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The Centaurs were 3-0 up in the second period against Detroit. It was the third game in the second round of the play-offs, and Ottawa had won the previous two comfortably. It was hard for the Centaurs not to feel slightly smug, they had plenty of games ahead of them, and there were tougher opponents to come, but they were playing good hockey, really fucking good hockey.
All 3 goals were courtesy of Ilya, who peacocked his way back to the bench, as he received a chorus of boos from the travelling Detroit fans, what a waste of a trip Ilya thought as he mockingly waved at them, adding fuel to the fire. Shane locked eyes with the swaggering Russian and shook his head, feeling that it was only right to show some disapproval of his husband's cockiness. They hadn’t technically won yet.
Despite himself, Shane couldn’t help but feel a small amount of satisfaction at not being on the receiving end of this display. This was only his first season with the Centaurs, and with a decade of rivalry behind them, Shane still keenly remembers how painful it was to be on the losing end of a game that involved Ilya Rozanov and his particular brand of show boating.
It had been that way since the very start of their careers and certainly didn’t slow up as their feelings for each other became something real, in fact if anything that had made it worse, and certainly more sexual. I am flattered Hollander, you love me so much you let me fuck you on the ice as well, Shane remembers hearing Ilya carefully throw that his way after an embarrassing performance from his previous Montreal team last season. It had pissed Shane off enough that he managed to claw back Montreal's only goal, making the final score 3-1. The sex they had that night was amazing, Ilya celebrating and Shane letting Ilya fuck all the frustrations of the game out of him. Maybe that’s why despite being on the same team, Ilya still makes at least some effort to rile Shane up whenever possible.
"That last one was for you, moy lyubov." Ilya panted out between deep breaths, he took his helmet off and shook out his sweat soaked curls onto Shane, who coiled away in disgust muttering out some general grunts of disapproval.
Ilya fired out a short loud whoop as he slapped his hand against Shane's thigh four times in quick succession and turned to face him, "is good night, no? Do not feel bad that you have no goals kotenok, I score enough for both of us", Ilya's shit eating grin appears to take over his entire face while Shane's scrunches into a look of tight disapproval. "You're meant to chirp the other team Roz." Barrett interjects, also glowing with the anticipation of the win to come, clasping Ilya's shoulder heavily as he takes a seat next to him. Ilya teasingly elbows Shane, who manages to huff out a fuck off, only half heartedly, as he is very aware that he should have scored a goal by now.
"You do not know Shane like I do” Ilya says in response to Barret “this will work for him. I say he will not score so now he will." Ilya gives Shane a stare that dares him to disagree, to argue that a fire hasn't been lit in his stomach at the challenge. "Reverse Psychology doesn’t work if you tell me you're doing it, idiot." Shane pulls his shoulders back and stands, ready to take to the ice.
"Oh it will work." Ilya throws an insufferably self assured wink at Shane and takes a swig from his bottle. Shane rolls his eyes and refuses to acknowledge that his hairs are now standing on end.
He takes one last second to bathe in the high adrenaline buzz that radiates off of Ilya, allowing it to run through his veins as he jumps over the boards to join his line. Better than smelling salts, Shane thinks to himself as he looks back at Ilya, who throws yet another wink at him and a quick nod that says your turn.
It doesn't take long for Shane to prove Ilya right as he effortlessly swans his way past the Detroit defense and fires a steadfast puck past the left shoulder of the Detroit keeper, he allows a fraction of Ilya’s brazen swagger to take over him in the form of a half smile and returned nod to his husband. It's an undeniably great goal, the kind that only Shane Hollander could pull off, and the Centaurs bench erupts up in celebration, apart from Ilya who appears to be wearing a playful mask of feigned indifference. He holds up his hands to Shane, three fingers on one and a singular on the other, reminding Shane of Ilya's hat trick. Shane rolls his eyes and dramatically mouths fuck off towards Ilya, who slowly lowers two of the fingers on his left hand so he is now double flipping off his husband, real mature Shane thinks, but can't help but laugh as more and more Centaurs begin to crowd around him.
After the excitement of his goal dies down, Shane skates over to where Ilya has not moved, Ilya looks him up and down casually, “I said score goal, I did not say score best goal of season and somehow show up my three perfectly fine goals.” Shane huffs out a laugh and shrugs “well be more specific next time”. The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches upward at this, but he refuses to make eye-contact, Shane thinks it is part of his wounded ego bit, it’s actually because Ilya isn’t sure he can hold back from kissing him if he does.
