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The first thing Shane Hollander did as a married man was burn the hot dogs.
“This is symbolic,” he announced gravely, staring at the blackened cylinders on the grill. “A metaphor for my deep, enduring passion.”
Across the deck, Ilya Rozanov leaned back in a lounge chair, sunglasses on, shirt open, looking offensively beautiful in the golden spill of late-afternoon sun. “It is metaphor for you not knowing how to cook,” he corrected. “Husband.”
Shane grinned at that. Husband. The word still felt like fireworks going off in his chest—loud, bright, slightly dangerous.
It was their first full day alone since the wedding—no teammates, no press, no family, no one asking invasive questions about how two rival hockey stars had managed to fall stupidly in love. Just them and Shane’s sleek, glass-and-wood lakeside cottage, tucked into the trees like a secret.
The lake was warm and blue. The air smelled like pine sap and charcoal. A dock stretched out into water so clear Shane could see the silver flicker of fish near the surface.
It was perfect.
“I am starving,” Ilya declared, rising to his feet. He crossed the deck with lazy, predatory grace and wrapped his arms around Shane from behind, chin settling on his shoulder. “If I die because you murdered sausage, it will be scandal.”
“You won’t die,” Shane said, flipping the least tragic hot dog onto a plate. “You’re too stubborn.”
“True.”
They ended up eating chips and watermelon instead, seated cross-legged on the dock with their feet dangling into the lake. Juice ran down Ilya’s wrist; Shane leaned over and licked it off without thinking.
Ilya blinked at him slowly. “You are disgusting.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” Ilya admitted, and kissed him like punctuation.
It was lazy and sun-warmed and sweet—the kind of kiss that deepened gradually, hands sliding to familiar places. Shane’s fingers threaded into Ilya’s hair; Ilya hummed against his mouth, shifting closer, one knee bracketing Shane’s thigh.
A splash interrupted them.
They both froze.
Another splash. Closer.
Shane pulled back first. “Fish?”
Ilya turned, peering across the water.
That’s when they heard it.
A long, warbling, echoing call—haunting and dramatic and vaguely accusatory.
On the water about twenty feet away floated a loon.
It stared at them.
Shane blinked. “Huh.”
The loon’s red eyes were fixed directly on Ilya.
Ilya lifted a hand in a cautious wave. “Hello, tiny dinosaur.”
The loon shrieked.
Not the pretty, mournful call from before. This was sharper. Personal.
Shane snorted. “I think he doesn’t like you.”
“He doesn’t know me,” Ilya said, affronted. “I am very likable.”
The loon dove under the water.
They both leaned forward.
“Where did he—”
The bird erupted from the lake three feet from the dock, wings flapping wildly, feet slapping at the surface like it had somewhere extremely urgent to be. It beelined toward them.
Ilya yelped and scrambled backward, nearly taking Shane with him. “It is attacking!”
“It’s not attacking,” Shane said, already laughing.
The loon launched itself at dock height and flapped in a furious hover, squawking directly at Ilya’s face.
“Oh my god,” Shane wheezed.
Ilya pointed at the bird. “You! I did nothing!”
The loon screamed again.
Shane finally managed, between laughter, “Maybe you’re in his territory.”
“I am in your territory,” Ilya snapped. “We are married. I have paperwork.”
The loon hopped onto the edge of the dock.
They stared at it.
It stared back.
There was a beat of absolute stillness.
Then Ilya, who had stared down professional enforcers and once fought a goalie over a crease violation, slowly extended one finger toward the bird. “We can be friends.”
The loon lunged.
Ilya jerked back so violently he lost his balance and fell into the lake with a splash.
For one stunned second, there was silence.
Then Shane burst into helpless laughter, doubling over as Ilya surfaced, hair plastered to his forehead, sputtering.
“The bird is psychopath!” Ilya shouted.
The loon flapped triumphantly.
“You picked a fight with wildlife on our honeymoon,” Shane managed.
“I did not pick fight! He picked fight!” Ilya swam to the ladder and climbed up, dripping and indignant. “Look at him. He is smug.”
The loon did, in fact, look smug.
It let out another eerie call, like it was narrating Ilya’s humiliation to the entire forest.
“Okay,” Shane said, wiping tears from his eyes. “New plan. We go swimming further out. Neutral ground.”
They dove off the far end of the dock, slicing into cool water. The lake wrapped around Shane like silk; he surfaced to see Ilya already floating on his back, sun catching in droplets on his skin.
“See?” Shane called. “Peaceful.”
The loon’s head popped up ten feet away.
Ilya swore in Russian.
What followed could only be described as a slow-motion aquatic duel. Every time Ilya drifted one direction, the loon repositioned. If Ilya splashed, the loon splashed harder. When Ilya tried to ignore it entirely, the loon paddled in tight circles around him like a feathery security guard.
Shane treaded water, helpless with laughter. “I think he thinks you’re a rival male.”
“I am not even same species!”
“Tell him that.”
