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A thin sliver of morning sun cut through the curtains, crisp and defined, like a golden line dividing the past and the future. In a way, it was exactly that. It was the first morning of the rest of their lives.
Shane woke up first, as he usually did. The habits created by a lifetime of routines, scheduling, and rigorous guidelines wouldn't go away overnight, after all. The vague outlines of the mental to-do list that his brain began to form as soon as it was conscious faded away as he stirred, empty check boxes swept aside by a comfortable nothingness Shane hadn't experienced in decades.
Shane and Ilya were always at their best when they worked as a pair. Whether they were facing off against one another as teenagers or playing for the same team as a married couple, there was something about the other's presence that just made them better. So, naturally, after just enough years of giving themselves almost entirely to the sport they both loved, they decided it was time for both of them to finally step off the ice, directly into the waiting embrace of the one thing they had given themselves entirely to: each other.
Their final game had been one for the history books. Though they had agreed this would be their final season regardless of its outcome, both men would be damned if they didn't go out on top. Their entire careers had led up to this: the final game of the playoffs, and they were on home ice. The Centaurs played like men possessed that night, fueled by pride and grief and a pure, unfiltered need for one last glorious victory.
They demolished the Admirals, 6-0.
And when Shane and Ilya raised the cup over their heads, the roar of the stadium could be heard across the city. A literal lifetime, two of them, even, had led them to this exact moment. Two lifetimes of pain, of fear, of loss and growth and joy and so, so much love had led them here, and this was it. The perfect bookend to the story, to these two lifetimes that had seamlessly come together into one eternity.
And all good stories have a happily ever after, of course.
The sun creeped further into the room as Shane stretched his arms up above his head, still vaguely sore from the playoffs. Reasonably so, he imagined, given the extent to which he had pushed himself in his final season. Maybe even moreso than when he was a rookie, he had been absolutely determined to give everything he possibly could before hanging up his skates. Yuna had briefly chided him for his tenacity, insisting he had nothing to prove to anyone after such a legendary career, until Shane had reminded her exactly who he had inherited his persistence from. The Hollanders were nothing if not stubborn.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Shane considered getting up and doing something with his first day of retirement, but frankly, he couldn't think of any reason good enough to get out of bed. Especially not when his husband, who was incredibly handsome and also newly retired, was asleep right beside him. Ilya was lying on his side, his back to Shane, but the rhythmic rise and fall of his torso was a sure sign that he wasn't awake yet. Shane lazily draped his arm over Ilya's waist and pulled himself closer, until his chest was flush with Ilya's back. He pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and another to his neck, slowly and lovingly, because they had all the time in the world.
All the time in the world.
The thought brought a dumb, lovestruck smile to his face, and he exhaled heavily into the side of Ilya's neck. The sensation caused Ilya to stir, but Shane didn't move. It would take nothing short of a house fire to get him away from Ilya right now, and even then he'd probably still be a little bit miffed about it.
Ilya's eyes were open now, cloudy with sleep as he brought his gaze down to where Shane’s head rested on his shoulder.
“Good morning,” Ilya mumbled drowsily, shifting to lie on his back. Shane wanted to protest the sudden repositioning, but was quickly satisfied when Ilya slid his arm behind Shane's shoulders, pulling him closer until his head rested comfortably against Ilya's chest. A strong hand combed gently through his hair, and Shane melted into the touch.
“Good morning,” he replied, nuzzling against Ilya's bare skin. He couldn't possibly get close enough to him, not as close as he wanted to be. He angled his neck so he could look up at Ilya, pressing a kiss to his chest in the process. Their eyes met, and the pure adoration in their matching gazes was nearly tangible. It was perfect.
They didn't move for a while, both content to simply enjoy each other's company in silence. Shane let his eyes fall closed again, though he didn't feel like going back to sleep. This morning, this moment, was the most relaxed and carefree he'd felt in years. He broke the silence eventually, with a gentle voice and eyes still shut.
