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The Montreal Voyageurs had just locked down a crisp 4-2 win over Philadelphia at the Bell Centre. The building still thrummed with leftover energy as the team filed off the ice, gloves bumping, sticks raised, the familiar post-win buzz filling the tunnel. Shane Hollander, captain and quiet engine of the offense, had two assists and had played his steady, reliable game, though his mind had wandered once or twice in the third to a certain sharp-tongued rival currently tearing it up in Boston and how long it had been since he’d heard from him.
He was halfway down the tunnel, helmet under his arm, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead, when a bright, familiar voice sliced right through the noise.
“Hey handsome, there’s the best damn captain in the league!”
Shane turned—and there she was. Rose Landry, standing just past the security checkpoint, escorted by an arena staffer who was clearly trying (and failing) not to gawk. Oversized sunglasses perched on her head now, sleek black coat over jeans, that effortless megawatt smile lighting up the dim tunnel like a spotlight. She’d texted him earlier that she would come by after her shoot, but seeing her *here*, right in the players’ area, caught him off guard.
The tunnel went quiet for a split second. Hayden Pike froze mid-stride. Comeau’s eyebrows shot up. A low ripple of “Holy shit” and “That’s Rose Landry” moved through the guys trailing behind.
Shane jogged over, a grin tugging at his mouth despite the sudden heat creeping up his neck. “Rose! You got escorted down here? I thought you were just gonna wait up top or something.”
She tilted her head, smirking like she’d planned every second of this ambush. “I told security I was picking up my boyfriend after the game. They practically rolled out the red carpet.” She stepped closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Perks of being me. And you were ridiculous out there! That feed to Pike in the second? Art. Pure art. I stood up and applauded.”
Shane laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, the damp jersey clinging uncomfortably. “Yeah, well… thanks for coming. I’m really glad you’re here.” His voice softened on the last part, quiet enough that only she caught the sincerity.
“Now hurry up and change so we can get out of here, Captain.” She poked his chest lightly through the damp fabric, her nail tapping like a playful challenge. “I’m cashing in on our bet.”
The team was now openly lingering. Fiddling with gear, checking phones with zero actual interest, but every ear locked on like this was prime-time drama.
Shane groaned, already knowing defeat. “Rose, come on. I’m gross, I’m tired…”
“Oh, no you don’t.” She grinned wider, leaning in conspiratorially. “This morning’s text bet: total goals in the first period. You said under two, Mr. Conservative, and I said exactly two. And what happened? Two goals before the first intermission. I win, Hollander. Dinner’s on you, then we’re hitting the stores. No captain’s veto allowed.”
Laughter bubbled from the guys behind him. Someone, definitely J.J., muttered, “Capitaine is whipped. Absolute whipped.”
Rose’s gaze swept over him slowly, teasing and appreciative, lingering on the way the under-armor and jersey clung to his shoulders and chest post-game. She leaned in just enough for her voice to carry to the nearest teammates, playful and shameless.
“I know exactly what’s under all those baggy gym clothes you hide in, Hollander. It’d be a damn shame to keep covering that up with more hoodies. We’re getting you something fitted—something that shows off what I already know is there. Consider it an investment in the league’s hottest captain.”
Shane’s face ignited, scarlet, instant, the flush racing up his neck and ears like wildfire. The team lost it: whistles, hoots, a couple of belly laughs.
“Rose,” he hissed through a helpless grin, half-mortified, half-amused, voice cracking slightly. “Go wait in the car. Please. Before I die of embarrassment in front of my entire roster.”
She beamed, clearly thriving on his reaction. “Yes, Captain.” She gave a sassy little salute, then turned and waved to the gawking players like they were her personal cheering section. Her eyes landed on J.J.
“J.J.! Nice to see you again. I still owe you for dragging him to Djon-Djon that night.”
J.J. laughed, deep and warm, throwing his hands up. “Hey, that was all Capitaine. But what can I say? It was fate.”
Rose winked at Shane before turning back to the guys. “Go easy on him, boys. He’s delicate when he’s this red.”
More laughter. Hayden yelled, “We got him, Rose! Don’t worry!”
She blew Shane one last theatrical kiss over her shoulder and sauntered off with her escort, coat swaying, leaving stunned silence that immediately dissolved into chaos.
Shane stood there a beat, face still burning, before trudging toward the locker room. The door hadn’t even shut before the chirps started.
“Jesus Christ, Hollander,” Hayden said, slamming a hand on his shoulder. “Rose Landry just strolled into the tunnel like it’s her living room, flirted you to the ground, and you went full tomato. Iconic.”
