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The club is already loud by the time the Ottawa Centaurs stumble in after the win. Not overwhelmingly loud, not packed shoulder-to-shoulder loud. Just the familiar kind of post-game noise that comes from too many hockey players in one room—music thumping through the speakers, glasses clinking, someone yelling about a missed call from three periods ago.
The team takes over the back corner automatically.
Wyatt is halfway through telling a story nobody asked for. Luca is trying to steal fries off three separate plates. Bood looks one inconvenience away from homicide because someone touched his jacket.
And Shane? At first, Shane is normal.
Or at least normal for him after a win—loose around the edges, relaxed in that rare way hockey almost never lets him be. He sits close enough to Ilya that their knees knock together under the table, one arm hooked lazily over the back of Ilya’s chair while the rest of the team argues over highlights from the game.
Ilya notices the first drink disappear quickly. Then the second.
Not because Shane is trying to get wasted. Mostly because every time someone orders another round, somebody shoves one toward him automatically.
“Goal maker tax,” Wyatt announces, dropping a fresh beer in front of him.
“I don’t think that’s a thing,” Ilya says.
“It is tonight.” Wyatt grins.
Shane just laughs and drinks it, it is rare that Shane actually drinks during the season, or drinks at all, but it had been a particularly good game that night where they had use the Admrials to wipe the ice with.
And the thing about Shane drunk is that it happens gradually enough that nobody notices until suddenly it’s very obvious. His posture loosens first. Then his volume control disappears. Then his already-fragile sense of personal space with Ilya completely dies.
By drink number three, Shane has fully abandoned his own seat, not officially, but he is starting to take up Ilya's personal space.
His shoulder pressed against Ilya’s.
Then his thigh. Then his hand settling absentmindedly on the back of Ilya’s neck while he talks. Ilya watches the progression happen in real time with growing amusement.
Shane pulls Ilya in and kisses him on the lips a bit more passionately than a friendly peck and Ilya does not refuse or try and stop him.
“I’m just saying, maybe there could be a dog hockey league if they really trained- Oh my god, what are you two doing?” Wyatt stops mid-sentence, throwing a napkin at them, and Ilya flips him his middle finger, making out with his husband for a few more seconds before breaking away.
As Ilya looks over at Wyatt, he can’t help but notice Luca’s face, which flushes beet red after having watched that display of affection. He ignores it for Luca’s sake, no reason to send the kid sinking under the booth from embarrassment this early in the night.
Luca watches Shane steal half the ice from Ilya’s glass and says, “He’s gone.”
“I’m not gone,” Shane says immediately.
Barrett chimes in now, “No way that a sober Hollander would do what he just did in front of us.”
Shane gives him a quizical look that makes Barrett laugh, picking up his own drink and taking a sip.
The bartender returns, explaining that a fan across the bar had bought them a round of shots.
“Oh, that’s a bad idea,” Dykstra says happily.
Ilya eyes Shane. “You do not need that.”
Shane leans dramatically against him. “Just one.” He reaches forward before Ilya can do anything and downs the shot, earning him a cheer from Wyatt.
That’s when Shane starts staring. Not subtle staring either. Openly. Blatantly.
Ilya will turn his head mid-conversation and find Shane already looking at him with this soft, dazed expression like he’s seeing religion for the first time.
“What?” Ilya finally asks.
Shane smiles slowly. “You’re pretty.”
Wyatt gags loud enough to turn heads.
“I mean it,” Shane insists.
“You say that sober too,” Ilya points out.
“Yeah, but sober me has dignity.” Shane giggles.
“Drunk you absolutely does not,” Luca mutters.
By now Shane is warm and flushed, eyes glassy at the corners, grinning at literally everything Ilya says like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
And Ilya— Ilya is absolutely encouraging it. Every time Shane leans closer, Ilya lets him. Every time Shane hooks a hand into his hoodie or drapes himself over his shoulder, Ilya barely reacts. At one point, Shane drops his forehead onto Ilya’s shoulder with a dramatic sigh.
