Chapter Text
Ilya goes down during a game two months after the start of the season, and Shane’s heart drops when he sees that his husband isn’t getting back up. He’s moving, so at least he’s conscious, but for a moment, Shane is frozen at the thought of his husband suffering from an injury severe enough that it could end his career. He sees headlines, surgery, and months of rehab and empty seats beside him on flights during roadies. He sees their first season together ending before it has really begun, and he’s terrified that they may never play together again after only getting to do it for a few weeks, the best of Shane’s life.
He sees Ilya, still on the ground, with the medics around him and decides that he needs to be closer. He doesn’t wait for permission. He hops over the boards and skates in a short, sharp line through the cluster of players and medical staff on the ice while his heart is still thudding too hard, overwhelmed with concern.
Ilya Rozanov has taken plenty of hits in his career. Most of them he barely felt, some of them bruising him harder than others. However, this one scares him, because for the first time, he can’t get back up right away. The worst thing is, it happened in the stupidest possible way.
Late in the second period, he chased a loose puck into the corner. One of the defensemen from Detroit leaned into him, not even a particularly hard check, but Ilya's right skate caught a rut in the ice as he twisted away from the boards. His knee folded inward, and pain shot up his leg, but he was still standing, so he kept going. Which was obviously a mistake, as only a few seconds later, he tried to speed up as Troy had the puck and he just had to get a small opening to pass it to Ilya, but as he tried to get to that perfect spot, ignoring the shooting pain, his left leg gave out and he lost his balance. One second he was skating, and the next he was lying down on the ice with no other players within close distance. The sudden collapse turned heads immediately.
For one terrifying moment, he wonders if this is how his career ends, not with some dramatic collision, but with a stupid twist of a skate.
“Ilya,” Shane breathes out as he drops beside him. One of the medics shifts slightly, but doesn’t stop him. Ilya’s face is pinched in a way Shane almost never sees.
“I’m fine,” Ilya says immediately, because of course he does. His voice is steady, but it’s forced. “You go back.”
Shane stares at him, dumbfounded. “You just went down and didn’t get up for like…”
“I know what I did,” Ilya cuts in, sharper now, then exhales through his nose, trying to soften it. “Finish the game, Hollander.”
“That’s not how this works,” Shane says, immediately shaking his head. His eyes flick to the medics, then back to Ilya, wondering why they all seem so calm when his husband is on the ground, unable to get back up on his own, his face twisting in pain. “If they need to take you to the hospital, I need to come with you.”
Ilya’s gaze holds his, firm in that infuriating way that usually means he’s already made up his mind. Even like this, he refuses to look weak.
“Shane,” he says, quieter now. “I get checked. You win the game. The team can’t lose their second-best player too. If I need hospital, you come after.”
For a second, Shane doesn’t move. Then one of the medics mentions bringing a stretcher to move Ilya, and he immediately shakes his head. "No," he says. "You help me get up, and help me walk away. I don't need to lie down and get carried away like princess," he argues.
Hearing Ilya's reaction is what ultimately breaks through Shane’s frozen panic. If he has enough energy to argue, to try and want to walk away, things can't be too bad.
Shane swallows hard and offers his help as two of the biggest guys on the medical team bring Ilya up to his feet. As soon as he's standing, Shane slides a hand around his waist, holding him firmly in place, and they remove Ilya from the ice together, standing, under the shy applause of the crowd.
“Don’t you go anywhere,” Shane says, voice rough as he gets ready to go back on the ice.
A faint, almost offended look flickers across Ilya’s face. “I won’t. I literally cannot walk away right now.”
It almost makes Shane laugh. He backs away slowly, and then turns back toward the game he’s supposed to finish because Ilya, his husband, his captain, said so.
The diagnosis ends up being embarrassingly mild by hockey standards. A Grade 2 MCL sprain. No surgery or dramatic cast needed, only four to six weeks of recovery total. With some rehab, patience, a knee brace, and crutches for a few days until bearing weight on his leg stops being so painful. He also has strict instructions not to push himself too hard or do anything stupid, which, according to Shane, rules out the majority of Ilya's hobbies.