“What's the first thing you want to do, now that we're retired?” He asked.
Ilya was quiet for a moment, but his answer came with conviction.
“I want to change my name.”
Okay, now Shane was definitely awake. He brought his eyes back up to Ilya, who was already looking back at him, his expression carefully neutral.
“You… what?” Shane asked. It certainly wasn't the answer he had expected. He had anticipated something flirty or suggestive as Ilya's response, and he had been caught severely off guard. “Like… your middle name?” Shane thought it made enough sense that Ilya wouldn't want to keep his father's name as part of his own, but he'd never talked about it before, and why would that be his first thought right now?
Ilya hummed. “Mm, no, not my middle name. Well, maybe that, too, but that is not what I meant.” Confusion was obvious on Shane's face, and Ilya couldn't help but smile at his expression. He used his free hand to brush a stray piece of hair away from Shane's eyes.
“I want to change my last name. To yours,” he clarified, just in case Shane still didn't get it. Ilya saw the moment that Shane understood what he was suggesting, saw the subtle shift in his expression when it started to click. But he didn't speak, and for a brief, horrifying moment, Ilya wondered if he was against it. His brain scrambled to come up with some way to take it back, to rescind the suggestion, when Shane, mercifully, spoke. Well, ‘spoke’ may have been generous; it was more of a whisper.
“I didn’t think you wanted that.”
Ilya’s panic was promptly replaced by incredulity. So many years of referring to himself primarily as ‘Shane Hollander’s husband’, and Shane didn’t think he wanted that??
“Shane, do you hear yourself? Why would you think that?”
Shane didn’t seem to have an answer for that. “It’s just,” he started. “You’re Ilya Rozanov,” and though it was an obvious statement, Ilya understood the weight of its implications. That was the name the world knew, the name etched into hundreds of award plaques and sewn across the backs of thousands of jerseys. His records, his accolades, his victories were all attached to that name. His entire career belonged to Ilya Rozanov. And that was the point.
“Ilya Rozanov is a hockey player. A very good one. The best, maybe.” Shane snorted at this, making Ilya smile. “And when they put me in the hall of fame, they will call me Rozanov. And that is okay, it will still be me. Still my work, still my achievements. But everything that happens now, off the ice, is a different me. I want it to be. I have since we got married. Before then, too,” he admitted. It was true; since the day he had formally met Yuna and David, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances of their introduction, he knew with certainty that theirs was the only family he wanted to be a part of. He would never admit to thinking the same about Shane for years before this, even though he almost certainly had. Privately.
As though he could read Ilya’s thoughts (Ilya wondered sometimes if he actually could), Shane asked: “What about your mother? Her last name was Rozanov too, right?” He brushed his fingertips over the cross at Ilya’s collarbone.
Always so thoughtful, his Shane. Ilya’s heart ached for a moment when he thought of his mother, but he had considered this, too. He had considered all of it ten times over.
“It is my father's name. I shared it with my mother, yes, but it wasn't hers, either. It was just another way he controlled her. The same way he controlled me.”
“Wouldn't that mean that I'm controlling you now, by that logic?”
“Kinky. But, no. This, I get to choose.”
Shane studied Ilya’s face, searching for any sign of doubt, of remorse, of obligation. Ilya knew he wouldn’t find any. He was certain, had been for decades.
“You'd be connected to me forever.”
“Shane, we have been married for years. We have a child.”
“Anya is not a child.”
“She is our baby. You are deflecting.”
Shane wanted to argue that he wasn't the one who had brought up Anya, but then he actually would be deflecting. In his defense, this was a lot to process first thing in the morning. Not that he hadn’t thought about this before, but he’d never considered actually suggesting it, not even before their wedding, when his parents had brought it up to him privately. Shane knew they’d be delighted by it, they loved Ilya like a son already, but it wasn’t anyone’s decision to make but Ilya’s.
Shane didn’t realize Ilya had already decided.
