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June – 2014
Stanley Cup Finals Game Six was tomorrow afternoon, and Hayden was planning a watch party at his house. Shane accepted. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Boston had knocked Montreal out during the Eastern Conference Finals, and Shane didn’t really want to watch Rozanov win the Stanley Cup alone.
He could have gone to Ottawa, but he still had a few things to take care of before leaving Montreal for the summer.
What he didn’t expect was a simple text message, delivered right when he unlocked his front door after a long run.
Lily: I am going to win the cup tomorrow.
Almost six months of no contact. Almost six months of radio silence. After Rozanov fucked him for the first time, this was how he contacted Shane. A fucking brag?
There was only one appropriate response.
Shane: Fuck off.
Lily: Have you been watching?
Shane: I'm going to block you.
Lily: 10 goals in 6 games. Going to take Conn Smythe and Hart too.
God, Rozanov was such an asshole.
Shane: So you're messaging me to gloat. Is that it?
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared.
It took Rozanov so long to type that Shane had made into his condo and stripped off his shirt before he received a reply.
Lily: Come to Boston.
Shane almost dropped his phone.
Lily: I will get you ticket.
Shane’s hands shook as he typed.
Shane: You can't be serious.
Lily: Come.
The double entendre wasn't lost on Shane, but he couldn't just drop everything and fly to Boston to see his one-time hookup win the Stanley Cup. For starters, he shouldn't be seen in his rival's building when Rozanov was about to win. The optics of being Montreal’s captain but cheering on Boston would be terrible for Shane, for them. And there was no way Shane could get inside without anyone noticing him.
On top of that, Shane absolutely couldn't be seen at TD Garden as Rozanov's guest.
He must have taken too long to reply because the next moment, Lily popped up onto his screen with an incoming call. Shane almost didn't answer it, but his thumb slipped.
Rozanov spoke before Shane could.
"Do not speak. Listen,” he demanded.
Shane would have told him to fuck off again, but there was sound in the background of the call, loud but muffled, like Rozanov was in the locker room or team gym.
"I shamed Russia. My father was not happy, but he's never happy. He was not…kind, when I was there.” His voice warmed, softened. “You looked too good and too cozy in that sweatshirt."
"Fleece." Shane offered without thinking, and he could practically hear Rozanov's head jerk around to see if anyone heard Shane's voice.
"I knew I could not do what I wanted to do to you there. And since we could not be seen together, I pushed you away. I did not mean to push you that far away. I just needed to do this. No distractions."
“And I’m a distraction?”
Shane could hear the smile in Rozanov’s voice. “The best kind.”
Roznaov huffed now, walking or perhaps even jogging. "I needed to show my father that I am not weak. American hockey did not make me soft." A door creaked. Rozanov must have made it outside. Shane could hear birds and some cars, like a road was nearby. "I needed to prove that I am the best, and I am now. I am the best hockey player in the world."
Shane couldn't refute that. It was true.
"Only two people fucking care, and one thinks I don’t care about him. And he won't be here tomorrow night, so I thought - I can fix that.
“Come to Boston,” Rozanov asked again. As if whispering from his very soul, he added, “Please, Shane.”
“I...dunno.” Shane rubbed the back of his neck, anxiety gnawing at his gut. “I'll, uh, I’ll think about it, okay?”
“I did not fuck Sasha,” Rozanov blurted, like Shane should know who that was.
“Who?”
“Coach’s son. One I knew before you. I saw him in Russia. He wanted to fuck, but I did not fuck him. I have not been with anyone since…”
Rozanov’s voice trailed off, and Shane found himself clutching his phone. “Since we…?”
“Yes,” Rozanov replied. “Since we.”
Shane reeled. “But-But it’s been – ”
“Yes. Months.” A pause. “Will you come?”
Shane opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He wasn’t even sure how he would answer. Attending the Stanley Cup-winning game for Boston seemed so outrageous to him, as the captain of their biggest rival, but Rozanov asked him.
Rozanov never asked Shane for anything before.
An older, rougher voice came through the connection. "Roz, you coming?"
Marleau.
"Can you not see I am on phone?" Rozanov snapped, his voice sounding farther away. He must have pulled the phone away from his face.
"Oh, is it Jane?"
"If I say yes, will you go away?"
A laugh. “All right. Text me later.”
A moment passed. Then another before Rozanov said, “I have to go. I will have Svetlana – she is old friend from Russia. She will have your ticket if you decide to come. I will give her your number.”
“Ilya.” That was all Shane could get out.
“This is the beginning, Shane,” Ilya said, a tender promise. “Tomorrow, I will win. The first cup between us, but it will not be the last. We will rule the NHL. Rozanov and Hollander. Together.”
