Archive of Our Own

Ottawa, November 2021

“It is truly unconscionable how North Americans have treated these women,” Svetlana grumbled in Russian as she led the way down the row of seats right behind the barrier in the stands at the TD Place Arena. “Three leagues in ten years because the advertisers cannot accept that women’s hockey is worth investing in? Paying them so little that many of the players need second jobs? This shitty little stadium rather than the respect they deserve? Embarrassing. The PWHPA should give every member a gun.” 

“Very American of you,” drawled Ilya, and Shane glanced back at him with a smile as Sveta found their seats. “Very Boston.”

“You lived in Boston for eight years,” said Shane, at a slower cadence than the other two. His Russian was in a place where he could almost entirely understand Sveta and Ilya when they got going, but sometimes had to slow down, or even switch back into English, in order to respond. Ilya was endlessly patient with him, even if Svetlana would give him a good-natured eyeroll every once in a while. 

“Yes, and I am not disagreeing with Sveta. Every single player in the PWHL deserves an NHL salary, and more than NHL respect. I am just pointing out that saying that their union should give them guns is a very American attitude to have.” 

Sveta, having apparently located their seats, dropped down into the ugly red cushions. “Sometimes the Americans make good points.”

“Name one good American point.”

She shrugged. “The Cadillac Blackwing isn’t bad.”

Shane snorted as he took his own seat between the two of them. Their seats weren’t exactly at center ice, but a little towards the home side, and they were facing the team boxes. Shane knew the camera was likely to find the three of them several times during the night, not just because of who he and Ilya were and their commitment to attending the game on Twitter the previous week. But, also, the Centaurs were now twelve and five in their own season, and they were getting the attention of the good people of Ottawa like never before. They weren’t exactly trying to blend in, either: Shane was wearing a Montreal Victoire jersey, and Ilya an Ottawa Charge jersey. Sveta, who had just flown in from Boston that afternoon, had declined to support one team over the other, and was in one of her usual chic black outfits.

(“My feminism does not pit women against other women,” she said primly.

Shane frowned. “It’s literally a competitive sport.”

“Fine. I don’t want to betray the Fleet.”

“I feel like you could have just said that.”)

Ilya leaned forward and set his beer in the cupholder, and Shane took the opportunity to stretch his arm out across the back of Ilya’s chair, so he could bury his fingers in Ilya’s carefully styled curls when his husband sat back up. As the Centaurs settled into their season, the cold, tight knot of anxiety in Shane’s stomach slowly melted with every time he reached out to touch Ilya in public, and Shane was glad. Ilya was, Shane knew, a deeply tactile person, and Shane wanted to love Ilya in all the ways that Ilya needed. Sure enough, Ilya gave a slight smile as he leaned back into Shane’s touch. 

They had arrived only about fifteen minutes before the first puck dropped, so the stadium was nearly full around them. Svetlana’s seat was beside an older couple who were absorbed in their own conversation, but on Ilya’s other side was a pair of women, maybe a few years younger than they were, Shane thought. But he noticed that they were whispering to each other while repeatedly sneaking glances at him and Ilya, wide-eyed. Shane sighed, idly watching the two teams warm up on the ice, and waited a few moments, until — 

“Hi — we’re so sorry — are you Ilya Rozanov? And Shane Hollander?”

Svetlana rolled her eyes, but couldn’t suppress a smile.

Ilya turned to them, already grinning. “Hello, yes. Nice to meet you. What are your names?”

“Oh!” One of the girls, who had bright pink hair, flushed to her roots. “Um! Yes, okay. I’m Quinn, and this is Aarti.” She gestured to her… friend? Girlfriend?

Shane smiled and waved with his free hand. “Hi.”

“Hi,” squeaked the one named Aarti. “We uh. We saw your Gay Girls Goals podcast. It was really… really cool.”

“Thank you,” said Ilya, easily. “You listen to that podcast? It’s very good, yes?”

“Not — not all the time. Mostly in football season. Soccer, I mean. For the Rapid. Oh! But congratulations on your win last night! Against San Jose!” Quinn hurried to add. “My dad has been a Cens fan his whole life, but for a really long time he said it was like his punishment. I’m so sorry! Was that rude to say?” Quinn’s blush deepened and Aarti laid a hand on her forearm. 

Girlfriend, Shane decided. 

“Ah, we are not offended.” Ilya shrugged. “Especially not him. He just got here. He is the reason we are winning the Stanley Cup this year.”

Shane closed his eyes with more exasperation than he really felt. “Ilya.”

Ilya continued as if Shane had not spoken. “So tell your dad for us, okay? We are going to win the Stanley Cup.”

Quinn squeaked. “Okay. I will.”

“Would you like a picture?” Shane offered.

Ilya jerked his head to stare at Shane, wide-eyed. It wasn’t the first time they had encountered fans in public — Ottawa was nowhere near a small town, but Shane and Ilya had had a rather dramatic few months, even aside from leading a Canadian NHL team to an unprecedented string of victories. Fans recognized them pretty often, even more than Shane had been identified in Montreal. But Shane was rarely, if ever, the one to suggest photos. And he hadn’t removed his hand from Ilya’s hair for the whole conversation. 

Shane met Ilya’s eyes, smiled, and shrugged. What was there to worry about anymore? That people would see how much he loved his husband?

The grin that slowly spread over Ilya’s face lit him up from within, and Shane almost missed the enthusiastic “yes, please!”s from Aarti and Quinn. Svetlana sat forward and held out her hand.

“Here — I’ll take it,” she said in brisk English. “Give me your phone. Shenya, Ilyushka, you need to move. You’re both too big, I cannot see them.”

After a few shots — Aarti and Quinn stayed in their seats, Ilya hopped up to crouch in the row behind them, and Shane shifted behind Aarti’s shoulder — Svetlana handed Quinn back her phone. “Thank you so much!” Quinn gushed, as Ilya resettled into his seat. “And — and I really hope you win it. The Cup. It would mean a lot to my dad.”

Shane grinned at her. “Mine too. We’ll do our best.” He draped his arm back around Ilya’s shoulders.

He caught Sveta’s eye and she smiled at him. Shane had been so nervous, the night Ilya had introduced them. It had been after a Boston home game during Ilya’s last year with the Bears, and he’d asked Svetlana over for a late dinner after the game. By that point, she knew about Shane — not just as Jane, the mysterious contact in Ilya’s phone, or even just that Jane was a man, but that Jane was Shane Hollander. Ilya had asked Shane’s permission to fully share Shane’s identity with her, and Shane had agreed. He had felt more guilty than he had been able to articulate at the time that Ilya couldn’t go back to Russia because of him. And maybe it hadn’t really been because of Shane; Ilya was an adult who made his own choices, and he had been the first one to bring up wanting to renounce his Russian citizenship, and his brother was a toxic piece of shit anyway, but still. Shane knew Ilya loved his niece, and had visited his mother’s grave at least once every time he was back in Moscow, and the idea that Ilya now didn’t have either of them killed Shane a little inside whenever he thought about it. So the least he could do was be okay with Svetlana knowing who he was. 

Shane may have been scared about Ilya’s safety if word about their relationship got out, but Svetlana Vetrova had known Ilya better than anyone for longer than Shane had known him at all, and understood the risks better than he did. So if Ilya trusted her, so did Shane.

Sveta had let herself into Ilya’s Chestnut Hill house with the key code, slipping off her sneakers and hanging up her coat in the closet with an easy familiarity in the space that had made Shane’s stomach clench in jealousy. He hadn’t known what to do with his hands as Ilya greeted her, pulling her in for a hug and some quick murmured Russian. Shane hadn’t been sure what to expect from her, but it almost certainly hadn’t been for her to catch his eye over Ilya’s shoulder, and for her face to light up in elation. She had ducked around Ilya and hurried into the kitchen, to where Shane stood awkwardly by the oven, and absolutely beamed at him. 

