Work Text:
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The digital clock in the corner of Harris Droverโs monitor read 11:42 PM. It was late, but the Centaurโs social media director was nowhere near being finished with his work. He was deep in the trenches of a legacy server migration, moving old league media assets into the cloud, when a file path caught his eye. It was nested three folders deep in an old offseason charity archive, completely restricted from public access.
ย
The file name was ominous:
FF_SPORTS_SHOWDOWN_CHARITY_UNRELEASED_REJECTED.mp4.
ย
Harris clicked the metadata log. A string of red-flagged comments from network producers filled his screen.ย
โTotal breakdown of game show decorum.โย
โStandards & Practices violations. Unsuitable for daytime broadcast.โย
โLocker room language used by Team Captains.โ
Then he looked at the cast list breakdown. It was filmed after Shane Hollander was seen dropping off Ilya Rozanov at Ottawa International Airport in the summer of 2017, but before Ilyaโs blockbuster trade to Ottawa in the summer of 2018. Back then, they were still publicly sworn rivals representing Montreal and Boston.
ย
Game Show: Family Feud
Episode: NHL Offseason Charity Special โ The Irina Foundation Benefit.ย
Status: UNAIRED / KILLED BY NETWORK STANDARDS AND PRACTICES.ย
Team Hollander: Shane Hollander (C), Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Rose Landry.
Team Rozanov: Ilya Rozanov (C), Svetlana Vetrova, Wyatt Hayes, Victor St. Simon, Cliff Marlow.
ย
Harris stared at the screen. A Family Feud-style showdown between Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, featuring their actual families, best friends, and chaotic teammates? And Wyatt Hayes? Their Wyatt? How would Ilya have known him back then? The Raiders and the Centaurs werenโt friendly teams back then, were they? And why had the network scrubbed this from existence?
He didn't press play yet. He couldn't watch this alone.
๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง
The next morning, the Centaursโ media office was quiet until the heavy glass door swung open. Shane walked in first, looking every bit the pristine, effortlessly professional alternate captain. He was wearing his gray team track jacket, checking a schedule on his phone, while Ilya sauntered in directly behind him. Ilya was carrying a massively oversized iced coffee, completely relaxed, trailing a hand lazily along the back of Shaneโs neck before leaning his chin right onto Shaneโs shoulder to peek at the screen.
"Hi Harris," Shane said, smiling at his friend in that shy-like Shane way when he was nervous or put in a situation he couldn't control. "You said you needed us for an urgent media review before morning skate? Is there a press release we need to clear or something?"
"Not a press release, Shane. A discovery of sorts," Harris said. He tried to keep his voice level, but his eyes were dancing with excitement as he pointed a dramatic finger toward the massive projector screen on the wall. "I need you both to look at this and tell me how this exists without my knowledge."
Shane turned his gaze to the screen with Shane-like curiosity. Harris clicked the remote, pulling up the file details and the team lineups in giant, bold text.
Ilya took one look at the screen, squinting at the names Hayden Pike and Rose Landry listed right next to Shane's parents. A sharp, breathless bark of laughter escaped him. He nearly choked on his coffee, slapping his free hand down on the media table so hard the wood rattled.
Shaneโs transformation was immediate. All color drained from his face, leaving him a shade of white that looked sickly before a wave of deep crimson rushed straight up his neck to his ears. Shane froze, his phone slipping out of his hand so clumsily that he had to quickly reach down and catch it. His shoulders tensed into a rigid line, and he let out a low, pained groan that sounded like it had been pulled directly from his soul.
"Oh, no," Shane whispered, his eyes widening in pure dread. "No, no, no. Delete it. Harris, burn the server. Delete the backup. We swore to never speak of this."
"Oh my god!" Ilya cackled, his Russian accent instantly thickening with pure, unadulterated delight. "The white shorts episode! Drover, you are absolute genius! Where did you dig up this? This is greatest day of my life!"
"Ilya, stop laughing," Shane cringed, his voice muffled by his palms. "The network executives literally promised me on a recorded phone line that they went into the master control room and destroyed this. They swore it was destroyed!"
"They lied, Hollander!" Ilya rejoiced, throwing a heavy arm around Shaneโs rigid shoulders, shaking him with absolute glee. "The universe wants us to look back at this. Play it, Harris! Hit the button! I must watch Hayden Pikeโs brain melt out of his ears all over again!"
Harris looked at Shane, who was currently trying to dissolve into the floorboards out of sheer embarrassment. He then looked at Ilya, who was practically vibrating with chaotic joy.
"Sit down, boys," Harris said, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across his face as he reached for the remote. "Weโre watching the whole thing. Right now."
ย
๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง
ย
"Before I hit play," Harris asked, leaning back against the media desk, "is there anything I need to know specifically? Any legal liabilities I should be prepared for?"
Shane slowly lowered his hands, his face still a brilliant shade of beet red. He looked at Harris with wide, pleading eyes.
"I want to apologize ahead of time, Harris," Shane said, his voice entirely strained. "Please remember that this was years ago. I was under an immense amount of pressure. We were trying to hide our relationship from the media, our teammates were out of control, my parents were standing right next to me, and... and Ilya was actively trying to ruin Haydenโs life on national television."
"I was not ruining his life, I was enriching it," Ilya corrected smoothly, taking a long sip of his iced coffee. He grinned at Harris, his eyes flashing with mischief. "Drover, get ready for some great chirping. And get ready to see me completely destroy Hayden Pikeโs brain. It was masterpiece of psychological warfare."
Shane groaned. โUgh, Ilya. Who even taught you that word?โ
With a click of the remote, Harris hit play.
The projector screen flashed to life. The familiar, blaring, brassy theme music of Family Feud echoed through the Centaurs' media office. The graphics were bright, neon, and incredibly loud.
๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง
ย
A TV voiceover can be heard. "It's time for a special charity edition of the Family Feud! Tonight, itโs a classic battle of the ice! Let's meet our teams! First, representing the Montreal Metros, please welcome Team Hollander!"
The camera pans across the Hollander side of the stage.
On-screen Shane stands at the front as captain, wearing his old Montreal Metros jersey, clapping with rigid, terrifying precision and a fake grin plastered on his face.
Right beside him is his mother, Yuna, looking sharp and analytical.
Then his dad, David, waving enthusiastically like a man participating in a parade.
Next is Hayden Pike, looking intensely competitive and already fiddling with his Metros jersey.
And anchoring the end of the line is Rose Landry, flashing a flawless, movie-star smile directly at the lens.
The TV Voiceover resumes. ย "And across the ice, representing the Boston Raiders, please welcome Team Rozanov!"
On-screen Ilya is at the captain's podium, his Boston Raiders jersey collar slightly rumpled, winking at the crowd.
Behind him stands Svetlana Vetrova, her arms crossed, looking like an elite assassin who has accidentally wandered onto a game show set.
Then comes Wyatt Hayes and Victor St. Simon in their Ottawa Centaurs and Boston Raiders jerseys, both grinning like they have snuck into the studio through the back door.ย
Standing at the very end is Cliff Marlow, tall and chiseled in his Raiders jersey.
๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง
ย
In the media office, Harris blinked, studying the screen. He hit pause.
"Wait, Wyatt didn't play for Boston. Why is he there?โ
"Yes. Was his first year as Centaur," Ilya explained, waving his hand dismissively. "But producers told me I could bring friends because I would not ask my stupid brother to come from Moscow. Hazy and I met at All-Stars when he played for Toronto. We keep in touch. I had just spent entire previous week on NHL break in Ottawa when I look for a house in case trade did happen as planned. I called up Hazy. We stay up until five in the morning playing Grand Theft Auto. We were bonded by love of city and video games. He was honorary Rozanov. And my Shane did not want to see me that week. So I ask him to be teammate for charity."
โNot true about not wanting to see you, Ilya! Iโm sorry that I had to go to a family reunion and couldnโt spend that week with you. Do you really think I didnโt want to spend that break with you?โ Shane was exasperated.
Ilya thought about his answer, remembering how he became friends with Wyatt. He still was one of Ilya's best friends to this day. โIs okey. Wyatt is good friend and not boring friend. I would have been more fun than boring family, da? Boring family is genetic for you, yes?โ
Shane rolled his eyes.ย Harris laughed and hit play.
ย
๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง
ย
On the screen, a flashy, charismatic host steps out onto the stage, soaking in the applause before approaching the center podiums.
"Welcome, welcome, hockey fans! We have an unbelievable matchup for you tonight. Now, before we get to the first round, I want to talk to our captains. Shane, Ilya, you guys are fierce rivals on the ice, but tonight, you are actually playing for the exact same cause. Shane, tell the folks at home about the charity."
