Work Text:
T - 10 Hours : Zane Boodram
"Doux-doux, why do you cry?" Bood whispered, patting Milo's back gently.
Even at a year old, Bood's hand spanned the width of his son's back. It was hard to imagine a day when Bood would hug his son and find him at eye level though surely it was inevitable. For now, Milo was barely a weight in his arms and also the heaviest thing in the world.
"Da," Milo sniffled. "Da da da da."
"I know, big day," Bood agreed.
"Why didn't you wake me?" Cassie asked from the doorway. "You should still be sleeping, you got in so late last night."
"I was already awake," Bood admitted. "And I missed him."
They adjourned to the kitchen so Milo could enjoy a breakfast of greenish mush that Bood fed to him bite by bite with a comically tiny spoon. Cassie brewed coffee and they both drank it slowly, their knees touching under the table.
"Do you need me to do anything to help with the rest of the day?" Bood asked her.
She gave him a look with the intensity of a thousand suns. "No."
"Got it," he laughed quietly.
"Tomorrow, you can be helpful," she said, a little more gently.
"Tomorrow," he agreed.
Tomorrow seemed a lifetime away. Tomorrow could be a thousand different things. Today was Milo picking up his little spoon and banging it against the tray.
"Da, da, da, da," he said happily with each smack.
The tempo caught in Bood's bones. He carried it with him for the rest of the day, tapping it against his thigh. Da. Da. Da. Da.
T - 8 Hours : Wyatt Hayes
Lisa was the best back scratcher in the world. She had many many other amazing qualities, including being an incredible doctor who saved lives every day. Wyatt had known he would marry her if she would have him from their very first date, right when she explained how antibiotics worked with a Spiderman vs Deadpool metaphor.
But sometimes, he thought he could never love her more than when she lay behind him in bed and scratched his back. Especially when they had been missing each other for days, their schedules refusing to mesh.
"How was your shift?" he murmured, arching a little into the touch.
"Long," she sighed and kissed his shoulder. She still smelled like the hospital, even though she'd certainly showered after making it home at last. "There was a three car pile up."
"Oof. Sorry to hear that."
"Me too. But we got through it. I drank too many Red Bulls and I can probably see through space and time now."
Wyatt reluctantly rolled over, ending the contact so he could pull her into a hug. Their bed was warm and had its own gravity at this hour, so he moved slowly. She curled in against his chest.
"Red Bull is the new radiation," he said.
"I can definitely feel myself wanting Hulk out," she agreed with a yawn. "How are you feeling about tonight?"
"Ready," he said.
"Really?"
"Better be at this point," he said and kissed the top of her head. "You sleep. I'll see you out there tonight."
"Then Cabo next week," she said longingly.
"Cabo," he agreed. "Me, you, sand and fruity drinks."
He held her until she was a heavy weight, all the tension around her mouth eased. Once Lisa was asleep, little could wake her, so he got out of bed with a heartfelt groan. He pulled on his workout clothes and went to the kitchen. Food had become an almost depressing chore, trying to keep on weight and muscle that wanted to flee to Cabo too. Today though, he felt a renewed appreciation for his protein shake. Tomorrow, one way or another, he would be free of them. As he drank it down, he prepared oatmeal, drenching it in milk and chopping fruit into it. Then he sealed it and set it in the fridge, attaching a post-it to the container.
To help soak up the Red Bull. - W
The day stretched ahead of him. Wyatt snagged the battered trade he kept of Under the Red Hood and took it out to the back garden. There would be time for other rituals later. For right now, he wanted to sink into another world and live there until it was time to surface and do what needed doing.
T - 6 Hours : Joey Yolen
"No, you don't need to go to the ticket booth," Joey groaned. "Mom…Mom! Put Rivkah on. No, I love you too, but you're panicking and there's nothing to panic about."
They paced through their apartment. There was a lot more floor space than there used to be. Almost as if they had accidentally half moved out somehow. Their sister's voice broke through the chaos.
"Jimjam," Rivkah said, "breathe. I have everything you emailed. We'll be there. Okay?"
"You said that about the last game," they reminded her.
"And we figured it out without you. Security understood in the end," she said gently. "I promise I will get everyone where they need to be."
"Thank you," they said. "Sorry. I just- I don't know. I hate this."
"You love this," she said. "All of it. Only the waiting is hard."
"Yeah, exactly," they groaned. "The waiting."
