced by a staffer a moment later.
Ilya looks over his shoulder at the staffer and shakes his head once, wordlessly rejecting the idea of him talking with the media. There is no heat in his gaze, no anger directed at the man just doing his job. He simply wears the unapologetic expression of a team captain not interested in groveling tonight.
As the staffer disappears down the corridor toward the media room, fingers flying furiously across his phone, Ilya lingers instead, taking in the familiarity of the locker room like it might anchor him.
Hayes’s stall looks like it’s been hit by a tornado – tape wadded and abandoned, gloves tossed half in and half out of the cubby, a towel forgotten in a heap on the floor. It’s chaotic in a way that feels lived-in and unbothered.
Right beside it, Shane’s space is a study in restraint. His pads stacked with deliberate precision, his stick leaned at the same angle it always is with the tape ends folded cleanly back on themselves. Even his spare laces are coiled, tucked into the corner on the shelf like they’re standing at attention, ready to be grabbed and threaded through his skates at a moment’s notice.
Ilya’s gaze lingers a second longer than it needs to on Shane’s stall. On the order of it, on the quiet promise that everything there is exactly where it should be.
On Shane’s absence.
Down the hall, Ilya knows, is Shane, sitting in a seat meant for someone else. Meant for him.
Shane’s voice will be even, controlled. He’ll answer the softball questions lobbed to him by the reporters with his signature polite smile reserved for moments after a tough loss, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
His answers will be everything the media is expecting, controlled and rehearsed in all the right ways. He will talk about the team’s shared responsibility for not capitalizing on the opportunities to put more goals between them and the other team, how they have to be cleaner and more disciplined in the third if they hope to continue their playoff run. In typical Shane fashion, he will use the words “we” and “us” as often as he can, will remind the press, and by extension the fans, that this is a team sport and they win and lose together, that as an alternate captain, it starts with him. That he also has to be better. He will only say Ilya’s name when it’s demanded of him.
The reporters will ask about the penalty that cost them a chance at overtime and ultimately cost them the game. Shane, dutiful as ever, will not flinch at the question. He’ll school his expression into something neutral as he answers, doing his best to use his words to help soothe the sting out of the loss. He’ll say playoff hockey is intense, that they have to do better at managing themselves on the ice. That emotion has to be controlled, even by the leaders. By Ilya he won’t say, but the meaning will be there, floating just beneath the surface. His responses will be reasonable, if not a little clinical. And when he’s done, Shane will thank the reporters as if they’re the ones who have just done him a favor.
Ilya bites the inside of his cheek before stepping out of the locker room and into the hallway, opting to make his way toward the players’ exit and away from the media looking to tear him apart. He knows the headlines have already been written before Shane even takes the first question, knows he will be scrutinized even more for passing on talking with the media. The narrative was written the moment the referee blew his whistle and sent Ilya skating to the penalty box. He’s been in the spotlight long enough to understand that.
He’s heard for years about the cutthroat nature of the New York sports media and the fans, how it takes a special person to shoulder the responsibility of playing sports on what is arguably the world’s grandest stage. But right now, in this moment, Ilya isn’t so sure. He feels like the fans and media in Ottawa could give the New Yorkers a run for their money. It’s hard to tell what’s being said on social media and across the various hockey subreddits by fans who love Ilya on a Tuesday and hate him the following Saturday, but he knows, without even looking, that none of it is good. He will be blamed for every misstep, every infraction, and will be under even more scrutiny during their next game.
The fans will love him again, that much Ilya knows with a certainty that borders on arrogance. He has built his life on the rhythm of it – the roar of the crowd when he scores, the way adoration comes rushing back the moment he gives them something to cheer for. And he knows, too, that he will make them hate him again before the season comes to an end. A bad penalty, a selfish shot. A night where his temper gets there a half-second before his discipline does.
It has always been like this with Ilya. He has always played the hero and the villain, sometimes both in the same night. He knows how to take the game and tilt it on its axis, how to force it to bend in the direction he wants it to go. He knows that his drive is enough to tip things into something dangerous, something reckless, if he’s not careful. He does not give the crowd a manageable, middle-of-the-road captain. They get all of him, his brilliance and impulsiveness braided together so tightly they can’t be separated. If they want the goals, the impossible plays, the passes everyone believes to be inevitable, they have to accept the penalties, the flare of his temper, the nights when his fire scorches his own team.
