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Shane Hollander had thought playing against Ilya Rozanov was difficult.
He had been wrong.
Playing against Ilya had been simple, in hindsight. Annoying, yes. Maddening. Occasionally humiliating. Frequently distracting in ways Shane had spent years refusing to examine with any real honesty. But there had been rules.
They wore different jerseys. They sat on different benches. They glared at each other across faceoffs and pretended the whole thing was normal.
Playing with Ilya was worse.
Because now Ilya was everywhere.
Three stalls down in the Ottawa Centaurs locker room. Across from him at team meals. Beside him during video. Behind him on the ice, yelling things like, “Beautiful pass, my love,” in front of twenty other grown men and a coaching staff that had apparently decided this was just their lives now.
Shane had signed with Ottawa knowing this would happen.
He had wanted this.
He still wanted this.
That did not mean he had been prepared for Ilya Rozanov, his husband and captain, standing in the middle of the Centaurs locker room wearing Shane’s hoodie, Shane’s slides, and a pair of sunglasses indoors.
At eight in the morning.
In February.
Shane stared at him.
Ilya smiled.
It was not a normal smile. It was the kind of smile that meant he had woken up with a plan, and the plan was probably stupid, illegal, or designed specifically to ruin Shane’s blood pressure.
“No,” Shane said.
Ilya blinked innocently. “I have not said anything.”
“I can feel you about to.”
“That is marriage. We are connected.”
“That is not marriage. That is pattern recognition.”
Troy Barrett, tying his skates two stalls over, looked up. “I think that’s kind of romantic.”
Shane pointed at him. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I am always encouraged,” Ilya said.
“That’s the problem.”
Harris Drover appeared in the doorway holding his phone and a half-eaten granola bar. “Why is he dressed like Shane?”
“Because I am Shane today,” Ilya said.
Shane closed his eyes.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I am serious. Very serious. Look.” Ilya tugged at the front of Shane’s hoodie, which was very clearly too short in the sleeves and had HOLLANDER printed across the back. “I have costume.”
“You have stolen laundry.”
“I have commitment.”
“You have boundary issues.”
“I have a husband with excellent taste in hoodies.”
Harris lifted his phone.
Shane’s eyes snapped open. “Do not film this.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were holding your phone up.”
“I was checking the light.”
“For what?”
“For… safety.”
Troy snorted.
Luca Haas, who had been with the Centaurs for exactly six weeks and still looked faintly alarmed whenever Ilya addressed him directly, leaned toward Wyatt Hayes and whispered, “Is this normal?”
Wyatt didn’t look up from taping his stick. “For them? Yes.”
Luca frowned. “For the team?”
“Unfortunately, also yes.”
“I can hear you,” Shane said.
Luca went very still.
Ilya looked delighted. “Good ears. Very captainly.”
“You’re captain.”
“Yes, but today I am Shane.”
“No, you are not.”
“Yes, I am.” Ilya straightened his shoulders, made his face aggressively blank, and said in a flat, careful voice, “Hello. I am Shane Hollander. I enjoy routines, winning faceoffs, and pretending I do not want my husband to kiss me in public.”
The locker room exploded.
Shane’s face went hot.
“That is not what I sound like.”
Wyatt paused long enough to say, “It’s not terrible.”
“Wyatt.”
“I mean, it’s mean, but it’s not inaccurate.”
Ilya’s whole face lit up. “Thank you, Hayes. You understand art.”
“I understand that I don’t want to be involved.”
“Too late. You are in my theatre now.”
Shane stood up.
Ilya, who had the survival instincts of a raccoon in a bin fire, did not move.
“Take it off,” Shane said.
Someone choked.
Harris whispered, “Oh my God.”
Luca looked genuinely frightened. “Are we supposed to leave?”
Troy patted him on the shoulder. “No, kid. This is how they flirt.”
“We are not flirting,” Shane said.
Ilya turned to the room. “He always says this when we are flirting.”
“Ilya.”
“Yes, dorogoy?”
The word hit Shane low and warm, which was incredibly unfair because they were in a locker room and Shane was attempting to be irritated.
He was irritated.
Mostly.
Partly.
Ilya knew exactly what he was doing. He always did. That was the worst thing about him. He was chaos, yes, but not random chaos. Ilya did not stumble into disorder. He curated it. He built it with the precision of a man arranging explosives beneath a bridge.
And Shane loved it.
That was the unbearable truth of his life.
Shane loved Ilya’s ridiculous plans. He loved the way Ilya could make an entire room bend around his nonsense. He loved the wicked glint in his eyes when he was about to cause trouble. He loved the fact that Ilya, who had once been the most dangerous thing in Shane’s world, had somehow become the safest.
But he did not love being the centre of a locker room circus before coffee.
Especially not today.
Today, everything felt slightly too sharp.
Not bad. Not unmanageable. Just sharp.
The lights had that faint arena buzz nobody else seemed to care about. Tape ripped too loudly. Someone’s music leaked from a speaker near the showers, tinny and repetitive. The room smelled like wet gear, coffee, deodorant, and the rookie’s banana protein shake, which Shane had hated from the first day and had somehow never complained about out loud.
He had woken up wrong.
That was the only way he could think to describe it. His shirt sat wrong against his skin. His thoughts kept catching on every sound. His brain was trying to follow every conversation in the room at once, then getting irritated when it couldn’t.
Usually, he could push through it.
He was good at pushing through things.
Be composed. Be polite. Be professional. Be the version of Shane Hollander people expected. The one who knew what to say, when to smile, when to nod, when to make eye contact and when to look away so it did not become weird.
He was good at it.
He was so good at it that most people never noticed how much work it was.
Ilya noticed.
That was the irritating thing.
Ilya was still grinning, still wearing Shane’s hoodie like a trophy, still making himself the centre of the room because apparently that was his preferred form of cardio.