"So go do something to take your mind off it."
"I'm not really supposed to do much. Everything is a risk right now."
"If everything is something, then really everything is nothing," she said in a way that seemed reasonable and also indecipherable. "So go do something or you'll only stress yourself more."
"Yeah, fair."
They were already picking up their keys and heading for the door, doing what they should've done last night. Shoes on. Keys. Wallet. Phone still pressed to their ear.
"Tell them I said hi," Rivkah said slyly.
"Who?" Joey asked.
"That is only going to work for so long," she warned. "See you tonight."
Joey drove. They knew this route well by now: the one light that always seemed a hair too long, the half-assed speed bump near the elementary school with its fading paint, and the pedestrian crossing sign that someone had slapped a sticker on it to make it look like the pedestrian was hula-hooping. All of it signaled something good coming.
The house was quiet as they let themselves in, but they heard noise coming from the backyard. It was warm today. Hayden had probably turned on the sprinklers for the kids to run through in their bathing suits. Even though they had just seen each other last night, Joey longed for him all at once.
They gathered speed and came out onto the patio with a little too much energy. Jackie's head whipped up from her book and Hayden sprayed Jade in the face with the hose he was holding.
"Sorry, sweetheart!" Hayden said quickly and then relaxed as Jade laughed and made a lunge for the hose herself.
"Hey, baby," Jackie said, setting aside her book and holding out a hand to Joey. "You okay? I thought you said you were going to stay home today."
They grasped for her hand and held it as they sat down beside her. "That was stupid."
"You wanted to be distraction-free," she corrected. "That's not stupid. It's a big day."
"Yeah, except the distractions are the best part of my day," they said and brought their other hand up to cup her hand between both of theirs. "Then my mother called and I was distracted in the worst way anyway because she's allergic to directions. Can I crash your party?"
"You have a key, you're not crashing," she reminded them, not for the first time. "And of course. I was going to make something for Hayden soon, are you hungry?"
"Yes, thanks," they said and dropped a kiss on her shoulder.
"Fuuuuuu-dge!" Hayden yelled as Jade actually did get the hose off him and blasted his chest. Which probably would've been fine normally, but Joey knew intimately how bruised he was. They winced for him. "Okay, hose goes off now."
"I'm sorry!" Jade wailed.
"No fair! I didn't do anything!" Ruby protested.
"You're sure you don't want to go back to your place?" Jackie asked wryly.
"Not even a little," Joey said. They got to their feet to help with the hose.
"Hey, baby," Hayden said, a little breathless. It was only as they got close that they noticed Arthur barnacled to Hayden's leg, dripping wet and apparently ambivalent about it. "Miss us?"
"Yeah," Joey said and brushed a kiss over Hayden's cheek. They squatted down and offered their arms to Arthur. He surged into them and wrapped their arms around Joey's neck as they picked him up. Cold water soaked through Joey's shirt as Arthur buried his face against their chest. "I did."
T - 4 Hours : Ryan Price
The socks were wrong, Ryan determined. He took them off and pulled on a black pair, wiggled his toes and relaxed a fraction. The offending pair went back into the wash. He knew that everything that had annoyed him about them today wouldn't even register next week. Right now, his skin itched and his throat was too dry and his back kept twinging.
"Is this a no-touch situation?" Fabian asked from the hotel bed, watching him.
"I don't know," Ryan said miserably. "I want to take another Xanex, but I don't want to be sleepy during the game."
"If you were any more wired, I could use you as an amp," Fabian scoffed. "I don't think you're going to nod off. Take the pill."
Ryan took the pill. He did his breathing exercises. He made out with his very hot boyfriend for a few minutes. One of those things, or all of them in combination, did the trick. By the time they emerged from the hotel and got into the waiting car, Ryan felt an almost normal amount of pre-game jitters. Fabian wedged in under his arm and rubbed a hand in slow circles over Ryan's thigh.
"You sure you don't mind me hanging around your office while you do media?"
"Are you kidding?" Ryan said, pulling him closer. "Knowing you're there is perfect. As long as you won’t be too bored."
"I can occupy myself," Fabian assured him. "And don't worry about having someone lead me to my seat, I think I know the way now."
"Oh, two games and now he's an expert," Ryan teased.
"An expert on getting to a seat and getting snacks," Fabian said, pinching his thigh lightly. "Anyway, Harris said he'd be hanging around too, so if I get bored, I can dial a friend."
