Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Intro: July 2017

"Hayden is going to be so upset," Shane says idly, fidgeting with a button on the cuff of his suit jacket. “I was the best man at his wedding, and he doesn’t even know I’m getting married.”

Ilya rolls his eyes so hard that they threaten to pop out of his head. “I don’t want to think about Hayden Pike on my wedding day.” 

Shane frowns, remembering how excited Hayden was to have Shane stand next to him during his own insane u-haul wedding (a mere 6 months after meeting Jackie at a nightclub, much to the horror and delight of everyone in his life), and feeling guilty that he wasn’t returning the favour during his own insane u-haul wedding (a mere [almost] 10 years after meeting Ilya outside of a hockey rink, which objectively-speaking isn’t u-hauling in the slightest, except it feels like it is given that they agreed to get married a month ago and the only people who know are themselves, Shane’s parents, Svetlana, and a handful of employees of Ottawa City Hall). Hayden was ecstatic during his entire wedding, something that he felt the need to tell Shane approximately once every 15 minutes (by throwing his entire body at Shane’s in a bear hug, pressing his lips up to Shane’s ear, and telling him in detail how happy he was that Shane was there with him and Jackie). Looking back, Shane’s pretty sure he was the last person to leave the venue besides the happy couple themselves. He had tried to leave early, but Hayden didn’t let him. Shane tried to leave several times, actually, but Hayden’s grip on his wrist was vice-like and he kept putting on his most pathetic, big-eyed facial expression he could. Shane isn’t a monster; he couldn’t leave his best friend pouting like that at his own wedding reception. Hayden even tried to drunkenly invite Shane back to their hotel room to hang out more, but thankfully Jackie swooped in to save Shane (and also her own wedding night).

Shane Hollander feels the need to think about Hayden Pike on his wedding day because Hayden Pike definitely felt the need to think about Shane Hollander on his wedding day.

Now that Shane thinks about it, Hayden’s wedding was…weird…not that his isn’t also weird. This is an extremely different type of weird. 

“You have…” Ilya begins, snapping Shane out of his memories. “What is the phrase? Your feet are cold?”

“What? No!” Shane responds. “Well, that is the phrase, yes, cold feet.”

“Which…you do not have?”

“Which I do not have.” Shane smiles at Ilya, taking his hand. “Let’s do this.”

June 2017, one month earlier

Shane couldn't sleep. 

Ilya, bless him, was out like a light, snoring like a truck engine. It should be annoying, but instead Shane is disgustingly endeared by it. Ilya sleeps like he is a heat-seeking missile, cramming his massive body into every point of contact it can with Shane's own body. When Shane first sat up in the bed 2 hours before, finally coming to terms with the fact that he would not be sleeping tonight, Ilya was comfortably next to him but not actually touching him. Now, Ilya has practically thrown himself over Shane's lap, head shoved into Shane's stomach and snoring into him. There is a growing wet spot on Shane's t-shirt he is trying to ignore. He thinks it might be drool, or condensation from the sheer force of the snores Ilya is breathing into the fabric. 

Conveniently, this position means that Shane can use Ilya as a lap desk as he taps away at his iPad. God, this iPad sucks. He probably should have brought his laptop with him.

He’s using Canva on his iPad, which he finds has more visually-interesting options than Google Slides, not to even mention the disappointment that is Keynote. It's not that the visuals of this particular presentation mattered, since Shane went with a subdued dark red and white-toned pre-made theme. Canadian colours, sort of, if the flag was slightly darker and had some more grey tones in it. Despite knowing the theme was unimportant (after all, the point of this presentation is just to give Ilya a visual rundown of everything Shane wanted to propose, figuratively and literally), Shane had agonized over themes for a solid 20 minutes, tapping back and forth between a black and yellow one (Ilya would be fond it of, perhaps, since it's the Bears colours), a red and blue one (visually, it looked terrible, but Shane had envisioned Ilya's face when he realized he was looking at a Voyageurs-themed presentation and thought it would be hilarious, but there's nothing about this presentation that should be hilarious), and a theme that was a mix of relaxing green and brown tones, not dissimilar to the land surrounding the cottage, but slightly too cutesy for Shane’s taste, even if the little cartoon bear graphic that popped out of some of the slide options tugged at his heartstrings a little. 

This is a serious presentation, perhaps the most serious presentation Shane will ever give in his life. The red and white one was cleanly professional and also made sense in the context. The context in question is: oh, my fucking god, Shane is about to propose with a Canva presentation about IRCC processing timelines. He really, really hopes Ilya isn't expecting anything more romantic. 

Shane really tried to go to sleep after their conversation about the future, but a little nagging voice in the back of his head could not let go of Ilya saying “I could marry Svetlana.” It replayed over and over again, mocking him. His brain housed a DJ working on the set of his nightmares, remixing the idea of Ilya marrying someone else for citizenship into the ugliest dubstep remix he could imagine, pounding relentlessly into his brain. He knew that there were alternatives to marriage, that Ilya could move to a Canadian team (in a full year, a voice in his head reminds him) and get permanent residency through express entry as a worker with Canadian experience, that they could develop their relationship on their own terms and not jump the gun like Shane is about to suggest. They could theoretically have a more normal timeline. A normal length of time to date. A normal proposal. A normal engagement. A normal wedding.

But then again, nothing about them had been on a normal timeline thus far, and Shane is becoming increasingly aware that maybe, his own idea of developing the relationship on his own terms was to u-haul as soon as humanly possible. Two voices scream in his head, one telling him that this plan feels right, and one telling him that this is completely insane and he’ll scare Ilya. Granted, he’s probably been this insane all along, and for some reason Ilya seems perfectly content with it. He’s only managed to scare Ilya away…multiple times (then again, Ilya has also managed to scare him away multiple times, so the insanity really is mutual).

Shane, fully aware that he would not be able to go back to sleep anytime soon, took out a fresh notebook from his nightstand (a perfectly normal thing to have, thank you very much. You never know when you will wake up in the dead of night and just NEED to write down an amazing play idea that came in a dream, and sometimes drawing it on paper is better than typing whatever descriptions come to mind in the phone notes app) and began to commit thoughts to paper in an attempt to clear his mind and steer himself away from making any irrational decisions. Then, out came the iPad, and 30 tabs of the Immigration, Refugees, and Citizenship Canada website. Then came the Canva tab, the meltdown over a theme, and the frantic translating of his chicken-scratch notes on the Canadian spousal sponsorship process to a coherent presentation. 

He has been at this for 4 hours straight, and sunlight is beginning to stream through the closed blinds. 

Shane clicks “new slide,” adding slide #24 to the presentation. He’s gone beyond making a plan for a wedding and immigration paperwork and timelines and physical presence. He’s moved onto plans for making their “friendship” more publicly known, so that it won’t be weird for anyone to see them spending time together. He types out “CHARITY CONCEPT” in the title portion of the slide and begins to transfer bullet points from his notebook.

Midway through slide 33, Ilya stirs in his sleep and cracks open a bleary eye. 

“Why are you awake,” Ilya asks, except he groans it out more like a statement.

“Don’t move,” Shane says, putting a hand flat on Ilya’s back to ensure he doesn’t stop being Shane’s human desk. “I’m making a presentation for you. It’s not done yet.” 

“It is too early for this.” 

Ilya rolls around, forcing Shane to pick up his iPad before it falls off of Ilya completely. Ilya then plucks it out of Shane’s hands, places it on the nightstand, and bellyflops his entire body weight onto Shane. 

“Sleep,’ he orders, and somehow, Shane’s brain finally complies. 

When he wakes up again three hours later, Shane somehow manages to wiggle himself out from under Ilya’s (massive, completely deadweight) body. He makes coffee, pouring himself a mug and adding nothing else (like a normal person), making sure his expensive drip coffee machine is set to keep the rest of the pot warm so Ilya can pour himself a nice cup whenever he gets up. Shane pauses for a moment in the kitchen, contemplative, before leaving out a Montreal Voyageurs 2015 Stanley Cup Champions mug and placing the bowl of sugar and some creamer out for Ilya in advance. 

Then, it’s back to the iPad. 

It doesn’t take Ilya long at all to emerge from the bedroom. “You abandoned me,” Ilya whines as he pads into the living room. “You abandoned me for powerpoint. This is cheating.” Ilya has brought out the big guns this time. Shane knows for a fact that Ilya went to sleep wearing boxers. He knows for a fact, actually, that Ilya was still wearing boxers when Shane managed to wiggle himself free just 20 minutes before. Somehow on the journey from bedroom to living room, Ilya was mugged at gunpoint and lost his underwear. The attacker, mercifully, let him keep Shane’s entire duvet, which Ilya now wears as a cape. 

Shane notices that Ilya is somehow holding the duvet in a way that ensures his dick is fully out on display. It’s like he is holding up a huge arrow pointing directly to his balls. Worst of all, Ilya is pouting. Shane may be strict, but he really, really has a bad track record with cute pouting men. Exhibit A: Hayden Pike at his own wedding reception begging Shane to stay a bit longer. Exhibit B: Ilya Rozanov standing in his cottage living room, bleary-eyed and flaccid dick fully out, whining about a PowerPoint presentation. 

“Canva,” Shane corrects. Ilya cocks his hip to the side, drawing Shane’s attention back to his bare dick (not that his attention really left his dick in the first place). Shane doesn’t say or do anything besides grip his iPad slightly harder. Clearly not satisfied with Shane’s reaction, Ilya releases a small, pathetic, petulant whine. Jesus fucking Christ. There’s a lip wobble now. Ilya means business. 

Gentlemen, we must stay focused, Shane thinks.

“Sit down?” Shane asks, patting the space on the couch beside him. “I want to show you what I made. I’ll get you coffee.” Ilya makes a small whining noise. “Please?” Shane asks. He tries his hand at his own pout attack, certain that Ilya will be as weak to his attack as Shane is to his pouts. 

“I’m naked and you want to show me presentation,” Ilya grumbles before he flops onto the couch next to Shane, opening up his duvet cape to tuck him into it too. Sweet victory.

“Okay, Mr. Professor, teach me all the things you looked up for me all night. I am good student.”

“I doubt that,” Shane says. 

“No, no. I am a very good student,” Ilya says. “I work best when my teachers give me rewards for good grades and good behaviour.”

“How many teachers do you have?”

“Just one,” Ilya laments. “And he is very strict. I have not received reward for good behaviour in a long time.” He throws a hand over his heart dramatically. “And I am such good student. This is abuse, I think. I will report it to school principal. It is sad, since he is my favourite teacher. I do not want him to get fired.” 

