Work Text:
The celebrity van door opened to a wall of light.
Camera flashes burst like fireworks against the night, reflecting off the polished pavement and the glass façade of the museum. The red carpet stretched ahead like a royal invitation, bordered by velvet ropes and a sea of photographers leaning forward, eyes sharp and lenses raised. Voices overlapped in a rising chorus.
"Over here!"
"Shane!"
"Ilya, to your left!"
"Shane! Ilya! Look here!"
Shane blinked once as his shoes touched the carpet, the sound soft against the velvet red but loud in his ears. The crowd's noise pressed in instantly. He had stepped into arenas filled with thousands of screaming fans, had stood under stadium lights with entire cities watching, yet somehow this felt louder. Hockey crowds roared like storms. This was sharper, more precise. Every voice, every flash, every lifted camera was aimed directly at him.
The photographers fell in love with him almost at once. Not just with his face, but with the effortless polish of his presence. He wore a perfectly tailored three-piece suit in soft dove gray, the fabric smooth and refined, catching the flashes in gentle shifts of light instead of shine. The waistcoat sculpted neatly along his torso, its fit clean and exact, while a delicate gold chain draped from one pocket to the other, glinting softly each time he moved. Over it, his long, matching coat rested elegantly across his shoulders, the structured cut giving him quiet authority, the hem swaying faintly as he walked. His white shirt was crisp, his patterned tie precise, every detail considered without feeling forced. He did not look loud or dramatic. He looked composed. Intentional. Like someone who belonged exactly where he stood.
Beside him, Ilya stepped out with the calm of someone leaving his own private estate rather than arriving at the most photographed event of the year.
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, expression steady, posture straight, as if flashing bulbs were a climate he had grown up breathing. He was dressed entirely in black, but there was nothing simple about it. His long, tailored coat fell past his knees in sharp, elegant lines, the shoulders structured to emphasize his height and presence. The collar and cuffs were trimmed in dense black fur that caught the light in a soft sheen, adding texture and quiet drama instead of spectacle. Beneath it, his dark suit jacket lay open at the chest, revealing the clean line of his collarbone and a subtle chain resting against his skin. His trousers were high-waisted and fluid through the leg, tailored yet relaxed, moving with him like a shadow following form. A wide belt studded with small metallic details cinched his waist, its bold buckle the only sharp gleam against the monochrome. Even his shoes reflected nothing but controlled polish.
Together, they looked deliberate, like a contrast designed by a single vision. Shane in soft gray elegance, light and refined as morning mist. Ilya is layered in black, composed and magnetic as midnight. Calm beside intensity. Warmth beside shadow. Two silhouettes standing side by side that drew every eye without asking for it.
"ILYAAAA!"
"SHANE LOOK HERE!"
"OVER THE SHOULDER!"
Ilya's hand settled on Shane's lower back.
It was not dramatic. Not possessive. Not showy. Just a quiet placement of fingers against fabric.
Shane did not look down.
He leaned slightly into it.
They paused at the first marker on the carpet. Shane smiled toward the cameras, easy and bright, while Ilya tilted his chin a fraction, gaze steady and sharp. They shifted positions when prompted. Turn left. Angle right. Closer together. One more. Another.
Ilya's hand slid from Shane's lower back to his waist.
Shane pretended not to notice.
A photographer called out, laughing, "Ilya, you can let him breathe!"
"I am letting him breathe," Ilya winked.
Shane smiles shyly.
Another flash. Another pose. Another shout of their names.
They moved down the carpet slowly, practiced in the art of public presence without ever having trained for it. Ilya kept his movements economical, controlled. Shane's were softer, more fluid, his smile warming whenever someone called out a compliment or joke.
By the time they reached the top of the steps, the noise had softened into a distant roar behind them. The massive doors stood open, golden light spilling out onto the marble.
Inside felt like stepping into another world.
Music floated through the hall, something orchestral and modern at once. Crystal chandeliers hung high overhead like suspended constellations. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and polished wood. People drifted across the floor in garments that looked sculpted rather than sewn.
Shane leaned closer to Ilya as they walked. "I feel overdressed."
"It's the theme of the event. Modern Aristocracy," Ilya said.
"Yes, and that man is literally dressed very modern aristocrat," Shane muttered.
Ilya glanced briefly at the passing guest in a heavily sequined suit. "He looks... modern," he shrugged.
Shane snorted quietly.
They had not taken ten steps before someone called, "Hollander!"
A tall man, a basketball player, approached, grinning, hand already extended. Soon another athlete joined, then another. Introductions overlapped with handshakes and shoulder claps. Familiarity came quickly among athletes, even those from different sports. They spoke the same language of schedules, travel, training, injuries, and pressure.
One of them nodded toward Shane's suit. "Man, you look ethereal."
