Chapter Text
The air in the private back room of bar was thick with the scent of expensive bourbon, cedarwood, and the heavy, sweet musk of victory. It was a familiar smell, one that Shane Hollander-Rozanov had chased his entire life but tonight, having hoisted the Stanley Cup for the second time as the star duo of the Ottawa Centaurs, it smelled like absolute peace.
Or it should have.
Shane leaned back against the mahogany bar, his fingers curled around a glass of neat Scotch. His jersey was long gone, replaced by a crisp black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint white scars of a decade in the league. Around him, the Centaurs’ roster was in various states of celebratory disarray. Teammates were shouting over a playlist that swung from country to EDM to victory anthems, the silver trophy sitting like a holy relic on a central table.
But Shane wasn’t looking at the Cup. He wasn't looking at the teammates he’d bled with for the last two months of playoffs.
He was looking at Ilya.
Ilya was across the room, leaning against a marble pillar. He looked devastating. He wore a charcoal-grey suit that hugged his frame, his hair a mess of blond waves that Shane had spent half the night running his fingers through during the post-game frenzy. He was laughing, that low, vibrating sound that usually belonged only to Shane but right now, it was being directed at a stranger. Specifically, it was being directed at a man who had been hovering in Ilya’s orbit for the last forty minutes.
"You're burning a hole in the back of his head, Shane," a voice chirped beside him.
Shane blinked, shifting his gaze to see Lisa, the wife of their veteran goalie, leaning on the bar. She was smiling, but her eyes were knowing.
"I'm just making sure no one spills a drink on him," Shane muttered, taking a sharp sip of his Scotch. The burn was grounding.
"Right. Because the way you’re gripping that glass suggests you’re about two minutes away from a five minute major for roughing." She nodded toward the pillar. "He's just talking, Shane. The guy’s a big-shot donor for the Centaurs’ foundation." Shane didn't answer. He couldn't. Because the "guy" in question was currently stepping closer to Ilya. The stranger was handsome in a polished, understated way, with dark hair swept back and a dusting of freckles across his nose that if Shane were being honest and slightly masochistic, reminded him of his own reflection in the height of summer. He was shorter than Ilya, which meant he had to lean in to be heard over the music. Shane watched as the man reached out and lightly touched Ilya’s forearm to punctuate a joke. The Scotch in Shane’s glass sloshed dangerously.
It wasn't that Shane didn't trust Ilya. He trusted Ilya with his life, his career, and his heart. But Shane also knew what Ilya looked like to the rest of the world: a god-tier human, a living legend, a man who moved with a grace that shouldn't belong to someone that size. And Shane knew what he looked like when he was jealous, a territorial disaster.
He tried to be the "cool husband." He really did. He turned back to the bar, engaging in a ten minute conversation with their rookie winger about the nuances of the Centaurs' defensive zone, but his internal radar was locked onto the frequency of Ilya’s laughter.
When he looked back, the stranger hadn't moved. In fact, he seemed closer. He was practically tucked into the space between Ilya and the pillar.
"I'm going over there," Shane said, his voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous register he used when a defenseman got too close.
"Shane, don't make a scene," Lisa warned, though she looked more entertained than worried. "It’s Cup night. We’re in the capital. We’re supposed to be civil."
"I'm not making a scene," Shane lied. "I'm being social."
He set his glass down with a definitive clack and began to navigate the crowded floor. He moved through the crowd like he moved on the ice—efficient, surgical, and completely unwilling to yield. He brushed past a group of scouts, ignored a high-five from the backup goalie, and arrived at the pillar just as the stranger was leaning in to whisper something in Ilya’s ear.
Shane didn't wait for an opening. He simply stepped into the space, sliding his arm firmly around Ilya’s waist and pulling him flush against his side. The contact was immediate and proprietary.
"Hey," Shane said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. He didn't look at the stranger. He looked at Ilya. "You're missing the toasts. The boys are asking where our captain went."
Ilya blinked, his blue eyes clouded with a mix of champagne and genuine surprise. A slow, lazy smirk began to spread across his face as he felt the tension radiating off Shane, the raw, physical possessiveness of a man who spent his life fighting for every inch of ice. Ilya knew this heat. He thrived on it.
"Shane," Ilya said, his Russian accent thickening the way it always did when he was happy or slightly buzzed. "You remember Francis? He is major supporter of the Centaurs’ foundation. We were discussing the new youth center."
Shane finally turned his gaze to Francis. The man was indeed handsome. well-dressed, and the freckles were there. That same dusting of freckles Shane saw in the mirror every morning. "Francis," Shane said, his voice like sandpaper. He didn't offer his hand. He just tightened his grip on Ilya’s hip, his thumb hooking into the belt loop of Ilya’s trousers. "I'm Shane."