A couple of weeks later, after enough rest to bore him out of his mind (especially when Shane is out of town for games), and enough physical therapy sessions to drive him insane, his team doctor finally suggests that he can start exercising again, gently. He also suggests a mobility class.
"Like a stretching class?" Ilya asks, frowning.
"Something more mobility-focused," he replies.
"Sounds like a fancy name for stretching," Ilya grumbles, unconvinced.
"It’s really good for recovery," Terry insists, knowing Ilya would do anything to get back on the ice as soon as possible.
And that's how Ilya ends up signing up for a class. He could have hired a personal trainer to do this in the privacy of his own home gym, but he has been spending way too much time at home lately, and he is going stir-crazy, so he decides that checking out classes at one of the local gyms and being around other people would be less boring.
After all, Shane got to go home every day and tell him all about practise and what was going on with Ilya’s teammates, so Ilya needs to have something to tell Shane about too.
He arrives five minutes early to his first class wearing sweats, a hoodie, and a baseball cap pulled low, wanting to get a good idea of the vibe in the class before revealing who he is. There’s one thing he hadn’t thought about much, though, and in hindsight, he had been stupid because the name of the class (Gentle Motion Recovery), combined with the fact that it was 11am on a Tuesday, should have given him a hint on the demographic he would encounter.
The room is full, but not of recovering hockey players, or the athletic people he usually runs into at hotel gyms. In this class, he is the only one under 65.
Not only does he stand out by being the youngest, but he’s also the only man. And with his height, muscular figure, and broad shoulders, they have definitely noticed him walking in, so a dozen elderly women sitting down on their yoga mats across the floor are suddenly staring at him.
The one closest to the front of the class smiles brightly. "Oh, good. A young man!"
Her neighbour whispers something to her, and they both giggle. He waves at them, uncomfortable, and sets the yoga mat he borrowed from Shane down on the ground in an empty corner towards the back of the room, hoping that he won't be stared at too much this way, but quickly realizes that this is pointless, because the room is full of freaking mirrors. Ilya immediately considers leaving, realizing he’s never felt like someone who didn’t fit in more than in this very moment. However, at the same time, the instructor walks in, and Ilya knows he has to stay, because it would be rude to just walk out now.
The instructor looks to be around thirty, maybe a little younger. Blonde hair, lean build showing under fitted athletic clothes. He's very obviously surprised to find a six-foot-three professional hockey player standing among his regular attendees, even though he doesn’t seem to recognize Ilya. There are a lot of fans of hockey in Ottawa, and even some who don’t follow sports as much seem to recognize his name or his face (especially since he has married the hometown hero Shane Hollander), but there are also a LOT of people who don’t care about hockey at all, and won’t pay any attention to him. Although it’s not exactly the case here, because everyone in this class has noticed him, they don’t seem to be in the category of people who have any idea who he is, and Ilya doesn't mind at all.
"Welcome, everyone," he says. “I see we have some new faces today.” The instructor's voice cracks slightly as he points at Ilya.
“Hi, I’m Ilya,” he replies.
“Welcome, Ilya. We’re happy to have you here. I’m Ethan, and I’ll be your instructor today.”
The class starts, and Ilya realizes with horror that this bunch of elderly women is doing far better than him so far, so he's very relieved that they don't know he's a professional athlete. Especially because Ethan keeps watching him whenever he demonstrates a new movement, his gaze drifting toward the giant man trying very hard not to fall over during balance exercises. Whenever he circles the room, he somehow also finds another reason to check his form, which is ridiculous, because he has already corrected him three times and Ilya is fairly certain the exercise only has so many ways to stand wrong.
However, every single time their eyes meet, Ethan immediately looks somewhere else, and Ilya starts understanding what is actually going on. The old ladies notice too, because old ladies notice everything. Twenty minutes into the class, half of them are openly watching this unfold like it is an episode of their favorite drama show.
Ethan clears his throat. "Ilya, try keeping your shoulders relaxed," he says gently.
"I am relaxed," Ilya replies, grumpily.
