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“What did you just say?”
“It was one time, Roz, chill out.”
Ilya could not chill out. In fact, he’s convinced he will never be chill again. He watches Troy, with his little mischevious smile, aim his stick at the white cue ball and imagines all the ways he could murder him with objects within reach. A pool stick? Too predictable. A beer bottle? Maybe a little too violent, and Shane would be angry to have to wash blood stains out of Ilya’s nice jeans. He decides to settle for an old-fashioned punch, even though he’ll probably get banned from Monk’s for the rest of time. That feels like a minor consequence.
“Dude, you took Hollzy on a date? That’s insane, when?” Dykstra laughs, nudging Troy’s shoulder.
Troy looks up at Ilya, hesitantly. Ilya’s glare is enough to make him bite his tongue.
It’s only a pair of hands wrapping around Ilya’s waist that pulls his glare away, for just a moment.
“I got you another drink.” Shane smiles, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s cheek, setting the drink on the table, and taking his place on the barstool next to Ilya.
“Thank you, Shane,” Ilya whispers, smiling sweetly at his husband.
The team goes quiet.
“Did I miss something?” Shane whispers, noticing the silence washing over the usually rambunctious team.
“Yes, malysh. Barrett here was just telling us about your date.” Ilya says, wrapping an arm around Shane, whose cheeks are a blazing red.
“My date?” Shane says, lost, looking over at Troy, “Oh,”
“Yeah, oh.”
Ilya’s sideways glance burns into Shane.
“So?” Wyatt questions, “When was it?”
Troy looks at Ilya, searching for permission to answer, but is only met with a hardened glare.
“I think it was 2014?” Shane finally says, looking to Troy for confirmation.
Ilya snaps his head to Shane. 2014? When the fuck did Shane have time to go on a date with Troy fucking Barrett in 2014? If Ilya’s memory is correct, and it always is when it comes to Shane, his husband was very much occupied in 2014.
“Yeah, that’s right. Right after the US kicked our ass at the Sochi Olympics.” Troy laughs, amused by the way Ilya’s eye twitches with annoyance.
“That was a tough game.” Shane laughs, scratching the back of his neck nervously as Ilya’s eyes never leave his face.
“Rozanov? Are you okay? Your face is super red.” Haas adds, all heads turning to look at a very unhappy Ilya.
“Yes.” Ilya sets his drink down. “Time to go home. Very tired.”
Shane stares at him for a moment before standing and collecting their jackets.
“Good to see you guys, practice tomorrow, yeah?” Shane quickly says, hurrying to catch up with Ilya, who’s already halfway out of the bar.
“Oh, you fucked up, man.” Hayes laughs, bumping Troy’s shoulder.
The car ride back to their apartment is silent. No conversation, no radio, just the extremely heavy weight of Ilya’s annoyance filling the space between them. Ilya’s hand, which usually finds its place on or between Shane’s thighs, is gripping the gear shift of his McLaren with white knuckles. It’s only when they stop at a red light that Shane stops picking at a loose thread on his hoodie to speak.
“You can’t seriously be mad at me about a date I went on in 2014.”
“Did you have sex with him?”
“Ilya-”
“Bozhe moy, I am going to throw up.”
Ilya starts making exaggerated gagging sounds before pressing the gas, the green light illuminating the intersection.
“Ilya, Jesus Christ, I didn’t have sex with him,” Shane groans.
“So what did you do on this date?” Ilya demands, turning into the parking garage for their apartment complex.
“We had dinner at my apartment in Montreal-”
“You took him to your apartment?”
The apartment that Ilya had never seen because Shane always insisted on taking him to that fucking rental complex. The apartment Shane sold before Ilya ever got a chance to see the place Shane spent his time during the early years of their relationship. The apartment where Ilya never existed. Where Troy fucking Barrett did.
“Well, we couldn’t go to a restaurant.”
Ilya grunts.
“Then what?” Ilya insists.
“Ilya,” Shane mumbles, pressing his head back against the seat and sighing. The headlights turn off as Ilya opens the door, circling the car to open Shane’s.
“No, I want to know all about your magical apartment date with Troy Barrett. Please, I am so very curious.” Ilya says, taking Shane’s hand and dragging him towards the elevator.
Shane bites his lip, leaning against the elevator wall as Ilya scans their key. The numbers tick upwards. When the doors finally open into their penthouse, Shane takes a deep breath as Ilya leans against the kitchen island, staring at him.
“We watched TV, had a couple of drinks.” Shane finally says, Ilya’s expectant glare pulling the words out of him.
“Ginger ale?” Ilya questions.
“Uh, no. We drank wine.”
Ilya’s eyes go wide, “Wine? You drank wine with Troy Barrett? Shane, wine makes you-”
“Ilya, please,” Shane cringes, waving a dismissive hand towards Ilya.
“But Shane, wine makes you horny. And you are saying you did not have sex with him?”
Shane huffs frustratedly and crosses his arms before exploding.
“Fine, Ilya! I don’t know why you want to know so bad, but here it is. He came over. He made me dinner. We watched half of Blades of Glory, which I hated by the way, while we finished the wine from dinner, and then we started to kiss, and then he got down-”
“No! No! Stop now. La, La, La,” Ilya shouts, covering his ears, running for the bedroom.
“You asked!” Shane exclaims, following him.
“You let Troy Barrett suck your dick! In your home?” Ilya shouts, pretending to heave again, holding onto the footboard of their bed for support.
