Chapter Text
It was Yuna Hollander's fault, really.
Shane felt guilty blaming his mother — his mother who had, truly, sacrificed much of her life to pursue greatness for her son, to secure six-figure contracts and fight his demons and, later, stand up to homophobes — but it was hard to ignore that this particular spiral was rooted in Yuna.
Yuna had been the one to set up the Google alert. It was years prior, long before Shane and Ilya Rozanov had even considered that their clandestine meetings would evolve into more. Become love. Become a relationship. Become a marriage.
"Shane, we need to know what's being said about you," Yuna had told him, as she snatched his laptop toward her and typed "Shane Hollander" into the "search term" field.
Shane remembered rolling his eyes on a sigh, watching as Yuna entered his and her email addresses to receive blasts every time his name was mentioned on the internet.
Yuna had side-eyed his annoyance. "Harnessing media and outside chatter is what smart athletes do. You're captain. You need to use every tool in your arsenal."
Shane had been quite sure that other captains — Ilya, certainly not — were not setting search alerts for their names in order to build locker room cohesion. But he never argued with Yuna. What would be the point?
Now, years later, he wished he'd put up a bit of a fight. Normally, Shane ignored the twice-weekly digest of Hollander content. It was typically game recaps from ESPN; think pieces from The Athletic about team chemistry; the occasional profile he knew was coming; or a PRWeekly blast about his latest Rolex campaign. While Shane enjoyed more attention from the media than other players in the league, and especially so after the marriage, he was not being followed by the paparazzi.
But today, there was a URL from Us Weekly — a tabloid that had scant printed his name since Rose Landry. Curiosity won out, and Shane clicked into the link as he glanced up from the kitchen island and down the hallway, toward where llya was ignoring a third alarm. It was off-season, and they were on cottage time.
The page loaded as Shane reached for his coffee, drawing the warm liquid into his mouth. His eyes scanned the article headline: "Ilya Rozanov's Dating History." Shane choked on his drink, coffee spit droplets decorating the screen as he coughed and smacked at his chest. Under the headline were three images positioned side-by-side: Ilya over a decade prior holding hands with a lanky, brunette model as they left a club; Shane and Ilya on the red carpet at last year's ESPYs; Ilya wrapped drunkenly around Svetlana in a blurry selfie once uploaded to Instagram.
"Shane, moya lyubov, you okay?" Ilya, apparently roused successfully by the last alarm, called from the bedroom. Shane swiped the spray on his screen away with a hurried hand as he caught his breath. "Yup, just went down the wrong pipe."
"What pipe?" Ilya questioned, his voice still thick with sleep and echoing as he projected from behind the cracked bedroom door and under the covers.
Shane didn't lift his eyes from the screen as he yelled back across the cottage. "Nevermind, I'm fine." The answer seemed to satisfy Ilya, who Shane was sure would later grumble about stupid English expressions.
He checked the date on the article, noting it had been published today. It had been weeks since the Cup (a sore subject, following an unsuccessful playoff run); Ilya's 34th birthday had recently come and gone. Why, Shane's mind buzzed, was Us Weekly bringing up ancient history, now?
Happy anniversary Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov! Oh, duh, Shane thought as he read the piece. Their imminent wedding anniversary.
He'd ordered an elaborate bouquet of lilies to decorate the dock as a surprise for Ilya — fourth anniversaries were traditionally marked with flowers and fruit. The fruit portion of his gift grossed Shane out, admittedly, but he knew the gesture would earn him his husband's affections (and likely, a blow job): Shane had worked with McDonald's PR to secure a supply-sized box of the fast food chain's mini apple pies. It was sitting in the closet of one of the spare bedrooms hidden under a blanket, just waiting for Ilya to gorge himself. Shane would never understand how Ilya's fast food bad habit never showed on his frame or in his energy on the ice.
The article continued: Hockey's first husbands broke the Internet when they came out, and the couple has been making headlines ever since. Though intensely private, Rozanov, 34, and Hollander, also 34, occasionally share glimpses into their life together on social media and in their post-game interviews. While the timeline of their full romance remains unclear, Rozanov has never been the shy one about his relationships. Keep reading for a full look back at everyone the Russian phenom was linked to before making it official with his Ottawa Centaurs teammate Hollander.
Shane did not want to keep reading. He did not want to "look back" at Ilya's past antics.
