Chapter Text
Before the fight begins:
Wednesday, on the team plane:
On Centaurs team plane, as Wyatt was watching a trailer for the new Rose Landry superhero film, Ilya’s body draped over the back of his seat: “Shane, Shane, Shane!” Ilya yelled across the aisle, where Shane was reading a book about a secret hockey team in North Korea, “Your ex-lover is doing the blue body paint movie again. You are very lucky you are not living in LA with literal blue balls.” The entire row of assorted Centaur players crack up.
Friday, at the breakfast buffet at a Hilton in New Jersey:
Ilya, groaning, with his head in his hands. “How the f-ck did we end up with a room facing a highway? Troy, what social media manager does Shane need to f-ck to get us a better room assignment?”
Troy rolled his eyes as Harris, travelling with the team for a few days, flipped him the middle finger from the waffle station, “I do Instagram you asshole, not room assignments.”
That didn’t stop Ilya from calling Troy a “nepo baby” the rest of the day.
Friday, in the away side's locker room:
“Did you hear about Swanson?” Tanner Dillon, the team gossip, yelled out to no one in particular. “He’s suspended for three games. Apparently he got caught with on the team bus with a lady friend.”
A chorus of groans and guffaws followed.
“Let me tell you boys, this league is getting soft,” Ilya shouted out. “Ask my friend Svetlana about my rookie season in the locker room – I think they banned her from the building for the rest of the season.
Boos and a few stray socks showered down on Ilya, who let out a loud cackle as he taped his stick.
Day 1: Sunday night, New York City
At the bustling Kingfisher sports bar where the Centaurs were celebrating their decisive win over the Admirals, a mish-mash of players from both teams broke out into smaller groups. The young-but-no-longer-technically-rookies were hanging on Ilya’s every word at one booth, while Wyatt tried to convince Bood and Shane to plan a matinee outing Rose Landry’s latest movie, with Shane sheepishly admitting he’d never watched one of her films in a theatre.
Shane checked his watch and to his relief it was a respectable time to sneak out. Ilya wasn’t picking up on Shane’s intense “let’s go” eye contact so he made his way over to the booth, catching the last few words of Ilya’s bombastic retelling of double overtime playoff goal. He slid his hand over Ilya’s shoulder, earning a bright and unguarded smile.
“OK boys, time to pack it up” Ilya stated, draining the last of his low-alc beer, a compromise allowed him to feel social but not mess with his medication on nights out.
“Nooooo Cap. One more drink, one more drink!”
“Sorry boys. Have another for me but don’t get too sloppy. Get out of this old man section and go to the main bar, lots of pretty people out tonight. Luca needs a wingman. I know he’d love a crack at my husband, but no chance. I have ruined Shane for others.”
“Cap you have to show me us your ways!” Haas giggled, his third strong gin and tonic kicking in.
“No no, not tonight. Even if you we were rookies together you would never have stood a chance against 19-year-old Rozanov. That’s probably why linemates followed my lead.” He punctuated the last word with an exaggerated wink.
Nick LaPointe, a defenseman whose dad played in the MHL in Shane and Ilya’s rookie year, snickered, “Oh ya, everyone knows about you and your teammates from Boston. You were kind of famous for the trips to Paris on Twitter. The bloggers called your line the French Connection.” Ilya barked out a laugh while the rookies hooted and hollered.
Shane stood there, arms crossed, wearing a tight smile.
“No no boys, none of that! I am a married man now! And Hollander is too jealous to share.” The booth quickly switched from whooping to a mix of boos and whistles directed at Hollander. Shane started putting his coat on, the universal marital signal for “I wanted to leave 15 minutes ago.”
As the Uber snaked its way through the “only in New York” midnight traffic, Shane’s anger was radiating off him. Ilya mistook the simmering rage for tension, and tried to give him a quick kiss. Shane rebuffed him, which wasn’t unusual in public.
Once they reached the safety of their room, Ilya tried to lean into a kiss just as Shane put his hand out and dodged the kiss. Ilya didn’t quite understand what was happening, or why Shane was so cranky but he knew the proven way to get him out of his head.
“So tense tonight.” Ilya murmured. “I know what will make you relax. Get on your knees.”
Shane raised his eyes to meet Ilya’s for the first time since they left the bar.
“No, I don’t’ think I will.” He stalked into the bathroom and grabbed his leather toiletry bag. Shane only ever rebuffed Ilya when he felt sick.
“Are you not feeling well?” Ilya asked, leaning up against the door jamb with a hint of concern. He was still mistaking tension for sexual tension.
“I feel fine. I don’t want to get into it right now,” Shane said, pulling his seaweed shampoo out of the shower.
