Archive of Our Own

After just one year being with the Centaurs, the change in Shane’s personality and all around ‘chill’ level was glaringly obvious.

He was still Shane Hollander. When on the ice, he still had the single-minded focus on getting the puck and getting the puck into the back of the net no matter who or what was standing in his way. He brought to Ottawa the same intensity they were already familiar with and expected from The Shane Hollander, the man that was hockey’s version of the Bogeyman for every single person who ever stepped foot onto the ice. This was especially true for goalies. One minute they’d be alone, then all of a sudden Shane Hollander would be coming in through the back door, or worse, would already be right there in their house.

But off the ice was where the change was most noticeable.

Shane wasn’t the most expressive or physically affectionate person. He’d never been one. Those who knew him in passing from across the ice, those who’d only ever met him during an event or award shows, even non-fans knew at least that much about him.

What no one, except a handful of people, knew was how physical and affectionate he could be and was with Ilya when it was just the two of them. It just wasn’t something he did or showed freely to just anyone anywhere outside the bedroom or in the privacy of their own home.

When he first joined Ilya on the Centaurs, he became more intentional in keeping his distance and not being too physically affectionate in public or wherever people could see, even the team. But after almost a year, he was finally starting to come out of his self-imposed shell. Especially after their spur of the moment wedding.

He reached for Ilya’s hand more often than not even when other people were present. They stayed glued to each other’s side whenever they were in the same room, no matter where they were, no matter what event they were attending or whoever was around. If they weren’t holding hands, Ilya’s arms would always be slung over Shane’s shoulders, holding him almost possessively and in turn, Shane would always tuck himself into Ilya’s side like they were two pieces of the same puzzle; his arm holding Ilya’s waist like it belonged to him.

Whenever there was a team barbeque, they’d always be sitting side by side almost curled up against each other on the sofa, on a bean bag, on whatever piecer of furniture was available that they just happened to be sitting on. Eventually it became almost natural to see both together at any given time.

But for the people who’d grown up on the rivalry between them, who’d spend most or all of their careers watching and listening to the embers that were always being flamed by the media and by the league about the heated rivals, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, getting to see this side of them was still a surreal thing to behold.

Everyone who knew hockey knew them as being a one single entity. Whenever Shane Hollander’s name was mentioned, Ilya Rozanov’s would follow soon after. Whenever Hollander’s name appeared at the top of the leader board, Rozanov’s wouldn’t be far behind and vice-versa. They were painted as rivals before they were even drafted into the league. Their names had become synonym with the other for as long as some people had careers in hockey. But the fact that they were slapped with the label rivals in the first place was contingent on the fact that they were evenly matched in pretty much every aspect of their strength, their talent and their intelligence, so in hindsight it shouldn’t have come to much of a surprise as it did to some when it turned out that they were as evenly matched off the ice as they were on it.

Even for everyone on the Centaurs, the ones who’d only known Shane and Ilya as terrifying opponents in the past. The ones who followed their careers and looked up to them and who perhaps took up hockey because of them. It was a whole new ballgame getting to know them off the ice. First with Ilya, then with Shane, even though by the time Shane had signed to their team, the secret that was their relationship had already been exposed in the worst, most disrespectful way.

The whole team wouldn’t have had a problem with their relationship regardless. Especially because by the time it came out Ilya had already fully integrated himself and become an indispensable part of the team. He’d also already become a good friend that they loved and a captain that they looked up to and respected on and off the ice. By the time Shane arrived at Ottawa, loving him and respecting him wasn’t even something anyone needed to think twice about regardless of whether he and Ilya were in a relationship or not. The two of them organically became people who every single member of the team would drop gloves for on the ice without hesitation.

The other, most obvious change was how often Ilya and Shane would join the team in after work hangouts at bars and Bood’s barbecues, not so much at clubs but that was okay.

During his first couple of years on the Centaurs, Ilya used to disappear the moment he had a free second to spare. That was a mystery that plagued the whole team for years until the day he and Shane were outed by fucking Brad against their will, then all the mysterious missing pieces finally started falling into place.

It started with Ilya hanging out more often with the team after games. Shane would join occasionally but his presence was mostly limited to hangouts at Bood’s (which were bragging rights Bood never failed to exploit whenever a listening ear was in range) or the occasional bar. He’d join when they went to the Kingfisher whenever they played New York, but that was pretty much the extent of his team bonding effort.

Over the last few months though, in the aftermath of their outing and the repercussion from the league that still followed Shane all the way to Ottawa, it was like a switch had been flipped inside him.

For lack of a better term, he stopped giving a fuck.

He stopped caring about the ‘optics’ – as the commissioner and his former coach liked to say and had drilled into him on more than one occasion.

He stopped being concerned about people’s opinions and their perception of him or his relationship with Ilya.

He stopped being wary of what people would say if they saw him being overly affectionate with Ilya in public.

He stopped worrying about a picture or a video making its way to social media and the backlash that would follow.

He truly and with aplomb worthy of The Shane Hollander, stopped giving a fuck.