“Finally, Shane Hollander!” Shane had registered, dimly, that unlike Ilya, Svetlana had no accent when she spoke in English. “The best player in the NHL!”

Shane’s eyebrows had snapped up on his forehead before he could school his expression. “Are you allowed to say that?”

“Oh, don’t worry about him.” Sveta had gestured impatiently over her shoulder in the general direction of Ilya, who had been watching their interaction with a nervous sort of hope in his face. “He knows. He says it all the time.”

“Sveta, you liar —”

“Hush, Ilyushka, I am not helping you maintain your image as an asshole in front of your literal boyfriend.” The teasing fondness in her voice had shaken loose some of the nerves coiled in Shane’s chest, and he smiled back at her. She had reached forward to take Shane’s hand in one of her own, punctuating her words with loose, graceful gestures with the other. “Close game tonight, Shane, but we should talk about your passing sequence with Comeau in the second period. He’s too slow, he wasn’t ready to receive even though it should have been clear to anybody watching that you were setting up an opening for him — he’s been getting worse the last few years, have you noticed? He’s down to just sixteen shots on goal so far this season, but by November last year he was at twenty-four, and he actually managed to score every once in a while. He doesn’t deserve to be on your line, frankly.”

Shane had wondered, briefly, if this was how people felt when they heard his mom talk about hockey for the first time. A little overwhelmed but deeply impressed.

“Jesus Christ, Sveta, can we at least get the food on the table before we start tape review?” Ilya had groaned, draping an arm around Shane’s shoulders.

She had giggled. “Sorry, sorry! I’m just so excited — it was such a good game, and now I finally get to meet you. I’ve been a huge fan of you for years, even before Ilyusha finally saw sense about you.” The laughter faded from her face, replaced by something softer, and so, so earnest. Shane had swallowed hard. 

“Listen,” she said, “I have known Ilyusha for a very long time. I think you know we grew up together? Our mothers were friends?”

Shane had nodded, his throat still tight. 

Svetlana now gripped his hand in both of her own. “I need to thank you. For making him happy. For not letting him push you away. He can be good at that, I know. So thank you for staying.”

Ilya’s body had tensed up next to Shane, and he had felt Ilya’s fingers twitch on his collarbone where his arm rested around Shane’s neck. Shane had been looking at Svetlana when he responded to her, but the words had been for Ilya. “He makes it easy.”

Now, Sveta nudged Shane’s shoulder with her own, sharing a small smile with him, before she delicately tore open the wrapper of the candy bar she’d purchased on their way in. A Heath bar, Shane noticed, cataloguing the information for future use.

As the lights dropped out and the stadium music swelled, accompanied by cheers from the crowd as the announcers prepared the crowd for the start of play, Ilya kept his face turned to Shane. There was something vulnerable in his eyes. 

“You okay?” Shane asked, softly, switching back to Russian.

“Yes,” Ilya murmured, taking the hand that Shane had resting on Ilya’s collarbone, and lifting it to his lips to kiss. “I just like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Happy,” Ilya whispered, reaching up to brush the backs of his fingertips across the delicate skin below Shane’s eyes — across, Shane knew, the freckles that had held Ilya’s attention for so long. “Free.”

Shane leaned in to kiss him, just a gentle brush of lips. “You make me that way.”

Los Angeles, January 2022

Years ago, before he’d ever met her, Ilya had tried very hard to hate Rose Landry. But before that, he had been a fan of her movies. It was very inconvenient. 

When he had first come to the United States at eighteen, he had developed a fascination with the American action movie. Very little plot, gratuitous explosions, extremely dehydrated men flexing their musculature for no reason. But because the storylines were so thin, and because they were so visually dense, action movies were actually pretty helpful if you were, for example, a teenage boy who needed desperately to improve his English skills before he was expected to regularly talk to the North American sports media. 

Action movies had remained a steady part of his American entertainment diet, useful for killing time on planes, for drowning out his own thoughts, for distracting him from the tug, deep in his gut, to pick up his phone, and scroll to the conversation labeled “jane,” and tumble blindly into a series of insurmountable mistakes. So he had seen Under Dark shortly after it first came out, and he had appreciated it for what it was: the usual American propaganda that glorified its own law enforcement, that disrespected its women, that pretended the United States was the greatest nation in the world. Rose Landry had played a young, bright-eyed FBI agent, kidnapped by a serial killer and forced to use her wits to try fruitlessly to escape while the older, wiser, male agents nobly rescued her. It was a very stupid movie, but he had always thought Rose Landry had done her best in it. 

Ironically, he had been drowning out his own miserable life by rewatching Under Dark at home, all the lights in his house off and the glow of the TV searing his retinas as he drank imported vodka straight from the bottle, the night before Marly and Connors had called him over in the Bears gym to show him a TMZ story about Rose Landry dating Shane Hollander. 

Then there had been that next, awful month, full of blind items, of Reddit threads, of Instagram posts. There had been checking Shane into the boards and glaring at the side of his head when Shane wouldn’t even look up. There had been nights of staring at “jane” in his phone and feeling bile creep up his throat, because obviously Shane had chosen Rose over Ilya, had chosen a normal, uncomplicated, safe life, had chosen a partner who didn’t stumble through circular questions about whether it would be possible to name their periodic, shame-filled hookups as something more. There had been that nightclub.

But then there had been a hotel room in Tampa, and after that a cottage in Lanaudière, and then the rest of Ilya’s life. There had been happiness like a tiny, glowing sun in his chest whenever he looked at Shane’s face, saw the gentle dusting of freckles like stars across his skin.

And eventually he stopped trying to hate Rose Landry. Eventually he had even grown to love her. 

Rose Landry was a little sister. Ilya had never had a little sister, never thought about wanting one, but Rose's combination of deep insight and bubbly wit and constant willingness to be annoying endeared her to Ilya against his will. She was, he reluctantly admitted to himself, a great friend to Shane. Playful when he needed it, comforting when he needed that, and always honest. She was always excited to join forces with Ilya in chirping Shane mercilessly, and to Shane’s delight, was equally thrilled to help him bully Ilya. She had no loyalty that way (she absolutely did have loyalty, when it mattered, when it was serious, and Ilya would trust her with his life). And, Shane insisted, without Rose, Shane would never have gotten the courage or the focus to find Ilya in Tampa.

So now Ilya loved Rose Landry. He looked forward to seeing her whenever the Centaurs played in LA, he had a great time whenever she visited the cottage for long weekends on the rare occasions that their work commitments allowed it. He had delighted in going out clubbing with her a few times after Shane had begged off (and the next morning had laughed uproariously with her over the tabloid speculation that he had stolen Hollander’s girl). He had danced with her at his wedding, and she had cried happy tears for him and Shane. 

Rose was Ilya’s now, as much as she was Shane’s. One of his people, one of the circle of trust whom Ilya would absolutely kill for. And she knew it, which is why she had invited him and Shane to meet her new boyfriend during the All-Stars Weekend, which was in Los Angeles for the 2021-2022 season. 

“You have to give him a chance,” Shane reminded Ilya, again, as they sat in the back seat of the rideshare. The only time that had worked with everyone’s schedules meant that they were meeting Rose and Darren for brunch, before Shane and Ilya had to be back at the arena named after fucking cryptocurrency for the Skills Competition portion of the All Stars Weekend. Rose was attending the tournament games themselves the following day as Shane and Ilya’s guest, but Darren was unable to make it. Ilya hadn’t bothered to pretend to be disappointed. 

“Hmm.”

“Ilya. She says she really likes him, and it sounds like he’s good to her.”

“I said hmmm.”

Shane laughed. “Yes, I heard you. Can you give me more than that? Maybe in one of the two actual languages we have in common?”