“Would you… not be okay with it?”
The question snapped Shane out of his thoughts like a slapshot to the head. He didn’t know how long he had been lost in thought for, but he knew it couldn’t have been reassuring. He sat up in the bed, taking Ilya’s face in his hands.
“I would be so okay with it,” Shane said, emotion crashing over him like a wave. The fact that Ilya was so worried about how Shane would feel about this was just… God, he loved him. “More than okay, I would love it. I just want you to be sure that this is what you want. Completely sure.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” Ilya asked, a coy smile playing on his lips. Shane’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. “Of course.”
“I have wanted this since before we were engaged,” Ilya confessed. One day, he might tell Shane the truth, that he had wanted it since before they were even officially together, but today was not that day. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after. They were in no rush.
Shane smiled now, seemingly convinced that this was really something that Ilya wanted and not some impulsive grand gesture, just for the sake of novelty. “Okay,” he said, and Ilya’s face lit up, so bright it rivalled the sunrise spilling through the bedroom curtains. He pushed Shane onto his back and kissed him so hard it took his breath away. Shane kissed him back with the same intensity, and they were both smiling like idiots, and it was messy and intimate and perfect. When they reluctantly broke apart for air, it occurred to Shane that neither of them had even said it yet.
“So,” Shane said, gazing up at his husband, eyes sparkling. “Ilya Hollander. I like it.”
The look on Ilya’s face was one Shane had only seen once before: on their wedding day. He was looking at Shane like he was all that existed in the world. Like there was nothing else around them, nothing else keeping him alive and nothing else worth living for. And Shane understood. When everything you could ever dream of was directly in front of you, everything else might as well disappear. They didn’t need the world if they had each other.
“I love you,” Ilya responded, and it was so strikingly reminiscent of that fateful night at the cottage all those years ago. And here they were again, wrapped in nothing but each other, stripped back and vulnerable, confessing their love with their whole lives ahead of them.
“I love you, too.”
Another long, comfortable silence followed, Ilya’s head now resting on Shane’s chest in a perfect reversal of how they had lain earlier. Much like earlier, it was Shane who broke the silence.
“Although…” he started, intending to get Ilya’s attention. It worked. “It’ll probably take me a while to stop calling you Rozanov. Old habits die hard, and all that.”
The look in Ilya’s eyes was dangerous, as was the smile he gave Shane. “Is okay,” he said, “I don’t mind. Getting you to moan that name so many times, we can consider a career victory of mine, no? Rozanov’s achievement.”
“Asshole.”
Ilya ignored the dig. “Don’t worry,” he purred, “would get too confusing if we called each other by same name. Would be hot, though.”
Shane was turning red, but he smiled nonetheless. “Whatever you say, Mr. Hollander”.
That did it. They wouldn’t be leaving the bedroom that day, after all.
- - -
It wasn’t an overnight change. Filing the paperwork took a few hours on its own, and it would be weeks before any official documents were legally adjusted. The semantics were irrelevant, though. To anyone who mattered, Ilya was officially a Hollander, and he was determined to bring it up at every possible opportunity. Shane would roll his eyes at Ilya’s enthusiasm, insisting that nothing had actually changed, but they both knew that wasn’t true. Everything had changed, really, and they were about to step into the next phase of their lives, about to discover who they were off the ice. It was terrifying, but they would do it together. As together as they possibly could be, right down to the name.
They had already been each other’s family, but now nobody could dare deny it for a second.
Of course, the league had already issued official statements announcing their retirements, and they had talked about it at length with every journalism outlet east of Saskatchewan throughout their final season, but they wanted to do this their own way, too. Two days after their final game, a single photo was posted to both their Instagram accounts. It showed two pairs of ice skates, battered and falling apart from years of use, hanging from their laces on two coat hooks. Between the skates, a framed photo hung on the wall: their wedding photo.
The caption was only two sentences: Thank you for everything. Love, Shane & Ilya Hollander.