While the past four years had been, mostly, blissful, Shane still battled his brain sometimes. There'd been nights when those insecurities mounted, as Shane pressed his husband: "You're really okay with never being with a woman again? You don't think about it?" Ilya had always shushed him, murmuring assurances and "ya tebya lyublyu" as he kissed bruises into Shane's thighs. "Only want this. Only you. Forever," he promised. Shane wasn't sure what he'd do if Ilya ever said yes; he wasn't prepared for that answer. But still he asked, desperately seeking reassurance.
And he wasn't sure, that morning, why he kept scrolling. The article included subheadings of women's names — only women, as Ilya had never been publicly tied to another man, despite eventually being openly bisexual. Each included a photo, typically a paparazzi shot of a young, drunken Ilya and a woman so stunning it made Shane's heart hurt. Most of the included information on the "relationships" was presumptive, threaded together from Internet gossip and bolstered with insignificant details of Ilya's then-public persona. None of these women, the models, the YouTuber, had been more than fleeting sexual encounters. Shane knew that. Shane knew everything. Still, his gut churned as he scrolled.
Svetlana's section, at least, lightened his mood. Of course, Ilya and Svetlana had once had a sexual relationship. But their friendship imbued every encounter. And now, over a decade on from when the featured photo had been taken, Shane's own friendship with Svetlana, Sveta, was in place. This section of the article had the most information, because, Shane reminded himself, it was the only one based in reality.
At the end of the story, was a collection of images of Shane and Ilya. The number available online still bowled Shane over. Just a few years prior, he'd hurriedly delete photographic evidence of their romance. Ilya squirreled images away in a hidden folder on his phone. There certainly were not photos of them kissing and holding hands available for public consumption. But now, many. Enough that he had to scroll and scroll and scroll before he reached more text.
The writer glossed over the more uncomfortable details of their coming out and the league response. It mentioned that first Instagram post and statement, and then hurried, again, past the Metros' harsh dismissal of their player; their cold and aggressive rejection of the man who'd earned them glory. There were the few details the world knew about their backyard nuptials — Hayden and Jackie had shared pictures on social media, with permission, a continued penance for Hayden's unwitting part in their outing. Then, a celebratory look at Shane's coming home to the Centaurs and a rehash of the few relationship quotes he'd shared in a profile at the time.
There were more words from Ilya, unsurprising as he'd always been the one ready to share. More open, less guarded, despite his background. "My husband is beautiful player. Have you watched him? He is best in league. Even better than me. We will win many Cups," Ilya had gloated to Fox Sports after their first victory together for Ottawa. Ilya happily claimed Shane — and Shane's talent — as his own.
What's next for the dynamic duo? The article speculated. Retirement, some have suggested, as many anticipate the pair will soon start a family — something Rozanov has been candid about: "I want more Hollanders. My husband is pretty." Shane rolled his eyes. He loved how loudly Ilya loved him, but some things were just embarrassing. If he'd been sitting next to him during that postgame, Shane would've smacked his hand over Ilya's mouth.
Shane scrolled to the top of the article. He willed himself to click out, but instead found the section about the brunette model, again.
It was 2012. Ilya hadn't even been inside him, yet. But still, Shane felt bile rise in his throat. He was jealous, and it was embarrassing. He knew this woman was someone Ilya had only slept with three times, and only when the Bears played in New York. They knew nothing about each other, and while Ilya didn't even blink when she popped up in magazine spreads and on billboards now, Shane always felt sick. Anyone who knew Ilya, his husband, intimately put Shane on edge.
The article suggested that the pair had actually dated — boyfriend, girlfriend, defined the relationship. Shane wondered how the writer felt just making things up. Pure speculation hidden behind careful wording: "seemed," "appeared," "unclear," "allegedly." He remembered those same words being thrown around in the months after he and Rose were first photographed together. Ilya hated it too.
Loud footsteps trudging down the hall drew Shane's attention, Ilya's arrival punctuated by a thunderous yawn. "Moy pomidor, is there coffee?" Ilya questioned as he wrapped strong arms around Shane's shoulders from behind, peppering his cheeks with kisses. Ilya hadn't yet brushed his teeth, and Shane grimaced. "Ilya, your breath," he admonished. It only urged Ilya on, the pecks getting sloppier and closer to Shane's nose as his grip tightened on Shane's body.
