Chapter Text
"Hollander, how come we never fight?"
Shane blinked at him like Ilya had suddenly spoken to him in martian instead of Russian or English. They were laying on the couch at Ilya's before their evening game, feet tangled together and SportsCenter playing softly on the TV. Shane was just beginning to think about pre-game food and where his socks might have been thrown when they tumbled into bed earlier.
"Do you mean, like... As a... Whatever this is?" He asked, pointing between them.
"No, not as boyfriends. As hockey players." Ilya replied. Shane blinked again, slower this time. Boyfriends?
"You know, that sport we play? Hockey? Fighting on ice like rah rah I'll kill you for saying you sleep with my mother?"
Okay, so they were going to gloss right over the B word there.
"Do you need concussion protocol? You do know that hockey involves fighting, yes? I hear you attempted to kick a fossil once."
"I know what fighting is. I fight." Shane scoffed.
"Hmmm I do not think you do. You have too many of your original teeth."
"I have all of my original teeth! Why, how many teeth are you missing?" Shane spluttered.
"Four."
"Jesus Christ."
"Eh, is not bad for someone like me. Many players our age are missing many many more."
"Gross." Shane grumbled.
"That is not the point. How come we do not fight? We should plan one for tonight's game."
"What?" Maybe Ilya is the one in need of concussion protocol. Doesn't he know the penalty for planning a fight is pretty steep? It could royally fuck their teams if they do it.
"What? You look at me like you are going to be sick."
"I might, jeez. Don't you want to win tonight? The penalty for planning is..."
Ilya blew a raspberry at him, and Shane was pretty sure his eyes couldn't widen any further without them falling out of his head.
"What, golden boy of hockey is too good for a little fighting?" Ilya prodded his foot with his toes, making Shane cringe at the gross feeling of rubbing foot skin on foot skin.
"I don't like fighting, I like playing the game." Shane groused.
"Fighting is part of game! Like shooting or tripping."
"Tripping is not part of the game." Shane insisted.
"Hm. You tell Dagenais that." Ilya glared.
Okay, that one was fair. JJ got away with entirely too many trips that should absolutely be penalized.
"You really want to fight me?" Shane asked quietly.
"Yeah. Could be fun, good for rivalry even." Ilya replied. He slowly shifted so he was crawling down the couch to Shane, a mischievous smile on his lips.
"You want to beat me up? I dunno how I should feel about that." Shane smiled shyly.
"I will not beat you up, Hollander. I would let you hit me but I do not think I will even feel it."
"Oh yeah?" Shane teased. "Just because I don't fight doesn't mean I can't. I can hit pretty hard, just ask Scott."
"You probably skated past him and he fell over and broke his hip. You beat up an old man with nothing but vibes."
"You're ridiculous." Shane huffed.
"I want to see what it's like to fight the scourge of senior homes everywhere, give me your best shot Hollander." Ilya purred, kissing his way up Shane's body. Shane rolled his eyes.
"Fine. You and me can drop gloves and fight in the third period."
"Truly?"
"Fine. But only if the score is close."
"Okay, okay. So many rules."
"I'm not risking it if you're blowing us out of the water."
"You will have to work hard then. And I know something you could be blowing instead..." Ilya said, blue eyes sparkling. Shane rolled his eyes, and let Ilya slip his hands underneath his clothes once more.
The idea of fighting sat in Shane's stomach like a lead weight the rest of the day, despite Ilya trying his best to distract him. At the rink, he threw himself into his pre-game routine, trying to exorcise the butterflies in his gut.
It wasn't that he was allergic to fighting or anything, he was just kind of known for keeping his nose clean... Didn't really have a reason to get into it with his opponents when he could just outshoot and outskate them instead. Plus his mom hated fighting, and wouldn't shy away from reminding him that several of his brand deals rode heavily on his face remaining arranged the way it was.
But... this was Ilya. Ilya wouldn't do anything to hurt him purposefully. Probably. Accidents were always on the table though. Ilya was a big guy. Shane was a big guy too, but not as big as Ilya. And what if Marly or Hammersmith decided to avenge their fight on Shane later? Or go for Hayden or JJ in retaliation? The entire Boston lineup were big guys, with a lot more brawling experience than Shane, Hayden, or JJ had gotten in so far.
Shane almost did it. Almost texted Rozanov to call the idea off. But then he thought about how weirdly excited Ilya had been about the idea. And, Shane had to admit it was a little bit exhilarating to be planning something like this, that was so out of character for him.