“You’re doing great, sweetie,” his neighbour, who introduced herself as Margaret earlier, whispers, encouraging. She has a warm smile and a high bun that briefly reminds Ilya of his babushka. For a moment, he can almost remember sitting in a tiny kitchen, listening to adults talk around him while she pressed another piece of food into his hands. The memory is incomplete, blurred by time, but the feeling remains. He doesn’t remember much of her, as she was already in her mid-seventies when Ilya was born, and passed away when he was still a child, but he remembers her warmth. He wishes he had known her longer, or known his grandparents on his mom’s side, the ones he never met. Being surrounded by all these elderly women suddenly painfully reminds him of yet another kind of familial love he lost a long time ago.
He shakes his head as his eyes begin to sting, and focuses on the class to clear his head. By the end of the hour, his knee actually feels better. Maybe all of his other muscles too, although he knows he can never admit this to Shane, who might take this as an opportunity to get Ilya to do yoga with him.
Unfortunately, right now, he has another problem. The instructor is definitely staring at him from a distance, flustered, although he's trying to hide it, and everyone has noticed.
Ilya decides to head over to thank him, thinking of a way to gently let him know that he's very happily married, without making things too awkward because he would like to come back for another class now that he understands how it may benefit him during his recovery.
The women cluster together immediately in a corner, like sharks smelling blood, close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation.
"Class was good," Ilya says, keeping his tone nonchalant.
"Oh, thank you," Ethan says, looking startled. "I hope that means you’ll come back," he adds.
Maybe I will bring my husband next time, Ilya is about to say, when the awkward silence fortunately gets interrupted by one of the ladies, gasping. She stares at her phone, then at Ilya, then back at her phone with wide eyes. Ilya immediately knows his anonymity is about to die.
"Bernice, what’s wrong?" one of her friends asks, and Bernice shoves the screen toward her. A chain reaction follows, and within seconds, half the class is crowding around the phone.
"I knew you looked familiar!" Bernice tells Ilya while the other ladies are still passing her phone around. "You're famous!" she adds.
"A little," Ilya smirks.
"A little?" One of the other ladies sputters. "You're that hockey player!"
And now everyone is staring, including Ethan, who looks confused and flustered.
Ilya shrugs, and they all start asking him questions, until the most important one comes up: "Are you married?"
"I am" Ilya smiles. "My husband and I both play for the Centaurs."
He would be lying if he said he wasn't slightly concerned about their reaction, because even though they had all seemed lovely until now and seemed very interested in Ethan's potential crush on Ilya, homophobia was still very much a problem he's had to face since his relationship with Shane had become public. But as usual, he tells himself he doesn't care if it bothers any of them; that is their problem. He's still relieved when he sees that they are all smiling at him, though.
"Oh, that's lovely," Margaret says, "What's his name?"
"Shane," Ilya replies proudly. This time last year, they were still hiding their relationship to the world, so being able to say his name out loud always gives him butterflies.
“Wait, you’re Shane Hollander’s husband!” One of the ladies shouts.
Ilya's heart flutters, and he doesn’t care if he should be a little offended to be recognized as someone’s husband rather than one of the best hockey players in the league himself. He already knows he’ll never get tired of people referring to him as Shane Hollander’s husband. He almost wants to introduce himself that way half of the time.
“My son kept talking about you both last year when he found out his two favorite hockey players were getting married to each other," she adds once Ilya nodded. "He’s absolutely obsessed, and he was beyond thrilled when your husband moved back to Ottawa. He will be very jealous that I met you.”
“Sharon, you should take a photo together," one of her friends suggests.
She looks embarrassed, almost shy for a second, so Ilya jumps in. "Let’s do this,” he smiles and puts an arm around her shoulders while she hands her phone to her friend.
After that, a few of them line up for photos, and Ilya smiles patiently in every single one of them.
“Can’t believe we have a celebrity in our class; the girls in our knitting group are going to be very jealous,” Bernice says.
“Just a hockey player,” Ilya shrugs, even though he's secretly loving the attention.
“Pretty sure that makes you a celebrity," Margaret says calmly. Ilya loves her already.
