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It was one of those chilly, damp afternoons in Ottawa, where the late October wind already carried the promise of winter, though the sun still struggled to pierce through the grey clouds. Ilya Rozanov stood before his new front door, adjusting the collar of his sweater. He had only been here for two months, and the house still smelled of novelty, fresh paint, and a faint aroma of coffee.
As the crew from Architectural Digest knocked, Ilya smiled to himself. He was curious to see how he would come across in the "Open Door" format. He remembered the adrenaline of Pride Month and that wild Lip Sync Battle performance with Shane. That was just a few months ago—the world saw only a spectacular show and chemistry that could have been "just an act," but for the two of them, it had been the most exhilarating game of their lives. The fact that no one had realized what was actually happening behind closed doors gave him a strange sense of security and a thrill of excitement.
"Welcome! Please, come in!" Ilya opened the door wide, greeting the film crew with a natural, though slightly distant, grace.
As the crew stepped inside, it was immediately apparent that the house was still in a state of transition. A few unpacked boxes lingered in the corners of the hallway, and some of the lighting fixtures were still awaiting their final touch. Because he had moved in so recently, not everything was polished to perfection—but that was intentional. For Ilya, this wasn't just about luxury or aesthetics; it was about creating a sanctuary. He had been adamant about making this space truly his, ensuring that every room felt like a reflection of his own identity rather than a showroom. He wanted to feel an authentic sense of belonging here, a place where he could finally drop the guard he maintained so strictly in the public eye.
"Thank you for coming," Ilya added, his voice smooth and welcoming. "I really appreciate the opportunity to show you all what the real life of Ilya Rozanov looks like—beyond the rink and the headlines."
He began leading them through the living room. The space was bright and modern, yet it felt very much "in progress." "For me, the most important thing is the space for daily life," he explained, gesturing toward a large, comfortable sectional sofa. "It’s not quite finished yet... at least, not how I’d like it to be."
He stopped by a tall bookshelf. The camera zoomed in on the spines of the books. Rows of Russian classics—Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov—intermingled with global literature. However, right in the center, almost provocatively, sat two thick volumes on the history of Canadian hockey. "A bit of contrast, right?" Ilya laughed, glancing at the operator.
In the kitchen, everything went according to plan. Modern appliances, minimalist design. When the reporter asked if they could see the inside of the fridge, Ilya opened it with a slight smile. Inside, there was a decent amount of groceries: fresh vegetables, fruit, and his constant companion—Coca-Cola. But right next to them sat a significant amount of Canada Dry. The crew noticed immediately. Fans knew that Ilya couldn't stand the drink. "Oh, this?" Ilya shrugged, maintaining his composure. "Guest preferences. I like to be a good host."
Next came the Trophy Room. This was the heart of his pride. Cabinets filled with cups, medals, memories from Boston, and evidence of his captaincy and success. But the reporter's gaze quickly drifted from the gold toward the wall. There, in an elegant frame, hung a photo of Ilya and Shane Hollander—eternal rivals from the MHL—sharing that famous helmet kiss after one of Shane's goals at the 2017 All-Star Games.
The reporter raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "I have to ask... why this photo? It's quite a personal choice for two rivals."
Ilya froze for a split second. He felt a sudden rush of heat, the memory of that kiss which had lasted a fraction of a second too long to be just a "sports gesture." He quickly regained his confidence, straightening his posture. "It was the first joint performance of the two greatest players and biggest rivals in MHL history," he replied with a slight, ironic smile. "And we won, obviously, so... I think it was worth to remember. Pure professionalism and triumph."
Reporter agreed; they done a slow show around through the room asking about some prize, and Ilya was more than happy to explain what was from when and where. After two minutes later they moved to another space in the hause – gym.
When they entered the home gym, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The room was sleek, filled with state-of-the-art equipment and the scent of rubber and steel, but as Ilya stepped inside, his heart skipped a beat. His gaze swept the room, and that’s when he saw it.
In the corner, draped carelessly across the weight bench like a discarded skin, lay a splash of blue: a Montreal Metros jersey. Specifically, Shane’s jersey.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to tilt. Ilya felt a sudden, icy jolt of adrenaline shoot through his veins, followed by a wave of heat that rushed up his neck. His breath hitched, catching in his throat as a cold sweat broke out across his palms. How the hell is Hollander's jersey here?! he screamed internally. He remembered now—Shane had stayed over a few nights ago, they made some crazy role-playing whatever and well... they forgetting about that thing when Shane was leaving in such a rush as they overslept and Ilya was here yesterday but somehow missed it.
Ilya’s mind raced at a thousand miles per hour. This wasn't just a piece of clothing; it was a smoking gun. In the world of professional hockey, where their rivalry was legendary and their secret was their most precious possession, this was a catastrophe. He could almost hear the headlines already. He felt a surge of genuine panic, a primal urge to dive across the room and throw his body over the jersey to hide it from the lens.
But he was too slow.
The camera, with its clinical, unblinking eye, panned slowly to the right, tracking Ilya's sudden rigidity. The lens zoomed in, capturing the bold white lettering of "HOLLANDER" against the blue fabric in sharp, high-definition detail.
"Fuck," was the only word that echoed in Ilya's mind.
The silence that followed felt eternal. Ilya could feel the reporter's gaze shift from the jersey back to him, the air thick with an unspoken question. He felt exposed, stripped bare in front of the crew, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, and for one terrifying second, he thought the secret they had guarded so carefully was about to shatter.
