Chapter Text
They win the third Cup on a Tuesday, and for about forty‑eight hours Shane lets himself believe that time has finally stopped.
For two days there is nothing but parade routes and open‑top buses and the roar of a city that remembers empty seats and now sounds like a living thing every time someone lifts the silver over their head. For two days he is drunk on confetti and Luca’s dazed grin and the way Ilya’s voice goes hoarse halfway through yet another speech.
On day three his husband appears in the kitchen with wet hair, bare feet, and paper sticking out of the back pocket of his shorts.
Shane is rummaging for coffee, already halfway into his ritual post‑playoff sulk about his body deciding to remember that it has joints. He looks up and stops, because the expression on Ilya’s face is not parade drunk, or smug, or even the sort of bone‑deep exhausted that has lived there for entire springs before.
It is careful.
Shane’s stomach drops in the space between one breath and the next.
“You’re not allowed to tell me terrible things before caffeine,” he says automatically, because if he makes it a joke it might not be real.
Ilya blinks, then huffs a tiny laugh. “Is not a terrible thing,” he says. “Just… big thing.”
He walks over, leans against the counter next to the coffee machine, and pulls the pages from his pocket. The Centaurs logo on the letterhead feels louder than it should in their quiet kitchen.
Shane’s fingers tighten on the jar. “That better not be trade papers.”
“Please,” Ilya scoffs, like the idea is personally offensive. “We both have no‑move - they would have to move the city first.”
Normally, that would earn at least a smile. Today, Shane’s mouth won’t quite cooperate. “Then what is it?” he asks, already knowing he isn’t going to like the answer. “Extension?”
“Yes.” Ilya’s voice softens. “Mine.”
Shane sets the coffee down very carefully. “We talked about waiting, letting things breathe. They can’t even technically talk to you yet.” He knows, because he and their agent and the front office have been doing semantic gymnastics around “technically” for weeks.
“I know.” Ilya taps the papers against his leg, once, a nervous tell almost no one would notice. Shane notices. “We have been… talking, yes? All year. With Wiebe and the front office. You know about the cap jump, numbers, all this.”
“Yeah.” The Cup sits in the next room, on the sideboard, because the organisation insists they keep it for a few days every time. Third in five years. He still can’t say the number without a part of his brain laughing in disbelief. “We talked about a big one. Couple more years. Keep the team together.”
He hears his own words and hates how needy they sound.
Ilya looks at him then, properly, and Shane feels pinned the way he does on the ice when Ilya decides to see straight through him.
“I am not taking the big one,” Ilya says quietly. “I am taking this one.”
He turns the contract over, so Shane can read the headline he already suspects is coming. One‑year extension. 5.5M. Full no‑move. Effective 2026–27.
And there, in fresh blue ink, is Ilya’s looping signature.
Shane’s lungs forget how to work for a second.
“You-” His voice comes out too high, cracks, and he has to swallow to get it back. “You already signed.”
“Yesterday,” Ilya admits, and hesitates. “I wanted to tell you before, but-”
“But there was a Cup still in the room,” Shane says, staring at the number like if he blinks it will change. 13.5 had fit him for eight years; 5.5 looks wrong next to ROZANOV. “And you know I never say no when you’re in a suit that looks like it's painted on you, is that it?”
That earns him a small, guilty smile. “Also true. But mostly… I wanted to be sure. For me. Before we talk for us.”
Us. It lands like a touch and like a blow at the same time.
“It’s the last lap one,” Shane says slowly, the phrase finally resolving in his head. “The rolling thing you were joking about with Lemaire in March.”
“Not a joke, but yes a last lap. One year, then we see. One more, maybe, maybe not. But no more long big contracts; this is it.”
The words sit between them like a dropped glove.
Shane grips the edge of the counter until his knuckles ache. “You could have had four years,” he says. “Five, probably. At ten, eleven. Somewhere stupid. They would have backed the money truck up for you if you wanted.”
“I know,” Ilya says again, infuriatingly calm.