“What if your teacher gives you a reward after this one last lesson?” Shane says, grinning. 

“I could sit through one more lesson,” Ilya nods. “I’ll even take notes.”

Shane smiles and reaches for his HDMI cable. Because he brought his stupid iPad and not his laptop like a normal person, he had to dig out a USB-C to HDMI converter dongle out of a drawer. After a few moments, the connection between the iPad and his television screen whirrs to life. His handiwork, “OPERATION O CANADA (WORKING TITLE)” stares back at him in all of its red and white glory.

Shane is suddenly hit with a wave of nausea accompanied by a sense that maybe this is way too much to spring on a guy who probably isn't even his boyfriend. Oh my god, Shane actually is insane, and if Ilya hasn't realized it yet, this will be the thing that sends him running for the hills. They're not even boyfriends and here Shane is, proposing immediate marriage. Jesus fucking Christ. Ilya will run naked outside, throw himself off the dock, and swim across the lake just to get away from him. Or, maybe he will throw on some clothes, steal Shane’s jeep, and drive straight to the airport to get a one-way ticket for the soonest flight to Boston. Maybe Ilya will– 

Shane takes in a deep breath. “Actually, on second thought, we don’t have to look at this if you don’t want to.” He tries to keep his voice even, but it shakes anyways. 

“You were up all night making this for me,” he says, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Of course I will listen.” Ilya leans over Shane so he can press “present” on the iPad screen himself. 

Ilya looks at him so expectantly and so, so softly as Shane flickers his eyes between the beautiful man about to book it out of his home and life forever and the “OPERATION O CANADA (WORKING TITLE) by Shane Hollander” blown up on the screen. Somehow, Ilya’s expectant look encourages him to tap on the next slide. 

At this point, he might as well show Ilya how insane he is so Ilya at least has a chance to escape before they keep this, whatever it is, going any longer. 

Slides 2 and 3 go normally, with Ilya humming along to Shane’s summary of their current predicament and goals (concrete goals: Ilya has non-Russian citizenship [preferably Canada] as soon as possible, They can comfortably be a couple with less distance between them, change the narrative of their relationship so it doesn't feel like a bomb blowing up when they finally go public [or, god forbid, if something goes terribly wrong and they are outed]) 

(Abstract goals: peace of mind, safety, stability, a chance at happiness for the rest of their lives)

Ilya smiles at that part. Shane is glad he kept it in. 

Slide 4 is where Shane starts to panic again.

“Please don't freak out at this next slide. Just let me explain. The next one introduces the idea, and the ones after explain the reasoning and…” Shane babbles, refusing to tap “next” 

“Shane,” Ilya interrupts, nudging Shane’s side with his elbow. “It’s okay. Show me the idea.” Shane, stupidly, clicks. 

 Ilya stands up, staring at the screen. The duvet stays on the couch with Shane still wrapped in it, leaving Ilya standing up completely naked. This is it, Shane realizes. He is going to bolt. This really was too much. 

“There are other options, if this is too much,” Shane breathes out in a frantic rush. “I just…this feels more secure? But seriously, there are so many other options. Mountains of options that don’t involve us getting married right now.” Shane knows he is babbling. He’s stupid as fuck for putting this as slide 4 instead of easing Ilya in with less nuclear options. What on earth was Shane-at-2am thinking?

Ilya turns around and Shane braces for impact. 

“YES,” Ilya booms. He raises his arms above his head like he is cheering for a particularly impressive goal during a game.

“Huh?” 

“I am saying yes, Shane,” Ilya says. Behind the roar of blood in his ears that is making everything muffled and causing Shane to feel a little light-headed, he faintly registers that Ilya just got proposed to while stark naked, and he doesn’t seem to care.

“To…”

“Spousal sponsor, marriage, this,” Ilya says, waving his hand around and gesturing at nothing? Everything? “Yes.”

“Ilya, I haven’t even gotten to the slide that explains why–”

"Answer is yes,” Ilya reiterates. “I will read explanation slide later. Right now, I will suck your dick, and then we will eat breakfast, and you will explain everything in lots of detail.” Before Shane can even respond, Ilya basically launches himself at Shane.

As promised, Ilya is a good student (and encouraged by rewards), and he devotes his full attention to learning about The Plan (a cleaner working title than OPERATION O CANADA, Shane realizes) and including his input into each section of it. Well, almost his full attention. He keeps pausing to throw himself onto Shane’s lap and make out with him filthily every 5 slides or so.

Spousal Sponsorship was not the only option Shane included in the presentation, but it is the most solid option (and the option Ilya seems most passionate about).

(Shane is so, so lucky that Ilya is insane too). 

They discussed Express Entry as a potential pathway for Ilya to gain Canadian citizenship that did not involve a potentially ill-advised wedding, but both were decidedly less passionate about it as an option. Express Entry would mean that they'd have to wait for Ilya to become a free agent in a full year, then for him to sign with a Canadian team so he has a valid reason to apply for EE, and would involve a lengthy application in which they would need to explain why (through his work experience) Ilya should be granted permanent residency by virtue of the economic benefits he’d bring to Canada. Even then, it wouldn't be guaranteed, not that spousal sponsorship is either. But, at least spousal sponsorship relies on something they can control more easily than the solidity of Ilya’s career that requires a healthy, functional body to remain healthy and functional while almost constantly in danger of, well, becoming unhealthy and nonfunctional. Realistically, one particularly bad hit or fall could spell the end of the Express Entry plan. 

In the end, the processing times for a spousal sponsorship application submitted within the next few months and an express entry application submitted in two years would likely be the same. In a way, it doesn't matter which option they choose, because the timeline works out to three years regardless due to IRCC processing times.

Selfishly, Shane would much rather have the sense of stability that would come with the knowledge that something would be actively processed and in the hands of the Canadian government even while Ilya was still with the Boston Bears. Even more selfishly, a part of Shane’s brain really, really likes the sense of stability that would come with the term husband. Clear. Definitive. Would require full divorce proceedings and legal teams to reverse. That’s a very welcome type of stability after 7-9 years of a situationship. Another part of Shane’s brain reminds him that he is probably a little insane.

“This, this right here, this is important,” Ilya says, pointing a finger at the IRCC page he has opened on the iPad. Ilya, to Shane’s surprise, is quite diligently tapping on each link Shane added on each slide and is reading through the ocean of information the IRCC provides on spousal sponsorship. “‘When you agree to be a sponsor, you must sign an undertaking, promising to give financial support for the basic needs of your spouse or partner and their dependent children. Basic needs are: food, clothing, shelter and other needs for everyday living, dental care, eye care and other health needs that aren’t covered by public health services.’ This right here,” he continues to point at the statement. 

“Yes?” Shane asks, confused. 

“Canada says you must support me.”

“Ilya, you’re a multi-millionaire. That doesn’t count.”

Ilya pouts. “You do not wish to be my sugar daddy,” he says petulantly. 

“Again, you are a multi-millionaire.”

“Canadian government says you must become my sugar daddy,” Ilya insists. “Hockey world will fall apart once Montreal Voyageurs learn that I am basically on their payroll. Montreal protests. Prime Minister steps in and says ‘you must keep paying for Ilya Rozanov’s vodka and xbox subscription, it is Canadian law.’ Montreal loses the cup, obviously, because everyone is so upset that they all forget how to play hockey.” He says all of this while holding the Montreal Voyageurs mug Shane specifically chose for him earlier. 

“Asshole,” Shane says with all the love he can muster in his heart. 

Ilya clearly isn’t done with this. “I win the cup, and your coach cries himself to sleep because he signed the paycheque that bought me the food I eat that gives me energy to be better hockey player than his entire team.” Ilya punctuates this by shoving Shane’s bowl of oatmeal closer to him, a reminder for Shane to eat something that isn’t just black coffee and vibes for breakfast. 

After breakfast, they return to the couch. Ilya has commandeered the iPad and jumps around wildly between the slides. They’ve finished the entire presentation once, and now Ilya is reviewing it all again in an order that must make sense to him, although it makes no sense to Shane. 

He really is a good student. Shane feels his dick twitch. He kind of wishes Ilya put boxers or pants on so he could focus a bit better. Scratch that, no he doesn't. He wants to chew on Ilya’s bicep a little. 

Ilya is back on slide 8:  the nitty gritty of what they’ll need to actually, legally get married. A civil wedding at Ottawa City Hall takes a mere 20 minutes to perform with up to a maximum of 10 people in the room (including the couple, two witnesses, officiant, and 5 additional guests). They’d need to apply for a marriage license in advance, then schedule the actual ceremony, and…

“our two witnesses,” Shane says, bravely forcing himself to focus. “Two people we trust. At first I was thinking, maybe Hayden and Svetlana? That way we both have someone there for us, but then I realized that Hayden might shit himself to death if we sprung this on him.”

Ilya nods gravely. “I can’t have Montreal’s 15th best player on my marriage license, Shane. That would be a disgrace.” Despite Ilya’s expression and tone, Shane can tell that he is joking. Mostly. He’s like 65% sure Ilya is joking. “I could ask Svetlana. She will probably come and would not be a disgrace on our marriage license.”

“Maybe we should invite Scott Hunter and have him be a witness, since this is kind of happening because of him,” Shane muses. Ilya looks at him in utter horror, but before he can even think of a comeback, Shane doubles over laughing. “I’m kidding, obviously. Scott Hunter will not be on our marriage license. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Government of Canada does not accept signatures from people born before Canada became a country,” Ilya finally says, breaking into a small smile. “I think.”

“I think you’re right,” Shane says, still wheezing a bit. “See, you are already ready to take your citizenship test.”

“What about your parents?” Ilya asks, suddenly. 

Shane grimaces. One of the slides, slide 11, he thinks, is dedicated to a vague timeline of who should be told in what order. His parents are first on the list, but even the thought of telling them about this, about everything, makes his stomach feel like it’s dropped to the floor. It must show on his face, because Ilya immediately turns his body away from the screen to face Shane and envelops him in a massive, warm hug. 

“Hey, hey, we do not need to tell them if you think they…would not react well.”

Shane shakes his head. “I want to tell them.”

“Will it be…problem for them?” Ilya asks.

Shane continues to shake his head, slower now. “I don’t think so. I think they’ll be supportive. It’s just…a lot.” He twists his mouth into a lopsided grimace. “My mom might need some more time than my dad to process.”

Ilya nods. “Okay.” A pause. “Will we tell them before…or after ceremony?”