Ilya couldn’t help but smile, soft, at the reminder that Shane had spent four years throwing himself into his Russian lessons. “I just think it will be important that he knows I can kill him, yes? I am Russian. We are all trained to do this.”

Shane frowned, wrinkling his nose, and Ilya had to aggressively fight the urge to dive across the back seat of the SUV and kiss him. “I can’t decide if it’s xenophobic if you’re saying it about yourself.” 

“Ah, it’s not. It’s fine. Putin told me it was okay.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Who is this guy, anyway?” Ilya asked, turning back to glare out of his side window. “Where did… she even meet him?”

(It was very different being a hockey superstar in California than it was in Ontario. Nobody in LA cared about hockey. But everybody in LA cared about Rose fucking Landry, and even though the rideshare driver seemed like a nice guy, Ilya didn’t want to say her name out loud.)

Shane shrugged, scrolling back through old texts with Rose. “He was an expert consultant on that project she worked on last year. He’s a scientist or something. Works on cancer research.”

“Hmmm.” Ilya was proud of Rose for finally managing to break out of the endless cycle of action movies with no substance she’d been stuck in during her twenties, and last year had finally had the opportunity to play the mother of a child with cancer, up against the horrifyingly capitalist American healthcare system. She had gotten serious critical praise for her performance, and Ilya had grumbled for days when she hadn’t been nominated for an Oscar. 

That didn’t mean he had to like Darren.

***

“Shane! Ilya!” Rose hopped up from her seat at a table in a restaurant described on its own website as the type of place “where chill vibes meets good taste.” It was full of artfully weathered wooden tables and chairs, with framed prints of flowers on the pale blue walls. Shane waved from where he and Ilya followed the hostess through a room full of Santa Monica people, and their iced matchas and their gluten-free French toast or whatever. Ilya laughed at the sight of Rose lightly clapping her hands together like a small child. “Ugh, I’ve missed you!”

Shane reached her first, and wrapped her up in a hug. Ilya took the opportunity to examine Darren, who had stood up awkwardly when Rose had. Ilya could hear David’s voice in his head, saying Darren looks like a perfectly nice young man — a face that looked younger than he probably was, clean-shaven, dimples, sensible brown linen button down shirt. Rose was too good for him, even if he was a cancer scientist who consulted on movies or something.

Just as Ilya came to that conclusion, Rose released Shane and pulled Ilya in for his own hug. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “Missed you too, Rosiechenka.” The nickname didn’t fit exactly with the Russian naming convention, but Rose liked it, so it stuck. 

Shane was already focused on Darren, holding out a hand for him to shake. “Hi, you must be Darren. I’m Shane, and this is my husband Ilya. We’ve heard a lot about you.” 

To his credit, Darren didn’t let his nerves stop him from smiling back at Shane, and meeting his eyes as they shook hands. “Good to meet you both.” After Shane released his hand, Darren turned to Ilya, offering a hand again. 

“Hmm.” Ilya shook, sizing him up. Shane poked an elbow into Ilya’s ribs, then pulled a chair out for Ilya. “Ah, trying to injure me during All Star Weekend, Hollander? We are on different teams once and you are back to old habits, yes?”

Rose giggled as they all sat down. “How’s that going so far?”

Ilya shrugged. It wasn’t a secret that he, like most veteran players, considered the All Star Game weekend to be a waste of time. The Centaurs’ record was currently thirty-eight and eleven, and while it was good that most of the team was getting a rest weekend as playoffs inched ever closer, it was annoying that he, Shane, Barrett, and Hayes were being pulled from practice time to do a bunch of trick shots. But that wasn’t the only reason it was annoying this year. “Shane and Yuna have a conspiracy theory.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “They’ve got me and Ilya captaining different teams. And considering that everybody thinks that I threw a playoff game for Ilya last season —”

“Everybody does not think that, only the dumbest people alive —”

“— My mom and I are just wondering if it’s to see if I can make it through one game competing against Ilya without cheating.”

Rose slumped back in her seat as their server placed two new cups of coffee down on the table. “Wait, do people actually think you tripped on purpose? People believe that?”

Shane raised his eyebrows. “Do they not in Detroit?” he asked.

“Of course not — we know how fucking ice works in Michigan,” Rose scoffed. “Seriously, I thought it was just a stupid lie the Voyageurs were telling themselves so they could make it your fault that they lost, when we all know they lost because they stopped treating you like an actual teammate. God forbid like their captain.”

Ilya expected Shane to launch into the usual speech he’d given countless times since last May — that he should have played better, that if he was a good captain and could have kept a handle on his room it wouldn’t have happened. So Ilya was already prepared to fire off his own speech, that all the players on that shitty team were bad fucking guys, and no leadership style in the world could knock the homophobia or racism or disgusting fucking attitude out of men who were determined to be the worst versions of themselves.

Instead, Shane just shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”

Ilya stared at him, delighted, feeling the grin slide over his face. “It doesn’t?”

“Not really,” Shane said, in the matter-of-fact way that Ilya associated with dedication and honesty and solid futures. “It happened, didn’t it? It’s over. And the way they’re playing without me makes it pretty clear I was carrying the team.” 

Rose’s eyes widened, and she laughed once, bright and loud. “Shane Hollander! Have you finally remembered who the fuck you are?” She glanced at Ilya. “Is this new?”

“New to me,” Ilya muttered, the grin still big and stupid on his face. Shane took his hand, and they rested there, fingers entwined, on the tablecloth. 

Rose was still smiling. “God, this is great. I’m glad you’re his team captain now, Ilya. Clearly more time with you is doing wonders for his mental health.”

Joy bubbled up in Ilya’s chest, so sudden and effervescent that he felt like he would float away — out the window of this very trendy brunch spot, over the Santa Monica pier, and out to sea. 

“Sorry about this.” Shane turned to Darren. Ilya had forgotten he was there. “We didn’t mean to get here and immediately start talking about work.”

Darren waves a hand through the air. “No, don’t apologize. I just can’t add much — I grew up in New Mexico, and didn’t live in an NHL market until I came to UCLA for grad school. Rose’s brothers have been trying to get me on board with the Red Wings, but it’s slow going.”

“Hmmm.” Ilya tilted his head as he examined Darren again. So, Rose’s brothers had met him, then. That was good, but still. He had to focus. Fixing Darren with the sort of condescending smirk he usually only pulled out for face-offs, he said, “So. What are your intentions with our Rosiechenka here?”

Darren’s eyes went wide and Rose threw a sugar packet at Ilya, while Shane clapped a hand over his own mouth to stifle his laughter. 

Denver, March 2022

As a rule, Ilya and Bood as captain and alternate put themselves on press duty any time the Centaurs lost an away game, to spare their teammates the hostile or uncomfortable questions. For home games, where they knew the press and the press knew them, they followed the normal rotation of players that Harris had written up at the start of the season, but for away games, Zane and Ilya always took the pressure themselves. It was a habit that Shane knew Ilya had started in Boston, and one that Shane had soon adopted in Montreal. Ilya had always been a good captain — when he had led the Bears, it had been easy for Shane to see how much that team loved following Ilya — but Shane could see his husband’s genuine affection for every guy on the Cens raise his protective hackles at even the slightest hint of an unfair question. 

And that was why Shane paused next to Theresa, who had been promoted from Director of Communications to General Manager during the off season. As the rest of the team began to head down the tunnel after the game, Shane whispered to her, “Add me to press duty tonight, okay?”

Theresa gave him a slight smile. “Nobody’s asking you to do that, kid.”

“I missed that shot on goal in the third, and I went scoreless. It’s my fault we lost. I can’t let Ilya and Zane answer for that.”

At that, Theresa raised her eyebrows. “It’s a team sport, you know that, right?”

“Yeah. And that’s why I should be on press duty.”

