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Shane Hollander loves playing for the Ottawa Centaurs. Leaving Montreal, as painful as it had been, really has been one of the best decisions he’s ever made.
He gets to play with his husband. He’s supported at all levels, from upper management down to the most casual of fans, and his teammates are genuinely kind and lovely people who care about him and his life and are invested in his well-being.
Considering where he came from, Shane thinks it’s wonderful to work with such caring players who want what’s best for him and notice things about his life. It's really, really great.
Until it isn’t, of course.
“Hollander, what the fuck is that on your face?” Zane Boodram asks in the locker room while they’re changing for game five of the first round of playoffs.
Shane immediately reaches a hand up to wipe at his mouth, concerned somehow that Ilya has left something there after the ridiculous makeout session they’d had in the parking lot just before heading inside to the arena.
(Normally, he wouldn’t allow such things to happen right before a game, but ‘normally’ has kind of gone completely out the window since he’s been given twenty-four-seven access to one Ilya Rozanov.)
“No, dude, not your mouth,” Zane says, and Shane is mortified to realize the whole team is looking at him now. “Your chin,” he goes on, pointing to an area on his own face.
“What?” Shane says stupidly, his hand coming to touch the jut of bone beneath his mouth, and feeling a patch of his skin burn just a bit under his fingers. The fuck?
He walks towards a mirror in the far corner of the room, and when he sees his reflection, he’s momentarily startled to see an irritated red blotch on his chin.
Panic wells up in him. Was he having some kind of allergic reaction? Had that make-up Arthur Pike smeared all over his face a few days ago contained some kind of flesh-eating bacteria? Was Anya licking his face actually bad for him, like he fucking told Ilya it was?!
He whips away from the mirror and towards his husband’s stall, hoping that he’ll find a comforting expression, ready to be soothed and told it’s nothing. But instead, he’s greeted by a very smug and admittedly sexy grin.
“Wha–” Shane starts to say, but the words die in his throat as Ilya reaches up to stroke at his already full playoff beard.
Then it clicks. Shane doesn’t have bacteria, allergies, or some kind of reaction to his dog. He has fucking beard burn. He’s a victim of Ilya’s ability to grow facial hair like weeds in summer.
“Shane?” Troy Barrett’s voice brings him out of his head and his eyes away from Ilya’s. It’s only then that he notices everyone is still staring at him expectantly. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, do you know what that spot is?” Wyatt Hayes asks, and Shane turns back to the mirror to once again examine the offending redness. “Do you want me to get Doc?”
“Uh, no, no,” he says, mind racing to come up with some kind of plausible excuse for the fucking beard burn his husband has left on his face. Of course, Ilya would manage to find some new way to mark him in the most public way possible in the middle of playoffs. “I think it’s just some acne. Playoff stress and all that.”
Thankfully, he hears murmurs of agreement and understanding from all around him, and he breathes a sigh of relief as it seems like his explanation is accepted by the team. For once in his life, he’s grateful to be known as a chronic ball of stress.
“You could have just told them it was me,” Ilya says to him quietly as they begin to line up to make their entrances onto the ice.
“And deal with them chirping me about how I can’t manage to grow my own beard, but instead get a rash from yours? No thanks.”
__________
Shane assumes that’s the end of it.
The rash on his chin clears up quickly, thanks to the most expensive aloe vera cream he can buy, and while his newly instituted no kissing rule only lasts a few hours due to his inability to resist Ilya’s pouting face, they’ve both been very careful to avoid as much friction, and so far, it’s worked well.
Until they’re once again in the parking lot before game six of the second round, and Ilya happens to find the most delicious spot on Shane’s neck that makes Shane’s toes curl in his custom Reeboks.
“Hollander,” Zane says with wide eyes when he sees Shane in the locker room half an hour later. “That rash from before is on your neck now. And it’s bigger. Are you sure you don’t need to see the doctor?”
Shane’s hand comes up to cover his neck, and he only just manages to resist turning his head to glare at Ilya standing next to him, though Shane hears him nearly choking while trying to cover up his laughter.
