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It’s late - the clock on the wall showing it’s well past 3am - and the house has settled into that familiar quiet. The kind where every slight sound becomes white noise because you’re just so used to it.
This has been their home for a decade, now, and the walls hold their memories like Shane and Ilya are one with them. They echo back all of the joy and the laughter that lives inside; a house made a home because of all the love that it gets to witness. There are no slamming doors, or skeletons in closets, or secrets making the foundation sag.
They are happy.
The trophy room in this house is reminiscent of the one Shane used to have back in Montreal, but instead of just Shane’s achievements, it belongs to both of them now.
It’s filled with memorabilia from all of the awards they’ve both won - Calder, Hart, Rocket Richard, and Lady Byng, just to name a few. There’s pucks from their first, hundredth, and five-hundredth goals. Jerseys, and commemorative sticks for their thousandth games, and their medal collection from the Olympics.
And then, in pride of place, are their championship rings. Three with Montreal, one with Boston…and four with Ottawa.
Sometimes Shane still can’t believe it - all they’ve done, all they’ve achieved, despite everything that stood in the way of their success. All the people who tried to hold them back or push them down, the people who didn’t think they belonged because of racism or homophobia, or both. So much stood in their way - including people who Shane thought would be friends for life - and yet they did all of this anyway.
They built something wonderful despite everyone who told them it was impossible.
Shane is proud of himself; that’s something he would have struggled to say once upon a time, but it’s indisputable now. He’s proud of Ilya, too, of course. More proud of his husband than Shane could ever be of himself. And it’s not just because of the trophies - in fact, they pale in comparison to the life they live and the love they share. That’s the real crowning glory.
The most important thing that Shane has ever done is love, and be loved by, Ilya.
Shane hears him coming, his quiet footsteps loud in the late-night silence of the house. He hears Ilya slip through the crack in the door but doesn’t turn around. Instead he stays seated on the two-seater couch with his back to the door, waiting for the moment that Ilya sidles up behind him. He leans down, his arms curling around Shane’s shoulders and sliding down his chest, as Ilya presses the sides of their faces together.
“Sorry,” Shane whispers. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Ilya hums, pressing his lips to Shane’s cheek as he says, “You didn’t. I woke up and you were gone. I missed you.”
Shane chuckles softly, reaching a hand up to cover Ilya’s - left over left, their wedding rings glinting in the warm lamplight. He turns his head just enough to kiss the curve of Ilya’s jaw, stubble scratchy against Shane’s lips because Ilya didn’t bother shaving yesterday. Shane likes the feel of it, so he does it once more.
“Why are you awake? You’ll be grumpy tomorrow,” Ilya teases him.
Training camp starts tomorrow; the first day of Shane’s ninth season with the Ottawa Centaurs.
“I won’t be grumpy,” he argues.
Ilya clicks his tongue. “Yes, you will. Like angry kitten. You’ll scare all of our rookies.”
The team looks different now than it did when he first joined.
Bood and Hayes are both retired now, Dykstra is in Colorado, and Choui is in Michigan. Ilya still wears the C like a badge of an hour - an oath he takes as seriously as his marriage vows - and Shane and Troy are his proud As. Luca’s still with the team, of course, insisting that he’ll retire with the Cens before he pulls on another team’s jersey. They’ve had some great kids come up, too, like Petey and Kally, and some really promising prospects joining them this camp.
With four cups under their belts in just eight seasons, Ottawa are the team that everyone wants to play for now. They’ve crafted a dynasty together - turned the Cens into a team that is accepting, and loving, and successful.
“Look at everything we’ve done, Ilya.”
Ilya hums softly. His arms slide off Shane’s chest, but he doesn’t let go of his hand as he rounds the couch and takes the empty seat beside Shane. Instinctively, Shane leans into him - his head on Ilya’s shoulder and their hands locked together on Shane’s lap.
“We’re pretty fucking great, huh?” Ilya says, and Shane snorts out a quiet laugh.
“And so humble, too.”
“Pft, humble is for people who haven’t won a million trophies.”
Shane turns his face into Ilya’s shoulder to hide his smile. His husband is ridiculous, and impossible, and the love of Shane’s life.
He feels Ilya kiss the top of his head, so Shane kisses his shoulder in return. And for a few short moments they just sit quietly together, looking at the legacy they have managed to build.