“Come on” Ilya cooed, “Was it the penalty I took in the third?”
“Nope, it’s not about that at all. And I’m fucking exhausted and don’t want to get into it.”
“So why are you packing, going back to the Kingfisher to try your luck?”
“Jesus Christ, Ilya. Didn’t get enough of your digs about our sex life?”
Half laughing, Ilya slid his hand along Shane's waist. “Shane, what's wrong. Too much fun for you tonight?"
“I don’t’ think a captain joking about hooking up with his rookies is fun. I would have fucking hated that as a rookie.”
“When did I do that?” Ilya asked innocently.
“Literally half an hour ago.”
“OK, who cares? They are not even rookies really. And you wouldn’t have liked it because you were closeted baby gay. These kids are different, more open.”
“We are at work, Ilya. Even when we are at a bar, we are still coworkers.”
“You’re so uptight” Ilya muttered, turning away from Shane.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Shane, you are spinning out over nothing. No one cares.”
“Ya, my husband, who I work with, is constantly talking about fucking other people in front of me and I’m supposed to smile and take it? I ate shit for years, in a different locker room Ilya. And I won’t do it in this one.”
Ilya stilled for a second. “You are comparing me to homophobic asshole Metros because I made a joke to the rookies about picking up?”
“It wasn’t about them, it was about me. Why am I always the butt of your joke?” Shane burst out louder than he meant to.
“Shane, I--”
“Why is the joke always about our sex life?”
Ilya opened his mouth to respond but before he could, Shane fired one more shot, “I lived through you fucking your way across North America, now I have to hear you talk about your glory days every night at a different bar.”
“Shane” Ilya sputtered, “give me a second to fucking respond, fuck!”
“Well I know you’d be into being open, you made it very clear you don’t “believe in cheating,” Shane said with sarcastic air quotes, “and you’ve mentioned threesomes three different times this week, even more than usual. You’ve talked about me fucking Rose, about Troy, about Troy and Harris; you constantly make jokes about swapping with Eric and Kyle, and Scott and Kip. Because me and Scott are so boring we would have boring sex and fall asleep before we finish, right? Oh and thanks for reminding me about fucking your best friend who was at our wedding, that’s always fun. Especially while I stood there like a fucking idiot. If you’re so unhappy with our sex life, don’t bring it to work.”
Ilya went from stunned to on the defensive in a flash, “It’s my locker room. Do not forget that. I am the captain and I will speak to who I want, about what I want, however I want.”
“Oh, so if Bood was asking the rookies to fuck Cassie you’d be OK with it?”
“That’s not what I was doing Shane, it was a joke. This is not what I meant at all. Let's just shower and go to bed.”
Shane was panting now, words tumbling out of him as he haphazardly jammed his rumpled clothes back into his bag, pacing the room, “No. Fuck. It’s exactly the same thing. Imagine what you'd think of Wyatt talking about railing Lisa while we're at the breakfast buffet. You would never put up with that, you would think he was a giant asshole. And if you don’t want to treat me like your husband, fine. At least have the courtesy of treating me like your fucking teammate.”
Shane was angrier now, as angry as Ilya had ever seen him and the words were spilling out of him. “Jokes about my diet. Jokes about how boring I am. Jokes about me being a bottom. Jokes about how you are just were the absolute best at fucking other people but you can’t because your husband is no fun, constantly reminding everyone about how great it was to fuck everything that moved like it’s not all over the internet already.”
“You are being overly sensitive,” Ilya gritted out.
“Says who, you? You get to feel however you want to feel, everyone works around Ilya’s big feelings. And when I ask my husband and my captain to stop asking me for a threesome multiple times a week, in front of people I have to share a shower with, then my feelings are invalid.”
Ilya was blinking rapidly, trying to work through how this conversation got so heated. He didn’t want to have a threesome, he didn’t think sexually about any of his teammates, he didn’t fantasize about women, certainly not Rose or Svetlana. He needed to say it but his mouth wasn’t moving, he was just staring at Shane.
“If this was Luca or Barrett or Wyatt asking, you would instantly stop. You'd apologize. But not for me.” Shane’s voice was cracking now. He stalked back into the bathroom while Ilya stood a few feet behind him.
“Nothing to say for once?” he said, meeting Ilya’s eyes in the mirror. “Of course not. When you are challenged in any real fucking way, you’re speechless. I’m going to get another room. See you at breakfast.” He stopped at the door, his hand gripping the doorknob. “Don’t follow me. And please don’t tell any of our teammates about this, including Troy. I don’t want my coworkers in my business.” With that, Shane walked out the door.
Ilya sat on the edge of the hotel bed, too stunned to even begin to unravel this night.