He hung up, and Shane was left alone, cold and shirtless, in his Montreal condo.
A single thought ran through his mind.
If the roles were reversed, would Rozanov come to Montreal to watch him win the cup?
Ilya guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised. With less than ten minutes left to the opening face-off, he’d heard nothing.
No text from Shane. No text from Svetlana saying she heard from Shane.
Ilya tried to shake his disappointment. He had a speech to give his team, a game to win, two trophies to lift. He couldn't be hung up on the fact that Shane Hollander decided not to come and support him.
And who could blame him? Surely not Ilya. He'd ghosted Shane for almost six months after telling him they were nothing.
Which was the farthest thing from the truth, but Shane didn't know that.
Ilya sucked in a long inhale and let it out slowly. Okay. Speech. Conn Smythe. Cup. And then he’d fly to Montreal and win Shane back.
If anyone could go 3-0 in a twenty-four-hour period, it would be he.
"You're not going to wear your own WAG jacket, are you, Roz?" Marleau asked abruptly, throwing his phone onto the shelf above his locker.
Ilya blinked. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Your Boston girl. Svetlana, right? She requested her WAG jacket big enough to fit you. And by the way, why did she wait until yesterday to request it? Milly had to get the tailor to work double time to get it done for today's game."
Milly. Marleau's girlfriend. She should have been his wife already, but Marleau didn't know how to lock things down.
Not that Ilya was one to talk.
"Svelta does what she wants," Ilya finally said with a dismissive wave. "Dunno why she would – "
Ilya froze. He knew exactly why Svetlana would request that size – because she wasn’t the one who was going to wear it.
Fuck, Hollander.
Eight minutes and one speech later – it wasn't the most eloquent speech ever but it was perfect for the rough-around-the-edges Bears – Ilya stepped onto the ice behind their goalie. He skated about his team's defensive end and scanned the crowd.
The lights from the pre-game show cast shadows and made it hard to see, but Ilya could tell Shane was not in the WAG booth. Shane wasn’t sitting in the first few rows, either. There was no way Team Services would sit Ilya’s guest on San Francisco's side…right?
On his last skate around before the national anthem, Ilya spun on instinct.
Every arena had a large opening at one corner of the boards, where the Zamboni entered the rink. Maintenance workers gathered there during the game with shovels and other tools to keep the ice fresh and safe for the players. There, tucked in the shadows of the seats, was a man dressed in a black leather jacket and dark hat.
Shane Hollander.
Wearing glasses.
Slutty little glasses.
Ilya could hardly function. His mind shut down. How the fuck was he supposed to play with Shane looking all hot and sexy in his glasses near the boards?
Ilya couldn't stop the smile that formed on his lips, no doubt lighting up his entire face. It was giddy and indulgent and so, so very grateful.
Shane glanced around, as if checking to see if Ilya was smiling at someone else. Once he confirmed that smile was him, he offered a tiny wave.
He was so cute.
Ilya skated past the boards and banged the glass right where Shane was standing. He wasn’t sure if Shane jumped, but when he glanced back over his shoulder, Shane was wearing a sassy little smile.
Good.
Ilya made his way to the blue line. He was going to win the Stanley Cup tonight, and Shane Hollander was going to watch him do it.
Between the first and second periods, Ilya texted Shane his address again but added the code to his front door - 1410.
He didn’t care if Shane thought he was sappy. His one-time hookup came to his game, so they could be sappy together.
Shane sent him back a thumbs up emoji, so Ilya didn’t look at his phone for the rest of the game.
Just before eleven p.m., the Bears won the Stanley Cup. Since Ilya was both the captain and the Conn Smythe winner, the reporters wanted to speak with him right on the ice.
The ESPN reporter – Emily – asked him the usual run-of-the-mill questions. How did it feel to win the Stanley Cup only four years into his career? Did his Olympic loss light the fire under his ass and fuel the Bears’ winning run? At what point did he know the Bears were going to win the cup?
And then –
"Your rival – Shane Hollander – was in attendance today. Have anything to say to him?"
Ilya leaned close to the mic to say, slow and sharp, "Thank you for coming."
"That's it?” Emily asked, shocked. “You destroyed Montreal in the Eastern Conference Finals in five games, and your hatred for each other is – "
"Hate?" Ilya’s eyes narrowed. "I do not hate Hollander. When have I ever said I hate Hollander?"
"Well, the way you two play against each other is – "
"Hollander is second-best center in league."
Shane was most certainly watching this somewhere, so Ilya made sure to wink at the camera.