“Before,” Shane says without thinking. “Before is better. I would like my parents at my wedding.” Ilya nods but doesn't press. 

After taking a lengthy break from discussion (it’s hard to discuss much of anything with a penis shoved down your throat), Ilya is back to flipping through the slides and hammering out details. Shane thinks it’s cute how this has become their whole day.

“Proof of relationship,” Ilya muses. “Explain more.”

Shane nods. “Part of the application can be additional documents we provide that the immigration worker reviewing our case can consider. For spousal sponsorship, most people submit proof that they’re actually a couple. I was reading about it…” he trails off. “There is always concern that couples who submit for spousal permanent residency are…not real couples. Just applying to get easy PR.” Shane grimaces. “IRCC likes proof.” 

“Will be difficult for us…” Ilya muses, clearly disappointed. 

“I was doing some research, reading posts and comments from people who have done this secretly,” Shane says. “We can write a letter explaining why we aren’t publicly out yet. It’s easy for the IRCC to google us and know we aren’t lying about being public figures. Many people already know that Russia has anti-gay propaganda laws. They can make the connection that you being a public figure and having Russian citizenship would lead us to hide.” Ilya still looks disappointed. “We write our letter of explanation and provide other proof of relationship. People submit photographs, records of text or email conversations, in other people’s cases they’d show things like joint leases…”

Ilya smiles softly. "Photos. We can manage that…I think I have our iMessage history backed up on my iCloud."

"Ilya, that's...really stupid. What if you got hacked?"

"Yes, but that also means I have years of texts we can pick from." 

“We have to submit screenshots that look like conversations between a normal, loving couple,” Shane says. “No sexts.”

Ilya scoffs. “Sexts are good proof that we are together.” 

“Ilya, I am not sending some poor IRCC employee a screenshot of us talking about jerking off.”

Ilya fixes him with A Look, then shrugs. “We will return to this later. For now, come here.” He gestures for Shane to scoot closer. Once Shane attaches himself to Ilya’s side, Ilya raises his phone up and takes a selfie. 

“There. Photograph!” 

Shane planned to tell his parents in a very normal way, thank you very much. He wrote down each topic to broach in order, optimized specifically to ease them into their new reality. It's an order he plans to go with each time he needs to let someone into his life now. It's simple, really. (Insert name here) I’m gay. (Insert name here) I am in a relationship. (Insert name here) I am in a serious relationship with Ilya Rozanov. (Insert name here) We are getting married. See? Easy to comprehend, laid out carefully to minimize shock. Foolproof. 

He even laid out the groundwork in advance by texting his family groupchat: “Hey, I need to have a serious conversation with you. Can we have dinner tomorrow night?” Very concise! A serious tone to ensure they know he means business, but not revealing too much. A sense of urgency (but not too urgent), by asking them to have dinner in one day instead of springing it on them immediately or waiting too long by telling them closer to the actual wedding. Shane is a genius and master of subtlety. 

Also, he thought that if he kept it bottled in for longer than 48 hours, he might explode or possibly never tell them ever due to sheer fear and embarrassment. 

He had this perfect plan, and yet somehow it still got all fucked up. His father, bless him, came over to his cottage (not in the plan), a full 18 hours early (definitely not in the plan) to borrow a phone charger (seriously?) and caught his son and his future son-in-law making out against a window. Shane mentally kicks himself for designing a cottage with massive, floor-to-ceiling windows. 

So now he is sitting at his parents dining table a full day early, and the order in which he divulges information is all wrong, and the only thing keeping him from exploding out of his too-tight skin is Ilya’s arm sweeping across his back. 

“So, this serious conversation you wanted to have with us…” his mom trails off after the initial shock and reveal (out of order, Shane’s brain reminds him. He made the plan today and he has already fucked it up) is over and done with. 

“Yeah,” he croaks out. “This is the serious conversation.”

All things considered, the conversation goes well– better than he expected, really. He has no metric for how parents should react to their child dumping a decade’s worth of secrets on them, culminating with a “hey, I know I just turned your entire worldview on its head, but could you keep it together a bit longer so you can come to my surprise wedding and maybe freak out after that?” But, he thinks, Yuna and David Hollander are perhaps not the average parents when it comes to adapting and overcoming whatever Shane throws their way.

Well, his mom definitely is. His dad still looks like the bottom of his stomach has dropped to the basement and is flopping around like a fish on dry land. His mom, meanwhile, has flipped her internal switch from mom mode to manager mode. It's a switch she has mastered over the years, although her mom mode has gotten a bit rusty with lack of use as Shane entered adulthood and the MHL simultaneously. Shane’s childhood had ended with a bang, not a whimper, the second the ink was dry on his various MHL contracts and forms. Yuna Hollander had adjusted accordingly, bringing the manager mode to the surface and allowing mom mode to step backwards into the shadows of her mind. 

The Hollander family is good at compartmentalizing.

While Shane needed mom mode earlier, the return to manager mode is equally welcomed. She latches onto The Plan eagerly, drawn in by the gravitational force of a concrete, researched idea that she didn't have to make herself. Shane can practically see the excel sheet in her brain sorting itself out. In the time it takes for Shane to blink, Yuna somehow throws in her glasses and opens a laptop to poke around the IRCC website for herself. Ilya flicks his eyes between Shane and his mother in quick succession, a mixture of amused and slightly terrified, as he shovels another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

David, unlike Yuna, still looks like he might vomit at a moment's notice. 

“Sorry about earlier,” Ilya says quietly to David. 

David snorts a little. “It was my fault, Ilya. Sorry.” 

“Thank you for pasta and vodka,” Ilya continues. 

“This is all a little overwhelming, isn’t it?” David says suddenly.

“Yes?” Ilya mumbles around another forkful of pasta. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this."

(For Ilya, this is strangely kind and reminds Ilya a bit of his coach, LeClaire, fatherly in a way he still isn’t used to. LeClaire, however, doesn’t often keep the fatherly schtick going for an extended period of time, opting to use it briefly during vulnerable moments before switching back to the man who teaches AHL substitutes how to punch properly, like a real Boston Bear. David Hollander, meanwhile, seems like he has kept the fatherly schtick going for so long that he no longer remembers how to switch it off.)

“I’m sure you can find…other options, if you feel like this is too rushed,” David continues.

"It’s fine,” Ilya says and feels it fiercely. “I like rushing. I have always liked speed. You know, at last All Stars, I beat Shane in the speed competition by–”

Ilya feels Shane’s palm slap against his shoulder heavily and laughs. 

“Dad,” Shane interrupts them. “Do you know anyone in Ottawa City Hall who could make sure we get an appointment when, uh, preferably no one else is there? For privacy?”

David considers for a moment. “I think I might.”

Shane smiles. To Ilya, he supplies: “Dad works for the government.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Secret government agent!”

David shakes his head, laughing. He looks less like he is going to vomit pasta and vodka now. “Treasury board,” he corrects. 

“Secret government agent assigned to treasury board. Very impressive."

July 2017

If you asked Ilya a few months ago what he planned to do over the summer, he would probably say something along the lines of “Wouldn't you like to know?” or “The same as always,” or, occasionally, “Call of Duty.” If you asked him what he would be doing on July 18th specifically, the last thing he would possibly say is "getting married to Shane Hollander.”

And then Scott Hunter somehow won the Stanley Cup and kissed his much younger and hotter boyfriend live on national television, and that somehow led to Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander transitioning from a situationship to getting married at 9am on July 18, 2017. Ilya should send Scott Hunter a fruit basket.

Or maybe not. He knows better; he learned years ago that calling someone a “fruit” comes across as homophobic when the second line center of the LA team called Carmichael a fruit back in 2012, and Cliff laughed so hard at Ilya’s confusion that he slipped and fell on the ice so hard that he injured his hip. Maybe Ilya won't send the fruit basket. He’ll send some flyers for retirement homes instead. 

David Hollander turns around on the worrying about them thing and cries the hardest which is embarrassing because the officiant is his drinking buddy who will absolutely make fun of him after this 

David Hollander's secret government contacts are varied and wide-flung throughout Ottawa. David and Yuna Hollander combine to make a terrifyingly organized team. While Yuna plans and organizes loudly, David quietly handled the nitty-gritty. Ilya understands why Yuna and David are together and produced the constantly ticking time bomb that is Shane Hollander. 

This is how, at 9:15am on a random Tuesday, Ilya finds himself wearing a suit and standing face-to-face with his beloved ticking time bomb, surrounded by Shane’s parents, Svetlana, and a wedding officiant: one of David Hollander’s drinking buddies (and employee of Ottawa City Hall) who is visibly trying not to laugh at the way David Hollander is openly weeping while taking a shaky video of the ceremony with his iPad. 

Ilya isn't in much better shape: his eyes are blurry with tears, and somehow through the blur he can see that Shane’s are, too.

Shane once told him that crying only counts when tears fall out of your eyes, therefore, David is the only person crying right now. 

After the quick (as Shane promised, 20 minute ceremony), Yuna ushers the newly-minted couple to a photo studio for mandatory wedding portraits.

(Shane tried to stop this from happening, citing that phone photos would be fine, but Yuna was steadfast. “I am not allowing my only child to get married and not take a million photos for me to frame and show off when I can,” she had ranted over the phone when Shane tried and failed to stop this particular plan. “And they WILL be professional! none of this iPhone garbage! Shane, you are sponsored by ROLEX. You WILL have professional wedding photos.” Her anguish could be felt through Shane’s iPhone speakers.)

“Do you think she needs an adult daughter,” Svetlana asks Ilya as she watches Yuna fuss over Shane’s hair before ordering the photographer to adjust the background slightly. “…Or perhaps a controversially young girlfriend,” she adds after a moment. 

“Gross, don't say that.”

“You've said worse to me for years. This is payback.”

“This is my wedding day, Sveta, you have to be nice to me and not hit on my mother-in-law.”

Svetlana fixes him with a look that screams “that's debatable.”

August 2017

		REAL Pikes
		You, Hayden, Jackie

Today

Hayden

Shane dude I just saw that photoshoot

10:14

Jackie

WE just saw it

10:15

You look good babe!

10:15

Shane

Thanks, guys.

10:20

I appreciate it.

10:21

Hayden

Your body is insane dude

10:22

Jackie

Seconded

10:23

But more importantly

10:24

How have you been? We haven’t seen you in ages!

10:24

Shane

I’ve been pretty good.

10:25

Same as usual.

10:25

Nothing new over here. At all. Definitely nothing.