But it wasn't out of character for Ilya... Which meant he might get the instigator penalty. Which meant Shane should probably instigate, or at the very least make it pretty clear that he was willing to get into it. He didn't want Ilya to be punished extra for this stupid, stupid idea. Even though maybe he should, it was his idea after all.
"Dude. What's up with you?" Hayden asked. Shane returned to his body, realizing he'd been sitting there zoning out like a loser.
"Nothing. Just have a weird feeling about the game, is all."
"Boston Lily didn't do a good enough job of helping you relax this afternoon?" Hayden teased.
"Fuck off." Shane replied, unable to keep a little bit of a smile from creeping onto his face. He'd had more sex in the last twelve hours than most of his team saw in a long weekend, but he wasn't about to tell them that.
"Good for you, Hollander. You always play better when you've gotten laid, anyways." Hayden barked at him a few times and clapped him on the shoulder. The others took up the bit, barking at him and tossing things, laughing loudly at his blush. Shane told them all to fuck off and turned his attention back to his cubby. First, focus on getting dressed. Then focus on hockey for two periods. He could spend the second intermission remembering all the fighting tips his juniors coach taught him. Then he would suck it up and punch his boyfriend in the face. Probably. Maybe the shoulder. Or maybe just elbow him a little? Fuck, what was he even doing? This was a horrible idea.
In his cubby, his phone buzzed. Shane pulled it down, almost afraid of what he suspected would be waiting for him on it.
Lily: I am hard just thinking about our plan
Jane: ?
Lily: I can't wait to chirp absolute filth to you 3:)
Jane: Shut the fuck up
Lily: You will have to make me
Shane turned the ringer off on his phone and chucked it into the back of his cubby before Ilya got any further under his skin. This was a terrible fucking idea.
"Nervous, Hollander?" Ilya said, sucking on his mouth guard as they bent for the first face-off of the game.
"Nope." Shane replied, popping the last consonant in what he hoped was a casual manner. The puck dropped, and Shane was off with it before Ilya could fully react. He swore and tore down the ice, a feral grin creeping over his lips. He caught up to Shane on the left side, checking him into the boards and stealing the puck, pivoting and sending the puck to Marly, who fed it to Hammersmith, who attempted the shot and was blocked by JJ. Young slid in and took a messy rebound right into Mitty's glove. Ilya spat on the ice. Reset, go again.
"You skate so fast, you should be in the zoo with other fast things." He chirped at the man across from him as they came in for the face-off.
"What?" Shane wrinkled his nose in that way that Ilya absolutely loved.
"I'm sure Pike knows how to draw circles by now, him and army of children could decorate you with spots."
"You're insane." Shane replied, leaning down. Was this what he meant by absolute filth? It was a blind reach at a metaphor, at best.
This time, Ilya won the face-off, and in less than fifteen seconds, ensured a goal for Boston. 1-0. He winked at Hollander when they passed each other, enjoying that it seemed to prickle the other man just a little.
Shane, for his part, was starting to understand why Rozanov was missing four teeth. Shane almost could see the appeal of hitting him. Had he always talked this much? He was yapping incessantly, about nothing and everything. First was his bizarre tangent about comparing Shane to a cheetah, and then he harped on about Hayden fathering a fifth of the Canadian population, and then he pretended not to be able to understand JJ's quebecois accent (which was rich, coming from him).
"God damn, Rozanov is such a pain in the ass." Hayden grunted as they sat in their cubbies at first intermission, taping their sticks and bodies and chugging water.
"He's being extra weird tonight." Shane agreed.
"Someone should teach 'im a lesson, oui?" JJ said.
"Yeah, definitely." Shane said. "I could do it, if he keeps this up."
"You?" Hayden snorted. "As in, you, Shane Hollander, fight him?"
"Yeah, why not?" Shane replied.
"Ehhh, Capitain, fighting is not you. Leave Rozanov to the real fighters." JJ said, pretending to box the air around Shane's head. Shane blinked. Okay, rude. What was with everyone? First, Ilya telling him he didn't think his punches could be felt, and now his own teammates doubting his ability to fight? Just because he didn't fight, doesn't mean he's completely inept.
It gnaws at him enough that he actually retrieves his phone from where he threw it and opens it to text Ilya.
Jane: My teammates don't think I'm capable of fighting you.