"Ethe... what?" Ilya asked.
"Like exquisite. Beautiful," The tennis player said.
"Of course, he is," Ilya proudly said.
Shane shot him a look. "Thank you for that very unbiased opinion."
"Is true. You are beautiful," Ilya replied.
More laughter. More greetings.
They were still talking when a small cluster of actors drifted over, drawn by recognition or curiosity. Compliments were exchanged. Someone mentioned watching a playoff game. Someone else asked if fights were as painful as they looked. Shane answered easily, his charm smoothing every interaction. Ilya spoke less, but when he did, people listened.
A woman approached them; tall and elegant, her gown a cascade of velvet red top and black skirt with a red velvet hat. Her dark hair was styled sleekly, her makeup soft but precise. She smiled with practiced warmth.
"Hi. I'm Hanna."
They introduced themselves, though it was obvious she already knew who they were.
"I just wanted to say," Hanna continued, "You two are amazing! I overheard at least three people talking about you near the staircase."
Shane laughed softly. "That's slightly terrifying."
"It should be flattering," she said. Then her eyes brightened. "Ohh, and the main lead actors from Heated Rivalry are attending tonight. Have you watched that series? Some people say that the story of the main characters there was somehow similar to your story."
Ilya's head turned so fast that Shane almost heard it.
"Hockey series, yes?" Ilya asked.
Hanna nodded. "Yes."
"The actors are here? In Met Gala?" Ilya wants to confirm.
"Yeah, saw them with a KPOP artist a while ago," Hanna said.
"Wow. Yeah, I watched that series on New Year's morning," Ilya said. "All of it. In one sitting."
Shane closed his eyes briefly. "Ilya."
"It was very good," Ilya continued, completely serious. "The story really reminded me of us."
Shane's eyes flew open. "Do not say that."
Hanna laughed softly. "Honestly, a lot of people think that. But the original book where it was based came out before you so..."
Shane's ears warmed. "Please stop encouraging him."
Ilya seemed faintly pleased.
Hanna smiled, amused, then glanced between them once more. "Well, I hope you get to meet them tonight. I think you'd all get along." She excused herself gracefully when someone called her name from across the room.
Shane turned to Ilya the second she was out of earshot. "You watched an entire series in one go?"
"It's a 6-episode series. I heard Canada helped fund it. Also, I told you about it. You said you didn't want and will just exercise instead," Ilya shrugged.
"Ohh. I'm just not interested in watching a whole series." Shane explained.
"It's great. You should try," Ilya said.
Shane smirked. "You are impossible."
Ilya studied him. Shane took out a handkerchief and patted it lightly on his cheeks and neck. After a moment, Ilya said mildly, "Would you like water?"
"Yes," Shane said quickly.
"Okay. Let's go," Ilya placed his hand on his lower back and excused themselves from their company. They made their way toward the bar.
Ilya requested two glasses of water from the bartender. The bartender handed them a glass of water with lemon with the efficiency of someone accustomed to famous faces. Shane took a sip, then glanced sideways at his husband.
"Was it really that good?" Shane asked.
Ilya looks at his glass of water, then back at Shane, "The water?"
Shane huffed, "No, the series you watched?"
Ilya smiled, "Yes."
"You're not exaggerating?" Shane looked at him curiously.
"I watched it five times," Ilya stated.
Shane choked slightly. "Five?"
"It has hockey. I need to see if they are doing it right," Ilya said. "And a love story. These are my interests."
"Watching it five times is too much."Shane pointed out.
Ilya shrugged, "It's worth it. No regret. I will watch again. You should, too."
"You sound like a fanboy."
Ilya took a calm sip of water. "A handsome one, yes?"
Shane huffed, but he was smiling.
Later, the dining hall shimmered under the grand chandeliers as the guests settled into their assigned seats. Shane and Ilya took in their surroundings: glittering gowns, crisp tuxedos, and the quiet hum of excitement. Before long, an eight-course meal was served, each dish more intricate than the last. They found themselves sharing bites and sips, tasting flavors as carefully prepared as the outfits around them.
Between courses, their conversation flowed easily, guided by the polite curiosity of their seatmates: a K-pop star with a bright, infectious laugh, and a well-known pop singer who occasionally shared mischievous glances at the menu. Shane listened, amused, as the K-pop star described the chaos of international tours, while Ilya found himself laughing at the pop singer's witty commentary on the gala's fashion. The moment was light, yet intimate: a rare bubble of normalcy amidst the spectacle.
After the last course was cleared, Shane and Ilya made their way to the bar, the soft hum of conversation following them through the grand hall. The bar was elegant but less crowded, offering a small respite from the gala's spectacle. Ilya leaned slightly toward the bartender.