“Tired?” Ilya asks.
“Obsessed with you.” Shane sighs
Barett chokes on his drink. “Please stop feeding him alcohol,” Barrett says.
“No,” Ilya replies immediately.
“You are the problem here,” Barrett whines.
Sometime around midnight the lights dim further and the music shifts, bass suddenly heavy enough to vibrate through the booth seats.
Wyatt notices first. “Oh no,” he says immediately.
Bood follows his line of sight toward the crowd gathering near the DJ booth and goes pale. “Absolutely not.”
Ilya glances over. “What?”
Both of them look directly at Shane.
Shane, currently halfway through another drink, lifts his head slowly. “What?”
“You dance when you’re drunk,” Luca says flatly.
A dangerous grin spreads across Shane’s face. “Oh, we’re dancing.”
“We are not dancing,” Wyatt corrects.
Shane is already standing. The team groans like they’re watching a natural disaster unfold in real time. Ilya barely has time to set his beer down before Shane grabs his wrist.
“Come on.” Shane whines.
“I don’t dance, not tonight.” Ilya replies, squeezing Shane's hand.
“You absolutely dance.” Shane pouts.
“I absolutely stand there.” Ilya retorts.
Shane leans down close enough for Ilya to smell whiskey and mint on his breath. “Then stand there while I dance on you.”
“See?” Wyatt says. “Traumatizing.”
Heat crawls up Ilya’s neck despite himself. Because Shane is already pulling him toward the dance floor with complete confidence.
The music is loud enough that conversation dissolves into fragments once they hit the crowd. Bodies packed close together. Colored lights flashing over faces. Heat curling through the room. And Shane— Drunk Shane apparently loses every last ounce of restraint.
The second they reach the middle of the dance floor, Shane grabs Ilya by the hips and drags him flush against him.
Ilya laughs in surprise. “You are wasted.”
“Little bit.” Shane slurs a tiny bit.
“A lot bit.”
Shane just grins. Then he starts moving.
Unfortunately for Ilya, Shane can dance. Not polished. Not practiced. Just unfairly good at moving his body in ways that immediately become a problem. The beat pounds through the floor while Shane sways against him slow and deliberate, one hand locked on Ilya’s waist, the other sliding up the back of his neck. He is grinding on him, like a middle school dance. Dirty and obscene. He moves in a way that is making Ilya’s pants feel tight.
For a moment, it crosses his mind he could fuck Shane in the bathroom, but then he remembers how wasted Shane is and the thought fades from his mind immediately. Shane’s entirely focused on Ilya now, flushed and smiling and warm everywhere they touch. Every time Ilya tries to pull back even an inch, Shane just follows him, dragging him right back in.
Especially when Shane drops his head beside Ilya’s ear and rolls his hips against him to the beat just to make him choke on air.
Ilya grabs his shoulders immediately. “Shane.”
“What?”
“That was intentional.”
Shane’s grin turns outright wicked. Then he does it again. Ilya actually swears this time.
From the edge of the dance floor comes a loud, horrified yell. “There are children in here!”
“There are literally no children here,” The voice of Luca barely reaches Ilya’s ears.
“There could be!” Wyatt retorts.
Shane starts laughing hard enough to nearly lose rhythm, forehead dropping briefly onto Ilya’s shoulder.
Ilya is completely doomed because drunk, affectionate Shane is already difficult enough to survive, but drunk, confident Shane is catastrophic.
The music changes to something slower, heavier. Shane immediately takes advantage of that. His hands slide lower on Ilya’s waist, pulling him closer until there’s barely any space left between them. He moves with lazy confidence now, all warmth and pressure and teasing little smirks every time Ilya reacts to something.
Across the room, Wyatt has his face buried in his hands. “I miss when they were just fighting each other,” he says mournfully.
Meanwhile, Shane has fully abandoned any attempt at behaving appropriately in public. His hands wander constantly. Nothing obscene, but enough to make Ilya’s pulse jump every thirty seconds. A grip at his waist. Fingers hooking into his belt loops. A slow drag of his hands up Ilya’s chest while the lights flash blue and gold around them and the entire time Shane is looking at him like he’s the only person in the room. It’s unbearable.