On-screen Shane is frozen for a few awkward moments, then begins to speak. "That's right, our charity. Tonight, both of our teams are playing to raise money for The Irina Foundation. Itโs an incredible organization dedicated to supporting athletes and their families that struggle with mental health. We work with groups and help them by funding mental health assistance. We wanted to make sure that no matter who wins the game tonight, the foundation walks away with the grand prize."
The onscreen host continued. "Incredible. A beautiful cause, which means there are absolutely no losers on this stage tonight! Ilya, anything you want to add about the foundation?"
On-screen Ilya leans deep into the microphone, a slow, cat-like smirk spreading across his face. "Exactly. The foundation is beautiful, and it is the winner tonight. Which means I do not have to feel bad at all when I embarrass Hayden Pike on national television. Will make him cry."
The on-screen Shane instantly tenses up, his jaw clenching as he stares straight ahead. Hayden Pike lifts his head and glares at Ilya.
The on-screen host laughs loudly, entirely oblivious to the real tension on stage. "I love this competitive spirit! Let's get right to it. Fire up the board, because it's time to start playing the Family Feud!"
๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง
ย
Sitting in the media office as he looked at the paused video Harris leaned forward, completely hooked. โThis is awesome!โ
โThis is nothing. Just wait, Harris. Is so much better,โ Ilya laughed. โYou might want to have popcorn ready.โ
Harris nodded, and took Ilyaโs suggestion literally.ย He jumped out and ran out of the room.
Shane sat with his head in his hands, groaning. โOh my god, Ilya this is a nightmare. Seriously. That fifth question? I had never been so mortified in my life!โ
โUntrue. I think you were more embarrassed when David caught us kissing and he ran home to Yuna. You had many panic attacks that day.โ
A few minutes later, Harris returned from the break room with a big bowl of microwaved popcorn. Ilya immediately grabbed a handful.ย
Harris sat down in his chair, tapping a pen against his knee. "Honestly, guys, this doesn't seem so bad," he murmured, watching the on-screen banter. "It just looks like standard, edgy pre-game PR. The network must have been incredibly uptight to kill the broadcast over this."
Ilya let out a dark, wicked chuckle, taking a slow sip of his iced coffee. "Oh, Harris. My sweet, naive friend. Buckle up. The train has just left the station."
Shane let out another agonizing groan, sliding lower into his seat until his chin practically touched his chest. "I am apologizing again, Harris. If you tell upper management about any inappropriateness after this, I won't even blame you."
ย
๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง
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On the projector screen, the studio lights flash a vibrant yellow as the flashy game show graphics zip across the digital board.
The on-screen host beams at the camera, gesturing dramatically toward the center of the stage. "Alright, let's get our captains up to the center podiums for our very first question of the night! Shane, Ilya, step on up. One hand in the ready position flat on the podium."
On-screen Shane marches up with military precision, squaring his shoulders and placing his palm exactly two inches next to the giant red buzzer.ย
On-screen Ilya saunters over, drapes his frame casually over the edge of his podium, and gives on-screen Shane a slow, devastatingly smug wink. On-screen Shaneโs jaw is clenched so hard a muscle ticks in his cheek.
The on-screen host turns his full attention to the center podium, slapping a thick stack of blue cue cards against his palm as the studio audience falls quiet. "We surveyed one hundred hockey fans. The top six answers are on the board. Here is the question: What is something a hockey player loves to see?"
Before either captain could even think about hitting the buzzer, a simultaneous, deeply irritated sigh echoes from two contestants behind them, clearly picking up on the studio microphones.
The on-screen camera cuts briefly to Svetlana, who has her arms tightly crossed over her chest, her dark eyes narrowed in pure, analytical disgust. "This is an entirely garbage question," the on-screen Svetlana mutters under her breath to Victor. "โLoves to seeโ is completely open-ended and subjective. What is the demographic breakdown of this survey pool? Where is the data control? This is an algorithmic nightmare."
Across the stage, the on-screen Yuna is nodding in grim, painful solidarity. She leans slightly toward her husband, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Itโs an unscientific trap, David," Yuna warns him. "There is no strategic metric to calculate here. Why couldn't they ask about league-average power-play conversion rates?"
SMACK.
While the two highest hockey IQs on the stage were busy formulating a statistical critique of the show's writing staff, on-screen Ilyaโs palm slams down onto the red plastic buzzer before on-screen Shane can stop him.
The on-screen host reacts with a startled jump as Ilya's buzzer rings out instantly, the red podium lights flashing. "Ilya Rozanov, lightning fast! What is something a hockey player loves to see?"
Without a single millisecond of hesitation, the on-screen Ilya leans his entire upper body directly into the microphone. "Shane's ass in his slutty little white gym shorts."
The studio audience is dead silent for one collective, horrified heartbeat before exploding into a deafening mix of shocked gasps, wild cheers, and hysterical laughter.
ย
๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง
ย
In the media office, Harris hit pause and gasped, his pen clattering to the floor. He slowly turned his head to look at his friend.ย
Shane was currently the color of a freshly painted fire hydrant, his hands over his face, completely silent. โI canโt believe we are watching this,โ he finally mutters.
Ilya reached for more popcorn. โIs entertaining television, no? Harris, I am not liar with that answer. Do you agree?โ
Harris turned his own shade of red. โSorry, Shane. But those slutty white shorts are the talk of the team. I donโt think anyone besides Ilya knows how long you have worn those things.โ
โYes, Harris. Shaneโs slutty white shorts are historic. They should be in museum of history. โMost Slutty Shorts Worn By Most Beautiful Hockey Player With A Weak Backhandโ is what display will say.โ Ilya glanced at Shaneโs fire hydrant face and winked.
Harris laughed, and clicked play again.
๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง
ย
On the screen, the chaos is magnificent.
The on-screen Shane instantly turns a shade of red that defies human biology, slamming both hands onto the podium. "Ilya! Oh my god. My parents are standing right there! They are literally right next to me!"
Shrugging his shoulders carelessly and looking incredibly pleased with himself, the on-screen Ilya replies, "What? Is true. Everybody loves to see. Ask your team."
The camera pans over to the on-screen members of Team Hollander. David is staring straight ahead at the scoreboard, his eyes completely glazed over as his brain actively tries to dissociate from this moment. Yuna has literally faceplanted directly onto the wooden podium, her ears burning a bright pink.
Down at the very end of the line, the on-screen Hayden Pikeโs filter completely breaks under the stress of Ilya's daily existence. He throws his hands up in absolute exasperation.
"I mean, heโs not wrong!" the on-screen Hayden shouts. "Those things are criminally short, Shane! Itโs a locker-room hazard. Weโve all been saying it for three seasons!"
The studio audience loses its mind all over again. The on-screen Svetlana leans against her podium, laughing so hard she has to wipe a tear from her eye, while the on-screen Cliff Marlow lets out a loud roar of approval, pointing aggressively at Hayden.
On-screen Ilyaโs head snaps toward Hayden, his eyes lighting up like a predator targeting its prey. A massive, dangerous grin spreads across his face as he grabs his microphone.
"Oh ho! Look at this! Hear that, Shane?" the on-screen Ilya cackles, gesturing wildly. "Pike is looking closely at your asset! I do not know you have secret crush on my Shane, Hayden. Tell me, does Jackie know about this? Will she give you hall pass for your captain, or do you just dream about white shorts in secret?"
On-screen Hayden's face is turning a furious, mottled purple as he practically tries to climb over the team divider. He bellows back, "I don't want a hall pass! I am happily married! I just want my best friend to wear shorts that cover his thighs like a normal human being! Shut up, Rozanov!"
Covering his face entirely with the collar of his jersey, the on-screen Shane pleads in a muffled, desperate voice, "Please. Can we please just get the 'X'? Please. Just give Ilya the strike so we can move on with our lives."
The on-screen host, looking entirely bewildered and visibly questioning his life choices, slowly turns toward the big screen. "Yeah... surprisingly, 'Shane's gym shorts' did not make the family-friendly survey. Let's see the strike!"
A loud, mechanical 'X' buzzes through the studio speakers.
"Shane Hollander, the board is yours for a steal," the on-screen host announces. "What is something a hockey player loves to see?"
Taking a deep, trembling breath to regain his professional composure, though his ears are still bright red, the on-screen Shane answers, "The puck crossing the goal line. A goal."
DING! The number one spot on the board flashes in brilliant digital gold: GOAL / PUCK IN THE NET.
"We will play," the on-screen Shane decides. "Team Hollander is going to play."
The game moves down the Hollander lineup. Because Shane secures the steal, control stays with his team, and despite the absolute psychological devastation of the opening minute, their hockey brains kick in. The on-screen Shane nods to his mother.