Theresa patted Shane’s shoulder and led him out of the box. “Fine,” she conceded. “But make sure Roz knows it was your decision, not mine.”

The mood in the Ball Arena visiting locker room was subdued. Ottawa was nearing the end of a long road trip through the American side of the Central Division, which had started in Nashville, then taken them to Dallas, then St. Louis, then here to Denver. And they weren’t even done — they had a stop in Utah after tonight. They’d won the first two games, but lost to the Blues, and while two back to back losses wasn’t going to do a huge amount of damage to their playoff chances, it still didn’t feel good. Everyone was tired, and homesick, and doing their best not to snap at each other. Shane had a headache from the altitude, and he just wanted to go home. He wanted to be with Ilya in their house, in their bed, with their dog. 

“Hey.” He dropped onto the bench between his stall and Ilya’s, reaching down to unlace his skates. “I’m going out there with you and Bood.” 

“What? No, you’re not, it’s an away game.” Ilya frowned at him, hands pausing in their irritated quest to knot his tie. “Did Theresa ask you to do this?”

“No, I asked her. So just give me a minute to shower before you head out, okay? I’ll be quick.” Shane tugged his jersey over his head, dropping it into his duffel, and wordlessly turning his back to Ilya so his husband could help him release the fastening on his shoulder pads.

Ilya automatically moved to help Shane, even as he argued, “Hollander, it’s part of my job, okay? We lose, I do press. It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re right, it’s not a big deal.” Shane, stripped down to his briefs, grabbed a towel and his body wash, heading to the showers without further justification. 

“Hey, Bood,” he called out as he moved through the room, “I’m going out there with you guys tonight, so don’t let Roz leave without me.”

Bood grinned, lifting his Gatorade in a toast. “You got it.”

Shane thought he heard Ilya start to argue with his alternate, but Bood shut him down. “Here’s the thing, Roz — we’re all more scared of him than of you by now.”

***

The Ball Arena kept a small windowless conference room for visiting teams to talk to the press. Raina from the Cens PR office held the door open for them and Bood led the way in, Shane right behind him. Ilya trailed after them both, his irritation clear in the set of his shoulders. The half dozen or so members of the press — two were Ottawa-based sports journalists who had been trailing them around the country, and the rest Shane didn’t recognize — dropped the threads of their own conversations as they waited for Ilya and the others to take their seats. Raina greeted the room. “We have here Mr. Rozanov, Mr. Hollander, and Mr. Boodram, and we can guarantee ten minutes of availability before we have to head out.”

Ilya slumped back in his chair and folded his arms around his chest, the arms of his suit jacket bulging slightly at the movement. “Let’s get this over with.”

Shane fought to keep the frown off his face, but he did nudge his foot over, tapping Ilya’s shoe with his own. Cool it.

One of the reporters jumped in immediately. “Dale Bowers, The Athletic. Shane, you had a shot go wide in the third period, sixty seconds before the buzzer. Franklin didn’t even need to block it from the goal. Had the puck gone in the net, you likely would have tied the game at one and forced overtime. Can you tell us what happened?”

Shane shrugged, pulling the veil of indifference down over his face. “Misjudged the depth for that particular shot on goal. Not a mistake I enjoyed making, and one I don’t plan on making again.”

Bowers was clearly prepared to follow up, but he got cut off by Danielle, the sports journalist that the Ottawa Citizen had assigned to the team. Shane had always liked her. She was fair to the players, but also clearly a fan, and as such demanded accountability from them. “Ilya, hi. Tough night tonight — the Cens’ first scoreless game of the season. It comes after your loss in St. Louis two nights ago. Everything okay in the room?”

“Everything’s great,” said Ilya flatly. “No problems. Next question.”

Shane lifted up his foot and stepped hard on Ilya’s toe through his dress shoes. But Bood beat him to the apology.

“Sorry, Dani,” Bood cut in, his smile easy. “I think what Roz means is that it’s still going pretty great. Like you know I’ve been with the Cens my whole career, and it’s wild to me that the worst we’re doing this season is a two-game losing streak, if that even counts as a streak. We just can’t win ‘em all. Colorado played a good game tonight. As my boy Meek said, I used to pray for times like this.”

Laughter rippled through the room, and even Ilya’s mouth twitched. “Yes, sorry, Danielle. Just a long road trip, I think.”

“So you’re saying the Centaurs can only perform at home?” One of the Denver reporters seized the opportunity. 

“No, that is not what I said.” Ilya’s glare was back. Shane interrupted before Ilya could go further.

“It’s also not what our record shows.” Shane kept his eyes firm on the Denver guy. “This team is currently fifty-two and sixteen. We’re leading the Eastern Conference. We have the fewest allowed shots on goal in the league, and the most points in the league. Hayes has the fewest allowed goals of any starting goaltender, and our offensive rookies are all in the top ten in the rookie scoring race. Speaking of the scoring race, Rozanov is number one and I’m number two overall, and for total points, that’s reversed. This is an incredibly talented team, and we are lucky to be led by Rozanov and Boodram, especially with Wiebe and the rest of this coaching staff. Yes, we had a bad night — I had a bad night. We’re going to review tapes, and we’re going to learn, and we’re going to get better, home and away.”

“And we’re going back to the playoffs,” Bood added. 

Shane nodded. “And we’re going back to the playoffs.” 

A different reporter chose that moment to chime in. “Hi guys — Tommy Andretti, KUSA 9news. Shane, it’s interesting that you say that you’re going back to the playoffs. You weren’t with this team last year when they made it to the second round. In fact, the Centaurs defeated the Montreal Voyageurs, your old team, in Game Seven of the first round of playoffs.”

Andretti paused, looking at Shane expectantly, and Shane stared back at him, hoping that he was keeping his face under control. He could feel, rather than see, Ilya stiffen beside him. Shane felt his jaw tense as he wondered if it had been a bad idea to insert himself into press duty after all. After an uncomfortable moment, Raina said, “I didn’t hear a question in there.”

Andretti huffed, annoyed. “Fine. Hollander, you’ve very rarely commented publicly on the stumble you took in that Game Seven, which allowed Rozanov to steal the puck from you and score to end the game and knock Montreal out of the playoffs. Has the ongoing conversation about last year’s playoffs had any affect on your game this year?”

“Chto eto za khren' takoy vopros?” Ilya snapped, at the same time that Raina said, “We’re not answering that. Next,” her voice sharp.

Undeterred, Andretti pressed on. “Are you aware that Montreal won their game tonight against San Jose?”

“I was not,” Shane replied, keeping his voice even. “I was playing here. Good for them.”

“So you don’t have a problem with your former team?”

“What is the point of these questions?” Ilya demanded, ignoring Shane when he laid a hand on Ilya’s forearm. “We are here to answer questions about this game, the one from tonight, in Denver, yes? That is what your viewers want to see?”

“I have to agree with Cap,” said Raina, mildly. “If there’s no other questions about tonight’s game, the one between Ottawa and Denver, I’d like to get my guys back to the hotel. We have a flight tomorrow.”

Shane held up his free hand without relinquishing his hold on Ilya’s arm. “Let me just — let’s just address this, okay? I didn’t trip on purpose last year, and at this point you can believe that or not. Ottawa won that game because the Centaurs played better hockey. Tonight, Colorado won because they played better hockey. It happens. Like Bood said, we can’t win every game. But what I’m not going to stand for is you using my mistakes, my honest mistakes, to cast aspersions on my husband’s leadership or this team’s skills. That’s not something I’m going to accept. I am happy to answer questions about tonight’s game.”

A crackling silence followed. Shane kept his eyes forward, towards the media scrum, pretending he wasn’t aware of the fury radiating off of Ilya. 

Raina seemed to feel that she had let enough time pass to ensure plausible deniability. “Thanks very much everybody. Danielle, Zach, we’ll see you back in Ottawa. Everyone else, have a nice night.”