“Shut up,” Shane muttered, dropping his helmet on the bench and pretending to focus on his laces.
Price called across the room, “She knows what’s under the gym clothes, eh? Come on, Cap, spill. What you hiding from us?”
Shane lobbed a roll of tape at him. “You assholes, lay off me.” There was no real heat behind it, just exhausted fondness.
The ribbing rolled on: “Captain’s getting a wardrobe makeover.” “She said ‘yes, Captain’ that’s gotta be code for something.” “Lucky son of a bitch, dating the Rose Landry.” “Bet she’s got you in designer jeans by midnight.”
J.J. sauntered over, still grinning, and leaned against the locker next to Shane’s. “You’re welcome, by the way. If I hadn’t invited you to that restaurant back then, you’d still be hiding in your apartment eating protein shakes alone.”
Shane shot him a look, half glare, half playful smile. “Yeah, yeah. You’re the reason my life’s a circus now.”
J.J. clapped him on the back. “Admit it you love the circus. And Rose is good for you. Keeps you humble.”
Shane huffed a laugh, shaking his head. J.J. had no clue how right he was. After that quiet dinner confession months back, Shane finally saying it out loud, she’d held his hand across the table, let him fall apart without judgment, and promised his secret was safe forever. They’d ended the romance part cleanly, privately. But the team, the media, the world still saw the perfect couple. J.J. still lit up every time he brought up “that night I played matchmaker.”
Shane finally showered, changed into jeans and a hoodie (the ratty one Rose hated), and slipped out a side exit to the parking lot. He opened the driver’s side door and hopped in, the leather seat cool against his back.
Rose was already in the passenger seat, legs crossed, phone in hand, beaming like she’d won the lottery instead of a silly bet.
“You really laid it on thick back there,” Shane said, shaking his head, though a smile tugged at his lips. No malice. Just the easy rhythm they’d built over months of pretending for the cameras and being real in private.
She laughed, light and unapologetic. “Someone has to keep your ego in check, Captain. Besides, the boys eat it up. Makes the whole ‘golden couple’ thing believable.” She paused, voice softening as she studied his profile. “You okay? You were redder than your jersey.”
Shane exhaled, starting the car. The engine hummed low. “Yeah. Just… not used to the teasing. Felt like the whole team was watching me melt.”
Rose reached over and squeezed his forearm gently. “They adore you. And they adore *us* the version they think they know.” She hesitated, then added quieter, “Speaking of versions… you text Ilya lately?”
Shane’s grip tightened on the wheel. His jaw worked for a second before he answered. “No. Not since… before Christmas, I think. Radio silence.” He kept his eyes on the road, voice low. “I keep typing messages and then deleting them. What the hell am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, sorry I’ve been a ghost, but Tampa’s coming up and I’m still a mess about us’?”
Rose’s expression softened, no teasing this time. “You’re scared you’ll fuck it up more than you already think you have.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Pretty much. Every time I think about reaching out, I picture him reading it, rolling his eyes, and deciding it’s not worth the headache. Or worse him saying something that makes it real that we’re… I don’t know. Done. Or never really started.” He swallowed. “I already let it go quiet. That’s on me.”
She turned toward him fully now, the city lights streaking across her face. “Shane. You didn’t ‘let it go quiet.’ You’re both idiots playing the same game, waiting for the other to blink first because the stakes feel too high. But silence isn’t fixing anything. It’s just making the distance louder.”
He glanced at her, throat tight. “I know. I just… don’t want to be the one who pushes and watches it break.”
Rose’s hand found his on the gear shift, warm and steady. “You’re not going to break it by being honest. You told me everything that night after the tuna melt, shaking, barely getting the words out, and look at us now. I’m still here. Ilya’s not me, but he’s not going anywhere either. Not really. Tampa’s in a couple weeks. That’s your shot to say something real. Even if it’s just ‘I miss you, asshole.’”
Shane’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not. But you’re braver than you give yourself credit for.” She squeezed his hand once before letting go. “And if he ghosts you back? We’ll eat ice cream and trash-talk him in Russian accents until you feel better.”
He huffed a real laugh this time, tension easing just a fraction. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Your favorite kind of ridiculous.” She smirked, lightening it again. “Now drive. We have dinner and shopping to do. And if you try on one more hoodie, I’m burning your entire closet.”
Shane shook his head, pulling into traffic. “Yes, ma’am.”
Yeah. She really was his favorite devil, and maybe, just maybe, he’d find the courage to text Ilya before Tampa. Or at least stop deleting the drafts.