Ilya has never known how to give less than everything. Even when everything is too much.
And by the time the season is over, the fans will have forgiven him three times and condemned him twice. They will chant his name and curse it in the same month. And Ilya will give them every reason to do both.
That is inevitable.
Outside, the cold Ottawa air stings Ilya’s face and when he breathes in deeply, it feels as if he’s just swallowed glass. Ottawa in spring still feels like winter at night as the wind cuts through empty streets and parking lots, through what little warmth Ilya’s clothes afford him. As he exhales, his breath ghosts out in front of him before disappearing just as quick.
He makes his way over to Shane’s stupid, sensible car on the far side of the parking lot, and leans against the passenger-side door, his back to the buzzing arena. He scuffs his shoe against the pavement as the cold metal of the car bites through his suit jacket, grounding him in the present.
From where he stands, the arena is nothing more than a low electrical hum, the sound of generators mixed with the occasional swell of muted voices that filter out whenever a door opens and closes. Out here, in the nearly vacant parking lot, Ilya can appreciate the spacious silence. The noise is intermittent – the soft rumble of traffic blocks away, a sudden siren whose wail grows to a crescendo before quickly fading. He can hear himself think in a way he couldn’t inside.
Inside, his thoughts had been warring with each other, anger fighting with pride, disappointment with disgust. Frustration knocking against something that felt uneasily like shame. Outside, his head feels a little clearer, like he can finally think and breathe. The darkness doesn’t judge him, doesn’t examine him too closely, unlike everyone inside the arena. Everything he didn’t say, every movement he made, was made to be dissected. But not out here. Out here, he isn’t the team captain, he isn’t the Russian menace. Under the quiet of night, when no one else is around, he can simply exist as a man in a parking lot.
Ilya scrubs a hand down his face and exhales hard, watching as his breath once again ghosts out in a puff. He tries to remember the grounding exercises his therapist shared with him, something about naming things he can taste and touch and hear. He tries, he really does, to follow through with the exercise, but he can’t get past the taste of bitterness on his tongue to even try.
He closes his eyes and focuses instead on the cold seeping through his jacket as it forces what little warmth remains from his skin. His phone buzzes repeatedly in his pocket, though he makes no move to check what’s coming through. He already knows what they say, knows the headlines splashed across his notifications.
It’s the sound of shoes scraping across the asphalt that alerts Ilya to the fact that he is no longer alone. He doesn’t bother turning around to see who has joined him – he would know the sound of those footsteps anywhere. He pushes off from where he’d been leaning against the car, his shoulders squaring on reflex. A soft beep sounds and the car’s headlights flash as the internal mechanism of the automatic locks click and slide into place. Ilya turns, hand grasping the doorhandle, and looks across the top of the car to Shane whose eyes are locked straight ahead as he pulls open his own door.
Ilya takes note of the slight slump in Shane’s shoulders, of the way the corners of his mouth pull down just a bit more than usual. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from Shane’s profile, waiting to do so until his head dips down to get in the car. Ilya follows suit, pulling his door closed with a soft thud once he’s inside.
They’re both quiet, neither man wanting – or willing – to break the silence that has settled between them, no matter how apprehensive it feels. Shane tosses his phone in the cupholder where it lights up seconds later, a notification popping up with a thumbnail of Ilya sitting in the penalty box. Neither one reaches out to swipe away the notification, choosing instead to sit in the uncomfortableness of it all.
Shane expels a small, indignant huff as he pulls out of their parking space, one hand on the wheel and the other fiddling with the buttons to turn on the heat, just enough to knock off the chill. Ilya turns his head away from Shane, gaze transfixed on the city outside of his window. He watches as Shane maneuvers through the downtown streets, getting caught by the occasional red light. He tracks a couple through the windshield as they hurry, hand-in-hand, across the street before the light turns, their laughs infectious and loud enough to cut through the silence of Shane and Ilya’s car.
