Work Text:
The tactical minefield of the Hollander-Rozanov household had finally settled into a cold peace. It had been two weeks since the "Brendan Incident", fourteen days of Shane aggressively proving his love for oatmeal, and fourteen days of Ilya convincing himself the Boring Accountant was a phantom of his own sleep-deprived psyche.
Then came Monday morning practice.
The Centaurs’ locker room was a symphony of snapping tape and the rhythmic thwack of sticks until Coach Wiebe marched in, looking uncharacteristically cheerful. He was followed by a man curated by a committee for "Least Likely to Participate in a Bar Fight."
"Listen up!" Wiebe barked.
Ilya, mid-sentence explaining why Shane’s post-workout smoothie was an insult to fruit, went dead silent.
"Front office is tightening the screws," Wiebe continued. "Since most of you treat a spreadsheet like ancient Sanskrit, management hired us a babysitter for the books. He’s traveling on the charter to audit our 'miscellaneous expenses.' And Young? That means no more $400 Pringles tabs." He gestured to the newcomer. "Meet Brendan, our new Senior Financial Liaison."
Brendan was... spectacular. He was the human equivalent of a beige wall. He wore a perfectly pressed polo tucked into sensible khakis, a Casio digital watch, and wire-rimmed glasses that practically screamed, 'I am excellent at filing taxes.' He was carrying a clipboard and a small Tupperware container of nuts.
"Hello, everyone," Brendan said, his voice a soothing, medium-pitch drone. "I’m Brendan. I’m looking forward to optimizing your per diems. It’s a pleasure to meet such... high-performance assets."
Ilya let out a sound like a tea kettle reaching its boiling point. He scrambled up, skates clicking frantically on the rubber floor. "No! I see the play! Wiebe, why you do this? Why you bring the Destroyer of Homes into our sanctuary?"
"What are you rambling about, Rozanov?" Wiebe muttered. "Brendan, ignore him. He’s Russian," he whispered to Brendan, "He has a 'complex soul but he's our captain.'"
Brendan’s smile remained terrifyingly gentle. "Oh, that’s quite alright. I’m actually a big fan. Shane especially, I’ve analyzed your career stats. As a center, your face-off win percentage is... well, it’s statistically erotic."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to sink the team bus. Shane’s jaw didn't just drop; it practically disconnected. He stared at beige, stable, pamphlet-carrying Brendan, then slowly with the dread of a horror movie protagonist, he turned towards Ilya.
Ilya looked like he was having a stroke. His face had gone from a post-practice flush to the ghostly white of a Siberian winter. "Oh... oh no," Shane whispered.
"I’m sorry... what was the name?" Ilya’s voice had jumped an octave, sounding like a thin, high-pitched reed caught in a gale.
"Brendan." The man stepped forward, his hand outstretched with the terrifying confidence of a middle manager. "And Shane, it's a pleasure. I’ve been reviewing your contract; that performance bonus clause is exceptionally logical."
Brendan leaned in, his glasses catching the fluorescent locker room light. "I’d love to sit down with you later, perhaps over some plain, unbuttered toast to discuss how we can hide that money in a long-term savings bucket so the tax office doesn't take half of it. Your current tax bill is... expressive."
Shane took the hand on autopilot, his brain stalling out. "Uh. Yeah. Expressive."
And Ilya!" Brendan beamed, turning his sights on the Russian. "I’m a huge fan of your... energy. Though, strictly from a liability standpoint, those cross-checking penalties are a fiscal nightmare. We really ought to sit down and calculate the actual value of your aggression versus the cost of the fines. It’s a very poor return on our investment."
Ilya didn't take the hand. Instead, he recoiled, retreating until his back hit his locker with a violent metallic clang. "It is happening," he hissed in Russian, hands flying to his hair. "The beige prophecy is here. He knows!"
"Ilya, baby, breathe," Shane said, stepping between them with a pained smile. "Hey, Brendan? Great to meet you. Why don’t you check out the training room? I think they have... calculators there?"
As Brendan wandered off, Ilya lunged for Shane’s jersey. "HE IS HERE, SHANE! THE BEIGE ONE!"
"Ilya, it’s a coincidence! It’s a common name!"
"Common name?! Shane, he is wearing a pressed polo! He is tucked in, Shane! He has pamphlets!" Ilya was vibrating with enough force to make the bench rattle against the floor. "He looks like he knows exactly how to file taxes without crying. You are going to leave me for the Spreadsheet Man!"
"I am not leaving you for the Spreadsheet Man!" Shane yelled.
Across the room, Hayes shouted, "Hey Shane! This Brendan guy is great! He just explained the difference between the two different government savings buckets. Very clear communicator! I finally understand where my money goes! Also, his khakis have a crease you could cut a steak with!"
"SHUT UP, HAYES!"