But his eyes changed.
Just slightly.
Shane hated that he noticed. Hated, even more, that Ilya noticed first.
Ilya’s gaze flicked over Shane’s face, his shoulders, his hands. Shane realised he was rubbing at the seam of his compression shirt, over and over, too hard.
He stopped.
Ilya stepped closer.
Not too close. Never too close without warning. Not anymore.
“You slept badly,” Ilya said quietly.
Shane looked away. “I’m fine.”
“This is not answer.”
“It is an answer.”
“It is lie pretending to be answer.”
“It’s too early for you to be this perceptive.”
“I am always this perceptive. You are usually too stubborn to appreciate it.”
Across the room, Harris whispered, “They’re doing the married telepathy thing.”
Troy whispered back, “I know. It’s disgusting.”
Lucas whispered, “Should I learn how to do that?”
Wyatt said, “You need to survive your entry-level contract first.”
Ilya turned his head slowly. “Drover.”
Harris stood straighter.
“If you post anything of my husband looking stressed, I will put your phone in a smoothie.”
Harris looked offended. “I would never.”
Ilya stared.
Harris lowered his phone.
“Okay, I might have posted the hoodie thing, but not the stress thing.”
Shane’s head snapped up. “You posted what?”
Harris winced.
Ilya, traitor that he was, looked far too pleased with himself.
Shane pulled out his phone.
The Ottawa Centaurs official account had posted a photo of Ilya from five minutes ago, standing in Shane’s hoodie with his sunglasses on, arms spread like he was about to address a nation.
The caption read:
Captain Rozanov has announced he will be playing as Shane Hollander today. We are unsure if Assistant Captain Hollander has approved this.
The comments were already insane.
Shane’s hoodie? married behaviour
Ilya wearing HOLLANDER across his back is actually too much for me emotionally
Admin, please confirm whether Shane has threatened legal action
Ottawa Centaurs: come for hockey, stay for husbands being weird
Shane stared at the screen.
Then at Harris.
Harris swallowed. “Engagement is up.”
“I am going to engage your phone with the wall.”
Troy made a small noise. “That was actually a good chirp.”
“Thank you,” Shane said automatically.
Ilya brightened like Shane had just handed him a weapon.
Shane pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to be proud.”
“I am always proud. You are very funny when you threaten people.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
“That is why it works.”
Luca, very quietly, said, “It did work.”
Everyone looked at him.
Luca held very still, like movement might attract predators. “Sorry.”
“Baby Centaur has opinions,” Ilya said.
“Don’t call him baby Centaur,” Shane said.
“He is baby.”
“He’s twenty-two.”
“Baby.”
Luca looked between them. “Do I get a say?”
“No,” Troy and Wyatt said together.
Ilya turned back to Shane and lifted one hand, palm up, like he was presenting evidence in court. “You see? Team supports me.”
“The team is afraid of you.”
“Fear is support with better posture.”
“That makes no sense.”
“You say this because your life is beige.”
Shane gave him a long, flat look. “My life is not beige.”
“It was before me.”
“My life was disciplined.”
“Beige word.”
“Structured.”
“Beige word.”
“Successful.”
“Okay, this one is true. But still beige.”
“It was peaceful.”
Ilya pointed at him. “Ah. Luxury beige.”
Luca made the mistake of laughing.
Shane turned slowly.
Luca looked like he briefly considered crawling into his equipment bag. “Sorry. I just—I understood the colour scale.”
Troy patted him on the shoulder. “Never admit that.”
Shane opened his mouth to respond, but someone across the room ripped another strip of tape.
Sharp. Sudden. Needlessly aggressive.
His jaw tightened.
The hoodie post was funny. It was stupid, but it was funny. The comments were mostly fine. The team was mostly fine. Ilya was Ilya, which meant he was unbearable in the exact way Shane usually enjoyed.
So why did Shane’s chest feel tight?
He looked back down at his phone, but the comments seemed to blur together. Not visually. He could read them. He just could not make them stay as separate pieces of information. Too many words. Too many jokes. Too much attention.
Everyone knew. That was good. That was what they had wanted.
No hiding. No pretending. No carefully measured distance in public. No making themselves smaller so other people could stay comfortable.
Shane liked that. He did.
He just didn’t always want to feel passed around.
Ilya came up behind him while Shane was still glaring at the screen.
“Your shoulder pad is sitting wrong,” Ilya said.
Shane blinked. “I’m not wearing shoulder pads yet.”
“Then your shoulder is sitting wrong.”
“My shoulder?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“You look crooked.”
“Ilya.”
“Let captain work.”
Before Shane could argue, Ilya’s hands were on his shoulders.
To anyone watching, it probably looked like another bit. Ilya being irritatingly hands-on. A captain fixing posture. A husband being annoying.
But his palms settled heavier than they needed to.
Firm. Even. Warm through Shane’s shirt.
Shane stopped halfway through a breath.
The room didn’t get quieter. The lights didn’t stop humming. Harris was still in the doorway with his phone. Someone was still ripping tape like it owed them money.
But Shane’s body noticed Ilya before it noticed any of that.
“There,” Ilya said, as if he had fixed something visible.
Shane swallowed.
He hadn’t realised how high his shoulders had climbed until they dropped.
Ilya’s voice dipped, just for him. “Better, pomidorchik?”
Shane should have snapped at him for the nickname. He should have told him not to call him a little tomato in front of the entire locker room. He should have said he was fine. He had thought he was fine.
Instead, he breathed out.
“I hate that nickname,” he muttered.
Ilya’s hands stayed exactly where they were.
“No, you don’t.”
And the worst thing was, Shane didn’t.
Troy, apparently incapable of self-preservation, said, “Is he fixing your shoulder or flirting?”
