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It’s the playoffs, game 7, final round. They’re sporting black and red in Ottawa, tied up 3-3 against the Houston Drillers in the fourth minute of second overtime. Ilya Rozanov, Luca Haas and Troy Barrett each with a goal under their belt. They’re skating down the ice towards the Houston Drillers’s net, the puck hot on Zane Boodram’s stick. Wyatt Hayes just saved 2 back to back shots on their own in a determined battle, the puck bouncing off his pads. He’s the star of the night, of the season, everyone knows it.
Seconds earlier, Nick Chouinard scooped the puck in a clash of sticks and took it around the back of their net. A risky move that had the crowd gasping but kept the Drillers crowding Hayes, readying themselves for the winning goal like lions stalking prey. Chouinard protected the puck with an intensity he only discovered in himself this last year. He handed it off through the opposing defenceman’s legs to Zane Boodram who accepted it with fury and sprinted the puck away from their net, hot and heavy with the defenceman pulling on his tail.
Now, ahead of his team, with Shane Hollander and Luca Haas on his right following close behind, Boodram is passing it across the ice to Haas. Haas checks Houston’s right defencemen determinedly with his shoulder as he tips the puck hard in Hollander’s direction. The puck meets Shane’s stick in the air with a blind, fingers crossed luck as Luca falls backwards hard onto the ice, taking Houston’s right defenceman down with him. They’re only just past the centre line, but Shane smells an opening. He’s ahead of everyone else, leading the pack. Bood rushes forward, stalking the heels of Houston’s defence. The Drillers have caught up, skating past Shane. The right defenceman spits blood. Shane skates forward, he focuses all his power and throws the puck. It’s hard, fast and risky, but it flies untouched down the ice from the centre line. The Drillers skate fast, trying to catch it, but the rest of room stills. Houston’s goalie sees it coming. He’s laser focused and driven, body aligned. Shane continues forward as fast as he can, preparing himself for a rebound—already doing the math. Ottawa’s second line defencemen, Chouinard and Holmberg prepare themselves for another attack on their end. The puck hits the goalie’s left glove, Coach Wiebe and Ilya Rozanov lean forward from the bench, grasping at the wall—their eyes wide. It’s too fast, Ilya thinks—the goalie can’t catch it. The puck spins as it bounces off him, slowing as it recoils down backwards towards the ice. It hits the blue of the crease, right behind his skate, and bounces in one swift motion upwards. The puck flies diagonally, Houston’s goalie turns his head and reaches his stick wielding hand behind him desperately towards the puck. He just barely taps it with the corner of his stick. The puck pushes further into the net. It hits the top right corner before dropping down onto the ice.
Exuberance. Ilya takes a shuddery breath out, whispers to himself under his breath, the heels of his hands find his eyes, they’re watering. “Slava Bogu” thank god, he laughs. While leaping up, his fists find the sky and he cheers.
“They’ve done it. They’ve done it! For the first time ever, the Ottawa Centaurs are your 2022 Stanley Cup Champions!”
The crowd erupts into madness, the arena shakes from excitement. It’s so loud, and Shane channels it. He drops his stick and gloves down behind him while flying down the ice. He rams himself into Hayes, all while screaming celebratory phrases at whoever will listen.
“Ottawa’s own, Shane Hollander, scores the winning goal in the fourth minute of second over time with an assist from Luca Haas, and a secondary assist from Centaurs royalty, Zane Boodram. What a game!”
The rest of the line follows fast behind Shane, attacking him and Hayes in a flurry of hard hitting hugs that push the net backwards into the boards. The rest of the boys make it over from the bench, each slamming into the growing huddle one by one. They scream and paw at each other’s heads. Barrett jumps as high as he can, arms and legs wide like a starfish, he thuds on top of his team, and kisses the top of Shane’s helmet with a loud smooch. He feels hands hitting at his back as he throws the helmet off of Shane’s head.
“Fuck, yeah Hollander!” He screams, then they all start chanting in unison.
“Hollzy! Hollzy! Hollzy!” The loud cheers and whoops from them muffle the rolling celebration of the crowd.
Shane looks up to it, and spots young girl sporting a very small Centaurs pride jersey. She’s sitting on a man’s shoulders, dancing and smiling. The man beside them cozies in, gives them each a powerful kiss on the cheek.