Ilya let out a wounded noise. "See? A clear communicator! I am... how you say... body wrapped in mystery inside expensive tracksuit! Brendan would never get a major for unsportsmanlike conduct; he would just adjust his glasses and file a polite complaint in writing!"
Brendan drifted back by, clutching his Tupperware like a holy relic. His polo was so crisp it looked like it had never known the touch of a human hand.
"Excuse me, Shane? I noticed your caloric intake might be suboptimal. I have extra unsalted almonds. Stability in a nut, really."
He checked his watch, pulled out an almond, and bit down. The snap echoed through the room like a gavel.
Ilya’s eyes brimmed with "I-told-you-so" tears. "See?" he whispered, his shaking finger pointing at the razor-sharp, perfectly tucked hem of Brendan’s polo. "He brings the crunch, Shane. He brings the crunch."
Shane looked at the almonds, then at his frantic, chaotic, skincare-obsessed disaster of a husband. With a decisive snap of his own, Shane shoved the Tupperware back toward a startled Brendan and swept Ilya into a crushing, rib-cracking hug.
"I hate almonds!" Shane shouted to the locker room at large. "And I hate stability! I love the disaster! Do you hear me? I love the three cats in a jersey!"
Ilya didn't pull away; he simply draped himself over Shane like a frantic, designer-clad octopus, shielding him from the looming threat of fiscal responsibility.
"He does not want the boring savings bucket!" Ilya screamed. "He wants chaos! He wants forest creams! Shane, tell him you hate the sensible math! Tell him you love the expensive Pringles!"
The locker room had descended into a full-scale meltdown. Bood, a 1st line winger, was hunched over filming the entire scene on his phone and cackling like a hyena. Coach Wiebe was staring blankly at the ceiling, visibly calculating if he had enough service years to retire before the next game puck drop.
"Ilya, you're crushing my ribcage," Shane gasped. He was trying to maintain a straight face, but it was difficult while looking at Brendan, who was watching them with the mild, detached interest of a birdwatcher.
"I'm sorry," Brendan said, tilting his head with sincere, terrifying concern. He adjusted his glasses and made a notation on his clipboard. "Am I interrupting a team building exercise? I read that prolonged physical contact can increase oxytocin levels in high-stress environments. That's remarkably efficient of you, Captain."
"Efficient!" Ilya shrieked, muffled by Shane's chest. "See? He uses the words of Dream-Shane! He is here to take you to life of early bedtimes and sensible footwear!"
Shane finally managed to pry Ilya’s arms off his neck. He stood tall, looking at the perfectly nice, perfectly boring Brendan, then back at his beautiful, vibrating catastrophe of a boyfriend.
"Brendan," Shane said, his voice solemn and final. "I’m sure you’re excellent at your job. But if you try to talk to me about my tax-free savings, my partner is going to launch a custom skate at your head. And honestly? I’d probably let him."
Shane grabbed Ilya by the jersey and pulled him into a hard, messy kiss. "See?" he muttered against Ilya’s lips. "Still here. Still not dating the accountant."
"Fine," Ilya snapped, though he didn't let go. "But we are buying the $400 Pringles. Every flavor. Especially the ones that do not make sense."
Brendan sighed, opening his clipboard. "I'll have to file that as a 'psychological necessity.' It'll take three forms, but I'm happy to do the paperwork."
The locker room was still reeling as the team shuffled out onto the ice. Brendan had retreated to the bench, where he was sitting with a laptop and a digital thermometer, presumably measuring the thermal efficiency of the arena.
Ilya, as the 1st line center, was supposed to be leading drills, but he spent the entire session hovering near the 2nd line.
"Ilya, get back to your circle!" Shane hissed. "You're supposed to be taking draws against the rookies!"
"I am in 'Shane-Defensive-Shield' position," Ilya retorted. "Look at him, Shane. He is looking at your power-play stats. He is thinking, *'Shane would be more productive if he had a partner who did not scream at the toaster.'*"
"He's an accountant, Ilya! He's thinking about tax brackets!"
Across the ice, Luca Haas leaned over to Coach Wiebe. "Is it just me, or is the Captain playing like he thinks the puck is a legal document?"
"I don't care if he thinks the puck is a subpoena," Wiebe sighed, "as long as he puts it in the net."
During the scrimmage, when Ilya scored on a beautiful backhand, he didn't celebrate. He skated directly to the glass in front of Brendan and hammered on it with his glove. "Did you see?! No efficiency! Pure, chaotic Russian skill! Zero spreadsheets involved!"
Brendan looked up and gave a polite, measured thumbs-up. "Excellent trajectory, Ilya! That goal had a very high Return on Investment!"
Ilya recoiled. "He uses the 'I' word! Return on Investment! He is evaluating us, Shane! We are just assets in portfolio!"
By the time practice ended, Shane was exhausted. In the showers, the steam only amplified Ilya’s paranoia.