"Yuna Hollander, welcome to the show," the on-screen host says. "What do you think?"
Lifting her head from the podium, her voice cool and precise, the on-screen Yuna responds, "A freshly flooded sheet of clean ice."
DING! The board flips over to reveal the number two answer: FRESH ICE.
"David Hollander, what do you love to see?" the on-screen host asks.
Clearing his throat loudly and desperately trying to change the vibe, the on-screen David booms, "The Stanley Cup. A big silver trophy!"
DING! The number three spot reveals THE STANLEY CUP.
The turn lands on Hayden Pike, who is still heavily vibrating with lingering adrenaline and unadulterated rage. He glares at the board, trying to think of the most basic thing possible. "A perfectly taped hockey stick," the on-screen Hayden barks.
A sharp, echoing 'X' buzzes through the studio, signaling strike one for the Hollanders. Before the host can even open his mouth, the on-screen Ilya immediately leans over his microphone from across the stage, cackling.
"Oh, brilliant guess, Pike! A taped stick!" the on-screen Ilya mocks. "What, you think the equipment manager is your fairy godmother? We surveyed a hundred hockey fans, Hayden, not a convention of equipment nerds. Brain like a single peanut, I swear."
"It's a beautiful thing to see, Rozanov!" the on-screen Hayden fires back. "You wouldn't know because you probably don't even tape your own sticks, you lazyโ"
"Hayden, drop it!" the on-screen Shane cuts him off. "Rose, you're up!"
The camera shifts to Rose Landry, who flashes her dazzling, camera-ready smile, completely unfazed by the screaming match happening to her right. Sheโs been staring across the stage at Cliff Marlow the entire round. "A flashing red goal light," the on-screen Rose says smoothly.
DING! The number four answer is GOAL LIGHT.
"Back to the top! Shane, we need two more answers," the on-screen host calls out.
"An open net," the on-screen Shane answers.
DING! Slot number five reveals OPEN NET.
"Yuna, for the sweep of the single-value points," the on-screen host says. "What is the last thing a hockey player loves to see?"
The on-screen Yuna answers confidently, "A clean body check."
DING! The final slot on the board flips over, revealing A BIG HIT / CLEAN CHECK.
The digital scoreboard flashes wildly, tallying up the points and banking them completely into Team Hollanderโs column.
"And just like that, Team Hollander clears the board!" the on-screen host announces to the cheering crowd. "They take an early lead after an... unforgettable opening round!"
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In the media office, the tape paused as Harris stared at the screen, his mouth slightly open. He slowly turned to Ilya. "You really just... said that on a daytime game show set."
"I am a man of truth, Harris," Ilya said proudly, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth. "They won the points, but I won psychological war with Hayden. Watch and learn, my friend."
"Okay, yeah. I am completely retracting my earlier statement," Harris muttered, rubbing his temples as the digital scoreboard on the screen reset. "I am no longer surprised this episode was canned. In fact, I'm amazed the network executives didn't burn the master tapes in a dark alley to protect the league's reputation."
He slowly dropped his hands, looking between the two men. "Please tell me that was the absolute peak of the disaster. Tell me thatโs the worst of it."
Shane let out a low, pathetic groan, burying his face back into his hands. His shoulders slumped in absolute defeat.
Ilya, on the other hand, let out a delighted hum and tapped the remote against his palm. "Are you kidding, Drover? The party is just starting. That was just the warm-up. Question two is where Svetlana loses her mind, and I show the entire studio audience what an incredibly supportive, attentive partner I am."
"Oh god," Shane whimpered into his palms. "Don't watch it. Harris, look away."
Ilya took the remote from Harris and hit the play button with a triumphant flourish. He tossed the remote back and rubbed his hands together in anticipation as the episode resumed.
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On the screen, the colorful graphics flash again, transitioning to the next round.
"Welcome back to Family Feud: Hockey Edition!" the on-screen host beams. "Team Hollander has the early lead with 96 points, but we are moving right along to question number two. Let's get Yuna Hollander and Svetlana Vetrova up to the podium!"
The on-screen Yuna steps up to the buzzer, smooth, poised, and looking like she is ready to close a corporate merger.ย
The on-screen Svetlana marches up to her podium with the icy, lethal intensity of a KGB operative preparing for an interrogation. She doesn't look at the host; she just locks her eyes on the digital board.
"Alright, ladies," the on-screen host says. "We surveyed one hundred hockey fans. The top four answers are on the board. Here is the question: Name something a hockey player does to unwind after a hard, grueling game."
SMACK.
The on-screen Svetlanaโs hand moves with the speed of an elite goaltender's glove save, striking the buzzer before the host can even finish the last syllable.
"Svetlana Vetrova, out of nowhere!" the on-screen host exclaims. "What's your answer?"
Staring flatly at the host, her voice a deadpan monotone, the on-screen Svetlana answers, "They consume an excessive amount of rapidly digesting carbohydrates, typically in the form of post-game beer, though vodka would be better, in my opinion.โ
The on-screen host blinks, momentarily thrown off by the clinical description. "Uh... let's see if 'have a beer' is up there!"
DING! The number one spot on the board flips over in bright gold letters: HAVE A DRINK / BEER. A massive 42 points flashes into the air.
"It's the number one answer!" the on-screen host says. "Svetlana, do you want to play or pass?"
"We will play. Obviously," the on-screen Svetlana replies.
She marches back to her place, the on-screen Svetlana giving Ilya a pointed, warning look that clearly translates to do not embarrass us on national television again. The on-screen Ilya merely blows her a kiss.
The on-screen host walks down the Rozanov lineup, stopping in front of Wyatt. "Wyatt, what does a hockey player do to unwind after a hard game?"
"They go straight to the steam room or take a very long, very hot shower to get the stink off," the on-screen Wyatt answers.
DING! The board reveals the number two answer: SHOWER / BATH โ 21 points.
"Beautiful," the on-screen host nods. "Moving down the line to the legendary Victor St. Simon! Victor, what do you think?"
Leaning over his podium with a twinkling laugh, the on-screen Victor says, "Oh, you gotta eat! You burn three thousand calories out there on the ice. Massive plate of pasta or a giant steak right after the buzzer."
DING! The number three spot flips over: EAT A BIG MEAL โ 14 points.
The studio audience cheers, and the board shows only one remaining slot hidden at the bottom. The on-screen host steps down to the next position. "Alright, let's keep this momentum going! Cliff Marlow, what do you do to unwind after a grueling game?"
Instead of looking at the host, the on-screen Cliff is leaning heavily against the edge of his podium, entirely checked out of the game. He is staring directly across the stage at Rose, who catches his eye and shamelessly flips her hair, offering him a sharp, playful wink.
Grinning like a schoolboy, a lazy charm dripping from his voice, the on-screen Cliff says into the microphone, "Well, if the night goes right, I like to take a beautiful lady out for a nice, romantic candlelit dinner and whisper sweet nothings in her ear."
Across the stage, the on-screen Rose bites her lip, giggling, but a loud, aggressive, mechanical 'X' instantly cuts through the romance, buzzing loudly through the studio speakers.
"Oof, strike one!" the on-screen host proclaims, wincing. "A candlelit dinner is a lovely thought, Cliff, but it didn't quite make our hockey fans' survey!"
The on-screen Svetlana immediately snaps her head around, glaring a hole through the side of Cliff's head with lethal intensity. "Marlow," she hisses under her breath, her voice cutting straight through the audience noise. "Secure your focus. You are throwing points for a smile."
The on-screen Cliff visibly straightens up, clearing his throat nervously.
The on-screen host quickly takes a step back, turning his attention to the final player in line. "Alright, Ilya. Your team has one strike, but you're still crushing it this round. Just one answer left to sweep the board," the on-screen host prompts. "What does a hockey player do to unwind after a grueling game?"
Leaning forward smoothly, dropping his voice into a low, completely unbothered purr directly into the microphone, the on-screen Ilya details, "Well, if it is a really grueling game, I like to take Shane home, lock the bedroom door, and spend about three hours giving him a deep-tissue, full-body oil massage until his hip flexors are completely loose. Sometimes we don't even make it to the bed, we just unwind right on the kitchen island. Is excellent cardio."
The entire studio audience goes completely silent. A lone, high-pitched gasp echoes from somewhere in the front row.
On the opposite side of the stage, the on-screen Shaneโs entire body goes rigid. He slowly closes his eyes, presses his forehead directly against his podium, and stays there, his shoulders shaking in silent, agonizing mortification. The on-screen David Hollander looks like he is actively praying for a meteor to strike the studio.