He has to fight a deep urge to bang his head against the wood of his stall. When will Shane learn that being horny for Ilya Rozanov doesn’t always pay off?
Oh, who is he kidding? He’ll never learn, and his life (and many, many orgasms) are better for it, but he really could stand to live with a little less of whatever the fuck is happening to him now.
Balance, he supposes.
“No, I’m fine,” he tries to assure, once he’s finished hitting Ilya on the back a little harder than is strictly necessary through his coughing fit. “It’s just stress, I’m sure.” It's not a total lie. He is stressed out. It's playoffs! And that stress makes him especially susceptible to Ilya's advances that wind up causing this stupid beard burn. So what if he happened to be the one to initiate what happened in the car today after he leaned his head over to lick at Ilya's neck because he just looked so good?
It's the stress!
“I don’t know, dude,” Evan Dykstra says, walking over and bending his head to get a closer look at Shane’s neck. “It looks really angry.”
“Yeah, it almost looks like a rash my nephew had a while back,” Wyatt chimes in, looking concerned. “Impetigo, I think it was called? Super contagious. I really think you should have Doc look at it just to be safe.”
He almost wishes it were true. It would at least get him out of whatever fresh hell this is.
“It’s not contagious, I promise,” he says. “It's stress. Besides, if it was, I’m pretty sure Ilya’d have it by now, anyway.” That was good! he tells himself, and once again, thankfully, everyone seems to accept this explanation with little issue.
“That’s true,” Zane says, clapping both Shane and Ilya on the back. “Considering how often Cap is all over you, there’s no way he’d escape getting something like that. He’d probably be the one giving to you in the first place.”
“Haha, right,” Shane laughs nervously, his voice rising to a pitch that has Ilya raising his eyebrows at him in clear amusement.
“Alright, boys!” Zane announces. “Let’s go win this fucking game so Shane can stop breaking out in stress rashes!”
There’s an insane amount of cheering and whooping, the loudest of course coming from Ilya himself, and before Shane knows it, they’ve won the game and are onto the third round, and while the rest of the team parties, he’s in a corner booth researching the best moisturizing beard oils because there is no fucking way he’s letting this happen again.
__________
Everything is great. Ilya’s beard is full and soft, and he smells like fresh pine, and it’s really hot. That is, until they’re on the road for games three and four of the third round, and Ilya forgets his beard oil.
Of course, being the risk-averse man that he is, Shane doesn’t allow kissing from the neck up while they fuck in their hotel room the night before game four, but he doesn’t exactly put up a fight when Ilya pushes his legs apart and buries his curly head between Shane’s more than ample thighs for what feels like hours.
Sure, his skin is irritated afterwards, but holy shit, it’s worth it because Ilya is absolutely masterful with his mouth when he’s not using to annoy Shane, and he really doesn’t think anything of it until he’s showering after a brutal loss the next day.
He goes to wipe soap over his thighs, momentarily forgetting the angry rash he’d lathered moisturizer on before the game, hissing at the contact, causing Troy Barrett to look at him in concern.
“Dude, what the fuck?” he says when he glances down and sees the angry red bumps all over Shane’s thighs. “That rash has spread to your legs.”
This, of course, catches the attention of half a dozen other players in the shower, and Shane barely has time to rinse off before the entire team is concerned about his well-being.
He manages to make it out of the showers, but when he emerges with a towel around his waist covering the offending rash, he has only a few seconds before his teammates decide to involve his husband.
“Captain, have you seen this?” Luca questions to Ilya, who’s sitting at his stall half-undressed. Luca gestures wildly towards Shane’s crotch. “We’re very worried about Shane. The rash has spread to his legs!”
“You guys, it’s fine, I promise,” Shane protests as Ilya stalks toward him, hazel eyes glittering with mischief. “It’s nothing to worry about!”
Ilya gently moves one side of the towel away from Shane’s legs, taking in a dramatic breath at the sight of the rash he already knows damn well is there, considering he’s responsible for it. He clutches a hand to his chest and Shane immediately questions all of his life’s decisions.