“Yes,” Ilya said.
Shane opened his eyes. “Troy.”
Troy lifted both hands. “I said nothing.”
“You said a whole sentence.”
“I regret it.”
Luca whispered, “I feel like I’m learning too much.”
Wyatt nodded. “You are.”
Harris glanced down at his phone. “For what it’s worth, comments are clean. I’m deleting anything weird.”
“Define weird,” Shane said.
“Anything that makes me feel like I need to shower after reading it.”
“Good.”
Ilya’s thumbs pressed once more, then his hands left Shane’s shoulders before it became too much, before anyone could make it a bigger thing.
The absence of them was immediate and annoying.
Shane hated that too.
Not really.
Ilya stepped back into Shane’s line of sight, still in the stolen hoodie, sunglasses pushed up into his hair now. He looked ridiculous and gorgeous and entirely too pleased with himself.
“You are less crooked,” he said.
“I was never crooked.”
“You were emotionally crooked.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is. I fixed.”
“You adjusted nothing.”
“I adjusted mood.”
“You adjusted my patience.”
“Also important.”
Shane pinched the bridge of his nose.
Ilya’s grin went sharp again, the chaos returning now that Shane had started breathing properly.
“There he is,” Ilya murmured.
Shane looked away. “Don’t make a thing of it.”
“I would never.”
“You always do.”
“I would never make a thing of something unless it deserves theatre.”
“Exactly.”
Harris cleared his throat. “Speaking of theatre…”
Shane looked at him. “No.”
“You haven’t heard it yet.”
“No.”
Ilya perked up. “I want to hear.”
“Of course you do,” Shane muttered.
Harris looked between them, visibly trying not to smile. “PR wants to do a ‘Hollander teaches Rozanov how to be serious for a day’ video.”
The room went very still.
Ilya’s expression went wicked.
Shane pointed at him. “No.”
“Yes,” Ilya said immediately.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You will make it unbearable.”
“I will make it art.”
“You’ll spend the whole time mocking me.”
“I will spend whole time admiring you with accurate commentary.”
“That’s worse.”
“It is better.”
Troy raised a hand. “I would watch that.”
Wyatt nodded. “Same.”
Harris said, “I would help film it.”
Luca hesitated, then raised his hand halfway. “I’d also watch it.”
Shane looked at him.
Luca lowered his hand. “From a respectful distance.”
Ilya smiled at him. “You are brave, Lucas Haas.”
Luca looked vaguely terrified. “Thank you?”
Shane stood, partly because they needed to get to practice and partly because Ilya was looking at him like he was already planning costumes.
“We have practice.”
Ilya glanced down at the hoodie he still had no intention of returning. “You are avoiding opportunity.”
“I am maintaining professionalism.”
“Beige phrase.”
Shane pointed at him. “Take off my hoodie.”
Ilya looked down at it, then back up.
“No.”
“Ilya.”
“I am attached.”
“To the hoodie?”
“To you.”
The room groaned.
Shane froze for half a second.
Ilya’s smile softened.
It was ridiculous. It was theatrical. It was probably at least seventy percent designed to get a reaction in front of the team.
But it was also true.
And Shane, who had once spent years wanting this man in secret, could no longer pretend the truth did not get to him.
“You can wear it until practice,” Shane said.
Ilya’s eyes lit up. “And after?”
“No.”
“During media?”
“No.”
“To dinner?”
“No.”
“To bed?”
Shane’s face went hot.
The locker room erupted again.
Troy shouted, “There are rookies present!”
Harris yelled, “This is going on the group chat!”
Wyatt said, “Which one?”
“All of them!”
Luca looked genuinely distressed. “How many group chats are there?”
“Too many,” Shane said.
“Not enough,” Ilya said at the same time.
Shane grabbed his gloves and headed for the door. “I hate this team.”
Ilya caught up beside him immediately, still grinning, still chaos in Shane’s clothes.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“You love us.”
“I tolerate you professionally.”
“You love me unprofessionally.”
Shane kept walking. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“It really doesn’t.”
Ilya stepped closer as they entered the tunnel, shoulder brushing Shane’s.
The noise of the locker room faded behind them. Ahead, the ice waited. Clean and bright and familiar. Shane breathed in cold air and felt the last of the static in his chest settle.
Not disappear.
Just settle.
Ilya glanced sideways at him.
“Better?”
Shane nodded.
“Good.”
They walked a few more steps.
Then Ilya said, “I am still doing the video.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I already have concept.”
“No.”
“You teach me how to be serious. I fail. You get frustrated. Then you kiss me because I am charming.”
“I am not kissing you for team social media.”
“You kissed me on national broadcast.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“We had just won.”
“So we win practice.”
Shane stared at him.
Ilya looked deeply proud of himself.
“You are unbelievable,” Shane said.
Ilya smiled, bright and wicked and entirely too pleased.
“And yet.”
Shane shook his head, but he was smiling now. He could feel it. Worse, Ilya could see it.
There was no hiding from him.
Not anymore.
Maybe that was the best part.
By the time they stepped onto the ice, Shane felt steadier.
Not fixed. Not magically reset. That wasn’t how it worked. The hum of the lights was still there, tucked behind his eyes. The morning still sat too close under his skin. But Ilya had put his hands on Shane’s shoulders in front of the entire Ottawa Centaurs locker room like it was the most ordinary thing in the world, and somehow that made it easier to breathe.
That was the problem with Ilya.
He could make anything ridiculous.
He could make anything public.
And then, when it mattered, he could make Shane feel like none of it was shameful.
Which was why Shane should have known better than to relax.
Because Ilya Rozanov, once reassured that his husband was no longer one loud sneeze away from murder, immediately returned to being the most irritating man alive.
Practice was a disaster.
