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The first thing Shane noticed about the annual Centaurs Kids Workshop was that marriage had not made him any less awkward around children.
He was officially a married man. A domesticated man. A man who co-owned a house in Ottawa with tasteful throw pillows and a labeled spice rack. A man who had stood in front of their friends, teammates, and family and promised forever to Ilya Rozanov.
He could handle forever.
He just couldn’t handle a six-year-old staring at him like he personally had invented gravity and might turn it off at any second.
“Why are you so tall?” the kid demanded, squinting up at him.
Shane blinked. “Genetics.”
The kid frowned harder. “What’s that?”
“Uh.”
From the other end of the ice, laughter rang out—deep, bright, unmistakably Ilya’s. Shane glanced over instinctively.
And there he was.
Ilya, captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, crouched down on the ice in full workshop gear, helmet off, blonde hair slightly damp at the temples. A cluster of kids surrounded him like he was a magnet and they were tiny, excitable paperclips. He was tying one boy’s skate while explaining, animatedly, how to shift weight when stopping. Two more kids leaned against his shoulders. One girl had somehow claimed his hockey stick and was using it to draw lines in the ice.
He looked at ease.
He looked radiant.
He looked like he belonged exactly where he was.
Shane felt something warm and complicated settle under his ribs.
“Because his mom and dad are tall,” Ilya called helpfully from across the rink without even looking up.
The kid in front of Shane gasped. “You have parents?”
“Yes,” Shane deadpanned.
The kid seemed deeply reassured by this.
Troy skated past, grinning. “You’re doing great, Marsh.”
“I hate you,” Shane muttered.
Troy only laughed and veered toward a group attempting to build what appeared to be a snow fort in the crease.
The workshop was something the Centaurs did every year—an open day for kids in the community who loved hockey or wanted to try it for the first time. Skills drills, mini-games, meet-and-greets. It was loud and chaotic and sticky with hot chocolate by the end.
Shane loved it.
He loved the wide-eyed awe when kids realized they were skating with actual professional players. He loved signing helmets and hearing about school tournaments and being asked if he’d ever fought a bear.
He loved seeing Ilya in this element most of all.
What he didn’t love—what had been grinding at him since roughly ten-fifteen that morning—was the woman standing at the boards, watching Ilya like she was evaluating him for purchase.
Single mother. Mid-thirties. Stylish winter coat. Perfectly applied lipstick. Her son—Tommy, if Shane remembered correctly—was one of the kids orbiting Ilya like a moon.
And she had not stopped flirting since the doors opened.
“Oh my God, you’re the captain?” she had said earlier, leaning over the boards. “That must be so much responsibility. You handle it so well.”
“I have good team,” Ilya had replied warmly, flashing that devastating smile that had once ruined Shane’s life.
“And you’re married?” she’d asked, tilting her head.
“Yes,” Ilya had said without hesitation.
Shane had been right there. He’d lifted his hand, wiggled his ring fingers.
The woman had blinked at him, processed, and then… continued smiling at Ilya.
“Oh, well. Still. You must have so many admirers.”
Shane had let it go.
At first.
Because Ilya was friendly. Because Ilya did not know how to turn down warmth from strangers. Because Shane trusted him more than he trusted gravity.
But by noon, the woman—her name was Melissa, unfortunately—had migrated closer and closer to wherever Ilya stood.
By one-thirty, she was laughing at everything he said.
By two, she had touched his arm three separate times.
By two-fifteen, Shane was contemplating felony-level violence with surprising clarity.
Wyatt skated up beside him while Shane supervised a passing drill.
“You look homicidal,” Wyatt observed cheerfully.
“I’m fine.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Shane sent a puck cleanly across the ice. It smacked the boards with satisfying force.
Wyatt followed his line of sight and snorted softly. “Oh. Her.”
Shane didn’t answer.
“She’s been here since morning,” Wyatt added. “Luca says she asked Bood if Ilya models.”
Shane’s jaw tightened. “He does not.”
“Relax. Bood told her he mostly models for local tractor calendars.”
Despite himself, Shane huffed a laugh.
Across the rink, Melissa leaned over the boards again. Ilya was listening politely, nodding, one gloved hand resting on the top of his stick. Tommy was attempting to do crossovers and failing spectacularly.
Shane told himself he was being ridiculous.
Ilya was wearing his wedding band. Ilya had introduced Shane to half the parents as “my husband, assistant captain, better shot than me but do not tell him I said that.” Ilya came home every night and crawled into Shane’s arms like it was the only place he belonged.
Still.
The woman’s hand landed on Ilya’s bicep again.
Shane saw red.
The next hour passed in a blur of drills and forced politeness. Shane signed a dozen pucks. He corrected a stance. He complimented a goalie save.