“And you just decided to leave that on the table and… what? Slash your number in half so they can pay the kid?” He bites the last word off too sharply and winces; it isn’t fair to Luca and they both know it.
Ilya doesn’t flinch. “Yes,” he says simply. “And because I am tired, Shane.”
That, more than the number, closes a hand around Shane’s throat.
He stares at his husband, at the familiar lines of the beloved face, the faint new creases at the corners of his mouth where joy and stress both live. At the shoulders that have carried teams and leagues and entire narratives for longer than most careers last. At the man who still spent this spring covering distance like the ice owed him something.
“You just scored twenty‑something in the playoffs,” Shane says, helpless. “You’re still top five in every offensive metric anyone cares about. We all just joked that Haas stole your Conn Smythe, and you didn’t even sulk for more than, like, ten minutes.”
“Haas deserves it,” Ilya says. “We both know it. And you know I like that we tricked league into giving him hardware early - makes the transition easier.” There’s a flash of pride there, as sharp and fierce as it had been when Luca was still a baby‑faced rookie trying not to panic on the half wall.
Shane wants to hold onto that thread and follow it into safer territory. Instead, his brain circles back to the word that has been quietly stalking them for the last two years.
Tired.
“You’re… done?” he asks, and he hates how small he sounds.
Ilya pushes off the counter and steps closer, close enough that Shane can feel the heat of his body through his t‑shirt.
“No,” he says, and puts one hand flat over Shane’s chest. “I am not done, not yet. If I was done, I would not sign at all. I would have put my skates in the Cup and said good-bye.” There’s a flicker of wicked amusement at the mental image. “This is not retirement today. It's preparation.”
“For what?” Shane forces out, even though he already knows. They have both been talking around it for months. Years.
“For after,” Ilya says. “For the kids, for our foundation. For not waking up in March and wondering if my knees will let me get out of bed without three shots and six stretches.” He shrugs, and it looks unfairly graceful for someone talking about wear and tear. “For not being forty and still pretending I am twenty‑eight.”
Shane’s laugh comes out ragged. “You’ve never pretended anything in your life.”
“That is not true. I pretended to not love you for a long time,” Ilya says, smiling softly as he traces Shane's freckles with this finger tips.
Shane huffs, but his grip on the counter eases, and leans ever so slightly into Ilya's touch.
“You signed your discount to be here for eight years, took it so we could play together,” Ilya murmurs. “You made your big sacrifice, and now it is my turn to do the ugly number, ugly term, so the team can plan, so Haas can get paid, so they can build without scrambling when my cap hit drops off.”
“You make it sound so rational,” Shane mutters. “Like you didn’t just… mark the end of something.”
“End of one thing,” he agrees. “But we agreed, yes? We started together, we finish together.” His voice goes softer. “This is the way to make that real. If I take four years and then my body says no after two, what then? We are stuck. They are stuck. This-” he taps the contract with his knuckles “-is honest. One year. Then we see.”
“And when you say ‘we’…” Shane starts.
“I mean us,” Ilya says immediately. “Not just me and team. Me and you.”
The words hit some stupid, stubborn place inside Shane that has been braced for them without wanting to admit it.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “So… your last lap. And then… I go with you.”
“Maybe, possibly. But also maybe not exactly the same day.” His mouth quirks. “You are very bad at doing nothing. I am… slightly better. We will see. Point is, we have… how do you say? Horizon. A plan for the future. You know now.”
Shane closes his eyes. There is a world where he insists, where he says we retire the same second, we walk off together. There is another where he pretends this changes nothing and they both keep playing until their legs give out and the league forces them to stop.
Both feel wrong.
“What if I’m not ready?” he hears himself say.
Ilya’s hands rest on his shoulders, thumb pressing into the notch at the base of his throat, grounding. “Then you are not ready, and that is okay. That is why we do rolling. I can take one year, two, maybe three, if body lets me. You can take same, or more. We do not have to decide everything now, moy lyubimyy.”