"We must go for spicy wings," Ilya declared. "So spicy we cannot feel our faces. Stability cannot survive a ghost pepper, Shane!"
As they exited the arena, they ran into Brendan at the security gate. He was packing his briefcase with terrifying neatness.
"Heading out?" Brendan asked. "I’ve actually prepared a small packet for you, Shane. It’s a breakdown of how much you could save on gas by switching to a hybrid vehicle. I noticed your SUV’s fuel consumption is quite... expressive."
"My SUV is beautiful!" Ilya barked. "It drinks gas like vodka! We love the fuel consumption!"
"Oh, I understand," Brendan said, completely unfazed. "It’s a lifestyle choice. Well, have a wonderful evening. I’ll be at the library. They’re having a lecture on the history of the stapler."
Ilya watched him go, then turned to Shane, eyes watery. "He is too powerful. How can I compete with a stapler lecture? I don't even know how a stapler works, Shane! I just hit it until the papers stay together!"
Shane sighed and pulled Ilya into a firm hug. "Ilya. I don't want a hybrid. I don't want a stapler lecture. I want the man who thinks 'Skincare' is a contact sport. I want the chaos."
"You promise? Even if I scream at the toaster again tomorrow?"
"Especially then," Shane smiled. "Now, let’s go get those spicy wings before you have another existential crisis."
"Okay," Ilya whispered. "But we are buying the most expensive wings. To ruin the budget. For Brendan."
"For Brendan," Shane agreed.
The spicy wing outing was a disaster. Ilya had insisted on the "Atomic Supernova" sauce to prove he wasn't "boring," which resulted in him weeping into a pile of napkins while Shane frantically waved a glass of milk in front of his face.
The next morning, the tactical minefield moved to the team’s private charter plane. Brendan was sitting three rows behind them, neatly highlighting a stack of receipts.
"He is breathing too quietly," Ilya hissed. "He breathes in a four-four time signature. It is the breath of a man who never loses his keys."
"Ilya, please," Shane groaned, pulling his sleep mask down.
Suddenly, the plane hit a pocket of turbulence. The cabin jolted, and Luca's bag of pretzels exploded in the aisle. Most of the players cursed or laughed, but Brendan simply looked up, adjusted his glasses, and checked his watch
"Minor atmospheric instability," Brendan announced to the cabin at large. "Statistically, we are still 19 times safer than we would be in a mid-sized sedan. Please, continue your recreations."
"You see?!" Ilya grabbed Shane’s arm. "He is comforting the flock with logic! He is trying to show you how calm life would be if your partner didn't try to fight the guy at the car wash!"
"Ilya, I liked that you fought the car wash guy. He was being a jerk about your rims," Shane muttered, though he was mostly just trying to find a way to fall asleep.
"Aha! But Brendan would have filed a polite complaint in writing! He would have received a 15% discount code for his next visit!" Ilya’s eyes were wild. "He is ultimate Tuesday, Shane! And today... today is Tuesday!"
Ilya stood up.
"Ilya, sit down, the seatbelt sign is on," Coach Wiebe yelled from the front.
"No! I must face the beast!" Ilya marched down the aisle, bracing himself against the seats as the plane swayed. He stopped at Brendan’s row. Brendan looked up, a look of mild, pleasant curiosity on his face.
"Hello, Ilya," Brendan said. "Are you looking for the lost-and-found form? I have several in my briefcase."
"I do not want your forms, Brendan from Finance!" Ilya declared, losing his battle with his distress. "I want to know your game. Why are you here? Why are you so... pleasant? Nobody is this pleasant without secret. What is it? Do you kick puppies? Do you leave toilet seat up on purpose?"
Brendan leaned back, considering. "Well, once, in 2014, I returned a library book two days late. I didn't offer to pay the fine because the librarian was my aunt. It... it haunts me occasionally."
Ilya blinked, horrified. He turned back to Shane, who was watching with his head in his hands. "Shane! He is criminal! He has dark past with the Ottawa Public Library! He is fugitive!"
Shane stood up to retrieve his husband before he could start a citizen's arrest. "Brendan, I am so sorry. He’s... had a lot of espresso and a very long flight."
Brendan smiled. "It's quite alright. I find Ilya’s energy very... stimulating. It reminds me of a volatile market. High risk, but potentially high reward."
Ilya let out a strangled noise. "He called me a volatile market! Shane, he is hitting on us with metaphors!"
Shane grabbed Ilya by the waist and physically hoisted him back toward their seats. "That’s it. No more talking to the staff. No more wings. No more Tuesdays."
Shane buckled Ilya’s seatbelt for him, then leaned in close, his nose brushing Ilya’s. "Now, if you say one more word about Brendan, I am going to tell the whole team that you cry during 'The Great British Bake Off.'"