"Aren’t you and your husband the first married hockey players too?” Sharon asks, and Ilya nods proudly. “That makes you both a power couple. I’ll have to start watching your games with my son.”
“Will be a few weeks before I can play again, but when I get back, I will blow kisses at the camera for you,” Ilya winks and Sharon giggles and blushes slightly. “I am recovering from knee injury,” he adds, to explain why he signed up for this class, and hopefully justify why he was pretty bad at some of the moves they had to do.
“We’ll see you here again then?” Margaret asks, and everyone else stops talking, waiting for Ilya's reply.
“Yes, at least until I can go back on ice full-time,” he says.
“You should bring your husband!” One of the ladies suggests.
"No chance," Ilya laughs.
"He doesn't stretch?" Ethan asks, chiming in.
"Oh, he does, every day. Very good at it. Trust me, he is very flexible." He adds with another wink, and the room erupts. Even Ethan is laughing at this point, the nervousness and awkwardness finally fading, now that he knows that Ilya's not available.
By the time Ilya finally heads toward the door, he has somehow acquired invitations to brunch and a senior walking club. They even suggested that he could bring Anya on one of their walks, so he's definitely considering going. In the meantime, he's looking forward to their next class in a couple of days.
As he walks out, he can hear the group immediately restarting their gossiping behind him, and Ilya laughs the entire way to his car with the lingering amusement from the strangest fitness class he's ever attended, which turned out to be far more entertaining than physical therapy.
Shane makes it home carrying a takeout bag with some dinner he grabbed on the way back from practice, blood pumping with excitement because he missed his husband during their few hours apart, and getting to come home to him will never stop being so thrilling, especially since he was on the road the week prior and they had to be away from each other for the first time in months.
He misses having him on the team, but he's glad Ilya has been working hard and taking his recovery plan very seriously.
Anya greets him first, and Ilya's voice comes through from the living room, asking Shane to join him. Shane kicks off his shoes and walks toward his husband. "How was rehab?" he asks, bending down for a kiss as soon as he reaches the couch Ilya is sitting on.
"It was not rehab. It was mobility class." Ilya says when their lips part.
"So?" Shane asks. "How was stretching with the retirees?"
Ilya barks out a laugh. "How did you know there would be retirees?"
Shane looks far too pleased by this and drops onto the couch beside his husband, immediately leaning in for another kiss, sliding his fingers in Ilya's hair.
"Because a low-impact class in the middle of the day when most people are at work sounds like it would be full of elderly women named Margaret," Shane laughs.
"My new best friend’s name is Margaret!" Ilya leans away from Shane, shocked. “Did you have cameras in there to see if I was stretching correctly?" He asks, suspicious.
“Lucky guess.” Shane grins. “How did it go?”
“There were twelve old ladies." Shane's smile widens. "And an instructor who was definitely flirting. The ladies were very invested,” Ilya adds, casually.
The grin instantly disappears from Shane's face. "The instructor was flirting?"
"Yes," Ilya replies, cautiously.
"With you," Shane adds, frowning.
"No, with one of the old ladies," Ilya replies, rolling his eyes.
The look Shane gives him suggests that he is approximately three seconds away from throwing a couch cushion to his face. Instead, he folds his arms, putting some distance between them. Ilya instantly misses him.
"That is not very professional," Shane says, trying to keep his voice steady."What happened?"
Ilya stretches his injured leg onto the coffee table. "He was staring," he starts.
"He?" Shane looks even more annoyed, and Ilya ignores him, but he's fighting a smile at his husband's very obvious jealousy.
"Got flustered every time I talked to him, couldn't maintain eye contact. Reminded me of someone."
Shane makes a non-committal noise, but the way he glares at Ilya is becoming increasingly dangerous. "You're enjoying this, " he says.
"A little. You make angry kitten face when you are jealous; is very cute," Ilya admits.
"Unbelievable," Shane huffs and moves like he's about to stand and walk away, so Ilya is quick to reach over and put his arms around him.
"Relax," he says as he nudges Shane's chin with his nose before burying his face in his shoulder, leaving kisses down his neck in the process.
