Work Text:
The Ottawa Centaurs’ locker room had undergone a fundamental shift.
After Shane Hollander’s arrival as a free agent it felt like the team had acquired a two-for-one package: one elite playmaking center and one full-time, live-streamed romantic comedy starring their captain, Ilya Rozanov.
The team, a mix of veterans, rookies, and weirdos bonded by hockey and shared confusion, had quickly developed a survival mechanism: relentless, sibling-like teasing. It was either laugh at the sheer audacity of their captain’s love life or go insane from secondhand embarrassment. A group chat titled ‘Centaurs Survival Squad’ (CSS for short), became the primary venue for their observations bets, and cries for help.
- The Limp-O-Meter
CSS Group Chat
TroyTheDestroyer: Gentlemen. Morning skate in 20. Place your bets. The Limp Meter is open.
HaasTheBaby: the what 😯
WyattHayes33: I’m not participating in this. This is invasive.
HarrisDrover: Wyatt your moral high ground is noted and ignored.
HarrisDrover: Luca, our sweet summer child, the Limp Meter is a performance-based predictive model. We observe the subtle variations in Shane's gait the morning after he and Captain Rozanov spend quality time together.
HarrisDrover: the degree of limp correlates directly to Ilya’s… attentiveness. Which in turn predicts our chances of winning
HaasTheBaby: you’re telling me we’re betting on how sore shane is
TroyTheDestroyer: Correct
WyattHayes33: I hate it here.
HaasTheBaby: this is… insane
HaasTheBaby: how do I bet 👉👈
TroyTheDestroyer: That’s our boy
TroyTheDestroyer: attached Google Docs
HaasTheBaby: THERE’S A GOOGLE DOCS FOR THIS?!
Yes there is, in fact, a Google Docs of Shane’s Limp Meter because Harris Drover frankly has too much time on his hands and too much joy that he’s taking from all this. The contents of the said Google Docs are pretty straightforward:
Article 1: The Numerical Metric of Shane’s Limping
0–3: No visible signs. Efficient evening. Likely low chaos game.
4–6: Micro-wince, subtle stiffness during crossovers. Elevated competitive drive.
7–8: Noticeable stiffness. Cup adjustment count exceeds three. Expect demon-level play.
9–10: Uses stick as temporary support. Ilya insufferably smug. Guaranteed win.
Article 2: The Winning Metric
Everyone throws in $20. Closest number wins the pot. If two players tie, they split.
Article 3: The Exceptions
If an actual hockey injury occurs, the round is void.
HaasTheBaby: wow. so this is where the productivity of our team is going
TroyTheDestroyer: I'm seeing a solid 7. Visible stiffness, will adjust cup more than three times during warm-ups.
HarrisDrover: Bold. I’m going conservative. 5.8. Noticeable jaw tension during tight turns.
WyattHayes33: I refuse to assign decimals to this.
HaasTheBaby: i have twelve dollars and fruit gummies
TroyTheDestroyer: Gummies are accepted. What’s your number?
HaasTheBaby: 8.5. severe limp
HarrisDrover: Rookie confidence. I respect it.
CoachWiebe: I am in this chat for logistics only. But for the record, a pronounced limp usually correlates with Ilya being extra chirpy, which distracts the opponent. So you can also call this a Will We Win This Match Because They Had Amazing Sex metric.
WyattHayes33: Coach no
On the ice, warm-ups began. Ilya, true to form, was a menace, weaving around guys with impossible ease, flicking pucks at Wyatt in net just to annoy him. Shane was methodical, taking clean, efficient shots. During a drill requiring tight turns, Shane executed a perfect crossover. But as he pushed off his right edge, his jaw tightened for a nanosecond. It was nothing. Unless you were looking for it.
Phones buzzed in pockets on the bench.
HaasTheBaby: DID YOU SEE THAT??
HaasTheBaby: JAW CLENCH. MICRO SHIFT. THAT’S AT LEAST A 5 RIGHT???
HarrisDrover: I’m so proud of you. Also yes that was a 5.5 at minimum.