They hit another red light, and Ilya leans back against the seat, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the brake lights belonging to the cars ahead of them. He silently curses the city as if it’s actively conspiring to keep him and Shane from leaving, the endless intersections and stop-and-go rhythm stretching time into something almost unbearable. He reaches up, pulls a little at his tie that suddenly seems too tight, like it’s choking him. He tugs again, this time a little harder, and feels the silk slide against itself, creating just enough space to help him to breathe easier.
He glares at the red light as he tries shoving down the simmering irritation that continues to build in his chest while they wait. Beside him, Shane is calm, hands relaxed at 10 and 2 on the wheel, and their idling at the light feels even more pointed, even more deliberate, as if Ottawa itself doesn’t want to let the two of them escape this moment. For just a second, Ilya wonders if he would rather punch the dashboard than endure anymore of whatever fresh Hell he’s found himself in.
The light switches to green, thank God, and Ilya finds himself impatiently willing the string of traffic in front of them to just go already. They ease through the intersection and Shane switches lanes as they make their way out of the bustling downtown of the city, leaving the shame and the guilt and the resentment behind them.
Ilya closes his eyes, forces his fingers to uncurl out of fists. He winces a little as sensation and blood rushes back into his hands, can feel where his blunted nails bit into his palms and left behind little half-moons in his skin. He opens his eyes and glances to where Shane’s right hand has dropped to rest on the gearshift. Ilya flexes his fingers on top of his thigh, lifts his hand a fraction of an inch, and hesitates before letting it fall. He taps out an unknown rhythm on his knee, eyes still locked on Shane’s fingers lazily curved around the shifter. He considers, again, reaching over and covering Shane’s hand with his own, but can’t bring himself to follow through. Instead, he shifts slightly in his seat and turns back to the window, staring out into the inky darkness as they speed along the highway.
A few minutes later, Ilya startles in his seat as he’s yanked out of his thoughts. The car is warm, almost too warm, as the distant city lights slide and flicker past the window as they drive, and still his pulse kicks hard against his ribs. He turns his head too fast, first toward Shane, then down to where Shane’s hand lands on his knee.
It’s not a grip or a demand, not a reassuring squeeze. It’s a series of light, measured pats, steady and absentminded, before Shane withdraws and returns both hands to the wheel.
The touch lingers anyway and Ilya can feel it through his dress pants, the warmth of Shane’s hand seeping into his skin, curling around the coil that’s twisted too tightly in Ilya’s chest, pressing in on all the right places.
He isn’t sure what Shane meant by it. Reassurance, maybe. We’re okay. You’re okay. Or maybe it’s damage control, the quiet smoothing-over Shane does so well, his press conference voice without the microphones. There’s no way Shane can’t detect the tension Ilya’s still carrying, the way he’s wound so tight he feels as if he could snap at any moment. Maybe he meant for the simple, short touch to act as an anchor to keep Ilya from unraveling in the passenger seat, a way to keep the night from getting worse.
The worst part, Ilya realizes, is that it works.
The contact, however brief, grounds him, even as it irritates him. It makes the air in the car feel heavier, charged with things neither of them are saying. Shane doesn’t look at him again, just focuses on the road, posture composed, expression neutral in the wash of passing headlights. Dependable. Sensible. Infuriatingly calm. All the things Shane always is.
In that moment, Ilya almost resents him for it.
For being steady when Ilya is anything but. For offering comfort without commentary, without expecting anything in return. For not snapping, not lecturing, not telling him he cost them the game even though the official score sheet tells them otherwise. For letting silence be silence.
Shane doesn’t grip the wheel any tighter, doesn’t sigh each time his phone vibrates with a new notification that is almost certainly picking apart the final minutes of tonight’s game. He just drives, checks his blind spots, signals before changing lanes. He doesn’t allow the sting of tonight’s loss to seep into his bones, to turn his stomach sour. He’s the kind of man who can absorb a loss and keep driving, who is able to let disappointment settle without turning to rot.
Ilya is none of that. Ilya feels too loud inside his own skin, too sharp, too volatile, all edges and sparks. Not the easy, soft-edged version his father always saw and resented.
