Chapter Text
The first warning sign came three weeks before the game, buried beneath the noise and spectacle of a post-practice media scrum in Philadelphia, where reporters crowded around Sergei Volkov with microphones raised eagerly toward his mouth because sports media had always possessed the same ugly instinct as blood in water: they knew exactly when a man was about to say something cruel enough to become profitable.
“I do not understand,” Volkov said in Russian first, slow and deliberate, knowing perfectly well translators were already typing furiously nearby, “why North America celebrates weakness like it is courage.”
A reporter asked if he meant anyone specifically.
Volkov smiled.
That smile would replay across television screens for weeks afterward.
“You know who I mean.”
By the time the clip reached Ottawa, it had already exploded online.
Sports analysts dissected it. Former players defended it under the excuse of “old-school mentality.” Fans fought through thousands upon thousands of comments. Every major hockey account on social media posted side-by-side photos of Volkov and Ilya with captions engineered to farm outrage.
Harris, the Centaurs’ exhausted social media manager and unofficial public relations firefighter, nearly had a nervous breakdown before noon.
“Tell me he didn’t actually say this,” he groaned from the couch in Troy’s apartment, one hand pressed dramatically to his forehead while scrolling through his phone. “Tell me Google Translate hallucinated the whole thing.”
Troy leaned over the back of the couch, reading the article upside down.
“Oh, no,” he said. “That’s definitely homophobia.”
“Thank you, Troy, for your groundbreaking analysis.”
“I bring a lot to this organization.”
Across town, however, the atmosphere inside Shane and Ilya’s apartment was far quieter.
Too quiet.
Shane found Ilya standing motionless in the kitchen, phone resting face-down on the counter beside an untouched cup of coffee gone cold nearly an hour earlier. The condo windows framed Ottawa in soft gray light, snow drifting lazily outside, the city calm and beautiful and utterly disconnected from the ugliness currently spreading across every sports network in North America.
Ilya looked composed.
That was the problem.
Shane had learned years ago that Ilya’s anger rarely looked explosive at first. It became colder instead, compressed inward until it sharpened into something dangerous.
“You saw it,” Shane said carefully.
Ilya gave a tiny shrug.
“Hard to avoid.”
“You okay?”
A beat passed.
Then another.
Finally, Ilya leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest, expression unreadable.
“You know what is funny?” he asked softly.
Shane stayed silent.
“In Russia, when I was younger, coaches used to say things like this all the time.” His mouth twisted faintly. “Not even angrily. Casually. Like weather. Like fact.”
Shane’s chest tightened immediately.
“Ilya—”
“They would tell us gay men were weak. Broken. Cowards.” He laughed once under his breath, humorless and sharp. “Then I came here and discovered people could hate you while smiling politely instead. Very educational experience.”
Shane crossed the kitchen slowly.
“I don’t care what Volkov says.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean it.” Shane stepped closer until they were nearly touching. “I don’t care if he’s Russian or talented or worshipped back home. He doesn’t get to define what being Russian means for you.”
Something flickered across Ilya’s face then, quick and vulnerable enough that Shane almost missed it entirely.
Because beneath the confidence, beneath the swagger and captaincy and easy charisma, there were still scars there. Deep ones. Old ones.
Shane knew them intimately.
He remembered nights in Boston years ago when Ilya would wake from nightmares speaking Russian too fast for Shane to understand, trembling with the kind of fear that came only from growing up believing love itself could destroy your life.
He remembered Montreal teammates refusing to shower near Shane after rumors about them surfaced.
Remembered reporters asking invasive questions disguised as jokes.
Remembered learning how exhausting it was to constantly calculate safety.
And somehow they had survived long enough to get here.
Married.
Public.
Together.
The Ottawa Centaurs had become more than just a hockey team over the last two seasons. They were a phenomenon now, partly because they played beautiful hockey and partly because the media adored the mythology surrounding them. Captain Ilya Rozanov leaving Boston to sign in Ottawa. Shane Hollander finally escaping Montreal after months of quietly enduring homophobic management and joining him. Their wedding photos breaking the internet during the offseason.
People called them hockey royalty now.
Sometimes Shane still woke up stunned by it.
Because for most of his life, happiness had never felt permanent.