Then, the reporter spoke, his voice laced with an amused curiosity. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "It looks like you have a welcome gift from Canada’s hockey world here. Does this mean you've become a Hollander fan now that you've moved to Ottawa?"
The question acted like a splash of cold water, snapping Ilya back to reality. He forced his muscles to relax, suppressing the tremor in his hands. He knew he couldn't backtrack; he had to pivot. He leaned into the only weapon he had: his arrogance.
He shifted his weight, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his lips as he looked at the camera, masking his terror with a layer of sheer, flirtatious confidence "Haha, no... I am not a Hollander fan now just because I moved to Ottawa..." he trailed off, glancing at the jersey, which still smelled faintly of Shane's cologne. "But well... girls here kind of like him. A lot. And well, we are in a family-friendly show, so I will not elaborate more about that."
The suggestive tone made the reporter laugh and move on without digging deeper, though a certain tension remained in the air. The film crew done few more shots around the gym when Ilya was explaining his excercise routine and why it is so important.
Finally, they headed to the back yard. The space was decidedly unfinished— almost whole part of the area looked like it was waiting for a vision. "I moved in at the end of summer, so there really hasn't been much time to think about it," Ilya muttered, pointing toward different parts of the garden. "I'm just starting to plan things. I see a nice little nook for relaxing here... maybe a grill over there, a sofa and a table... maybe a gazebo? Something private."
As he led the crew back to the exit, Ilya felt a wave of relief. He had made it through without any real slip-ups—at least officially. "So, thank you for the visit! Hope you enjoyed the tour. Bye bye!" he waved from the doorway and closed the door.
Leaning his back against the cool wood, he breathed deeply and looked at his phone. He had a new message from Shane: "I heard Architectural Digest was visiting your den. I hope my glasses looked good on camera ;)"
Ilya smirked. He didn’t even saw it... The crew didn’t spotted as well, but here it was... On the bookshelf near those Shane’s hockey books a pair of Shane’s glasses was waiting for the owner to claim them back.
Ilya couldn't wait for Shane to come over tonight... And he can wear those glasses and maybe even his new Ottawa’s jersey with Rozanov's name on it. Well, Shane could stay in that jersey for much longer...
Two weeks later, the autumn chill had truly settled in, and Ilya had made the trip to Montreal. He wasn't there for a game, but for the only thing that mattered more than hockey: a weekend locked away in Shane’s plqce, far from the prying eyes of the MHL.
They were sprawled across Shane’s massive sofa, a cans of coke’s and ginger ale open on the coffee table and a bowl of snacks between them. The lights were dimmed, and the large screen in front of them was glowing with the Architectural Digest logo.
"I can't believe you actually let them air it," Shane chuckled, his arm draped lazily around Ilya’s shoulders, pulling him close. "The editors must have loved the drama."
"I didn't 'let' them do anything," Ilya replied, leaning back into Shane's chest with a contented sigh. "I just played the part. Besides, it makes me look mysterious. A man of taste... and secrets."
As the episode progressed, they watched Ilya glide through his new home. Now Ilya finally saw the glasses Shane left there ON PURPOSE. They laughed together when the camera lingered on the Canada Dry in the fridge.
"A 'good host,' huh?" Shane teased, nipping at Ilya's ear. "You can't even stand the smell of the stuff. You’re such a liar, Rozanov."
"It's called diplomacy, Hollander. Look it up," Ilya retorted, though he was smiling.
Then came the Trophy Room. When the photo of their helmet kiss appeared on screen and Ilya’s voice echoed, calling it "pure professionalism and triumph," Shane lost it. He burst into a fit of loud, genuine laughter, nearly tipping them both off the sofa.
"Pure professionalism!" Shane gasped, clutching his stomach. "I remember that 'professionalism.' I remember you practically trying to swallow my tongue the very same night in that hotel room when people outside cheered for our 'rivalry.'"
Ilya rolled his eyes, though his cheeks were flushed. "It was a high-pressure environment."
But then, the scene shifted to the home gym. The tension in the room changed as the camera zoomed in on the blue jersey. They watched as Ilya froze—his face on the screen perfectly capturing that split second of absolute, wide-eyed terror.
Shane started laughing again, but this time it was softer, more intimate. He watched the way Ilya pivoted, seeing the predatory, flirtatious smile he had used to deflect the reporter's question.
"But well... girls here kind of like him," the on-screen Ilya said with that suggestive tone.
Shane paused, his laughter fading into a low, husky hum. He tightened his grip on Ilya, his hand sliding down from his shoulder to the small of his back, pulling him flush against him.
"Girls like me, do they?" Shane whispered against Ilya's skin, his voice vibrating through Ilya's spine. "Is that what you told them to cover up the fact that I spent almost two hours in that gym making you scream my name?"
Ilya shivered, the memory of that afternoon hitting him all at once. He turned in Shane's arms, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"I think I handled it perfectly," Ilya murmured, his hand reaching up to trail along Shane's jawline. "I kept the world guessing... while keeping you all to myself."
Shane grinned, leaning down to capture Ilya's lips in a kiss that was far from "professional." As they melted into each other, the television continued to play in the background, but neither of them was watching anymore. The secret was still safe, and the thrill of the lie only made the reality of their touch feel that much more electric.