The worst part, he thinks, is the fact that Shane does all of this without making Ilya feel like a problem to be managed.
His coaches and front office staff manage him. The media frames him to best reflect their current narrative. Opponents bait him, knowing he’s competitive to a fault. Hell, even his own teammates have learned when to tread carefully, when to choose their words wisely or not say anything at all. But never Shane. Shane looks at him like he’s a man who had a bad night, who’s allowed to be angry and bitter and maybe a little bit volatile. He won’t go as far as to absolve Ilya of all his sins, won’t placate him simply because he’s Ilya, but he’ll sit there in the moment with him.
Shane will bring up the events of the game eventually, like he always does, but he won’t be accusatory with his words. He won’t try and change who Ilya is at his core, won’t try and shape him into whatever it is the outside world expects him to be. Shane understands better than anyone that the heat and pride Ilya carries around with him is what gets them into trouble but is also what helps them win games. He won’t bring up the postgame presser, won’t comment on Ilya’s pointed absence. Enough has been said without Shane piling it on, too.
They drive home the rest of the way in silence, Shane’s hands wrapped firmly around the wheel.
At home, Shane parks and is the first one out of the car. He doesn’t hesitate at the front bumper when he realizes Ilya’s still sitting in the front seat, just continues with his routine of unlocking the front door and flipping the foyer light on when he steps inside. He knows Ilya will be in when he’s ready, knows that what he needs is just a little more space.
Ilya tries the grounding exercise from his therapist again.
He can see the dashboard, quiet and dark. His gaze catches on the porch light, drifts to the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, to the moonlight glinting off his watch and the rubber band looped loosely around the gearshift. He feels the fabric of his clothes against his skin, his hair curling unruly at his neck, his feet planted on the floor, and the cool air slowly creeping into the car.
He hears Anya softly barking out a greeting to Shane inside the house, a bird calling from the trees, the lake water lapping against the rocks. He smells the lingering trace of Shane’s shampoo and the wintergreen mints tucked in the center console.
He still tastes the bitterness clinging to his tongue, but it’s no longer all-consuming.
Ilya gets out of the car, shakes his hands repeatedly at his sides, and makes his way through the front door, taking note of the way Shane’s shoes are neatly lined up against the wall. He toes off his own shoes, not bothering with untying them despite knowing he'll have to listen to the inevitable protest from Shane later, and lines them next to his partner’s. Next, he finds Shane’s keys hanging from the key hook next to the front door and presses the lock button on the fob until the car beeps in response.
Ilya slips out of his jacket, turns the deadbolt into place, flips the switches for both the porch light and the foyer into their OFF positions, and pads down the hall in the direction of their bedroom. Shane has already stripped out of his suit, his jacket and pants back on their respective hangers. Their bed is half lit by one of the bedside lamps Shane had chosen to turn on instead of the harsh overhead light, and for a moment, Ilya can’t breathe around the sudden lump forming in his throat. He tugs again at the tie he’d loosened earlier in the car, pulling at the difficult knot just enough for him to get the fabric over his head. He brings shaky hands up to his throat and fumbles with the top two buttons of his dress shirt, inhaling sharply when the second button pops free.
He hates coming home to the overhead lights, hates the way they scrape against his nerves after a long, rough night. Shane must know this, must’ve noticed the way Ilya stiffens at the way the glare seems to press down on him, making him squint. It’s a small, quiet thing, but it feels like a shield, a little mercy in the middle of exhaustion. Ilya feels it in his chest, the unspoken thought that Shane always thinks ahead, always softens the edges for him, even when he doesn’t ask.
He unfastens his cufflinks, drops them on the dresser with a muted thud, pushes his fingers through his hair. He manages to unbuckle his belt and loosen a couple more buttons on his shirt before his limbs stop cooperating, giving up in defeat. With a quiet groan, he surrenders, collapsing back onto his side of the bed, hair messy, with a weight pressing down on his chest like a twenty-pound anvil.