Ilya reached out suddenly and hooked two fingers through the belt loop of Shane’s jeans, tugging him closer until their foreheads touched lightly.
“You are making face again,” he murmured.
“What face?”
“The one where you look like you want to commit homicide.”
“That seems fair considering the circumstances.”
That finally earned a real laugh from Ilya, warm and low and familiar enough to loosen some of the tension coiled through Shane’s chest.
“You are very violent for someone from Canada.”
“I learned from you.”
“Ah. Terrible influence.”
Shane kissed him softly then, lingering just long enough to feel Ilya melt a little against him.
And for a while, that was enough.
Until Volkov escalated.
—
The second interview happened four days later.
This time there was no ambiguity.
“I think some people forget hockey is still men’s sport,” Volkov said bluntly after practice. “Not performance theater.”
The NHL fined him within hours.
He paid it immediately.
Then donated the exact amount publicly to a conservative Russian organization infamous for anti-LGBTQ campaigns.
The backlash became enormous.
And dangerous.
For every fan defending Ilya online, there were thousands more parroting Volkov’s rhetoric with increasing viciousness. Anonymous threats flooded social media. Russian articles dissected Ilya’s marriage with obsessive disgust. Comment sections filled with slurs.
At first Ilya ignored it.
Then Shane noticed he stopped checking Twitter entirely.
Then he stopped sleeping properly.
Then one night Shane woke around three in the morning to find their bed empty and the balcony door cracked open against the winter cold.
The city skyline glowed silver beneath fresh snowfall outside. Ilya stood barefoot on the balcony wearing nothing but sweatpants, arms folded tightly across his bare chest despite the freezing air.
“Ilya,” Shane said immediately, alarmed.
Ilya did not turn around.
For a second all Shane could hear was wind.
Then quietly:
“Do you ever get tired?”
The question hit harder than shouting would have.
Shane stepped outside without hesitation, cold biting instantly through his thin shirt.
“Tired of what?”
Ilya stared out across the city.
“Being political all the time.”
“You’re not political.”
A faint laugh.
“To some people, existing while gay is political enough.”
Shane moved beside him carefully.
The bruise-colored shadows beneath Ilya’s eyes looked darker in the moonlight.
“When I was drafted,” Ilya said softly, “Russian reporters used to ask if I had girlfriend every single interview. Every one. Coaches too.” His jaw tightened. “I learned very young that people can stop loving you the second they realize who you are.”
Shane’s heart physically hurt listening to him.
“And now,” Ilya continued, voice quieter still, “every time I go home, there are people there who think I betrayed my country.”
“You didn’t.”
“But they believe it.”
“No,” Shane said firmly. “They believe you embarrassed them by surviving.”
That finally made Ilya look at him.
Shane stepped closer immediately, cupping his freezing face between both hands.
“You hear me?” he said intensely. “You survived a system designed to make you hate yourself. That’s not weakness.”
For one fragile moment, Ilya looked devastatingly young.
Not Captain Rozanov.
Not the league superstar.
Just a tired man carrying too many old wounds.
Then he leaned forward suddenly, pressing his forehead against Shane’s shoulder with a shaky exhale.
“You always know what to say,” he muttered.
“That’s because I’m smarter than you.”
“Impossible.”
“Objectively true.”
Ilya laughed quietly against his neck.
And Shane held him tighter while snow drifted silently around them both.
—
By the time the Philadelphia game arrived, the entire league felt aware of it.
Sports channels advertised the matchup constantly.
CENTAURS VS PHILADELPHIA.
ROZANOV VS VOLKOV.
BAD BLOOD IN THE NHL.
The arena atmosphere that night felt less like hockey and more like war.
Even warmups carried tension sharp enough to taste.
Volkov skated past center ice slowly during drills, eyes fixed directly on Ilya with open contempt. Ilya ignored him with practiced indifference, though Shane noticed the way his shoulders stiffened slightly beneath the captain’s jersey.
In the Centaurs locker room before puck drop, nobody behaved normally.
Troy was talking too much.
Wyatt looked ready to stab someone.
Haas kept stress-eating protein bars.
Coach Wiebe stood in front of the whiteboard radiating exhausted dad energy.
“We are playing hockey tonight,” he said firmly. “Not settling personal vendettas.”
“Define vendetta,” Dillon muttered.
“Dillon.”
“Just asking.”