T - 2 Hours : Troy Barrett
"Good luck, babe," Harris said and gave Troy one last hug. "You're going to -oomph."
"Sorry," Troy said into Harris neck.
"No, no, this is good," Harris said and he sounded amused so Troy didn't feel too bad as he continued to hug him with the intensity of a boa constrictor. "You've been so calm all day, I was worried you were disassociating or something."
"I can't think," Troy said into Harris' neck. How did Harris always smell like every good thing in the world? "And once I go in there, it's going to be all thinking. Talking."
"Yeah, but with the guys," Harris reminded him, rubbing his back with the heel of his hand. "Who are just as tense as you are. They'll understand if you want to stare into space or whatever you need to do."
"I know that," Troy said.
He did. It was just hard to internalize sometimes. Two seasons with the Cens didn't undo the years with Toronto. The knots his father had tied in him were tight and Troy scrambled at the edges of them all the time. Sometimes they came undone and sometimes they stayed firmly together. Worse, sometimes they seemed to unravel only for him to later find them bound up all over again.
"If you need to take a second, look at Hollander. Like don't stare at him, but if you need to touch base. Okay?"
Hollander. Of course.
"You're a genius, babe," Troy said earnestly.
"I try," Harris laughed. "Go make my job easier, please."
"I'll try."
The locker room was still mostly empty. Despite his trepidation about entering, Troy had deliberately chosen to show up early like he usually did. On a day like today, the others wouldn't be far behind, but he'd wanted to carve out a little time and space for himself. He got it for five whole minutes. That was enough for him to settle his personal things where they belonged and take a few deep breaths.
He heard Hollander before he saw him. The steady footsteps and the familiar smack of his bag hitting the bench. Always the bench and never the floor.
"Hey," Troy said.
"Hey," Hollander said.
They both went through their rituals in silence and the tightness in Troy's chest unwound a little.
The other guys filtered in, the usual joking and shit talking vibrating at a different frequency. Bood gently shoulder-checked Troy in greeting, but otherwise kept his attention on LaPointe. The room buzzed. Usually Troy found the boisterous noise of this room pleasant, even if he rarely contributed. Today it was abrasive, rubbing over his nerve endings.
Trying for casual, he sat down to check over his pads. Not necessary. They were in perfect condition and the equipment managers were excellent. Still, ritual was ritual. Very carefully, he glanced over under his eyelashes.
Amidst the chaos, Hollander stood like a pillar. His attention was all on his stick, rubbing a thumb over the fresh tape. He seemed entirely unmoved by what was coming. It could have been any night at all. Maybe that was because Hollander always operated at a level of intensity that seemed unsustainable to most people or maybe he genuinely did not see this game as any different. It was hard to tell.
But Harris was right. It was steadying.
"Good to go, man?" Pike wandered over. There was glitter on the hem of his t-shirt and marker on his fingertips.
For the past ten months, Pike had been Troy's center. Everywhere that Kent had been hard, Pike was soft. It was as if the man had been made out of the things Kent had disdained. Pike's slavish devotion to his wife, his unabashed love for his kids, his corny jokes and motor mouth were like an antidote to poison.
"I'm good," Troy said and meant it.
"Excellent," Pike said. "Yolen, you good?"
"Never better," Yolen said, tossing their head as if they had a mane of hair to throw over their shoulder. "You good, Barrett?"
And obviously Yolen had heard him before, but Troy had gotten the patter down better these days. Yolen wasn't teasing. They were keeping the banter ball in the air. Pike and Yolen were great at that. They also seemed willing to give Troy infinite chances to hit it too, even though he let it drop more often than not.
Today, he wanted to try.
"I'm fucking great," Troy said. “You good, Pike?”
“Fresh as a daisy and ready to commit hockey homicide!”
"Hell yeah!" Yolen said with a grin. “The Demented Line rides again!”
T-15 Minutes : Brandon Wiebe
They were here again. Bren stood in the hallway, gathering himself for an extra second. Ryan and Ilya flanked him, waiting patiently for his go ahead to enter. Pre-game press was behind them. All tape review had been finished. There were only these few precious minutes.
Last year, he had known it wasn't going to happen.
Tonight, Bren knew it might.
"Before I talk to them, I want to say something to the two of you."
"No," Ilya groaned. "Do not be all nice and heartfelt. Ryan will cry. Think of how embarrassing this will be for him."