The television is on in the living room, volume turned low enough to blur into background noise. Ilya catches snippets as they drift down the hall and through the open bedroom door. The commentators mention something about the early beginnings of baseball season, their optimism bleeding into their discussion of Toronto’s early season lead in their division over New York, Boston, Baltimore, and Tampa Bay.
The commentary dissolves into a clipped highlight from Toronto’s earlier day game. Ilya hears the sharp crack of a bat splitting the air, followed by the swelling roar of a home crowd. Even muffled by distance and walls, the sound carries a kind of brightness and energy that feels almost foreign. Ilya catches the name of Toronto’s first baseman as it drifts down the hall, then the Sportsnet announcer launching into an advanced stat he’s never fully bothered to understand, numbers delivered with breathless enthusiasm as if they alone can explain the team’s early momentum.
The difference between the games is stark. Baseball stretches and unfurls, full of pauses and possibility, its failures softened by the promise of change in tomorrow’s lineup card. It refuses to be rushed, preferring to linger in the space between pitches, in the quiet reset of a batter stepping out of the box, in the long exhale before a fastball snaps into a glove. There is time to recalibrate, to let one mistake dissolve into the rhythm of the next inning. A long summer and fall sprawls ahead, generous and forgiving with the sport’s 162 game regular season.
Hockey is sharper, more immediate. There are no long, deliberate pauses. Mistakes are carved into ice, consequences are measured in seconds. There is no stepping out of the box to collect yourself, no leisurely reset beneath a warm sky. The puck turns over and suddenly it’s behind you, a split-second of hesitation blooms into a goal against. The season is a grind, yes, but each game feels edged in urgency, every shift compressed and unforgiving.
The crowd on the television sounds hopeful, celebratory, already looking ahead. Ilya brings his hands up to his face, pressing the heels of his palms hard against his eyes and holding the pressure there until dots dance across his vision as he feels the contrast settle in his bones.
The sound settles into the house like another layer of normalcy, blending with the soft noises drifting in from the kitchen. Shane must’ve turned the television on out of habit, something to fill the quiet while he moves through the room. Beneath the low murmur of commentary, Ilya hears Anya’s nails clicking excitedly against the hardwood, the occasional thump of her tail against the lower cabinets, and the unmistakable crinkle of a bag of treats.
Shane is, undoubtedly, bribing her with a few extras in his quiet way of apologizing for their extended absence that night. Ilya can picture it without looking: Shane leaning back against the counter, half-listening to the broadcast and glancing at the screen between breaking a treat into smaller pieces.
Ilya shifts atop the covers, presses his palms down harder. He catches the familiar opening notes of the hockey recap show Shane likes so much, followed by the host’s opening monologue being cut off mid-sentence. The house is suddenly too quiet and uncomfortableness begins to bleed back into Ilya’s space.
He doesn’t hear Shane enter their bedroom as much as he senses his presence. He offers a noncommittal grunt, hands still covering his eyes as he feels the edge of the mattress dip beneath Shane’s weight as he sits at Ilya’s side.
Shane’s touch is careful at first, almost guarded, as he circles Ilya’s wrists with both hands. He tugs gently, though Ilya offers little resistance, and guides his hands down to rest at his sides. One palm lifts to Ilya’s cheek, thumb sweeping back and forth over the crease between his brows, patient and rhythmic, until the tension there eases somewhat and his face softens beneath the touch.
Without a word, Shane shifts his weight. He moves from where he’s perched to crawl over Ilya, settling atop him. His fingers hook into the hem of Ilya’s shirt, fabric bunching in his fists as he pulls it loose, first at the front, then at the sides, working it free from the waistband of his pants. He makes quick work of the buttons with deft fingers as he slips the last few open with practiced ease.
Ilya’s eyes open then, fixing on Shane’s face above him. The furrow returns to his brow, faint but unmistakable.
It isn’t fear. Shane knows the difference. It’s calculation, restraint. The instinct to brace for something he’s not ready to face.
Shane feels the shift immediately. He stills rather than pressing forward, the hand on Ilya’s ribs spreading wider, his palm warm and steady. He brings his free hand back to Ilya’s face, thumb smoothing over the crease between his brows for a second time. Beneath him, Ilya’s body remains taut for a beat too long. His hands flex once against the sheets before he forces them to relax, one hand coming to rest tentatively, almost unsure, on Shane’s hip. Shane leans down, not to claim, not to rush, but to close the distance just enough that the space between them feels chosen rather than accidental.
