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“Roz, seriously, this whole smiling, happy thing is really freaking me out.”
Iyla snaps back to reality, looking up at Marleau from where he sits in his stall, instinctively protecting his phone screen. Truth is, Ilya can’t help but smile. He just spent a whole summer in Muskoka rolling in sheets and relaxing in the sun with the love of his life, Shane Hollander. That’s right, love. Ilya is so fucking in love with him. Ilya can hardly keep his face straight as he replays Shane telling him he loves him over and over again.
“Are you malfunctioning?” Marleau asks, his eyebrows furrowed together.
Ilya shakes his head, redirecting his focus to the very crowded Boston Bears locker room.
“Is a man not allowed to smile. Fuck Marleau, go stretch or something.” Ilya snaps, pulling out his classically cold Rozanov voice.
Marleau laughs and shakes his head before walking off towards his own stall. Ilya looks back at his phone. A photo of Shane, sitting on the dock watching the sun rise over the lake. A blanket wrapped loosely around him, one bare shoulder poking out. Ilya swears he can feel each beat of his heart.
Ilya was only meant to spend two weeks at the cottage. Hell, he wasn’t going to go at all until he saw Scott Hunter pull his boyfriend in for a kiss, on the ice, in front of the whole world. It was almost like something overtook him when he stood from the couch and immediately pressed Shane’s contact. His mind was barely keeping up with him as he said those five words.
I’m coming to the cottage.
In the days before he caught his flight to Ottawa, he thought he was going to be sick. The nerves and anticipation caused a painful churning in both his stomach and heart. Ilya knew he loved Shane, and he knew it was a horrible idea to go to Shane’s cottage, but, like a moth to a flame, he boarded the flight. The nerves lasted the entire drive to the cottage, their hands knotted together, anxious energy swirling around Shane’s Jeep fucking Cherokee.
“Hollander, you are so boring.”
“What? It’s practical, good in snow.”
All the anxiety washed away as soon as they were wrapped in each other’s arms in the safety of Shane’s cottage. That is, until Shane’s dad dropped by to borrow some dishwasher tablets and the whole thing blew up. Love confessions less than twenty-four hours old were now a topic of discussion with Shane’s parents.
Ilya didn’t mind. He liked being able to tell someone finally. To finally not have to hold it all inside. Ilya originally had a flight back to Boston two days later, but never went to the airport. Instead, the pair spent the rest of the summer tangled up together, or swimming in the lake, or doing other various activities that Ilya absolutely cannot reminisce on in the locker room unless he wanted to have a very awkward conversation.
“Roz, get your fucking pads on. We hit the ice in five.” Sebbin said, bumping Ilya’s leg with his hockey stick.
Ilya quickly tucked his phone into his backpack and suited up because he could stare at Shane on his phone screen all day, but in five minutes, Shane would be there in the flesh.
“Five hundred dollars for each goal scored tonight.” Ilya shouts, taping his stick, “We send Montreal home crying.”
There was no doubt in Ilya’s mind that Montreal would win tonight since a few of the Boston players were benched for injuries, but Ilya knew the harder the team was on the Voyageurs, the more fun Ilya would have tonight when Shane was pressed up against him. Ilya’s mind drifted away, imagining Shane’s soft eyes looking up at him, all crinkled at the sides as he laughed, tucking his blushing face under the covers.
“I have never seen you smile this much, and it’s really freaking me out, dude,” Marleau said, checking Ilya’s shoulder as the team began filtering out of the locker room.
The arena goes dark. Music thunders. Lights strobe. Boston roars for their hometown heroes. There was a very dramatic montage, a bass-boosted version of "Shipping Up to Boston", and a lot of strobe lights before the regular lights came on, and everyone cheered as the players started their warm-ups. Ilya was on his knees on the ice, stretching his hips out, when a pair of skates stopped in front of him.
“I hope you’re ready to lose,” Shane smirks, a teasing glint in his eye.
Ilya shakes his head, a bright smile on his face.
“I do not know that word. I only know words like: win, victory, and Montreal is losers.”
“Now that’s a phrase I’ve never heard before.” Shane laughs, poking Ilya with his stick.
“Hollzy!” Someone yells from across the ice.
“Oh, got to go get ready to kick your ass. Try not to think about mine too much.” Shane winks before skating off.
Ilya laughs and shakes his head, standing from the ice. Truth be told, he is thinking about Shane’s ass more times than not, but he doesn’t have to imagine it right now as he watches it skate away. It is probably his second favorite view of Shane after all, right behind his flawless, freckled face.
Those fucking freckles.
The way the sunlight catches them. The way Ilya drags his knuckles over them, slow and deliberate, to watch Shane’s cheeks bloom pink. The same way they blush when Ilya leans in to whisper in his ear.
Shane tucked under his arm.
Shane’s fingers threaded through his.
Shane’s hands tracing slow circles along his back
Shane on his knees, looking up at-
“Rozanov! What the fuck are you doing!” Coach LeClaire shouts from the bench, and everyone turns to look at where he stands on the ice. Lost in his thoughts.
Get it together, Ilya.
He might as well be standing here, twirling his hair around his finger like a fucking schoolgirl. The blush on his cheeks burns as he looks across the ice to meet Shane’s wide smile.
Ilya sure loves to see Shane laugh, even if it’s at his own expense.