"Vodka, please," he said smoothly, then added, "And a mojito."
Shane watched as the drinks were prepared, the faint clink of glasses punctuating the quiet moment. Ilya glanced at him, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"I'm going to the restroom," Ilya said.
"I'll come with you."
"No, stay here. I will be quick," Ilya replied. Then, after a beat, "Unless you would like to do something in the restroom with me."
Shane stared at him. "Just go to the restroom, Ilya."
Ilya leaned down and kissed his cheek.
Then he left.
Shane watched him disappear into the crowd, lips pressed together as he fought a smile. The waiter placed their drinks in front of Shane. He took a sip of his mojito, gaze drifting across the room while his thoughts circled back to the series.
Five times.
Maybe it really was good.
Maybe during summer break, when the season was over, he could watch it with Ilya. They could sit on the couch with snacks, argue about plot points, and pause scenes to critique hockey accuracy. Maybe they will have their favorite characters or scenes.
A tap landed gently on his shoulder.
Shane turned.
The man standing behind him looked bright in a way that had nothing to do with lighting. His expression was open, almost boyish with excitement, eyes warm and shining as if he had just spotted something wonderful. Soft brown curls framed his face in loose, effortless layers, the strands falling naturally across his forehead and brushing his ears, slightly tousled like he had run his fingers through them moments ago. The texture gave him a gentle charm that softened the sharp lines of his suit, making him look approachable despite the obvious elegance he exuded.
He was dressed in a deep wine-colored suit tailored close to his frame, the structure clean and princely rather than stiff. The jacket wrapped subtly across his torso and was secured with a matching sash that draped down one side like a ceremonial ribbon, adding movement and quiet drama whenever he shifted. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt brightened the look, open at the collar without a tie, as if he belonged to formality but refused to be restrained by it. The trousers fell in straight, elegant lines to polished black shoes, grounding the richness of the color.
He looked like modern royalty who had stepped away from a portrait just to grace everyone with his presence.
"Hi," the stranger said, a little breathless. "Sorry. I just wanted to ask. You're Shane Hollander, right?"
Shane nodded slowly. "Yes?"
The man's face lit up. "I knew it. I knew it was you."
There was no performance in his tone. No practiced celebrity politeness. Just pure, delighted certainty.
"I'm Connor Storrie," he said, holding out his hand. "I watched the game in Ottawa. I was filming there."
Shane shook his hand, surprised into a small smile. "I see,"
"I just want to say that overtime goal from the blue line is amazing. I yelled so loud the guy next to me spilled his drink."
Shane smiled, "I hope it didn't cause you any trouble."
"No, he's chill and also excited about the goal. I'm really glad I witnessed that. I was in Ottawa for a suspense film shoot, and our assistant director had season tickets. He invited me to watch the game, and now, I think I'm a fan of your team."
Shane laughed, the sound slipping out before he could stop it, "Thank you."
Connor brightened even more, clearly pleased he had caused it.
"You're nicer than I expected," Connor added earnestly.
Shane tilted his head. "What did you expect?"
"Intimidating. Fast. Possibly glowing with competitive energy."
"I do glow sometimes," Shane said. "Usually after exercise."
Connor grinned.
And just like that, Shane felt himself relax.
Connor shifted his weight a little closer, clearly settling in for conversation rather than a quick celebrity greeting. His posture had relaxed, shoulders loose, attention fixed fully on Shane like he was listening to something important rather than chatting at a crowded gala.
"So," Connor said, lowering his voice slightly, "can I ask you something about hockey without sounding completely clueless?"
"I'll try to give you an answer," Shane replied, amused.
"Okay." Connor leaned in a fraction. "All-Star games. Why does everyone say they're different from regular games? I watched some, and the atmosphere felt like the building might explode."
Shane smiled, thoughtful. He liked this kind of question. Connor was not asking to impress him or to fill the silence. He was asking because he genuinely wanted to understand.
"Well," Shane said, "during the regular season, you're thinking long term. Strategy, stamina, points across months. In All-Star games, it's a yearly event with different themes, like East vs West, America vs World, and others. It's like a Chritmas thing for Hockey players and fans."
Connor nodded slowly, eyes focused. "So, it depends on the theme of the year. Must be a lot of pressure, then."
"Yes, pressure and urgency," Shane said. "Also history. Rivalries feel sharper. Every shift counts more."
Connor's expression softened with fascination. "That explains the tension in some clipI saw before. I thought I was imagining it."
"You weren't," Shane said. "All-Star Game is basically controlled chaos."
"I love that phrase." Connor grinned.
Shane laughed quietly. He found himself liking how Connor listened. Really listened. Not just waiting for his turn to speak, but absorbing every word as it mattered. It was rare, especially at events like this.