10:25

Hayden

Ahaha right on buddy

10:26

We’re jealous, Amber’s been really keeping us up lately

10:25

Jackie

Come by for dinner once you’re back in Montreal! You’ll get to meet her.

10:26

Shane

I’d like that.

10:27

Hayden

Maybe THIS one will be the one that finally convinces you to settle down have a kid of your own

10:28

Maybe when you have one, Ruby and Jade will be old enough to babysit

10:28

Shane

Ahaha uhm

10:29

Sure…

10:29

Hayden

??

10:30

Shane

I’ll see you soon.

10:32

September 2017

The second group of people on Shane’s “must-tell” list of people to drop the surprise marriage announcement on are the Pikes, much to Ilya’s chagrin.

Shane toyed with the idea of waiting a long time, perhaps multiple seasons, before telling Hayden Pike (IN PROPER ORDER) that he, Shane Hollander, is 1. Gay, 2. Married, 3. Married to Ilya Rozanov specifically. He never set an exact timeline for himself. Theoretically, it shouldn’t matter if he tells Hayden today or in two years. What’s done is done, and he is still gay and married to Ilya Rozanov regardless of if he tells Hayden Pike today or in thirty years. 

The thing is: there are many reasons for Shane to tell him sooner rather than later. First, the longer he keeps this a secret, the more his best friend will probably be hurt emotionally from the reveal. Second, he feels like he owes this to his friend, at least, given that Hayden has trusted him with so much (first person to meet Jackie [once they were sober], best man, godfather of his army of children, unfortunate receiver of a lot of information about Hayden’s sexual life that Shane really doesn’t want to know but Hayden is a chronic over-sharer when drunk), and now feels like an obvious time to reciprocate. Really, Shane’s been holding back on his best friend duties. Third, he keeps nearly slipping up and spilling the beans anyways, which is an unfortunate side effect of being comfortable with your best friend. Fourth, Ilya literally just texted Shane to tell him he is about to tell Cliff Marlow, who was second on Ilya’s “must-tell” list, and “a real homie,” which is a phrase Shane previously didn’t know that Ilya knew.

Fifth is probably the stupidest reason of all, but it’s the one most pressing on Shane’s mind: he kind of, maybe, really, really wants to wear his wedding ring sometimes (only where it is safe, like at home, and hopefully in the Pike family home), and kind of, maybe, really, really wants to wear it on a necklace the rest of the time, and Shane is pretty certain that Hayden and Jackie Pike are the only people who look at him closely enough to question the odd jewelry choice. 

Hayden and Jackie Pike both have an almost eerie tendency to notice changes in Shane’s appearance. Hayden, the few times Shane has accidentally come home with visible hickeys, has noticed (and commented on) them at a 97% success rate (even ones Shane carefully hides under high-necked shirts). Jackie, a secret clothes horse, can practically sense from 30 meters away when Shane is wearing a new pair of Reeboks he is contractually meant to be showing off in public.

Speaking of Jackie, she and the kids are away for the weekend visiting her parents in Gatineau, and Hayden stayed behind for some kind of sponsorship meeting (Shane is proud of him; Hayden has never successfully locked down a sponsorship deal the same way he has. It’s for some kind of new sports beverage that comes in a variety of concerningly-named flavours with even more concerning dyes and additives, but Shane pushes down the judgement bubbling at the base of his throat and tries to replace it with pride.). Hayden invited Shane over for the afternoon to hang out and watch a NFL game “or something.” 

The “or something” usually means video games, but sometimes means drinking beer until Hayden starts waxing poetic about something (his wife, his children, the depanneur down the street that gives him free samosas sometimes, and on occasion, Shane), and sometimes it means that Hayden just wants someone to sit next to as he scrolls through Instagram.

Today, it seems to mean beer, and Shane decides that now, while Hayden is 1.5 beers deep and comfortably sitting on the couch, is probably a good time to have a real conversation before Hayden deteriorates and starts talking about samosas or how beautiful Shane’s skating edges are.

“Hayd, can we talk?” Shane asks, fingers twitching at his sides. Hayden hums, taking another sip of his beer. “It’s about, uhm, Lily.”

“Oh! Finally.” Hayden looks relieved, almost.

“Finally?” Shane asks, a mix of startled and perplexed.

“You made it official, right? I saw you text her a little while back after you fumbled Rose Landry– still can’t believe you bagged Rose fucking Landry and then fumbled her, by the way– but I’m glad you’ve got Lily. I mean, it’s been years, dude!” Hayden rambles. “I told Jackie I saw you texting her again and she’s been on my ass about seeing if she can finally add Lily to the WAGs chat.”

Shane wrinkles his nose at that. 

“Not official?” Hayden plows on. “Come on, man. What are you even doing?” He sets his beer down on the floor (Shane wrinkles his nose at that, too. Hayden has a perfectly good coffee table with coasters that Shane bought for him and Jackie.) with a solid clunk. 

“We’re official,” Shane blurts out, raising his hands as if to physically stop Hayden. “It’s just, there’s more that I want to talk about?”

Hayden’s face cycles between a few emotions: joy, confusion, concern, then finally lands on shock. Shane keeps his hands held up, but Hayden moves forward anyways to aggressively slam his palms onto Shane’s shoulders before leaning in. Shane’s heartbeat kicks up in speed, confused. In his rush, Hayden kicks over the bottle of beer, which tips over and rolls around loudly. Thankfully, there wasn’t enough left in the bottle to spill out and soak the floor, but, still. Perfectly good table with coasters right there. Shane isn’t sure how Jackie handles her husband. Husband, right. Shane needs to focus on the way Hayden is already freaking out and Shane hasn’t even told him about the secret marriage thing. 

“Shane, buddy,” Hayden begins, frantic yet slow, completely ignoring the rolling beer bottle. His eyes bulge out of his head. “Are you telling me you got Lily pregnant?”

“Jesus, Hayd, no,” Shane sighs. “Please just let me finish talking.”

Hayden removes his hands and leans back a bit, expectant (but definitely relieved-yet-disappointed that his children aren’t getting any cousins anytime soon. Hayden has spent a lot of time imagining what a child of Shane’s would look like, if Shane’s kids would look as cute as the baby photos of Shane he managed to wrangle from Yuna Hollander, and if Shane’s kids would get along with his own. He has wondered if Shane having kids would cause him to spend even more time with the Pike family, or if he would detach from them a bit and focus on his own family. Hayden doesn't like to think about that often.). 

Shane sighs deeply before worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He elects to stare at a spot on the floor while he tells Hayden the complicated truth of the situation rather than seeing Hayden’s facial expressions. Hayden’s hardwood floor has an interesting pattern to it, underneath the scratches and wear-and-tear of life under the feet of an army of small children. He fixes his gaze to a small knot in the wood that vaguely reminds him of Jupiter’s Great Red Spot. 

“Shane,” Hayden interrupts. “It’s okay, you can tell me.” 

“I’m gay,” Shane decides to blurt out first. While he can’t (refuses to) see Hayden’s facial expression, he can tell that gears are turning in his brain at a rapid pace. 

“Uh huh,” Hayden says stupidly. Mercifully, Hayden’s brain gears are somewhat oiled and turn well enough to remind him of how Shane began the conversation. “Lily. Is…” Hayden ventures. “Is Lily a guy?”

Shane nods. 

Hayden slowly breathes out a huge breath. “That’s…thanks for telling me, man. That must have been hard to keep to yourself. Obviously, I’m cool with you being gay,” he tacks the last part on quickly, like he is worried Shane doesn’t already know that Hayden is like, a huge ally. He’s even been to the Montreal pride parade before! He’s been to a drag brunch before (by accident! He thought it was a normal brunch! But he had fun! Now he wishes every brunch was a drag brunch, and that's just a glimpse into how ally-pilled Hayden Pike’s brain is!)! Shane smiles and snorts in response, finally flicking his eyes up to briefly take in Hayden’s reaction. 

The moment passes fast as Shane ticks off a box in his mental checklist of confessions for the day. One down, several earth-shattering confessions to go. This one was somehow the easiest among them. 

“There’s more,” Shane says. “It’s, uhm, a lot, and I know you might be upset, but, I promise I’ll explain?” 

“Okay?” 

“We’re married?” Shane says, voice lilting upwards at the end like it’s a question, not a factual statement. “Surprise?” 

Hayden remains silent for a moment before jumping to his feet in shock. He points an accusatory hand down at Shane, who is still seated on the couch. If he hadn’t already kicked that beer on the floor, he would have kicked it now. It was doomed from the start. 

“Are you fucking with me? When?” Hayden doesn’t necessarily sound angry, more shocked than anything else. It’s somehow reassuring enough for Shane to continue on.

“July,” he responds softly. 

Hayden begins to pace around the living room. He steps on a few stray Legos and doesn't even seem to notice, which could either be because he is a professional father who is very used to stepping on sharp plastic objects, or because his entire worldview was just shattered like a frozen balloon getting pile-driven into pavement. “Shane Hollander, you were best man at my wedding, and now you’re telling me you got married two months ago and didn’t think ‘Oh hey, I should probably tell my best friend in the whole world?’” Hayden turns on his heel to face Shane fully. “Actually, dude, I haven’t even met this guy! What gives! Shane, you’re the literal godfather of my children!” 

“Listen,” Shane begins, fully looking at Hayden now. “Please, it’s not that I didn’t trust you…” Shane shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket and squeezes his fingers together repeatedly. “The only people who knew were my parents, and even then, I didn’t, uhm, give them much warning?” it sounds worse and worse the more he says all of this out loud, he realizes faintly. Once again, Shane wonders if he is actually insane. At least Ilya seems to be insane too. 

“Dude,” Hayden says, unimpressed, before flopping back onto the couch with Shane. That’s something. That's definitely not nothing. He jams a finger into Shane’s chest. “Explain.”

“Which part?” Shane wonders aloud as he wrings his hands together inside of his hoodie pocket.

"Why did you get married and not tell anyone? I didn’t even know you were engaged.”

“We weren’t engaged long,” Shane begins. “Listen, we didn’t tell anyone because it’s…complicated.” Shane faintly thinks that complicated is an understatement, but can’t think of a more fitting word. 

He steels himself before continuing. “We decided to get serious, and we want to tell people eventually, but…Lily’s immigration status is shaky, and he’s from a country where it’s dangerous to openly be gay.” Hayden nods, face blanching slightly. “Or, bisexual, in his case,” Shane tacks on quickly. Gotta keep things accurate. “We decided to get married so he can apply for permanent residency and eventually citizenship, so we can be out without worrying about legal repercussions. He’s safe while he’s here, but it’s an issue with…” Shane stumbles on which words to use. “Being out, and being in the public eye? And that being considered, uhm, propaganda? It’ll still take a long time to process everything in Canada, so we can’t really be out for a few years.”