Suddenly, Ilya stopped, his hands releasing Shane and bracketing around him to rest on the table. "What's this?" he asked, pointing a finger at the laptop between them. The screen was filled with that nightclub picture of Ilya and the model. "Shane," Ilya prodded, tenderness and concern entering his voice.
Shane flushed, grateful Ilya was behind him and couldn't get a true look at the shame coloring his face. "I wasn't like, looking up old photos. I got a Google alert," he rushed to explain. "They've done a story about everyone you've ever dated to celebrate our anniversary."
Ilya scoffed. "I did not date this woman, you know this," he said, gesticulating toward the screen.
"I know, but the world doesn't," Shane's voice cracked on that last bit, betraying how not cool and calm this stupid piece of clickbait was making him feel. He'd started to tear up; he could feel the moisture building in his eyes. Great.
Ilya's arms gripped Shane's shoulders and he spun him around on the bar stool. Shane fixed his gaze toward the floor but a tear escaped. Shane felt Ilya's finger wipe it away, and then move down to urge his chin up to meet the Russian's hazel eyes.
"Shane, this article has upset you?" Ilya asked, his private tenderness toward Shane on full display.
The article had no idea about that, Shane thought. They believed Ilya was a loud, boisterous asshole who was playfully, publicly horny all the time. But Ilya could be sickeningly sweet and endlessly thoughtful. The wise part of his brain knew that model had never, ever seen this part of Ilya. But Shane's unchecked anxiety rushed past reality.
"Idiotskiy," Ilya murmured, taking in Shane's wet eyes. "This story is stupid. Shane, we have been married for four years, together much longer. There is no relationship other than this one that matters. I think of no one on that list, ever."
Shane finally matched Ilya's unrelenting eye contact. God, the man almost hurt to look at, he was so stunning, even with morning breath and crust in the corners of his eyes. "Sveta is on the list."
Ilya sighed, caressing Shane's cheeks and thumbing away escaping tears. "Okay, no one on list but you and Svetlana matters. Give me computer." Ilya reached around Shane and grabbed the laptop, before turning and heading toward the couch in the living room. He plopped down with a sigh, and positioned the computer on his bare stomach. "Sweetheart, please, pour me a coffee and then come here," he directed.
Shane was still trying not to cry, but appreciated the task. Ilya was good at distracting him from his own often outsized emotions and reactions. He stood, moving around the island toward the coffee pot. He reached for Ilya's favorite loon mug he'd insisted they buy last year at a convenience store a few miles from the cottage. It had been buried on a shelf of ignored local merch and gathering dust. Ilya had been so excited, rushing up to Shane at the counter like a child who'd found the ice cream freezer. "Shane, we must get. It has wolfbird!" Shane remembered Ilya pressing. He'd smiled as he paid and Ilya had cradled the mug the whole way home in the passenger seat.
Now, he added a splash of creamer to Ilya's steaming coffee, and moved toward the couch. He thought the imminent threat of a crying spell had been thwarted. Shane handed his husband the mug – "Da, my favorite," Ilya praised — before lifting the man's legs and sitting with Ilya's limbs over his lap. Shane couldn't see the laptop screen from its perch on Ilya's belly, but he could tell that Ilya was scrolling as his unoccupied hand moved on the mousepad.
"This," he said, looking at Shane after a sip of coffee, "is ridiculous."
Shane sighed. "I fucking know that, obviously."
"Tell Yuna we are ending these Google notices."
"Alerts," Shane corrected.
"Da, alerts," said Ilya. "You do not need to be reading this ... this ... slop. They do not know me. They do not know us. Only one thing they got right, beyond facts."
Shane had been rubbing his hands up and down Ilya's legs in his lap, but stopped in question. "Wait, what thing? The Sveta stuff?"
"No, no," replied Ilya with a grin. "That I want to put baby in you." He waggled his eyebrows at Shane suggestively. Always suggestively.
Shane threw his head back against the plush leather and closed his eyes. "Ilya," he admonished, unable to truly disguise his affection as annoyance. They'd been talking more and more about what was next. About growing their family — when and how. Ilya couldn't wait to be a dad. Shane couldn't wait either, really, though he was, unsurprisingly, more anxious about everything to do with parenthood. Shane was very focused on the planning part of family planning.