The game enters into the third period and thanks to Shane's goal, Ottawa are now comfortably leading at 4-0, the Centaurs know they have this in the bag and one more game like this means heading to the next round of the play-offs, edging closer and closer to the Cup that Ilya and Shane both want more than ever before.
When Ilya gets back on the ice, he doesn't let up even slightly, still torturing the Detroit players with his unmatchable speed, playing these final minutes the same way he had played in his first. Despite the thrashing, Detroit don't look defeated, no, they just look angry, really angry Shane thinks. Their play becomes increasingly aggressive, their mantra seems to have become: if we're going down, we're taking a few Centaurs with us. Several short lived fights break out across the ice and the penalty box quickly fills up, mostly with Detroit players but also with a few Ottawa rookies who fall for the bait. Ilya, as captain, makes multiple appeals to the ref to do something as the Detroiters carry out one dangerous hit after another.
"Stop fucking crying and play Rozanov!" Blake Cooley the large and rough looking Detroit captain barks at him.
Ilya's eyebrows shoot upwards, he looks genuinely dumbfounded by the comment, "Me play hockey? How about you play hockey so this game is fun for me, captain?” Ilya spits the title out like a slur.
As if in return, Cooley spits on floor "Fuck yourself, Rozanov". He’s a big guy, known for his strength and imposing size on the ice. Shane’s studied him, of course, knows all his stats, knows he’s a great player usually, but is having a terrible play-off series, making mistake after mistake on the ice. His teammates barely carried him through the first round, and he was now losing miserably to a team that up until a year ago, were the worst in the division. Ilya however, just sees a big, dumb, terrible hockey player, who has the nerve to try and insult him, and Ilya has some thoughts on that.
"It is not my fault your team is awful. Here is tip for you, captain to captain, you win by scoring goals, you know of these, yes? Is when puck goes into little net over there" Ilya dramatically points to the Centaur goal and a distressed looking Wyatt Hayes. "I have showed you this three times already, but maybe you didn't see, I will do another?"
Cooley looks at Ilya with a dangerous stillness that could be mistaken for calm if it was not for the crazed look in his eyes. If Ilya noticed this, he doesn't seem to care as he goes on "maybe you don't understand, puck is little black disc..."
"Alright, enough Rozanov" the ref steps between the two as they get dangerously close to each other, but now Ilya is looking at his black and bruised rookies sat in the penalty box, he is thinking about the bad check that threw Troy Barret to the floor and will likely leave him with some very sore ribs. Ilya defensively throws up his hands, "I am just telling him hockey fundamentals, I am surprised, they don’t teach those in Detroit?” Ilya looks between Cooley and the exasperated ref, “ah you look confused, this is the ref, he is here to make sure you play nice, but he is doing shit job so maybe you didn't know..." that's the last sentence Ilya can get out before the Detroit captain is charging at him like a bull, gloves discarded on the floor, his fist swinging towards the side of Ilya’s helmet, who doesn’t have time to think. Luckily, Ilya doesn't have to think, he is the joint best player in the league and he has the reflexes to back that up, Cooley however, is sloppy, and Ilya effortlessly twists his head to the side.
Ilya’s heart is pounding as he turns to look Cooley in the eye, who is clearly processing the fact that his fist hit air instead of the side of a helmet. Ilya's shit eating grin reappears on his face, for the 100th time this game, he even dares to wink "missed me".
Any remaining composure the captain had is lost then as he tackles Ilya to the ice, knocking the Russians helmet off in the process. Suddenly, Cooley is straddling Ilya as he manages to get two good hits in before he is quickly dragged away by Detroiters and Centaurs alike.
Ilya's vision blurs for a moment as he tries to process the speed at which everything just happened. He is annoyed that he didn’t get to hit the man back, but he also wasn’t expecting to be tackled to the ground and have his arms pinned to the side of him by one of the largest players in the league. Where was that speed on the ice, Ilya thinks to himself, he must have been saving it all up to get a few good hits at me, how tragic.
Ilya takes a few beats to lay back on the ice, but quickly regains himself, if anyone can take a hit, it's Ilya Rozanov, it comes with the territory of being the biggest asshole in the MLH. With complete nonchalance, Ilya props himself up onto his elbows and smirks at Cooley who is currently thrashing and cursing against the 5 or 6 men holding him back. Drama queen Ilya chuckles to himself in Russian and then swishes the slowly pooling blood in his mouth and casually spits it to the side, half expecting to see a tooth in it.