They sit in silence for a while. 

Shane and Ilya submitted Ilya’s PR application in the middle of August, after waiting for their official marriage license to arrive in the mail. The gap in time gave Shane enough time to compile what he considers to be a very coherent, indisputable “additional document” outlining their proof of relationship. Shane, admittedly, laid it on thick in the additional document. The 127 page PDF he submitted contains a smattering of photographs (mostly recent, but this is unavoidable) from their wedding in addition to some recent snapshots (such as a photo Shane took of Ilya sitting on the floor with David Hollander as they worked on a puzzle together. Shane has spent a worrying amount of time staring at this photo) as well as some photos Ilya had squirreled away in his iCloud over the past few years. Shane recognizes some of these photos, but some are new to him: a shot of Shane’s back wearing Ilya’s Boston Bears jersey taken 2 years ago (a bet lost after the Voyageurs lost a game, but it wasn’t exactly a punishment), a blurry photograph of Shane’s profile, staring at the wall art in Ilya’s apartment with Ilya’s smiling face in the corner of the photograph, and to Shane’s endless horror: a photograph of the two smiling at each other on the ice, taken by Cliff Marlow. 

Also in the document are some (SOME) screenshots of text message threads showing that the pair have been communicating and meeting up with some frequency for the past few years. Ilya suggested including some of the raunchier messages, but Shane would frankly rather die than send his sexts to a faceless Immigration Canada employee to peruse. Ilya had huffed in response, grumbling that their sexts were fairly definitive proof of their connection, but Shane held strong. Shane ought to talk to Ilya about properly deleting old files. He’d be so fucking pissed off if they’re outed because some joker decided to hack Ilya’s old iPhone backups.

The latter portion of the document is a letter of explanation, outlining as vaguely as possible that the pair, despite being in the public eye, are in a secret relationship, hence the lack of public proof or witnesses outside of a very, very small group of people, as well as their need for discretion and potential rush processing. For the sake of clarity, Shane included screenshots of articles about their shared rivalry and competitive history, just in case the people processing their application have never heard of MHL hockey before. Shane’s mom kindly reminded him that they live in Canada, so this is unlikely. 

As for the rest of the application, well, Ilya is no stranger to the song and dance of submitting excessive amounts of paperwork (with notarized translations in English) to immigration authorities. 

Shane hopes it’s enough.

All in all, the application was not too difficult to put together, given that Ilya already had some of the more difficult documents to obtain available and ready. The majority of the application was on Shane's side of the court as the spousal sponsor, a role he took seriously. Form IMM5533e was his bible for weeks. Ilya, bless him, had offered to pay for the application fee, biometrics fee, and additional fee owed to Quebec (for the tall crime of being a Canadian living in Quebec and daring to marry outside the province, because Quebec is a fucking nightmare to file immigration paperwork in), but quickly rescinded the offer when he remembered that technically speaking, the application is tied up with a promise that Shane will provide for him financially. 

He called Shane “Mr. Sugar Daddy” for a solid 2 weeks.

“Is Lily his real name?” Hayden finally asks. 

Shane grimaces, knowing that this is the bandaid ripping moment. “No, it isn’t.”

“Can you…tell me his real name?” Hayden asks. “I want to meet him, too. I know you can’t be out, but you can come over and we can have double dates and stuff. I'll keep your secret safe.” 

Shane stays quiet for a moment. “Maybe,” Shane mumbles and fixes his gaze back onto that knot in the hardwood flooring. “Okay, promise me you won’t freak out.”

"Uhh, promise?” Hayden says, unsure.

"I’m serious,” Shane grumbles. 

“Promise.”

“Ilya.”

Hayden pauses for a brief moment, which gives Shane just enough time to start to feel himself descend deeper into panic. Then, Hayden barks out a massive, loud laugh, which startles Shane so intensely that he flinches in place. 

“Dude, that’s crazy!” Hayden howls. “No wonder you were nervous! Jackie’s gonna love this,” he continues. 

“So you’re cool with it?”

“Cool with it? I mean, it’s hilarious that your husband and your arch rival just happen to share a first name. What are the odds?” Hayden is still laughing so hard that tears are beginning to form in his eyes. “Holy shit, when you two can finally go public, you know who is going to shit himself laughing? Rozanov! There’s no way he won’t use it against you just to fuck with you.”

“Hayd, no,” Shane warns. 

“I know, I know,” Hayden waves a hand dismissively. “The last thing on your mind is probably Ilya Rozanov’s reaction to this, but come on, it’s objectively funny.”

“Hayden, I’m married to Ilya Rozanov.” 

October 2017

“Dinner at mine tonight?” Hayden asks. “Jackie said she’d make salmon just for you, and Ruby is getting desperate to finish explaining Despicable Me.”

“Can’t hang out tonight, Hayd. I have plans.”

“Bullshit,” Hayden responds. “You never have plans.” Objectively, this used to be true. Nowadays Shane has many, many plans, between his nightly plans to look at Ilya’s penis through Skype and his various long-term plans laid out helpfully in his notebook, Canva (For Ilya’s sake.  He is a visual learner), and more recently, Excel. Shane loves that excel sheet. He’s colour coded it. 

“We’re playing Boston tonight,” Shane points out casually, quieter than before, voice low enough to be drowned out in the chaos of a post-game locker room. 

“What does that have to do—oh my god. Dude.” Hayden looks horrified. Hayden leans in close and pitches his voice into a low whisper. “You're ditching me for Rozanov.”

“My husband, who I am legally married to, yes,” Shane whispers back, tactfully ignoring Hayden's gag when he says "husband." “And it isn’t ditching if we never made plans to begin with. What about tomorrow night?” Shane leans back again and says this at a more normal volume, to avoid attracting anyone’s suspicions with their close-quartered whispering.

Hayden nods. “Jackie has been dying to know more about,” Hayden flails his hand around a bit.  “You know.” 

Uh-huh,” he nods. 

“I’ve been trying to convince her that, uhm, you-know-who can’t be in the WAGs chat.”

“Might be easier to just say Lily,” Shane smirks. 

JJ whips his head around from his spot at his cubby across from the pair, like a bloodhound who can sniff out girlfriend drama from a mile away. “Capitaine!” he calls out. “Did I just hear the words ‘WAGs chat’ and ‘Lily’?” JJ’s grin is downright maniacal. 

“Oh shit, did Hollzy lock someone down?” Patrice Drapeau yells out.

Gilbert Comeau barks out a laugh. “No way, not the dude who fumbled Rose fucking Landry.”

“Isn’t Lily the name of that girl you’ve been texting for years?” Andropov asks. Why the fuck does my team care so much about my personal life, Shane whines internally.

JJ butts in. “Oh yes, yes it is!” He strides over to Shane and Hayden and claps a hand on Shane’s shoulder.  “Is it official?” he asks. He lets out a loud whoop when Shane shyly nods. There’s no use denying it at this point, he thinks.

Some of the guys join in on the excited whooping, jeering and cheering at Shane as they finish putting their gear in their cubbies. Shane gets some pats on the shoulder as some of the guys head to the showers, which is nice in that sweaty, hockey-bro kind of way. He realizes suddenly that he missed this, a bit. When word first got around that Shane Hollander maybe was texting a girl regularly, the way some of the guys treated him shifted. Suddenly, it seemed like some of the guys saw Shane as less of a stick-in-the-mud hockey robot, but something closer to an actual human guy. Then, he dated Rose Landry, and the shift solidified into something Shane couldn’t avoid noticing anymore. The sudden shift unsettled Shane at first, but he grew to like being treated in this new way. Then, he and Rose broke up, and the mood shifted again. Shane, without his proximity to a woman they could comfortably assume he was sticking his dick inside of, was again a weird hockey creature that some of the guys on the team tolerated due to his sheer athletic prowess, and respected probably entirely due to the C stitched onto his chest. The sweaty shoulder taps are a wet reminder that those guys likely think he is human again now that they think they share something in common with Shane besides being made of carbon and hitting pucks into a net for a living. Heterosexual sex seems to be that third ingredient that turns Shane Hollander from a machine into a real boy, and Shane grimaces when he thinks about how that might change when the hetero- becomes homo- in their brains. 

Shane showers and finishes putting himself together around the same time Hayden does, as per usual. Then, they walk to the back exit together, as per usual.

Shane didn’t bother warning Hayden that Ilya would be waiting for them (him, more specifically. Ilya would whine and complain for days if Shane ever implied that Ilya was waiting for Hayden Pike). He thought that information would be self-apparent.

It isn’t, apparently. 

“Shane, is that the grim fucking reaper?” Hayden hisses, gesturing to the spot where Ilya is casually lounging against the outside walls of the Centre Bell. The lean looks too practiced and careful to be legitimately casual. He’s so fucking corny and Shane loves him so much. Shane rolls his eyes at Hayden and picks up his pace slightly to get to Ilya faster. 

“Bye, Hayden,” Shane throws over his shoulder as he jogs.

Hayden just jogs to catch up. “Are you fucking stupid, Shane?” he whisper-shouts. “What if someone saw you alone with him?”

“They would be jealous of me, I think,” Ilya drawls. “Getting to talk to Shane Hollander all by myself.” Hayden cartoonishly gags at Ilya’s flirtatious tone. “They would not be jealous of me right now. Having to talk to Hayden Pike is a type of community service. I should receive an award for this.”

“Christ,” Hayden groans. “Shane, your taste in men is terrible. Good luck. I’m going home to my wife.” 

“Coincidence,” Ilya muses, smirking a little, clearly enjoying Hayden’s visible discomfort. “I’m going home to my husband.” Ilya puts on his most gushy voice when he says this and revels at the way Hayden dry heaves in response.

November 2017

		Ps+H+R
		You, Hayden, Jackie, Shane

Today

Jackie

Lilyyyy

17:26

Ilya

yes better pike

17:28

Jackie

I have something for you 😈

17:31

Look at this cutie!

17:31

17:31

Ilya

oh my god

17:32

Jackie this is the best gift ever

17:32

is that my hoodie??

17:33

he looks so good

17:34

i need to eat him

17:34

Hayden

ugh

17:36

this house is a prison

17:36

Ilya

get away from my husband pike

17:37

Jackie you can stay. Keep sending me shane photos

17:37

Jackie

Lol!

