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The silence in the Hollander-Rozanov residence wasn't domestic bliss; it was a tactical minefield. It had started at 3:00 AM. Ilya had bolted upright, lungs filling from a dream betrayal so vivid he could practically smell Shane’s "I’m leaving you" as cologne.
When Shane, warm, sleepy, and innocent of all crimes, reached out, Ilya didn't just move. He executed a mid-air barrel roll off the mattress that would have impressed any gymnast. By breakfast, Ilya was treating Shane like a toxic ex who had just won custody of the good blender.
By 8:00 AM, Ilya’s avoidance was a master class in guerrilla warfare. In the kitchen, Shane reached for the milk. Ilya didn't even finish his bite; he abandoned his toast mid-crunch and retreated to the guest room. He spent the next hour aggressively sharpening his skates while muttering in rapid-fire Russian about "betrayal" and "the audacity of Canadians."
In Ilya’s head, the dream wasn't just a dream; it was a documentary. In it, Shane hadn't even yelled. He had just sat there, looking terrifyingly reasonable, and said: "Ilya, I am tired. I have decided to date a boring accountant named Brendan. He likes cereal and he does not chirp me from the penalty box."
The sound of dream-Shane’s suitcase zipping shut had sounded exactly like a career-ending ACL tear. To Ilya, it wasn't a fluke; it was a prophecy.
"Ilya, talk to me," Shane finally barked, cornering him in the hallway. "Is it trade rumors? Did I forget an anniversary? Is it the knee?"
Ilya went rigid, "Is fine, Shane. Go to rink. Find 'normal' person who does not have complexity or expensive Russian skincare routine. Find Brendan."
Shane blinked, genuinely lost. "Who the hell is Brendan? And why are we talking about your moisturizer? I like your routine, Ilya. It makes the bathroom smell like expensive trees. What is happening?"
Ilya didn't answer. He turned on his heel and marched toward the bedroom. Shane didn’t do "fine." He solved problems with logic. He followed Ilya into the room, moving fast enough to bar the door with his frame before Ilya could bolt into the walk-in closet.
"You’ve been looking at me like I’m a ghost, or like I just kicked a puppy," Shane said, filling the doorway. "Which is it?"
Ilya’s shoulders slumped. "You left," he whispered, tapping his temple aggressively. "In here, you decided you were done with crazy Russian. You didn't even leave the Netflix password. You packed a bag and just walked out on a Tuesday. A Tuesday, Shane! The most boring day to be abandoned!"
Shane stared at him for a long, quiet beat. "A dream? Ilya, you have been treating me like a war criminal for six hours because of sleep?."
"It felt real!" Ilya snapped, his English tripping over his nerves. "Because why you stay? I am disaster! I am... I am just three angry stray cats inside one hockey jersey pretending to be star center! I am waiting for day you wake up and realize you could marry nice, quiet accountant who loves cereal and does not scream at TV!"
"I am so confused," Shane whispered. "I don't know an accountant. I don't even like cereal. It gets soggy."
"In the dream, you loved the crunch, Shane! You loved the crunch and the stability!"
Shane didn't laugh, mostly because he knew he’d get a skate guard thrown at his head. He stepped forward, taking Ilya by the back of the neck and pulling their foreheads together until their eyes locked.
"Listen to me," Shane commanded. "I don't want an accountant. I like your complex soul and I like your face creams that smell like a forest."
He gave the back of Ilya’s neck a firm, grounding squeeze. "I’m not going anywhere. If I can handle you chirping me from the penalty box for seasons, I can handle a Tuesday. We’re going to be ninety, and I’ll still be stealing your blankets while you call me a traitor. You are stuck with this boring Canadian, cats and all. Understood?"
Ilya let out a shaky breath, his hands clutching Shane's forearms. "You are very stubborn, Hollander."
"Good," Shane murmured, bumping their noses together. "Now, let's go. We have practice, and I’m taking the suitcase out of the closet and hiding it so you can sleep tonight."
At practice, Ilya was a jittery mess. As the first-line center, he was supposed to be leading the rush, but he was over-skating every puck like he was trying to outrun his own head. Shane, meanwhile, had pivoted from "confused boyfriend" to "unhinged secret service agent." He decided that if Ilya was afraid of being left, Shane would simply never be more than six inches away from him. Even if they weren't on the same line.
It was a non-contact skill drill. It became a bloodbath.
Davis, a rookie defenseman, looking for a spot on the roster, pinned Ilya against the boards, shouldering him to fight for the puck. It was a love tap. A nothing-burger. But before the kid’s shoulder even touched Ilya’s jersey, a dark blue blur flew off the bench.