TroyTheDestroyer: Cup adjustment count is at two. I’m staying 7. He’ll touch his crotch again I know it.
WyattHayes33: I cannot believe I am reading these words.
Five minutes later, Shane reached to reset his cup. There was a subtle pause, then his hand pressed briefly at his hip.
Cup adjustment count: three.
TroyTheDestroyer: THERE. Count three for crotch adjustment babyyyy
HaasTheBaby: so who’s winning??
HarrisDrover: Current projection: 6.8 to 7.3 range. Troy is closest.
HaasTheBaby: NO I NEED GROCERIES
The official ruling is made before puck drop.
Final assessed Limp Meter Count: 7.0
Troy wins the pot.
Luca hands over his fruit gummies with visible grief.
The game started. Ilya was, indeed, a demon. He scored a filthy goal in the first, celebrating by skating directly to the bench and making pointed, smug eye contact with Shane.
Shane, moving with that careful, powerful efficiency was dominating the dot. He won a key defensive zone faceoff cleanly, sprung Ilya for a breakaway that he missed (and then yelled about in Russian for a full shift) and later took a punishing hit to make a play.
In the third period, with the Centaurs protecting a one-goal lead, Shane blocked a slap shot with his ankle. He went down hard. The arena gasped. Ilya was at his side before the trainer, his face a mask of fury and concern that had nothing to do with the game score.
Shane waved them off, got up, and limped–a real, honest-to-god, pain-induced limp–to the bench.
The CSS chat exploded.
HaasTheBaby: OKAY THAT’S NOT THE LIMP WE BET ON! THAT’S A HOCKEY LIMP! DOES THAT COUNT??
TroyTheDestroyer: Nope the bet was for the other limp.
HarrisDrover: As per Article 3 the bet is void.
WyattHayes33: You made a constitution.
HarrisDrover: It’s in Google Docs.
CoachWiebe: Trainer says he’s fine. Just a stinger. Will be bruised.
HaasTheBaby: so my gummies are already gone for nothing 🥲
TroyTheDestroyer: That is how gambling works, rookie.
After the game, a 3-2 win, Shane was indeed sporting a nasty bruise and a slight, real limp. Ilya hovered, carrying both their gear bags, his hand a constant presence on the small of Shane’s back.
As they passed the group, Troy piped up, “Well he’s already limping so go easy on him today, Captain.”
Shane went beet red. Ilya just grinned, a flash of white teeth. Luca tried to steal back his gummies and got his wrist slapped by Harris.
Wyatt just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need a new team.”
- The Sentient Couch
The Hollander-Rozanov housewarming party was in full swing. The place was nice–modern, open-plan, clean. The team was scattered around: Wyatt and Wiebe debating goalie analytics in the kitchen, Harris dutifully taking casual photos for the team account near the fireplace.
Troy was exploring the living room bookshelf when he found them. In a small, elegant box on a shelf was a pair of glasses. Sleek, black, modern frames.
“Hey, Shane,” Troy called, holding them up. “These yours? You need readers already, old man?”
Shane, who was carrying a tray of drinks from the kitchen, froze. A fascinating flush crept up his neck. “Oh. Those are… just spare.”
Ilya, who had been draped over the back of the large sectional sofa like a panther, perked up instantly. His eyes locked onto the glasses in Troy’s hand and a slow, predatory grin spread across his face.
Luca, buzzed on a single beer, bounced over. “Whoa! You wear glasses? You should put them on! You’d look like a sexy professor!”
“No,” Shane and Ilya said in unison, but with completely different energies. Shane’s was panic. Ilya’s was a low, possessive rumble.
“Come on,” Luca whined, emboldened by the crowd. “Just for a second! Team bonding!”
“Yes, Shane,” Ilya purred, pushing off the couch and slinking towards him. “For team. Put them on.” The look in his eyes suggested the last thing on his mind was team bonding.
“Ilya no,” Shane muttered, setting the tray down with a clatter.
