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The red "ON" light on the small transmitter tucked into Ilya’s jersey was a dangerous thing to give a man who thrived on being the center of attention. As the Ottawa Centaurs took the ice for warmups, Ilya Rozanov was already leaning into the bit, gliding toward Shane Hollander with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Okay, hello everyone," Ilya murmured into the collar of his jersey, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "Today we are learning the Rozanov Method. It is very technical. Please pay attention."
Shane, halfway through a ritualistic stretch near the blue line, didn’t even look up. "Are you talking to yourself again, Ilya?"
"I am educating the public, Shane. Don't be jealous." Ilya looped a circle around him, tapping the back of Shane’s leggings with his stick—just enough to be annoying.
"Now, class," Ilya continued, pitching his voice like he was narrating a nature documentary for toddlers. "Step one of any successful game: as a good luck charm, you must irritate your husband and Ottawa’s second-best player a minimum of three times per game. One for each period. It is very important for the science."
Shane finally looked up, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Second best? Keep talking, and I’m not passing to you tonight."
"See? Irritated. That is one," Ilya whispered to the mic.
The game itself was a masterclass in chaos. Ilya was everywhere—whistling cheerful tunes during face-offs to confuse the opposing center and offering "constructive criticism" to the referees about their hair. When he tucked his first goal into the top shelf, he didn’t celebrate with a scream. Instead, he skated past the bench, tapped the mic, and said, "That is what we call 'the sneaky move.' You put the biscuit in the basket and then you act like it was very easy, even though you are sweating like a pig."
By the second period, Ilya had completed his "irritation quota" by stealing Shane's water bottle and loudly critiquing Shane’s "very serious hockey face" during a TV timeout.
"You’re a menace," Shane muttered as they lined up for a power play.
"I am an angel," Ilya corrected primly, then immediately won the draw, drove to the net, and redirected a opposing shot into his second goal of the night.
The hat trick came in the third. It was a classic Hollander-to-Rozanov connection—a blind, backhand pass from Shane that found Ilya’s tape perfectly. The hats rained down, a colorful blizzard on the Ottawa ice. Ilya stood in the center of it, arms wide, looking directly into the nearest camera.
"And that, children, is how you use your favorite winger to look like a superstar," Ilya told the audience. "He does the work, I take the hats. It is a very good system."
As the final horn sounded and the Centaurs secured the win, the adrenaline was still humming through Ilya’s veins. He joined the handshake line, chirping a final few "better luck next times" before the team converged near the tunnel.
The broadcast crew was signaling for him to wrap it up. Ilya reached up, his fingers hovering over the power switch of the mic pack. He looked over at Shane, who was watching him with that soft, tired expression he only wore when the world wasn't looking—the look that reminded Ilya they’d been doing this for years, and he’d do it for fifty more.
"That is all for the Rozanov show," Ilya said into the mic, his tone shifting from playful to something much warmer. "I hope you learned many things about being the best." and with that, he clicked the device off and watched as the red power light dimmed.
In the sudden, relative silence of the shouting arena, Ilya skated into Shane’s space. He reached out, hooking a gloved hand around the back of Shane’s neck, pulling him close until their visors clinked.
"Sweetheart," Ilya whispered, the bravado of the game replaced by a raw, quiet gravity. "Now for my favorite part of any game, win or lose."
"Yeah?" Shane asked, his voice breathless, tucking his chin. "What’s that, Rozanov?"
For once, Ilya didn't answer with words, instead, he pulled Shane in and kissed him, right there in the center of the ice, oblivious to the cameras, the fans, and the score—focused only on the man who had been his home for a thousand games and counting.