But every time he glanced up, Melissa was there.
Laughing.
Leaning.
Touching.
When the final scrimmage wrapped up and kids started filtering off the ice to collect hot chocolate and autographs, Shane’s patience snapped like a badly strung stick.
He skated straight across the rink.
Ilya had just lifted Tommy in the air after the boy managed a decent stop without falling. Tommy’s delighted shriek echoed.
“You did it!” Ilya laughed, setting him down. “See? Strong legs.”
Melissa clapped. “You’re so good with him. He never listens to anyone.”
Ilya smiled modestly. “He listens. Just needs confidence.”
Shane reached them in three long strides.
Ilya looked up, face lighting immediately. “Shane.”
There it was. That softness. That warmth.
Shane slid one hand around Ilya’s waist without breaking eye contact with Melissa.
Ilya’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise but he leaned in automatically, like he always did.
Melissa’s smile faltered—just a fraction.
“Hi,” Shane said pleasantly.
“Oh! Yes. Hello,” she replied. “You’re… Shane, right?”
“Assistant captain,” Shane said lightly. “Husband.”
He tightened his grip just enough to be unmistakable.
Ilya’s mouth twitched.
Melissa laughed too brightly. “Of course. I just meant—well, you two must be so busy with the season.”
“We make time,” Shane said.
Ilya finally seemed to catch on. His eyes flicked between Shane’s arm and Melissa’s expression. Understanding dawned.
And then—
Oh.
The bastard leaned into it.
“Yes,” Ilya agreed solemnly, sliding his own arm around Shane’s lower back. “We are very busy. But marriage is priority.”
Shane felt heat crawl up his neck. He had not expected cooperation this enthusiastic.
Melissa’s gaze darted between them. “That’s… sweet.”
“It is,” Ilya said earnestly. “He makes very good pancakes.”
Shane blinked. “What?”
Ilya kissed his cheek.
On purpose.
In public.
The entire nearby group of kids erupted in scandalized giggles.
Troy, watching from a few feet away, nearly choked on his sports drink.
Melissa’s smile had gone brittle.
“Well,” she said stiffly. “Tommy, say thank you.”
Tommy waved enthusiastically. “Bye, Captain!”
“Bye, Tommy,” Ilya said warmly.
Melissa hesitated one beat longer, then retreated toward the lobby.
Shane exhaled slowly.
Ilya looked up at him, eyes dancing. “You are territorial today.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” Ilya grinned. “Little bit.”
Shane dropped his forehead briefly against Ilya’s helmetless head. “She touched you.”
“Yes. On arm. I survived.”
“Don’t be smug.”
“I am not smug. I am entertained.”
Luca skated over, dragging Bood with him. “Did you just publicly stake a claim like a Victorian duke?”
“Shut up,” Shane muttered.
Wyatt joined them. “I give it an eight out of ten. Very subtle.”
“Subtle?” Troy barked from behind them. “He practically growled.”
“I did not growl.”
“You absolutely growled,” Troy said.
Ilya laughed outright now, bright and unrestrained. “It was very attractive.”
Shane stared at him. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm.” Ilya tipped his chin up slightly. “But married.”
That warmth under Shane’s ribs spread, stubborn and fond.
They finished up the workshop with more autographs and photos. Melissa kept her distance after that, though Shane caught her watching once or twice. He didn’t care anymore.
Because Ilya kept finding reasons to touch him.
A hand brushing his back when they passed.
Fingers lacing briefly through his at the autograph table.
A casual arm slung over his shoulders during a group photo.
It was deliberate now. Playful. A silent, shared joke.
When the last family filtered out and arena staff began cleaning up, the team collapsed on the bench in various states of exhaustion.
“I think a child tried to adopt me,” Bood announced.
“That’s because you let him,” Luca replied.
Troy nudged Shane with his elbow. “Feel better?”
“I was fine.”
Wyatt snorted.
Ilya leaned back against Shane’s shoulder. “You were jealous.”
“I was not jealous.”
“You were.”
Shane sighed. “She was flirting with you all day.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes,” Ilya said calmly. “I noticed.”
“You—what?”
Ilya turned slightly, meeting his eyes. “Shane. I am not idiot.”
The team collectively went quiet, sensing something potentially sentimental and therefore mockable.
“I know when someone flirts,” Ilya continued. “I just did not care.”
Shane’s irritation faltered.
“I care about you,” Ilya said simply. “And about workshop. Not about her.”
Wyatt made a soft gagging noise.
“Shut up,” Luca hissed, elbowing him.
Shane swallowed. “You could’ve… I don’t know. Shut it down.”