Ilya had jerked his arm out from under Shane’s hand and was on his feet before Raina was finished speaking, striding around the table and for the door without looking back. Shane sighed and waited for Bood before the two of them followed Raina out. Something low and nervous curled in Shane’s gut as he watched the tension in Ilya’s shoulders while they all silently moved through the depths of Ball Arena. He’d made it worse, he knew. Not only had he lost the game, but he had also flung himself like a grenade into the press room. No wonder Ilya was angry at him. He muttered his thanks at Raina, and she gave his arm a gentle pat before he trailed Bood back into the visitors’ locker room.

Shane kept his eyes down as Bood rounded the team up and herded them towards the bus. He heard quiet conversations rise and fall around him, but tried not to listen to the words, as they all climbed into the bus. Vaguely, he realized nobody was making plans to go out — the road trip had been too long. 

Shane looked up, startled, when Ilya dropped into the seat next to him. Sure, they usually sat together on buses unless Ilya needed to talk to Wiebe or one of the other players, but given that Ilya hadn’t looked at him since the press room…

And even sitting beside him, Ilya didn’t speak at all on the ride back to the Ritz. He just stared down at his phone, scrolling through Twitter. Shane sighed again, and let his forehead fall against the window.

Ilya’s thunderous silence persisted all the way up to their shared hotel room. Shane dropped his duffel to the floor as soon as he heard the lock click shut behind them, then took a deep breath. “Ilya, I’m sor- oomph.” 

The best way to describe it was that Ilya charged into him, cupping his hand around the back of Shane’s head to protect his skull as Ilya pressed Shane into the wall and buried his mouth with his own. Shane was barely able to kiss him back, he was so overwhelmed by the frantic pressure of Ilya’s lips. Dizzily, Shane wrapped his arms up around Ilya’s neck, because he was surprised but he wasn’t fucking stupid, and he wasn’t ever going to pass up a chance to kiss his husband. 

“Dazhe ne smey izvinyat'sya,” Ilya growled into Shane’s open mouth, and Shane’s brain was so clouded that he had to resort to translating. “Tol'ko posmey, blyat’.”

“You’re not…” Shane gasped as Ilya moved down to his neck, frenetically sucking at Shane’s skin. “You’re not mad at me?”

That pulled Ilya up short, and he reared back, glaring. “Fuck, Hollander, why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I…” Still catching his breath, Shane waved his hand towards the door to their room, hoping to capture the Ball Arena in the gesture. “I made it so much worse than it would have had to be. I went in there, so of course they were going to ask about me, and distract from—”

“Shane, moya lyubov, that is not what happened,” Ilya barked a laugh, scrubbing at his hair, pulling Shane’s focus to how it made his curls go frizzy and gold in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “They would have asked those questions anyway, you understand? They would have asked them, but they would have asked them to me and Bood, and then I would have been so angry, and possibly killed people, and then Raina would have needed to cover up a mass murder. Please believe me when I say this is much better.”

Shane tilted his head, searching Ilya’s eyes. “Are you sure?”

Ilya reached forward and cupped Shane’s face in both his hands. The frenetic energy of moments ago had faded, replaced with something so desperately fond that Shane’s breath caught in his throat. “Of course I am sure. I mean, yes, I wish you hadn’t been there so you would not have had to hear those stupid questions, but… You walked in, you took difficult questions, you defended me, you called me your husband.”

“You are my husband.” 

At that, Ilya laughed, big and gorgeous. “Yes, I know that, moya glupyshka. I mean… you said I was a good captain, and you called me your husband. I am… I am angry that these stupid Denver reporters asked these questions, but I am grateful that you said what you said.”

Shane finally relaxed, and eased out of Ilya’s hold just to rest his forehead on his husband’s shoulder. “Even though I missed that shot?” he murmured.

“Ah, only so much we can expect.” Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane, holding him close. “After all, you are only the second-best player in the NHL.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Shane kissed him again.

New York, May 2022

“Boooo!” Kip yelled, cupping both hands around his mouth as Ilya pushed open the door of the Kingfisher, holding it for Shane and Troy. “My husband is going to shave his beard and it’s your fault!”

A laugh burst out of Shane, bold and bright and beautiful, as he led the way over to the pool tables in the back of the bar. He pulled Kip in for a quick, rough hug, before moving to embrace Kip’s friend Elena, then Eric Bennett. Ilya grinned, passing around his own hugs, and tried to focus on hiding the fact that he was half hard. He was still half hard from the sight of Shane an hour ago, hockey stick abandoned on the ice, sweat glistening on his jawline, head and shoulders thrown back, roaring at the roof of Madison Square Garden after scoring the game-ending goal of Game Seven of the Eastern Conference finals in double overtime.

After they had finally gotten off the ice, Ilya had managed to pull Shane into an equipment room, but hadn’t been able to get further than shoving his tongue down his husband’s throat before one of the equipment managers had shown up pounding on the locked closet door, yelling at them that they had to get changed and talk to the press and do other bullshit nobody cared about. And then in a show of fucking sportsmanship, Hunter had invited the Cens to his fucking bar, so here they were, instead of back at the hotel, where Ilya could have been sucking his Eastern Conference Champion husband’s dick.

He and Shane were Eastern Conference Champions together, for the first time, and Ilya couldn’t even give his husband a blow job about it.

“He doesn’t have to shave it.” Shane’s laughter brought Ilya back to earth, and he watched as Shane settled onto a bar stool beside Kip. “There’s no rulebook for self-imposed post-season playoff superstitions.”

“See?” Kip turned on Scott, who sighed, but couldn’t keep the affection off his face. 

Vaughnny leaned over the bar towards Kyle. “Can we get a round of shots for these guys?” After Kyle saluted him and turned to the well, lining up the glasses, Vaughnny clapped Ilya’s shoulder. “Congrats! How’s it feel, man?”

Not for the first time, Ilya thought that Carter Vaughn had always given him the benefit of the doubt when he had not really earned it. Vaughnny was, like Shane, unfailingly friendly off the ice and vicious on it, but in both spaces he was less deliberate, less intentional, than Shane. Ilya didn’t think Vaughn had ever told a lie in his life, not because there had never been a time where it would have helped him, but because he just wasn’t capable of dissembling. Now, with a baseball cap backwards on his head and a beer bottle in his hand, fresh off getting knocked out of Stanley Cup contention, he was smiling at Ilya like it was any other Friday night.

Ilya exhaled, hard, his eyes drawn to where Shane was getting roped into a good-natured argument about hockey superstitions with Kip and Kyle. “Surreal,” he murmured to Vaughnny. “Not just making it to finals, yes? But…”

“But doing it with him,” Vaughn supplied, grinning. “Yeah, man. You guys fucking earned it. It’s been your year all season.”

“Shots on the bar,” called Kyle, and the crowd of Centaurs and Admirals clustered around the well. Ilya found his way to Shane’s stool, and pressed into his husband’s side as he felt Shane wind an arm around his waist. 

“Real quick,” called Hunter, once everyone had a glass in their hands. He did look hot with the playoff beard, Ilya decided, and without the tension around his eyes. “Losing sucks, right? We would have loved to go to the finals. I’ve only got one Cup, and I can’t retire until I have one more than Rozanov —”

“Ah, but the league is going to get investigated for elder abuse if you keep playing after this season,” Ilya cut in, to laughter, and he smirked as Chouinard slapped him on the back. 

Hunter flipped Ilya off and continued. “But we had one hell of a season, New York! We’ll rest up, and we’ll get it next year. And at least we made it fucking hard for Ottawa.”