“Ilya yes,” Ilya said, now right in front of him. He plucked the glasses from Troy’s hand. “Is just glasses.” He opened them and with a tenderness that contrasted wildly with his smirk, slid them onto Shane’s face.
The effect was instantaneous. Shane blinked, looking adorably disoriented for a second before his expression settled into something sharper. He looked… intelligent, mature and completely fuckable.
A collective “Ooooh” went through the room.
Ilya’s gaze darkened, the playful glint replaced by something hot. “Moy prekrasnyy,” he murmured, voice thick.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Shane said, trying to take them off.
Ilya caught his wrist. “Nyet.” Then, without another word, he hooked an arm around Shane’s waist, threw him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry (ignoring Shane’s outraged “ILYA!”), and began marching towards the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
There was complete silence for a full minute.
Troy looked down at his hand which had once held those black glasses then back at his team. “Are they…”
“Yep,” Coach Wiebe said, laughing and opening another can of beer.
“Ohmygod,” Luca let out in one breath, hands covering his face but not the eyes that kept staring at the hallway where his two teammates had disappeared into to do… activities. “OHMYGOD.”
“And this is how children are made, Luca.” Troy snickered which earned him a cushion to his face.
A few minutes later Ilya returned alone, looking immensely satisfied. He smoothed his hair and rejoined the party as if nothing had happened, grabbing a beer from the cooler.
“Unbelievable,” Wyatt grumbled, collapsing onto the large sectional couch. Luca, Harris, and Troy joined him. “A pair of glasses? Really?”
Ilya leaned against the wall opposite them, sipping his beer. “You were staring at him,” he said dismissively.
“It was glasses!” Luca protested.
“Was provocative,” Ilya countered, a smug twist to his lips.
Harris groaned, sinking deeper into the plush cushions. “The libido is out of control. It’s like living with two hormonal teenagers who also happen to be world-class athletes.”
“Mn you’re not wrong. If that couch could speak,” Ilya said, his lips pulled in a smirk, “it would also complain about my libido.”
He took another sip.
Silence descended on the room once again.
Troy stopped mid-complaint. Luca’s eyes went wide. Harris froze, his back rigid against the cushions. Wyatt slowly turned his head to look at the fabric of the sectional he was sitting on.
Luca was the first to move. He launched himself off the couch as if electrocuted. “OH MY GOD!”
Troy scrambled up next, wiping the back of his thighs frantically. “YOU ANIMALS!”
Harris stood up slowly, a look of profound betrayal on his face. “I’m sitting on the ghosts of your dead would-have-been-children.”
Ilya shook the bottle in Harris’ direction. “Not every sperm can be a baby, Shane told me that.”
Luca covered his ears, folding himself on the small patch of rug that looked clean (if only he knew). “I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR SPERM!”
Wyatt simply stood, walked to a wooden dining chair in the corner and sat down with the solemnity of a man choosing a life of celibacy.
Troy pointed at the innocent looking piece of furniture while gently patting Luca’s head. “Burn it.”
Ilya threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied, roaring sound. “Why? Is very comfortable couch! Supports many activities.”
Shane chose that moment to re-enter the living room, his hair damp and tousled, the glasses thankfully gone. He took in the scene: his teammates standing in a horrified cluster away from the furniture, Ilya laughing maniacally and Wyatt clutching to a chair.
“What… what happened?” Shane asked cautiously.
Harris pointed an accusatory finger at the sofa that was going to star in his future nightmares. “You. On that. With him.”
Shane’s face morphed through confusion to dawning horror to utter mortification. He looked at Ilya, who just winked.
Troy buried his face in his hands. “I need brain bleach. I need to move to a remote island.”
Luca looked down at his body. “We were all just… sitting in the… the splash zone!”
Shane looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Ilya sauntered over and slung an arm around his stiff shoulders, kissing his temple noisily. “Do not be shy, solnyshko. They are family. Family knows things.”
From his wooden chair, Wyatt spoke, his voice flat and final. “I am never sitting down again.”