Connor tilted his head. "Do you like the All-Star Game or not?"
"I love and hate it," Shane admitted. "You dread them and crave them at the same time."
They were halfway through discussing memorable All-Star Game to film premiere nerves when a familiar warmth slid across Shane's back.
A hand.
It moved slowly from the center of his back to his waist, fingers resting there with quiet certainty, drawing him half a step closer.
Shane glanced sideways.
Ilya stood beside him.
Shane's face brightened instantly. "What took you so long?"
"A designer talked me," Ilya said. "A hockey fan. Wanted to meet me for a long time."
"Lucky him, I guess," Shane said with ashrugged.
Ilya's gaze shifted to Connor. Recognition sparked almost immediately. His expression changed, not dramatically, but enough that Shane noticed. His mouth curved slightly.
"Connor Storrie," Ilya said.
Connor straightened. "Yes,"
Ilya glanced at Shane. "He is one of the actors from the series I told you about."
Connor's eyebrows lifted. "You watched it?"
Shane took Ilya's Vodka and handed it to him. Ilya took it and had a sip. Shane then looks back at Connor, "Five times. He watched this five times since the New Year morning."
Connor blinked. "Seriously?"
"Da," Ilya said. "I like it. Is comforting. And you portray your role very well."
Connor's face softened into something genuinely touched. "That's... wow. Thank you."
"I was surprised," Ilya continued, "when I learned you are not Russian. Your accent is convincing."
Connor pressed a hand lightly to his chest. "Coming from you, that the best compliment I've gotten all night."
Shane smirked. "Careful. He'll start giving acting critiques next."
"I would not," Ilya said. "Unless asked," he smirked.
Before Connor could reply, a voice appeared beside them, smooth and amused.
"There you are. I've been looking all over for you."
A stunning man stepped into view, tall and striking in a suit that looked sculpted rather than sewn. The fabric was a soft ivory tone, matte and luminous at once, catching the light like polished stone instead of reflecting it. The jacket wrapped across his torso in a clean, architectural line, cinched at the waist by a wide, structured sash that emphasized his height and frame without excess. A silk shirt in a similar shade rested beneath, open at the collar, the smooth sheen of it shifting gently when he moved. At his shoulder bloomed a pale floral detail, delicate yet deliberate, like a designer's signature placed exactly where the eye would linger.
His presence carried a quiet gravity, the kind that made people look twice without understanding why.
Dark hair fell in soft waves around his forehead and temples, parted loosely at the center as though styled with intention but allowed to settle naturally. The strands curved slightly toward his cheekbones, framing his face in a way that softened the sharpness of his jaw and made his expression appear calm, almost thoughtful. It was the sort of hair that looked effortless but was clearly not accidental.
Ilya's eyes widened slightly.
Shane noticed immediately.
Hudson Williams.
Ilya had seen enough interviews and clips to recognize him at once. He had always preferred Hudson's performances, though he had never said that out loud. There was something about the way Hudson carried himself on screen that reminded him of Shane. Not in appearance, but in spirit. Warmth beneath composure. Softness disguised as confidence.
Connor turned toward him, smiling. "Huddy. Perfect timing."
Hudson's gaze shifted to Shane and Ilya. Connor gestured toward them, proud like he was introducing friends he had known for years. "These are Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander of Ottawa Centaurs."
Hudson stared.
"No fucking way!" he said, eyes lighting up. "The First Husbands of Hockey! I've been wanting to meet you. I heard you were coming tonight. I'm Hudson Williams," he held out his hand to Ilya first.
Ilya shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, Hudson."
"I'm a Montreal fan," Hudson added, holding his hand out now for Shane. "But Ottawa's doing great. You guys are awesome."
"Thank you," Shane said as he shook his hand as well.
Connor nudged him. "Ilya watched our show."
Hudson's attention snapped back to Ilya, grin brightening. "You did?"
"Yes," Ilya said. "Five times."
"Might be six soon," Shane added. "He wants me to watch it with him."
Ilya looked at him. "You will?"
Shane nodded. "I'm curious now. After everything I've heard."
Ilya studied him for a second, then said calmly, "After how many times I asked you to watch it before, you refused. But meeting them makes you want to? Really?"
Shane's eyes widened. "That's not what I meant."
Hudson chuckled softly. "It's fine. Plenty of people discover it late."
Connor smiled warmly at Shane. "I hope you like it."
Shane felt embarrassed, but Ilya rubbed his back, assuring him it's fine.
Hudson clapped his hands once, energized. "We should drink!" He paused, glancing between them. "You guys can drink, right?"
Ilya chugged his Volka all at once before looking back at Hudson, "Sure."
Shane nodded. "It's a party after all."
Hudson grinned. "Hell yeah."
Beside him, Connor just shook his head fondly.