“My love, that looks bad,” Ilya says, his eyebrows drawn down in fake concern. “You should have the doctor look at that.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Shane breathes out, already on edge from losing a game they should have easily won. He’s putting a stop to this now. “Fine. Go get Terry.”
One of the rookies scrambles out, and it takes less than a minute for Terry, their kind (and blessedly understanding of the team's antics) doctor, to enter the room. Shane pulls him back toward the showers, hoping it’ll provide them with a small semblance of privacy, and he moves his towel aside to show what has everyone in such a tizzy.
“It’s beard burn from Ilya, and they’re all freaking out about it, but I don’t really want to explain what it’s from to the entire team, so can you just assure them I’m fine so I can go on with my life?” Shane spills out, suddenly grateful for whoever came up with that whole ‘doctor/patient confidentiality’ thing.
Terry takes a moment to examine Shane’s thighs, and when he looks up at Shane, his eyes are a little tired but mercifully free of judgment. He nods, and they walk back out into the locker room where everyone is waiting expectantly.
“Is he going to live?” Ilya asks, hands clutched in front of him like he’s been praying for the two minutes Shane’s been out of sight.
Dramatic asshole, Shane thinks with zero heat, because fuck if Ilya doesn’t look like a whole meal sitting there shirtless in just his pants.
“Shane is fine. Nothing a little steroid cream can’t take care of,” Terry says, and there’s a collective sigh of relief around the room, and Shane can’t even be mad when he’s swept up into a hug by Troy and several other idiots he’s really lucky to call his friends.
Later, when they’re sitting on the bus waiting to go back to their hotel, Ilya leans his head over on Shane’s shoulder.
“I’m so glad you’re going to be okay,” he says softly, his eyelashes batting innocently against his cheeks.
Shane is helpless to stop the laugh that escapes him, moving his head to lay a kiss into Ilya’s curls. “You are shaving that thing the day we win this fucking cup,” he says, lacing their fingers together.
Ilya raises their hands, rubbing Shane’s skin against the roughness of his beard. “Of course, sweetheart.”
_________
[Ilya Rozanov stands next to Shane Hollander on the ice at the Canadian Tire Centre, sweaty and beaming after winning the Stanley Cup. There are dozens of people around them, but Ilya looks lovingly at Shane, who looks on the verge of tears, as a reporter holds a microphone to their faces.]
Reporter: Ilya, what’s the first thing you’re going to do now that you’ve won the cup?
Ilya: I am going to shave my beard so I will not give my husband any more stache rash!
[A laugh bursts out of Shane, as he mouths ‘oh my god’, and Ilya’s smile grows before he grabs Shane, dipping him backwards as he kisses his husband and teammate deeply, while their teammates gather around them and cheer enthusiastically.]
@centaurshockey 2022 Stanley Cup Champions 🏆
Posted on June 12, 11:30 pm
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@troybarretthockey oooooh. I get it now.
@4puckssake Nooooo! Not the beard!!! He looks so so good with the beard!
@wyatthayes Seriously, Shane?! Why didn’t you just tell us you had beard burn?
@b00dramzane @realshanehollander dude, I am never letting you live this down.
@realshanehollander @wyatthayes @b00dramzane that’s why. Also, really @harrisdrover1995? Of all the clips you could have chosen?
@harrisdrover95 The first of many!!
@censfan1221 adrenaline really does make you say some weird shit.
@indacrease I don’t necessarily want to know what’s going on here, but fuck if they don’t look amazing together.
@ilyarozanov81 Do not worry, everyone! My beard may be gone, but now the world can see my entire beautiful face, and that, I think, is the real win here!
@realshanehollander @ilyarozanov81 Right. The world seeing your face is so much more important than us winning the cup.
@ilyarozanov81 I am glad you recognize the historical importance of this moment 😘
@theroselandry @realshanehollander never did know how to appreciate a good beard 😉
@realshanehollander @theroselandry MA’AM.