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Harris had gotten used to the fact that his job was much more interesting after Ilya Rozanov signed with the Ottawa Centaurs. And that it was infinitely harder.
Quadruple that after he and Shane Hollander were outed.
Married.
Both signed to Ottawa.
It was madness. It was fun. It was chaos.
If Harris thought Ilya was hard to handle on his own, Ilya with his husband in the room was impossible.
Credit where credit was due, they were incredible on the ice. They dominated in a way that felt unreasonable. They had first and second line respectively, not giving their opponents breathing room. And god forbid there was a power play. The stadium sound techs had developed a special Hockey Husbands Power Play horn that the fans went apeshit for. Commentators and sportscasters loved it, they sunk their teeth into the thick, juicy steak that was the Hollanov rivalry turned impeccable chemistry and immaculate gameplay. At least one person would make a joke that the other team should just give them the point on their power play and save themselves the embarrassment of a highlight reel.
That wasn't the point. Hockey wasn't the point at all. The point was that Ilya used press and social media like some elaborate mating ritual to both lather Shane up into infuriated exasperation and stake out his territory to thirsty fans.
His best hits involved:
1. Always referring to Shane as "My Husband" no matter who he was talking to. Wouldn't hold his hand, kiss, or grope him in the rink, but even with the refs, Shane was "My Husband."
2. If a reporter brought up their marriage, Ilya would drop some insane sound bite about scandals brewing around a player on the opposing team. There was always gossip, chatter, and Ilya was hooked in to several teams' WAG group chats. He knew everything. And if he didn't, he could find out. It was terrifying, and unfortunately, social media thought he was hilarious. (Harris specifically blamed Jackie Pike, Nicole Marleau, and Kip Grady for this brand of suffering because all three of them notoriously supported Ilya's chaotic need to defend his relationship with an aggressive defense.)
3. If he wasn't making his own (quite frankly adorable) thirst posts about Shane, then he was in the comments on the Centaurs' official pages, loudly panting after his own husband and threatening fans who were too forward. And technically, Harris couldn't block him from the official pages because he had to be able to tag him and Ilya knew that.
All this to say, Harris was at his wit's end on multiple fronts. He was trying to mitigate the effects, get the team trending, make it work for them, but Ilya just naturally stole the show. He managed to barely toe the line of not getting fined, while saying so many wrong things, consecutively, in a row! David Rose could narrate his meltdown any time!
Shane seemed…flustered by it all, but said nothing. He didn't react when Ilya talked about him or referred to him as "My Husband." Their teammates laughed it off, got used to hearing it, but Shane didn't even blink. If you didn't know any better, you would think he didn't care. That he let Ilya run riot right over him, that he was an uncharistmatic doormat to Ilya's intense extroverted charm.
But Harris had been present for their meeting with management after Shane signed on. He had led that meeting, calm and assertive, outlining conditions, boundaries, and acceptable standards of behavior. He and Ilya would be professionals on the ice, there would be no reports of indiscretion in the locker room. If anyone made a complaint, it would be handled immediately and directly. They would room together on the road. They had separate contracts and would be managed separately. They would not answer questions about their relationship, not from management, staff, or press. Their agent had a whole, detailed list of conditions about how management was to approach them. Shane took it seriously. He was more reserved, he was cautious, he was the consummate professional.
Harris knew Shane cared about it. All of it. A lot. So he had no fucking clue why Shane was so chill about Ilya running circles around everyone like this.
He took a chance, approaching Shane on the bench while Ilya was supervising team bonding activities with the rookies and some kids for an Irina Foundation event.
He sat down next to Shane and asked him point blank.
"Does it bother you that Ilya refers to you as 'my husband' with everyone?"
Shane swung his hard gaze from the ice to Harris with an intense frown on his face. It was almost too cute, too pouty to be serious.
"No."
"Really?" Harris deflated. "But you're so…you."
His expression relaxed a little, but he turned his attention back to the ice, his eyes locked on Ilya.
"I am his husband. I'm his husband first, teammate second." He shook his head. "Hockey's our life, but it's just a job too. I don't expect you to get it."
Harris bit his lip. "Could you try to explain it to me?" Shane arched a brow at him. "I think it would help me. The department, really. With understanding the context. Your perspective."