Later, Ilya, Shane, Hudson, and Connor found an unoccupied cocktail table near the edge of the hall, tucked beside a marble column wrapped in climbing arrangements of white orchids. It was just far enough from the main crowd to allow conversation without shouting, yet close enough that the music still hummed softly beneath their voices.
They settled there easily, glasses in hand, shoulders angled toward one another in the natural circle formed by people who had decided, without formally saying so, that they were enjoying each other's company.
The conversation drifted first, as it often did around athletes, toward hockey.
Connor listened with bright attention as Shane described a playoff overtime strategy, his brows pulling together in concentration. Hudson stood beside him, one elbow resting lightly on the table, occasionally adding dry observations that made Ilya's mouth twitch with restrained amusement.
Then, almost seamlessly, the topic shifted.
"I have a question," Ilya said, turning slightly toward Hudson and Connor. "Fashion week. Is it as exhausting as interviews say?"
Hudson let out a quiet laugh. "It's mostly waiting. Waiting to dress, waiting to walk, waiting to sit, waiting to stand. The glamorous parts last about three minutes."
Connor nodded. "And there's always someone adjusting something on you. Hair, sleeve, collar, posture. At one point in Paris, I had four people fixing me at once. I didn't know which direction to look."
"That sounds stressful," Shane said.
"It is," Connor admitted cheerfully. "But fun stressful."
They spoke next about travel, stories overlapping easily. Shane and Connor compared Paris experiences, both talking at once for a moment before laughing and yielding the floor to each other. Shane described early-morning walks along the Seine. Connor countered with late-night pastry runs and getting lost on purpose just to see more streets.
While they talked, something across the room caught Ilya's attention.
His gaze shifted past Shane's shoulder and settled on a figure moving slowly through the crowd.
The guest was wearing a super glamorous outfit that had so many things going on. It's like a modern royalty, but the overcoat is almost sweeping the floor.
Hudson followed Ilya's line of sight and blinked once. "That looks uncomfortable."
"Da," Ilya said calmly, "The overcoat alone looks like it weighs 30 kilograms."
Hudson's mouth curved faintly. "Can never be me. Not worth looking nice," He lifted his glass and took a sip.
Ilya raised his own in silent agreement, a smirk ghosting across his face.
Shane glanced between them, amused at how quickly they had fallen into the same rhythm. "You two judging people together is slightly terrifying."
"It's an observation. Not judgment," Hudson said. Ilya nodded.
Connor leaned toward Shane and whispered loudly, "Kinda terrifying, but at the same time, it's like part of their character in a cute way, right?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Shane sighed.
"I can hear you, Solnyshko," Ilya said.
Shane smiled. "Good."
Hudson turned back to Ilya. "Is it true you have a car collection?"
"Is true," Ilya replied. "But not as many as before."
Shane immediately cut in, "He has four now. Five if we include my car."
Connor's eyes widened. "How many did you have before?"
Ilya took a small sip of his drink. "Nine. That was in Boston years ago."
Shane just smiled and shook his head, fond disbelief written plainly across his face.
It felt nice.
That thought came quietly, almost unexpectedly. Standing here, watching Ilya talk, listening to him answer questions that had nothing to do with hockey stats or press conferences or postgame interviews. Ilya looked relaxed. Interested. Comfortable. The guarded sharpness he often carried around strangers had softened into something lighter.
Aside from their hockey circle, Rose, Svetlana, and Shane's parents, Ilya rarely let people see this side of him. Yet here he was, trading dry remarks with Hudson and explaining engine differences to Connor like they had known each other for years.
They were younger; that much was obvious. Nine or ten years, Shane guessed. Still, the gap did not feel present. The conversation flowed too easily for that.
The conversation drifted into a comfortable lull, the kind that only happens when strangers begin to feel less like strangers.
Laughter softened into quieter smiles. The orchestra in the distance swelled faintly beneath the hum of a thousand conversations. Crystal chandeliers scattered light over polished marble and tailored silhouettes, turning the entire room into something unreal.
Ilya noticed the glasses first.
Shane’s flute sat empty in front of him, condensation drying along the stem. Hudson’s held only a shallow ribbon of gold at the bottom. Connor’s was long drained. Even Ilya’s flute is already empty.
His eyes lingered on Shane for half a second longer than necessary.
“I’ll get drinks,” he said, already rising.
Connor straightened immediately. “I’ll come.”
Ilya didn’t move yet. He looked at Shane, “What do you want?”
“Just sparkling water with lemon,” Shane said.
Ilya’s brow furrowed faintly. “You barely drank, Hollander.”
“Ilya,” Shane said with quiet amusement, tilting his head. “I had a mojito. And champagne.”
“That is two drinks.”