Ilya went silent. He looked at Brendan, who was currently organizing the spilled pretzels into neat little piles of ten. Then he looked at Shane’s determined, slightly exhausted, but deeply loving face.
"The one with the bread week?" Ilya whispered. "That was emotional, Shane. The dough did not rise."
"I know, baby," Shane sighed, kissing him. "I know."
Down the aisle, Brendan pulled out a small notepad and wrote: *Note: The team’s emotional overhead is significantly higher than projected. Will suggest a budget increase for scented candles and perhaps a communal weighted blanket.'
He nodded to himself, satisfied. It was going to be a very productive road trip.
The road trip reached its peak in Detroit, and Brendan, ever the analyst, had finally identified a statistical anomaly: Ilya Rozanov was actively trying to hex him with his eyes.
Every time Brendan offered Shane a high-protein granola bar for optimal sustained energy, Ilya would materialize out of thin air, hiss like a cornered raccoon, and slap the snack out of Shane's hand.
By the time they reached the hotel, Brendan had seen enough. He cornered Bood near the ice machine, his aluminum clipboard held like a shield.
"Zane, I’ve been running the numbers," Brendan said, his voice as level as a horizon. "There is a 98% probability that Ilya wants to launch me into the sun. Is it my choice of font on the travel memos? I know Calibri is polarizing, but it’s highly readable."
Bood cackled, clutching a bucket of ice and nearly doubling over. "Nah, man. He thinks you’re here to steal his man. He had a dream about a 'Boring Accountant Brendan' and then you showed up like an omen of the apocalypse in a pressed polo."
Brendan blinked, his expression remaining perfectly neutral behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
"I see," Brendan mused, checking his watch as if timing the realization. "A psychological projection based on a subconscious fear of domestic stability. Fascinating. He views my fiscal responsibility as a predatory trait."
"He views your unsalted almonds as an act of war," Bood corrected, still grinning.
Ten minutes later, there was a polite, rhythmic knock on the hotel room door. Ilya swung it open, shoulders squared and ready to defend his territory from the Boring Apocalypse, only to find Brendan standing there holding three bottles of room-temperature sparkling water.
"Ilya, Shane, may I have 4.5 minutes of your time? I’d like to perform some conflict resolution," Brendan said.
Shane groaned from the bed, where he was trying to nap. "Brendan, if this is about the Pringles receipt—"
"It’s not," Brendan said, stepping into the room with the grace of a man who never trips over a rug. "Ilya, I’ve sensed some... friction. I believe we could be excellent friends. We share a mutual interest in Shane’s well-being, and I happen to have a very thorough spreadsheet on the best Russian skincare importers in the National Capital Region."
Ilya narrowed his eyes, clutching the collar of his robe like a shield. "You want to be friends? This is the tactic! You get close, you dazzle him with the staplers and the boring savings buckets, and then poof, am sent back to Moscow with no Netflix password!"
Brendan actually laughed, a small, tidy sound that lasted for exactly two seconds. "Ilya, I think there’s been a significant miscalculation. While Shane is a 'high-value asset' in terms of his personality and career, he is not... my type."
Ilya froze. "Not your type? You said he was statistically erotic!"
"His consistency is," Brendan corrected gently. "But as for me, I am quite heterosexual. In fact, I am getting married in exactly thirty-one days to the love of my life, Sarah. She’s a Senior Actuary. Our wedding theme is 'Fiscally Responsible Ever After.'"
He pulled out his phone. In the photo, a woman with a very sensible bob and a very organized-looking desk stood next to Brendan. They were both holding a giant check they’d won for "Most Efficient Audit" from the Ontario Accounting Association.
Ilya stared at the screen. He looked at Sarah. He looked at the perfectly pressed polo Brendan was wearing.
"She has... very organized bangs," Ilya whispered, his defenses crumbling. "She looks like she knows exactly where her passport is at all times."
"She carries it in a fireproof sleeve," Brendan said proudly. "She’s the most exciting person I’ve ever met. Last week, we spent four hours discussing the pros and cons of fixed-rate versus adjustable-rate mortgages. It was... intense."
Shane sat up, rubbing his eyes. "So... you don't want to date me? You don't want to give me stability and dry cereal?"
"Heavens, no," Brendan said. "No offense, Shane, but your life is far too high-variance for me. The sheer amount of 'chaos energy' Ilya brings to a room would give me a migraine within forty-eight hours. I prefer the quiet hum of a calculator."
Ilya let out a long, theatrical breath that sounded like a balloon deflating. He skated across the carpet in his slippers and patted Brendan on the shoulder, a bit too hard, nearly knocking the accountant’s glasses off.
"Brendan! My friend! My boring, soon-to-be married friend!" Ilya shouted, his face breaking into a radiant, manic grin. "You are not a threat! You are just man who loves a lady with fireproof sleeve! Is beautiful! Is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard!"