Coach Wiebe pointed threateningly with a dry erase marker.
“I mean it. Volkov wants a circus. Do not give him one.”
Across the room, Shane sat beside Ilya while taping his wrists.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
Ilya finished adjusting his skate laces before answering.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then, lower:
“But if he says something about you, I cannot promise miracles.”
Shane’s chest tightened helplessly.
Sometimes it still startled him, the sheer intensity with which Ilya loved.
He leaned over automatically and fixed the crooked collar of Ilya’s undershirt beneath his gear, fingers brushing briefly against warm skin.
The gesture was so instinctively domestic the room went momentarily quiet around them.
Then Troy sighed dramatically.
“God, you two are disgusting.”
“Jealous?” Ilya asked without looking up.
“Extremely.”
Harris poked his head through the doorway then, holding a tablet.
“Hey, quick update,” he said nervously. “Twitter is on fire, sports media is preparing for murder, and one reporter just asked me if Shane has ever been in a fight before.”
Every head in the room turned toward Shane.
Shane blinked once.
“No?”
Wyatt frowned. “Wait. Seriously?”
“I got two roughing penalties in juniors.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“I’m not a fighter.”
Ilya glanced sideways at him, amusement flickering briefly despite everything.
“Yes,” he said dryly. “My husband is emotionally repressed.”
“Thank you, captain,” Shane muttered.
But beneath the humor, tension still coiled tightly through the room.
Everyone knew something ugly was coming.
Nobody realized how ugly.
—
The game started viciously.
Not chaotic.
Controlled.
Which somehow felt worse.
Every hit finished hard.
Every whistle ended with shoving.
Philadelphia targeted Ilya constantly from the opening faceoff onward. Cross-checks. Slashes. Cheap elbows hidden from officials.
Volkov stayed attached to him nearly every shift.
And he talked constantly.
In Russian.
Low enough cameras could not catch it.
Shane saw the effect immediately.
Ilya’s restraint became visibly deliberate.
The first period passed without incident.
Then the second.
By the third, the entire building felt ready to explode.
Ottawa led 4–2 with less than six minutes remaining when disaster struck.
It happened near the corner boards.
A loose puck.
A routine race.
Then Volkov accelerated long after the puck was gone and drove his shoulder violently into Ilya’s spine from behind.
The impact sounded horrible.
Ilya slammed into the boards headfirst and collapsed instantly onto the ice.
The arena erupted.
Shane was already moving before the crowd fully reacted.
Then everything became unreal.
Because instead of backing away, Volkov grabbed Ilya by the jersey.
And dragged him backward.
Hard.
Ilya hit the ice flat on his back.
Volkov followed him down immediately.
One glove around his throat.
For half a second the entire rink froze in collective disbelief.
This was not hockey anymore.
Ilya clawed at Volkov’s wrist, skates scraping desperately against the ice.
And Shane—
Shane snapped.
Later, people would describe it differently.
Some called it terrifying.
Some heroic.
Some beautiful.
Shane himself remembered almost nothing except overwhelming, animal panic.
His gloves hit the ice.
Then his helmet.
Then he collided with Volkov hard enough to rip him bodily off Ilya.
The first punch landed directly against Volkov’s jaw with a sound that made the crowd scream.
Volkov staggered.
Shane hit him again.
And again.
Years of restraint detonated all at once with horrifying precision.
The calmest player in the NHL vanished entirely.
Volkov tried swinging once before Shane tackled him flat onto the ice and drove another punch into his face so hard his body went limp instantly.
Unconscious.
The linesmen lunged in immediately afterward, dragging Shane backward while the arena dissolved into absolute chaos.
But Shane fought them anyway.
Not to keep attacking.
To get to Ilya.
“Ilya!” he shouted hoarsely, panic shredding his voice. “Ilya—”
Then he saw him.
Alive.
Breathing.
Sitting up slowly with red fingerprints already darkening around his throat.
Relief hit Shane so violently his knees nearly gave out beneath him.
Across the ice, Ilya stared at him with wide, astonished eyes.
Not scared.
Amazed.
As if he had just witnessed something impossible.
And maybe he had.
Because Shane Hollander never lost control.
Except, apparently, for him.
-
The locker room had emptied slowly.