"It is always fun to beat him,” Ilya continued, “but we have known each other since World Juniors. We were drafted together. We are friends."
"You and Hollander…are friends?" The reporter sounded like she couldn’t believe it.
"I invited Hollander to come see me lift the cup before him, and he came. So yes, to Hollander I say, 'Thank you for coming. I can't wait to beat you again next year."'
Ilya ended the interview then by skating off to rejoin his team.
The team celebrations ran late into the night. Ilya – and an Uber driver – dropped Svetlana at home after two. She left him with a kiss on the cheek, a wink, and a quick squeeze of his hand.
“Don’t get stuck in your head, Ilyusha. He came for you. When he knew it could be detrimental to both your careers.”
“It means he is stupid.”
“It means this is more than a hookup for him, too.”
Ilya was hoping.
Low lights illuminated his hallway and kitchen, and Ilya found Shane on a stool at the breakfast bar, nursing a can of ginger ale.
That sassy smile from earlier returned, but before Shane could say anything, Ilya demanded. “Where is it?”
"Where’s what?"
Ilya opened the closet off the kitchen. "You got my WAG jacket. I know you have it. I want to see it."
Shane shrugged, aloof. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Ilya hurried around Shane, like a predator sniffing out his prey. “Marleau told me Svetlana got one in my size, and she does not have it. That means you have it. Where is it?"
Shane’s nose crinkled like the angry kitten Ilya sometimes called him. “I'm not your WAG. We’re friends, or so I’ve heard.”
Ilya shrugged. "Sounded better than 'we like to fuck.’"
"Told you they would notice me,” Shane said with a sigh.
"So the world knows we're friends. Is not big deal."
Shane didn't look completely convinced, but he let the matter drop.
Ilya needed a cigarette. Huh. There was none in his kitchen hiding place – the coffee drawer. Maybe Svetlana cleared the pack out the last time she came over?
“So what does this mean? Are we legit friends with benefits?"
Ilya threw up his hands. "I just won the Stanley Cup. Is after two a.m., and you want to talk about this now?"
Shane put his hands in a surrender gesture. "No, you're right. Congratulations. You were amazing, Ilya. Truly."
Ilya had just achieved their shared dream, and it wasn’t lost on Shane Hollander.
Ilya let out the sigh he’d been holding since February. Maybe since Saskatchewan.
“Yes, but you are next. I win World Juniors; then you win World Juniors. I get drafted; then you get drafted. Now I win cup, so you must win cup.
“You are always right behind me.”
“You are such an asshole,” Shane snapped, but it didn’t have much heat to it. “And it’s actually the other way around.”
Ilya was always behind Shane.
Ilya appreciated the humor and went to his leather jacket in the closet, the one he hadn’t worn to the game. Huh. His cigarettes were missing from there, too.
“Thank you for coming,” Ilya said, and he meant it. “I, uh – I don’t know if I would have won if you hadn’t.”
Shane took a sip of his can. “Yes, you would have. Nothing could have stopped you from winning today.”
It was probably true, but having someone to impress – to score for – made all the difference. And while he loved having Svetlana, it was nice to have Shane there, too.
And Shane came. To Boston. Because Ilya asked him to. Shane deserved more than the brush off Ilya gave him.
“I do not know what we can be,” he began. “I cannot be bisexual and go back to Russia. It would be difficult for you to be gay in the league.”
“I’m not – ” Shane frowned. “I mean, I don’t think I’m – but maybe…?”
Ilya could not unpack all that at two in the morning. “I like you, Shane. A lot. And I want you to stay in my home this summer and wear my WAG jacket – ”
“It would be a HAB jacket – if I had it. Which I don’t.”
“Okay.” Ilya would let him keep up the charade – for now. “I want to go to sleep with you now. Then in morning, we can have sex. Lots of sex cuz I won the cup and it’s been months and I want to be inside you again.”
Shane gulped, then nodded. “Okay.”
Ilya couldn’t resist. He dipped down to capture Shane’s lips in a tender, lazy, but heated embrace. “Good.”
Despite his exhaustion, Ilya found the strength to lift Shane and carry him to his bedroom. They made out the entire way.
Shane had already gone exploring, it seemed, since there were two T-shirts and sweatpants on Ilya’s bed that he hadn’t left there that morning.
As they settled into bed, laying on their sides to face each other, Shane whispered into the small distance between them, “Don't ghost me again, okay? Or we're done.”
There was an edge to his soft voice that let Ilya know he was serious. Shane wasn’t quite asking him to define the relationship, but he was telling Ilya that he was hurt. And he didn’t want to be again.
That was fair, and if Ilya was serious about this – about them – then he couldn’t do it again. And he wouldn’t, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be an asshole about it.