"I'm glad we’ve reached an equilibrium," Brendan said, smoothing the front of his perfectly pressed polo.
"Shane!" Ilya spun around, his eyes wide with a new, manic mission. "We must go to the wedding! I will buy them the biggest, most expensive toaster in the world! It will have sixteen slots, Shane!"
"Ilya, I think they’d prefer a gift card to Canadian Tire," Shane said, finally letting out a genuine laugh.
"Nonsense! Only the best for Brendan and the Actuary!" Ilya turned back to Brendan, his intensity reaching a level that was equally as terrifying as his previous hatred. "Brendan, listen to me. I will be Best Man. I will handle the bachelor party. There will be no strippers. Only... what do you like? A very long documentary about bridges? We will watch it for ten hours! We will analyze the suspension cables together!"
Brendan looked at Shane, a hint of genuine fear finally flickering behind his glasses. "Is... is he always like this?"
"Yeah," Shane said, walking over and wrapping a steadying arm around Ilya’s waist. "But don't worry. He's a 'volatile market,' remember? You just have to hold onto the assets and hope for the best."
Ilya beamed, leaning into Shane’s side. "Yes! And tonight, Brendan, you eat the wings with us! No spice! Only the 'Mild Lemon Pepper' for the groom-to-be! To celebrate the Tuesday!"
Brendan sighed, and nodded. "I suppose I can spare sixty minutes for social bonding. But I’m bringing my own napkins. The ones provided by restaurants have a very poor absorbency rating. It’s a waste of wood pulp, really."
"I love this man!" Ilya cheered, throwing his hands up. "He is so boring! I have never been happier!"
The Mild Lemon Pepper dinner was a resounding success, mostly because Ilya spent the entire meal aggressively defending Brendan’s right to a quiet life. Every time Bood or one of the other guys tried to chirp the accountant about his sensible khakis, Ilya would slam his hand on the table and yell, "Leave him be! He is a man of the law! He has an Actuary and a fireproof sleeve to return to!"
By the time the team returned to the hotel, the "Brendan Crisis" had officially evolved into the "Brendan Fan Club," with Ilya acting as the self-appointed and deeply overbearing president.
Shane watched them from a distance, watching Ilya explain the "Personal Return on Investment" of a high-quality charcoal cleanser to a nodding Brendan. He realized that while he might never have a boring life, at least he knew one thing for certain: as long as there was chaos, Ilya would always be there to manage the portfolio.
The following afternoon, the team was back at the airport, waiting for their flight to Chicago. Ilya was hunched over his phone, his brow furrowed in a way that usually meant he was either online shopping or drafting a manifesto.
The following afternoon, the team was back at the airport, waiting for their flight to Chicago. Ilya was hunched over his phone, his brow furrowed in a way that usually meant he was either online shopping or drafting a manifesto.
"Shane," Ilya whispered, tugging insistently on Shane’s sleeve. "Look. I have found it. The One."
Shane looked up from his book. "Found what, Ilya? If it’s another forest-scented cream, the suitcase is already over the weight limit for the charter."
"No! The gift!" Ilya turned the screen around. It was a high-tech, industrial-grade paper shredder. "It has 'Micro-Cut' technology, Shane. It can shred a credit card into five thousand pieces. Is the most romantic thing I have ever seen. Brendan will weep for joy."
"I think he'd prefer a nice bowl from a boutique in the Glebe, Ilya."
"A bowl is for soup! A shredder is for security! It is a need to a well-organized life!"
Before Shane could argue, Brendan walked over, looking uncharacteristically distressed. He was holding his clipboard to his chest like a shield. "Shane, Ilya... I have a minor complication. It seems the hotel in Chicago has overbooked. I’ve been placed in a room with Wyatt. Statistically, Wyatt's snoring has a decibel level that will interfere with my REM sleep cycles."
Ilya stood up immediately, his velvet tracksuit shimmering under the terminal lights. "No! This is unacceptable! The groom must have his rest! Shane, we give him our room. We will sleep in the gym! On the yoga mats! We will be the human shields for his slumber!"
"We are not sleeping in the gym, Ilya," Shane said firmly, though he looked at Brendan with genuine pity. "Brendan, we’ll help you talk to the front desk. We’ll get it sorted."
"You are so kind," Brendan said, his voice a steady, grateful drone. "Sarah always says that hockey players are just high-velocity teddy bears. I’m beginning to see the data supports her claim."
The flight to Chicago was the most peaceful one yet. Ilya didn't monitor Brendan’s breathing; instead, he spent the flight helping Brendan with his wedding seating chart.
"No, Brendan," Ilya said, pointing a manicured finger at a spreadsheet. "You cannot put the Aunt who likes the library next to the Uncle who hates the taxes. This is a recipe for a 'Mid-Level Event Disaster.' You put the Aunt next to me. I will tell her stories of the Russian winter until she falls asleep."