Even with Ilya's tease, and a reminder that the next relationship on Ilya's list would be one with their children, the tears came again. Quickly, unexpectedly, Shane was sobbing. He felt Ilya remove his legs and sit up next to Shane before the laptop and coffee mug were placed on the coffee table and he was being enveloped. The sudden heat of his partner's body melded to his only escalated Shane's tears.
Ilya murmured sweet Russian sentiments as he gripped Shane and nuzzled at his cheek. "Shane, what is wrong? How does this have you so upset? I am here. We are together, always." The playfulness had disappeared completely, and Shane recognized real concern in Ilya's voice. He kept his face hidden in Ilya's shoulder as his body shook.
"Sometimes," he pushed out between sobs, "I remember how much time we wasted. How fucking awful it felt to see those photos of you, to read about those women and not know the truth. I hated myself for being so jealous. But I was so jealous. I wanted to be the one holding your hand. But I also didn't, because I was so terrified of anyone really seeing us — seeing me. I know it's been years but, seeing that this morning, it was like I was transported back to when all we had were a handful of meet-ups a year."
Ilya lifted Shane's head up with a light pull to his hair. Shane knew he'd derailed their leisurely morning plans of coffee in the hammock, followed by Ilya slowly opening his husband up as light filtered into their bedroom. Nowhere to be but inside each other. But he didn't feel any annoyance from Ilya as his sobs returned.
"Shane, is killing me that you are so upset," he sighed. "I know that time was painful. I hate it. I hate thinking about what we could have had. But look where we are. Would you change this, now? Married, teammates, out and happy."
Shane wiped at his tears as he shook his head with a no.
Ilya continued, "You know, if we want old, fake things to go away, we could always share more? Tell world more about us. You know, I will happily say more about you, kotenok."
Shane's breathing evened out. Did he want that? Four years ago — three years ago, even — he would have said categorically, no, he did not want to share more of his private life. He wanted to keep some things for just them, but he also didn't want to open himself and Ilya up to more targeted chirps from the players still boldly homophobic and hateful on the ice. They had teammates that stood up for them and fought back for them, now, but Montreal's active dismissal still thrummed beneath the surface for Shane. Giving more would be getting more, he'd reasoned.
"Maybe," Shane tried, hesitantly. "Maybe we can post more on social media."
"Da," Ilya said, happy for Shane's agreement. "I have many, many photos I can share."
Shane paled. "Not those photos sweetheart, relax," Ilya laughed.
Shane let out a breath and nodded, still physically wrapped up in Ilya. "Okay, yes, we can share more photos. I'm fine with that. Let people see this is real."
"Moya lyubov, there is nothing more real," Ilya said sweetly, again running his thumb across the remaining wetness covering Shane's freckles. "Okay now?"
Shane nodded, rolling his shoulders as he recentered himself. "Okay," he assured, receiving a sweet peck from Ilya.
"And now, I email article author and tell her about errors," Ilya stated.
"Ilya, no, oh my god," Shane, horrified, swatted his husband's shoulder. "Just leave it."
Ilya's smile was unrepentant. "Okay, okay. I just leave it."
The Russian unwrapped himself from Shane, then pushed off the couch. He grabbed his coffee mug, and headed toward the door for the back patio. "Shane," he urged, "I want to cuddle in hammock now."
Shane smiled and pushed himself to standing. He looked down at the discarded laptop on the table and told Ilya, "One minute. I'll meet you out there."
Ilya nodded, opening and exiting out the door as he called behind himself, "Do not read article again."
"I'm not," Shane assured, his finger reaching down to click out of the browser window and then navigating to the Google alerts landing page. Once there, he leaned over from his standing position and scrolled until he reached the alert set for his name. He paused a moment before hitting the trash can icon. Sorry, Yuna. Shane closed the laptop, and then moved back into the kitchen to refill his coffee cup. As he walked toward the door to join his husband, he felt his phone buzz from his pocket.
Shane paused at the door, pulling out the iPhone to look at the notification: new X message from Ilya Rozanov. Shane looked out the window at Ilya, who was lounging peacefully in the hammock under the morning rays, no phone in sight. Shane clicked in.
Ilya had linked to the Us Weekly article, and added some feedback: "I have edit for you, @UsWeekly. Article should be called 'Ilya Rozanov's Almost 20 Year Obsession with Shane Hollander, Explained.' Who are other people? No one I know."
Shane sighed, then burst out laughing. He opened the door as he chuckled and heard his husband's own laughter. There really are no people other than them, he thought with a smile.