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The game had been brutal in a way that lingered far beyond the final buzzer, the kind of loss that didn’t just sit on the scoreboard but seemed to seep into muscle and bone, settling there with a dull, persistent ache that no amount of cooling down or post-game routine could quite shake loose.
The Montreal Metros had lost.
Not narrowly, not in a way that could be shrugged off as bad luck or a single missed opportunity, but decisively enough that it left no room for excuses, only a heavy, unspoken understanding that they had been outplayed when it mattered most.
Shane Hollander remained seated in front of his locker long after most of the room had begun to empty, his gear half-removed, damp hair clinging to his forehead, his gaze fixed somewhere on the scuffed floor tiles as if he might find an answer there if he stared long enough. Around him, the usual post-game noise had faded into something quieter, more subdued—sticks being packed away with less force than usual, voices kept low, the occasional frustrated exhale cutting through the stillness.
He was the captain. He was supposed to say something.
Something steady, something reassuring, something that reminded them that one loss didn’t define a season, that they would regroup, come back stronger, fix whatever had gone wrong tonight.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Because across the rink, in another locker room filled with noise and laughter and victory, Ilya Rozanov would be celebrating.
The thought hit him harder than any check he’d taken during the game.
“Hey.”
Shane blinked, dragging himself back to the present as Hayden leaned casually against the locker beside him, already changed, his expression carrying that familiar mix of concern and patience that Shane had come to rely on more than he liked to admit.
“You good?” Hayden asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp.
Shane exhaled slowly, rolling one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Yeah. Just… bad game.”
Hayden tilted his head slightly, clearly unconvinced. “Bad game,” he repeated. “Or bad because you lost to them?”
Shane didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
A quiet sigh escaped Hayden as he straightened. “JJ’s dragging everyone out,” he said after a moment. “Bar downtown. You should come.”
Shane let out a short, humorless laugh. “You know I hate that.”
“I know,” Hayden replied easily. “Which is exactly why you should come.”
As if summoned, JJ appeared in the narrow space between lockers, already fully dressed and buzzing with restless energy. “We are not sitting around here sulking all night,” he declared, clapping his hands once for emphasis. “We’re going out. That’s final.”
“I don’t—” Shane began.
“You’re coming,” JJ interrupted, pointing at him with unwavering certainty. “Captain’s orders.”
Shane raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “I’m the captain.”
“Not tonight you’re not,” JJ shot back without missing a beat. “Tonight you’re the guy who needs a drink.”
Shane hesitated, the instinctive refusal sitting on the tip of his tongue.
He didn’t drink—not really. He liked control too much, liked the clarity of knowing exactly what he was doing, what he was saying, how he was being perceived. Alcohol blurred those edges, softened things he preferred to keep sharp.
But right now, everything already felt off-balance.
“Fine,” he said at last, the word coming out quieter than he intended.
JJ broke into a satisfied grin. “That’s the spirit.”
The bar was overwhelming from the moment they stepped inside, the noise hitting Shane like a physical force, bass thrumming through the floor beneath his feet, laughter and conversation layering over the music until it all blurred into a chaotic, pulsing wall of sound.
It was packed—bodies pressed close together, the air warm and thick, the lights dim enough to make everything feel slightly unreal.
Shane already regretted agreeing to this.
JJ and Hayden moved ahead with ease, slipping through the crowd as if they belonged there, while the rest of the team followed in varying states of forced enthusiasm—Comeau already loud, Drapeau scanning the room with interest, Berkes and Wilson arguing about something inconsequential.
Shane lingered near the edge, keeping just close enough not to lose them entirely.
“Drinks!” JJ announced, veering toward the bar and disappearing into the mass of people.
Shane leaned back against a high table, exhaling slowly, trying to steady himself.
He could do this. One drink, maybe two. Then he’d leave.
“Hey.”
The voice came from behind him, familiar enough that his body reacted before his mind caught up, tension slipping into something sharper, more alert.