"I don't think you're on the guest list yet, Ilya," Brendan noted politely.
"I am Best Man! I am the list!"
Shane, sitting across the aisle, just watched them. He saw the way Brendan’s shoulders had finally dropped from his ears. The accountant was actually smiling, a real, tiny, 10% efficiency smile as Ilya explained why "vodka shots are a mandatory expense for any successful union."
When they landed in Chicago, the air was crisp. As they walked through the terminal, Ilya kept a protective hand on Brendan’s shoulder, guiding him away from the "dangerous" luggage carts.
"You see, Shane?" Ilya said, beaming. "Everything is perfect. We have the chaos, Brendan has the Sarah, and nobody is being abandoned on a Tuesday."
Shane reached out and grabbed Ilya’s hand, squeezing it tight. "I told you. I’m not going anywhere."
"I know," Ilya said, suddenly quiet and sincere. He looked over at Brendan, who was currently explaining the benefits of a rolling suitcase to a confused flight attendant. "But it is good to have a backup plan. If you ever do get tired of the three cats, we just call Sarah. She will put you in a fireproof sleeve and organize your life until you are boring again."
Shane laughed, pulling Ilya into his side. "I think I'll stick with the cats, Ilya. They’re much better for my 'performance bonuses.'"
Ilya grinned, his complex soul finally at peace. "Good. Because I already bought the shredder. It is being shipped to the rink. We are going to shred so many things, Shane. It will be beautiful."
Down the terminal, Brendan made a note on his clipboard: Update: Domestic crisis averted. Relationship stability: 99.9%.
The Chicago hotel lobby was a sea of marble and high-end hockey bags, but for Ilya, it was the final stage of his redemption arc. He was no longer a man haunted by a dream-accountant; he was a man who had successfully domesticated one.
"Brendan, stay close," Ilya commanded, eyeing a group of boisterous tourists like they were a rival gang. "Chicago is a city of wind. It could blow your receipts away. You must be vigilant."
"The wind speed is currently 12 miles per hour, Ilya," Brendan said, "My papers are secured in a three-ring binder with reinforced edges. I am structurally sound."
"He is so brave," Ilya whispered to Shane, his eyes shining with genuine respect.
Once checked in, the team had a rare four-hour window of downtime. Normally, this meant Shane and Ilya would disappear into their room for a nap. Instead, Ilya dragged Shane down to the hotel’s business center, where Brendan was sitting at a computer, looking profoundly at peace while a laser printer hummed beside him.
Brendan! We are here for bachelor planning!" Ilya announced, slamming a stack of glossy brochures onto the desk with enough force to make Brendan’s pens rattle.
Brendan looked up, his eyes widening behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "Ilya, the wedding is in a month. I haven't even finalized the floral logistics. I'm currently comparing the cost-per-ounce of silk versus real carnations. The spreadsheets are very sensitive."
"Carnations are for funerals and people who do not have Russian Best Man!" Ilya declared. "We are here to discuss your 'Wild Night of Moderation.' There will be no silk! There will be fire!"
Shane leaned against the wall, watching the collision of worlds. "Ilya, let him breathe. He’s got work to do for Wiebe before we leave for the road trip."
"I have already completed the travel audit," Brendan said, a small, proud light in his eyes. He tapped his clipboard. "I discovered that Evan has been charging the team for 'premium nitrogen". I have flagged it as fraudulent expense. It is a very exciting day."
"A hero!" Ilya cheered. "Now, listen. For the party, we go to a place I found. It is a 'Library Bar.' It has zero music, very dim lighting, and a menu that is just a list of historical facts about the Great Lakes."
Brendan actually gasped, a soft, muffled sound of pure joy. "A fact-based menu? That sounds... exceptionally streamlined. Would there be quiet seating?"
"Only the quietest!" Ilya promised. "And for the 'strippers,' I have hired a professional archivist. She will come to the table and slowly, very slowly, organize your digital photos into folders labeled by date and location."
Brendan’s hand trembled as he reached for a highlighter. "Ilya... I don't know what to say. That is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever suggested. Sarah would be so jealous."
Shane walked over and put a hand on Brendan’s shoulder, then looked at Ilya. "You’ve really gone all in on this, haven't you?"
"I am man of extremes, Shane," Ilya said, his voice dropping into a rare, soft sincerity. He looked at Brendan, then back to Shane. "In the dream, you wanted the boring life because I was too much. But now I see... the boring life is gift. It is like a well-taped stick. Is reliable. If I can help Brendan keep his stability, then maybe I can keep a little piece of it for us, too."
Shane’s heart did a slow, heavy thud against his ribs. He pulled Ilya into a side-hug, kissing the top of his chaotic, forest-smelling head. "Ilya, you don't have to be an accountant to keep me. You just have to be you."
"I know," Ilya muttered into Shane’s chest. "But I still like the shredder."