The on-screen host stares at Ilya, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, completely stripped of his professional television training. "I... uh... wow. Okay. That is... highly specific information. Let's see if 'Ilya's kitchen island' is on the board..."
A loud, aggressive pair of mechanical 'XX' buzzes through the studio speakers, marking strike two for the Rozanovs.
Shrugging carelessly, completely unbothered by the giant red strike, the on-screen Ilya insists, "Meh. Is a highly effective recovery metric. Shane's skating coach says his stride has never been more open."
Shouting desperately from across the stage, his face entirely purple, though still refusing to lift his head off the podium, the on-screen Shane cuts in, "Ilya, please stop talking! Stop talking about my hip flexors on national television!"
The on-screen Svetlana doesn't even yell. She just slowly turns her head toward her best friend, her eyes narrowing into two razor-thin slits of pure, terrifying menace. If looks could kill, Ilya would have disintegrated into ash right on the studio floor.
The on-screen host quickly steps away from Ilya and moves to Svetlana. "Svetlana, let's clean it up and bring it home. One answer left. What do they do?"
Glaring daggers at Ilya, her voice sharp enough to cut glass, the on-screen Svetlana states, "They sleep. Because they are exhausted from the sport, and from dealing with idiots."
DING! The final slot flips over: SLEEP / NAP. A cool 8 points are added to the board.
The digital lights flash as the points are tallied up. 42, plus 21, plus 14, plus 8. A total of 85 points are banked for Team Rozanov.
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In the media office, Ilya hit pause on the remote, looking immensely proud of himself. "See? I told you. Flawless execution. We cleared the board."
Harris sat in stunned silence for a long moment. He slowly turned his head to look at Shane, who was still slumped in his chair, staring blankly at the wall.
"The kitchen island, Ilya?" Harris whispered, sounding genuinely exhausted. "You told a syndicated television audience about opening up your now-husband on your kitchen island in Boston?"
"Was a very nice marble countertop, Harris," Ilya argued defensively. "Perfect height."
"Let's just look at the math," Harris interrupted, his voice hollow as he desperately tried to steer the conversation back to business. "Hollander had 94 points from the first round. Rozanov got 85 points in the second round. That leaves us at 94 to 85. Shane was leading by exactly 9 points going into question three."
Shane reached over, grabbing the remote out of Harris' hand before his husband could. "Which means we have to watch the third question. Let's just get it over with."
Harris let out a low whistle, shaking his head in sheer admiration as the onscreen graphic was frozen. "I have to say, the competitive energy on that stage is terrifying. I expected it from your mom, Shane. Everyone in the league knows that Yuna Hollander is a force of nature. But Svetlana is a total shock. I am thoroughly impressed."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the paused screen. "What does she do for a living, Ilya? Because seriously, if she has any interest in sports management, name her price. Can we somehow convince her to join the upper management of the Centaurs? I would personally clear out my desk if it meant having someone with that level of lethal, no-nonsense authority on our side. She'd have league compliance sweating in seconds."
Ilya grinned proudly, crossing his arms. "She sells luxury cars. She knows everything about hockey and cars. Men come to look at cars and mansplain to her and she makes them cry for their mothers. Dealing with NHL executives would be fun for her."
"Please don't hire her," Shane muttered, finally looking up, though his face was still slightly flushed. "If Svetlana and my mother ever teamed up, they would take over the Centaurs by noon. Iโm just going to hit play."
Shane whimpered as he pressed play.
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The on-screen host flashes a bright, energetic smile at the camera as the studio theme music fades down. "Welcome back, folks! The scores are incredibly close. Team Hollander is holding onto the lead with 94 points, and Team Rozanov is hot on their heels with 85."
He gestures dynamically toward the center of the stage, waving the next two contestants forward. "Let's keep things moving with question number three! Wyatt, David, step up to the podium!"
The on-screen Wyatt Hayes walks up to the buzzer for Team Rozanov, cracking his knuckles with an easygoing smirk, while the on-screen David Hollander steps up with a calm, seasoned stride, looking slightly bewildered by the chaos of the game.
"We surveyed one hundred hockey fans. The top three answers are on the board," the on-screen host explains, gesturing between the two men. "A low-scoring but crucial round, gentlemen. Here is the question: Name something a player always keeps tucked away at the very bottom of their hockey bag."
SMACK.
The on-screen David's hand flies out, his palm striking the plastic buzzer with practiced precision.
"David Hollander with the reflex!" the on-screen host calls out. "Answer, please?"
"A spare, unopened roll of shin pad tape," the on-screen David answers cleanly.
DING! The number two spot on the board flips over: SPARE TAPE / SOCK TAPE โ 15 points.
"An absolute classic," the on-screen host nods. "Wyatt, you have a chance to beat it and take control. What's at the bottom of the bag?"
Leaning into the mic, completely confident, the on-screen Wyatt guesses, "An ancient, deeply forgotten, incredibly crusty protein bar from three months ago."
The studio audience erupts into a collective groan of pure, relatable understanding. The on-screen host chuckles, pointing a finger at Wyatt. "Oh, we have all been there. Let's see if it's up there! Is it an old snack?"
DING! The top spot on the board flashes in bright gold: OLD SNACK / MUSHED PROTEIN BAR โ 22 points.
"Number one answer!" the on-screen host declares. "Wyatt takes control for Team Rozanov. Do you want to play or pass?"
Not even pausing to deliberate, the on-screen Svetlana states flatly, "We play, Hayes. Say it. It is a three-answer board. It is basic math."
The on-screen host walks down the Rozanov line, stopping in front of Victor. "Victor, what else is hiding at the bottom of that smelly bag?"
"A pair of completely soaked, mildewed skate socks that you forgot to throw in the laundry after a road trip," the on-screen Victor answers.
DING! The third and final slot flips over instantly: DIRTY SOCKS / LAUNDRY โ 11 points.
The digital board flashes wildly as the sound effects chime through the studio, totaling up the single-value points for the quick sweep. 22 plus 15 plus 11. A fast, clean 48 points are banked directly into Team Rozanov's column.
"And just like that, a lightning-fast sweep for Team Rozanov!" the on-screen host announces. "They take the lead, bringing their total score to 133, while Team Hollander sits at 94!"
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In the media office, Shane watched the numbers settle on the screen, his analytical mind immediately calculating the trajectory of the game. He glanced over at Ilya.
Ilya yawned. โThat was boring round.โ
Harris silently agreed, but he didnโt dare say it out loud. โAlright, so that puts you guys up by 39 points at the end of the third round, Ilya,โ he murmured. "Which means with Question 4 and Question 5 being Double Points, the game is still up in the air. Who won?"
Ilya leaned back, a smug, devastatingly handsome grin spread across his face as he let the remote dangle from his fingers. "Cheaters cheat, Harris. You have to watch, no cheating to know winner first. Buckle up. More game, please."
Harris leaned back, letting out a breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh. "Fine, Ilya. And Shane, compared to the sheer psychological warfare of the first two questions, that third round was remarkably tame. Just a bunch of hockey players talking about old protein bars and hockey tape."
Ilya shrugged carelessly, slumping lower into his seat and twirling the remote around his fingers. "Yes, Harris. I am disappointed in my performance. I threw away execution there. A temporary lapse in concentration. I must have been daydreaming about Shane instead of ruthlessly chirping Hayden. My priorities were backwards."
Shane rolled his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Ilya, thatโs really not helping."
"Alright, let's keep going before Shane has an aneurism," Harris joked, as he hit play on the remote.ย
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On the screen, the studio monitors flash a vivid, pulsing blue as the double-point graphic zips across the board.
"Welcome back, Family Feud fans!" the on-screen host announces. "The stakes are officially rising because from here on out, all point values are doubled or even tripled! Let's get our next two competitors up to the podium. Hayden Pike, Victor St. Simon, step on up!"
The on-screen Hayden marches to the center stage, adjusting his cuffs with an intensely focused, almost manic energy. The on-screen Victor saunters up to his side, looking completely unbothered, his smaller frame casual against the podium.
"We surveyed one hundred hockey fans. The top five answers are on the board," the on-screen host says. "Remember, points are doubled! Here is the question: Name a common excuse a hockey player uses when they miss a completely wide-open net."
SMACK.
The on-screen Haydenโs hand slams down on the buzzer with enough force to rattle the plastic housing.
"Hayden Pike, lightning fast!" the on-screen host notes. "What do you say?"
Leaning directly into the microphone, dead serious, the on-screen Hayden answers, "The ice was completely chewed up. A bad bounce!"
DING! The number one spot on the board flips over in brilliant digital gold: BAD BOUNCE / POOR ICE CONDITIONS โ 38 points. Because it is a double-point round, the score counter immediately flashes a massive 76 points hovering above the slot.