There are pictures of all their victories covering the walls - pictures of their teams when they won Cups with Ottawa and Boston, but the only ones from Shane’s years in Montreal are with him, Hayden, and JJ. There are pictures of their Cup days at the Game Changers camps with all the kids. Pictures from the NHL Awards too, including one of the selfies they had taken together on stage, way back in 2014 when they still had no idea what the fuck they were doing.
There’s a picture of their wedding day in here, as well. ”Biggest win of my life,” Ilya had said, and Shane had found it impossible to disagree.
“What’s going on in this pretty head of yours?” Ilya asks.
“Just thinking.”
“Hm. Sounds dangerous.”
“Asshole,” Shane scoffs, tilting his head to gently bite Ilya’s collarbone.
He’s not wrong, though. Shane’s thoughts feel dangerous. Or - not dangerous, exactly, but really fucking scary. The kind of thoughts that used to have him bolting upright in the middle of the night, his skin drenched with cold sweat at the mere prospect of such a thing.
But now…now Shane thinks it’s time.
“I think this is my last season,” he whispers, voice faltering over the words he’s never said aloud before.
He feels Ilya go tense for the briefest of moments, before his body relaxes again. Then he’s pulling away slightly, his thumb and finger gripping Shane’s chin and turning his face so they can look at each other. Shane can feel his eyes watering, and Ilya’s expression softens when he notices.
Before he says anything, he dips forward and steals a kiss from Shane’s lips.
“Okay.”
Shane almost flinches. “Okay? Is that - that’s it?”
Ilya shrugs. He moves his hand from Shane’s chin to his cheek, tracing the freckles he’s still obsessed with even after all these years.
“We are getting old,” Ilya acknowledges. Shane lets out a bark of laughter that’s too loud in the dead of night.
Getting old is an understatement for their line of work. They’re both thirty-eight years old - will be thirty-nine before the season ends, if they make a deep playoff run - and two decades in the NHL is a lot longer than most players get.
But Shane is starting to feel every single year of those two decades, by now.
He’s tired - the kind that can’t be fixed from a few good nights of sleep. It’s the kind of tired that burrows into his bones and lingers there like a ghost, reminding him that his time in the league is running out. His hip aches after every single game, and no amount of rehab is going to change it.
And - perhaps worst of all - is the way he can feel himself getting slower.
For years Shane and Ilya were the fastest in the league - completely untouchable, unreachable - and for years after that, they were at least able to keep up with the new guys on the scene. But Luca, and Petey, and Kally…they’re too fast for Shane, now. His mind and his hands can still keep up, but his legs haven’t got that kind of speed anymore.
He wants to walk away from the sport he loves before it has to ask him to leave. Go out with a bang, instead of a whimper.
“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “We’re definitely getting old.”
“Your hip hurts.”
“It does.”
“And we are slow. And tired.”
Shane laughs again. “Yes, thank you so much for the reminder.”
Ilya grins at him, his thumb still caressing Shane’s cheek, and jaw, and chin, and nose.
God. Even after all this time, Ilya still looks at Shane like he is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He still makes Shane’s heart race, and his stomach flutter, and his breath catch. His husband still makes this love feel exciting and brand new - like it’s something to cherish - even after almost two decades together.
And that - that is exactly the reason Shane is finally ready to let go.
He’s been dreading this - the moment he’d have to say goodbye to hockey - since he was just a child, long before he was even drafted in the NHL.
He’s been skating since he learned to stand, holding a stick as soon as he was big enough to carry one, and playing games from the moment the Timbits U7 division let him in. By the time he was eight, he knew he was going to play in the NHL: there was simply no other option. His life became practices, and competitions, and combines - his mom and dad driving hours and hours so Shane never missed out on anything that mattered.
Then it got bigger - more serious - with scouts, and talks of the draft, and of contracts. And when Shane finally made it to the big leagues he knew he would do anything at all to keep it, even if that meant hiding a part of himself; even if it meant hiding Ilya.
He sacrificed so much for this sport, for so fucking long.
Shane has built his entire life around hockey. Once upon a time, the thought of walking away from it had been unfathomable.
But hockey isn’t everything anymore.
They have the foundation, which has expanded far beyond what they ever could have imagined. They have their friends, and their family. They have a whole network of queer NHL players - both out and still closeted - that feel a lot like family, too.
Most importantly, though, Shane has Ilya. His wonderful husband, who he loves more than life itself.
And he is everything.
Shane has a beautiful, full, joyous life that won’t be lessened or weakened without having hockey in it. There are so many things that he still wants to do, like go on vacation during the season, or coach, or maybe even have children. So. Shane is finally ready to let it go and see what waits on the other side.