"Shut up, Roz," Ryan said on autopilot.
"It's not emotional," Bren said calmly.
"This is a lie," Ilya said.
"Fine, it's a little emotional. Listen anyway," Bren said. Ilya compressed his lips into a line and Ryan fidgeted. "Thank you. Both of you. I'm proud to stand here with both of you. You're both good men and I can't imagine doing this with anyone else. "
They all let that sink in.
"I'm a little teary," Ryan admitted, dry-eyed.
"No one is dying! This is hockey!" Ilya complained, his hand dashing across his face quickly. "We only need to go tell our very well paid players to go do their fucking jobs."
"Okay," Bren said mock-solemnly. "We can go do that."
He turned his back on them and stepped into the locker room. The noise inside stopped dead as the coaches filtered in. Everyone was ready, kitted out and waiting.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Bren said, scanning the room. He met everyone's eyes, one-by-one. "Big night, huh?"
There was a little laughter. Tense. Bren pushed on. "I know a lot of you were here last year when we reached this point. I know how hard you worked and how close you came. Not tonight. Tonight we get to play them here, at home, as a team that cut through the last few months with determination and grit. Every one of you was already talented, but now you're a team forged in the crucible. I know what you can do. You know what you can do. Now we show them."
It was, as rousing speeches went, not one of Bren's best, but he had been giving them one before almost every game through the entire stretch of the playoffs. He wasn't entirely sure it wasn't all white noise to them at this point. At the very least, he got some cheers and agreement. The energy in the room felt good. That's all he could ask for.
The time came for them regardless. They went back out through the tunnels and towards whatever the night would bring.
Puck Drop- Luca Haas
The notes of the second anthem faded. The announcements had been made. The ice was perfect under his blades. Luca gripped his stick and rolled his shoulders. Despite the noise of the arena, a single small sound reached his ears. Beside him, Shane had taken in a long inhalation and was releasing slowly through pursed lips. Unconsciously, Luca mirrored him.
"Hey, Haasy," Shane said, only loud enough to carry to him.
"Yes, Holzy?"
"We're gonna fuck 'em up."
The bright predatory smile that lit up Shane's face set fire to Luca's ready tinder.
"Okay," Luca said happily. "We will fuck them up."
"It's serious boys!" Bood called out. "Haasy dropped an 'F' bomb!"
"Shit, lock in," Dykstra yelled back. "He's going to kill them."
"Do you motherfuckers ever shut up?" The center taking his place across from Shane asked. Technically, the man was a great player. Smart, fast and worthy of respect most of the time. Tonight, Luca decided he did not even deserve a name. He was only a faceless adversary.
"Shh," Luca said gently, "the adults are talking."
"Listen you little sh-"
"All right, all right," the ref said. "Enough talk."
Chirping, laughter, names, all got tucked away. Shane bent down over the dot. Luca locked in. The puck dropped. Shane snatched it and immediately sent it Luca's way. He took off with it, got it to Bood and kept moving. They shot the puck in and around white and yellow jerseys. Shane's stick flashed out lightning fast to cradle it in.
The goal was there. Luca was there. The puck shot from Shane to him. The goalie was waiting, already prepared for every one of Luca’s usual tactics.
It was a move he had practiced over and over with Joey in spare moments. A joke, really. Something to surprise Coach at the right moment. As the defense closed in though, Luca's body moved without thought. The transition was seamless, the faked backhand and then the shot.
The puck hit the net and from the box, Luca heard the single shout of triumph from behind him.
"Haas, you beautiful thief!" Coach's voice reverberated through him.
Luca turned and instead of a celly, he lifted his hand and pointed to his coach. With a mask of perfect stoic cold, Coach pointed slowly right back at him. The moment would make the highlight reels for a long time to come.
Intermission Between First and Second period: Hayden Pike
"Show us the range of movement," the medic demanded.
"I swear, I'm good to play," Hayden said, even as he lifted his arm. An icicle of pain stabbed through his shoulder, but it was familiar agony. Muscle protested against abuse, but it was nothing he couldn't rehab in a few weeks after this was over.
The medics ignored him. He was poked and prodded.
"How is he?" the question sliced through the room.
"It could be a tear," the medic said.
"It's not," Hayden said firmly. "Coach, I swear, it's not."
Rozanov's shadow fell over him, his mouth tight, eyes narrowed. "This is not something you can decide."