That meant that he hung out with the team more after practice and after games in other cities and it wasn’t exclusive to just bars or the occasional restaurant. He’d come to Bood’s barbecue more often than not and both he and Ilya would occasionally even stay over to chill and to help clean up long after everyone else had left.

However, it didn’t mean that there was even a slight decrease in what the younger players had since dubbed ‘Roz and Hollzy Time’, a term that had been coined after the third time one of the team had walked in on them making out (among other things) in the hallways – or the training room – or the medical room – once, in Wiebe’s office.

The team was happy that Shane had grown comfortable enough around them to be able to freely show affection to Ilya in front of them. God knows they deserved it. Shane deserved to be able to show his love and Ilya deserved to be shown love, as much and as often as they wanted.

But perhaps a warning cone or an A-frame board or a ‘proceed at your own risk’ sign could have saved their more wide-eyed younger members (and Ryan Price) from the shock of accidentally walking in on Shane and Ilya half naked on more than one occasion.

The first time Haas walked in on Shane and Ilya making out in the tunnel before practice started, he got a nosebleed so bad it took him out of practice for a good couple of hours.

But despite Shane’s new found openness to hanging out with the team it still came as a completely surprise when he actually agreed to go along with Wyatt’s suggestion for their post-wiping-the-ever-loving-floor-with-the-Metros activity for that day.

So that was why the entire Ottawa Centaurs starting line-up including Shane Hollander and Harris, found themselves at an arcade at seven o’clock that night, dressed like each member was at a different point in their life, individually headed to entirely separate events.

Ilya had on a perfectly tailored tan suit with a white button up with more buttons down than was actually necessary. It showed his gold chain and cross nestled comfortably in between his pectoral muscles which was on display like a Victorian woman provocatively showing her ankles to the world. His jacket was off, folded over one arm and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Shane was wearing dark sweatpants, a dark t-shirt and a loose dark hoodie like he’d just stepped out of the house to run last minute errands and head to the gym.

Luca looked like he stepped straight out of the centrefold of a prep-school catalogue with his pressed beige khakis and crisp white Polo.

Wyatt had on a pair of cargos and a marvel comic t-shirt. He was only missing a comic con season pass lanyard around his neck.

Dykstra was wearing jorts, a flannel button up with its sleeves cut off over a plain t-shirt and, of all things, flip-flips with a backwards cap like a poster boy for a Redneck magazine.

Bood was wearing fitted jeans, a tight black tank with a perfectly tailored leather jacket and a stylish gold chain.

Harris was wearing a cheesy, pun-ny couple t-shirt that matched a sullen Troy with slacks, while Troy had on shorts.

The rest of the group had on regular shorts and t-shirt combo.

All in all, they looked the very image of a rag-tag bunch of misfits when they walked in through the entrance of the establishment that night.

They lost nearly fifty percent of their group the second they stepped in through the door. Different members drifting towards different sections of the arcade until it was only Shane, Ilya, Troy, Harris, Bood and Wyatt left at the entrance.

The moment Wyatt spotted the Marvel VS. Capcom machine, they found themselves less another member.

Soon Ilya dragged Shane off towards the driving simulators to prove to him once and for all who the better driver was. Shane let himself be dragged away with an eye roll and an expression that clearly showed the silent confidence of a person who absolutely was not going down without a fight.

Harris dragged Troy off towards claw machines, and Troy, who had the look of someone who had lost more money on claw machines than he would have spent if he bought the prizes in the first place instead of trying to win them, just let himself be carted off with little more than a submissive exhale.

In the end it was just Bood left, much like Private Ryan but instead of getting saved, he was left behind to fend for himself against the worst humanity had to offer at a random arcade in Ottawa at seven o’clock at night –

Teenagers.

“Hey grandpa, ya lost?” Someone yelled at him.

He wasn’t that drunk, but the shock of the unwarranted (and untrue) insult and the fact that it took him almost an embarrassing amount of time to realise it was directed at him sobered him almost immediately. He rushed to catch up with Shane and Ilya. He figured that Ilya was the safest person to be with while surrounded by the subspecies of humans he normally tried to avoid all together.

🥊🥊

A few hours and a couple hundred dollars’ worth of tokens later, each member of the Centaurs found themselves gravitating back one by one into the immediate vicinity of their captain and his husband, both of whom had been moving from one game to another and made an intense competition of it every single time. They left a trail of unclaimed tickets and fearful crying children in their wake.

Most of the team knew both of them separately as players and collectively as rivals, so they knew to an extent just how competitive both of them could be. After they’d signed on to the same team, everyone was hopeful to be able to get to know them better as teammates and as friends, maybe even be able to learn more about their dynamic as a couple. Their past hangouts had been in mostly chill situations, at bars and in the privacy of theirs or Bood’s home, so seeing the progression of their relationship, from being hesitant and awkward about even holding hands in public to finally being able to be as loving and as physical with each other as they wanted even with other people around was a joyous and welcomed change.