Ilya narrowed his eyes at the bird. “Listen carefully. I respect your lake. I respect your wife. I do not want your worms.”
The loon shrieked.
“Okay,” Shane said. “Maybe stop escalating.”
“I am being diplomatic!”
Eventually they retreated to the cottage, Ilya casting suspicious looks over his shoulder while the loon floated sentinel near the dock.
Inside, wrapped in towels, they collapsed onto the couch, breathless.
“You’re unbelievable,” Shane said, brushing wet hair off Ilya’s forehead.
“I have done nothing wrong in my life,” Ilya replied solemnly.
Shane kissed him again—slow, lingering, grateful. The kind of kiss that made the world narrow to warm skin and familiar hands and the steady thud of a heart he knew as well as his own.
Outside, the loon called once more, dramatic and mournful.
Ilya broke the kiss to glare toward the window. “He is still talking about me.”
“He’s telling his friends about the terrifying Russian who invaded his dock,” Shane said.
“I will not be bullied by water chicken.”
“You absolutely are being bullied by a water chicken.”
Ilya tackled him back onto the couch.
If the rest of the afternoon involved slightly overcooked second-attempt casserole, a hammock nap tangled together in the shade, and periodic checks to make sure their avian nemesis hadn’t breached the deck—well.
It was still the best day.
That evening, as the sky turned molten gold and the lake went glassy and calm, they stood barefoot at the end of the dock, fingers intertwined.
The loon floated at a dignified distance.
Ilya leaned into Shane’s side. “I suppose we can try to share.”
“With the loon?”
“With the loon,” Ilya sighed. “But if he tries anything, I will fight.”
Shane laughed and kissed his temple. “You already lost once.”
Ilya squinted at the bird. The bird squinted back.
“Rematch tomorrow,” Ilya muttered.
And the loon, somewhere in the fading light, gave a call that sounded suspiciously like a challenge.
-
The next morning Shane Hollander woke up disoriented and deeply, profoundly content.
Sunlight poured through the massive glass windows, turning the hardwood floors gold. The lake beyond was perfectly still, early-morning mist hovering over it like something out of a painting. Birds chirped. A breeze stirred the curtains.
And tucked against his side, warm and heavy and real, was Ilya Rozanov.
Shane lay there for a minute just staring at him.
Ilya was sprawled half on top of him, one leg thrown possessively over Shane’s thigh, face pressed into Shane’s shoulder. His hair was a disaster. There was a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. His mouth was slightly open.
He looked nothing like the terrifying winger who’d once tried to fight Shane during a nationally televised game.
He looked soft.
Shane brushed his fingers lightly down Ilya’s spine. Ilya made a low, pleased noise and tightened his hold without waking.
Husband.
Shane still couldn’t believe it.
They’d kept the wedding small—close friends, family, a handful of teammates who’d promised to behave and mostly failed. The media had lost its collective mind for a week. Then, blessedly, everyone had backed off long enough for them to disappear to the cottage.
“Stop staring,” Ilya mumbled without opening his eyes.
“You’re asleep.”
“I feel it. It is creepy.”
Shane grinned and kissed his temple. “Morning.”
Ilya cracked one eye open. It softened immediately. “Morning, husband.”
They kissed lazily, no urgency, just warmth and the slow stretch of waking up together. Outside, something splashed faintly in the distance.
Shane ignored it.
—
By late morning, the day had turned bright and hot. Shane stood at the grill in board shorts, determined to redeem himself from yesterday’s hot dog catastrophe.
“I am supervising,” Ilya announced, dragging a chair close and sitting in it backwards, chin hooked over the top.
“You are judging.”
“Same thing.”
Shane flipped a burger. “You could help.”
“I am providing moral support. Also, I look extremely good in this light. It motivates you.”
He wasn’t wrong. Sunlight glinted off the lake behind him, turning the water impossibly blue. Ilya’s hair was damp from an earlier swim, curling at the ends. He’d stolen one of Shane’s old T-shirts and cut the sleeves off, and it hung loose over his shoulders.
Shane stared.
“See?” Ilya said smugly.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You married me.”
“I did.” Shane smiled helplessly. “Best decision of my life.”
Ilya blinked at him, caught off guard. Then he recovered. “Yes. I am aware.”
They ate on the deck this time—actual edible burgers, watermelon, cold lemonade. The dock creaked gently below. The world felt slow and sun-soaked and safe.
“Race you to the end,” Shane said suddenly, already halfway out of his chair.
Ilya shot up with a shout. They bolted down the dock barefoot, shoulder-checking each other like they were back on the ice.
They dove together.
The lake wrapped around them in a rush of cool silk. Shane surfaced first, slicking hair out of his eyes, and laughed as Ilya burst up beside him, sputtering.
“I win,” Shane declared.
“You cheated.”
“How?”
“You have longer legs.”
“That’s not cheating, that’s genetics.”
They drifted onto their backs, floating side by side, hands brushing under the surface. The sky overhead was cloudless and endless.