-
Shane's heart drops as he watches 250 pound wall of muscle brutally tackle Ilya to the ice and hit him, hard, landing one blow square on his jaw and another closer to his right eye. The altercation is short-lived as even the Detroiters have enough sense to help the Centaurs restrain their captain. Ilya stays limp for a few seconds, which to Shane feels like hours, before he props himself up on his elbows, spits out blood and starts laughing in the face of an enraged Detroit captain. He’s going to be the death of me Shane thinks, already half way toward his husband.
Shane is on the ice and beside Ilya within seconds of the hit, down on one knee to be closer to his husband who hasn't quite bothered to pull himself fully upright yet. Ilya does not turn to acknowledge Shane, his eyes firmly set on Cooley, flashing him a toothy grin without a hint of white as blood coats the entirety of his mouth due the split lip he has been given. He looks like a psychopath Shane thinks, his initial worry now slightly absolved by Ilya's unwavering arrogance.
A drip of blood slowly makes its way down Ilya’s forehead and runs into his eyebrow. Shane quickly inspects him and sees that he is littered with thankfully only shallow looking cuts across his hairline, cheekbones and jaw. He also has the beginnings of what will no doubt be a hell of a black eye. Any sympathy Shane was holding onto for his husband is quickly shaken out of him, as Ilya refuses to let up.
“If you wanted me under you Cooley you only had to ask!” he shouts, “Although you are not really my type! I am into good hockey players, ones that score goals!.” Ilya reaches his hand up and pats Shane’s knee before resting it there, smugness dripping off every part of him.
“Rozanov!” the ref barks as he looks between the bloodied Ilya and the almost feral Detroit player desperately trying to break free and beat the unfaltering smirk off of Rozanov’s face, he then turns to Shane and waves his arms slightly frantically “get him out of here!”.
Jesus Christ Ilya Shane mutters under his breath as he begins the motions of hoisting his husband up and as far away from Cooley as possible, he can hear the man screaming behind him “Come back here Rozanov, you little fucking bitch!”. Lucas Haas nervously skates up to Ilya’s other side and grabs under his shoulder, helping Shane turn him away, which is no small challenge when Ilya fights to keep his eyes and his bloody smile turned on the Detroit players.
Shane doesn’t see it but he hears the kissing noise Ilya makes in their direction.
“Fucking hell, knock it off Ilya” Shane barks which causes Ilya to slowly but eventually turn his head away from the opponents end. Lucas Haas looks like a deer in headlights, he was used to watching Ilya getting into fights but he’d never seen him take a hit quite like that. The sheer amount of blood falling from various points on Ilya's face wasn’t helping settle his nerves, Lucas internally shares Shane’s exact same sentiment, he looks like a psychopath.
The team doctor is waiting near the bench to look Ilya over, he’s rattling off concussion checklist questions that Shane can barely hear above the eruption of chaos in the stadium, Dryska and Hayes are both rattling off death threats directed at the Detroiters and their assistant coach is screaming at the ref at the top of his lungs; Ilya’s smile never once falters.
Ilya cannot hear the questions being asked of him, because he is not listening. He is thinking about the delicious look on Cooley’s face just before he pounced, how entertaining it had been to rile him up and he’s thinking about the match penalty he will now likely receive. All without Ilya having to drop his gloves. It is truly an artform he thinks. He is annoyed, of course, that he hadn’t been able to return the favour, but there is a certain satisfaction in watching a man lose all composure, and being able to look back at him completely unphased.
Ilya has the presence of mind to drop his smirk as he finally opens his eyes to Shane glaring at him, his usually angry kitten face replaced with a look of cool fury that actually sends a sobering chill down Ilya's spine. Instead of letting that on, Ilya just shrugs at him and offers a completely ingenuine, almost mocking “sorry”, which he follows up by spitting out the blood that had been gathering in his mouth once again.
“Are you okay?” Shane asks coldly, clearly annoyed but too in love with the man in front of him to not ask. Ilya doesn’t appreciate the lack of warmth in his tone, it makes him defensive “Never been better”, he shoots back at Shane flatly.
Shane just shakes his head in disapproval, which stings Ilya more than he would like to admit, and skates off to talk to the ref, likely to hear about what punishments will be handed off to who, Ilya was vaguely aware that more fighting had broken out once he had been removed from the ice, he wasn’t surprised, the Centaurs would want revenge for their Captain. He would watch the replay later tonight, keen to see if anyone managed to avenge him and land a few good hits on Cooley.