“That is too much for me already,” Shane insisted gently. “I have to wake up early. Workout.”
There was something almost domestic about the exchange. Soft. Familiar. Ordinary in the middle of something extraordinary.
Ilya studied him, as if debating whether to argue further, then relented with a small nod. “Fine. Sparkling water.”
Connor glanced toward Hudson. “Same?”
Hudson nodded. “Yes. Champagne.”
Ilya and Connor left their table.
And suddenly it was just Shane and Hudson.
The space between them was not awkward. It was observant. Two men accustomed to reading rooms and reading people.
Shane broke the quiet first. “So, how long have you been acting?”
Hudson’s posture remained straight but relaxed, hands folding loosely in front of him. “A while,” he said. “Mostly independent projects. Minor roles. Background work.”
“And this series with Connor?”
“My first lead," Hudson said proudly. There was no arrogance in the way he said it. Only quiet pride. The kind earned slowly.
Shane’s eyebrows lifted, genuinely impressed. “That must’ve been surreal.”
Hudson smiled, softer now. “It was. I always hoped my first lead would be a romance. Something intimate. A short series, but meaningful.” He exhaled lightly. “I just didn’t expect it to happen so suddenly.”
Shane nodded slowly. He understood the sudden opportunity. Sudden pressure. Sudden attention.
Hudson hesitated before continuing. “When I was preparing for the role, I watched hockey game highlights. Interviews.” His eyes flickered toward Shane. “Some of yours.”
Shane blinked. “Mine?”
“Yes. The composure,” Hudson clarified. “The way you speak. The way you stand during press conferences and during breaks between games.” A faint smile curved his lips. “It helped.”
Shane felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest. Admiration, but from an angle he wasn’t used to.
“It was also… interesting,” Hudson added carefully. “That you and Ilya are Canadian and Russian players in a relationship. Like our characters.”
Shane let out a small breath of laughter. “A model we talked to earlier said the same thing.” He shook his head. “But she said the book came first before we went public.”
Hudson nodded. “There are similarities. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Shane replied immediately. “Especially since Ilya loves the series.”
Hudson’s eyes brightened. “He does?”
“Yeah. He’s rewatched it,” Shane admitted with a fond smile. “Multiple times.”
The warmth in his voice wasn’t lost on Hudson.
“I haven’t watched it yet,” Shane added. “But I will. With him.”
The certainty in that statement felt steady. Intentional.
Shane shifted the conversation gently. “Do you have anything coming up?”
And Hudson spoke about new projects in development. There was excitement there, yes, but also a careful humility. As if he still couldn’t quite believe this door had opened.
At the bar, the atmosphere was louder. Party lights flickered like distant lightning. Celebrities crowded shoulder to shoulder, laughter sharp and bright beneath crystal light.
Connor stood beside Ilya, watching him subtly scan the space again.
“You’re very attentive,” Connor said, voice low enough to be private. “With Shane.”
Ilya didn’t deflect. “Yes.”
Connor smiled. “It’s sweet.”
Ilya tilted his head slightly, considering. “I like being capable,” he said. “Of giving him what he wants.”
There was no hesitation in that. No embarrassment.
“It's like one of those love languages,” Ilya added thoughtfully.
“Acts of service?” Connor asked.
"Yes, that one,” Ilya said, “I think I'm five of it. For him.”
Connor’s expression softened. “That’s really romantic.”
Ilya did not know how to respond to that.
He was not used to compliments. Not even from Shane sometimes. Growing up, praise was rare. Criticism was normal. From his father. From his brother. From coaches. But Connor’s tone held no mockery. No agenda. Just sincerity.
“Is it true you learned Russian in a few weeks?” Ilya asked, shifting focus.
Connor brightened instantly. “Yeah. I need to learned it quickly because the shooting was starting soon. My language coach was incredible. I didn’t want it to sound fake.”
“It didn’t,” Ilya said. “My best friend, Svetlana, thought you were Russian.”
Connor’s jaw dropped. “No way.”
“Yes.”
Connor laughed in disbelief. “That’s really great to hear.”
They stepped forward as the line moved.
“Two champagnes,” Ilya told the bartender. “One vodka. One sparkling water with lemon.”
As they waited, Connor hesitated.
“When I found out you and Shane were coming tonight… I got excited.” He smiled sheepishly. “Hudson watched your highlights for research. I did too. Mostly you.”
Ilya blinked. “Me?”
“You look intimidating on ice,” Connor admitted. “Especially when you’re yelling at someone.”
A quiet huff left Ilya’s chest. “That is strategic.”
“But meeting you now…” Connor continued, voice more sincere. “You’re very kind and accommodating.”
Ilya didn’t know what to do with that.
His father’s voice used to echo in his head. Not good enough. Too soft. Too emotional. Too much.