Lily: Who says this? I will punch them
Jane: Ha. Ha. Ur supposed to be punching me.
Lily: I kiss it better after?
Jane: Fuck off.
Lily: Make me!
Jane: I offered to shut you up, they laughed at me.
Lily: We will show them :*
The second period was a blur of shots on goal, some more successful than others. Shane felt a churning start up in his gut as he saw the score stay close, Boston catching up every time Montreal pulled ahead. Every time they scored, Ilya was there making noise, getting in their faces. It was like watching a train wreck in progress and being unable to do anything to stop it. He was so nervous by the time the second intermission rolled around, he hid in a toilet stall for half of the time.
Lily: last chance to back out
Jane: I'll do it.
"Shane, you good in there buddy?" Hayden said, knocking on the stall with his stick.
"Yeah, I'm fine." Shane replied. "Just feeling weird."
"Okay, well don't brown out on the ice tonight, please?"
"Gross..." Shane whispered, hiding his face in his hands. His phone buzzed.
Lily: xoxo
Intermission was over entirely too quickly, and Shane found himself back on the ice. He was feeling sweatier than he really should be, his mind racing with all the things he wanted to remember. Only throw off his helmet if Ilya did. Keep his thumb free so he didn't break it. Don't let Ilya anywhere near his nose or his mother would kill them both. Remember to play hockey in the meantime.
They were seven minutes in when Ilya decided it was time to throw down. Shane could see it in the crimp of his brows and the way a malicious little smirk played over his lips.
"Hollanderrrrr." Ilya called as they guarded each other on the side of the face-off.
"What?" Shane shoved him lightly as the face-off happened and JJ snapped the puck to him. Shane took off, Ilya on his heels. The Russian slammed him into the boards, holding him there as he tried to get the puck away from him.
"Hollander, you ever get tired of having stick jammed up your ass?" Ilya grunted in his ear.
Shane blinked. Okay, that was pointed, even for him. He almost lost the puck, but elbowed Ilya in the gut instead.
"Why, you offering to ram your dick up there instead? That why you're keeping me here like this?" Shane growled.
"You would like that, wouldn't you?" Ilya retorted. "Too bad. I don't stick my dick in boring."
This was it. As far as fighting material went, it was pretty lame, but Shane knew the moment had arrived.
"What did you just call me?" Shane turned and gave him a hard shove to the chest.
"Oooo that tickles." Ilya antagonized, laughing. Shane shoved him again, then shook his gloves off. He skated up to Ilya, schooling his face into the best approximation of anger that he could. Ilya threw off his own gloves, grinning wildly.
"Come on, Hollander." He said. Then he pounced. Ilya got two hands on his jersey, pulling him in close. Shane wriggled, and the jersey started to go up over his head. Oh shit, that was going to look dumb as fuck and Ilya was going to laugh at him later if he set out to fight and got tangled in his clothes. He had to fix this, now.
Ilya had to hold in a laugh. Shane, for all his peacocking about fighting, clearly had no experience with it. They hadn't even hit each other yet, and the smaller man was tangled in his jersey and flopping around like a fish in a net. He wasn't even sure Shane would go for the punch, he seemed much more likely to just go for the hug at this point. They were just yanking each other around while the audience roared with approval.
"Aw, Hollander, if you wanted me to rub your belly, you should have just rolled over at the start of the game." Ilya meant it playfully, throwing in a few mocking barks. But when Shane's eyes emerged from the hem of his jersey, they were surprisingly dark with actual anger. Ilya smiled and pulled back his arm for the hit, aiming for Hollander's chin so his mother didn't have to worry about him becoming too ugly for brand photos.
But at the last second, Ilya saw Shane's eyes gloss over just the smallest bit, that way he always teared up a little when things were at a breaking point. Time seemed to slow down. Ilya was painfully aware of the flash of fear plain on Shane's face, of him already tensing up for the hit. Of the fact that Shane probably didn't know that he could trust Ilya not to hit him hard. Fuck, why had he wanted to do this again? For the media? For the fans? He felt his own face melt into shock, and his fist froze. Fuck. He couldn't do this.
He couldn't hit Shane.
"Shane, I'm sorry..." Ilya gasped. Shane's eyes widened in horror, unable to stop what was already in motion. Shane's fist slammed into the underside of his jaw, and Ilya Rozanov was knocked out cold on Boston's home ice. The crowd roared.