"It's the number one answer!" the on-screen host calls out. "Team Hollander takes control. Hayden, you want to play or pass?"
"We are absolutely playing," the on-screen Hayden replies, staring Ilya down onscreen. "Let's go!"
Before the on-screen Hayden can even turn back to his team's line, the on-screen Ilya is already leaning over his podium from across the stage, a predatory, wicked grin lighting up his face.
"Oh, of course Pike knows number one excuse for missing the net!" the on-screen Ilya mocks. "He uses it at least three times a period! Hey Hayden, maybe if you spent less time staring at Shane's gym shorts and more time practicing wrist shot, the puck would not bounce away from stick every night!"
The studio audience erupts into a wave of wild oohs and laughter. The on-screen Haydenโs face instantly flushes a furious, vibrant red as he whips around to glare at Ilya.
"It was a legitimate bad bounce in the third period last Tuesday, Rozanov!" the on-screen Hayden fires back. "The puck flipped completely on its side! You try shooting a vertical puck from the high slot!"
Waving his hand dismissively and laughing, the on-screen Ilya replies, "Yes, yes, blame the poor innocent ice. Classic Pike. Brain like a single peanut."
The on-screen host quickly steps between them, waving his arms to maintain control. "Alright, alright, let's keep the peace! Team Hollander, the board is yours. Rose Landry, what's another excuse?"
Flashing her gorgeous, media-trained smile, the on-screen Rose says, "The goalie made an absolutely spectacular, illegal desperation save!"
A sharp, mechanical 'X' buzzes through the studio speakers.
"Oof, tough break, Rose!" the on-screen host says. "The question specified a wide-open net, so the goalie wasn't even in the picture. That is strike one! Shane Hollander, back to you. What is the excuse?"
On the screen, game show Shane looks visibly flustered. His ears are still burning pink from Ilya's public comments about his shorts and his hip flexors, and he is actively trying to block out Ilyaโs intense gaze from across the stage. He blinks, panicking under the ticking clock, and before the automatic X appears, he blurts out the first thing that comes to his head. "Uh... the sun was in my eyes!"
The entire studio goes dead silent for one collective, deeply confused beat. Yuna slowly turns her head to look at Shane, her eyebrows raising. "The... the sun, Shane? In an enclosed, windowless, indoor professional hockey arena?"
Instantly realizing what he just said, the on-screen Shane slams his hand against his forehead as his entire face turns the color of a fire hydrant. "Oh my god. No. I meanโ"
A massive, echoing 'XX' buzzes through the room, marking strike two.
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In the media office, the real-life Shane lets out a low, miserable groan and completely buries his face in his hands, refusing to look at the monitor. "I completely froze," he mutters into his palms. "I felt Ilya staring at me, the clock was running down, and my brain just entirely broke. I cannot believe that it is recorded on digital media. Itโs so embarrassing.
"Donโt worry about it, Shane. Itโs in the past,โ Harris reassured.
Ilya reached over to pat his husbandโs shoulder. โIs okay moy lyubov. You were still only second best hockey player then.โ
Shane glared at Ilya, as Harris quickly hit the play button on the remote.ย
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The on-screen Shane is suffering, desperately pulling the collar of his jersey up to hide his face while the on-screen Ilya cackles loudly from the Rozanov side of the stage.
"Hey, look, stranger things have happened, maybe a stadium light was really bright!" the on-screen host calls out. "But that is strike two. Yuna Hollander, save your team. What do you have?"
Giving her son a look of profound, maternal disappointment before addressing the host, the on-screen Yuna answers, "A cracked or broken stick blade. You go to flex the stick, and it snaps."
DING! The number three slot flips over: BROKEN / CRACKED STICK โ 14 points (Doubled to 28).
"Yes, ma'am!" the on-screen host nods. "Keeps the round alive. David Hollander, you need to find another answer or the Rozanovs get a chance to steal. What do you think?"
The on-screen David guesses, "The pass was completely off-target! The guy put it into my skates!"
A sharp, final 'X' bounces through the arena, signaling strike three.
"And that is three strikes for the Hollanders!" the on-screen host announces. "Team Rozanov, the board is wide open for a steal. If you can get just one correct answer, you take all the accumulated double points. Ilya, what is the team thinking?"
The on-screen Ilya steps up to the microphone, a dangerous, utterly unhinged glint in his eyes as he looks over at Shane. "Well, clearly the number one reason Shane misses an open net is because he is too busy thinking about what I am going to do sโ"
SMACK.
Before the on-screen Ilya can finish the sentence, the on-screen Svetlanaโs hand flies out with blinding speed, her palm slamming directly over her best friend's mouth. She effectively muffles his voice into a series of panicked, high-pitched grunts, forcibly shoving his head down below the podium line.
Without breaking stride, the on-screen Svetlana leans directly over Ilya's shoulders into the microphone, her voice cool, sharp, and commanding. "They blame the equipment manager for giving them a poor skate sharpening. They claim they lost their edge."
The on-screen host stares in absolute awe at the physical takedown before quickly looking up at the big board. "Let's see if it's up there! Skate sharpening!"
DING! The number four spot flips over: BAD SKATE SHARPENING / LOST AN EDGE โ 11 points.
"They steal it!" the on-screen host shouts. "Svetlana saves the round!"
The digital board chimes, tallying up the points. But because there are still multiple high-value answers left completely uncovered on the boardโlike "Blaming a teammate's bad pass" or "Being hooked from behind"โthe total point value they actually walk away with isn't massive. They only add a modest 102 doubled points to their column, keeping the overall score within reach of a Hollander victory.
ย
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ย
In the media office, Harris hit pause. He looked over at Shane, who was still looking thoroughly traumatized by the memory of the indoor sun excuse.
Ilya looked at Shane as well. "Hey, look at it this way, sunshine," Ilya said, his voice softening slightly into an honest attempt at comforting his husband. He reached over, tossing his arm over Shane's rigid shoulders. "It happens to best of us. Even to number two overall hockey player in the country. Even number two pick can occasionally have brain of fifteenth best player on team like Hayden Pike"
Shane slowly lifted his head from his hands, throwing Ilya a flat, deeply unamused glare. "Really not helping, Ilya."
"But hey," Ilya added smoothly, giving Shane's shoulder an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with dark amusement. "Look on bright side. Even if your brain went freezy on national television... you looked incredibly pretty doing it."
Harris was practically falling out of his chair, laughing so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye. "I am telling you right now, this is the greatest piece of television the NHL has ever produced. It is absolute gold. Why on earth did they kill this episode? A little kitchen island banter and an indoor sun excuse never hurt daytime TV ratings!"
Shane let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. "The network programming executive at the time was an old-school traditionalist. He firmly believed hockey should only be marketed as a gritty, stoic bloodsport. Seeing the league's top stars argue about my thighs allegedly gave him a minor stroke. He ordered the tapes buried."
"Well, he had no sense of humor," Harris said, leaning forward to hit the play button again. "Let's see what happens next."
ย
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ย
The studio monitors flash a vibrant red as the words TRIPLE POINTS slam onto the digital board with a heavy mechanical clang.
"Alright, folks, the stakes are officially sky-high because the points are now tripled!" the on-screen host announces, gesturing to the center podiums. "Let's keep this momentum moving for Round 5. Rose Landry, Cliff Marlow, step on up!"
The on-screen Rose marches up to her podium, flashing a dazzling smile. The on-screen Cliff saunters up to his spot, completely unbothered by the game, his eyes instantly locking onto Rose. He leans heavily against his podium, offering her a lazy, slow grin.
"We surveyed one hundred hockey fans. The top four answers are on the board," the on-screen host explains. "Here is the question: Name something a hockey player might hear through the thin walls of a hotel room on a road trip."
SMACK.
The on-screen Cliff hits his buzzer instantly, not even waiting for the host to finish, just so he can lean into the microphone first.
"Cliff Marlow with the quick fingers! What do you say?"
Grinning like a schoolboy, a heavy layer of charm dripping from his voice, the on-screen Cliff looks directly across at Rose and purrs, "Well, if the night goes right, a beautiful woman knocking on the door at midnight."
Across the podium, the on-screen Rose bites her lip, giggling and shaking her head, but a loud, aggressive, mechanical 'X' instantly cuts through the romance, buzzing loudly through the studio speakers.
"Oof, a swing and a miss for the romantic approach!" the host winces. "Rose, the board is yours for control. What can you hear through those walls?"
Flashing her teeth at the camera, Rose answers smoothly, "Loud, disruptive snoring from your roommate."
DING! The number two spot on the board flips over: SNORING โ 20 points.
"There it is! Team Hollander takes control," the host calls out. "Rose, do we play or pass?"