He turned—and everything else seemed to fade for a moment.
Ilya stood there, close enough that Shane could see the damp curls of hair still clinging to his temples, the lingering flush of exertion on his skin, the unmistakable curve of a smile that spoke of victory and satisfaction and something dangerously close to pride.
“You came,” Ilya said, his tone carrying a hint of amusement.
Shane huffed softly, crossing his arms as if that might create some necessary distance between them. “Against my better judgment.”
Ilya stepped a fraction closer, lowering his voice so it didn’t carry. “You don’t like bars.”
“I don’t like losing either,” Shane replied, the words sharper than he intended.
For a brief moment, something shifted in Ilya’s expression—something softer, almost apologetic—but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“You played well,” Ilya said.
Shane rolled his eyes, though there was less bite behind it than usual. “Don’t.”
“I mean it.”
“Don’t,” Shane repeated, quieter this time.
They stood there for a moment, the space between them charged with everything they couldn’t say, everything they weren’t supposed to show.
No one knew.
Not here. Not like this.
On the ice, they were rivals.
Off the ice—
“Your team’s here,” Shane said, forcing himself back into safer territory.
Ilya smirked faintly. “So is yours.”
As if on cue, Marlow appeared at Ilya’s side, throwing an arm around his shoulders with easy familiarity. “There you are,” he said. “We’ve been looking for you.”
His gaze flicked toward Shane, curiosity sharpening. “Hollander.”
“Marlow,” Shane replied automatically.
Marlow’s eyebrow lifted slightly, clearly picking up on the tension, though he didn’t press.
Across the room, JJ waved, holding up two drinks.
Shane glanced back at Ilya for just a second.
Ilya gave the slightest nod.
Go.
Shane turned and pushed his way through the crowd.
The third drink sat heavy in Shane’s system—not enough to make him sloppy, not enough to dull him completely, but just enough to blur the edges of everything in a way that made it harder to stay sharp, harder to stay in control.
That was the problem.
Shane relied on control.
And tonight, he was already stretched thin.
JJ was midway through some loud, animated story, gesturing so wildly that Hayden had to lean back to avoid getting hit, laughter spilling easily from him in a way that felt almost foreign against the backdrop of the earlier loss. Around them, the bar pulsed with movement and noise, bodies pressing close, music vibrating through the floor, voices overlapping until it all became a kind of overwhelming hum.
Shane let himself sink into it just enough to breathe.
Just enough to pretend.
Then a hand landed on his waist.
Not light. Not fleeting.
Firm.
Possessive.
Shane froze.
“Hey,” a voice said, too close—far too close—breath warm and unpleasantly sharp against the shell of his ear. “You’re Shane Hollander, right?”
Shane turned quickly, instinctively trying to step back, to create space—but the hand didn’t move. If anything, it tightened, fingers pressing into his side in a way that made his skin crawl.
The man was bigger than him, broader through the shoulders, his stance loose with alcohol but his grip steady in a way that made something uneasy twist in Shane’s stomach.
“Big fan,” the man continued, his grin wide and unfocused. “Saw you play tonight. You’re—” his eyes dragged slowly over Shane’s face, his shoulders, lingering too long, “—even better up close.”
“Thanks,” Shane said, his voice controlled but tight. “But you need to let go.”
The man didn’t.
Instead, his thumb shifted, dragging slightly against Shane’s side as if testing boundaries, as if he had any right to.
“Relax,” he said, laughing softly. “I’m just talking.”
“You’re grabbing,” Shane corrected, sharper now, trying again to pull away.
The grip only tightened.
“Don’t be like that,” the man said, leaning in closer, crowding into his space, forcing Shane to tilt his head back slightly just to keep any distance at all. “You don’t seem like the uptight type on the ice.”
Shane’s pulse spiked.
“I said let go.”
For a moment, something flickered in the man’s expression—annoyance, maybe—but it didn’t translate into action.