“What do you mean by ghosting? I have to get back to you thirty seconds after text? Or do I get a whole two hours before you crack whip?”
Shane rolled his eyes, but there was a sweet smile upon his lips. "You are such an asshole."
"Oh, you love me."
Ilya said it in a sing-song voice. He'd meant it as a joke, but Shane started, body taut like a bowstring.
He didn't refute Ilya's words.
So Ilya replied in kind. ”Ya lyublyu tebya.”
"What does that mean?" Shane asked, breathless.
Ilya rolled on top of Shane and brushed back his bangs. “Hm. Same thing.”
Shane's eyes were open and wide and so vibrant.
Today, Shane froze. Today, Ilya confessed in Russian. Maybe one day, soon, they could say how they felt and not be afraid of what it meant.
Until then, they would continue to speak in a language all their own. Shane's eyes shifted to something over Ilya’s shoulder, and Ilya followed his gaze to his shelves, where he kept a carton of cigarettes.
For some reason, Ilya knew the carton was empty.
He whipped back to Shane. "You stole my cigarettes.”
Shane Hollander loved him and went through his home to steal something that could hurt Ilya.
Shane ducked under his arm and rolled out from underneath Ilya’s body. "No, I didn't."
"You really are a bad liar." Ilya caught him around the waist and tugged him back to the bed. “Is okay. I will enjoy interrogating you thoroughly in the morning.”
Unfortunately, Shane had already taken out the trash, but Ilya had been meaning to give up smoking anyway.
For his career, of course, and no other reason.
Shane stayed in Boston for a few days before both he and Ilya went to the NHL Awards in Las Vegas. Since Ilya would be staying in Boston a while longer – he wanted to enjoy his day with the cup in his adopted city – he invited Shane to stay with him for a few weeks.
Shane had to return to Montreal to ready his apartment and finish up some items for the Voyageurs. A few of his teammates stayed around the city to practice during the off-season, so Shane assumed he’d get some grief for attending the Bears’ Stanley Cup win before the new season. He just didn’t expect to get it the moment he stepped into the team gym.
“So you're friends with Rozanov now, huh?" Comeau, one of the wingers on the second line, sneered. “You guys fuck buddies, too?”
Despite the anxiety gnawing at Shane’s gut, he managed to spout, “Yes, Comeau. We went back to the hotel after the draft and gave each other blowjobs.”
It happened in Toronto the following summer, but Comeau didn’t actually need to know they sucked each other’s dicks on the regular.
Still, Shane’s off-handed comment seemed to dispel some of Comeau’s anger. “I just don't understand why you would give that piece of – ”
“We played against each other in World Juniors,” Shane spat, throwing his towel over his shoulder. “We were drafted together. We've done photoshoots and press for the league. If you're doing all that hating the guy next to you, it's going to suck.”
Comeau seemed to actually understand.
“So yeah, we're friends, man,” Shane shrugged. “And he asked me to be there because his family's back in Russia and couldn’t make it.”
Comeau didn’t need to know Ilya wouldn’t want his father and brother there.
Hayden came to stand next to Shane and crossed his arms. “Yeah, Gil, maybe focus on your own game and less on if Shane has any, which he doesn’t.”
Shane glanced sideways at Hayden. “Did you just put down his hockey skills and my dating skills in one chirp?”
Hayden slapped Shane on the shoulder. “What can I say? I’m talented that way.”
“It’s your only talent.”
“God, Hollander. Save it for the new season.”
Comeau shut up after that, and no one else questioned Shane about his friendship with Rozanov – except Hayden. Later that day, they were walking out to their cars when Hayden asked, “So Boston Lily. She’s Rozanov, huh?”
Shane looked left, then right to make sure they were alone before nodding.
Hayden laughed. “Oh. My. God. I was joking, man, but he really is?”
“Yeah, okay? Can we drop it?”
“Absolutely not,” Hayden laughed. “Is he going to come to our games, too? Wear your WAG jacket?”
Shane covered his face. “Shut up.”
Ottawa – April 2022
Centaur players were required to arrive at the arena three hours before a game, but Harris requested Shane come early to do a social media project. Ilya would follow his husband anywhere, but Shane patted him on the cheek and told Ilya there was no reason for him to sit around doing nothing when he could be taking care of Anya before the game.
So Ilya entered the arena through the players’ door at his usual time and immediately flashed a smile at Harris, who was filming him for the “players’ arrival” post. Harris usually captured all the major players – Ilya, of course, Bood, Evan, Haas, Wyatt, Troy, now Shane – and put a short video or photos in an Instagram carousel. Today looked like a video day, so Ilya was glad he decided on a Tom Ford modern fit suit.