Then Shane kisses him on the mouth casually, like they aren’t in the middle of a crowded bar with half their teammates actively suffering nearby.
Wyatt actually stands up from the table. “I’m going home.”
“You drove with us,” Luca reminds him.
“Then I’m walking into the river.” Wyatt throws his hands up, but slumps back down into his seat.
Across the room, Shane has somehow gotten worse. Ilya isn’t even sure how that’s possible. The song changes again, faster this time, and Shane immediately spins Ilya around with a grin that is entirely too pleased with itself.
“You know how to spin people now?” Ilya asks.
“I contain multitudes.” Shane grins.
“You contain tequila.”
“Also true.”
Shane pulls him back in before Ilya can say anything else, one hand firm on his waist while the other catches Ilya’s wrist and settles it around his shoulders like he belongs there.
The dance floor is crowded enough now that everyone is pressed close together, bodies moving shoulder to shoulder under flashing lights. Heat sticks to Ilya’s skin. Shane’s hair is damp at the edges from sweat.
Ilya exhales sharply when Shane’s hands slide beneath the hem of his hoodie for one brief second, fingertips brushing warm against skin before settling back at his waist.
“Oh, you asshole,” Ilya mutters.
Shane looks delighted by the reaction.
From their booth, Barrett yells. “Hands above the waist!”
“They are above the waist,” Shane yells back immediately.
The lights flash blue across his face for a second, catching the flush in his cheeks and the stupid fond look in his eyes, and suddenly Ilya understands why the team finds this horrifying. Because Shane loves loudly when he’s drunk. There’s no restraint left. No carefulness. Every thought that enters his head comes directly out of his mouth.
Ilya, meanwhile, can feel himself turning red again despite years of practice pretending Shane doesn’t affect him.
Which only makes Shane happier.
“There he goes,” Shane says immediately, touching Ilya’s cheek with the biggest grin imaginable. “He’s blushing.”
“Russians do not do that.” Ilya retorts.
The song changes.
Before Ilya can react, Shane dips him.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to make him stumble with a startled laugh while Shane steadies him instantly, grinning like he personally invented flirting.
The entire team erupts.
“This is too much.”
“Who taught him that?”
“Does this count as a hostile work environment?”
Shane is laughing too hard to defend himself now, forehead dropping against Ilya’s shoulder while Ilya clutches the front of his shirt to stay upright.
By the time they finally leave the dance floor, Shane is practically boneless. Not sloppy drunk. Just heavy with it—warm and loose and completely attached to Ilya like a very large, very affectionate problem.
His arms are still looped around Ilya’s shoulders as they weave back through the crowd toward the booth, Shane stumbling only slightly when someone bumps into him.
“Careful,” Ilya says automatically, steadying him by the waist.
Shane immediately melts against him with a pleased hum. “You’re so nice to me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re still nice to me.”
At the table, Wyatt watches them approach with the hollow-eyed expression of a man who has seen horrors beyond human comprehension.
“Oh good,” he says flatly. “They survived.”
“Barely,” Luca mutters.
Barrett points accusingly at Shane. “At one point he dipped him.”
“I saw,” Wyatt says darkly. “I’ll never unsee it.”
“What are you suddenly homophobic Hayes?” Ilya raises an eyebrow at him.
“What? No! It’s not that we don’t enjoy men kissing, it’s just that you are both out teammates it makes it weird and you two were not doing normal levels of PDA for couples in public.” Wyatt defends himself.
“So you enjoy men kissing?” Ilya asks and this is Wyatt’s turn to flip Ilya off.
Shane ignores all of them and immediately collapses sideways into the booth beside Ilya, half sprawled across him before he’s even fully seated.
Actually, no. Not beside him. On him.