Instead, his other hand came up, brushing against Shane’s arm, then lingering.
Too much.
Too close.
Shane’s chest tightened, breath catching as the noise of the bar seemed to surge around him, louder and louder, pressing in until it felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room.
He tried to step back again, but the man followed, closing the gap immediately, trapping him between his body and the edge of the table behind him.
“Hey,” Shane said again, but this time the word came out thinner, strained. “Seriously—”
The man leaned in even closer, his voice dropping. “You don’t have to pretend. Guys like you—”
Something in Shane snapped.
“Ilya!”
The name tore out of him, loud and sharp and entirely unfiltered, cutting clean through the noise of the bar like a blade.
For one suspended second, everything seemed to hold.
Then—
Force.
A hand slammed into the man’s shoulder, shoving him back hard enough that he stumbled, nearly losing his footing entirely.
“Back. Off.”
Ilya’s voice was low, controlled, but carrying a weight that made it far more dangerous than if he had shouted.
He stepped forward immediately, placing himself squarely between Shane and the stranger, his posture rigid, every line of his body radiating tension and intent.
The man blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What the hell—?”
“I said back off,” Ilya repeated, his gaze dark and unwavering.
There was no humor in him now. No playfulness. No teasing edge.
Only fury.
The man straightened, bristling slightly, looking like he might argue—but then his eyes flicked over Ilya properly, taking in the stance, the size, the absolute certainty in his expression.
Whatever he saw there made him hesitate.
“Jesus,” he muttered, holding his hands up slightly as he took a step back. “Fine. Didn’t know he was taken.”
The words landed wrong. Slimy.
Ilya’s jaw tightened, like he might say something else, something worse—but the man was already backing away, disappearing into the crowd.
The immediate pressure vanished.
But the damage didn’t.
Shane was still pressed against the table, breath uneven, skin prickling where the man had touched him, the ghost of it lingering in a way that made his stomach twist.
And Ilya was still standing in front of him.
Solid.
Unmoving.
A barrier between him and everything else.
“Are you okay?” Ilya asked, his voice softer now, but still edged with something sharp.
Shane nodded quickly, though it felt automatic, detached. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Ilya didn’t move.
Didn’t look convinced.
Behind them, the shift in the room became impossible to ignore.
Because people were staring.
Not just strangers.
Teammates.
“Why the hell did you call him?”
Comeau’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and suspicious.
And just like that, everything else came crashing in.
Shane’s stomach dropped.
He hadn’t thought.
He hadn’t filtered.
He had just—
Called Ilya.
Not Rozanov.
Not anything neutral.
Ilya.
“Shane?” Drapeau pressed, stepping closer.
Shane opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Because how did you explain something like that?
How did you take it back?
“You’re kidding, right?” Berkes added, eyes narrowing.
Ilya didn’t give Shane the chance to try.
“Because he’s with me.”
The words were clear. Firm. Impossible to misinterpret.
Shane’s head snapped toward him. “Ilya—”
“I’m not hiding it,” Ilya said, louder now, his gaze sweeping across the Metros with open defiance. “Not after that.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
“You’re serious,” Wilson said, disbelief heavy in his voice.
“No,” Hayden said quietly, stepping forward. “He is.”
JJ dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus, Shane…”
“This is messed up,” Comeau said flatly, his expression hardening. “Our captain? With him?”
“Watch your mouth,” Ilya snapped immediately.
“Or what?” Comeau shot back.
Ilya took a step forward without hesitation.
Shane caught his arm, fingers tightening. “Don’t.”
“They don’t get to talk about you like that,” Ilya said, his voice tight with restrained anger.
“They’re my team,” Shane replied, though the words felt weaker than they should have.
“Then they should act like it.”
The air felt like it might crack.
No one moved.
No one backed down.
Until Ilya made the decision for both of them.
“We’re leaving,” he said, his hand closing firmly around Shane’s wrist.