“Ilya, you’ve hooked up with other men too, you know.”
“Yes, but I have not hooked up with Troy Barrett.”
“What’s the difference? It was seven years ago, Ilya.”
“I am going to kill him.” Ilya mumbles.
“You can’t kill him.” Shane rolls his eyes.
“Oh? I can’t? Why? Do you need him to come over and su-”
“Ilya,” Shane warns.
Ilya lets out a loud, exasperated sigh before reaching out to collect Shane in his arms, pressing kisses to the exposed skin around the loose collar of his shirt. Shane laughs lightly, running his hands down his husband's defined arms, squeezed into a tight shirt. All thoughts of Troy Barrett drift from Ilya’s mind as soon as Shane’s soft lips whisper in his ear.
“Why don’t you remind me why you are the man I married?”
“Remind me why I married this man?” Shane groans, standing with Harris, Wyatt, Luca, and Dykstra on the bench at practice the next morning.
On the ice, Troy’s face is beet red and drenched in sweat as he races down the ice and back again. Ilya, shouting at him to move faster.
“Is he allowed to make Troy do bag skates for taking you on a date seven years ago?” Harris grimaces, watching his boyfriend let out a distressed cry as Ilya shouts, “Faster!”
“This definitely seems against the rules,” Luca mutters, nervously pulling at his jersey.
“You should go out there and tell Roz that, I’m sure Barrett wouldn’t mind having someone join in on the fun.” Wyatt laughs, shoving at the rook’s shoulder.
The five of them track Troy up and down the ice like a tennis match. When Troy comes to a sudden stop in front of Ilya, they all lean in to listen.
“Look, Roz, I’m sorry, okay. I promise to-” He huffs, painfully pulling in a breath, “I’ll never talk about Hollander again. I’ll never even look at him. I’ll wipe my own memory. I’ll go back in time and make sure I was never born. Please let me stop.”
Ilya crosses his arms, looking down at the hyperventilating man. Smiling.
“Blades of Glory?” Ilya laughs, “You are an idiot.”
Troy looks at him, confused, before the realization hits.
“What can I say, it makes good background noise.”
Troy takes off down the ice again, laughing, but this time Ilya follows behind him, shouting Russian profanities.
“What’s going on here?” Coach Wiebe asks, approaching the bench.
“Barrett took Hollzy on a date seven years ago, so Roz is making him do bag skates.” Wyatt laughs, watching Ilya grab a fistful of Troy’s jersey as the two collapse to the ice.
“Ilya, if you hurt him, I’m throwing away all the Zebra Cakes that you think you’re hiding in the living room side table!”
Ilya’s head shoots up from where they wrestle on the ice, his loose helmet crooked. “No!”
“You are all idiots.” Wiebe laughs, shaking his head, “Time for practice, boys! Bring it in.”
I will not torture Troy Barrett for a date he went on seven years ago.
I will not torture Troy Barrett for a date he went on seven years ago.
I will not torture Troy Barrett for a date he went on seven years ago.
“This is stupid, Shane.” Ilya whines, his hand cramping around the pen.
“I want you to write it twenty more times, make ten of them French,” Shane demands, tossing a Zebra Cake into the trash can, making Ilya wince.
“You are an evil little kotonok.” Ilya mumbles, looking back down at the loose pieces of paper on the dining room table.
“You almost broke Troy’s nose during a drill,” Shane says sternly.
“You cannot prove it.”
“He was bleeding.”
“Is a rough sport. Not my fault that Barrett is clumsy.”
Shane glares at him, and Ilya starts to write again.
Je ne torturerai pas Troy Barrett pour un rendez-vous qu'il a eu il y a sept ans.
Je ne torturerai pas Troy Barrett pour un rendez-vous qu'il a eu il y a sept ans.
Je ne torturerai pas Troy Barrett pour un rendez-vous qu'il a eu il y a sept ans.
“In conclusion, I am sorry for using an event held seven years ago involving no specific person to get under your skin for my own enjoyment. That was not a very kind thing to do, even though it was very fun.”
Troy Barrett sits down in the chair on the far side of Harris’ office, folding up the piece of paper and tucking it into his jeans pocket. Harris is trying to maintian his stoic glare all while holding back his laughter.
“Ilya,” Shane says expectantly, waiting for him to stand.
He groans, but stands and looks at Troy across the room before pulling up the notes app on his phone.
“Dear Barrett. I am sorry for making you do bag skates and making your nose bleed. I am sorry for calling you very mean Russian names, including but not limited to: fucker, whore, asshole, motherfu-”
“Ilya,” Shane warns. Ilya quickly clears his throat.
“I am also sorry for being mad about you taking my husband on a date many years ago. It was-”
He groans,
“-childish and not kind.”
He looks to Shane, who gives him a smile of approval.
“IAmAlsoSorryThatYouDidNotGetToSleepWithMyHusbandHeIsGoodBottom”
“Ilya!” Shane shouts, pushing at his shoulder.
Harris laughs, shaking his head, “You guys are ridiculous.”
“Can you two just shake hands and make up now?” Shane sighs, waving at the two of them.
Troy and Ilya stand in the middle of the room, staring into each other’s eyes.
“Truce?” Troy offers, holding out his hand.
“Truce,” Ilya huffs, shaking his hand.
Shane and Harris both let out a breath of relief.
“But since you are terrible, maybe I can give you some pointers-”
“ILYA!” Shane yells