“We have given hockey everything, but,” Ilya says, “I think it’s almost time for us to walk away, while we can still walk.”
Shane laughs, soft and easy and so relieved that Ilya understands - that he isn’t doubting, or questioning, or trying to change Shane’s mind. He starts to lean in for a kiss, when-
“Wait. You - you said us.”
Ilya nods. “Yes. Us. Me and You.”
“Ilya…”
He leans in to steal the kiss that Shane had aborted, his lips soft and deliberate, and still tasting vaguely of toothpaste.
“We have been together at the top since the very beginning,” Ilya says. “It only makes sense that we do this together, also.”
Tears instantly spring to Shane’s eyes, and his throat feels all choked up. “You don’t have to do this for me,” he whispers.
Ilya smiles as he swipes at the one tear that Shane isn’t able to stop from falling. “I know I don’t have to,” Ilya explains. “But I want to. I have been ready to let go for some time, I think. I just kept wanting one more season with you.”
“God, baby,” Shane whines.
And then he’s pushing Ilya backwards, swinging one leg over his thighs, and launching himself onto Ilya’s lap.
Shane drapes himself over his husband, squeezing his hips with his knees as he curls his arms around Ilya’s neck and peppers kisses all over his perfect face. Ilya laughs, winds his arms around Shane’s waist, and just lets himself be mauled.
Shane had known Ilya was getting tired, too, of course. He’s only a month younger than Shane, after all. His bones ache in the same way, and a mild MCL sprain from a few years ago still plays up more than Ilya would like. He’s still the most incredible captain, but he’s slower now, and there are guys on the team who would make great replacements for Ilya and Shane alike; if they go, they’ll be leaving the team in good hands.
“I love you,” Shane murmurs. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“I love you, too, my Shane. So much.”
He would have been proud to be Ilya’s WAG - HAB? - would have watched from the crowd, cheered him on from the sidelines, and followed Ilya around North America like a lost puppy because they couldn’t have handled road trips apart. Shane would have done all of that happily, without any regrets at all.
But, like Ilya said, they have both been at the top - matching each other’s achievements - since the start of their careers.
It’s only fitting they start and end the same way: together.
Shane kisses Ilya once more, square on the mouth. It’s slow, and tender, and familiar in a way that makes his entire body melt against Ilya’s.
They’re great communicators now, after years of marriage - and therapy - but there are some things that simply can’t be put into words. So Shane takes all of those feelings he couldn’t possibly articulate and he presses them into Ilya’s tongue, offering his truth in the form of a kiss. Ilya understands, he thinks, because his hands slip beneath Shane’s t-shirt and his fingers press into the dimples at the bottom of Shane’s spine.
“I want kids,” Shane whispers.
“You finally gonna let me put a baby in you, Hollander?” Ilya teases, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.
Shane scoffs, slapping him lightly on the chest as he leans back to look his husband in the eyes. They’re shining, bright and wide and filled with so much love; it’s the same way Ilya always looks at him.
“I’m serious, asshole,” Shane says. “And it’s Hollander-Rozanov, thank you very much.”
Ilya grins, his hands squeezing Shane’s hips. “Mr Hollander-Rozanov, I would love to have children with you.”
“Really?”
They’ve talked about it before, of course. Over and over again, actually. They’ve wanted children for years, but it’s never felt like the right time.
Ilya knows what it’s like to grow up without parents - his mother gone far too soon, and his father so awful he may as well have been - and neither of them wanted that for their hypothetical kids. They want to be present, involved but not overbearing, and that’s impossible when they’re both going on road trips for nine months out of the year.
But, if they retire…
“Of course, sweetheart. I want a family with you more than anything.”
“Even more than another dog?” Shane asks dubiously. Ilya laughs, loud and honest, and Shane can’t help but smile in response.
“Yes, my love. Even more than another dog.”
And his husband is so sincere that, well, there’s nothing else for Shane to do but kiss him about it. Except they’re both smiling so wide that’s it not really a kiss at all.
“I want another cup first, though,” Shane insists.
“Oh, well of course,” Ilya murmurs as his lips trail over Shane’s jawline. “Whatever my husband wants.”
And Shane just wants this. Until they’re old and grey, and their kids have kids, and their trophy room gets taken over by paintings, ribbons from dance recitals, first-home-run baseballs, and science fair projects.
He wants this life that they have built together, forever. For always.