Shane, unfortunately, wasn’t at his locker when Ilya entered the team room, which either meant some news outlets snagged him or he was working with one of Harris’s underlings on the aforementioned project.
About fifteen minutes later, Troy asked, “Hey, did you see Harris put up Hollzy’s retro post?”
Ilya looked up once he finished tying his skates. “Shane did a retro post?”
It made no sense. Retro posts usually highlighted a player’s career before they joined the Centaurs. There was no way Shane would want to talk about his time in Montreal during his first playoff run with Ottawa.
“They didn’t ask Shane about Montreal, did they?” Bood asked, sharing Ilya’s concern.
Thankfully, Troy shook his head. “Uh, no. He didn’t talk about Montreal.”
He flipped his phone around, and Ilya almost gagged on his own spit. In the post, Shane was standing in the bright red and white lighting of the players’ entrance, but instead of wearing his Centaurs’ HAB jacket – which they agreed not to wear until after their first playoff win – Shane wore Ilya’s Boston WAG jacket.
The one he denied having and apparently safeguarded for eight years.
A Bears’ insignia adorned the front left breast of the black jacket. The word Boston ran up the left yellow sleeve while the Massachusetts flag decorated the right one. Ilya’s last name stretched across Shane’s shoulders while the middle of the jacket’s back sported Ilya’s number. The words “Fear the Bear” curved along the bottom.
It held Shane in all the right places.
The post’s caption read, “The Hollander-Rovanovs are loaded for bear. Next stop, Game One. Let’s go!”
Ilya’s gaze snapped up to Troy. “Where is he?”
Troy’s smile was knowing. “I think Harris said TSN wanted to talk to him.”
Despite being shirtless from the waist up, Ilya hobbled out of the locker room on skates and headed toward the media room. He found Shane talking to a reporter and a cameraman. A large spotlight indicated the interview was being recorded.
But Shane was standing right there, in front of him, the Bears’ WAG jacket on full display for Ilya.
Ilya rushed forward and assaulted Shane from behind, wrapping his husband in an appropriate bear hug.
“Where was it?” Ilya demanded, pressing a loud, wet kiss to his cheek.
In skates, Ilya towered over his husband.
Shane laughed. “That’s what you want to know?”
“You had it that day. You kept it all this time. Where was it?”
“In my rental car,” Shane admitted after Ilya began to pepper his hair with kisses. “Then I moved it to a box in the cottage.”
“How do you like seeing your husband wear your old WAG jacket?” the TSN reporter – Claire – asked.
“It’s a HAB jacket,” Shane admonished.
“Is hot, no?” Ilya squeezed Shane’s waist. “He looks good in these colors but wait to you see him in his Centaurs’ jacket. It will be awesome.”
“Ilya has one, too.” Shane relaxed in the hold.
“Of course he does.” Claire smiled. “We’re looking forward to seeing them on both of you.”
“I must steal my husband.” Ilya couldn’t wait to see Shane’s deep blush. “Are you done here, moy lyubimyy?”
Claire motioned for the cameraman to shut off his recording. “We’re good here. See you guys after the game.”
Ilya led Shane out of the media area, down the hall, and into a training room. He crowded Shane the moment the door closed and captured his husband’s mouth in a searing embrace.
Eight years. Shane had gotten this jacket eight years ago and kept it in mint condition for the day they were out, married, and ready to play in their first playoff game together.
And now he stood before Ilya and presented his outfit like they didn’t have a game to win and Ilya could tear it off of him.
But he couldn’t.
Not yet.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya croaked and buried his tear-stained face in Shane’s neck. It was a bit more difficult, being taller than Shane while on skates, but he couldn’t not collapse into his husband’s hold.
“You were right,” Shane murmured against Ilya’s curls. “That night was the beginning, and here we are. Hollander and Rozanov.”
“I said ‘Rozanov and Hollander,’” Ilya snorted. “And it’s Hollander-Rozanov now.”
Shane curled his hand about Ilya’s neck and drew him back down for a kiss. “Hell yeah it is.”
A loud bang sounded behind Shane. “Rozanov! Hollander!” Coach Weibe. “Let’s go. We have a game to win.”
“Coming!” Shane yelled through his deep blush. Then, to Ilya – “I’m happy we’re here.”
“Me, too.”
“Then let’s fucking go win the cup, Captain.”
Ilya smirked and let his eyebrows lift suggestively. “Right behind you.”
Shane moved him back far enough to open the door but kept their fingers laced together. “Nope. We’re doing this together.”
Ilya kissed him once more, and they walked, hand and hand, back to the locker room.
Fin