Ilya is cleared for a concussion, so proceeds to wash the blood out of his mouth and lets the doctor tape up the long cut on his hairline. Despite Ilya’s protests, Wiebe keeps him on the bench as the final few minutes of the game play out, they are still 4-0 up, you’re banged up, no need to risk it he says, although the real reason he’s been kept off the ice is obvious.
-
“Fucking hell Roz what did you say to him” Dryska barks out as the Ottowa players enter the changing room. Shane thinks it’s the loudest it’s ever been, fueled by not only their huge win but the violent chaos of the third period. In stark contrast, Shane is deadly quiet.
“I was just reminding him how hockey works, very thoughtful of me, and this is what I get.” Ilya gestures towards his banged up face.
“Jesus Roz, I don’t know why you’re so determined to get your lights knocked out, but it sure as hell is entertaining to watch.”
No it's not. Shane thinks to himself. Nothing about that was entertaining. For a second there, Shane was convinced Ilya was not getting back up from those hits, that he would be knocked out and Shane would be left guessing the extent of Ilya’s injuries. A burst eardrum, a concussion, a broken jaw, a skull fracture? Shane had listed off the seemingly endless possibilities in his mind in the short space of time between Ilya taking the hits and Ilya spitting blood and laughing in Cooley's face like a maniac.
Ilya is keenly aware that Shane’s frosty mood had followed them into the changing room. He is completely silent, refusing to talk to anyone, quickly and quietly packing up his things and throwing an occasional glare at Ilya whenever he brags about the altercation. The team senses it too, they would usually be patting him on the back and going on about his wonder goal and how it had showed up Ilya’s hat trick. Instead they give Shane a wide berth, everyone keenly aware of tension between himself and their captain.
Ilya thinks it’s unfair, maybe he should have backed off of Cooley a little sooner, but ultimately Ilya couldn’t help that the Detroit player had decided to be unsportsmanly in his response. Ilya would have been more than happy to exchange some hits on the ice, in fact that’s what he had been hoping for. But instead the man had lost his head and tackled Ilya to the ground before he had the opportunity to consent to the fight. The ref had deemed the tackle unsafe, with intent to injure and handed Cooley a match penalty, Ilya was a victim here and he’d appreciate a little sympathy from his husband. However, a quieter, more sensible part of Ilya’s brain knows what he did, that he could have walked away and seen the Centaurs to a confident, levelheaded victory and spared Shane’s nerves and his own face in the process.
Ilya doesn’t care about that right now, because as the adrenaline starts to wear off, the throbbing pain in his face, head and neck starts creeping in. The changing room becomes too loud for the headache forming behind his eyes, and he thinks he might snap if Shane throws one more disapproving look his way. Instead, Ilya skips the showers, deciding it would be easier to carefully wash around his cuts and bruises at home, makes a comment about needing to go home and ice his face, and heads to the carpark.
-
Shane follows quickly behind him, which Ilya wasn’t expecting. They had driven to the stadium separately that day, both heading over from different appointments, but Shane seemed content to leave his car overnight as he grabbed Ilya’s keys out of his hands and said “I’ll drive.”
Ilya doesn’t protest, partly because he wasn’t sure he should drive but mostly because he was quietly relieved Shane was talking to him. Ilya slid into the passenger seat and immediately turned to look out the window at nothing, like a stroppy teenager. That’s how Ilya felt in that moment, like a rebellious teenager whose parents had come to pick him up from school for fighting, not angry, just disappointed. Maybe the comparison was a little unfair.
“Look, I know I shouldn’t be mad at you.” Shane broke the tension as he began their short drive home.
“Then don’t be, problem solved.” Ilya says with a bit more bite than he actually intended. He winces slightly at his own tone. Shane seems a little rattled but continues anyway.
“Listen, you know that I understand it’s how you play. I know, maybe better than anyone, how good you are at getting under a team's skin” Shane lets out a quick sigh and expands “at pushing people’s buttons.”
“I am the best, everyone knows this.” Ilya clocks the irony of how much that response seems to validate Shane’s point.
“Yes, well… I get that it helps, rattling the other team. I see how their play gets sloppy. How they always end up in the penalty box shortly after skating past you.”