- Mean Shane
CSS Group Chat:
HaasTheBaby: CODE RED. CODE RED.
HaasTheBaby: shane just walked into the arena. he looks like he wants to murder someone 😰
HaasTheBaby: ilya is following him. he looks like a puppy who chewed a shoe. a very big, scary, russian puppy
TroyTheDestroyer: Oh this is juicy. Did we miss a morning tweet? A scandal?
WyattHayes33: No scandals. Just domestic bliss I’m sure.
They watched from across the locker room as Shane slammed his bag into his stall with more force than necessary. He was vibrating with a quiet, potent fury. Ilya lingered a few feet away, uncharacteristically hesitant, his eyes fixed on Shane’s back.
“Your water bottle,” Shane said, his voice clipped and cold. He didn’t turn around. “You left it at home. Again. On the counter. Next to the empty milk carton you also left out.”
Ilya winced. “It was… early. I was thinking of–”
“Of what? Leaving a trail of garbage for me to clean? It takes two seconds, Ilya. Two seconds to put it in the dishwasher.” Shane finally turned, and the glare he leveled at his husband could have flash-frozen the Zamboni runoff. “You’re so distracted lately. Your head isn’t here. It’s going to get you hurt. Or cost us a game.”
Ilya’s cheeks, usually pale and composed, flushed a deep, mortified red. He looked at the floor. “I am sorry, malysh.”
“Don’t ‘malysh’ me right now,” Shane snapped, though the Russian endearment seemed to take a slight edge off his anger. He huffed and turned back to his stall, muttering about grown men and basic responsibility.
The locker room was pin-drop silent. Everyone was very intently studying their laces, their tape, the ceiling tiles–anything but the nuclear marital dispute happening six feet away.
HaasTheBaby: oh no.
HaasTheBaby: they’re fighting fighting. this is bad. we’re sooo gonna lose tonight 😩
TroyTheDestroyer: The tension is so thick you could skate on it.
WyattHayes33: Give them space. It’s just a tiff.
But on the ice for morning skate it didn’t look like they would lose.
The moment blades hit ice, Ilya Rozanov was a speeding blur, his passes were laser-guided, his shots rang off the crossbar with violent precision. He skated like he was pumped full of pure adrenaline.
Later in the gym, Shane was on the bike, pedaling with aggressive force. Ilya, on the bench press nearby, increased his weight and began repping it out with a grunting ferocity that made the racks shake.
HaasTheBaby: guys.
HaasTheBaby: i am formulating a theory 🧐
HaasTheBaby: what if… the angrier shane is… the better ilya plays?
TroyTheDestroyer: Luca. My boy. You might be onto something.
TroyTheDestroyer: He’s trying to impress him, to get back in his good graces. Damn he must have fucked up big time or something.
HarrisDrover: You should make your own Google Docs. The “Hollander-Anger to Rozanov-Performance” correlation chart.
WyattHayes33: Hmm.
WyattHayes33: I don’t know. It didn’t look like he was trying to impress Shane.
WyattHayes33: He almost looked the same as that time they made out before the game.
TroyTheDestroyer: How do you know about that?
WyattHayes33: By sacrificing my innocence and will to live.
The game that night was a masterclass. Ilya Rozanov played possessed. He was everywhere–scoring two goals, assisting on another, throwing hits, blocking shots. He played like a man trying to single-handedly win back the love of his life through sheer athletic dominance. They won 4-1.
In the celebratory chaos of the locker room afterward, backslaps and shouts filled the air. Players crowded around Ilya, praising his monster game.
“Hell of a game, Cap!”
“You were on fire!”
“Absolute beast mode!”
Ilya accepted the praise with curt nods, but his eyes kept drifting to Shane, who was quietly undoing his gear in the corner, his expression still clouded, jaw tight.
Troy slapped Ilya’s shoulder pad. “You sure showed him, huh? Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll forgive you soon.”
Ilya just grunted.