It was a gamble. Shane would have preferred zero conversations about the optics of his relationship with Ilya. He'd said that repeatedly. Which seemed very at odds with Ilya's behavior. So again, it was all very confusing. Shane took a breath and nodded.
"We spent our time being rivals always, and…something sometimes. Him just acknowledging I was in the room was a risk. People have no idea how messed up it was. For a long time."
Harris took a breath. "…how long?"
Shane just side eyed him and Harris had the distinct impression that the true answer would shock the hell out of him. Their standard response was 2017, everything started 2017. It was always vague. The team had spent a lot of time, money, and tears trying to get the answer. Ilya would detail out the highlights of one of their sex marathons, but Troy got high sticked for asking about the first time they kissed. Ilya gushed about their first I love you's and Shane's proposal, but would glare daggers if asked when they first hooked up. It made no sense. At least not to Harris.
"Ilya has given up enough for us to be together, I'm not taking anything else away from him. Especially something that doesn't affect me at all. I'd let him do a lot more than just calling me his husband in public if it made him happy."
"Okay that's actually kinda beautiful."
Shane's mouth quirked into a lopsided grin. Harris nodded, seeing his opening.
"But…hypothetically speaking…if you wanted to get him to stop…how would you go about doing that?"
Shane tipped his head, brow arching, but stayed quiet.
"A sex ban, right? That would be the only thing that worked?"
Shane turned more bodily to him now, brows pinched together skeptically.
"Like just in theory, if you wanted to…slightly alter some of his behavior—"
"No."
Harris blinked. "No a sex ban wouldn't work? Or no you wouldn't want to alter his behavior?"
"No."
Okay. Maybe he needed a new tack.
"I need him to chill out during press."
"Then don't let him talk to the press."
"He's the captain. First line center. Star forward."
"Yep."
"He has to talk to the press."
Shane just shrugged, turned back to the ice, put his arms to his knees.
"Shane, he got two Nashville players benched under a morality clause because a reporter asked if you two were working out a marital spat on the ice."
Shane laughed through his nose sharply. "Then tell reporters to stop asking stupid personal questions." He bobbled his head. "And maybe those players should get their shit together."
"You got benched under the morality clause."
He scowled. "For being gay. Not for getting arrested at a bar after snorting cocaine off another player's wife's tits and getting my ass beat over it."
"Fair point."
Shane shot him a glance. "Okay…off the record?"
Harris straightened eagerly. "I'll never tell a soul."
"Consequences don't work with him. Shouting, lectures, the media training seminars, even fines, it all means he wins."
"He wins."
"If someone reacts to something he says or does, he wins. And he's not picky about who."
Harris briefly thought about Shane's reputation as a player. Unflappable. Cool, controlled, precise. He wondered if that's how they'd snapped together, if Ilya had initiated and persisted because Shane wouldn't give him a reaction. He wondered what had finally worn Shane down.
"Okay, yeah, that tracks. But—"
"Troy makes jokes about us, right?" Shane prompted, his full attention on Ilya holding a kid's hands to help them skate backwards. It was very, very cute, even Harris could admit that.
"The whole team makes jokes about you."
Shane smirked, "Yeah, but Troy has a very specific bit."
"The barking?"
Shane nodded. It was a running gag among the guys when they were chirping Ilya, on or off the ice. They'd bark at him, make dog jokes, call him a good boy, ruffling his hair or patting his stomach, led by Troy. Occasionally Bood. It was all fairly vague and tame, and it didn't seem to deter Ilya at all. Sometimes he'd drop his tongue and pant, or howl, or chase after Shane.
"I believe the original joke was that I walk him like a dog."
Harris knew his jaw dropped, that he was staring. He was…not unaffected by the whole concept. Shane and Ilya were very attractive athletes in their prime, sue him. But Shane caught his look and chuckled.
"They're not exactly…wrong. And I had to do a shit ton of research on dog training because Ilya refuses to train Anya…" He sighed. "You don't train dogs with punishment, you train them with—"
"Rewards," Harris finished, light bulbs in his brain pinging like crazy. "Would you—?"