But Connor wasn’t looking at him with judgment. Just honesty.
“I am an asshole on ice,” Ilya said finally. “It works.”
Connor laughed.
Ilya hesitated before adding, voice quieter, “You did great. In your role. The accent and the emotion. That is not talent alone. That is hard work.”
Connor’s expression shifted, something like relief and gratitude.
“I hope to see you in more projects,” Ilya continued. “You and Hudson have gained a fan. Shane will, too.”
Connor swallowed. “That means a lot. Really.”
The bartender slid the drinks across the marble counter.
Ilya and Connor gathered them carefully.
As they walked back toward the table, Connor glanced at him once more.
“You’re really nice, Ilya,” he said lightly.
Ilya smiled.
When they returned, Shane looked at them immediately.
The sparkling water with lemon was placed gently in front of him.
Always attentive.
Always deliberate.
Glasses clinked softly as the four of them settled back into conversation, now warmer, easier, something quietly forming beneath the glamour.
After a little while, Hudson suddenly perked up. "We should take a selfie." He was already pulling out his phone.
Connor sighed softly, "It's not allowed to take a selfie, remember?"
Hudson looks around and sees some elite celebrities taking selfies together. One comedian even goes to each celebrity to take a selfie with her, "I mean, most of the people here are taking selfies, why don't we?"
"Yes. The restroom is the favorite spot for some. I hear camera clicks and laughing at the women's restroom," Ilya pointed out.
Connor looks at Shane. Shane just shrugged at him.
"Well, let's do it," Connor said, stepping closer anyway, placing his arm over Hudson's shoulder. Shane moved in beside Ilya, their shoulders brushing, and Ilya's hand was on his waist. Hudson handed his phone to Connor and asked him to take the shot. Connor held the phone out at arm's length, angling it carefully so all four of them fit in frame. It was Ilya, Shane, Hudson, and Connor.
"I'm just going to keep pressing until someone says stop," Connor announced.
The first photo was snapped.
Hudson and Connor smiled happily. Shane smiled politely. Ilya has a serious expression on his face.
Click.
Connor grinned wider. Hudson made an exaggerated, dramatic pout. Shane smiled brightly. Ilya just smirked.
Click.
Connor snapped a few more. He and Hudson are trying different expressions, while Shane just smiled differently, and Ilya dabbles in serious to smirking to smiling.
Hudson leaned closer and whispered, "You two need better poses."
"We are posing," Ilya said.
"No," Hudson said gently. "You're surviving."
Connor nodded enthusiastically. "Here. Try this." He demonstrated a finger heart.
Shane's eyes lit up immediately. "Ohh, I know that." He made a finger heart.
Ilya stared at his own hand as it had betrayed him.
"Like this," Connor encouraged, gently adjusting Ilya's fingers. Then, when everyone had finger hearts, Connor snapped a photo.
Click.
This time, Shane was laughing openly, Hudson was grinning, Connor looked delighted, and Ilya, caught mid-attempt at the gesture, was smiling without realizing it. They took many shots together before Ilya said that's enough.
Connor lowered the phone and checked the results. "These are perfect."
Shane leaned closer to peek, shoulder pressing warmly into Ilya's side.
He realized then, quietly, that he was no longer nervous.
The noise, the lights, the crowd, the spectacle. None of it pressed in on him anymore. The tightness that had sat in his chest when they first stepped onto the carpet had disappeared somewhere between conversations and laughter.
He glanced at Ilya. Then, at Hudson and Connor.
Maybe it was because he had Ilya beside him. Maybe it was because of the easy warmth of their new companions. Maybe it was both.
Either way, for the first time that night, Shane felt completely at ease.
---
By the time the party began to thin and the music softened into its closing notes, the four of them drifted toward the exit together, carried along by the slow tide of departing guests. The grand hall that had seemed impossibly crowded earlier now felt wider, calmer, its glitter settling into a gentle afterglow.
Outside, the night air greeted them cool and clean, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. The red carpet had been cleared of most of the earlier chaos, though photographers still lingered near the barricades, hopeful for last glimpses and final shots.
Hudson's and Connor's teams trailed a few steps behind him, speaking quietly among themselves. Not far from them stood Harris and Gen with the stylists and assistants who had helped prepare Shane and Ilya for the evening. The atmosphere outside was lighter now, the urgency gone, replaced with tired satisfaction and post-event chatter. They exchange numbers as well.
Connor bounced slightly on his heels, energized despite the late hour. "I'm tagging you both when I post tonight."
Shane brightened. "Please do. I want copies of those selfies."
"I'll send it to you," Connor promised. "Even the cursed ones."
"There were no cursed ones," Shane said.
Connor grinned, "There was one where Hudson looked like he was about to transform into a vampire or werewolf."