Then Shane stood up, pulling off his jersey. He walked past Ilya towards the showers. As he passed, he didn’t look at him, just said in a low, flat voice that somehow carried through the noise, “Your defensive zone coverage was sloppy. You drifted. Don’t do it again.”
It was a cold critique that made everyone feel like they were being scolded even when it wasn’t directed at them.
Ilya didn’t get defensive. He didn’t argue. He… swallowed. Hard. His eyes followed Shane, and a faint, unmistakable pink tinged the tips of his ears.
HaasTheBaby: wait.
HaasTheBaby: we won. he played amazing. why is shane still mad? i don’t want them fighting anymore 🙁
WyattHayes33: Oh.
WyattHayes33: Oh no.
TroyTheDestroyer: What? What is it Wyatt?
TroyTheDestroyer: SPILL
WyattHayes33: I need to burn my eyes.
HarrisDrover: Stop being a drama queen and say it. What did you see?
Wyatt looked pained. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Shane paused at the shower entrance and looked back over his shoulder, his gaze landing directly on Ilya.
“And towel off properly after,” Shane added, his voice still sharp. “Last time you left a puddle on the floor, I almost broke my neck.”
Ilya’s breath hitched audibly. He gave a quick, jerky nod. The pink flush deepened, spreading down his neck. He looked utterly… affected.
Troy’s eyes widened. Harris’s jaw dropped.
TroyTheDestroyer: No.
TroyTheDestroyer: No way.
HarrisDrover: Oh my god. It’s not that he’s playing better to appease him.
TroyTheDestroyer: He’s playing better because Shane being mean to him…
Troy didn’t press on the next words but the three looked at each other in a silent shared realization: their Captain was TURNED ON by Shane’s anger.
Luca looked down at his phone then at his teammates that were sporting various expressions of disbelief and absurdity.
HaasTheBaby: guys? guys what’s happening? what does that mean? why is troy laughing so hard?
Wyatt Hayes, the reliable goalie, the pillar of sanity, put a large, gentle hand on Luca’s shoulder. “Come on, kid,” he said, his voice weary with the weight of forbidden knowledge. “Let’s go get some Gatorade.”
“But I want to understand the metric!” Luca protested, confused, as Wyatt began to steer him firmly away from the lockers.
“No,” Wyatt said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “No, you don’t. Trust me.”
As Wyatt led the bewildered rookie away, Troy was doubled over, wheezing with silent laughter against his stall.
Across the room, Shane finally disappeared into the showers. Ilya stood frozen for another second, the flush still high on his face, staring at the empty doorway with a look of such intense, wretched longing that it confirmed everything.
The Ottawa Centaurs had discovered a new, terrifying and highly effective performance variable. And as usual, they wished they hadn’t.
- RPF Investigation
It was Luca who fell down the rabbit hole. A late-night, bored deep-dive on social media led him to a link, which led to another, which led to a site called "Archive of Our Own." His eyes widened. His soul left his body. He returned, changed.
New Chat Created by HaasTheBaby: ‘Debunking The Lies’
Members Added: TroyTheDestroyer, HarrisDrover, WyattHayes33
HaasTheBaby: OKAY YOU GUYS ARE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS
HaasTheBaby: [Link: ‘dead touch’]
TroyTheDestroyer: …what in the fresh hell is this?
HaasTheBaby: IT’S FANFICTION! ABOUT THEM! THERE’S A WHOLE WEBSITE!
HarrisDrover: Oh I’m aware. The algorithm shows me fanart constantly. It’s pretty… detailed.
WyattHayes33: We should not be reading this you know.
HaasTheBaby: TOO LATE! I’M ALREADY ON CHAPTER 3! QUESTION: in this one, ilya is a vampire and shane is a hockey player who smells really good to vampires. how true is this? 🤔
TroyTheDestroyer: LMAO. 100% true. Ilya definitely drinks Shane’s blood. Explains the energy.
HarrisDrover: I can confirm I have never seen Ilya eat a garlic knot.
WyattHayes33: I am leaving this chat.