"We are absolutely playing," Rose says, marching back to her line.
Because Team Hollander is playing, the turn moves right down their family lineup: Shane, Yuna, David, and finally, Hayden.
The host stops in front of Shane. "Shane Hollander, what else are you hearing?"
Trying desperately to maintain his professional captain's composure, the on-screen Shane answers, "People talking or arguing loudly in the hallway." DING! The number three spot flips: LOUD HALLWAY VOICES โ 15 points.
The host moves to Yuna. "Yuna, what do you think?" "A television blasting because a rookie forgot his headphones," she answers with crisp certainty. DING! The number four spot flips: LOUD TELEVISION / MOVIES โ 10 points.
The host turns to David. "David, keep the streak alive!" David scratches his chin. "A teammate aggressively typing or yelling at a video game." A sharp 'X' buzzes through the room. Strike one for the Hollanders.
The host steps down towards the end of the line, stopping in front of Hayden Pike. Hayden is currently vibrating with a manic, hyper-focused energy, his knuckles white where he's gripping the edge of the podium. The stress of Ilya's constant chirping and the pressure of the scoreboard have completely vaporized his internal filter.
"Alright, Hayden," the on-screen host prompts. "Your team has one strike. One answer left on the board. What are you hearing through those thin hotel walls?"
Leaning his entire upper body directly into the microphone, Hayden is staring straight at Ilya. Itโs obvious to everyone that whatever he is about to say, it will be dead serious and entirely unhinged.
The on-screen Hayden blunts out, "My best friend having phone sex with his boyfriend!"
The entire studio audience collectively gasps, dropping into a dead, horrified silence. A lone crew member in the back physically drops a clipboard, the loud clack echoing perfectly through the studio microphones.
On the line, the on-screen Shane looks like he wants to actively dissolve into a puddle on the floor. He covers his face entirely with both hands, his neck turning crimson. Across the stage, the on-screen Ilya throws his head back and lets out a loud, delighted roar of laughter, pounding his fist against his podium.
โHayden, he is loud, yes?โ Ilya wheezes through his laughter, wiping a tear from his eye. โEven on phone. Thank you for oversharing!โ
Hayden is absolutely fuming on the screen. The audience and the entire cast can see his sheer frustration and hatred radiating off him.ย
Leaning his entire upper body right back into the microphone, dead serious and staring directly at his nemesis, the on-screen Hayden bellows, โWell, I could have elaborated and said, 'Get a blowjob from their unhinged Russian boyfriend at their cottage because the mute button didn't actually work when they were talking to their best friend on the phone!'โ
The camera cuts to a rapid-fire sequence of jaw-dropping reactions across the stage:
Shane looks like his soul has entirely left his body. He doesn't just cover his face; he literally sinks downward, dropping his forehead directly onto his podium, his hands locked over the back of his neck as if waiting for someone to lop off his head.
Yunaโs flawless poise shatters into a display of maternal horror. Her jaw tightens into a razor-thin line, her eyes widening as she stares at her son in a mixture of profound shock and disbelief, silently calculating the public relations damage to the family name.
David immediately lets out a heavy, strained cough, his eyes darting frantically toward the studio ceiling. He begins aggressively pulling at the collar of his shirt, projecting a "dad wishing for a sinkhole to swallow him alive" energy.
Across the stage, the Rozanov side is in absolute, unadulterated locker-room hysterics. Ilya is practically doubled over, turning around to trade wild, ringing high-fives with Victor and Wyatt, who are both grinning like maniacs, thoroughly entertained by the total psychological collapse of Hayden.
Down the line, Cliff Marlow and Rose Landry simultaneously raise their eyebrows. Cliff lets out a low whistle, casting a highly amused, suggestive look across the stage at Rose, while Rose bites her lip, a wicked glint in her eyes as she files this brand-new information away for another day.
"Shane! It didn't work!" Hayden shouts over the mounting noise, pointing an accusing finger down the line. "You never hit mute! I heard everything!"
Suddenly, Hayden's face on-screen shows that he realizes what he has just done. In his disdain of his chirping Ilya, he has overshared. Really overshared. He slaps his hand over his mouth. โOh fuck, Shane. Oh fuck.ย I didnโt meanโฆoh shitโฆIโm so sorryโฆummmmโฆI donโt know why I just said all of thatโฆโ
On the monitor, the host clears his throat, his eyes wide and visibly terrified of the network censors. "I... wow. Keeping it very real.ย Let's see if... whatever that falls under is up there on the board!"
DING!
The top spot on the board flashes in brilliant gold: SEXY TIME / ROOM INTIMACY โ 40 points.
The studio audience goes absolutely wild. The digital scoreboard tumbles upward, totaling the 85 base points in the bank and automatically tripling them to a massive 255 points!
"They clear the board!" the host shouts over the roaring crowd, throwing his hands in the air. "Team Hollander explodes back into the game! They rocket up to 349 points, reclaiming the lead, while Team Rozanov sits at 235!"
ย
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ย
In the media office, Shane didn't just cover his face; he actively caved inward, his shoulders hitched up so high they nearly met his ears as his spine curved. For a guy who routinely commanded the ice with absolute authority, he looked shockingly small.
HIs hands locked over the back of his neck like he was bracing for an incoming airstrike. His ears turned a bright, burning scarlet. He was entirely motionless, his gut squeezed into a defensive knot.ย
โIโm so sorry, Harris. Really.โ
Harris reached over and gave Shane a hug. โBuddy, you know that you didnโt do anything wrong, right?ย This was years ago, and you werenโt the one spilling the tea of your life. Yeah, itโs a little too much information, but a little TMI didnโt kill anyone. And in the end? You and Ilya are married now. Heโs your soulmate. The world should be jealous of how much you love each other.ย How obvious it is that you were made for each other.โ
Ilya got up and wrapped his arms around Shane. He pulled him in close and kissed his forehead. โHarris is right. You should not be embarrassed. We are family here. Harris will not share video with anyone. Should be a funny memory, yes? Was years ago. And look at where we are now. You are still my favorite person, but you are also my husband. Ya tebya lyublyu.โ
You could hear a pindrop in the room.ย Finally, Shane let out a big sigh. โYou promise no one will see this, Harris? Really?โ
โI promise.ย I mean, I will probably tell Troy becauseโฆspousal privileges. But I promise Iโll delete this file. After we see the end.โ
Shane smiled. โThat sounds fair. Thank you, Harris. For sharing this with us first so we could decide what to do with this footage.โ
Harris looked at the final numbers on the display, his eyes widening. "Okay, back to the Feud. This game comes down to one final round? That's awesome!โ
"Exactly," Ilya chimed in, leaning back with a dark, thrilling grin. "Which brings us to grand finale. Question six. Shane versus me at center podium. Winner takes entire game."
Harris was completely hooked now, leaning so far forward his chest was nearly touching the media office console. "Come on, you have to give me a hint," he pleaded, looking back and forth between the two men. "Who walks away with the bragging rights? Does Team Rozanov mount the ultimate comeback, or does Team Hollander hold the line?"
Ilya let out a slow hum, swirling the last of his iced coffee. He offered Harris a coy, tight-lipped smile, intentionally locking his jaw to keep from spoiling the ending.
Shane, however, let out a soft, genuine laugh, a stark contrast to his previous hours of pure mortification. "Honestly, Harris, just watch. I remember this part vividly, and looking back at the sheer absurdity of it... it was actually not that embarrassing."
With a grin, Harris hit play.
ย
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ย
On the screen, the studio monitors begin to pulse with a deep, dramatic purple as a mechanical siren sound effect echoes through the studio speakers.
"Alright folks, we are running out of time, which means it is time for Sudden Death!" the host barks dynamically, waving his hands to draw the cameras in. "The rules change right now. There is only one answer hidden on the boardโthe number one response from our survey. The point value of that answer is tripled, and whoever buzzes in and gets it right will instantly win the game for their team. Let's bring our captains back to the center podiums for the ultimate showdown. Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov... step on up!"
Shane and Ilya march back to the center stage. Shane looks utterly determined, his competitive hockey brain completely overriding his lingering embarrassment from the cottage disclosure as he stares down the digital board. Ilya saunters up with equal intensity, a challenging, wicked spark in his eyes. Both men hover their hands less than a millimeter above their red buzzers, muscles visibly tense.
"We surveyed one hundred hockey fans, and only the top answer made the cut," the host states, lowering his voice for dramatic effect. "Here is the final question: Name something a hockey player complains about the most during the first week of training camp."
SMACK.
Shaneโs reflexes are flawless. The blue light on his podium ignites a split-second ahead of Ilya's.
"Shane Hollander with lightning-fast reflexes! What is your answer?"