17:38

Shane

I’ll call you later, Ilya.

17:40

December 2017

Today’s practice is bookended with a reminder from their coach to RSVP for their annual team dinner, scheduled for Friday, December 22.

Annual holiday dinner is a vague enough term for it: the first portion of the event is the official part. The team books a private event room at a restaurant, brings their wives and girlfriends, and the team holds themselves together in a facsimile of a normal workplace holiday gathering. Then inevitably, the unofficial part of the event begins when someone (or half the team) gets messily drunk and begins to wreak absolute havoc on the space. Their coach and team members who couldn’t get an overnight babysitter leave (as well as Shane Hollander, who definitely can’t use the babysitter excuse, but he somehow tries [and succeeds] anyways). A karaoke machine always magically appears (and inevitably, someone screams Celine Dion so loud that a neighbour calls in a noise complaint), furniture is often broken, and several people go home with black eyes they can’t really remember getting. It’s all in the holiday spirit, very typical workplace holiday party stuff. 

Under normal circumstances, they’d probably be banned from every restaurant in the city, but they’re the Montreal Voyageurs, and damn could they tip. 

Shane’s never seen the latter half of the party happen in person, but he heard that last year, JJ tipped 600% after some of the guys broke a huge wooden dining table by trying to start a secret Montreal Voyageurs fight club in the middle of an Italian restaurant’s private dining room.

“Do we finally get to meet the mysterious Lily?” JJ asks, eyebrows waggling. Since September, JJ has tried almost weekly to get Shane to bring “Lily” to anything at all. Shane has held strong to his stockpile of excuses (she lives in Boston, she travels for work, she’s shy, she can’t be seen with me because of her career), but can tell that JJ’s patience is wearing thin. Shane won't even show anyone on the team a photograph of the girl, for Christ's sake.

“Uhm,” Shane starts. “She isn’t coming. She’s busy with work.” The work excuse is a tired but reliable one. Shane has used it repeatedly, and will probably use it repeatedly for the foreseeable future. It’s vague yet clean, and Shane has made it clear that he has no interest in expounding upon what this career his “Lily” is so busy with, which the guys respect. 

This is a lie: the guys don’t respect it at all. Shane’s become used to ignoring the eye rolls he gets when he uses the same excuse that even he is starting to realize is flimsy at best. The encouraging shoulder pats and comfortable smiles he got earlier in the fall have dropped off in frequency at an almost alarming rate. Somehow, Shane is the hockey machine again. The more excuses he used, the more he chipped away at his precarious “real boy” status in their minds.

Across the room, Comeau and Drapeau laugh, and two of the rookies share a long look. 

“Come on, you can’t seriously still believe that Lily is a real person,” Comeau sneers. A few guys nod, but JJ at least looks confused. “No one has ever met her or even seen a photo of her? Anyone in this room know anything about this chick?”

Drapeau chimes in: “My wife says she still hasn’t talked to any of the other WAGs, except Pike’s, who is apparently refusing to even give Lily’s number to anyone else.” Some of the guys laugh.

“Guys, shut up,” Hayden interrupts. “I’ve met her, I promise she’s real.”

“So the only people who are allowed to know anything about this ‘Lily’ are the Pikes? Suspicious.” 

One of the rookies, a loudmouth new recruit from Mississauga, elbows the guy next to him and says in a voice definitely meant to be a whisper, but loud enough anyways to sound like a canon to Shane’s ears: “Another point for the Pike-Hollander Cuck Theory.”

“The what,” Shane says. His body is frozen in place, hands paused over his jersey where he was just about to grab it and take it off. Next to Shane, Hayden chokes on his own saliva and goes into a loud coughing fit. 

“I already told you guys that theory is garbage,” JJ says, crossing his arms. Shane shoots him an alarmed and confused look before turning to Hayden, who is still coughing too hard to make any form of meaningful eye contact or even respond properly. 

“Can someone explain what’s going on,” Shane orders, looking around the room. He puts on his best captain face, but it doesn’t seem to strike any fear into anyone right now. JJ, at least, has the decency to look a little guilty. He hates how casual everyone else in the room looks, like this is a normal thing for them to be talking about. It is, he supposes. 

Hayden recovers from choking on his own spit, which is great news (4 young children will not become fatherless tonight), but bad news because he has to learn what the hell the Pike-Hollander Cuck Theory is. “I second that, what the hell is going on?” Hayden chokes out with a still-scratchy voice. 

“Well,” Andropov says, gesturing to the Pike-Hollander duo. “Theory is that Hollander fucks your wife while you watch.” Shane lets the back of his head thunk loudly against the wall as he closes his eyes and takes in a deep, slow breath. Maybe in a few days, Shane will laugh at the idea that his entire team thought he was capable of fucking Jackie Pike regularly. Right now, it’s not funny at all.

One of the other rookies pipes up. “Second theory is that Hollander’s your third.” 

Another voice counters: “No, no, the theory is that Hollander is the third and cucks Pike. They’re connected theories.” 

“What’s that word we looked up the other day? Polydactyl?” Andropov asks.

“Polygon,” Bouchard says confidently. 

“Polyamory,” JJ corrects. 

“I thought those were two separate theories,” another team member, Rollins, says. “Why did I put money on two separate theories if they’re the same theory?” 

“Jesus fucking christ,” Hayden says. 

Shane blinks a few times. “JJ, what the fuck?” Then, “How does Lily factor into this?” he asks, voice carefully monotone. 

“Obviously, Lily is the codename you use for Jackie?”

“Have you guys always been this fucking stupid?” Hayden asks. 

“I’m not hearing either of you deny it,” Comeau points out. He has a sleazy grin on his face, and something about it makes Shane want to hop over the bench and punch him. 

“I can’t believe I have to say this right now,” Hayden starts. “My wife and I are in a loving, monogamous relationship. Shane does not fuck my wife. Shane and I are not fucking. Jesus. Can’t a guy have a best friend?” 

“Still not convinced that if we called ‘Lily’ on Shane’s phone, Pike's wife wouldn’t pick up,” Drapeau sneers. “Or maybe Pike’s phone would ring? Should we test it?” 

“Again, have you guys always been this fucking stupid, or did you all get hit on the head recently?” Hayden asks. 

“I got hit on the head recently,” Bouchard says. 

Drapeau raises his hands like he is surrendering. “We wouldn’t be making theories if Shane wasn’t so fucking cagey about his girlfriend!” 

Shane just stares in silence. 

“Who definitely exists,” Comeau drawls sarcastically. “A real woman with a face and tits and everything.” 

“Are you assholes really this bored?” Shane asks, pissed off. “Should we do bag skates tomorrow?” 

“Defensive,” Andropov sing-songs. “I’m putting an extra 10 dollars on cuck theory.” 

“Well, I’m putting 20 on the Lily’s-an-escort theory,” the rookie from Mississauga says. “Dude, shut the fuck up,” someone else spits out. 

“Why is no one interested in my Lily-is-a-secret-government-agent theory,” Bouchard whines. 

“Fuck off, all of you,” Shane says. JJ gives him a long, considering look, then looks at Hayden. 

“I’m in. 10 dollars on the Pike-Hollander cuck theory,” JJ says to the room, still staring at the gawking duo. 

Shane sighs. “Fine.” He begins to quickly shed his gear, moving in quick, precise, visibly pissed-off movements. “You win. You guys want to know about Lily so badly. I’ll tell you why I’ve never brought her around.”

“Shane…” Hayden warns.

“No, Hayd. It’s fine. It was a matter of time, anyways.” Comeau and Drapeau share a look like cats that got the cream. 

Shane throws sweatpants and a sweatshirt over his compression gear. Tonight, he isn’t going to bother showering or making himself remotely presentable before he leaves the Bell Centre. Tonight, he is going to drop a hydrogen bomb onto his team, storm out, and drive straight home. Not even the horrible feeling of sweat soaked into his compression shirt can convince him to stick around any longer. 

“You haven’t met Lily because I’m gay, and Lily is my husband,” he hisses to his team. “And that is all of the information I will tell you, because he can’t be out yet, and I don’t plan to be out anytime soon either. So all of you are going to keep this between these walls, or else I will make every practice for the rest of your careers on this team a living hell. And no, Lily is not Hayden.” 

Shane turns to face JJ squarely before tossing his bag over his shoulder. “I hoped for better from you, JJ,” he says, and storms out of the room, which has been rendered silent. Hayden just shrugs and walks casually into the showers.

"Did he just fucking say husband?” Andropov says suddenly. 

The next day, Shane walks into the locker room (far too early. He assumed he could have a moment to himself this way and set the tone once his teammates trickled in, rather than walk into the room and have it fall silent) to find Thierault, completely red-faced and looking like he wants to make the locker room explode with his mind, already waiting for him. 

“My office, Hollander.” 

They’re quiet as they walk to Thierault’s office, which is a slightly-outdated looking thing absolutely coated in framed newspaper cuttings and photographs of Thierault posing with various MHL bigwigs over the years. It reminds him of bank offices, if bank offices had a set of hockey sticks mounted to the wall and a photograph of Thierault with an aggressively 1980s moustache that was taken in 2003. Thierault places himself on his throne, a large black leather office chair with probably too much padding, and Shane sits on one of the hard wooden chairs placed facing Thierault’s desk. There’s a thin layer of foam and leather on these wooden chairs in deep blue. Condensation beads onto the material if you are nervous and sweating and place clammy hands on the chairs as you sit on them; Shane has made this mistake several times throughout the years. He makes a point of avoiding touching the leather, opting to ravage his cuticles instead.

“To what do I owe this pleasure,” Shane asks, not a hint of pleasure in his voice. 

Thierault sighs. “I think you know what this is about.” 

Shane grinds his teeth together and absentmindedly grips his fingers together, squeezing his own digits individually to the point that it hurts before releasing and moving onto the next one. It helps distract him slightly from the way his heart is beginning to race faster and faster. 

“So…” Thierault continues.

Shane still doesn’t respond. 

“Is it true?” Thierault asks.

“What,” Shane manages to croak. 

Thierault, still red in the face, looks more and more disappointed as time ticks on. “Hollander. Your teammates told me that you have a secret husband now. What is this…weird prank?”

Shane makes a frustrated noise. 

“You know,” Thierault begins before grabbing a piece of paper and starts reading off of it. “The MHL deeply values the importance of diversity, equity, and inclusion…” 

“It’s not a prank,” Shane cuts Thierault off before he can continue to tersely read the canned statement the MHL communications department probably drafted up and sent to all coaches in case of media emergency.