One of Shane’s legs wedges between Ilya’s under the table while he drops his head onto Ilya’s shoulder with a dramatic sigh like the journey from the dance floor exhausted him beyond reason.
“There,” Shane mumbles. “Home.”
Ilya reaches for his drink only to realize Shane is still hanging off his arm.
“You planning on detaching anytime soon?” he asks.
Shane considers this seriously. “No.”
“Thought so.”
And honestly?
Ilya doesn’t mind. Not even a little. Because Shane drunk is all instinct. Every ounce of affection he usually keeps restrained comes spilling out uncontrollably, and Ilya would be lying if he said he didn’t love being on the receiving end of it.
Especially when Shane keeps nuzzling absent little kisses into the side of his neck between conversations.
Shane has gone back to hanging off Ilya completely, eyes half-lidded and content while Ilya absentmindedly runs a hand through his damp curls.
The sight makes Wyatt look physically ill.
“You’re petting him now.”
“He likes it.”
Shane makes a soft approving noise against Ilya’s shoulder without opening his eyes.
“There it is,” Wyatt says, pointing violently. “That noise. That noise is why nobody can room with them on road trips anymore.”
“You’re jealous because nobody pets you,” Ilya says.
“I would rather die.”
“Good,” Luca mutters. “Do it quietly.”
The bartender swings by with the check and gives Shane one look before setting it directly in front of Ilya.
Beside him, Shane shifts closer somehow, pressing his face into the curve of Ilya’s neck while waiting.
“You smell nice,” Shane murmurs for maybe the sixth time that night.
“You’ve said that already.”
“Still true.”
Eventually everyone starts gathering jackets and phones and whatever dignity they have left.
Luca is already halfway to the door. Barrett is arguing with Wyatt about ordering late-night food. The whole table buzzes with the messy, exhausted energy of a team after a win.
Shane, however, does not appear interested in standing.
“C’mon,” Ilya says, nudging him gently. “Time to go home.”
Shane immediately brightens at the word home.
“Oh,” he says happily. “Yeah.”
Then he stands and nearly walks directly into Ilya again instead of toward the exit.
Wyatt watches this happen with dead eyes. “He’s gone.”
“I’m right here,” Shane says.
“You’re emotionally somewhere else.”
Shane thinks about this. Then looks at Ilya. “Fair.”
The team groans collectively.
They make it outside into the cold night air somehow still functioning as a group. The chill hits Shane immediately, and instead of putting on his own jacket properly, he just crowds into Ilya’s space again, arms wrapping around his waist from behind while Ilya waits for their ride.
“Can we go home now?” he asks into Ilya’s shoulder. “Need you.”
That gets the entire team’s attention instantly.
Wyatt points a warning finger. “Don’t.”
Ilya turns his head slightly. “Don’t what?”
“Whatever sentence you’re about to say.”
Ilya smiles slowly.
Which is the exact expression that used to precede fights back when he and Shane were still in the rivalry phase.
Now it usually means trouble of a completely different kind.
“Oh,” Ilya says lightly, sliding a hand back into Shane’s hair while Shane practically melts against him, “I was just thinking that after the way he danced on me all night, I should probably reward him properly.”
There is a beat of absolute silence. Then the team all starts groaning.
Shane goes completely still behind him for one stunned second. Then his face burns bright red all the way to the ears while a huge grin spreads across it. “You’re so hot,” he says immediately.
Wyatt looks ready to throw himself into traffic.
Ilya isn’t finished.
“He’s been clingy all night,” he continues conversationally. “Probably gonna keep him busy until he forgets his own name.”
Wyatt actually folds in half against the side of the car laughing and screaming simultaneously and Ilya can’t even begin to describe the shade of red that Luca had turned.
“You can’t say things like that in public,” Shane says, scandalized despite clearly loving every second of it.
“Oh? But you grinding on me in front of the entire team was fine?”
“That was different.”
“How?”
Shane opens his mouth. Closes it.
Then just buries his burning face into Ilya’s shoulder while the team continues yelling at both of them.
And honestly? Ilya has never felt more victorious in his life.