"Sore feet and blisters from breaking in brand new skates," the on-screen Shane answers with absolute, unhesitating certainty.
The host looks up at the big screen. "Is it the number one answer?!"
A sharp, loud mechanical 'X' buzzes through the arena.
"Oof, a great, realistic answer, but it's not our number one spot!" the host announces, turning his attention across the podium. "Ilya Rozanov, the board is wide open to you. If you can give me the correct number one answer right now, you steal the points and win the game. What do they complain about the most?"
The on-screen Ilya leans directly into the microphone. His eyes lock onto Shane with a smug, knowing grin. "The worst thing. Starting day one, Mr. Host. The bag skates."
The host points a dramatic finger at the overhead display. "For the entire game... show me the bag skates!"
DING!
The top slot flips over in a spectacular shower of gold digital sparks: FITNESS TESTS / CONDITIONING BAG SKATES โ 39 points.
The entire studio erupts into absolute, unadulterated pandemonium. The digital scoreboard goes completely haywire, tallying up the points. Because it is a triple-point Sudden Death lightning round, those 39 base points are automatically multiplied by three, banking a massive 117 points straight into Team Rozanov's column.
The final scores flash onto the main overhead monitors in brilliant digital gold:
Team Hollander 349 points
Team Rozanov 352 points
"They steal it at the buzzer!" the host bellows over the roaring crowd, throwing his hands in the air. "By a microscopic margin of just three points, Team Rozanov squeaks out the ultimate victory and is moving on to the Fast Money Round!"
The camera begins panning across the stage, capturing the glorious, unhinged aftermath of the Sudden Death round.
On-camera Yuna is standing completely rigid, her hands gripping the edge of her podium so tightly her knuckles are white, her face visibly shaken by the concept of losing a televised event.ย
Next to her, on-screen Shane looks thoroughly exhausted, his hand slapped over his face as he processes the heartbreaking three-point loss.
Down the line, Hayden looks utterly hollowed out, staring blankly into the middle distance. He slowly reaches into his pocket, muttering audibly into his microphone, "I can't do this anymore. I just want to go to the green room, sit on the couch, and call Jackie."
Across the stage, Cliff and Rose are completely ignoring the final scoreboard, actively leaning over the team barrier to exchange phone numbers on a scrap of game-show paper.ย
Svetlana is standing with her arms crossed, a smirk directed entirely at Yuna. Behind her isย David, Wyatt, and Victor who have completely abandoned the game show format. They huddle together in a tight circle to furiously debate real-world hockey analytics and percentages.
And right in the center of the stage, Ilya is gloating in a massive, theatrical way. He is jumping up and down, waving his arms in the air, blowing kisses to the audience, and doing a literal victory lap around the host's podium.
"What a game!" the host shouts, trying to yell over the mounting noise of the studio audience. "Team Rozanov, you have won the night! Now, you have to select two team members to play Fast Money for the grand prize. Who is it going to be?"
Ilya aggressively grabs the host's microphone, pointing proudly at his best friend. "Svetlana goes first! She has the terrifying big brain to get big points. And I will go second to bring home glory!"
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ย
In the media office, Ilya hit the pause button, the screen freezing on his triumphant on-screen face. He turned to Harris, a massive, unbothered grin stretching across his features.
"And that, Drover," Ilya proclaimed proudly, "is how you close out game. Flawless victory."
"I wouldnโt call that flawless, but it was a great end. Alright, I am placing three distinct bets right now before you unpause this thing," Harris announced. He gestured toward the screen with his pen. "Bet number one: Svetlana is going to absolutely dominate her turn. She is built for Fast Money."
Ilya grinned, leaning his head back against the cushion. "You are not wrong, Drover. Svetlana does not play games for fun. She plays to win. She probably memorized probability distribution of everyday household objects before we arrived at studio."
"Bet number two," Harris continued, pointing an accusing finger at Ilya. "Based on how hollowed out Hayden Pike looked at the end of that last round, I bet whatever you do in this final segment officially breaks him. I bet you made him cry."
Shane let out a sudden, involuntary snort, quickly covering his mouth. "Oh, God. He did. Real tears, Harris. It was awful."
"And bet number three," Harris finished with a triumphant flourish. "Rose and Cliff are going to kiss during the finale. Look at them on the side of the screen right now. They aren't even watching the scoreboard; they are actually leaning over the podium divider."
Shaneโs expression softened, a warm, nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He looked over at Ilya, who met his gaze with a rare, quiet fondness.
"You'd actually win that last bet, Harris," Shane said softly. "Funny thing is... that's the exact moment they both realized they liked each other in real life. Before this episode, theyโd been dancing around it for months. Both of them were terrified to make a move, both convinced the other wasn't interested. When they started hamming it up and flirting for the cameras, it was just supposed to be a joke to rile up the producers. But somewhere around round five, the acting completely stopped."
"It worked in their favor," Ilya added, his voice unusually gentle. "They used game show as excuse to say what they were too scared to say. By the time confetti fell, it wasn't for cameras anymore. They've been inseparable ever since."
Harris smiled, visibly charmed by the behind-the-scenes lore. "Alright, now I have to see how this ends. Hit play."
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ย
The host flashes a high-wattage smile directly into the lens. "Welcome back, folks! Team Rozanov has claimed the crown, and now it is time for the Fast Money round! Two players, five questions, limited time to reach two hundred points and win twenty-five thousand dollars for The Irina Foundation. Svetlana, you are up first. Ilya has been escorted to the soundproof booth. Are you ready?"
Svetlana stands perfectly straight, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, her face a mask of absolute, icy calm under the bright studio rafters.
"I am prepared," she says without a hint of nerves. "Begin the clock."
"Twenty seconds on the clock, please," the host barks dynamically. "Here we go. Name a month of the year when a professional hockey player actually gets to get some rest."
"July," Svetlana fires back instantly.
"Name something found in a hockey locker room that smells absolutely terrible."
"Skates."
"Name a penalty a player gets most often for being too aggressive on the ice."
"Slashing."
"Name a food people love to eat while watching a game at the stadium."
"Hot dog."
"Name an NHL city known for having the most passionate, loud fans."
"Boston."
A clear electronic chime rings out through the arena. The studio audience roars as Svetlana finishes with a stunning four seconds left on the clock. She hasn't blinked a single time.
ย
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Harris paused the video. โThat was impressive!โ
"She was an assassin then. Sheโs more dangerous now," Ilya remarks proudly to the room, pointing a finger at the monitor. "No blood in those veins. Just cold calculations and fast car dominance."
Shane just stares blankly at the screen, muttering, "At least your team members answer the actual questions. Unlike my best friend."
โIโm ready to see the end. Shall we?โ Harris asked. The husbands nodded their heads as Harris hit play.
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๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง๐งโ๐งโ๐งโ๐ง
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"Incredible! Lightning fast, no hesitation at all," the host cheers, gesturing up to the massive digital display. "Let's see how you did on the board, Svetlana. First question: Name a month where hockey players get some rest. You said July. Survey says..."
A massive 42 points flashes onto the board with a loud electronic ding.
"The number one answer!" the host shouts. "Next, something in a locker room that smells terrible. You said skates. Survey says..."
Another ding sounds, and 38 points slam onto the display.
"Another top answer! Next, an aggressive penalty. You said slashing. Survey says..."
Ding. 31 points.
"Moving right along! Stadium food, you said a hot dog. Survey says..."
A sharp ding reveals a massive 45 points.
"Unbelievable! You are wiping the board clean! Finally, a city with the most passionate fans. You said Boston. Survey says..."
The final number locks in at 22 points. The digital board chimes aggressively as the numbers whirl together, landing on a staggering total.
"Look at that board! A massive one hundred and seventy-eight points!" the host bellows, throwing his arms out. "Svetlana, you have single-handedly demolished this round. Ilya only needs twenty-two points to take home the grand prize. Let's bring out the captain!"
The heavy door to the soundproof booth swings open, and the on-screen Ilya saunters out onto the stage. He has a pair of massive, neon-yellow headphones draped around his neck, completely oblivious to the score and swaying his hips slightly to an imaginary beat. He offers a dramatic, two-handed wave to the cheering crowd before taking his place next to the host's podium.
"Alright, Ilya," the host says, guiding him into position. "Svetlana absolutely played out of her mind. She got one hundred and seventy-eight points. You only need twenty-two points to win the twenty-five thousand dollars for The Irina Foundation. I'm going to give you twenty-five seconds on the clock. If you repeat any of her answers youโll hear this sound.โ
There is a loud buzzing sound that echoes on stage.ย
The host continues. โAlright, let's clear the board for Ilya!"