Not completely at first—there had been too much adrenaline still ricocheting through everyone’s systems for that—but eventually Coach Wiebe managed to herd most of the team toward the bus while muttering threats about league investigations and media disasters under his breath. Troy left last, reluctantly peeling himself away only after making Ilya promise three separate times that he was not secretly dying.
“You got strangled on national television,” Troy said seriously, halfway through the doorway. “That feels medically significant.”
“I appreciate your expertise, doctor,” Ilya replied dryly.
“I took biology in tenth grade.”
“That explains so much.”
“Shut up.”
Then finally they were alone.
Or mostly alone, anyway.
The equipment staff had long since disappeared into the back rooms, and somewhere down the hall reporters still shouted over one another in frustrated chaos, but inside the locker room itself there was only silence and fluorescent light and the lingering smell of sweat and ice and blood.
Shane sat motionless at his stall.
Still in partial gear.
Still bleeding faintly from one split knuckle.
He had not spoken more than a few words since the game ended.
That frightened Ilya more than the fight itself had.
Because Shane was not loud when he was upset. He never had been. Other people exploded outward; Shane collapsed inward instead, becoming quieter and quieter until every emotion compressed into painful stillness.
And right now he looked terrifyingly still.
Ilya approached carefully.
The bruise around his throat ached every time he swallowed, but he barely noticed it anymore. Adrenaline still burned hot beneath his skin, mixed with something dizzying and emotional and overwhelming every time he replayed the image of Shane throwing himself across the ice for him without a second of hesitation.
He had never seen Shane like that before.
Nobody had.
Shane Hollander was controlled to an almost unnatural degree. Calm during fights. Calm during playoffs. Calm while being screamed at by coaches, reporters, teammates, fans. The kind of composure that made people trust him instinctively.
And tonight that composure had shattered completely.
Because someone touched Ilya.
The thought sent another strange pulse of heat through his chest.
“You are staring at floor very aggressively,” Ilya said softly as he stopped beside him.
No response.
Only silence.
Ilya’s expression softened immediately.
“Shane.”
Slowly, Shane looked up.
And the sheer naked fear in his face hit Ilya harder than being slammed into the boards ever had.
Not anger.
Not rage.
Fear.
Raw enough to make Ilya’s chest ache instantly.
“Oh,” Ilya murmured.
Shane stood abruptly.
The movement was so sudden the bench rattled behind him.
“I thought he was killing you.”
The words came out rough and immediate, as though they had been trapped inside him for too long already.
Ilya blinked.
“Shane—”
“I couldn’t get there fast enough.” His breathing sounded uneven now, too fast. “I saw him grab your throat and I—I couldn’t—”
He broke off harshly, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I couldn’t breathe for a second,” he admitted quietly. “I looked at you and all I could think was that if something happened to you—”
His voice failed completely.
Ilya’s heart twisted painfully.
Because Shane almost never let himself unravel like this.
Even privately.
Especially privately.
But now the adrenaline was fading, leaving only terror behind, and Ilya could practically see the cracks spreading through him.
Immediately, he stepped forward and took Shane’s face gently between both hands.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Shane’s eyes shut the second Ilya touched him.
“I’m okay.”
“You weren’t.”
“I am now.”
“No,” Shane said hoarsely, opening his eyes again. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this smaller than it was.”
Ilya went still.
Shane’s hands found his waist suddenly, gripping tightly enough to wrinkle the fabric of his undershirt beneath the pads still hanging half-undone from his body.
“I thought I was watching someone kill my husband,” Shane whispered.
The sentence landed between them with devastating weight.
For a moment neither of them moved.
The noise outside the locker room faded into irrelevance.
All Ilya could focus on was the expression on Shane’s face—open and frightened and heartbreakingly vulnerable in a way almost nobody else ever got to see.
Then Shane laughed once under his breath.
A terrible sound.
“I completely lost my mind.”
“You punched him unconscious,” Ilya said quietly.
“Yes.”
“I think Wyatt is going to ask you for lessons.”
“Ilya.”
There it was.
That tiny crack in Shane’s voice.
Ilya’s teasing expression vanished immediately.
“Oh, solnyshko.”
Shane looked away sharply, jaw tightening.
“I should’ve protected you.”
The guilt in his voice was unbearable.
Ilya moved instantly, sliding both arms around Shane’s neck and pulling him close before he could retreat any further into himself.