HaasTheBaby: NO WAIT! [Link: ‘A Bit Of Both’] this one says Shane calls Ilya ‘puppy’ and makes him wear a collar sometimes
TroyTheDestroyer: …okay, that one might have legs. Ilya has the loyalty of a hyper-focused attack dog.
HarrisDrover: I’ve heard Shane say “Ilya, no” at least twice during press talks.
WyattHayes33 has left the chat
HaasTheBaby has added WyattHayes33
HaasTheBaby: STOP LEAVING! I found one which says they got together after a fight where they almost kissed in the showers but then Shane got shy and Ilya pinned him to the tiles.
TroyTheDestroyer: Shower tiles are definitely involved in their lore. I’d believe it.
HarrisDrover: The water bill in that house must be astronomical.
HaasTheBaby: [Link: “Watch Me”] this one says ilya calls shane ‘солнышко’?? does he??
TroyTheDestroyer: Yeah. It means ‘little sun.’ He says it when Shane does something cute, like when he organized all the tape by color.
TroyTheDestroyer: He also says it right before he wrecks him in the bedroom, according to the thin walls at the hotel in Denver.
HarrisDrover: Ah yes how can I forget that day.
WyattHayes33: I feel like you two are weirder than them but hide it better.
TroyTheDestroyer: No one will believe you :)
HaasTheBaby: !!!!!!!!!
HaasTheBaby: omg this one says they have sex in the penalty box????? 😱
HarrisDrover: False. Logistically impossible because of the cameras.
HarrisDrover: The equipment room, however…
WyattHayes33: I’m begging you all to stop.
HaasTheBaby: this says shane is a cuddler after! and ilya pretends to hate it but secretly loves it 👀
WyattHayes33: Luca did you even sleep last night???
TroyTheDestroyer: 100% true. Saw it with my own eyes at the team BBQ. Shane was using Ilya’s chest as a pillow while Ilya argued with Harris about politics. Ilya had his arm around him the whole time.
HaasTheBaby: sleep is for the week
HaasTheBaby: this is the best day of my life
WyattHayes33: weak*
HarrisDrover: Just be happy he can talk after consuming so much smut.
TroyTheDestroyer: Now why do you know that word 🤔
HaasTheBaby has added CaptainPainTrain
HaasTheBaby: captain! we have questions!
CaptainPainTrain: What is this.
TroyTheDestroyer: Luca discovered fanfiction. We’re fact-checking.
WyattHayes33: I told them to stop.
HarrisDrover: Ok virgin.
WyattHayes33: BCS I DON’T WANT TO READ ABOUT MY TEAMMATES HAVING FICTIONAL SEX????
TroyTheDestroyer: Oh its not fictional.
WyattHayes33: Captain if you want to punish them I’ll be the witness.
CaptainPainTrain: Send me the link about penalty box.
HarrisDrover: Witness THIS Wyatt The Virgin.
WyattHayes33: I’m calling HR.
HaasTheBaby: link sent
HaasTheBaby: also do you really call shane ‘little sun’?
CaptainPainTrain: Да.
CaptainPainTrain: This writing is not true. I’m not so obedient for him. They’re spreading false narrative.
CaptainPainTrain: And we have never used handcuffs. The silk ties from his suit, yes. Handcuffs, no.
WyattHayes33: Google how do I remove eyeballs.
TroyTheDestroyer: Kinky.
CaptainPainTrain has added ShanesNewSkates
ShanesNewSkates: Why am I in a chat called “debunking the lies”?
CaptainPainTrain: Our child is learning about internet.
CaptainPainTrain: He has questions.
HaasTheBaby: shane! i found a fanfic where you wear ilya’s jersey after games. is it true?
ShanesNewSkates: …
ShanesNewSkates: Sometimes. It’s comfortable.
TroyTheDestroyer: It’s because it smells like him and you’re a sap. Admit it.
ShanesNewSkates: Troy I will rearrange your face.
CaptainPainTrain: Do not threaten my right wing, солнышко. He is correct.
HaasTheBaby: !!!!!!! HE SAID IT!