Ilya tilted his head. “I said I am married.”
“You were polite.”
“I am always polite.”
“That’s the problem.”
Ilya considered that, then smiled faintly. “I liked watching you get worked up.”
Shane stared at him.
“You were very handsome,” Ilya added. “Like angry prince.”
Troy lost it entirely, doubling over.
“Angry prince!” Wyatt echoed.
Shane buried his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”
Ilya pressed a quick kiss to his temple. “You love us.”
“Debatable.”
Bood stood, stretching. “So is the angry prince buying celebratory beer or what?”
“Assistant captain pays,” Luca declared.
Shane glared. “Why me?”
“Because you defended the sanctity of marriage,” Troy said solemnly.
“That deserves beer.”
Ilya rose, offering Shane his hand. “Come, husband. Let us celebrate your territorial display.”
Shane took his hand automatically.
The team wolf-whistled.
Later, at their favorite low-key bar, the story grew in exaggeration. According to Troy, Shane had skated across the rink in slow motion while dramatic music played. According to Wyatt, Melissa had nearly fainted. According to Luca, Ilya had looked seconds away from swooning.
Through it all, Ilya sat close enough that their knees touched under the table.
At one point, when the others were distracted arguing about whose drill group had performed best, Ilya leaned in.
“You know,” he murmured, voice low enough for Shane alone, “if you wanted to mark territory, you could have just kissed me.”
Shane choked on his drink.
Ilya’s smile was wicked now.
“In front of kids?” Shane hissed.
“Not in front of kids.” Ilya’s fingers brushed lightly over Shane’s ring. “Later.”
Heat bloomed low in Shane’s stomach.
“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.
“You love it.”
Unfortunately, he did.
When they finally left the bar, Ottawa’s night air was crisp and sharp. Their breath fogged as they walked home, hands shoved into pockets, shoulders bumping.
“You really didn’t care?” Shane asked quietly after a few blocks.
Ilya didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “No.”
“Not even a little flattered?”
Ilya hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe little flattered that someone thinks I am charming.”
“You are charming.”
“I know.” Ilya grinned.
Shane rolled his eyes.
“But I am yours,” Ilya added more softly.
The simplicity of it made Shane’s chest tighten.
“You’re not property,” Shane said automatically.
“I know.” Ilya slipped his hand out of his pocket and intertwined their fingers. “I choose you.”
Shane looked at him.
Streetlight caught in Ilya’s eyes, turning them almost gold.
“You choose me,” Ilya repeated. “Every day. I choose you.”
The possessiveness from earlier felt different now. Less sharp. Less defensive.
More like… pride.
Back at home, they shed coats and shoes in the hallway. Shane barely made it three steps into the living room before Ilya tugged him close.
“Now,” Ilya said softly, “you can kiss me properly.”
Shane didn’t need convincing.
He slid his hands into Ilya’s hair and kissed him slow and deep, not hurried, not territorial—just certain.
When they parted, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane’s.
“Happy?” Ilya asked.
“Very,” Shane admitted.
“Good.” Ilya brushed his thumb along Shane’s jaw. “Next year, we tell parents immediately that you are very jealous husband.”
“I am not jealous.”
Ilya smiled knowingly.
Shane groaned. “I just—”
He stopped.
Ilya waited.
“I like that you’re mine,” Shane finished quietly.
Ilya’s expression softened into something almost unbearably tender.
“I like that you’re mine too,” he said.
From the couch, their phones buzzed simultaneously.
Shane glanced at his screen.
Team group chat.
Troy: Angry Prince lives.
Wyatt: Next workshop we sell tickets.
Luca: Melissa already signed up for next year.
Bood: Shane bring crown.
Shane groaned.
Ilya laughed, bright and delighted, and pulled him down onto the couch.
“Let them tease,” Ilya said. “I had very good day.”
“You did?”
“Yes.” He curled into Shane’s side. “I skated with kids. I saw you try not to panic when six-year-old asked about genetics. I watched you get jealous.”
“I wasn’t panicking.”
“You were.”
“Shut up.”
Ilya smiled against his shoulder. “I love our life.”
Shane looked around at their living room—the framed jerseys, the wedding photo on the wall, the quiet hum of the heater.
He thought about the rink full of kids, the way Ilya had glowed at the center of it. The way he had instinctively leaned into Shane’s touch.
“Yeah,” Shane said softly. “Me too.”
Outside, Ottawa settled into winter night.
Inside, captain and assistant captain—husbands, teammates, equals—sat tangled together, amused and content and entirely, unmistakably happy.
And if next year a few more parents showed up with hopeful smiles and wandering hands?
Well.
The Centaurs would have front-row seats to the show.
And Shane would be ready.