Thierault, clearly expecting a different response (a denial, Shane imagines), stays quiet for a few beats. “Obviously, this stays inside of these walls,” Thierault continues. “If it’s true?”

Shane nods again. Thierault sets the statement down and lets out a deep sigh. 

“And you will not let this impact the team or your performance in any way,” his coach continues slowly. “As captain, your job is to make sure that the team stays tight and focused.” Shane nods. He’s heard this all before. “We pay you a lot of money to stay focused and keep the team focused.” 

Shane stays silent, to which Thierault looks resigned about. He stares at Shane in a way that makes Shane cold sweat a little (he reminds himself: do not touch the leather chair); this is a new type of stare Thierault is leveling him with. Shane has categorized Thierault’s angry microexpressions into neat categories and knows how each downwards twitch of his lips translates to on a scale from “catastrophic disappointment” to “neutral displeasure” to “pride, but something’s still missing.” Only when the team has their hands on the Stanley Cup has Shane seen his coach’s expression clear into something that is pure pride. 

The look he gives Shane now is new and uncategorized. He quickly tries to pick it apart and does not like what he thinks it might mean. It’s similar to “catastrophic disappointment” with something else unreadable mixed in. Disgust, maybe. Shane worked very, very hard to be able to read his coach’s expressions and he very much does not like the new entry to this list. He hopes that he won’t have to see this one again, but knows in the back of his mind that this might be his new normal. 

“Well then,” Thierault continues. “I suppose we should use this chance to update your emergency contact information.” The forms are already printed and prepared, Shane notes as Thierault carefully slides paper and pen towards him, retracting his hand quickly like it might be burned if it gets too close to Shane’s own. He wonders if Thierault has a few blank copies at the ready at all times, or if he printed this one specifically for Shane, just in case.

Shane takes the blank forms and considers his next move for a moment. 

“Will this information leave this room?” he asks.

“You know how this works, Hollander. Don’t play cute. You get hit, someone on staff calls.” 

Shane shrugs. “Just checking.” Thierault’s new facial expression, the one with a layer of disgust enveloping the disappointment, solidifies itself in Shane’s mental catalog of Thierault expressions and their (possible) meanings. He hates it, and he hates that it’s probably here to stay forever. For some reason, this hatred and the adrenaline leaking into his bloodstream makes him want to be brave and see if Thierault has more expressions for him to categorize. 

He fills out the emergency contact and next-of-kin information on the form. He writes “Ilya Rozanov” under the name portions (avoiding writing “Hollander-Rozanov,” although Ilya has made it clear that he plans to make that legal change the millisecond it’s reasonably safe to do so. Technically, right now, he is still Ilya Rozanov and Shane is still Shane Hollander, but Ilya already giddily whispers “Mr. Hollander-Rozanov” into Shane’s ear in private when he gets the chance), writes down Ilya’s phone number and address, and then writes “husband” in the relationship-to-employee section. It’s quick and it makes Shane feel like he is signing Thierault’s death sentence, somehow, like this might be the thing that finally sends him into cardiac arrest. Wordlessly, he slides the paper across the desk towards Thierault. He wonders where Thierault stores the emergency contact information, and if Shane should be prepared to call someone for his coach.

Thierault glances down at the paper, and Shane tries not to laugh or panic (what an odd combination of feelings, he thinks. He is almost giddy with it) as Thierault’s eyes widen. 

“Are you fucking with me, Hollander.” 

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously, before standing up and walking straight to the door. His hands shake as he reaches for the door handle, which he hopes his coach doesn't notice.

“You’re benched,” Thierault calls out. “Go home. No practice today. Just…” he scrubs a hand over his face. “We’ll try this again tomorrow.”

Ilya’s coach calls him into his office, where Ilya finds the Boston Bear’s general manager already sitting and looking like he’d prefer to be literally anywhere else than here. Ilya can relate. He literally just finished practice and really just wants to leave. His coach hadn’t even let him go back to the locker room; Ilya was practically dragged by his collar straight from the ice and dragged into the office. An impromptu meeting with his coach and GM usually only means one thing: he tweeted something management thinks is stupid and will try (and fail) to strong-arm him into writing an apology statement, or someone else on the team fucked something up and he needs to step up as captain.

“Let’s get this over with,” the GM says grimly. He looks constipated. It’s the particular constipated face he makes when Ilya says something stupid and needs to be spoken to about it. Ilya wracks his brain for what specifically he could have said online the past few days to warrant it. All he’s done is retweet screenshots of that Zooptopia abortion comic that has been blowing up the past few months. Now that he thinks about it, this is probably about the goddamn Zootopia abortion comic. 

"I just had a very, very interesting phone call with Coach Thierault from Montreal," Coach LeClaire starts. He and Ilya hold eye contact for a moment, neither saying anything else. LeClaire holds a blank expression on his face, but there is a very slight telltale twitch of the corner of his lips that hints that he is, perhaps, trying to hold back a laugh. 

This meeting, Ilya realizes, is about a secret third thing that could cause his GM to make that particular facial expression: it’s not that he or a teammate said something stupid, it’s that Shane fucking Hollander said something stupid. He never thought he’d see the day. The Zootopia abortion comic retweets stay!

"You came up in the conversation," Coach LeClaire continues.

"I am interesting topic for coaches," Ilya responds casually. He isn’t sure why he opts to play stupid. He wipes his hands on his shorts quickly. They’re getting clammy, which is going to make the whole playing stupid thing really hard to pull off. Now that he thinks about it, he isn’t sure how he got brought up in the conversation, or even why he is here. Shane had told him last night that he told his team that Lily is his husband before he left the room. Shane insisted that he hadn’t told them anything about Lily. How the fuck did this get connected to him so fast?

He wishes he had a chance to check his phone before he got dragged into this meeting. 

"Coach Thierault seemed interested in ripping your head off." 

Ilya hums in response. “This is also common for coaches. I have that effect on them.”

"Get to the point, please," the GM sighs. "I already have a headache and I think it's about to get worse."

LeClaire huffs out a small laugh. "Here's the thing, Roz, Coach Thierault just had a very interesting meeting with Shane Hollander, and he thinks that maybe Shane is trying to pull a prank on the team." Leclaire does not look like he believes what he is saying. "And Thierault is also thinks that maybe you're 'colluding' with him-- his words, not mine-- and wants it nipped in the bud ASAP."

"Hollander is not known for his pranks," Ilya interrupts, attempting to sound casual, but blood is beginning to roar in his ears, and he can barely hear himself over the thrum of heartbeat as it begins to pump harder and faster. "What is this prank?" He already knows what his coach is about to say, but feigns innocence anyways. He isn't sure why he is still bothering. 

The Bears' GM puts his head in his hands.

"Apparently, yesterday, Hollander told the Voyageurs that he got married," LeClaire pauses, watching Ilya's reaction. Ilya tries very, very hard not to have a reaction at all. LeClaire plows forward. "to a man," he continues, slowly. Ilya holds eye contact, daring his coach to continue. "apparently, it's a shitshow over there, whole team freaking out. No one knew, and now Hollander is being tight-lipped about it."

"Interesting."

His coach and GM stare at him in disbelief, like they can’t believe he’s not saving them the trouble of explaining everything he definitely knows.

Eventually, LeClaire clears his throat and continues. “No, the really interesting part is that when Hollander submitted his updated paperwork, he listed you at both next-of-kin and emergency contact.” Another pause. “And put ‘husband’ down as your relationship to him.” 

Ilya hums, considering his options for a moment, and then carefully lands on the nuclear one. Subtlety is key, he thinks. He’ll follow Shane’s lead on this one. "I should probably update my information too, yes?" 

Shane is unbenched almost immediately. So quickly, in fact, that he only misses one practice session. Today, Shane has learned something new from his mother: sometimes, the only thing you need to do to fix a problem is to lightly suggest that a lawyer may get involved. 

Thierault won’t even look at Shane, which is also new. He categorizes this amongst the other Thierault expressions and files it firmly under “disappointment, disgust, embarrassment? To be determined.” 

Practice is a mixed bag of new and familiar sensations: around half of the team goes about it like nothing has changed at all. Shane appreciates these teammates. JJ seems to be trying, but keeps faltering visibly whenever he looks at Shane. Shane knows JJ and has known him for many years; he can tell that JJ’s faltering has to do with the suddenness of the confession, not the confession itself. JJ, at his core, is a really good guy. Hayden, meanwhile, is definitely overcompensating, loudly cheering Shane on, clapping his back, overall being incredibly, obviously, overzealously bro-y towards everyone. It’s inclusive but also horribly obvious, and it makes Shane smile a little. The rest of the team…

Well, Shane isn’t stupid. He can feel the harder-than-usual checks during practice scrimmages. Guys who used to small-talk with him are eerily quiet. Some keep flashing him strange looks (disbelief, disgust, confusion); Shane isn’t sure what to do with these, since he’s never seen them on their faces before. Some won’t look at him. 

Growing pains, Shane thinks faintly. Everyone needs some time to adjust. He just wishes they managed to get themselves sorted out during the one day he was (unofficially, Thierault insists, probably to avoid further lawyer threats) benched, so he didn’t have to see it. He keeps his head down and tries not to think about how most of the team is avoiding being in the shower at the same time as him.

“No, Shane, sweetheart. Don’t button your shirt all the way up like nerd. Leave the top two open,” Ilya scolds through the Facetime call. 

“Pervert,” Shane quips, to which Ilya responds only with a grin. 

Tonight is the Montreal Voyageurs Annual Holiday Party and Hayden has made it clear that Shane will be attending, even if he and Jackie need to drag him into the venue kicking and screaming. Shane, fully aware that there was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable (he could stop Hayden, but he cannot stop Jackie), decided that his best course of action would be to call his husband so that Ilya could distract himself from scrubbing his skin completely raw

(Ilya is good at distraction, especially in the shower).

Shane puts on a plain white button up (two buttons undone, as ordered by his husband) and black pants that ilya approved of along with a rolex watch (gold and on his left wrist to match and draw attention to the wedding ring on his finger, which he can’t stop twisting around nervously, on the left because wearing it on the right might not be obvious enough, and he’s feeling a little brave tonight). Ilya approves of the way he has rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows to draw more attention to the flashes of gold, despite it being December in Montreal with a real feel of -30 degrees. He has a coat and restaurants in Montreal blast the heat. He’ll survive the draft around his forearms.