"Absolutely not. One, fuck you for asking," he started without heat. "And two, he'd clock your shit so fast and then I'd get hit with a sex ban. And, Harris, if I get hit with a sex ban," he made sure to make level eye contact with him for the first time in their entire relationship, "I can and will make you suffer for it. You will long for the days of Ilya's public-facing bullshit."
"Damn Hollzy."
"I'm not fucking kidding."
"I believe you."
He settled back, eyes snapping back to Ilya.
"You want him to listen, give him a good reason to. And pick your battles. It's like whack-a-mole, you squash the chaos in one spot, it pops up in another."
"That is remarkably true so far."
They were interrupted by Ilya himself skating over and dramatically crashing into the boards in front of them.
"Harris, stop colluding with my husband."
"Maybe I was flirting," Harris shot back.
"Mmm. No. He's not confused. If you were flirting, he'd be confused."
"Asshole," Shane muttered fondly. Ilya grinned at him, all teeth, and leaned over the boards.
"Kiss please."
Harris was shocked when Shane actually leaned in for a quick peck. They were more relaxed around the team outside of the rink, sat together, arms around each other. Whispers and cheek kisses. They were a little more casually affectionate in their own home, in small groups. But that was all. Which, now that Harris thought about it, seemed very out of character for Ilya Rozanov.
"What are you—?"
"You need to get Josh to relax. He's locking his knees, leaning too forward—"
"He will loosen up with some practice, when he gets moving, builds confidence."
"Or you can loosen him up so he can practice properly. Which also builds confidence."
"You can't nitpick kids—"
"It worked with you."
"I was one of fifty boys in that league, one of five to actually make it. And the other four suck. I am the anomaly, not the rule."
"Anomaly—"
"I have to explain English to you, too?"
Harris watched their bickering bounce back and forth like a tennis match until Shane ceded the last real point with a grin.
"So now will you tell me what you're whispering about with the social media boy?"
"I'm not—"
Shane immediately kicked his foot and Harris was irritated by that until he saw Ilya's face. Right. Reactions.
"I…am brainstorming some…motivating incentives for…everyone to be a little more composed during media."
Ilya narrowed his eyes at him. Harris looked to Shane, whose expression was completely blank. Their conversation pinging, fast and accurate.
"What's he talking about?"
"No idea," Shane answered flatly.
"You think I need to behave better during press?" He directed that to Shane too.
"Have I said you need to behave better during press?"
"Many times."
"So you already know the answer to that."
Ilya looked back and forth between them.
"You're plotting."
"I'm not doing shit," Shane protested.
"You're helping him."
"I told him you don't respond to punishment. Any ref in the league coulda told him that."
Harris snorted, a little unwillingly, because it drew Ilya's attention back.
"Stop worrying about Harris and start worrying about the rookies' figure eights. Sloppy edges and they're teaching that to the kids. There's building confidence and then there's being too lax…" Shane argued, pulling all of Ilya's focus and his bickering.
They picked apart each kid's posture, balance, their strides. Shane got so invested, he was on his feet and arguing with Ilya shoulder to shoulder. They looked happy like that, content.
A year ago, he didn't know this version of Ilya Rozanov. A year ago, he'd thought the man was an enigma, a confusing puzzle. Now he was watching him cheerfully bicker with his husband about the best hockey instruction methods.
It gave him an idea. It gave him several ideas. If Ilya Rozanov needed a carrot to chase, and there was no better carrot for him than Shane Hollander, then that's exactly what he'd give him.
*
"I love everything that you're saying. Keep talking."
"Shane?"
"I don't hate it."
"Oh my god, you basically got his blessing, that is as good as you'll ever get."
"Cool! So here's what the social media team is thinking for the first one. Ilya picks his favorite Shane highlights—"
"I have so many."
Based on Shane's glare, there were probably some blooper moments in his future too.
"And we can do a couple of clips of him talking about why he likes them. The PG reasons, of course."
"PG-13."
"PG. And politically correct or no dice."
"Ugh, you're worse than Shane. Fine."
"Then if Shane agrees, he can do the same for you."
"I definitely will."
Ilya beamed and Harris knew he'd locked in on the best method of corraling him for the rest of his career: the opportunity to publicly gush about his husband. And all he had to do was stick to pre-approved talking points with the press.
Harris Drover was a genius.