"I know you do."
The moment was interrupted by the printer letting out a final, triumphant beep. Brendan stood up, straightening his pressed polo.
"Well," Brendan said, clicking his binder shut. "The audit is done. The wedding seating is 85% optimized. And I’ve calculated that if we leave for the arena at exactly 5:14 PM, we will avoid the peak traffic window by four minutes."
"I love this man!" Ilya shouted, grabbing Brendan’s binder to carry it for him. "Let us go! We have a game to win and a library to visit! Shane, bring the heavy-duty stapler! It is a Tuesday, and we are going to be so... damn...boring!"
As they walked toward the elevators, Brendan looked at Shane. "He’s going to try to buy me a sixteen-slot toaster, isn't he?"
"Oh, absolutely," Shane said. "And honestly? Just take it. It’s the only way he’ll sleep tonight."
"Understood," Brendan nodded. "I'll update the registry. It's the only logical conclusion."
Final note update: Budget for wedding toaster: Upgraded to sixteen slots (Gift from the Best Man).
The "Wild Night of Moderation" was, by all accounts, a logistical masterpiece. Ilya had spent the last three weeks in a state of manic coordination that would have intimidated a military general. He had secured the "Library Bar," vetted the archivist, and even managed to procure a custom-made sash for Brendan that read: FUTURE HUSBAND (PENDING FINAL AUDIT).
The Centaurs’ locker room was buzzing as the guys got ready.
"I cannot believe we’re going to a library for a bachelor party," Bood groaned, trying to find a shirt that didn't look "too fun" under Ilya’s watchful eye. "Rozanov, there better be at least one beverage that isn't lukewarm chamomile tea."
"There will be 'Analytical Ale'!" Ilya barked, pointing a finger at Bood. "Is a beer that has a very low ABV and comes with a list of ingredients in descending order of weight! Now, put on your sensible shoes. We are representing the stability of the sport!"
Shane caught his reflection in the mirror, adjusting his wedding band. He still loved the way it felt, a solid, heavy reminder that he was permanently tethered to the man currently trying to explain the "vibe" of a cardigan to a confused defenseman. Ilya had insisted they all wear wool. A dozen professional hockey players, some of the toughest men in the league, were currently standing around in various shades of oatmeal and navy.
The Library Bar was everything Brendan had ever dreamed of. It was a subterranean vault lined with mahogany shelves and lit by green-shaded banker lamps. The silence was so thick you could hear a paperclip drop on the plush carpet.
Brendan walked in and visibly exhaled, his shoulders sinking two inches. "The acoustic dampening in here is... superior. Sarah would be moved to tears."
"Only the best for my boring brother!" Ilya declared, leading them to a large circular table in a corner labeled **Quiet Study Zone.** The night proceeded with terrifying organization:
The "Stripper" arrived promptly at 8:15 PM. She was a woman named Gladys, a retired university archivist with a bun so tight it looked structural. She didn't take off her cardigan. Instead, she sat next to Brendan, pulled out a portable hard drive, and spent forty-five minutes showing him how to use metadata tags to organize his wedding photos by "Aisle Seat Number" and "Relative Humidity of the Venue."
"Oh, Gladys," Brendan whispered, staring at the screen. "Look at that file structure. It’s so... clean."
"Wait for the sub-folders, dear," Gladys winked. "That’s where it gets spicy."
Ilya leaned over to Shane, his eyes glowing with pride. "See? He is having the 'time of his life.' He is practically vibrating with efficiency."
Ilya stood up, tapping his glass of sparkling water with a fountain pen.
"Gentlemen. And Brendan," Ilya started, his voice hushed but dramatic. "We are here to celebrate the end of a very long, very organized road. When I first met Brendan, I thought he was ghost sent to steal my Canadian. I thought he was Tuesday that would never end."
Shane reached out and took Ilya's hand, his thumb stroking over the matching band on Ilya’s finger.
"But," Ilya continued, looking Brendan in the eye. "I realized that Brendan is not ghost. He is lighthouse. He shows us that life does not have to be 'Atomic Supernova' wing. It can be.... very nice, medium-well-done piece of toast. Brendan, may your marriage be as predictable as a calculator, and may Sarah never lose her fireproof sleeve."
"Hear, hear," the team whispered (Ilya had strictly banned shouting).
Brendan stood up, his face slightly flushed from a single glass of Analytical Ale. "Thank you, Ilya. And thank you all. Statistically speaking, the odds of a group of professional athletes enjoying a three-hour lecture on file compression are near zero. Yet, here we are."
He looked at Shane and Ilya, his gaze lingering on their joined hands. "And to the Hollander-Rozanovs... I’ve looked at the data. You two have been married for a while now, and the 'Domestic Chaos' coefficient is still high. But the dividends you pay each other? The way Shane manages Ilya’s 'chaos' and Ilya manages Shane’s 'boring Canadian' side? It’s a perfect hedge against inflation. You’re the gold standard."