“Listen to me carefully,” he murmured against his temple. “You do not ever have to apologize for not preventing another grown man from acting insane.”
Shane’s hands tightened around his waist.
“But if I had gotten there sooner—”
“You got there immediately.”
“It didn’t feel immediate.”
Ilya leaned back enough to look at him properly.
There were still faint red marks across Shane’s face where the linesmen had grabbed him. His knuckles were swollen. His eyes looked glassy with leftover adrenaline and panic.
God.
Ilya loved him so much it sometimes physically hurt.
“You know what I remember?” Ilya asked softly.
Shane swallowed hard. “What?”
“I remember seeing you coming toward me.” His thumb brushed gently across Shane’s cheekbone. “And thinking, oh. There is my husband.”
Something inside Shane’s expression cracked wide open then.
“Ilya—”
“No, listen.” Ilya smiled faintly, though his own eyes stung unexpectedly. “I was scared for maybe one second. Then I saw you.”
His voice lowered.
“And suddenly I knew nobody was going to touch me again.”
Shane made a small, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.
The kind people made when emotions became too large for language.
Then he buried his face against Ilya’s shoulder abruptly, arms wrapping around him with almost desperate force.
Ilya held him immediately.
One hand slid into Shane’s hair.
The other rubbed slowly up and down his back beneath the compression shirt damp with sweat.
For several long moments neither of them spoke.
Shane’s breathing gradually slowed against his neck.
“I love you so much,” Shane said suddenly, voice muffled against his skin.
Ilya closed his eyes.
“Good,” he whispered. “Would be awkward otherwise.”
A weak laugh escaped Shane despite himself.
Ilya smiled softly and pressed a kiss into his hair.
“You scared me too,” he admitted quietly after a while.
Shane pulled back instantly, alarm flashing across his face.
“What?”
“Not during fight.” Ilya cupped his jaw gently. “After.”
Shane frowned slightly.
“You looked at him like you wanted to kill him.”
Silence.
Then Shane said, very honestly:
“I did.”
The bluntness of it sent heat curling low in Ilya’s stomach again despite everything.
God help him.
Even now.
Especially now.
Shane seemed to realize what he had admitted only afterward because horror suddenly crossed his face.
“That sounded insane.”
“A little.”
“I’m not—I would never actually—”
“I know.”
Shane exhaled shakily.
“I just saw him hurting you and something in my brain completely snapped.” His eyes dropped briefly to the bruises darkening around Ilya’s throat. “I can still see it.”
Immediately, Ilya guided Shane’s hand upward until his bruised knuckles rested lightly against the marks on his neck.
Shane looked stricken.
But Ilya held his gaze steadily.
“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me.”
Slowly, Shane did.
“I’m here.”
The words were simple.
Certain.
Real.
And Shane’s entire body seemed to sag with relief all over again.
“You’re here,” he repeated quietly.
“Yes.”
Another long silence settled between them.
This one softer.
Warmer.
Then, because Ilya physically could not tolerate emotional vulnerability for too long without becoming unbearable about it, he tilted his head thoughtfully and said:
“Also, for record, whole terrifying protector thing was extremely attractive.”
Shane stared at him in disbelief.
“You got strangled.”
“And then my husband committed homicide for me romantically.”
“That’s not romantic!”
“It was little romantic.”
“Ilya.”
“You literally threw man across ice.”
“You were in danger!”
“Yes,” Ilya said patiently. “Which made it hot.”
For one long second Shane looked deeply offended by this logic.
Then, helplessly, he laughed.
A real laugh this time.
Tired and shaky and beautiful.
Relief flooded through Ilya immediately at the sound.
“There he is,” he murmured fondly.
Shane shook his head, still laughing under his breath as he leaned forward until their foreheads touched.
“You are unbelievable.”
“And yet,” Ilya whispered, smiling softly against his mouth, “you love me anyway.”
Then Shane kissed him.
Slowly this time.
Carefully.
One hand cradling the back of Ilya’s neck like he was still terrified of losing him.
And Ilya kissed him back with all the tenderness he possessed, holding him there in the middle of the ruined locker room while the world outside screamed and argued and dissected what had happened, completely unaware that the only thing Shane Hollander cared about anymore was the fact that his husband was alive enough to kiss him back.