For a few quiet minutes, there was nothing but water lapping softly around them.
Then—
A long, eerie wail cut across the lake.
Shane opened one eye.
“No,” Ilya said immediately.
The loon floated about fifteen feet away, black-and-white plumage glossy in the sun, red eyes fixed squarely on Ilya.
They stared at each other.
“This is harassment,” Ilya muttered.
The loon dipped its head beneath the water and popped back up closer.
“Oh my god,” Shane breathed, already laughing.
“I have done nothing to this bird.”
“Yesterday you called him a water chicken.”
“He is shaped like chicken!”
The loon let out a sharper, more aggressive call.
“See?” Shane choked out. “You hurt his feelings.”
Ilya splashed lightly in its direction. “Go away.”
The loon splashed back. Harder.
A silent standoff.
Shane slowly drifted backward, trying not to laugh himself underwater.
“I think,” he said carefully, “he might have a nest nearby.”
Ilya froze. “So he thinks I am threat.”
“Maybe.”
Ilya considered this with the grave intensity he usually reserved for playoff strategy. Then he nodded once. “Fine. I will show him I am not threat.”
“Oh no.”
Ilya straightened in the water and spread his arms wide. “Look! I am large but peaceful!”
The loon immediately charged.
It skimmed across the surface with astonishing speed, wings beating, feet slapping water. Ilya yelped and tried to pivot away, but the bird cut him off with military precision.
Shane lost it completely, laughing so hard he inhaled lake water.
“This is not funny!” Ilya shouted as the loon flapped furiously in his direction.
“You’re being outmatched by a bird!”
“I will not be defeated!”
The loon let out a victorious cry that echoed dramatically across the water.
Shane swam closer, reaching for Ilya’s arm. “Okay, okay, truce. We retreat.”
They paddled back toward the dock together, the loon shadowing them like a tiny, judgmental escort.
Once safely on the dock, Ilya stood dripping and furious, hands on hips.
The loon floated ten feet away, smug.
“You,” Ilya said, pointing. “We are neighbors. Act like it.”
The loon answered with a haunting call that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Shane leaned against him, still shaking with mirth. “You have an archenemy.”
“I already had one,” Ilya said dryly. “I married him.”
Shane gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me?”
Ilya turned, all mischief and sunlight, and pulled him in by the waistband. “Enemies to husbands,” he corrected softly.
They kissed there on the dock, warm and unhurried. Shane could taste lemonade and lake water and something uniquely Ilya. The world narrowed again—just skin and breath and hands sliding up damp backs.
The loon shrieked.
They broke apart.
“This bird has no respect for romance,” Ilya said flatly.
—
The afternoon stretched golden and lazy. They stretched out in the hammock strung between two trees, limbs tangled, arguing about which of them had been more insufferable during their first year in the league.
“You tried to fight me in warmups,” Shane accused.
“You smiled at me like you knew something.”
“I knew you were obsessed.”
“I was not obsessed.”
“You memorized my stats.”
“That is called scouting.”
“Sure.”
They dozed for a while, lulled by cicadas and distant water sounds.
Shane woke to the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
He cracked one eye open.
On the edge of the yard, near the shoreline, stood the loon.
Just… standing there.
“Ilya,” Shane whispered.
Ilya groaned. “If it is serial killer, let him take me.”
“It’s your bird.”
Ilya rolled over, squinted, and then sat up abruptly. “Why is he on land?”
The loon took a few dignified steps forward.
“Oh no,” Shane murmured.
“He is escalating,” Ilya said darkly.
They scrambled out of the hammock as the loon waddled closer to the dock, letting out a low, grumbling sound.
“This is our house,” Ilya informed it.
The loon flapped its wings once, aggressively.
Shane grabbed Ilya’s hand and tugged him back toward the cottage. “Okay. New strategy. We ignore him.”
Inside, they watched through the giant windows as the loon hopped onto the very edge of the dock.
“He wants confrontation,” Ilya said.
“You cannot fight wildlife.”
“I can absolutely fight wildlife.”
“You will lose again.”
Ilya turned slowly. “You have little faith in your husband.”
Shane stepped forward and kissed him until he forgot what he was arguing about.
Outside, the loon called into the fading afternoon light, dramatic and operatic and completely unbothered.
By evening, the lake had turned molten gold. They stood barefoot at the end of the dock, fingers intertwined.
The loon floated at a cautious distance this time.
A fragile peace.
“I suppose,” Ilya said after a while, “we share his territory.”
Shane squeezed his hand. “That’s very mature.”
“I am growing.”
The loon gave a softer call, less aggressive now, more like a warning reminder.
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “But if he tries anything at breakfast, it is war.”
Shane laughed and leaned into him, pressing a kiss to his temple as the sun slipped below the trees.
Warm air. Quiet water. Their hands clasped tight.
Somewhere out on the lake, their feathery nemesis drifted like a tiny general guarding his domain.