Ilya cheered along with the guys around him, because it was true, the Admirals had given them absolute hell. His knee still ached from a check into the boards from Game Five, and he knew he’d be seeing a lot of the trainers in the days before the Stanley Cup Finals began. That was to say nothing of the soreness in his ribs and his right shoulder, because he couldn’t even remember which games, which plays, those were from. 

“So I guess I just wanted to say that if it couldn’t be us, I’m real fucking glad it’s you guys.” Scott’s tone suddenly turned serious, and Ilya felt the smile fade from his own face. Scott held Ilya’s eyes, then looked to Shane, then Troy, and finally Luca. “It wasn’t that long ago that it was just me out publicly, you know? And… it makes me happier than I can say that now it’s all of us, Bennett, and Price, and you three, and…” he glanced at Luca again, “and maybe we’re making it safer for people who are coming after us. So yeah, if it couldn’t be New York this year, it fucking better be Ottawa.” He raised his free hand to point at Ilya, who felt Shane’s thumb rub gentle circles in the small of his back. “The team that this guy has led is doing something incredible this year. There definitely could have been a world where Roz and Holly just gave up, and left. But that’s not what the fuck you did. It’s not who you are. It’s not who your team is. And you guys better take it all the fucking way. Show them who you are. To the Cens.”

Shouts of “To the Cens!” went up all around Ilya, who felt an uncomfortable burning sensation behind his eyes. To push it down, he tossed back his shot. Shane took one sip of the vodka in his own shot glass, and passed the rest to Ilya, and he downed that too. After he set the glasses down, he walked over to Hunter, and pulled him into a hug. 

Their second in just two hours, since they’d hugged on the ice after the final buzzer. Maybe Ilya was getting sick. 

“I’m proud of you, man,” Scott whispered, before he let Ilya go. 

For whatever reason, the urge to be an asshole abandoned Ilya. “Thank you. It means a lot. We would not be here without you, I don’t think.”

Scott smiled as Shane approached the two of them. “Yeah, you would,” Scott said as he hugged Shane too. “You would have found a way.”

Shane shrugged, tangling his fingers with Ilya’s. “Maybe. But you made it easier. You never stopped showing up for queer players.”

“Yeah, but I never got to tell the Commissioner to fuck off to his face. And I’ve always wanted to.”

“Hollzy’s got balls of steel,” Vaughnny declared, joining them by flinging an arm around Shane’s shoulders. “Telling Crowell to go fuck himself, then making it to the Cup finals? The only thing you could do to make this funnier is to win the whole thing, so now you gotta win the whole thing.”

Shane ducked, embarrassed. “I didn’t tell him to go fuck himself —”

“Not in those words, no.” Ilya squeezed Shane’s fingers. “Still very sexy.”

“So are you ever going to tell us what actually happened in that meeting?” asked Vaughnny, eyebrows raised. 

Ilya shrugged, hoping the Hunter and Vaughn could tell that this was Shane’s call, because Ilya would have already bought hours of ad time on YouTube and podcasts and fucking Spotify and whatever else to play that recording, just so the whole world could hear “I choose him. C’mon, Ilya” over and over until the end of time. But Shane and Yuna seemed to be planning something.

For now, Shane smiled blandly. “What meeting?”

Vaughnny snorted. “Man, fuck you. How about this — we play pool, and if I win you tell me what Crowell said to you.”

Shane’s smile shifted into something more conniving. “You’re fucking on.” 

Ilya leaned over to Hunter. “Should I tell Vaughn that Hollander’s parents have a pool table in their basement?”

“Nah,” Hunter muttered back. “More fun this way.”

Before Shane turned to follow Vaughnny over to the pool tables in the back of the bar, he lifted his free hand to Ilya’s chin, and tilted his face towards him. “Love you,” he murmured, brushing his lips across Ilya’s. 

Ilya smiled, slow and easy, feeling warmth bloom across his skin where Shane’s fingertips brushed his jaw. “Ya tozhe tebya lyublu.”

Shane’s lips quirked up, and he kissed Ilya again before trailing after Vaughnny to the cabinet with the pool cues. Ilya watched him go.

Maybe, Ilya thought, he didn’t need to buy the podcast ads. Maybe the whole world heard Shane choose Ilya anyway. 

Ottawa, June 2022

Generally speaking, Ilya was not superstitious about hockey. 

It was a notoriously superstitious sports culture. No sex or shaving during playoffs. Putting socks on in a particular order. The same game day meals every time. What jerseys wags could wear, and when. One year, there had been a defenseman in Boston who tried to always get booked hotel rooms that ended in the number 13 (there had been absolutely no way for team staff to guarantee that, and the defenseman had thrown a tantrum, which wasn’t the only reason he got traded after one season, but it didn’t help). Ilya had always laughed, sometimes obnoxiously, at his teammates in Boston who put stock in these silly little rituals, and when he had first gotten to Ottawa the team lost so often that it wasn’t worth anyone’s time to attempt to identify superstition-based behavior worth following. Anyway, Shane liked the look of Ilya’s playoff beard but wasn’t a fan of beard burn on his inner thighs, and what was Ilya supposed to do, stop eating ass for a month? And they both played better after sex, so if anything they needed to have more sex, not less, the closer they got to the end of the season. And Ilya couldn’t be bothered to track correlations between other behaviors and game results. 

Shane probably could have tracked those correlations, but Shane didn’t care either, and that was good enough for Ilya. Shane had even given up scolding Ilya for allegedly jinxing the team by saying the Centaurs were going to win the Stanley Cup, as they got deeper into the season. Superstitions were a waste of time.

Except one: You don’t tell yourself you have already won a game until the final buzzer. And you certainly don’t tell yourself have already won the Stanley fucking Cup until the final buzzer. 

Ilya almost felt like he was observing his body without being in it. His heart was pounding in his throat, a bead of sweat was trickling down his back directly along his spine, the straps of his left knee guard were digging into his muscle as he repeatedly bounced his leg while seated on the bench… but it was happening to somebody else. Ilya wasn’t in his body. Ilya was hovering over his body, sharp gaze darting between the ice and the scoreboard, worried that if he looked away from either of them for a second the score would no longer be four-nothing to Ottawa, in Game Five of the Stanley fucking Cup final, with one minute and seventeen seconds to go in the third period. 

You don’t tell yourself have already won the Stanley Cup until the final buzzer, even if it’s the fifth game of the final and your team — your beautiful, scrappy, chaotic team, the team whose members you never gave up on, who never gave up on each other, never gave up on you — even if that team is three games up in the series and if you take this one it’s over, and the Cup is in the building, in your home fucking stadium, ready to be awarded, ready to have your names carved into its surface forever. Your name and your husband’s, side by side in silver, forever.

Or until the ring was retired. Yes, yes, whatever.  

“Hey.” Ilya startled as Shane dropped onto the bench next to him and shoved a bottle of Gatorade into Ilya’s gloved hand. “Drink it.”

Ilya glanced down. It was red, of course it was, because Shane had handed it to him, and Shane knew what color to reach for. Mechanically, Ilya twisted off the orange cap and tilted the bottle to his lips, keeping his eyes on the Cens’ third offensive line sliding the puck away from increasingly desperate Wild players as he did so. The crowd was roaring, and a corner of Ilya’s brain wanted him to stand and scream at them to stop, to shut up, because they were celebrating with over a minute left on the clock, and you don’t do that. The bird caged inside the muscle in Ilya’s chest fluttered its wings, trying to break out and join the crowd, but Ilya set his jaw. Not yet. Not for another minute and eight seconds. 

“First line up,” said Wiebe suddenly, when the clock was down to fifty-six seconds. His voice drifted through the fog in Ilya’s brain. “Pulling Bood. Hollander, you’re in for left wing.” 

Shane grinned like a knife blade, but Ilya felt the muscles in his forehead pull together. Shane had been rotating between center and left wing in practice all season, but kept saying he wasn’t ready to bring it onto the ice, and Wiebe trusted his players. So if Wiebe was putting Shane in on wing, it must be because Shane thought he was ready. But still… “You sure?” Ilya asked Shane. 