Shane hangs up the call only when he receives a warning text from Hayden that says that he and Jackie will be there in 2 minutes, so Shane better get his ass downstairs.

True to their promise, Shane finds himself in front of this year’s restaurant/victim of choice, steered through its doors by Hayden and Jackie Pike, who have held an iron grip on him since dragging Shane out of his apartment and throwing him unceremoniously into their minivan. 

“Ostie,” Shane hears someone spit out when he, Hayden, and Jackie walk into the room. Hayden drops Shane into a seat and plops down into the space next to him. To Shane’s surprise, JJ drops into the seat to his other side. Jackie, meanwhile, ventures off to hug a few women that Shane recognizes are his teammate’s wives and girlfriends. 

“Hey,” Shane ventures. JJ shoots him a small smile. 

“Glad you made it, Capitaine,” he says, handing Shane a bottle of beer. A peace offering, Shane assumes, and smiles back. “Are you ready to fucking party?”

For the first time in his entire career, Shane sticks around the Annual Holiday Party after the first wave of people leave. He is also, for the first time in his entire career, a little bit drunk at the Annual Holiday Party.

JJ, clearly excited that Shane was accepting the offered beers, kept offering Shane beers. A peace offering, Shane assumed every time, and then sipped. He is on his fifth one by the time Hayden and Jackie leave to relieve their babysitter. The beers absolutely do not fit into his diet plan, and he’s going to have to punish himself over it tomorrow.

(Normally, Shane would go home with the Pikes, but they [specifically, Hayden and Shane] decided that maybe they should leave separately this year after the Pike-Hollander cuck theory fiasco earlier in the week. Jackie was disappointed. She, unfortunately, loves the cuck theory and cannot stop referencing it, reveling in her husband’s over-the-top reactions every time she brings it up.) 

(Shane finds it a little funny.)

Once the Pike’s vacate their places, Shane finds himself surrounded by women he doesn't really know. 

He vaguely knows that these women are WAGs, recalls that one of them is named Fatima and always has a kind smile on her face whenever Shane sees her, and thinks two of the others are named Stephanie and Emmy. The only one he knows for certain is Marisa, Andropov’s girlfriend, because when they started dating, Andropov walked his phone around to each team member in the locker room and asked them to rate her on a scale from 1-10 while flipping through her tinder profile. Marisa is really too pretty for Andropov.

“Shane,” Fatima says softly. “Can we join?” 

Shane nods, confused. Stephanie, he thinks, elbows JJ out of the way as the quartet swarm him. JJ squawks in surprise, to which Stephanie says something quick and snippy in French that Shane is too tipsy to translate quickly enough before JJ responds in equally snippy French. Seemingly placated, Stephanie allows JJ to return to his spot in the fold.

“We heard congratulations are in order,” Emmy says softly, moving to touch Shane’s hand, but stopping herself at the last moment as Shane begins to visibly shrink in on himself. 

"We’re happy for you,” Fatima cuts in. “We know some of the guys aren’t reacting so well, which is unfair.” 

“Yeah,” Marisa says. “Also, we’re like, insanely curious about the guy, and none of our boyfriends are telling us anything.”

Shane snorts a little, relaxing. “I haven’t given them anything to tell you, really,” he says at the same time JJ angrily snips “This wasn’t supposed to leave the locker room.” 

Shane sighs. “It’s fine, JJ. Of course the guys told their girlfriends.”

“It’s hot gossip,” Stephanie says, raising her eyebrows. Fatima slaps her leg. 

“We just wanted to tell you we support you and that things will get better with the team,” Fatima cuts in. 

Shane hums and takes another sip of beer. It’s gross. He kind of wants a ginger ale, but JJ keeps kindly getting him more beers, and it doesn’t feel right to reject JJ’s very obvious attempt at a peace offering. 

"How are you doing?” 

Shane slumps onto the table heavily, burying his face in his arms. It startles everyone. He seems to be in good company here, and the beer is starting to make him feel brave. And pathetic. Very sad. A little horny? He’s definitely, definitely not feeling the holiday spirit.

“Honestly? I miss my husband and I wish he could be here,” Shane whines pathetically. 

“Oh!” Emmy exclaims as Marisa and Stephanie coo in unison. 

JJ barks out a sudden laugh, which causes some of the guys at the table next to them to turn and look at the ragtag group. “I didn’t realize you were such a softie, Capitaine,” he says, with affection dripping through his voice. 

“I’m sure he’s waiting for you at home,” Fatima says softly. 

“I wish,” Shane whines again. It’s really pathetic. “He’s at home in Boston right now.” He pouts as he picks his head up from the table. “But he’s flying in so we can spend Christmas together,” he says softly, dropping the pout and replacing it with a small smile. Marisa keeps cooing at him like he is a child, which is awful, because he’s nearly 30 and also, objectively, a huge guy.

“Home in Boston?” Stephanie asks, concerned. “Does he live there?” Shane nods his head, pout returning to his face. 

Emmy picks up where Stephanie leaves off. “Is he planning to move to Montreal?” 

This makes Shane slump back onto the table. “Nooooo,” he whines. JJ quietly moves Shane’s beer away from him while Shane is distracted. “He needs to be there for work.” He turns his head towards Emmy, but keeps it resting on his arms. “At least we have Facetime and Skype and stuff.”

“Oh, honey,” Fatima says. “Long distance is really difficult, we understand.”

“Yeah, you guys travel a lot, so we understand. All of us are long distance at least part of the time,” Stephanie says. 

“It’s just…” Shane sighs and sits up yet again. “We’ve been doing long distance for 7 years, kind of, so we should be pros at it, but it’s just getting harder and harder.”

Marisa squeaks. “Did you just say 7 years?!”

“Shane, didn’t you date Rose Landry?” JJ asks. 

Shane grimaces. “Well. uhm. We were on and off for 7 years? Not exclusive.” He takes a swig of beer. “I don’t want to talk about it, please.” 

“Okay, okay,” Fatima says, placing a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “We won’t pry.”

Marisa scoffs. “Speak for yourself. Shane, can you tell us about him?”

Shane frowns. “No, I shouldn’t.”

Stephanie leans in, conspiratorially. “You can keep it vague. We’re just really curious.”

Shane leans back in his chair and considers for a moment. On one hand, he really, really shouldn’t tell these women he barely knows (and JJ) literally anything about Ilya. On the other hand, well…

He doesn’t have many people he can talk to about Ilya, and as much as he hates to admit it, he’s itching to have an outlet. He can tell his parents some things, but not…most things. Rose is partially aware of his situation, but doesn’t have the full context, and she’s so busy all of the time. And Hayden…Hayden still thinks Ilya has him under some kind of spell, Rasputin-style. Shane rues the day that Ruby and Jade Pike watched Anastasia. 

Under normal circumstances, Shane would shut this conversation down, but right now, several beers deep…

“He…he always knows when I get too far into my own head and he knows exactly how to take me out of it,” he begins. “He’s patient with me. He pretends that he doesn’t care about literally everyone around him, but his heart is huge and so full of love to give. He’s really funny, even when he doesn’t try to be. He…challenges me, in all parts of my life, which makes me want to improve. For him.” 

“This might be the longest I’ve ever heard you talk about something that isn’t hockey,” JJ muses. 

Maybe it's the alcohol cushioning his brain, or lowering his brain-to-mouth filter, but against his better judgement, he tells them: “and his dick is huge,” with a dopey smile. 

Shockingly, the table is delighted by this admission (except JJ, who says “C'est dégeulasse” but still looks a little ecstatic to hear Shane speak like that). 

“He’s so fucking hot it pisses me off,” Shane continues, bolstered by the reaction.

JJ laughs loudly in shock. “I feel like I'm meeting a new version of Shane tonight, but also don’t say anything more detailed, please, I need to look you in the eye at practice.” 

“Do not listen to him,” Stephanie says, throwing a hand over JJ’s mouth. “Keep going, Shane. How big is his dick?” Fatima, Emmy, and Marisa all laugh loudly. 

“Stephanie, what’s going on?” Rollins walks over to them, watching his girlfriend in confusion as Shane holds his hands out in a vague approximation of Ilya’s dick size, giggling when the four women (and JJ) drop their jaws in shock. Behind Rollins is Gilbert Comeau and his wife, Marie-Eve.

“Just hanging,” Stephanie says lightly. She accepts a quick kiss to the cheek from him, but looks visibly annoyed that their riveting discussion was just interrupted.

“I hear women love having gay best friends,” Comeau says, staring directly at Shane. “I should have known you’d fit right in with the WAGs. More your speed than the rest of us, right?” 

“Dude,” JJ says, rolling his eyes. 

Shane’s fairly certain that comment is meant to come across as homophobia, but he has heard significantly worse in the locker room and on the ice over the years. It doesn’t even rank in the top 40 homophobic and misogynistic comments he’s heard from Comeau in recent memory. Fucking whatever, man. Comeau can’t even bring out his A-game in front of his wife. 

“Let me know if you need one too, Marie-Eve,” Shane says. Marie-Eve, to her credit, forcefully lets out a puff of air from her nostrils and smiles a little. “Rose Landry says I’m pretty good at my job.”

The opening notes of “My Heart Will Go On” cuts off the conversation before it can even progress; Bouchard has a karaoke microphone in his hand, and tears are already welling in his eyes. 

“That’s my cue,” Fatima says, getting up to collect her drunk husband. Shane can’t believe Bouchard managed to get a woman like Fatima to even look his way. Straight people are fascinating.

“It’s starting,” JJ sighs before taking out his wallet. 

Halfway through Bouchard’s heartfelt but wobbly rendition of Celine Dion, Drapeau stood up on a table, glass raised in a toast, which was never completed due to the fact that he promptly fell off of the table. Several glasses were victims. 

JJ decided to tip the restaurant staff early before more damage could happen, and Shane insisted on paying off the (remainder of) the team tab under the excuse of “captain duties.”

The first tab, technically, had been paid by Thierault, but after Thierault left, it was assumed that it was every man for himself. Shane can practically hear Ilya’s disembodied voice in the back of his head calling him Mr. Sugar Daddy, but he keeps that joke to himself. He has a feeling this crowd wouldn’t be too thrilled about it. 

By the time money had properly transferred hands, the team was on their third Celine song. JJ interrupted by grabbing a microphone straight out of someone’s hand to yell “CAPTAIN PAID FOR OUR TAB!”

And for the first time in days, Shane watched as the majority of his team (with the notable, but unsurprising exception of Gilbert Comeau) looked at him, actually, fully looked at him, and cheered. 

Straight people are weird.