"I'm not fucking deciding. I know my body. It's not a tear. I don't need a scan to tell me that. It'll hurt like hell for a bit, but I can play."
"You play fucked up, it will get more fucked up," Rozanov said.
"I have all summer to rehab it. What would you have done?" Hayden challenged, then winced. "Fuck. Sorry."
"No, it is a fair question," Rozanov said. He gave Hayden a long look over as if he could x-ray him with his eyes. "Get up, Pike. We go."
"Thank you," Hayden said, relief coursing through him.
"You will not thank me tomorrow," Rozanov said.
Before anyone could change their minds, Hayden gathered his discarded upper layers and hightailed it out of the room. Joey was waiting for him at the door to the locker room.
"Got the go ahead!" Hayden said.
"You're all right?" Joey frowned. "That was a really hard hit, Hayd."
The hallway was buzzing with people. Hayden gently tapped his forehead to Joey's instead of a thousand other reassurances he would rather indulge in.
"I'm not sitting this one out. I might need you to help me get my pads back on."
Joey hesitated. Hayden waited patiently. They sighed gustily. "Yeah, okay. I don't want to be out there without you anyway. But if you're really fucked up, you're going to have to tell Jackie you bullied me about it."
"Bullied you!" Hayden protested.
"You know I can't do shit when you give me the big eyes," Joey said. "C'mon. Let's get you suited back up."
It had been a very small fantasy of Hayden's for years to have Jackie in the locker room. Not even for sex, but for a before game make out maybe. It would be sexy and also fortifying, better than the electrolytes and caffeine.
To have Joey there all the time was already a delirious fulfillment of that desire, even if they kept their hands to themselves. So Hayden was not prepared for how smoking hot it would be to have Joey pulling on Hayden's pads, settling them into place and testing the straps. The serious expression on his lover's face settled into Hayden like a lock clicking into place. He barely noticed his shoulder's complaint as Joey reached for his jersey to ease over Hayden's arms. It should've felt like being treated like a kid.
Instead it was like a fellow soldier arming him for battle.
"You good?" Joey checked as they handed Hayden his gloves.
"Never better," Hayden said, catching their eyes. The room was loud, jittery. No one was listening to them. Hayden ducked his head and whispered, "Thank you, baby."
"You're welcome," Joey whispered right back. "That pass right before the hit? Hot."
Hayden beamed at them, then slapped their arm with his gloves. “Quit it.”
“You fucking quit it,” Joey laughed, returning the smack. It devolved rapidly into them batting at each other’s gloves like a mock slap fight.
"Barrett, come get your lineys! They're being weird again!" Holmberg yelled.
"Let 'em be weird," Troy said, not even turning his head. "That's how they get it done."
"Eat shit, Bergy," Hayden said cheerfully. His shoulder was on fire. There were bruises all over him from the last several weeks. It was entirely possible three of his toes were broken. Who cared? Life was fucking great.
Intermission Between Second and Third Period: Ilya Rozanov
1-1.
1-1.
1 fucking 1.
Absolutely fucking not.
Ilya stood in the doorway, jaw clenched. Bren was sitting beside Young, talking to him quietly. Price had taken Dykstra near the entrance to the bathrooms, giving them the veneer of privacy. The two of them communed in a way that was both disturbing and a little sweet if Ilya had had the headspace to consider it.
Game seven of a neck-and-neck series after weeks of playoff games was a brutal place to be. Ilya’s players were beat to shit, tired, hurting, and already had the taste of a loss in their mouth from last year. Ilya knew that taste intimately. The bitter failure rested heavy on the tongue, weighing it down and making it hard to speak.
He curled his left hand into a fist and brought it down against the metal door.
BANG BANG BANG
Every head in the room shot up.
"Who in this room has already held the Cup? Raise your hands."
There was confused silence for a second. Ilya raised his own hand and glared at them all. After a beat, Shane raised his. Pike put up his left, babying his right. Smart. With a put upon sigh, Ryan raised his hand too.
"After tonight, every hand in this room goes up." There was a muttering. He had rubbed several superstitions the wrong way, but Ilya didn't give a fuck right now. "This is not a maybe. Not a probably. Do I ever say things just to make you feel better? Is that who I am?"
A few heads shook. Ilya nodded once. "I do not do this. There is no 'if' in this room tonight. Hollander, you know how a winning game feels. Yes or no?"
Shane glared at him for a half-second, then dropped his eyes to the ground considering. Then he announced with every ounce of certainty he could carry. "Yes."