Shane didn't wait for his shift. He deleted the rookie. He pinned Davis to the glass with a forearm shiver that made the plexiglass groan in agony.
The whistle blew, but there was no screaming. Coach Wiebe didn't yell. He didn't even throw his clipboard. He just stood on the bench, shoulders slumped, staring at his two star centers with the hollow eyes of a man who was ready to quit hockey forever.
"Hollander," Wiebe said, his voice flat and weary. "You aren't even in this rotation. Why are you on the ice? Why is the rookie currently part of the boards?"
Shane didn't even look at the bench. He was already circling Ilya, checking his shoulder pads for imaginary dust. "He was in the lane, Coach," Shane said, his voice low. "I cleared the ice. Permanently."
Wiebe let out a long, slow sigh. "It’s a skating drill, Hollander. There is no lane" He rubbed his temples, refusing to look at them. "Fine. Whatever. Someone scrape Davis off the glass. Hollander, get back on the bench. Roz... try to be a center, not a victim."
For the rest of the hour, Shane was a tactical nightmare.
Every time Ilya’s line finished a shift, Shane was waiting at the gate to guide him onto the bench.
If a player even breathed near Ilya during a faceoff, Shane would shout instructions from the bench that sounded suspiciously like threats.
At one point, Shane "accidentally" tripped a guy who was chasing Ilya, then looked at the ceiling like he’d seen a very interesting bird.
After the whistle, Shane skated over, hooking his stick around Ilya’s waist and hauling him in. "See?" Shane grunted, chest heaving. "Still here. Nobody touches my Russian."
Ilya leaned his heavy, sweaty head against Shane’s shoulder, finally letting out a long breath. "You are being very embarrassing, Hollander. Everyone is staring and Coach is looking at us like he wants to retire."
"Let him retire," Shane grinned, bumping their helmets together. "Now move. We go home. I am making pasta with the good spatula and I’m might even chain myself to the bedpost so you know for sure I am not escaping on Tuesday."
The locker room was deathly quiet. Usually, the post-practice vibe was a riot of noise, but today, the team was busy avoiding eye contact with the two star centers.
Shane sat at his stall, unlacing his skates like he hadn’t just committed several counts of sanctioned harassment. Beside him, Ilya stared intensely at a roll of sock tape as if it held the secrets to the universe.
Hayes the veteran goalie, broke the silence by dropping his shoulder pads with a heavy thud.
"Okay I'll bite" Hayes said, "Hollander, I’ve seen some clingy alternates. I once played with a guy who wanted to hold hands during the anthem. But you? You just tried to body-check a kid into the shadow realm for breathing in the Captain's general zip code."
"He was crowding the slot," Shane said, his voice a masterpiece of flat, defensive neutral.
"He was at center ice, Shane!" shouted Young, still vibrating from his near-liquidation. "I was getting water! I wasn't even in the drill!"
"Tactical interference," Shane muttered.
Beside him, Ilya finally moved. He slowly turned the roll of tape in his hands, his expression unreadable.
"Shane," Ilya said, his voice low and calm.
"Yeah?"
"He was at the bench."
"Exactly," Shane muttered, finally looking up. "High-risk area."
The locker room collectively exhaled, the sound of a dozen teammates giving up on logic. Hayes just shook his head and went back to his laces.
Ilya finally looked away from his tape, turning toward the terrified rookie.
"Is fine, Young," Ilya said, his tone weary. "He is just having... feelings. He thinks he is golden retriever, but he is actually very large, very stupid bear."
"I am the bear?" Shane turned to him, one skate off. "You're the one who treated me like I was a ghost all morning because dream-Shane didn't like your 'crazy'!"
The locker room went silent.
The locker room froze. Bood, the resident chaos-agent, slowly lowered his Gatorade. "Wait. Back up. Are we talking about a dream? Did Hollander just catch a five-minute major because Roz had a nightmare?"
"It was a very realistic nightmare," Ilya defended, pointing a finger at Bood. "It was very Shane!"
"What did Dream-Shane do?" Luca another rookie asked.
"He was... terrifyingly reasonable," Ilya said, his voice dropping. "He sat me down. He didn't even yell. He just said, 'Ilya, I am tired. I have decided to date boring accountant named Brendan. He likes cereal and he does not chirp me from the penalty box.'"
Bood blinked, looking between the two star centers. "You're mad at him," Bood clarified slowly, "because he left you for a boring accountant in a dream?"
"Brendan," Ilya hissed, the name sounding like a curse. "You had a spreadsheet for our feelings, Shane. You said he was 'stable'."