Not technically. Technically, practice was fine. Ottawa’s second power-play unit still needed work, but the pace was good, the passing was sharp, and Ilya was playing like a man personally trying to seduce the concept of hockey.
Emotionally, however, practice was a disaster.
Because Ilya scored twice, assisted once, chirped everyone within a ten-foot radius, and nearly collided with Harris near the boards because he was too busy blowing Shane a kiss after a clean zone entry.
Worst of all, Shane smiled.
Not a media smile. Not a polite, professional, controlled Shane Hollander smile.
A real one.
The kind that happened before he remembered people could see him.
And of course Harris saw it.
Because the universe hated him.
The final drill had barely ended when Ilya skated past him, breathless and flushed, eyes bright.
“That one was for you, solnyshko.”
Shane glared at him.
At least, he tried.
Ilya’s grin went nuclear. “Ah. There it is.”
“What?”
“My favourite face.”
“My face is threatening you.”
“No. Your face says, ‘I am in love with my terrible husband and this is inconvenient.’”
Shane shoved him lightly with one glove. “Go stretch.”
“I am stretched. Very flexible.”
“Go away.”
“You miss me already.”
“I can see you.”
“Yes. Lucky.”
Someone on the bench made a noise like they were dying.
Shane turned. “What?”
Troy, still on the ice, leaned both arms over the boards. “Nothing. Just watching whatever this is.”
“This is harassment,” Shane said.
“This is marriage,” Ilya corrected.
“This is why I considered retirement.”
“You would be bored.”
“I would have peace.”
“You would miss my legs.”
Shane skated away.
Ilya followed, laughing.
By the time practice actually ended, Shane had decided three things.
One: Ottawa’s second power-play unit still needed work.
Two: Ilya Rozanov should not be allowed near the team’s social media manager without supervision.
Three: he was going to murder his husband.
Not seriously.
Probably.
Back in the locker room, Shane sat in his stall, helmet off, hair damp, trying not to think about the fact that there might be photographic evidence of him looking stupidly happy because his husband had called him sunshine in front of half the organisation.
Ilya, naturally, looked deeply satisfied.
He sprawled in the stall beside Shane’s like he owned the building, still wearing Shane’s hoodie under his open practice jacket, one leg stretched out, hair pushed back, cheeks flushed from skating.
He looked unfair.
He always looked unfair after practice. Loose and bright-eyed, all sharp edges softened by exhaustion, the chaotic part of him temporarily warmed into something almost lazy.
Shane tried not to look.
He looked.
Ilya caught him immediately.
Of course he did.
“You are staring.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About me.”
“About defensive structure.”
“I am defensive structure.”
“You are defensive instability.”
Ilya smiled. “But sexy.”
Troy, walking past with a towel around his neck, said, “I hate that I understood this conversation.”
“You are learning,” Ilya said proudly.
“I don’t want to.”
“No one does,” Shane muttered.
Luca, carrying three sticks and looking like he had been sent on an errand he did not understand, paused by Harris. “Is defensive instability a system thing?”
Harris patted his shoulder. “No, buddy. It’s foreplay.”
Luca nearly dropped the sticks.
“Drover,” Shane said sharply.
Harris looked unrepentant. “What? He has to learn eventually.”
“He absolutely does not.”
Ilya smiled. “Do not worry, Luca. Shane is very strict but secretly kind.”
“I’m openly kind.”
The room went silent.
Troy said, very gently, “Shane.”
Shane threw a towel at him.
Harris appeared in front of them, phone in hand, expression far too bright for a man who wanted to survive the afternoon.
“Good practice, boys.”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “Delete it.”
Harris blinked. “Delete what?”
“Whatever you got.”
“I record many things.”
“The thing.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
Shane stood.
Harris took one step back.
Ilya also stood, not to help, but because he was clearly enjoying the show.
“The smile?” Harris asked.
Shane’s face went hot.
Ilya gasped dramatically. “There was a smile?”
“You know there was.”
“I was busy being magnificent. I cannot see everything.”
“You saw.”
“I felt it.”
Troy made a choking noise near the showers. “That’s worse.”
Harris, who apparently had a death wish, turned his phone around.
It was a short clip.
Ilya scoring. Ilya pointing at him. Shane turning toward him, visibly trying to maintain a glare, then failing. His mouth curved before he caught it, and even then the smile lingered at the corners.
It was tiny.
It was nothing.
It looked enormous.
The caption Harris had typed but not yet posted read:
Captain Rozanov claims his celly was “strategic team motivation.” Assistant Captain Hollander declined to comment but did this.
The clip itself wasn’t bad.
That was the annoying thing.
It was actually nice.
Ilya scoring. Ilya pointing at him. Shane turning toward him with every intention of glaring, then failing so obviously it was almost painful. His mouth curved before he caught it. His eyes softened. For half a second, he looked exactly how he felt.
Happy.
Open.
Seen.
Shane stared at the phone for too long.
The room started pressing in again. Not all at once. Just enough. Voices, movement, damp gear, the buzz of the lights, everyone waiting to see what he would do.
Ilya didn’t touch him straight away.
That was how Shane knew he had noticed.
He gave Shane half a second. Space, or the offer of it. Then his hand came to the back of Shane’s neck, warm and heavy, thumb resting just below his hairline.
Shane’s eyes flicked shut before he could stop them.
It was barely anything. Not enough for anyone else to make a joke out of. But it helped.
“I don’t want it posted,” Shane said.
Harris nodded at once. “Okay. No post.”
“No group chat either.”
“Done.”
“No caption. No tiny joy.”
Troy, wisely, said nothing.
Ilya did not make a joke either.
“You heard him,” he said.
Harris nodded again. “Yeah. Of course.”
Shane looked away first, because the room had gone gentle and somehow that was worse.
“I’m not mad,” he said, even though he was a little. “I just want to choose.”