"I know who you are, Mr. Hollander-Rozanov," Francis said smoothly. "That shorthanded goal you set up for Ilya in the second period was... magical."
"Glad you enjoyed it," Shane said. He felt Ilya’s hand come up to rest on his chest, the heat of Ilya’s palm seeping through his shirt. It should have calmed him, but instead, it just made him more aware of the fact that people were looking at his husband.
"I was just telling Ilya that he should come by the foundation’s archives." Francis continued, seemingly oblivious or perhaps entirely aware, of the territorial wall Shane was building. "The kids would lose their minds. And, of course, I’d love to show him the private collection of vintage Ottawa hockey memorabilia in the vaults. It’s a very quiet, private space.."
The "private space" hit Shane like a cross-check to the teeth.
"He’s pretty busy," Shane snapped. "Parades. Victory tours. Being married. It takes up a lot of his time."
Ilya let out a soft huff of a laugh, his fingers curling into Shane’s shirt. "Shane is very protective of my schedule," Ilya told Francis, though his eyes never left Shane’s face. "He gets worried I will get lost without him."
"I can see that," Francis said, his smile widening. He looked at Shane, really looked at him, and for a second, the mask slipped. He knew exactly what he was doing. "Well, I'll leave you two to your celebration. Ilya, it was a pleasure. Truly."
Francis gave a small, respectful nod and drifted back into the crowd.
Shane didn't move. He stood there, his arm still locked around Ilya, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"Shane," Ilya murmured, leaning down so his breath tickled Shane’s ear. "You are growling. Like a grumpy bear."
"I'm not growling, asshole."
"You are. I feel it in your chest." Ilya pulled back just enough to look Shane in the eye. He reached up, cupping Shane’s face with both hands. "He was hitting on you. Right in front of me. On Cup night."
Ilya’s expression softened, that playful smirk turning into something much warmer, much deeper. "He was talking, Shane. I was listening. Is what people do at parties, yes?."
"He looked like me," Shane burst out, the admission tasting like copper in his mouth. "He had the freckles, he was clearly your 'type' or whatever, and he was trying to get you to a 'quiet' vault."
Ilya went still. He looked at Shane for a long, quiet moment, the noise of the party fading into the background. Then, he started to laugh. It wasn't a mocking laugh; it was rich and full of adoration.
"You think I want a 'type'?" Ilya asked, his thumbs stroking Shane’s cheekbones. "Shane. Look at me."
Shane looked. He saw the faint scar on Ilya’s lip from a high stick three years ago. He saw the way Ilya’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He saw the man who had moved across the ocean, who had fought through a language barrier and a league that didn't always want them, just to be by his side.
"There is no type," Ilya said firmly. "There is only you. There is only man who yells at me for not eating my greens and then scores the winning goal so I have second ring. You think I care about man in nice suit and freckles on a stranger? You are only one, moya lyubov.
Shane felt the tension begin to drain out of him, replaced by a sharp pang of embarrassment. "He looked like me, Ilya. The freckles, the hair... it felt like he was trying to be a better version of me."
"There is no better version," Ilya promised, leaning in to press his forehead against Shane’s. "I think I drank my scotch too fast." Shane muttered.
"Yes," Ilya agreed. "And you are very pretty when you are jealous. Your eyes get very dark. Makes me want to take you home and remind you who I belong to."
Shane’s breath hitched. "Yeah?"
"Yes. But first, we must finish one more drink with the boys, or coach will make us do extra conditioning in September."
Ilya slid his hand down from Shane’s face, catching his hand and interlacing their fingers. He led Shane back toward the center of the room, but he didn't let go. He kept Shane tucked close, their shoulders rubbing, a silent signal to the entire room and any observant Ottawa donors, that he was very much off the market.
As they reached the table where the cup sat, glowing under the chandelier, Shane felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Bood, looking appropriately hammered.
"Hollander! Rozanov! The twin pillars of Ottawa!" he bellowed, thrusting a bottle of champagne toward them. "Drink! We’re legends!"
Shane took the bottle, but before he drank, he glanced back over his shoulder. He saw Francis across the room, watching them. Shane didn't scowl this time. He simply raised the bottle in a mock toast, took a long swig, and then turned back to his husband. The cup was silver, and the glory was fleeting, but the hand holding his was solid gold.
The celebration in the back room was shifting from joyous to chaos. Now that the initial shock of winning had settled into a steady, alcohol-fueled glow, the Ottawa Centaurs were doing what they did best: chirping each other until someone snapped.