“Are you sick or something, dude?” Carmichael asks, bumping helmets.
“Uh, no,” Ilya hesitates, “Just uh, distracted.”
“Must have had a fun summer,” Carmichael smirks, “Spent it with that girl in Montreal, maybe?”
Ilya laughs. You have no idea.
The siren blows, and the teams organize: Ilya and Shane meet at center ice for the faceoff.
“You seem distracted today. Are you okay?”
“Yes, well, no.” Ilya says, “I am in love, and it is very distracting.”
Shane’s cheeks flush pink.
“You can’t say that here, Ily- Rozanov,” Shane whispers, eyes flicking toward the people around them, canvassing who might have heard.
It’s true. They can’t say that here. They both know what’s at risk if this whole relationship gets outed, the damage it could do to both of their careers. They both know how homophobic and backwards this league can be. Ilya thinks Shane cares a little more about it than he does. He has more to lose. Ilya would quit hockey right now, tossing his jersey and stick right here if it meant he could be with Shane.
That’s how in love he is.
“Okay, fine. I do not love you.” Ilya shrugs nonchalantly.
Shane rolls his eyes and sticks his stick out between them, ready to go.
“That’s not what you’ll be saying tonight after I-”
The puck drops. Ilya blushes. Shane wins the faceoff.
Three periods later, the score sits at a devastating 4-1 in Montreal's favor. Don’t misunderstand, Ilya played with all his might, but each time his eyes caught Shane’s, he thought he might trip over his own skates. He’s usually so competitive against Shane. On a regular day, he would rather smell Marleau’s skates than let Shane Hollander beat him on the ice. Today? God, he doesn’t even know what is going on today.
Each time he sees Shane take off down the ice, he only sees Shane on the artificial rink at the cottage. Every time he checks Shane into the boards, he only feels Shane underneath him. At this point, Ilya is certain he is losing his fucking mind and, in turn, losing this fucking game.
Finally, the siren blares and the Voyageurs erupt into celebration at their win. The Bears make their way off the ice, and Ilya can only sense a sort of tension the moment they all walk into the locker room.
“Well, that was fucking pathetic,” Connors says, tossing his helmet into his stall.
“Maybe if Rozanov would stop fucking daydreaming like a fucking schoolgirl, we would have won,” Hammersmith says, checking Ilya’s shoulder.
Ilya gives him a threatening glare, and Hammersmith raises his hands in surrender.
“Give the guy a break, he’s pussy whipped,” Marleau says, tossing an arm around Ilya’s shoulder and patting his chest, “Happens to the best of us.”
“Must be a fucking magical one if it’s got Ilya Rozanov kickin’ his fuckin’ feet.” St. Simon says
“You gonna tell us who the lucky lady is?” Sebbin asks
Ilya shakes his head. These guys are fucking idiots.
“Absolutely no,” Ilya says, deadpan.
He hears his phone vibrate in his backpack and pulls it out.
Jane
That was embarrassing for you.
See you at your place in 30.
Lily
I have no argument.
I cannot wait to see you.
Jane
You’ve gone soft.
Lily
I am “pussy whipped”.
Jane
Excuse me?
Ilya laughs and tucks his phone away, shedding his gear and pulling his pre-game suit back on. When the team is all buttoned up, the reporters flood into the locker room. Ilya gives them bare-boned, rehearsed answers and is tossing his bag over his shoulder as soon as possible. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he gets home, and the sooner he gets home, the sooner he can see Shane.
“God, maybe I am pussy whipped,” He thinks, “or ass whipped?”
He shakes the thought from his mind and floors it, his McLaren roaring down the streets of Boston. Stopping at a red light, he notices a man selling flowers on the sidewalk. I bet Shane would like those”. Quickly, he rolls down the window and holds out a fifty-dollar bill. Buying flowers does seem like a pretty pussy whipped thing to do, but he can already see Shane’s flustered reaction, and it makes excitement swirl in his stomach.
When he gets home, realizing he doesn’t own a vase, he puts the flowers in the tallest drinking glass he has. Clearly, this was not a very thought-out plan. He quickly changes into a pair of joggers and a crewneck before pushing his hair around in the mirror, a knock pulling him from his own reflection.
He tries not to run to the door, attempting not look too desperate, but he couldn’t get there fast enough. Bare feet padding quickly across the floor, he rushes to the door and pulls it open, grabbing Shane by the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him inside, and into his arms.
“Jesus, Ilya,” Shane laughs, wrapping his arms around him.
“I missed you.” Ilya mumbles, pressing kisses to Shane’s neck and cheek.
“We just spent four hours in the same room.” Shane says, leaning his head to the side to give Ilya more room, “but I know what you mean.”
Ilya pulls away, beaming. The man he loves is in his home, and they get a whole two days together, uninterrupted. Taking Shane’s hand, he drags him over into the kitchen, gesturing at the flowers and pulling a cold ginger ale out of the fridge, cracking it open for him.
“You bought me flowers?” Shane blushes, his cheeks crimson.
Just as planned.
“That is what you do for your boyfriend. Yes?” Ilya says, acting nonchalant.
“I’ll never turn down flowers.” Shane smiles, wrapping his arms around Ilya, “So, what’s this about you being pussy whipped?”
Ilya shakes his head, laughing before pulling his boyfriend in for a long kiss.
God forbid a man be in love.