Chapter Text
There were no words, in Russian or in English, that could accurately describe the pure euphoria Ilya felt as he stepped off the ice of the Canadian Tire Center. The vibrating cheer of the crowd fading into echoes against the concrete walls of the tunnel as he and his team floated towards the locker room.
It had been the first game of the season. It was their first win of the season. And it was the first time Ilya got to watch his husband (holy shit, he gets to say that for the rest of their lives) play as a Centaur.
For a decade, Ilya had watched Shane play as a rival, using his full focus to track his movements and calculate the proper way to out maneuver him. Of course, under this intense focus guised as top player in the league was just a man, enamored with the sheer grace and power at which Shane played. Shane, who was saddled with anxiety at home, always became the most dominating presence on the ice. All the doubt and fears that plagued his mind vanished when his skates hit the ice. Now, Ilya gets to stare with unbridled awe at the way Shane controls the play, always moving three steps ahead of his opponents. Fuck, it was almost unfair to Detroit tonight, what the Shane Hollander was able to accomplish with a team who genuinely sought to support his play.
As he rounded the corner, shouldering his way through the door, he was immediately greeted by a cacophony of cheers, chants, screams, as his team of rag-tag hockey players circled around Shane.
“Listen up!” Ilya’s booming voice ricocheted through the locker room. The air was still.
“Was decent game tonight.” He focused every muscle in his face on trying to commit to this bit. To hide his unabashed pride and joy for this team. For Shane.
“Oh fuck off, Roz” Bood shouted.
“It was a fucking stellar start to a season” Dykstra yelled as he subtly pushed towards the speaker, phone already in hand.
“And that final goal Holzy got us. Might have been the most gorgeous shot I’ve ever seen” Barrett grabbed at Shane’s shoulder and shook him.
Ilya’s eyes finally landed on Shane. Blush slowly creeping across his cheeks, mixing with the flush that was already there from an exhausting push in his final shift of the third period. God, he was gorgeous like this. Unburdened by the weight of the world. A glint in his eye that he often suppressed.
“Yes, yes. My husband is very sexy when he plays. Do not fret, he will be rewarded sufficiently tonight”
“Ilya!”
God, he was even hotter when he was angry.
“But before that… we celebrate. First round at Munks is on your generous and equally sexy Captain." He slowly started to peel his jersey off over his head. A small ache in his shoulders from a physically demanding game. As he reached down to start taking off his skates, he hushed his tone, taking a personal moment for just him and Shane. “It was beautiful goal. From most beautiful husband.”
“Only thanks to your pass.” Shane’s shoulder bumped gently into his as he sat down. “Although, now you do owe me a reward.”
Almost under his breath “Don’t worry moy lyubimy, you will not be able to walk when I am done with you.”
Shane went still at his side, then quickly bent down to unlace his skate trying to conceal the blush that had reappeared across his face. Just as Ilya was about to open his mouth to comment, Coach Wiebe pushed through the doors.
“Good game fellas. Some strong plays, especially from our second line.There are still things we need to work on, but you should all be proud of tonight. We keep the focus up, avoid unnecessary penalties, and we got a good shot at the playoffs.” Cheers and hollers once again filled the room. “Hollander.” he coughed softly to clear his throat. “Can I see you in my office? Once you’ve had a chance to change.”
He felt Shane nod next to him.
There was something in Wiebe’s eyes that made Ilya’s skin tense. Wiebe had always been a difficult man to read. Stern, yet warm. Quiet, but ever present. Ilya had never had a coach like him. Someone who treated each player with respect, but knew exactly how to push them. A voice who demanded acknowledgement, but never had to belittle to get it. With everything that had happened last season, Ilya was forever grateful for Wiebe. He knew that he had his back.
Once Shane returned from the shower, he quickly changed back into his civilian clothes, grabbing a few of Ilya’s things to add to his duffle bag. “Do you think you can grab a ride with one of the guys? I can take the car and meet you there.”
“You are joining us, Solnyshko?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t want to miss my first celebration as a Centaur.” He leaned forward, slowly placing a kiss on Ilya’s temple, before his eyes darted around the room.
These soft public displays of affection were still new to them. It had been easier for Ilya to adjust, but he could see the effort Shane was putting in. The work he was doing to unlearn a decade of fear and hiding. To try and ignore his instincts to flinch and retreat when Ilya offered him his hand.
“Plus, if I’m not there, who will stop you from getting black out drunk before brunch with my parents in the morning.”
“Should file harassment against Wiebe. Trying to keep my husband from me on such a perfect day.”
“God, you’re dramatic. It’s probably nothing. Maybe needs me for some stupid press thing.”
Ilya reached out to squeeze Shane’s hand. “You are right. You are always right. Just text me when you are on your way. I will be counting down the minutes until you are there.”
“Of course.” Shane lightly squeezed back, bringing his gaze back to Ilya’s eyes. “I love you. Don’t have too much fun without me.”
“Impossible to have fun without you.”
“I thought I was boring?” Shane tossed over his shoulder as he slowly turned to leave.
“Yes, so very boring.” Almost said to himself, as Shane disappeared into Wiebe’s office. “But you are my boring.”
“Jesus Christ” Barrett muttered on Ilya’s other side. “You in love makes me want to vomit.” He tossed with no real heat behind it.
“So Jealous, Barrett. Horrible look on you. Someone should let Harris know.”
“I’m not fucking jealous of you.”
“Ah, but I am of you.”
“What?”
“Because you are now my ride.”
“Oh fuck off. Remind me why I put up with you?”