Ilya’s hand tightened slightly at the back of his neck.
Not holding him there.
Just there.
“Yes,” Ilya said. “You choose when they get you.”
Shane had been ready for a joke.
He was not ready for that.
The fact that Ilya understood the difference.
Not just between public and private. They had spent years learning that difference the hard way. But between being visible and being watched. Between sharing something because he wanted to and having a tiny unguarded piece of himself packaged into content before he could decide whether he was ready.
Shane stared at the floor.
The hand at the back of his neck stayed warm.
Then Ilya, because he was Ilya and could not let tenderness remain untouched forever, said, “Also, he looked too beautiful in video. We cannot give this away for free.”
Shane huffed before he could stop himself.
The room breathed again.
Troy clapped once. “Great. Boundaries established. Feelings acknowledged. Nobody posted Shane’s tiny joy. Can we all shower now?”
“I said no tiny joy.”
“Sorry. Shane’s legally protected micro-expression.”
“That’s worse.”
Luca, who seemed physically incapable of not participating once he had started, said, “It was a nice micro-expression.”
Shane turned.
Luca took one step back. “Respectfully.”
Ilya practically glowed with bad intentions. “Baby Centaur is brave today.”
“I think I’m concussed,” Luca muttered.
Harris tucked his phone away. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Shane looked at him.
Harris’s expression was open. Sincere. Still a little nervous, because he had a functioning sense of self-preservation, but sincere.
“I should have asked,” Harris said. “Especially with you two. I know everyone loves the whole…” He gestured vaguely between Shane and Ilya. “Thing. But I should have asked.”
“The whole thing?” Ilya repeated.
Harris sighed. “The deeply annoying marriage theatre.”
Ilya smiled. “Better.”
Shane nodded once. “Just ask next time.”
“Done.”
“And don’t call it marriage theatre.”
“No promises.”
Ilya’s hand slid from Shane’s neck and gave the back of his shoulder one last firm squeeze before letting go.
Shane missed it immediately.
That was becoming a problem.
Ilya must have known, because he leaned in as he passed and murmured, “Later, my serious husband.”
Shane looked up.
Ilya’s eyes flicked down once. Not obvious. Not suggestive in a way anyone else would clock. Just a promise.
Weight. Quiet. Home.
Shane swallowed.
“Later,” he said.
Ilya smiled, small and satisfied.
Then Troy ruined the moment by saying, “Are you two done eye-fucking or should we clear the room?”
Shane threw a glove at him.
This time, it hit.
Ilya laughed so hard he had to sit down.
The thing about being on the same team as Ilya was that Shane never got a break from him.
This was also the best thing about being on the same team as Ilya.
It was confusing.
In Montreal, Shane had been used to missing him. Missing him was almost easier than having him, because missing him had rules. Missing him happened alone. In hotel rooms. In borrowed hours. In the ache after games when they went different directions and pretended that was normal.
Now there was no missing him.
Now Ilya was at breakfast stealing potatoes off Shane’s plate. He was in film review making notes that were either brilliant or completely insane. He was in the passenger seat on the way home from practice controlling the music with the confidence of a man who believed Shane’s playlist existed only to disappoint him.
He was everywhere.
Shane was still learning how to let himself like that.
The drive home was quiet at first.
Ottawa looked grey and sharp through the windshield, snow piled in dirty ridges along the road. Shane kept both hands on the wheel and tried to ignore the feeling of Ilya watching him from the passenger seat.
Ilya had changed into his own coat but was, somehow, still wearing Shane’s hoodie underneath.
Shane glanced over. “You’re never giving it back, are you?”
“No.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“It smells like you.”
Shane almost missed the green light.
Ilya laughed. “Careful, Hollander.”
“You can’t just say things like that while I’m driving.”
“I can say anything. I am passenger princess.”
“You are a menace.”
“Yes.”
“You’re proud of it.”
“Also yes.”
Shane shook his head, but his mouth betrayed him.
Ilya saw. Of course he did.
“You like when I am menace.”
“I like when you’re quiet.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I dream of silence.”
“You married me.”
“A moment of madness.”
“Many moments. Whole wedding.”
Shane pulled into their driveway and put the car in park.
For a second, neither of them moved.
The house was quiet ahead of them. Warm light in the front window from the lamp they always forgot to turn off. Snow falling lightly against the windshield.
It still caught Shane sometimes.
Their house.
Their team.
Their life.
Not stolen around the edges anymore. Not hidden in coded texts and careful hotel arrangements. Not something they had to compress into whatever hours they could get away with.
Just theirs.
From inside the house came a muffled bark.
Then another.
Then the unmistakable sound of Anya losing her mind because she had sensed one of her humans was taking too long to come inside.
Ilya’s face lit up immediately.
“Anya is angry.”
“She’s excited.”
“She is angry with love.”
“She’s been alone for four hours. She probably needs to pee.”
“That too.”
Ilya unbuckled his seatbelt, then paused, still looking at Shane.
“What?” Shane asked.
Ilya’s voice was softer now. “You did good today.”
Shane looked down at the steering wheel.
“I played fine.”
“This is not what I mean.”
“I know.”
Ilya waited.
That was new too. Or not new, exactly. Ilya had always been capable of patience when it mattered, but he had become better at it with Shane over the years. He no longer tried to pry things out of him just because he could. He waited until Shane found the shape of the words.
Sometimes Shane still hated that.
Mostly he loved it.
“It’s weird,” Shane said eventually.
“Being on Centaurs?”
“Being… there. With everyone. With you.”
Ilya nodded.
“I wanted it,” Shane said quickly.
“I know.”
“I still want it.”
“I know.”
“It’s just a lot.”
Ilya turned more fully toward him. “You are allowed to want something and be overwhelmed by it.”
Shane huffed. “That sounds like therapy.”