CaptainPainTrain: Our baby is so cute.
ShanesNewSkates: Ilya you can’t adopt Luca he reads porn about us
CaptainPainTrain: I am not adopting. I am mentoring. He is learning what is true. This is important.
CaptainPainTrain: The one where I am vampire is false. The one where Shane rides me in the shower after practice is true.
ShanesNewSkates: I’m leaving this chat.
WyattHayes33: TAKE ME WITH YOU PLEASE
HaasTheBaby: wait one more! five times you almost got caught and one time you did??
CaptainPainTrain: Boring. We have never ‘almost’ been caught.
CaptainPainTrain: We have been caught. Many times. By you.
CaptainPainTrain: Now you know the truth. Do not believe lies. Only believe what you see with your own eyes.
CaptainPainTrain: And what you hear through hotel walls.
HaasTheBaby: this is better than fanfiction.
ShanesNewSkates: I hate you all.
ShanesNewSkates: (But send me the link about the vampire one later)
ShanesNewSkates has left the chat
HarrisDrover: Oh so HE is the one with blood sucking kink. Nice.
CaptainPainTrain: Luca
CaptainPainTrain: If you read one where Shane is shy, you send it to me immediately. They are always wrong and you should not be reading wrong.
WyattHayes33: Yes you want him to send you the links because they are ‘wrong’.
CaptainPainTrain: I will pay someone to write us fucking on your bed.
CaptainPainTrain has left the chat
HaasTheBaby: i have so much to live for
WyattHayes33: I’m going to jump off my balcony.
HarrisDrover: You’re on the first floor.
TroyTheDestroyer: I can give you keys to the terrace.
- Happy Little Tomato
It was a rare, scheduled night off after a back-to-back win. No injuries, no crushing losses. Just the sweet ache of victory and the promise of cold beer and ginger ale. The team descended upon The Blue Line, a hockey bar that knew better than to bother them, securing a large, worn booth in the back.
Shane Hollander, it was discovered, was a hilariously cheap drunk. Two beers in, and the careful, professional composure began to melt like spring ice. His laugh became louder, more frequent, a bright, uninhibited sound that drew smiles from the team. His cheeks were flushed a permanent, warm pink.
“Look at him,” Troy cooed, nudging Harris. “He’s like a happy little tomato.”
“It’s the freckles,” Luca observed, leaning in. “They multiply when he’s drunk! I swear there are new ones on his nose!”
Shane grinned, swaying slightly on his bench seat. “They’re always there, you goof. You’re just noticing ‘cause you’re staring.”
“We’re staring because you’re cute,” Wyatt said, uncharacteristically sentimental after his own pint. “Like a drunk, freckled puppy.”
Ilya, who had been nursing a single vodka, watching the scene with a lazy, possessive contentment, stiffened. His arm was already around Shane’s shoulders but he tightened his grip.
“He is not puppy,” Ilya stated, his voice cutting through the chatter. “He is my husband. You will stop calling him cute.”
“But Cap, he is cute,” Harris argued, grinning. “Objectively. It’s a scientific fact. It’s on Wikipedia.”
Shane giggled, leaning his head against Ilya’s shoulder. “They’re right, you know.”
Ilya looked down at him, at the sparkling brown eyes, the spread of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the utterly relaxed and happy smile. A muscle ticked in Ilya’s jaw. It wasn’t real anger–they all knew the rules of this game by now–but a performative, mock jealousy that was part of the ritual.
“No,” Ilya grumbled. He shifted, and in one smooth motion, he unzipped his heavy winter jacket and draped it over Shane. He tucked his husband against his side, partially covering his upper body with the jacket, and zipped it back up like a bird hiding its mate under a wing. All that was visible was a mess of Shane’s brown hair sticking out the top.
“There,” Ilya said, satisfied. “No more cute. He is hidden.”
From inside the jacket came a muffled protest that sounded like, “Ilya, I can’t see!” followed by more drunken giggles.
The table roared with laughter.