Gradually, the tightness in Ilya’s shoulders eases and he feels like melting into the mattress. The line in his brow doesn’t disappear completely, but it softens at the edges. Shane gives him a moment more before easing back. He shifts his weight off Ilya’s hips and rises to his feet, watches as the crease between Ilya’s brows deepen again in uncertainty.
Shane reaches down, threading his fingers through Ilya’s, and draws him up with steady pressure until he’s seated, feet planted firmly on the ground. Ilya’s shoulders sag in relief as Shane steps between his legs, hands planted on either side of his face. He brushes his thumbs beneath Ilya’s eyes, watches as they flutter shut at the contact. Fingers push into Ilya’s curls, scratching lightly at his scalp in the slow, deliberate way Shane knows he likes. He keeps the pressure steady, nails grazing just enough to soothe rather than tease, until Ilya’s head tips forward to rest against Shane.
A quiet hum vibrates in Ilya’s chest, which Shane takes as permission to create a little distance. He steps back a fraction and eases the shirt from Ilya’s shoulders, guiding the fabric down his arms. When it pools around Ilya’s hips on the mattress, Shane gathers it up and tosses it into the hamper with the rest of their discarded clothes.
His attention shifts to the unbuckled belt at Ilya’s waist. He draws the leather free from the loops with a steady pull. Ilya’s gaze follows the movement, watches as Shane coils the belt into a neat circle, watches as he crosses the room to set it carefully on top of the dresser instead of abandoning it in a heap.
When Shane returns from across the room, he kneels in front of Ilya to work off his socks, thumbs pressing briefly into the arches of his feet before sliding the fabric away. He carefully balls them together and tosses them into the hamper before hooking his fingers into the waistband of Ilya’s dress pants, tugging lightly. Ilya shifts obligingly from one hip to the other, lifting just enough for Shane to guide the fabric down his thighs and over his knees.
Shane rocks back on his heels and stands, smoothing the creases in the fabric with absentminded precision. He folds the pants over his arm rather than dropping them aside, handling them with the same quiet care he’s given everything else, before turning to hang them properly on their empty hanger.
He returns to Ilya’s side with a clean pair of sweatpants and kneels again, this time to work the fabric up over his legs and into place. Shane presses a kiss to the top of Ilya’s head before gently coaxing him into a standing position.
Ilya makes his displeasure known with a soft grunt as he gets to his feet, his limbs heavy and uncooperative with exhaustion. He sways a little and looks lazily over his shoulder at Shane. He watches as he fusses with the pillows and pulls back the blanket and sheet in a way that seems more like an invitation. Shane’s hands find Ilya’s waist and carefully, but firmly, guides him back down, the mattress dipping under his weight as he shifts into a comfortable position. He exhales as he tugs at the covers until they’re wrapped snuggly around himself, not quite ready to let the remaining tension leave his body.
Shane doesn’t join him in bed right away. Instead, he retrieves Ilya’s tie from the floor and starts to work at the stubborn knot Ilya hadn’t had the patience to undo. He works until the silk is in one long piece again and returns it to the closet, slipping it back into place among the others. Next, he gathers Ilya’s suit jacket from where it had slipped from the edge of the bed and onto the floor, sliding it onto its hanger and into its rightful place in the closet next to his dress pants. He refills Ilya’s glass with water from the tap and returns it to its place on his nightstand, reaches down to thread his fingers through his hair as a silent reminder that he’s still here, with Ilya. It earns Shane another hum of contentment, a quiet thank you.
Satisfied that everything is in its place, that Ilya seems to be the most relaxed he’s been all night, Shane pulls back his side of the covers and slips between them. He reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp, casting their bedroom in darkness, save for the sliver of moonlight spilling through the windows and across the floorboards.