“I am very wise.”
“You are wearing my hoodie because you claimed it under fake Russian marriage law.”
“Wise people can steal.”
Shane laughed, and it came easier this time.
Ilya smiled, pleased but gentle.
Then Anya barked again, louder this time, as if personally offended they were having a meaningful conversation without her.
Ilya looked toward the house. “She says hurry up.”
“She says you left her with the boring puzzle feeder again.”
“She loves puzzle feeder.”
“She solves it in thirty seconds and then looks betrayed.”
“She is gifted.”
“She is spoiled.”
“Yes,” Ilya said, with great pride.
Shane got out of the car.
By the time they reached the front door, Anya was already whining behind it, nails clicking over the floor as she danced in place. The second Shane opened the door, she launched herself into the hallway like she had been personally fired from a cannon.
She was older now, greyer around the muzzle, but still deeply committed to greeting Ilya like he had survived a war rather than a ninety-minute practice and a twelve-minute drive. She pushed herself against his legs, tail whipping dangerously against the wall, then turned immediately to Shane and shoved her nose into his hand.
Shane scratched behind her ears. “Hi, girl.”
Anya leaned her whole weight against his shin.
Ilya, who still acted wounded every time Anya showed Shane affection, gasped. “Traitor.”
“She likes me.”
“She loves me.”
“She has taste.”
Anya wagged harder.
Ilya crouched and took her face gently in both hands. “Anya, my beautiful girl, tell Shane you love me most.”
Anya licked his chin.
Ilya looked triumphant. “See?”
“She licks the dishwasher.”
“Because dishwasher also feeds her.”
Shane stepped out of his shoes and hung up his coat. Anya followed him, nails clicking on the floor, then followed Ilya, then circled back to Shane again as if trying to herd both of them into the house properly.
Ilya watched her with a soft expression Shane still loved catching him in. For all his dramatics, all his noise, all the ways he liked to turn himself into the biggest thing in any room, Ilya went gentle around Anya.
He always had.
It made Shane’s chest ache a little.
Then Ilya looked up at him with a dangerous sparkle in his eyes.
“No,” Shane said immediately.
“I have not said anything.”
“You’re about to.”
“We have room.”
“For what?”
“For another dog.”
Shane stared at him.
Anya sat between them and wagged, as if voting yes.
“No.”
Ilya gasped. “You did not even consider.”
“I considered. No.”
“Anya wants sibling.”
“Anya wants dinner.”
“Both can be true.”
“She is perfectly happy as an only dog.”
“She is lonely.”
“She sleeps between us like she pays the mortgage.”
“She needs friend.”
“She has us.”
“We are boring.”
“You are not boring.”
Ilya smiled like he had been waiting all day for exactly that. “Ah. You admit.”
Shane pointed at him. “Do not use my affection as evidence.”
“I will use everything. I am lawyer now.”
“You are not a lawyer.”
“I am dog lawyer.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It will be after I post.”
“Do not post about getting another dog.”
“I will not.”
Shane narrowed his eyes.
Ilya lifted both hands. “I will only post vague emotional statement.”
“No.”
“Fine. I will only tell team.”
“No.”
“Fine. I will only tell Anya.”
Anya barked once.
Ilya looked triumphant. “She agrees.”
Shane sighed and walked toward the kitchen. “I’m making tea.”
“For us?”
“For me.”
“For your husband?”
“For Anya.”
Ilya followed him, deeply pleased. “You are funny when you are overwhelmed.”
“I’m not overwhelmed anymore. Now I’m annoyed.”
“Even better.”
Ilya’s version of helping Shane decompress involved three blankets, two mugs of tea, one dog, one stolen hoodie, and a twenty-minute argument about whether Anya would enjoy a sibling or immediately stage a coup.
“She would be wonderful big sister,” Ilya said.
“She would be furious.”
“She is never furious.”
At that exact moment, Anya made a low disgruntled sound because Ilya had stopped scratching her chest.
Shane looked at him.
Ilya looked down at Anya. “You are not helping.”
Anya huffed.
Shane sat on the couch with his mug, trying to look firm. It was difficult because Ilya had draped one of the blankets over his shoulders like a cape and was pacing in front of him as if presenting a formal legal argument.
“Consider,” Ilya said. “A second dog would be good for family morale.”
“Our family morale is fine.”
“Our family morale is beige.”
Shane stared. “Stop calling things beige.”
“I cannot. It is useful word.”
“You learned one insult and built a personality around it.”
“No. I had personality first. Beige came later.”
“Anya does not need a sibling because you’ve decided our family has a colour palette issue.”
“Anya wants someone to chase.”
“Anya is ten.”
“Emotionally, she is puppy.”
“She is emotionally a queen who tolerates us.”
“Yes, exactly. Queen needs subject.”
“No.”
“Tiny dog.”
“No.”
“Big dog.”
“No.”
“Medium dog?”
“You’re negotiating with yourself.”
“I am excellent negotiator.”
“You are not. You start at insane and work sideways.”
Ilya looked delighted. “This is why you love me.”
“It is one of the reasons I need to lie down after interacting with you.”
“Good,” Ilya said, immediately brightening.
Shane looked at him. “What?”
“I am helping.”
“You’re kneeling on the blanket.”
“This is step one.”
“Step one of what?”
“Do not question process.”
“Ilya.”
“Roll over, my little tomato.”
Shane stared at him.
Ilya stared back, shameless.
“I’m not a dog.”
“No. Anya listens better.”
Anya barked from the rug.
“See?”
Shane should have argued more. Usually, he would have. But his body already knew where this was going before his brain admitted it. His shoulders ached. His skin still felt faintly wrong from the day. The idea of Ilya’s weight over him made something low in his chest loosen.
So he rolled onto his stomach with as much dignity as possible, which was not much, because Anya immediately came over and licked his ear.