Shane still had his arm clamped around Ilya’s waist, a tight hold that hadn't loosened even after Francis had vanished into the crowd. He was trying to look nonchalant, but his eyes were still scanning the room like lasers.
"Oh, look at him. He’s still in 'my man, my man, my man' mode," a voice boomed.
Shane stiffened as Troy, a man who possessed zero filter, wandered over with a beer in each hand. He was flanked by Luca, who was currently wearing his silver medal as a headband.
"Give it a rest, Hollander," Troy chuckled, nudging Shane’s shoulder with a heavy hand. "The guy’s gone. He’s probably halfway to the Gatineau Hills by now to escape your 'if-you-touch-him-I’ll-kill-you' stare."
"I don't have a stare," Shane said, though his grip on Ilya’s belt loop tightened reflexively.
"You do," Hayes chimed in. "You looked like a golden retriever protecting a discarded steak. It was actually a bit embarrassing for the rest of us. We have a reputation as the toughest team in the league, and here you are, pouting because a guy with nice skin talked to your husband."
Ilya leaned back against Shane’s chest, clearly enjoying this far too much. "He is very sensitive today," Ilya told them, his voice vibrating through Shane’s spine. "He thinks because we won the cup, everyone is coming to steal his things."
"Not his things, Rozanov. Just you," Troy corrected, pointing a bottle at Ilya. "And can you blame the guy? You’re the MVP. You’re a god. If I weren't terrified that Shane would shave my eyebrows off in my sleep, I’d probably hit on you too."
"You wouldn't have a chance, Troy," Shane snapped, though there was a crack of a smile on his face now.
"See! There he is!" Troy shouted, turning to the rest of the room. "Hey, Young! Hollander’s losing it! He’s about to challenge the McGill alumni board to a fight!"
Across the room, Young, looked up from where he was pouring champagne into a teammate’s mouth. He wiped his face and let out a loud, barking laugh.
"Leave him alone!" Young called out, though his eyes were dancing. "Hollander's just working on new stats. Most Hits on a Civilian in a Post-Game Celebration. It’s a niche record, but he could do it."
The room erupted in a chorus of “Ooooohs” and rhythmic table-thumping.
"I heard the guy asked for Rozanov's number," LaPointe, piped up from the couch, emboldened by four shots of tequila. "Said he wanted to 'study his technique' in a private setting."
Shane’s head snapped towards him. "He said what?"
"He’s messing with you, Hollander," Luca whispered, patting Shane’s arm. "LaPointe didn't hear anything. He was too busy trying to figure out how the buffet lid works."
"I’m just saying," Troy added, leaning in close to Shane’s ear, his voice dropping to a theatrical stage-whisper. "The guy did have your exact nose. And those little spots on his face? Very 'Hollander-esque."
That was the final straw.
"Alright, that’s it," Shane said, grabbing a nearby towel and flicking it at Troy's face with the precision of a snap-shot. "We’re leaving. Ilya, we’re going."
"We are?" Ilya asked, looking entirely too comfortable. "But my food hasn't arrived yet."
"We’ll get McDonald's on the way," Shane muttered, grabbing Ilya’s hand and starting to tug him toward the exit. As they made their way out, the gauntlet of teammates didn't let up.
"Goodnight, Mr. Hollander-Rozanov!" someone yelled.
"Don't let the freckles get you, Shane!" another screamed.
"Check under the bed for McGill donors!"
Shane flipped a middle finger over his shoulder without looking back, prompting a fresh roar of laughter from the team. The cool night air of Ottawa hit them like a physical relief as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. The streets were still alive with fans in red and black jerseys, the distant sound of car horns honking in a rhythmic "Go-Cens-Go."
Shane pulled Ilya to the side and ducked into the shadows of a deserted side alley. He finally let go of Ilya’s hand, only to wrap both arms around his neck, pulling him into a hard, deep kiss that tasted of scotch, victory, and desperate relief. When they pulled apart, Ilya was breathless, his pupils blown wide. "So," Ilya murmured, his hands resting on Shane’s hips. "The teammates... they are right? You are little bit crazy tonight?"
"I’m a lot bit crazy," Shane admitted, burying his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck. "It’s been a long season, Ilya. I just wanted to win. And I wanted to win with you. And then I see some guy who looks like a better-dressed version of me trying to slide into your DMs in real life..."
Ilya pulled back, forcing Shane to look at him. The streetlamps reflected in Ilya’s blue eyes, making them glow. "Shane. There is no better-dressed version of you. There is only man who wears my jersey and carries my heart. Now, take me home before I start to believe what Troy said about your nose."