Ilya beamed, leaning his head against Shane’s shoulder. "He called us gold standard, Shane! We are stable investment!"
"Always have been, Ilya," Shane laughed, pulling his husband in for a kiss that definitely violated the library’s **No Public Displays of Affection** policy.
"Excuse me," a librarian hissed from three aisles over.
"Is fine!" Ilya whispered back, his grin wide and manic. "We are celebrating! We are the one thing in life we can control! We are inimitable! We are... buying a sixteen-slot toaster for the groom tomorrow!"
Brendan smiled, and went back to his metadata. It was, indeed, the perfect Tuesday.
The wedding of Brendan and Sarah was held on a Saturday that was, to no one's surprise, meteorologically average. No rain, no excessive sun, just a consistent **18°C with 45% humidity. It was, as Brendan noted in the program, "optimal for wool-blend suits and floral preservation."
The Centaurs arrived in a coordinated fleet of black SUVs, looking less like a hockey team and more like a secret service detail for a very important librarian. Ilya was in a state of high agitation, adjusting Shane’s tie for the fourteenth time.
"Shane, your knot is asymmetrical. It creates a visual imbalance that will ruin Brendan’s wedding photos," Ilya hissed, his fingers flying with frantic precision.
"Ilya, I'm pretty sure Brendan is more worried about the buffet being served at exactly 6:02 PM than he is about my tie," Shane said, catching Ilya’s hands and kissing his knuckles. "Relax. We’re guests. We’re the 'fun' part of the spreadsheet."
"We are the 'High-Volatility Entertainment'!" Ilya corrected. "We must be spectacular!"
The venue was a converted historical archive. Instead of rose petals, the aisle was lined with small, tastefully arranged piles of antique books. Sarah appeared at the back of the room, looking breathtaking in a dress that had exactly zero unnecessary frills and a built-in pocket for her phone.
As she walked down the aisle, Brendan didn't cry. Instead, he took out his watch, checked the time, and gave her a single, sharp nod of approval.
"She is thirty seconds ahead of schedule," Ilya whispered loudly. "Is true love, Shane. Efficiency is the highest form of romance."
The vows were a masterclass in civil law and romantic sentiment. Sarah promised to always maintain a joint emergency fund and never to let the "miscellaneous" category of their budget exceed 5%. Brendan promised to always backup her hard drive on the first Sunday of every month.
When the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, the applause was polite and perfectly timed—except for Ilya, who stood up and let out a piercing whistle that made the archivist in the front row flinch.
The reception was held in the "Periodicals Room." The centerpieces were sixteen-slot toasters, Ilya’s gift) that had been repurposed as bread baskets.
When it was time for the speeches, Ilya marched to the podium, dragging Shane with him.
"Greetings, Accountants and Actuaries!" Ilya shouted, ignoring the 'Please Speak at a Moderate Volume' sign. "I am Ilya Hollander-Rozanov. This is my husband, Shane. We are here representing the Chaos Department."
Shane rubbed the bridge of his nose but kept a supportive hand on Ilya’s lower back.
"Many people think marriage is like game of hockey," Ilya continued, gesturing wildly. "Fast, violent, lots of screaming. And yes, for us, is often this. But Brendan taught me something. He taught me that a marriage is also like tax return. If you do not do the work, you go to jail! Or, you know, the emotional equivalent of jail!"
Brendan nodded solemnly from the head table. Sarah took a note.
"Brendan found his Sarah. She has the fireproof sleeve for his heart. And I have my Shane," Ilya said, his voice suddenly softening as he looked at his husband. "He is my boring Canadian, my stability, my Netflix password. Brendan, thank you for showing me that being 'normal' is not threat. Is just different kind of beautiful."
Ilya raised his glass. "To Brendan and Sarah! May your dividends be high, your audits be clean, and your Tuesdays always be exactly what you expected!"
The wedding ended exactly when the contract said it would. As the Hollander-Rozanovs walked toward their SUV, Ilya was carrying a commemorative "Sarah & Brendan" calculator and a Tupperware of leftover sensible cake.
"You okay?" Shane asked, pulling Ilya close as they reached the car.
"I am... content," Ilya sighed, leaning his head on Shane’s shoulder. "I think the dream-Brendan is finally gone, Shane. The real Brendan is much better. He is not a threat to us. He is just a very nice man with a very big toaster."
Shane smiled, opening the car door for his husband. "I told you. There’s no one else I’d rather have chirping me from the penalty box."
"Good," Ilya said, climbing in. "Because tomorrow is Sunday. I have scheduled a Full-Body Forest Scrub for us at 9:00 AM. I have put it in a spreadsheet, Shane. I am learning."
Shane laughed, starting the engine. "God help us all."