“Traitor,” Shane muttered.
Ilya laughed softly.
Then the joking stopped.
It always did, at that part.
Ilya could be outrageous about getting there. He could call it crushing. He could make speeches to Anya. He could pretend this was a complicated medical procedure requiring blankets, snacks, and respect for the process.
But when it mattered, he went careful.
He put one hand between Shane’s shoulder blades.
“Okay?”
Shane nodded.
Then Ilya lowered himself down slowly.
Chest to Shane’s back. Hips angled so it wasn’t too much. One arm braced just enough, the other loose near Shane’s shoulder.
Warmth. Weight. Familiarity.
The first full press of it made Shane go boneless.
He didn’t mean to.
It just happened.
Ilya laughed softly against his shoulder.
“Oh,” he said. “There you are.”
Shane closed his eyes.
“I hate when you know things.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t have to.”
And that was somehow worse.
Better.
Both.
The house was warm. Anya’s head was heavy against Shane’s hand. Somewhere outside, snow brushed lightly against the window. Ilya’s body covered his like a living blanket, solid and steady and impossible to ignore.
The world reduced itself to manageable things.
The couch beneath him. Ilya above him. Anya breathing beside him. The faint sound of the heating kicking on. The smell of tea on the coffee table and Ilya’s shampoo and the hoodie that was technically Shane’s but now smelled like both of them.
His brain stopped trying to sort every sound into a threat.
His skin stopped feeling too awake.
He hadn’t realised how tired he was until his body started to believe it could rest.
Ilya’s cheek pressed lightly to the back of his shoulder.
“You are melting,” Ilya murmured.
“Shut up.”
“Fondly.”
“Still shut up.”
“Okay.”
He was quiet for twelve seconds.
Shane counted.
Then Ilya whispered, “Tiny angry flower.”
Shane groaned into the pillow.
Ilya started laughing, low and warm against his back.
“I hate you,” Shane said, without heat.
“No.”
“No,” Shane agreed.
Anya shoved her nose under Shane’s hand.
Shane scratched her automatically.
“Traitor,” Ilya murmured.
“She’s helping.”
“She steals my job.”
“You can both help.”
“I do not share.”
“You share me with your dog every day.”
“Barely.”
Anya licked Shane’s wrist.
Ilya sighed dramatically against Shane’s shoulder. “She loves you more.”
“She has known you longer.”
“Yes, but you are new and shiny.”
“I am not shiny.”
“You are very shiny. Red also. My angry little tomato.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“You lasted nearly ten minutes without calling me a tomato.”
“You were very brave.”
“I hate that nickname.”
“No, you don’t.”
Shane did not answer.
Ilya’s hand slid to rest over Shane’s, fingers brushing his wedding ring.
That small touch somehow undid him more than the weight did.
Shane turned his hand enough to hook two fingers around Ilya’s.
Ilya went still.
Then his voice, when it came, was softer.
“Too much today?”
Shane thought about saying no.
The old instinct was still there. Deny. Minimise. Make it easier for everyone else.
But this was Ilya.
And Ilya had already seen him.
“A bit,” Shane admitted.
Ilya squeezed his fingers once.
“Because of team?”
“Not because of them. Just… being seen by them.”
“They love you.”
“I know.”
“They are annoying, but they love you.”
“I know.”
Ilya waited.
Shane stared at the edge of the couch cushion.
“I don’t mind jokes,” he said slowly. “Most of the time. I like that they’re comfortable with us. I like that we don’t have to act like…” He swallowed. “Like before.”
Ilya’s breathing changed against his back.
“I know,” he said.
“It’s just hard when I can’t choose when I’m part of it.”
“I know.”
Shane closed his eyes.
There it was again.
Not an explanation. Not a fix. Not Ilya trying to turn it into a bit.
Just understanding.
Ilya shifted slightly, increasing the pressure over Shane’s shoulders in a way that made his thoughts soften at the edges.
“I will talk to Harris,” he said. “Not scary.”
“You do scary very easily.”
“I will do medium scary.”
“No.”
“Small scary?”
“No scary.”
Ilya sighed. “You take away all my tools.”
“You have words.”
“Words can be scary.”
“Normal words.”
“I have few.”
Shane smiled into the pillow.
“I’ll talk to him,” Shane said. “It’s not a big thing. Just… ask before posting anything like that.”
“Good.”
“You don’t need to fight him.”
“I do not need to. I want to.”
“Ilya.”
“He made you upset.”
“He didn’t mean to.”
“This matters less to me.”
Shane turned his head enough to see Ilya out of the corner of his eye.
Ilya’s expression was not playful now.
His hair had fallen over his forehead. His mouth was set, eyes serious in that way that still surprised Shane sometimes, even after all these years. Like all the chaos had burned away and left something fierce underneath.
Protective.
Angry on Shane’s behalf.
It did something to him.
Something stupid and tender.
“I’m okay,” Shane said.
Ilya looked at him for a long moment.
Then he leaned forward and kissed Shane’s shoulder.
“I know,” he said. “But I like making world nicer for you.”
Shane’s throat went tight.
“That’s too romantic.”
“I am romantic man.”
“You said our wedding cake should have a tiny edible hockey fight on top.”
“And you said no because you hate art.”
“It was supposed to be elegant.”
“It was beige.”
“You cried during the vows.”
Ilya gasped. “Private information.”
“There were seventy people there.”
“Private to seventy people.”
Shane laughed, and Ilya smiled against his shoulder.
For a while they were quiet.
Actually quiet.
The good kind.
The kind Shane used to think he could only get alone.
Then Ilya said, “About second dog.”
“No.”
“But imagine. You come home stressed. I crush you. Anya supervises. Second dog crushes me. Beautiful chain of support.”