Hudson gave him a look. "A sexy one, right, Connie Baby?"
"Of course, babe," Connor grinned.
Ilya turned to Hudson. "If you visit Ottawa, tell us. We can hang out. Or come to a game. Join us after for drinks."
Hudson nodded easily. "I will, man." He patted Ilya's shoulder.
Shane leaned toward Connor. "The same goes for you. If you're ever there again, message us."
Connor's smile softened. "I'd love to see you guys in Ottawa again."
Headlights rolled across the pavement as two sleek black vans pulled up to the curb in front of them.
"That's ours," Hudson said.
They stepped closer together instinctively, the conversation slowing into that gentle pause that comes when people realize a moment is ending.
Connor hugged Shane first, warm and unreserved. "I'm really glad to meet you."
"Glad to meet you as well," Shane said honestly.
Hudson clasped Shane's shoulder, then pulled him into a quick, friendly hug. "Don't be a stranger, Hollander."
"I won't," Shane promised.
Connor turned to Ilya and hugged him. "It was really nice meeting you."
"The pleasure is mine," Ilya said, patting his back, and his tone is husky.
Hudson also hugged Ilya, "See you in Canada,"
"Yeah, see you," Ilya patted his back before letting go.
Ilya and Shane waved as Hudson and Connor stepped back toward their vans. The door slid open, their team already climbing in.
Hudson paused, then leaned in and hugged Connor again. "Wanna have breakfast tomorrow and visit Central Park?"
"Yeah, I love that," Connor smiled.
"I'll call you later," Hudson said.
Connor nodded.
They separated reluctantly, Hudson ducking into his van while Connor headed toward another van. Both glanced back once before their doors closed, lifting their hands in one last wave.
A different van rolled forward, then stopped smoothly in front of Shane and Ilya's group. One of the staff members opened the door for them.
Inside, the lighting was soft and dim, the seats wide and comfortable. Shane slid in first, Ilya following and settling beside him. The door shut with a quiet, insulated thud that sealed them away from the lingering noise outside.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Ilya turned his head slightly. "Did you have a good time?"
Shane nodded, the answer immediate. "I did. I met a lot of people. And we made friends." His smile grew a little. "Connor and Hudson are really nice."
Ilya watched him. "Will you still watch it? Now that you know them?"
"Of course," Shane said. "If anything, I'm more curious now."
A playful glint appeared in Ilya's eyes. "Good luck. You will be surprised how good Hudson and Connor are in it."
Shane leaned back against the seat with a soft sigh. "Maybe I should watch one episode tonight."
"One episode will not be enough," Ilya said.
Shane turned his head. "You sound very confident."
"I am correct," Ilya replied calmly.
Shane huffed a quiet laugh, already suspecting that before the night was over, he would be sitting beside his husband on the couch, watching the first episode of Heated Rivalry.
---
THE FIRST HUSBANDS OF HOCKEY MEETS HOTTEST ONSCREEN COUPLE: MHL'S POWER COUPLE SPOTTED COZYING UP WITH VIRAL HOCKEY SERIES STARS AT THE MET GALA
Fashion's biggest night just delivered a crossover nobody saw coming.
Sources at the Met Gala confirm that married hockey superstars Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander of Ottawa Centaurs and Canadian Olympic Medalists, widely considered two of the best players in the MHL, were spotted spending a large portion of the evening chatting and laughing with rising actors Hudson Williams and Connor Storrie, the breakout leads of the viral hockey romance series currently dominating streaming charts.
Witnesses say the four looked instantly comfortable together, gathered around a cocktail table deep in conversation for hours. The insiders described the vibe as "surprisingly natural, like old friends instead of first-time acquaintances."
The unexpected link between the athletes and actors has fans buzzing online, especially since Hudson and Connor's hit series tells a love story between two hockey players. Some viewers have pointed out similarities to Ilya and Shane's real-life romance, which became public only a few years ago after it was revealed the pair had been in an on-and-off relationship for years before marrying.
Still, insiders close to the couple shut down speculation fast. A member of Shane and Ilya's management team clarified that any resemblance is purely coincidental, emphasizing that the show is based on a novel written years before their relationship became public knowledge. According to the rep, the athletes "respect the art and storytelling of the original book and its adaptation" and have nothing but support for the project.
Eyewitnesses also caught the group leaving the venue around the same time, exchanging friendly hugs before heading to their separate rides. The farewell looked warm enough to spark rumors that this might not be the last time these four cross paths.
Given how easily they clicked, fans are already predicting future hangouts between the hockey icons and the TV darlings. For now, though, all anyone can do is watch, wait, and wonder whether this Met Gala meeting was just a fun one-night crossover or the start of an unexpected friendship era.