He lowers his eyes then, peering through barely-there holes in the celebratory wall his teammates made around him. He finds his husband, Ilya, who is crying, smiling, and skating a smooth, steady path through the abandoned gear over to his team. His eyes are locked in on him, and Shane can tell he’s overwhelmed with pride. Proud of himself, his team, his city, his Shane. Ilya is filled with an electric, warm energy, and Shane can feel it radiating off of him from metres away. He loves him so much. His heart swells, and Shanes eyes well up. He urges to kiss the man he loves, to hold him and revel in the importance and the “fuck you” of this win, together, with the person who encourages him to be his bravest, most confident self.
Of course they won, despite what anyone thought. Despite what anyone wished.
Shane looks to Luca who is still chanting his name, hugging him closely, and nods his chin to signal he wants out the man wall he’s engulfed in. Luca pushes his arm straight out and back. Holmberg, Boodram, and Hayes push into an aisle, turning to meet each other with solid hugs and heavy slaps. They jump up and down on their skates like excited kids. Troy skates the ice, stopping himself in front of Harris to yell over the noise.
“Can you stop tweeting for a second? Later?” it’s a plea, a beg. He’s so happy. He loves this team.
Shane skates forward, fast like he’s chasing the puck again. He rams himself so hard into Ilya that his feet unsteady, but he’s caught in familiar hands. He cheers and whoops and giggles. Ilya smiles so wide, Shane nearly melts into him. He wants to eat him, he thinks.
The crowd’s cheers get louder as his hands meet Ilya’s sweaty neck and their foreheads touch. Shane feels Ilya’s hands on his waist, tugging and grabbing at his jersey. It feels like an electric shock, like fireworks must be shooting from his fingertips. The pull of their bodies is magnetic, and he burns with it. They stay like that for a second, breathing heavy and looking into each other’s teary eyes. Their excitement bounces off each other, off the arena, off the crowd and their teammates.
“Hollander,” Ilya says it like he’s introducing himself for the first time again, and smiles.
“Rozanov,” Shane mimics his tone, and starts playing with the tight wet curls up Ilya’s neck. “We did it,”
“I’m so proud of you, moya lyubov,” Ilya interrupts, maybe. He brings one hand to Shane’s jaw—he grips him, presses his forehead into Shane’s a bit harder. “That was so cool, goal from centre ice. Goalie was scared, they were all scared. I was holding on like watching a horror movie. My strong, fast husband.”
“I love you so much.” And with that, they’re kissing.
Ilya tilted Shane’s chin, and pulled his forehead off of his own. He studied Shane’s whole face, biting the inside of his cheeks to stifle what he thinks might be a sob. He watched a tear fall from Shane’s eye, he watched him smile big, he watched his gaze move down to his lips. Ilya leaned in, slow, tender and intentional.
Shane loves him, and he loves Shane. They kiss sweetly, and he lives in it. He smiles into Shane’s lips when his hands find Ilya’s waist, when Shane hums and pulls him in closer. Ilya’s hands find the back of Shane’s head, and he pushes his tongue in, just a little bit. Shane smiles against him, laughing, buzzing with it all. He chases Ilya’s mouth when he pulls away, he’s bouncing-off-the-walls energetic, and needs somewhere to place it. Ilya takes a hold of his cheeks and gives him three more exaggerated smooches to his lips, and then one to his cheek and forehead.
The rest of the team finds them then, and ignites a new emotion in Ilya when he hears their chant. “Cap! Cap! Cap! Cap!” Their voices are loud and deep and hypnotic. Shane joins in.
Ilya roars, yells something in Russian, and waves his hands to the crowd encouraging them to cheer. He skates around his team, looking out, indulging. This team, this city, these fans—it’s love to him. He felt powerful, worthy, taking Boston to the final, winning them the cup. He didn’t know anything could feel better, but this, this feels unearthly. His mother must be here standing close to him, he thinks. He feels so riled up he wants to run himself into the glass. He spots Luca standing still, wide eyes scanning the crowd. That’s the next best thing, Ilya decides. He skates himself hard and fast, hinges his hips and moves like a bullet. His shoulder rams Haas’s waist and he lifts him over his arm like a child.
“What- are you? Rozanov!” He’s caught off guard. He hears the crowd laughing, and he thinks he’d be embarrassed if he didn’t just score the tying goal and assist the winning one.