Ilya rolls his shoulders, flashing a cocky, razor-sharp grin directly into the camera lens.
"Twenty-five seconds on the clock," the host announces. "Your time starts now. Name a month of the year when a professional hockey player gets some rest."
"August," Ilya answers smoothly.
"Name something found in a hockey locker room that smells absolutely terrible."
"Hayden Pike's jersey."
The host pauses, stammering and caught completely off guard. "UhโI need a generic item, Ilya!"
Ilya sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. "Fine, fine. A sweaty jersey."
"Name a penalty a player gets most often for being too aggressive."
"Fighting Hayden," Ilya says instantly. "Obviously."
"Name a food people love to eat at the stadium."
"Poutine."
"Name an NHL city known for having the most passionate fans."
Ilya grins widely. "Ottawa. Because that is where my Shane was born."
A loud electronic chime cuts through the air as the clock stops, leaving twelve seconds to spare. Ilya immediately crosses his arms, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. Down on the sidelines, the broadcast cuts to a quick shot of on-screen Shane covering his face with both hands in sheer, unadulterated defeat.
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The video is paused. Sitting on the couch in the office, Shaneโs ears turned a violent, burning shade of crimson, perfectly matching his on-screen counterpart. "You just had to drag my birth city into it," he groaned. "You couldn't just give a normal answer."
"Ottawa is a very passionate city," Ilya insists, defending himself with a cheerful shrug. โIs our team now. And is the best team. That was perfect answer!โ
โShhhhhh,โ Harris intervened. โI want to see how this ends.โ
Harris clicked the play button one last time.
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"Well... those were certainly some highly specific choices, Ilya!" the host chuckles, shaking his head. "But you only need twenty-two points. Let's look at the board. First question: A month of rest. You said August. Survey says..."
A solid 18 points pop onto the display with a sharp ding.
"Just four points away!" the host shouts dynamically, building the tension. "Next, something that smells terrible in the locker room. You tried to name an opponent, but we gave you credit for saying sweaty jersey. Survey says..."
With a loud, resounding ding, a massive 26 points flashes onto the screen. The total counter instantly whirs past the 200 mark, locking into a final score of 222 points.
A loud, triumphant siren echoes through the studio, and a massive downpour of shiny silver and blue confetti explodes from the rafters.
"They did it!" the host bellows over the roaring crowd. "Team Rozanov wins the twenty-five thousand dollars for charity!"
The studio stage dissolves into absolute, beautiful chaos. The televised Ilya immediately begins jumping up and down, pumping his fists in the air, before dropping down to execute a theatrical knee slide across the confetti-strewn floor.
As the camera pans wide to capture the celebration, Harrisโs third bet comes to life in spectacular fashion.ย
Amid the swirling silver paper, Cliff Marlow steps over to Rose Landry. He doesn't say a word; he simply reaches out, catches her cleanly by the waist, and pulls her flush against his chest. Roseโs eyes widen in genuine, unscripted shock for a fraction of a second before she throws her arms around his neck, lifting her feet completely off the floor as they share a deep, fiercely passionate kiss right in front of the Hollander podium.
The studio audience shrieks with delight, the cameras lingering on them as the raw, genuine emotion completely cuts through the artificial TV set.
But the camera doesn't stop there. It pans over to the losing side of the stage to capture the reactions of the runner-up team.
Hayden Pike is standing under the falling confetti, looking completely pushed past his psychological breaking point. The combination of Ilya's brutal, relentless chirping all night, the stress of the sudden-death loss, and the public execution of his team's dignity has completely emptied his reservoir of emotional resilience.
A single tear leaks out of his left eye, carving a clean path through the studio makeup on his cheek. He is staring down at his phone, his lip visibly trembling as he sniffles audibly into his microphone.
"I hate this game," Hayden whines, his voice breaking into a pathetic, high-pitched whimper that is caught by his live mic. "I hate California. I just want to go home. I just want Jackie. Sheโs the only one who understands how mean Ilya is to me."
In the center of the stage, Ilya pauses mid-celebration, spotting Haydenโs breakdown. He immediately marches over, throws an arm around Hayden's rigid shoulders, and ready-positions his face to grin directly into a close-up camera lens.
"Aw, Hayden. Is only a game,โ Ilya says loudly. "I am sorry I hurt your feelings. To be fair, you outed the amazing blow job I gave Shane at the cottage. But that is okay, now whole world knows that I am amazing boyfriend who takes care of his lover. And maybe one day we will be friends?ย Tell Jackie hi for me,โ he replies with a wink.
Hayden lets out a miserable sob, rips himself entirely out of Ilya's grasp, and marches straight off the set into the backstage curtains, completely abandoning the final wrap-up shot.
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In the media office, Ilya hit the power button on the remote. The monitor faded back to black, and the room sat in silence, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning.
Harris was leaning back in his chair, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. "Unbelievable. That is, without a doubt, the greatest forty-four minutes of unreleased footage in sports history. The tears, the romance, the indoor sun answer... it has everything."
"It was a complete disaster," Shane muttered, though his tone was entirely affectionate now. He shifted on the couch, leaning his shoulder comfortably against Ilya's. "But... I suppose it wasn't the worst weekend we ever spent together."
"It was magnificent weekend," Ilya corrected smoothly, turning his head to plant a quick, lingering kiss against the side of Shane's temple. He tossed the remote onto the table and stretched out his long legs. "We won the money, Svetlana traumatized television network, Cliff got a girlfriend, I got to watch you turn color of tomato on national television. I would play again tomorrow."
Shane rubbed the back of his neck, a look of profound, lingering exhaustion on his face. "Harris, look, Iโm sorry. I know you brought us in here to look through old broadcast archives for the leagueโs heritage campaign, and instead you got dragged into... whatever the hell that was. I apologize for the complete lack of professionalism."
"Are you kidding me?" Harris laughed and turned to face his friend with a huge grin on his face. "Shane, there is absolutely no need to apologize. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I cleared this morning for the two of you. The second Ilya's name is on a file, I automatically budget for mayhem. Honestly, this exceeded my wildest expectations."
"See? Harris gets it," Ilya said, practically preening. He puffed out his chest, completely unapologetic and deeply satisfied with his younger self. "It was masterclass in television entertainment. I was dynamic. I was passionate. The camera loved me. Harris, you need to email digital file to me and Shane immediately. I want to download onto my phone so I can play it when Shane is being boring."
Shane looked horrified. "Absolutely not. I want that video to disappear. In fact, I want it scrubbed from the server, thrown into a digital incinerator, and deleted from human consciousness forever."
"Actually, Shane... about that," Harris intervened, his inner marketing executive instantly taking over. He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with strategic ambition. "What would you say to sharing part of it? Even just a two-minute supercut. If I drop this on the leagueโs main social accounts, it wouldnโt just go viralโit would completely break the internet. Itโs an absolute goldmine."
Shane held up a hand, his voice dropping into a desperate, pleading whisper. "Harris. Please. I am begging you. Spare what little dignity I have left. Please donโt."
Harris, in a serious tone, put his hand on his heart. โAlright Shane. I promise not to share this.โ
With the morning meeting wrapped up, the three of them stood, gathering their jackets and packing up their bags. Harris shut down the main console, the cooling fans of the media system slowly whirring to a stop as they moved toward the heavy door.
As they stepped into the quiet hallway, Ilya leaned in close to Shane, his voice dropping into a low, entirely unprincipled murmur that easily carried in the narrow corridor. "Speaking of great thigh debate... when we get home later, you can wear white slutty gym shorts for me, da? The tight ones. Is time for me to visit Personal Trainer Hollander."
Shane froze in his tracks, a furious, deep crimson flush instantly rushing from his collar up to the tips of his ears. He glanced sharply at Harris, who was very intentionally pretending to be deeply fascinated by a framed hockey jersey on the wall.
Shane cleared his throat, adjusting his jacket strap, and muttered, "Maybe. If you promise to shut up about the damn video."
Ilya smirked, thoroughly victorious. "Deal."
They traded quick goodbyes and hugs. Shane and Ilya headed to the locker room. Harris turned back toward his office to grab his backpack.
Once he was alone in the quiet corridor, the hallway empty and his morning schedule coming to a close, Harris pulled his phone from his pocket. He scrolled down his contacts, a slow, mischievous smile spreading across his face, and hit the call button.
The line rang twice before a familiar, deep voice picked up on the other end, background locker room noise faintly echoing through the receiver.
โHello?โ Troy mumbled?
"Hey, babe," Harris said, leaning his shoulder against the wall as a quiet chuckle escaped him. "Look, I just finished up the archival review session with Shane and Ilya. Troy... you are never, ever going to guess what I just unearthed from the video vault."
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