Shane laughed, a real, genuine sound this time. He hooked his arm through Ilya’s, leaning his head against his husband’s shoulder as they walked toward their uber.
"I'm still checking the archives tomorrow," Shane muttered. "Just to be sure."
"You are idiot," Ilya sighed, but he leaned down and kissed the top of Shane’s head anyway.
The drive back to their home was a blur. Shane was still buzzing, partly from the drinks, but mostly from the lingering, prickly heat of seeing someone else look at Ilya with that specific brand of hunger. As soon as the front door slid shut, Ilya didn't wait. He caught Shane by the lapels of his linen shirt and backed him into the mahogany-paneled wall. The physical suddenness of it knocked the breath out of Shane, grounding him instantly.
"You are still doing it," Ilya murmured, his blue eyes scanning Shane’s face with devastating precision.
"Doing what?" Shane asked, his voice sounding thinner than he liked.
"Counting the freckles on that man’s face in your head. Comparing them to yours. Seeing if his nose is straighter, if his suit fits better." Ilya leaned in, his nose brushing against Shane’s. Shane blew out a breath, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. "He was just... he was so deliberate, Ilya. And he looked like me. It felt like he was trying to offer you a 'refined' version of what you already have."
Ilya let out a huff of a laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated amusement. He reached up, his large, calloused hands, the hands that had netted four shots tonight, cupping Shane’s jaw.
"You think I want... what you say "refined?" Ilya’s thumb swiped over Shane’s lower lip. "I want the man who folds his dirty clothes before putting them in the laundry basket. I want the man who spends three hours watching film of the other team's power play until his eyes bleed. I want the man who makes me eat kale smoothies because he is 'worried about my longevity.'"
Ilya’s grin widened, as he continued "That man over there? He was a statue. Pretty to look at, maybe. But there was no fire. No Hollander."
Ilya didn't let go; he simply maneuvered Shane out of the hallway, walking him backward toward their living room while keeping his gaze locked.
"And besides," Ilya continued, his voice dropping into a low, playful purr. "He did not have the scar on his chin from the 2022 playoffs. I like that scar. Is mine."
"Ilya—"
Ilya pinned Shane against their couch, "You are the only one, Shane. There is no 'type.' There is only person I chose to cross an ocean for. There is only person whose name is now on that cup next to mine for the second time."
Ilya turned on a single dim lamp, then turned back to Shane. He reached out and began unbuttoning Shane’s shirt, his movements slow and methodical.
"If you are so worried," Ilya whispered, his fingers stalling at the third button, "I suppose I will have to spend the rest of the night proving to you that I have no interest in 'quiet archives' or 'private collections.'"
Shane felt the last of the jealousy dissolve, replaced by a much more familiar, much more welcome heat. He reached out, his hands finding the hem of Ilya’s charcoal suit jacket and shoving it off his broad shoulders.
"You're an asshole," Shane muttered, though he was already leaning in.
"I am champion of the world," Ilya countered, a wicked glint in his eye. "But I am your asshole. Remember this, yes?"
Shane let out a long, shaky laugh, burying his face in Ilya’s neck, breathing in the scent of his husband—the only man in the world who could make him feel like a king and a disaster all at once.
"Yeah," Shane whispered against his skin. "I remember."
Shane pulled Ilya towards him with a forceful tug, his hands moving from Ilya’s waist to the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in the blond hair at the nape. He forced Ilya to look at him, blocking out the rest of the room and the noise of the universe.
"You're mine," Shane hissed, his forehead crashing against Ilya's. "Tell me you know that. Tell me right now."
The room seemed to go silent for them. Ilya’s blue eyes were like ice on fire. He didn't look offended by the outburst; he looked feral. He loved this—the raw, possessive edge of the man who shared his name and his bed.
"I have been yours since the first day you chirped me at center ice, kotyonok," Ilya whispered, his large hands coming up to grip Shane’s biceps so hard it would surely leave bruises. "I am yours on the ice, I am yours in the blur of the cameras, and I am yours when the lights go out. Is no one else. There could never be."
Shane’s own grip tightened, his thumbs tracing the line of Ilya’s jaw with a pressing hard. "Good. Because I’ll burn this city down before I let someone like that think they have a chance with you."
Ilya let out a sharp, jagged breath, his lips brushing against Shane’s in a ghost of a kiss. "Then show me the fire, moya lyubov," he hissed, the command raw and impatient. "Stop talking and show me."
Shane didn't need to be told twice. His hand locked onto the back of Ilya’s neck like a claim and pulled him in.