Ilya grabs at Troy’s arm, pulling him along. Shane and the rest of the team skate close behind them to meet Houston’s players in a handshake line. Ilya lowers Luca and ruffles his hair with a smirk and a wink, then turns to shake the first hand “Hello, good game, really,” he hugs a man he played with during his first year, as a rookie.
Shane finds Ilya waving up at his parents and Jackie, Hayden is there too. He yells lovingly at Svetlana in Russian, she blows them each a kiss, Rose’s heart hands pump at her chest. Shane gives him a quick hug, then turns to hug Bood, then Barrett, then Dykstra; whoever he can find. Wiebe is on the ice now, so is everyone else, including commissioner Crowell—next to the Conn Smythe Trophy, holding a stupid microphone. He wants to skate over to him, spit on his shoes, tell him I told you so. He doesn’t, he instead listens as the big speaker blares, and silences the crowd.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please turn your attention to the ice for the presentation of the Conn Smythe Trophy and Stanley Cup ceremony.”
Shane can’t wait to hold the cup again, he can’t wait to hold it alongside Ilya. He scans the arena excitedly, looks up at his parents, yells he loves them. They say it back, then Yuna points towards the Commissioner with a stern look on her face, prompting Shane to pay attention as if he’s 5 years old again.
“The Conn Smythe Trophy goes to this most valuable player in the playoffs,” Crowell begins “Today, it’s going to the player who proved to be the best of his kind in the league this year,”
Shane slaps Hayes on the back, he knows his hockey stats, knows that Hayes had a ridiculous year.
“Wyatt Hayes!” The Commissioner gestures towards him, keeps his arm out until Wyatt reaches him for a handshake.
Wyatt thanks him, he has to. He poses for a picture, listens to the crowd chant his name like he’s royalty. After this playoff performance, he might as well be. The trophy is heavier than he thought. Centaur’s Young, LaPoint and Holmberg stick their tongues out and shake their heads at him as he passes the team, skating to hand the trophy off the rink. He snorts, lets them each give him a celebratory hug. He’s happy, he loves his team.
The arena lights dim down, and the spot lights turn on. They move to the beat of the loud music that sounds like it belongs in action movie trailer. They shine over the crowd, over the team, and stop on the Stanley Cup—now resting on a pedestal.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Stanley Cup!”
Ilya vibrates, he’s done this before, but this time he’s worked hard for it. It’s not just about hockey, or being the best, and it’s not clouded by the desperation to prove himself to his father. He’s older now, more developed. He knows himself, knows why he’s the way he is and fuck, he’s even proud of himself. Truly proud of himself. Not for winning his second Stanley Cup, but of this life he’s built, with this team he’s built. He’s proud of Shane for being so brave, letting himself dream of a future with him. And he’s proud of himself for accepting it, and leaning into it, for loving him, becoming a Centaur for him. He’s proud of Troy, for fearlessly speaking out against the league, for finding the courage to apologize to those he hurt, for skating the rink proudly wearing a rainbow flag. And he’s proud of himself for creating a space safe enough for Troy’s walls to have collapsed. Banishing the fragile masculinity and the bigotry he could've just as easily absorbed from his own father away from their home ice. He’s proud of Luca for growing into himself and finding confidence behind that shy smile of his, for admitting he’s good at more than just being quiet, while staying humble and gracious. And he’s proud of himself for being the kind of mentor he needed all those years ago, when he would cry into the air of empty hotel rooms and then drink until he was numb enough to fuck the first thing that let him. He’s proud of the rest of the boys—Hayes, level headed, strong and charitable. Boodram, a family man, loyalty Ilya looks up to. Dykstra, one of the most genuine guys he’s ever met, despite the redneck attire.
“What a ride it’s been for the Centaurs,” Crowell’s voice booms over cheers and whistles “This team made it once to the playoffs a decade ago, getting kicked in the first round. Today, they finish their second ever playoff run with a record breaking performance, and the Stanley Cup.” The Commissioner doesn’t have much else to say. He congratulates coaches, owners and managers. He calls Rozanov and Hollander “rivals”, it’s not a joke but everyone laughs. “Now, I invite The Centaurs Captain, Ilya Rozanov, to hoist the Stanley Cup.”
Ilya skates over feeling light and airy like a little boy. He nods at Robert Crowell, and puts his hand out for a shake. Crowell offers his hand hesitantly, and Ilya doesn’t thank him. He lifts the Cup from its throne and throws his arms up over his head. He roars as he spins around himself. The crowd mimics his yell, his teammates whistle and scream and shuffle their feet, using all their restraint to keep themselves from mauling him in another dog pile. Ilya continues his lap around the rink, they bark instead.