“But you just decided.” There is more bite there than he intends. “You decided to stop signing big ones; you decided to draw a line.”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Because I had to decide something. For me. For kids we have been blessed with, for life I want that is not just bus‑hotel‑rink forever.” His eyes search Shane’s face. “You knew this was coming.”
Shane did, but in the abstract. In the way he knew the Cup was heavy before he ever lifted it, and still almost dropped it the first time because reality has more weight than theory.
“I knew,” he admits, voice low. “I just… thought we had more time before you started putting actual dates on it.”
“We do,” Ilya says gently. “We have at least one more year, maybe more. We have Haas in his prime. We have Jónsson and the other rookies running around looking like chaos on skates. We are not dying. We are… planning.”
“Planning the management takeover?" Shane says, part amused but also part seriously.
"I would never!" Ilya protests mildly
“Oh please, you can't pretend.” Shane gestures vaguely toward the general direction of the arena. “They’re already half treating you like you work upstairs when you’re not on the ice. Everyone listens to you like you’ve already got a desk with your name on it.”
“Because mostly I am right,” Ilya says, utterly unbothered. “And because I am handsome. And I bring cake.”
Shane almost chokes on a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“But not wrong,” Ilya says. Then his expression settles into something more serious. “Yes, they treat me like unofficial executive. They invite me to cap meetings and culture panels and tell me to talk to McGill students about leadership. I like it; I am good at it and I will not deny I want more of that. But I also want rest, and time with you and the kids without consulting the team schedule first. This-” he taps the contract again “-is how we start. I shift slowly from ice to upstairs. I become HAB, full‑time. I will be very glamorous; I am excited to wear the bedazzled jackets.”
“HAB with a whistle,” Shane mutters. “You’re going to be impossible when you have a badge.”
“I am already impossible,” Ilya agrees lightly. Then his eyes soften again. “But this does not mean I leave you alone on ice tomorrow, dorogoy. Or next October. Or even year after. It means one day, yes, you will play game and I will not be in the stall next to you. And Luca will wear the C because I have spoilt you and you are now lazy and do not want the responsibility-"
"Oh fuck off!" Shane barks out a laugh.
"-and you will have to be okay.”
“Is that what this is really about? Preparing me?”
“Partly. You've said many times your greatest dream was to play with me, full‑time, as long as we can. You have it. We did it, and we even built empire.” There is pride there, no apology. “But I do not want you to wake up one day and be shocked when I am gone from the locker room. Better to know this is the last lap, so you can… un‑cling a little.” His mouth twists, self‑aware. “We are both very clingy.”
Shane feels something in his chest crack and rearrange. “You mean so I don’t feel like you’re leaving me.”
“I am not leaving you,” Ilya says, immediate, fierce. “I am leaving the job. Very different.” He leans in until their foreheads touch. “I will still be here - in Ottawa, in your bed. In our house we will expand to make room for our kids. In Lindy’s annoying group chat, even. I will just not be in locker room every day. You will still be my husband; that part does not have expiry date.”
Shane breathes out slowly, eyes stinging. “I know that. Up here.” He taps his temple with the hand that isn’t currently shaking. “Tell that to the part of me that only ever really felt like himself when we were on opposite benches trying to kill each other, or on the same line trying to kill everyone else.”
“We gave that part a very good life,” Ilya says gently. “He can be… retired with honours.” His thumb strokes along Shane’s jaw. “You will still have hockey. You will have Luca and Park and Barrett for as long as he is still there. Maybe you will even have more fun without worrying that I will go full goblin on some idiot and get suspended.”
“As if that isn’t half the fun,” Shane smiles.
“I will still be in stands,” Ilya says. “I can yell at refs from there. It's fine.”
Shane can see it, suddenly: Ilya in a suit, not a jersey, leaning over the rail to scream about missed calls, surrounded by a ring of delighted children and horrified league executives. It punches a laugh out of him that tastes like grief around the edges.