"I am relaxed," but he hasn't melted against Ilya's body, like he usually does when they touch.
"You look like you're planning a murder. Is not necessary," Ilya mumbles against his skin, and Shane shivers. Finally.
"I'm evaluating options," he replies.
That makes Ilya laugh, and Shane smiles before he can control it.
"Was he at least your type?" Shane can't help but ask, but he sounds shy instead of angry.
The question catches Ilya off guard, and he leans back to stare at Shane. "What?"
"You heard me," Shane says, avoiding his husband's gaze.
"You're asking me if the guy flirting with me was attractive?" Ilya asks, confused.
"Just curious," Shane shrugs, but Ilya can tell he's actually bothered by the situation.
"Sure," Ilya says, frowning. "He was cute. You know, tall, blonde, athletic body… But you know my type is freckles."
Shane rolls his eyes, still obviously annoyed, but there is a hint of a smile.
“He did stop flirting once I started talking about you.”
“You talked about me?” Shane's expression softens.
“Of course. You know I was mostly telling you about him to tease you, right?" Ilya asks, concerned that this is getting more serious than he had anticipated when he decided to annoy his husband. "Because I love angry kitten face. Very sexy." Shane snorts. "I was trying to find a nice way to let him know I already had the prettiest husband when one of the ladies recognized me," he adds.
"Oh no," Shane mutters, but the relief is obvious.
"Oh yes. They asked if I was the famous Shane Hollander’s husband," Ilya grins proudly.
Shane buries his face in his hands. “They did not.”
“They definitely did. They want you to come to class. They are curious to see how good you are at stretching after I told them how flexible you are." Ilya winks, and Shane groans, the tips of his ears turning pink, which is honestly adorable. Ilya slides closer to him and whispers directly into his ear. "You should have seen them. These ladies don’t watch hockey; they just know from their sons and husbands, and they have heard your name because your face is all over this town. So famous."
"Stop it," Shane argues, still hiding his face with embarrassment.
"One lady called you handsome," Ilya adds.
"You can't trust old ladies," Shane huffs, finally looking up at his husband. The blush on his cheeks makes his freckles pop, and Ilya wants to devour him.
"Hm, I think they are right about that," Ilya replies before kissing his cheeks, trying to catch every single freckle with his lips while Shane sighs happily against him.
"They invited me to brunch. And on walks. They said I could bring Anya," Ilya adds after a while, grinning.
"And you’re going to go? You're actually becoming friends with those ladies, aren't you?" Shane asks, amused.
"I think so," Ilya shrugs. "Today was fun, and my famous husband has been too busy playing hockey to keep me company lately.”
Shane watches him, a smile trying very hard to escape. "So this instructor."
Ilya groans and leans away from his husband, letting his head fall back as he rolls his eyes. "We're back to that?"
"You started this. And I'm curious," Shane says innocently.
"You are jealous."
"I am gathering information," Shane argues.
"Sure," Ilya laughs, and Shane pokes his shoulder.
"Is he going to be there next class?"
"Probably," Ilya shrugs.
"And you'll be there too," Shane adds.
"The doctors said I should go for a few weeks," Ilya replies.
"Right."
Ilya laughs, then reaches over and pulls Shane closer against him, so he's basically half lying down on top of him, and their bodies completely melt together, although Shane is doing his best to keep his weight off of Ilya's injured leg.
"You know," Shane says eventually, tenderly stroking Ilya's face while Ilya buries his hands in his hair. "If I come with you next time, if it's not during practise. I could solve this problem," he manages to add.
"What problem?" Ilya asks, too distracted by the firm body on top of him.
"The instructor," Shane clarifies.
"There is no problem," Ilya says firmly. "Although if you come, there might be a problem because all these ladies will become obsessed with you. And I don’t want to have to fight old ladies to keep my pretty husband.”
"No need to fight, I'm keeping you," Shane says before kissing him as his shoulders shake with laughter, making Ilya melt against him.
Two weeks ago, lying on the ice, he had been terrified he was going to lose everything he had worked for. Instead, he was recovering nicely and somehow ended up with twelve elderly women eager to claim him as a friend.