“Then you agree, we are aligned” Ilya dramatically clasps his hand together near Shane's face as his Russian accent curls dramatically over the final word which he’d learnt from painfully polite Canadian emails. Ilya was being a brat and he knew it. Shane quickly batted Ilya’s hands away from his face and let out a frustrated sigh. “Look I’m not trying to like, castrate, the great Ilya Rozanov or anything”
Ilya lets out a quick offended scoff “You could not castrate me, I would bite your hand off.” Ilya turns to look out of the window thinking over his next words… “plus you love my balls, so…”
“Ilya,” Shane snaps, growing ever more frustrated at the way this conversation was going, “I’m trying to say that, I was scared today. If Cooley had been able to get a few more hits in, I think he would have, like, broken your face.”
“Okay but he did not, my pretty face will be back to normal soon, da?” Ilya wasn’t quite sure why he was being so difficult, maybe it was because he felt like he was being told off. Which realistically Shane wasn’t doing, maybe something close to that earlier, but not now. No, now Shane was trying to communicate with Ilya, he was being reasonable. Ilya couldn’t quite meet him there.
Shane's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles going white, “Fine, forget it then.”
Ilya threw his head back dramatically and let out a low groan, “I get beaten up for no reason, did not even drop gloves, and somehow is my fault? You are mad at me?”
Shane shot a quick glance in Ilya’s direction, his hands clasping impossibly tighter to the wheel. “I said forget it”. Ilya flopped his neck to the side, staring a hole into the side of Shane’s head.
They drive on a little longer in tense silence, before they reach a red light and the stillness becomes too much for Ilya to bear. He turns to look at Shane, he looks beautiful as always, but tired and sad. Ilya can’t stand it. How is he ever going to win an argument in this marriage when sad Shane looks like that, all droopy eyed and pouty lipped. Ilya fights the urge to kiss him until he stops looking like that.
The stillness and look on Shane’s face seems to shake Ilya out of his mood, “I am sorry moy lybuvov, I am being asshole” he gives in “I know it is not nice to see.” When he sees Shane's face soften slightly, he dares to reach out a hand and rest it on Shane's thigh, giving it a quick comforting squeeze. Shane’s head lulls to the side to meet Ilya's eyes, he was exhausted and completely crashing from the adrenaline of the day, and his heart hurt looking at the various bruises, cuts and dried blood splattered across Ilya’s beautiful face. Instinctively he reached out to push one of Ilya’s tousled curls back in place, and lightly brushed his thumb pad across the darkening bruise on Ilya’s cheekbone.
“Just be more careful” Shane whispers, Ilya can barely stand the soft concern in his voice “that’s all I was going to say, we both know how brutal it gets out there, you and me know better than anyone the risks we take stepping onto that ice…” an imagine of an unconscious Shane Hollander back in Montreal 2017, flashes across Ilya’s mind, he swallows and pushes the thought away, “and I don’t want you stop being your smart mouthed self” Ilya smirks, but doesn’t interject, he knows it is important to let Shane get this out, “but today… and so many other times… these guys want you dead in that moment, you know. And they’re big guys and they can do you some real damage and I don’t want to see that. I don’t want to watch a guy treat your face like a punching bag…” Shane lifts his head to finally look into Ilya’s eyes, before delivering his final plea “Just, be more careful, that’s all I’m asking. We were 4-0 up, you didn’t need the fight… just… learn to walk away sometimes” Shane was struggling to get the right words to come out, “for my sake, if you won’t do it for your own self preservation.”
“Okay moy lyubov, I will try.” It’s not much, Shane thinks, but he can see that Ilya is saying it in complete earnest, which at least relaxes him a bit. It’s probably more than he could have hoped for, asking Ilya Rozanov to not trash talk is like asking a fish not to swim or a bird not to fly. But Shane needed to say it nonetheless.
Shane lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, “Thankyou.” The light turns green and Shane turns his attention back to the road. Shortly after the gentle hum of the car engine starts up again, Ilya let’s out a dramatic sigh, cutting any remaining tension. “Ugh, I will have to find other ways to entertain myself in boring games. Maybe we can make out instead, yes? I stay out of trouble, you get to kiss me, win win.”
Despite himself, Shane laughs, “I think the helmets will make that a little difficult.”
“Okay, hand job then”. Shane reaches across to smack Ilya’s chest, but Ilya, for the second time tonight, puts his reflexes to good use catching it and planting a soft kiss on the back of Shane's hand before dramatically planting wet kisses up the length of his arm, despite his lip injury. “EW, fuck off Ilya” Shane laughs, and attempts to pull back to no avail. They drive on in comfortable silence after that, until Shane plucks up the courage to say what he wanted to say since the game ended.