“So,” he says, when he can manage words again. “How do we… do this? Practically. Emotionally. All of it.”
“Practically, easy,” Ilya says, and starts ticking things off on his fingers. “One: I play next season on this deal, and you continue on yours. We talk to Bood, to Luca, to the team; tell them what this means so nobody is surprised. Two: we work with Wiebe, Dan, everyone to shift more responsibility to Haas, Karlsen, all the kids. We are already doing that, but now we do more. Three: next summer, we look at our bodies, at how we feel. Look at if team still needs us on ice.”
“And emotionally?” Shane prompts.
“That one is harder,” Ilya admits, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Emotionally, we keep talking. When you are sad, you tell me. When I am scared, I tell you. When it feels like end of world, we remind each other it is just end of… chapter.” He hesitates. “Also, if it gets bad, we can consider getting a couple's therapist. A couple who retires together needs a neutral third party to say you are both idiots, calm down.”
Shane snorts. “You’re already letting McGill professors use us as a case study, we might as well give their clinical psychologists a turn.”
“Exactly,” Ilya says. “We donate our feelings to science.”
The absurdity of the phrase shakes something loose in Shane. He takes Ilya's hands and laces their fingers together. “So what do you need from me? Right now, besides not setting that contract on fire.”
“Do not set contract on fire,” Ilya agrees solemnly. “And… trust me. That I am not running away. That I am thinking about you and our family when I make choices, not just me. That I am not secretly planning to vanish into dacha in Russia and leave you to school drop‑offs alone.”
Shane thinks about the way Ilya has already started mapping out the kids’ minor hockey schedules amongst the school activities, colour‑coding them like playoff matchups. “You’d last three days in a dacha before you started reorganising the KHL,” he says.
“True,” Ilya says. “So. You?”
Shane swallows. “I need you to promise that if, in two years, your body feels better than you expected and you want one more, you’ll say so. And if you’re done sooner, you’ll say that, too. No martyrdom, no dragging yourself through one extra year because you think I need it - we're not doing a repeat of the second cup run, Ilya. I don’t want to watch you break yourself because you’re scared I’ll fall apart if you stop.”
Ilya’s eyes soften in a way that still makes Shane feel seventeen and punched in the chest. “Deal."
“And…” Shane’s throat tightens again. “And I need time. To get used to the idea that one day I’ll put my helmet on and you won’t be next to me chirping my tape job. I’m not… there yet.”
“I would be worried if you were,” Ilya says. “We built life on ice together - it should hurt to imagine it without me. Same for me, without you. But hurt is not the same as bad; sometimes it is just… a sign that it mattered.”
Shane nods, blinking hard.
“I do want to finish what we started,” he says after a moment. “This year was about proving the hangover wasn’t the end. Next year… I want it to be about really handing it over, making sure Luca is fully there, not just in points, but in… everything. I don’t want your last lap to feel like we’re clinging. I want it to feel like we’re… escorting him to the throne and then stepping back.”
Ilya’s mouth curves. “You see, planning already."
“And I’m not ready for the part where we’re just… retired guys showing up to guest lectures and foundation galas. I want one or two more years where we’re still part of the engine, not just the story they tell after.”
“Good, because I am not ready to be only a story either. I still like scoring, I still like watching you make our little analytic goblin lose his mind with new data. I still like proving league wrong.”
“Then we do it. We treat this like any other game plan. We know there’s a clock now; we use it, we don’t let it use us.”
"Thank you, moy lyubimyy."
“I still hate it,” Shane has to say, but he’s smiling, feeling a strange steadiness settle under the fear.
Ilya's lips quirk up. "I know."
They stand there for a long moment, breathing in the same air, the contract a small, sharp fact against the blur of everything they’ve built.
Finally, Shane sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Last lap. I can do last lap.”
“Not alone,” Ilya reminds him. “Never alone.”
“Never alone,” Shane echoes.
Ilya leans in and kisses him, slow and sure. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against Shane’s again.
And they just breathe.