"Yes," Ilya repeated. "Three cups he brought to Montreal. Pike was next to him for that. Pike? Yes or no?"
"Feels like a winning night to me, coach," Pike said with a half-smile.
"Price?"
"Why are you even asking me?" Ryan said. "Of course it does."
"Of course it fucking does," Ilya repeated. "Two games we played against them in the regular season. Did we lose then?"
"No, coach," Bood said, picking up the momentum.
"No. We won against them then and they are no different now. So they have a little extra energy at home, maybe a few fewer injuries. So what? We are better than them in every measurable way. Their home ice is nice for them? Too fucking bad. They are here now. They are not so injured? That means they play like they are delicate. We are strong. This is our ice. Our fans. Our fucking house. Yes?"
"Yes, coach!" That came back a little louder.
Ilya punched the door again.
BANG "Ottawa wins tonight." BANG "Ottawa wins TONIGHT!" BANG "OTTAWA FUCKING WINS TONIGHT."
Tired feet smacked against the ground. Hands hit thighs. A few stick butts cracked against the metal benches.
"Ottawa wins tonight! Ottawa wins tonight!"
They charged back out when the time came. Only Shane lingered. He came up to Ilya's side. He didn't reach for him. They only stood beside each other for a few suspended seconds, staring down the tunnel.
"This one feels different," Shane said as he started forward again. "They all feel different, but this one…I think it's going to be better."
"All of them were good wins."
"And this one is going to be fucking great," Shane decided.
Ilya loved him so much it almost overwhelmed him for a moment. He rocked on his heels with it.
"Yes, yes. Move your ass, Hollander, you are making a habit of being late to the ice," he said.
"Shut up," Shane said with a laugh and they headed out to meet the end of the season one way or another.
Thirty Seconds on the Clock: Shane Hollander
The first cup Shane had won by the skin of his teeth. That was what he remembered: the razor edge of potential. He had made the winning goal, seconds before things could break the other way. The second cup had been a slog. Overtime in three of the six games they'd played. Shane had made a goal in the last game of that one too, but in the first period before things really became a slugfest. The last cup, the one they had won as Shane spiraled out internally, had ironically been the easiest. Practically a shut out. Even with his team turning on him, Shane had put numbers on the board, assisting or making almost every goal of the entire series.
Shane didn't care how the win came in the end. They were all victories. Each of them was a celebration of the career he had made with the team he had dreamed of playing on as a child. Each win was for his mother, who had only wanted the best things for him.
Three cups for the Metros. For her. For himself.
Shane bent to the dot. He had reached the kind of tiredness that he actually craved. The point where fatigue wrapped around into endorphins again. His body was taut and wired.
It was all a little besides the point. The Centaurs had spilled back out onto the ice in the third period with the beat Ilya had started pounding in their hearts. They were up 4-1. All they had to do was hold down the fort until the clock ran down and even that was almost moot.
Shane watched the puck drop. He took it like it was the most important puck of the game. Because it was. There was no such thing as 'moot' at this point. There was only the securing of the win.
The crowd counted down, their voices a wall of sound pounding in his ears.
It seemed to him as time dilated to those last crucial seconds that every team member on the ice would get a piece of the action. As if that beat, the rolling drum of it, had become a dance they were all playing a part in.
The puck came to Shane, neatly delivered by Haas.
It would only be salt in the wound to score again. Shane didn't mind being a salt shaker. He took the shot and almost knocked out Dykstra when he punched the air in triumph. The puck had sailed in a fraction of a second before the buzzer.
Confetti shot out, the arena roiled with triumphant cheering. Shane was quickly piled on by his team, all of them forgetting their aches and bruises to smack gleefully at each other, hugs carrying them around the ice. When he was at last released from the hurricane of joy, Shane found himself in front of the box.
Ilya glowed in the harsh white light. Without hesitation, Shane went over the boards and crashed into him, only Ilya's reflexes preventing them from toppling to the ground. Shane's helmet hit the bench.
"I thought you did not want to show up Hunter," Ilya teased. He searched Shane's face, seeing permission.
"Fuck him," Shane said. "We won the Cup together. Me and you. Kiss me about it."
Ilya cupped Shane's face between his hands and kissed him desperately. Then he pulled him into another rough hug, the two of them laughing and clinging to each other like they were the only two people in the world.
For a crystalline, perfect moment, they were.