“Privet, staryy drug” hello my old friend, he brings the Cup down to his lips and gives it a kiss, just like the one he put to Shane’s forehead minutes ago. He glides himself right into Shane, who is standing in the middle of the Centaurs clump, and gives him a hands-free peck to the lips. His team surrounds him, they jump up and down in unison with each other as they chant their team name. Rozanov shakes the Cup one last time for the camera, yelling “We are the best team in the world!” before handing it off to Zane Boodram.
The crowd is even louder for him, and if Zane wasn’t crying before, he sure is now. They chant his whole name, “Za-ane Boodram!” clapping between calls. He’s been a Centaur longer than anyone else here tonight. His whole career, staying despite themselves. He loves Ottawa, loves his big backyard and his quiet street. “Za-ane Boodram!” He would’ve stayed forever, even as unsuccessful as they were. The fans know this, and they love him back for it. He cries out a declaration of love for his wife and son as he completes his lap, then hands it off to Wyatt—the star of the season.
Wyatt takes off with his second trophy of the night. Flying down the ice like a real life superhero. If only he had a cape. He’ll make sure he has a cape next year, maybe a costume. He’ll take pictures with some kids after the game. He can’t wait to do this over again, he hopes they do.
“Fuck Toronto” He says while handing the Cup off to Barrett. They took Toronto down in the first round, winning games one through four. Wyatt didn’t let any goals in during that first game on Toronto’s ice, and Troy made two.
Troy skates a wide circle, slowing as he passes the press zone. Harris is standing on a long carpet, leaning against the board, a phone in his hand. Gen is next to him, shooting pictures.
“Harris!” Troy yells simply, with so much excitement.
Harris looks him up and down, his mouth drops into an elated, shocked expression, a smile exists in it. He looks at the Cup for a beat, then starts clapping like a toddler. “Woah, look at you! Gen, you better be getting this!” He watches Troy fall into a blush, then he grabs his face and kisses his cheek. “Go! They’re waiting!” He points and smiles and catches Ilya’s eyes, they’re teary and thankful.
It’s Shane’s turn now. Ottawa’s second star centre, their hometown player—old, fresh meat. He doesn’t skate off the second he receives the cup from Troy. No, he instead turns around towards his husband. He inches backwards slowly, skating away from him.
“Come on!” Shane looks behind his shoulder then back at Ilya, and then up at the crowd. “Hurry!”
“What? Hollander, go. I did mine already.” He’s smiling wildly, his hands wave infront of him.
Troy starts pushing on Ilya’s shoulder blade, but he’s unmoving.
“Come on, I don’t care! I wouldn’t be here without you, please, Rozanov? Take it!” He shakes the Cup in his grip, glances at it, up through his lashes.
“I wouldn’t be either. You scored the winning goal! Now do your winner lap!”
Shane is still skating backwards at a snails pace, looking at Ilya with doe eyes. He nearly turns until he hears Dykstra’s voice, sure and sarcastic. “Roz, you fucker, stop being stupid!”
Ilya looks back at him, gives him a Slavic scoff and skates happily towards his Husband. Shane lowers the Cup down towards his side, and Ilya takes hold. They skate Shane’s lap together, not saying much, not screaming wildly like before. They laugh, quietly, only they can hear it.
“You’ll kill me, Hollander.” Ilya says when Shane winks at him, seductively like no one’s watching, like his parents aren’t in the stands. Ilya lets go of the Cup as they reach the end of Shane’s lap. He slows his pace and watches as Shane hoists it back above his head, rushes towards Haas, and passes it off.
Ilya lets himself bathe in it. Shane is still turned away from him, clapping in the air chanting for Luca. He looks him up and down, and smiles to himself. He has to shake his head, look at his feet. He whispers a small fuck to himself, wishing the blush off his face, but he knows it’s no luck, and he’s glad to show it off. He laughs then, big and warm as he skates into Shane’s space. Ilya pulls him into a hug, a real one. They breath in each other’s scents and sway back and fourth. Humming and whispering admirations into each other’s skin.
They hold each other until Wiebe takes the cup—until they’re rushing their coach with their teammates. It’s not the wildest huddle of the night for the Centaurs, but definitely not their last.