The mattress shifts under his weight as he settles. He adjusts onto his side in an act to get comfortable, and his knee knocks lightly into Ilya’s beneath the blankets.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Ilya exhales, a slow, heavy breath that feels deeper than the others, and something in him seems to give way, his rough edges softening, the coil of frustration and disappointment, and all the hard things he hates to name, finally, finally, starting to ease in his chest. The blankets shift as he turns toward Shane, drawn to do so more by instinct, rather than intention. His shoulder brushes Shane’s chest. His knee presses back and remains there, deliberate this time.
Shane stills immediately, careful not to startle him. He keeps his movements small, receptive rather than leading. He lets his leg remain where it is, a quiet point of contact.
Ilya inches closer.
His movements are subtle at first. Shane feels the fabric pull, then drag slightly across his legs, then the warmth that is Ilya shifting closer to the shared middle space of their bed, the weight of his arm settling hesitantly across Shane’s waist as though testing whether it’s welcome. When Shane doesn’t pull away, doesn’t shift his body outward, Ilya closes the remaining space between them, tucking his head beneath Shane’s chin, breath warm against his collarbone.
Shane responds only after Ilya has settled, sliding one arm carefully between Ilya and the pillows to come around his back, palm resting warmly between his shoulder blades. He draws him in just enough to anchor him there, thumb making a slow, absent pass along the curve of his spine. He adjusts his hold on Ilya by a fraction, presses his lips to the top of his head, is greeted by the familiar scent of his shampoo. He allows his lips to linger there, his free hand coming to rest against the side of Ilya’s face.
Ilya presses more firmly into the hollow beneath Shane’s jaw, his breath becoming more even with each exhale, though it still catches the tiniest bit at the end, like he just can’t quite bring himself to let go. The loss lingers there on the end of every exhale and Shane can feel it in the way Ilya continues to hold himself. It’s not just physical exhaustion refusing to give up. It’s the shove into the boards. The final buzzer. The handshake line. The looping replay.
The tension in Ilya’s shoulders and spine fights to remain, a faint rigidity that is usually reserved for moments of composure, moments that require him to remain guarded and prepared for someone to pass judgement. It’s a kind of tightness that lives deeper than muscle, a kind that’s older than tonight.
It’s something that’s been drilled into him from a young age, into someone who learned early that performance was currency, that being almost good enough was indistinguishable from failure. Even here, in the dark of their bedroom that is safe and familiar, Ilya clings to that instinct, unable to quite let it go. The hand that is fisted loosely in Shane’s shirt tenses for a moment, pulling the fabric taut, and then relaxes, fingers unfurling so they can rest flat against his chest.
Ilya can feel Shane’s heartbeat against his palm, soft and steady, a firm reminder that he is here and real. It presses against his hand in an unhurried rhythm, indifferent to overtime losses, headlines, and everything that had felt catastrophic only hours ago.
He keeps his hand there longer than he needs to, splayed over Shane’s chest like he’s bracing himself against something solid. The beat doesn’t stutter. It doesn’t rush. It’s grounding in a way that makes the noise of the arena, the weight of expectations, and the sting of mistakes feel almost irrelevant. Ilya leans a little closer, inhaling the subtle warmth of Shane’s skin. Each steady thump under his palm is a reassurance he can’t quite name as he counts the beats, tries to sync his breathing to their rhythm.
Shane brushes his thumb across Ilya’s cheek, feeling a faint dampness at his lashes that never quite formed into tears. He drags his hand down the length of Ilya’s spine again, slow and languid, as if smoothing out the invisible imprint of the game still etched there.
Under Shane’s touch, the tension begins to loosen – not all at once, but in increments. Ilya exhales deeper this time, his shoulders letting go first, the rigid line of his back softening with each repeated ghosting of Shane’s fingers along his spine. The fight drains out of him in small, almost imperceptible waves as he sinks further into the mattress, into Shane. He slots his leg between Shane’s so they’re nearly flush, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of Shane’s t-shirt, palm settling against the warm curve of his lower back.
Another breath leaves him, longer than the rest.
The loss is still there. It will be there tomorrow, sharp and insistent. But tonight, finally, he lets some of it slide from his shoulders, if only for a few hours, in exchange for the simple relief of being held.