Wyatt hit the table dramatically. “Noooo give me back my cute puppy!”
“You can’t jacket him every time we give him a compliment!” Troy howled.
“Watch me,” Ilya said flatly, taking a sip of his drink with his free hand, the other holding the jacket closed around his squirming, laughing husband.
It was pure, unadulterated chaos. They threw napkins at the jacket lump. Luca tried to peek inside and got a light swat on the head from Ilya. Wyatt took a picture for “blackmail purposes.” It was perfect. It was family.
+1: Family
The voice came from a booth across the aisle, loud enough to cut through their bubble. A group of guys, who looked like they were still in college, wearing too tight shirts that showed off their barely formed muscles, had been getting louder all night.
“–fuckin’ adorable, isn’t it?” one of them sneered, gesturing with his beer toward their table. “Their stupid fans post so much about them, calling them hot and manly and stuff. Like there’s anything manly about taking it like a bitch.”
Time froze for a second. Shane stiffened inside the jacket bundle. The drunken softness evaporated from his face, replaced by a weary, practiced blankness as he slowly pulled the jacket off of him. Ilya held him close as he glared back at the group.
Troy was on his feet first. He wasn’t the biggest guy on the team but he had a scrappiness born of being underestimated. “The fuck did you just say?”
Luca stood up too, trying to look intimidating and mostly looking like an angry puppy. “Apologize to him!”
Wyatt didn’t stand so much as unfold himself from the booth, his 6’2” goalie frame suddenly imposing as he moved to stand slightly in front of where Shane and Ilya were still seated. He said nothing, just crossed his arms and fixed the loudmouth with a cold, silent stare that had broken the will of many a shooter on a breakaway.
Harris nudged his foot against Ilya’s, silently telling him to remain seated.
The loudmouth asshole laughed even when his friends were starting to pull him away after looking at the group of angry athletes. “What, like you all don’t think the same! Fucking gross seeing men like him act like a princess, bet his parents regret having him.”
That was it.
Shane saw Ilya’s lips pull in a snarl, ready to beat the asshole to a pulp even if it cost him headlines in tomorrow’s news. He placed a hand on Ilya’s chest, a silent ‘don’t.’
But he didn’t need to.
Because Troy was already stepping forward. “Big words for a man who doesn’t have half the achievement my teammate does,” Troy spat, his voice low and venomous. “And you better hope your parents don’t regret having you or no one will visit you in the hospital after I’m done.”
Wyatt took another step, crowding the guy’s space. “You should leave,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Now.”
The guy gulped, trying to appear haughty even as he stumbled his way away from them. “Whatever. Sensitive bunch.” He and his friends made his way towards the door, still throwing glares where Shane and Ilya were.
The tension didn’t break until the door swung shut behind them.
For a moment, no one moved. Then Troy turned, his angry mask cracking into a mocking snicker. “All that talk and he runs off like a runt.”
Luca deflated, the adrenaline leaving him shaky. “I was ready to fight. I have never been more ready to fight before!”
“You were terrifying, kid,” Harris said, clapping him on the back.
Wyatt just nodded at Ilya and went back to his seat.
Ilya sat amidst them, looking from one face to another. The cold fury had melted into something emotional and raw. He looked at Shane, who gave him a small, wobbly smile.
Ilya turned back to his team. He cleared his throat. “You… did not need to do that.”
“Yeah we did,” Troy said simply, dropping back into the booth. “No one says anything against our family.”
Shane let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. “You guys…”
“Ah, shut up, Hollander,” Harris said, shoving a fresh beer towards him. “Your freckles are still stupid cute.”
This time Ilya didn’t hide him in his jacket. He just held him close, his chin resting on Shane’s head, and gave a single, sharp nod to his team.
As the noise of the bar slowly returned, their booth settled back into its warm, chaotic rhythm. Troy slung an arm around Luca, taking a swing of his beer. “So,” he whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Who’s gonna write the fanfic about this?”
The resulting groans and laughter echoed loud enough to drown out the anxiousness from before.