This time, Shane didn’t argue.
Didn’t look back for long.
Just long enough to catch Hayden’s eyes—steady, supportive—and JJ’s, conflicted but not stopping him.
Then he turned and let Ilya pull him out.
The night air hit him hard, cool and sharp against overheated skin, but it didn’t fully clear the feeling crawling under his skin, the lingering discomfort, the echo of hands that hadn’t let go when they should have.
They walked quickly, Ilya not letting go, his grip firm, grounding, like he was anchoring Shane to something solid.
“I didn’t mean to call you,” Shane said finally, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “I just—”
“You needed help,” Ilya said. “So you called me.”
Like it was obvious.
Like it was the only option.
“I should’ve handled it,” Shane muttered.
Ilya stopped walking.
Shane barely had time to register it before Ilya turned toward him, his expression sharp.
“No,” he said firmly. “You should not have had to handle that alone.”
Shane blinked, caught off guard by the intensity.
“He didn’t listen to you,” Ilya continued, anger flickering again. “You told him to stop. He didn’t. That is not on you.”
Shane swallowed.
They reached the hotel not long after, the quiet of it a stark contrast to the chaos they had just left behind.
Inside the room, the door clicked shut—and something in Shane finally cracked.
“I hated that,” he admitted, voice low, uneven. “I couldn’t get him to stop and I—” he dragged a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through, “—I didn’t know what to do.”
Ilya stepped closer immediately, his focus entirely on Shane, all the earlier anger shifting into something else—something steady, grounding.
“You did know what to do,” he said softly.
Shane shook his head. “I panicked.”
“You called me,” Ilya said.
Shane let out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
“And I came,” Ilya added, like that mattered.
Like that was the point.
Shane looked at him then, really looked.
At the unwavering certainty in his expression. The way there wasn’t even a hint of hesitation or doubt.
“You didn’t even think,” Shane said quietly.
“I don’t need to think when it comes to you,” Ilya replied.
The words settled into the space between them, warm and heavy.
Shane’s chest tightened.
“I hate that they know now,” he admitted after a moment.
“I don’t,” Ilya said.
Shane huffed weakly. “Of course you don’t.”
“I hate that you were uncomfortable,” Ilya corrected, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “I hate that someone thought they could touch you like that and get away with it.”
His hand came up, resting lightly at the side of Shane’s neck, thumb brushing just beneath his ear in a way that was grounding rather than demanding.
“I hate that you felt like you had to deal with it alone,” he continued.
Shane’s breath hitched slightly.
“But I don’t hate that you called me,” Ilya said, softer now. “Because you always can.”
Shane closed his eyes briefly, leaning into the touch before he could stop himself.
“I wasn’t ready for them to know,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“But I am not ashamed of you,” Ilya said, firm enough that Shane’s eyes opened again. “Not ever. Do you understand that?”
Shane nodded, though his throat felt tight.
“I love you,” Ilya said, the words steady, unflinching, like a promise rather than a confession. “I am not going to pretend otherwise just because it makes things easier for them.”
Something in Shane’s chest shifted, the tightness easing just slightly.
“I love you too. They might not accept it,” he said quietly.
“Then they are wrong,” Ilya replied without hesitation.
Shane let out a soft, disbelieving breath. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple,” Ilya said. “Not easy. But simple.”
His hand slid from Shane’s neck to his shoulder, squeezing gently, pulling Shane gently closer so he could press a kiss to his trembling lips.
“You are mine,” he added, softer now, but no less certain. “And I am yours. That does not change because other people are uncomfortable.”
Shane’s lips twitched faintly. “You’re very dramatic.”
Ilya huffed a quiet laugh. “You love it.”
“…Unfortunately.”
For a moment, the tension eased, replaced by something warmer, steadier.
Safer.
“You’re okay?” Ilya asked again, quieter this time.
Shane nodded, more certain now. “Yeah.”
And this time, it felt true.