Ilya throws his bag over his shoulder as the two exit towards the player’s lot. “Because I brought my sexy, goal scoring husband to Ottawa and will get you a fucking Stanley Cup.”
—------
Brandom Wiebe considered himself lucky to be the head coach of the Centaurs.
He had never been the loudest in a room. His demeanor and soft tone was not one often attributed to coaches of such a physically demanding sport. But, damn, did he know how to coach. When to push, when to retreat. When a player needed more attention. When they needed to get out of their own way.
He knew his style contradicted most of the established institutions of the NHL. His stance that each player had the ability to be great, and deserved the support and space to build their skills was somehow controversial. Dismissed as weak by many of the major organizations.
Which is why, when he got the news that Ilya Rozanov was joining the Centaurs three seasons ago, he had been cautiously optimistic.
Rozanov was known to be an aggressive player, but coaching staff throughout the league had heard what Boston’s locker room was like. That the brazen and cocky facade Ilya brought to the ice shielded a deeply caring captain, who earned unwavering loyalty from all players on his team. It was exactly the energy the Centaurs needed. And somehow, it was landing in their lap without any plausible explanation.
The new addition took some time to settle, but with Ilya, Wiebe was building something strong. Raising the Centaurs from obscurity, one victory at a time. Taking each loss as an opportunity to further strengthen their foundations.
And then, the fanmail video leaked, and chaos ensued.
A team that could barely grab the media’s attention was suddenly under the scrutiny of every major publication across the continent. Crowell and the league demanded transparency across the entire Centaur organization.
But the Centaurs were a united front. Ilya Rozanov was not expendable. Not only as a player, but as a man whose presence uplifted the entire organization. No matter what was happening in his private life. Who he was romantically involved with. He was a crucial member of the team, and they would not let him drift alone. Wiebe was almost shocked at the lengths the Centaur organization went to protect Ilya. And he had made it his personal mission to make sure the mess of the league, the extent to which they were attacking the Centaur’s management, would never get to Ilya.
And after weeks of endless meetings and hostile calls, they had supposedly pushed through the scandal. That is, until he received an off-the-record call from one Yuna Hollander hinting that Shane Hollander was looking to leave Montreal.
And now, somehow, he was the coach for two generational talents whose torrid romance had brought them to Ottawa. And a team who two seasons ago was viewed as a weak spot in the league, was now climbing the ranks of the eastern conference.
Or at least, that is what it had felt like as he watched Shane Hollander sign his contract a mere two months ago.
Nothing in his years of coaching had prepared him for what was about to happen. For what he was being forced to do.
He was shaken from his thoughts when he heard a hesitant knock at the already open door, as Shane quietly entered the room.
How could this man, who was statistically the best player in the league, make himself appear so small. What kind of environment had taught this hockey wonderkin to be so scared of authority. An issue he would need to address at a different time.
“Thank you, Shane. I know Ilya is probably mad that I am stealing you from the celebration.”
“Oh my god…” He started to shrink into the chair across from Wiebe. “He’ll manage. How can I help you coach?”
Wiebe took a deep breath. He had to remain strong. He needed to lightly tread the line between coach and colleague. Remain professional, but show his support and understanding.
“I need you to know that what I am about to say is not a reflection of my own views.” He paused as tension visible crept into Shane’s face. “I want to be clear that this is not coming from anywhere within the Centaurs organization. In fact, we have made it clear that we are vehemently opposed to the league’s stance and will continue to fight for our players, old and new.”
Wiebe could tell that this preamble had only added to Shane’s anxiety. He could see the color draining from his face. He had somehow gotten smaller in the chair. This almost 6 foot tall man of solid muscle, becoming miniscule in the leather seat.
Wiebe pulled out the official notice he had received from management just moments after the game ended.
“In response to recent events concerning the ongoing public relationship with Ilya Rozanov, and subsequent signing with The Ottawa Centaurs following ongoing disputes with The Montreal Voyagers, the league has deemed it necessary to open a formal investigation into potential integrity violations regarding your performance as Captain of The Montreal Voyagers. The league has deemed it necessary you be placed on immediate suspension pending the results of a formal investigation and subsequent hearing.” There was more, but Wiebe felt the need to stop. His tongue was heavy in his mouth. The words felt like lead as he read them.
He could see the moment of realization hit Shane as he quickly folded up the letter. The rest was bureaucratic nonsense anyway.
“Shane. I cannot begin to understand what the last year has been like for you. The loss of privacy and invasion of the press into your life has been brutal. The unjust treatment of both you and Ilya from the league has made me, and many on this team, angry. You do not deserve this. I need you to know that.”
Across from him, Shane sat frozen.
“This is an empty threat, Shane. Ilya had clued me in on your confrontation with Crowell last season, and this is a pathetic attempt to regain control of the narrative. They have no real standing to actually reprimand either of you, so they are digging for anything they can find. I promise you we will fight this. Neither you or Ilya will be alone in this.”
Shane’s eyes drifted down, loosely focusing at the corner of Wiebe’s desk. “How long?”
Wiebe’s heart broke as the defeat crept into Shane’s frame. It was like he could see, brick by brick, as Shane built a wall to hide behind. To conceal whatever emotions that were starting to weigh on him. Like he was trained to conceal them. God, how long had this kid had to fight.
“Could be a few weeks. Maybe longer. At the moment, we’re at the mercy of the league.”
“What will the team do? Without Ilya and I?”
“Apologies, Shane, I must not have been clear enough…”
Wiebe’s throat was suddenly dry. This is going to crush him.
“Only you are under investigation. Only you are being benched.”