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Sometimes, Ilya Rozanov still couldn’t believe what had happened to him.
And no, it had nothing to do with his life back in Russia – the one where, at twelve years old, he’d found his mother dead in bed after swallowing an entire bottle of pills.
That part of his life was buried deep in his mind; it had shaped him, carved him into who he was.
He’d dug up that past in therapy, and the moment he started talking about it – about his father, his brother, about the hollow ache left behind by people who kept taking pieces of him – it had hurt like hell.
There were mornings when he’d wake with tears on his cheeks, not even realizing he’d cried.
Shane would kiss them away, quiet and steady, fingers threading through his blond curls and giving them a gentle tug – another way of grounding him.
You’re here. You’re alive. You’re mine.
That was the part he still couldn’t wrap his head around.
Shane Hollander is my husband. Shane Hollander proposed to me – candles, rings, the whole thing. Shane Hollander got down on his knees, and not for the reason he’d become exceptionally good at.
Maybe it was all one long, irrealistic dream – or maybe it was the amount of vodka he’d downed at the party thrown by the Centaurs for the end‑of‑season party, the season where they’d almost won the Stanley Cup. Almost, but painfully close.
And so, party.
At some point, Wyatt had suggested playing Truth or Dare – no one had the heart to argue with him, partly because his BAC was through the roof and partly because, well, it was fun.
Ilya, who once had fought with Shane about taking him to a very similar party only to be shut down – another thing that had hurt like hell – had slumped into a chair, more drunk than awake, with a reluctant Shane perched on his lap.
Hollander was still pretty resistant to PDA, even now that they were married.
That detail – for reasons even Ilya didn’t fully understand and probably should’ve unpacked in therapy – worked him up like crazy: his husband’s quiet, affectionate surrender as he sat on his lap and let himself be held.
“Roz, you’ve gotta ask Shane a question.”
Ilya lifted his forehead from Hollander’s back – he was absolutely falling asleep, that much was true – and muttered his question without thinking.
“Truth or Dare.”
“Truth.”
As if anyone could force Shane Hollander to do anything, even in a stupid game.
“Who here do you have a crush on?”
The room went silent – something fizzy in the air, like too many bubbles rising at once, the muted, barely contained amusement of people trying not to burst out laughing because it would feel like shooting the Red Cross.
A very drunk Red Cross.
Shane craned his neck to look at Ilya, smiling – the kind of smile he gave him when he didn’t want to say he was wrong but wanted him to know anyway.
Shane had a way of smiling that was entirely his own – his mouth barely moved; it was all in his eyes. There was something endlessly fascinating about the way Hollander kept his emotions under such tight control – a buried treasure Ilya had slowly uncovered, like a chest of jewels hidden on some pirate’s island.
Anyway, there were three kinds of smiles.
There was the cocky one, the smile he wore on the ice when he scored but never during a faceoff; Hollander was always focused, relentless. Lethal. He only smiled once the puck hit the back of the net, gliding across the ice and claiming the moment in front of the plexiglass boards, skating under the curve like the king he was.
And he’d reminded him in the trophy room exactly who the fuck Shane Hollander was.
Then there was the love smile, which wasn’t really a smile at all; it was something deep in those brown eyes – two chocolate buttons – that melted, slow and sweet. The kind of look that made you want to sink your hands into him, to taste.
Instead, it always ended with tasting his mouth in a kiss. And another. And another.
And then there was the last one, the one that wasn’t really a smile but a micro‑expression, and it had taken Ilya months – to be fair, years – to figure out what the hell it meant.
He’d even looked for the right English word to translate it: condescending.
Too hard to remember now, with alcohol drowning out his English.
“…We’re literally married.” Was Shane’s reply.
Ilya had honestly forgotten the question by then.
Shane Hollander is in love with me.
“Yes.” Fuck the condescending smile. “My husband.”
The others’ laughter – warm with the same affection the whole team had shown them since the day they’d found out about their relationship – made Shane chuckle a little too. He ran a hand through Ilya’s curls, before turning his attention back to the game.
Rozanov, meanwhile, rested again his forehead against Shane’s back and closed his eyes, letting the buzz of the room and the game continuing without him lull him into a hazy, drunken half‑sleep.
My husband.
Saying it out loud still tasted just as sweet.