"I don't know a Brendan!" Shane shouted, brandishing his skate. "I was literally right there, asleep, doing nothing! I wake up and get the silent treatment because my subconscious wants a tax professional?"
"A spreadsheet?" Hayes started laughing, a deep, wheezing sound. "Oh, that tracks. That’s high-level Hollander right there."
"Betrayal felt very real," Ilya insisted, finally meeting Shane's eyes with a wounded look. "The bear is defense mechanism against accountants."
"The bear is going to get us a league fine," Troy muttered, grabbing his towel. "And I'm telling the coach the 'tactical interference' was actually about a guy named Brendan."
"I’m going to kill Brendan," Shane growled. "If I ever meet an accountant named Brendan, he’s getting checked into the boards on sight. I'll find his firm. I'll audit his face."
"See?" Ilya gestured vaguely at the room. "The bear."
"The point is," Shane yelled over the rising titters of the locker room, "I am not leaving! I am staying! I am staying so hard it’s going to become everyone’s problem! If anyone touches Ilya again, they're answering to me and the spreadsheet!"
Bood leaned over to Davis. "Welcome aboard. If you’re looking for a sports psychologist, you’re out of luck. We just have a Russian who dreams in Tolstoy and an Alternate who treats 'Til Death Do Us Part' as a defensive strategy."
Ilya stood up and smacked Shane over the head with his towel. "You are embarrassing, Hollander. Truly. I am divorcing you tonight. Just for peace and quiet."
"You do that!" Shane called after him, a massive, triumphant grin breaking through. "When we get home I’m making pasta! With the good spatula!"
The silence in the house had shifted; the brittle edge was gone, replaced by the scent of garlic and the heavy, grounding presence of a man who didn't know how to do anything halfway.
Shane poked at the pasta, the "good spatula" clicking against the pot. He was humming, a low, rhythmic sound that filled the kitchen and made the house feel lived-in again.
"It’s overcooked," Ilya said from the doorway. He was buried in Shane’s robe, his hands lost in the sleeves. He watched the scene with a wary, wide-eyed focus, looking less like a partner and more like a cat contemplating.
Shane didn't look up, but he grinned. "It’s soft. Easy to digest. Doctor’s orders."
"The doctor is not Italian."
"The doctor wants you to eat," Shane countered, finally turning around. He leaned against the counter, spatula still in hand. "You hungry, or just here to scout my technique?"
Ilya leaned his head against the doorframe, his eyes tracking the steam. "Both."
"Good," Shane said, his voice dropping the playfulness for something steadier. "Sit. I'll fix you a bowl."
"I am still annoyed with you," Ilya announced.
"I know," Shane said, not bothering to look up from the stove. "You’ve mentioned it four times since the parking lot. Once in Russian, which sounded particularly spicy."
"You made me look like a fragile Victorian doll out there. Bood asked if I needed nap and warm glass of milk."
"To be fair," Shane countered, finally turning and brandishing a spatula at him. "You started the day by treating me like a enemy. I had to overcompensate. It’s in my contract, Ilya. Section Four, Paragraph B: Must protect the grumpy Russian from all threats, real or otherwise."
Ilya let out a huff, the last of the tension finally bleeding from his shoulders. He crossed the kitchen and slumped, dropping his forehead against Shane’s shoulder blades.
"The dream was very quiet, Shane," Ilya whispered into the cotton of his shirt. "That was the worst part. You were just... reasonable. You said, 'Ilya, this is not working,' and you folded your shirts so neatly. I hate when you are reasonable."
Shane let the spatula clatter onto the spoon rest and turned within the circle of Ilya’s arms. He tucked a stray blonde hair behind Ilya’s ear, tilting his chin up until their eyes locked.
"Listen to me, you asshole," Shane said, his voice soft but unshakeable. "I am never going to be that reasonable. If we’re falling apart, I’m going to be loud and I’m going to fight. I’m definitely going to be annoying about it. I’m not folding my shirts and walking out; I’m staying right here to argue about whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher for the next fifty years."
Ilya searched Shane's face, looking for the cold, organized man from the dream. He found only the familiar, messy warmth of the man in front of him.
"Fine," Ilya muttered against Shane's collarbone. "But the moment you start using a spreadsheet for our feelings, I am chucking your skates into the lake."
"Deal," Shane laughed, squeezing him tight. "Now, sit. The pasta is probably mush because I was busy being a bodyguard, but it’s served with the good spatula. It tastes like commitment."
"You are dork, Hollander."
"Yeah, but I'm your dork. Get the forks."