“I’m sure.” Shane wasn’t looking at Ilya, though. He and Wiebe were staring at each other, in a conversation that Ilya felt a spark of annoyance didn’t include him. But then Shane glanced over at Troy, who was hovering on Shane’s other side.

Troy snorted, grabbing his stick as Ilya finally caught up. “One more goal from the gayest line in the NHL?”

If Ilya didn’t know Wiebe so well, he might have missed the slight twitching at the corners of his coach’s mouth. “I do love symbolism.” 

But now Shane was ignoring them both. His eyes had found Ilya’s and it was one of those moments where Ilya knew it would be less intense to stare into the sun. “Trust me?”

Ilya stood and reached out to cup his gloved hand around the back of Shane’s neck. “Always.” The word was thick in his throat as he knocked his helmet against his husband’s, before shifting over to tap Troy’s helmet as well. 

“Go, then,” ordered Wiebe, and Ilya followed Shane over the boards, skating to the face-off circle, with thirty-six seconds left on the clock. The roar of the crowd climbed, deafening, as the fans realized what was happening — Rozanov, winged by Hollander and Barrett. 

If the Wild center said anything, or if his expression gave anything away, or if something was different in his body language, Ilya didn’t notice. It was only him, and his stick, and the puck — thirty-four seconds left — he won the face-off, feinted left, and snapped the puck to Troy. Shane was already away, halfway down the neutral zone — the fastest skater in the NHL, it hadn’t been a tie, it wasn’t even close — 

Troy dodged a Minnesota defender, Stetson or Stevens or something, and snapped the puck across the ice to Shane as Ilya tore after them both. The Wild d-line converged on Shane, and it was like Ilya could see Shane’s memories, could see a different game from over four years ago, and he had been where Shane was, so he knew where Shane was going —

Ilya paced to the left, almost to the boards, unnoticed by the Wild defenders as Shane slid his stick backwards, passing the puck to Ilya before anyone but the two of them realized it. Shane raced into the middle lane, drawing the defenders with him, clearing Ilya’s path to move the puck further up the ice — 

And now that Ilya knew what they were doing, what story they were telling, he only waited for the defenders to move, to chase Shane and the ghost of the puck he no longer carried. Shane’s eyes gleamed under the stadium lights, and for a second Ilya saw his bright, reckless smile as he cleared Ilya’s path — and Ilya pivoted and sunk the puck into the net, over the goalie’s left shoulder. 

Ilya barely heard the horn over the sound of the roar, his and the crowd’s. He raced forward, stick held aloft in his fist, and caught Shane up in his arm, still yelling, the sound hoarse, felt Shane wrap his own arms around Ilya’s waist, stumbled slightly as Troy crashed into them both, and then all three of them were shouting — 

Shane’s face was flushed, the freckles dark against the red rush of blood, his skin glistening with sweat, and Ilya didn’t think he’d ever been more beautiful, but even he knew it would be a lot to ask of Troy to tolerate Ilya making out with Shane right now. Breathing hard, Ilya braced one hand on each of their helmets, allowing himself just a moment to think about this, about his and Shane’s story, and Troy’s, and how they had gotten here, and what it had cost — 

“Line change,” gasped Shane, “come on. There’s still like twenty-five seconds left, we have to move, we have to get off the ice —”

“Fuck,” Ilya groaned, but even then, he didn’t allow himself to think it, because it wasn’t over, and he let Shane lead them back to the box. His team, his gorgeous team, was on their feet, banging sticks and pounding fists against the top of the boards, screaming as the first line approached. Ilya glanced down the ice at the Cens’ defensive zone, and saw Dykstra and Chewie cheering at them, and even Hayes, still ready in the net, always ready, pumping a fist in the air at them. Ilya returned the gesture as he followed Troy back into the box. Then his eyes found the clock again. Five-nothing, twenty-four seconds left. 

Wiebe was smirking again, the delight in his eyes still contained, for the moment. He signaled Chouinard back into the box before tapping Young on the shoulder. “Get in there, kid.”

The grin split wide over Ilya’s face as he watched delight shine from his rookie’s face, and he held out his fist for Young to tap on his way back out onto the ice. Ilya beckoned Haas, LaPointe, and Holmberg forward before Wiebe could turn to them. “Feel like a quick game of keepaway, boys?”

Bergy’s mouth fell open, and Haas’s eyes immediately welled up. “Us?” gasped LP.

“Yes, you,” said Wiebe. “Go get ‘em.”

Ilya pulled Luca into a quick, rough hug before the kid cleared the boards, and out of the corner of his eye saw Shane tap Bergy’s fist and Troy clap LP’s back. “You fucking got this!” Shane called after them, before leaning against the boards, bracing his fists against the top. Ilya stood beside his husband, wrapping his arm around Shane’s shoulders and tugging him into his side as they watched the rookie line assemble for the final face-off of the season. Luca took his stance, even as the tears began to stream down his face. 

Maybe it was then, as Luca won the face-off and circled around the Wild’s second-line center before passing to Bergy, that Ilya started to tell himself that they had already won the Stanley Cup. Just a little. 

The next twenty-two seconds weren’t the longest of Ilya’s life, but he was still aware of every single one of them as they ticked down. He could feel Shane tense against his ribs, could hear the desperate screams of the crush of people all around them — the crowd began to chant as the clock ticked down — could see the glint of skates as Bergy passed to LP, who then shot the puck back to Luca — the din of numbers pouring down from the stands rumbled louder as it hit ten, then nine, then eight — Haasy passed to Bergy again, and Ilya could almost taste the pounding of his own heart —

The buzzer sounded, clear and metallic, through the stadium, and Ilya howled with it, pulling Shane tighter to his body, hugging him against his chest, feeling Shane press a frantic kiss into his jaw. They both dropped their gloves and ripped off their helmets, and Ilya grabbed Shane’s hand as they vaulted over the boards with the rest of their team. Someone, maybe Ilya himself, screamed “My blyat' sdelali eto” as they took the ice, as they careened into the cluster already forming, with Hayes and Dykstra wrapping all the rookies up into their arms.

Through all of it, through embracing Bood, and Chewy, and Hazy, and Boyle, and the rest of this team, this family that had accepted him without question, Ilya refused to drop Shane’s hand. Their palms were slick with sweat, but Shane’s fingers kept their nearly crushing grip on Ilya’s, until they found themselves face to face at the center of this mess of people they loved. Shane was beaming, bright and young, and reached his free hand up to sink his fingers into Ilya’s hair. Just as Ilya opened his mouth — to say what, he didn’t know, maybe that he had never thought he’d ever get to feel like this, maybe to tell Shane that he was the most beautiful thing Ilya had ever seen, maybe to sob wordlessly — Shane drew Ilya’s head forward and devoured him. 

The noise fell away until there was only Shane, his Shane, cradling Ilya’s face in his hands like he would die if he let go, kissing him, kissing him, kissing him. Ilya’s eyes were closed, but his vision blazed red with the stadium lights, his heart thundered beneath his sternum, his own arms wrapped around Shane, gripping his hip, his shoulder. 

Their moment was broken by Hayes careening sideways into them, the scream of “Get a fucking room!” met with raucous laughter from the rest of the team. Ilya looked up, cackling, and saw the gate in the boards push open, saw the stadium staff begin to roll out the black carpet onto the ice. He saw, still back in the shadows of the tunnel, the glimmer of something towering and silver. 

He closed his eyes and pressed his face into Shane’s neck as he felt Shane fold his arms around Ilya’s waist. The crush of bodies around them, the cacophony of screams from the stands, the years of pain and doubt and starvation… they all went quiet for a minute, and Ilya breathed.