Shane opened his eyes.
“That is the dumbest sentence you’ve ever said.”
“Not even top ten.”
“That’s true.”
Ilya lifted his head proudly. “I have range.”
Shane sighed.
Then, because his body was relaxed and his brain was quieter and Ilya’s weight made honesty feel easier, he said, “Maybe in the off-season.”
Ilya froze.
Anya’s ears perked up.
Shane immediately regretted his life choices.
“Maybe?” Ilya repeated.
“Do not make a thing.”
“My love.”
“Do not.”
“Solnyshko.”
“Ilya.”
“My serious, beautiful, tiny angry flower.”
“I’m taking it back.”
“You cannot. I heard it. Anya heard it. Second dog heard it in future.”
“There is no second dog.”
“There is maybe second dog.”
“I said maybe in the off-season.”
Ilya kissed the side of his neck, grinning against his skin. “Maybe dog.”
Anya barked.
Shane buried his face in the pillow.
“I created a monster.”
“No,” Ilya said happily. “You married one.”
The next morning, the Ottawa Centaurs group chat changed its name to:
Maybe Dog Support Group
Shane discovered this at breakfast.
He stared at his phone, expression blank.
Beside him, Ilya was making eggs and singing quietly to himself in Russian, which should have been peaceful except Shane now knew that every gentle domestic moment with Ilya was usually the calm before some ridiculous storm.
Anya was sitting at Ilya’s feet, watching the frying pan with the focus of an elite athlete.
“Ilya.”
“Yes?”
“Why is the group chat called Maybe Dog Support Group?”
Ilya didn’t turn around. “I do not know. Very mysterious.”
“You told them.”
“I may have shared joyful family update.”
“There is no family update.”
“There is maybe family update.”
“You told the team we’re getting a second dog?”
“No. I told them you said maybe second dog.”
Shane slowly set his phone face down.
Ilya glanced over his shoulder.
Then he pointed the spatula at him. “Before you become mad, please remember I am making breakfast.”
“You are holding eggs hostage?”
“Yes.”
“That’s low.”
“I play to win.”
Anya barked again.
“And Anya supports me,” Ilya said.
“Anya supports eggs.”
“Same side.”
Shane leaned back in his chair and looked at him.
Ilya was in sweatpants, bare feet, one of Shane’s old shirts stretched across his shoulders. His hair was a mess. He looked sleepy and smug and disgustingly at home.
Shane had a sudden, vivid memory of years before. Ilya in hotel rooms. Ilya in borrowed time. Ilya leaving before morning because that was safer. The constant, controlled pain of wanting more and acting like less was enough.
Now Ilya was in their kitchen, making eggs badly and telling an entire NHL team about their hypothetical second dog while their very real first dog stared at him like he was the centre of the universe.
Shane’s annoyance cracked around the edges.
He tried to hold onto it.
Failed.
Ilya saw, because of course he did.
“Ah,” he said. “You are not mad.”
“I am mad.”
“No. You are doing soft face.”
“I don’t have a soft face.”
“You have many soft faces. This one is husband face.”
Shane looked away. “You’re imagining things.”
“I have studied you for many years. I am expert.”
“You are a menace with a minor in observation.”
“A doctorate.”
“Fine. A doctorate.”
Ilya plated the eggs and put one in front of Shane.
They were slightly overcooked.
Shane ate them anyway.
His phone buzzed.
Troy had sent a message to the group chat.
For the record I think Anya should get a dignified sibling. Something big. Regal. Good PR.
Harris replied:
Counterpoint: tiny dog that bullies Ilya.
Wyatt:
Tiny dog would absolutely own the room.
Luca Haas:
Can romance be beige if there’s a dog involved?
Shane stared at the screen. “Why is Luca in this chat?”
Ilya looked delighted. “Because he is family now.”
“He’s a rookie.”
“Baby family.”
“He should be protected from this.”
“He is protected. We are teaching him love.”
“You are teaching him workplace dysfunction.”
“Same thing, but warmer.”
Holmberg:
What if they name it Beige?
Ilya, sitting across from Shane, burst out laughing.
Shane opened the chat and typed:
I am leaving this team.
Harris immediately replied:
You can’t. Anya needs stability during this transition.
Troy:
Think of the children.
Wyatt:
By children we mean Ilya.
Luca:
And maybe Beige?
Shane typed:
There is no Beige.
Ilya leaned over the table, still laughing. “Not yet.”
“No.”
“Beige is terrible dog name.”
“You just laughed.”
“Because it is terrible in perfect way.”
“We are not naming a dog Beige.”
“So there is dog?”
Shane set his phone down. “Eat your grey eggs.”
Ilya looked down at the plate, offended. “They are not grey.”
“They’re beige.”
Ilya gasped. “Cruel. In my own home.”
“Our home,” Shane said automatically.
Ilya went still for half a second.
Then his foot found Shane’s under the table.
“Our home,” he repeated, softer.
Anya put her chin on Shane’s knee, possibly because she sensed weakness, possibly because he had toast.
Shane gave her a tiny corner of it.
Ilya gasped again. “You feed dog from table?”
“She looked sad.”
“She always looks sad. She is professional.”
“You started it.”
“I am allowed. She is my dog.”
“Our dog,” Shane said, again without thinking.
Ilya’s expression shifted fully this time.
Soft. Warm. A little stunned, even after everything.
Then his foot nudged Shane’s under the table again.
“Our dog,” he said.
Shane looked down at his plate, warmth crawling up his neck.
“Eat your eggs.”
Ilya smiled.
“Very romantic.”
“It’s protein.”
“Beige romance.”
Shane kicked him under the table.
Ilya kicked back.
Anya barked, thrilled by the violence.
The group chat kept buzzing.
Their eggs got cold.
And Shane, despite himself, could not stop smiling.