“I wanted to kill him you know.” The sudden change in Shane’s tone and demeanour prompts Ilya to stop slouching and turn his eyes on his husband. “I don’t want you to think I didn’t care you know… that he hurt you, what he did wasn’t right, he’s been playing long enough to know better, I wanted to break his nose, or leg or something” Ilya’s eyebrows raise, “just in that moment I knew it was better to get you away from him rather than start anything else, but don’t think I didn’t want to”. Shane’s jaw tenses, Ilya wants to lick where he can see the muscles feather.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my polite Canadian boy?” Shane laughs at this, Ilya is glad to hear it, he had never seen Shane look so serious, it was kind of terrifying but undeniably hot. Ilya leans across to kiss Shane’s shoulder and moves his hand to massage the last of the tension away from the back of Shane’s neck.
“Sexy goal tonight by the way,” Ilya’s tone turns deep and lilting. Shane scoffs, “Oh yeah? I thought you were supposed to be mad at me for that goal.” Ilya rests Shane’s hand in his own lap. “I cannot stay mad at you, moy lyubov.” Ilya’s tone is joking, but they both know it’s completely true.
“Yeah well, three goals are better than one, you were amazing tonight.” Shane’s earnest compliment is cut off by Ilya blowing a raspberry “but they were not best goals, you stole the show, like always, whatever Hollander, hope you are happy.” Shane thinks it’s sweet how Ilya is playing up his goal, it was a great goal, but it was Ilya who had won them the game.
“Ah, so you are mad about that goal.” Shane turns to throw Ilya a quick accusatory glance. “Okay maybe a little, was, how do you say, samoreklama… show boating goal.” Ilya smirks to himself anticipating the response that comment was going to get.
“Me?” Shane blurts, “you have some nerve Rozanov, I wasn’t the one blowing kisses at the opponents end.” Ilya throws his hand to his chest in fake shock, “Umm, that was not show boating, that was flirting. I think I have a chance with Cooley, new sexy rivalry yes? This one,” he gestures between the two of them “has gotten a bit stale.”
“Ha-ha,” Shane can’t help himself from lifting the back of Ilya’s hand to his mouth and planting a kiss “I’m sure you two would make a lovely, healthy couple.”
Ilya dramatically puts the back of his hand to his forehead, “I am wounded, Hollander, you don’t even fight for us.”
“Oh I’m sorry, please don’t leave me and run-off with Cooley in this very real situation you have conjured up.” Shane bites back sarcastically, but clearly amused.
“Okay I won’t, but you have to suck me off.” Shane quickly huffs air out of his nose, “You suck me off, you dick”. Ilya turns puppy dog eyes on Shane even though he’s looking ahead at the road.
“I cannot, injury, out for the blow job season”, pointing towards his split lip. “A devastating loss to the sport” Shane chuckles. Ilya’s eyes glisten with amusement, “yes but you are MVP, moy lyubov”. Shane smirks and places his hand on Ilya’s thigh and gently shakes it “Too right”.
They quietly drive the rest of the way home, always keeping a point of contact between them, any previous tension forgotten through gentle touches and loving stares.
-
When they get home Shane runs Ilya a bath and carefully cleans around his injuries, taking his role of nurse very seriously despite Ilya’s attempts to distract him. It’s a sickeningly sweet scene, one that no one would have expected them to be acting out this evening following the tension in the changing room. Dryska and Hazy would probably ask Ilya how the dog house was when he came in for practice tomorrow. But Ilya and Shane knew this was how it would go, with Shane’s hand shielding his husband's eyes and Ilya tilting his head back to allow his husband to carefully wash the blood and sweat out of his curls.
They had spent too many years denying themselves, pretending to hate each other and hiding away to waste any of their precious time arguing. Ilya lets out a contented moan as Shane works more shampoo into Ilya’s hair, Shane cringes as the bath water takes on a slightly red hue. “Ya lyublyu tebya”, Ilya mutters out in bliss. “Yea I love you too, maniac” Shane says, dipping down to plant a kiss on Ilya’s forehead.
In that moment all of Ilya’s pain melts away, he has never been more content than he is in this moment, under Shane’s diligent care, I will have to get beaten up more he muses to himself. And despite Shane’s concerns, he is sure he will, at the end of the day Ilya Rozanov has a reputation to uphold. But maybe, just maybe, for Shane he could learn to tone it down…slightly.