He had told himself, and anyone else who would listen, all season, that they were going to do it, that they were going to bring the Stanley Cup to Ottawa. That he and Shane, and their team, were going to prove to the world, and to themselves, and to each other, that they could do it. That they were at their strongest when they were together. And then they had.

The superstitions didn’t matter. This… this was real.

Lanaudière, July 2022

The cottage was still Shane’s favorite place in the world. Moreso now that he was able to share it with Ilya, and he had gotten to see it become Ilya’s favorite place in the world too.

It had taken them a week after the Game Five of the Cup final series to get out of Ottawa. The whole Centaurs roster had, naturally, spent most of the day after that last game extremely sore and hungover, maybe even still drunk, sobering up in time for the city’s first ever Stanley Cup parade that weekend. It had passed in a blur — Shane and the rest of the team on the raised bed of a truck, cheering back at the crowds that were screaming for them, spraying champagne everywhere and sometimes getting some of it into red plastic cups, taking turns hopping out of the truck and strolling along the road, signing jerseys and Pride flags and hockey sticks.

Ilya never let Shane far out of reach, and Shane felt himself beam every time Ilya grabbed his hand, or slung an arm around his shoulders, or tugged Shane into his chest. At one point Ilya had shouted a laugh, pointing at a banner held by a group of teenagers in the crowd, and had dragged Shane over to take a photo with it. The banner had read “WE’RE HERE, WE’RE QUEER, WE HAVE A STANLEY CUP” in big, bold rainbow letters. The sign’s artists were elated, jumping up and down and reaching out their phones for selfies, which Ilya and Shane happily obliged. A bubble of light grew in Shane’s chest, at being able to have all this. Giving three cups to Montreal hadn’t felt like this, not even close — as they had jogged back towards the truck where it crept up Ottawa’s Main Street, Shane pulled Ilya in for a kiss, only vaguely aware of the screaming from the fans. 

Then they’d had to go to the NHL Awards, but at least those had been in New York this year instead of all the way out in Vegas. Then there had been press events, and afternoons catching up with Yuna and David, and hosting the Pikes and JJ for dinner, and one last team barbecue before everyone had been placed under strict orders from Wiebe to “fuck off for at least a month.” Ever a rule follower, Shane had locked up the Ottawa house, herded Ilya and Anya into the Jeep, turned off his phone, and driven towards Lanaudière as his husband napped in the front passenger’s seat and their dog hung her head out one of the rear windows.

As the breeze rushed into the cab from the open windows, the sound nearly drowning out the soft music coming from the radio, Shane laid his hand on Ilya’s knee. It had been a long year. A good year — the best of his life — but maybe that was why it had been so exhausting. He’d never experienced joy like this, at such sustained levels, ever. He had woken up beside Ilya every morning, and fallen asleep with him every night, and for all the hours between, Shane had loved Ilya fully. He had said in that podcast interview in November that the public had never known a version of him that didn’t want Ilya Rozanov, but now he was able to show the world what that meant. His teammates and coach and the staff all around them got only the most honest version of Shane, where his love for Ilya was at the forefront of everything he thought and did and said. And Shane was so proud of that, but he was also exhausted from the vulnerability. 

He wouldn’t trade it, though, he thought as he quickly took his eyes off Autoroute 50 for a moment to look over at his husband. Ilya’s skin was glowing gold in the sunset as he rested against the glass of his window, gorgeous curls flattened by a baseball cap and mouth hanging open as he snored softly. For Ilya, Shane could be vulnerable forever. Ilya would keep him safe. 

The gravel drive up to the cottage’s front door was fully bathed in shadows by the time Shane pulled in and put the Jeep in park. In the backseat, Anya perked up, wiggling her little body as Shane opened his door — as quietly as he could, to leave Ilya undisturbed for just another moment. “I got you, girl,” he whispered, letting Anya out and stretching his shoulders back as he watched her trot over to a knot of tree roots to pee. 

He glanced back over his shoulder at the sound of Ilya’s car door opening. “Solnyshko, you should have woken me up,” Ilya groaned, reaching both arms above his head, then releasing them with a sigh. “You didn’t have to do the whole drive in quiet.” 

Shane shrugged, wandering over to Ilya and looping his arms around his husband’s waist. “I didn’t mind. You needed the sleep. And you only drooled a little.”

“Fuck off.” Ilya brushed his lips against Shane’s cheek before turning to the Jeep’s hatchback. “Ah fuck —” he paused while grabbing one of their bags “— we forgot to put the box in the Ottawa house.”

“Whatever. It’ll still be there when we get back.” Shane took the other two bags, ignoring the repurposed Canada Dry cardboard box that now sat on the floor of the Jeep, with Ilya’s Conn Smythe and Rocket awards, and Shane’s Hart, Ted Lindsay, and Art Ross awards. Shane slammed the hatchback shut, digging for his keys as Ilya called for Anya. 

The cottage was shadowy and still as they stepped inside. Ilya flicked on the pendant lights that hung above the kitchen island, then the lamps in the TV room, as they moved through the space towards their bedroom. Somewhere along the way, he pulled off his hat and tossed it aside. Shane trailed him, Anya at his heels. Beyond the wall of glass, the lake was dark and endless, the trees on its shores leached of color in the fading light of the orange sky. In a few hours, they would see the stars. 

Ilya dropped the bag he was carrying on the floor of the bedroom without making any move to unpack it, and drifted towards the double doors to the patio. Shane watched as Ilya stepped outside, closed his eyes, and breathed deep. In the distance, a loon called. 

Drawn by the same invisible pull as always, Shane quietly followed, wrapping his arms around Ilya from behind and drawing his husband’s back into his chest. He rested his chin on Ilya’s shoulder and murmured, “Schastlivy?”

Ilya hummed low in his throat, pressing his hands over Shane’s forearms. Anya circled them, pawing enthusiastically at the paving stones, and the quiet folded around them all. Shane rested there, cheek pressed to Ilya’s neck, watching the dark ripples in the lake lap against the narrow strip of rounded rocks at its edge. 

“I love you.” Shane whispered the words, not wanting to disrupt the peace around them. 

Ilya turned in Shane’s arms. The blue of his eyes was darker than usual, and his features had gone soft in the way that Shane so rarely saw away from this cottage. Not for the first time, he was grateful beyond words that he had been able to provide this space for Ilya. To give Ilya this home. Ilya reached up to cup Shane’s face in both his hands, and Shane turned his head to brush a kiss into Ilya’s palm, right below his wedding ring. 

Ilya swallowed hard. “I love you so much. You know that, right?”

“Of course.” Shane kissed him. If there was one truth at the core of his being, that lived lodged beneath his lungs, pressed against his rib cage, it was that Ilya loved him. “Of course I know that.”

He tightened his hold on Ilya’s waist, drawing him further in. Ilya burrowed into the warm hollow between Shane’s neck and collarbone, his own arms draping around Shane’s shoulders, and Shane felt him exhale against his skin.

They stayed like that as the sky darkened around them. Shane knew that at some point they would go inside, and make dinner, and maybe bring glasses of wine back out here and light the fire pit. In the coming days they would swim and hike and run and nap and fuck, and Shane’s freckles would get darker and Ilya’s cheeks would get redder. Shane would keep his phone off for as long as he could, but after a while he would have to check in with his mom about the final plans for the Irina Foundation camps. They would gather their friends again, and Shane would get to watch Ilya work with children, and think about the future. Eventually it would be preseason again, and they would be back with the families that claimed them both. 

For now, Shane tightened his hold around Ilya’s body, feeling his world come back to center. The water of the lake washed against the pebbles beneath the dock. A gentle breeze drifted through Ilya’s curls. Anya sniffed at something only she could see. The last rays of copper in the sky faded, and night wrapped around them as they held each other.