Thus, seeing them in a situation where their natural competitive drive was given room blossom and reach its fullest potential, it was like seeing two juggernauts battling it out in their most natural state. The team, being used to seeing how loving (and arguably gooey) they were as a couple and how intense they were as competitors at the same time, the dynamic and the attraction between them truly began to make so much sense.

In the beginning it was just Bood trailing after them like some lost chicklet, watching in concern at his parents as their competitiveness got more and more intense with each machine they decimated.

First it was the racing games and driving simulators. Ilya won those, but it wasn’t a landslide win like he and Bood had expected.

“I know how to drive. I just chose not to drive like an idiot.” Shane had responded with a nonchalant shrug.

Next were the shooting games. Shane won those, but not by a landslide either. Shooting a gun was fundamentally different than shooting a puck, but like with everything else Shane Hollander put his mind to, he picked up the skill with enough speed and precision to invoke jealousy in other, less talented humans. Ilya was clearly both extremely annoyed and extremely turned on.

Dykstra, Chouinard, Boyle and Hayes re-joined them at the pinball machine, or as Dykstra had dubbed it, The Great Pinball Showdown.

No one won that round. It turned out Shane and Ilya were hilariously terrible at pinball. Ilya threatened to complain to the manager about their quote, detective machines, unquote.

“Defective,” Shane had corrected, wearing a similar disgruntled frown but didn’t look like he had any real objections to Ilya’s threat.

They were a similar flavour of sore loser, Bood noted. He added that point into his big book of ‘Why Roz and Hollzy work as a couple’.

Ilya reluctantly won at Whack-a-Mole despite his hesitance about “whacking the poor moles who are just trying to see if it’s going to be six more weeks of winter.”

Shane informed Ilya that those were groundhogs and the momentary lapse in concentration meant that Ilya got the upper hand and whacked one more mole than Shane at the very last minute.

Ilya cheered, then grieved. Shane cursed then said some things to Ilya in Russian that Bood and the rest could only assume meant ‘congratulations on a good game’ considering the game they just played and probably had absolutely nothing at all to do with whacking very phallus looking objects coming in and out of tight holes.

The salacious grin that appeared on Ilya’s face and the way he wiggled his brow suggestively implied otherwise.

Next came the game Bood had feared the most. If they’d been that competitive with the previous amateur games, he didn’t even want to imagine just how much worse it would be with air hockey. Winning that one felt like it would either be a crucial tie breaker or, more likely, they would run the whole machine into the ground. Bood was already calculating how much it would cost to reimburse the cost of the machine.

Almost like the universe had heard Bood’s prayers, they answered.

Both air hockey machines were out of commission.

Shane caught Ilya by the bicep as he was about to stalk over to the poor staff behind the counter to ask to speak to a manager.

Instead, he managed to convince him to head over towards the skee-ball machine just as Haas, LaPointe and Holmberg trotted over with their arms full of snacks and lengths of tickets draped around their necks like boas.

Skee-ball ended in a tie.

Then began the hoops.

Approximately forty-five minutes, thirteen rounds, more than two dozen tokens later, the competition ended in a sudden death – won by Shane.

Shane celebrated. Ilya sulked. Then they shared a kiss and Ilya promised he was going to put more balls in holes when they got home.

Bood immediately switched off his ears.

That was also the time when the final two members of their team finally showed their faces. Troy and Harris, the latter whom entered with panache hauling two giant stuffed dolls grinning like a Cheshire cat, and Troy bringing up the rear dragging his feet and looking like someone stole his puppy then sent the puppy back to bite him in the ankle and steal his wallet.

A few of the guys let out an impressed whistle when they approached. Wyatt asked if Troy had won the dolls for Harris. Troy reddened immediately and didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Harris threw his proverbial hair over his shoulder with a flick of his wrist. “If by ‘won for Harris’ you mean ‘was there giving emotional support’, then yes he did.” Harris grinned and leaned over to plant a kiss on Troy’s cheek.

“So… what are we doing?” Troy asked. Evidently the kiss had successfully tugged him out of his funk state.

“Witnessing the greatest showdown of greats,” Dykstra commented. “Roz vs. Hollzy. Hollzy vs. Roz. Who will win the arcade battle of the century?”

“Who’s leading by the way?”

Bood shrugged unhelpfully. “No clue. I lost count like six games back.”

“They’ve only played five games,” Boyle chipped in equally as unhelpfully.

“One, racing went to Roz. Two, shooting went to Hollzy,” Wyatt counted off on the fingers of his hand, “Three, in this house we don’t talk about pinball – ever. Ilya won whack-a-mole. Skee-ball ended in a tie. Hoops just concluded. That went to Hollzy too. So that’s two for Roz, two for Hollzy and one tie.”

“Dang, Hazy. I hope I never need you as character witness against me.” That was Chouinard who was busy picking snacks off the rookies one by one and in order of who was closest to him.

“Speaking of which, where did Cap and Hollander go?”

Only then did realise that Ilya and Shane were nowhere to be found and thus began the search.

Shane was found approximately two minutes later exchanging more tokens as Roz lined up for the punching machine. There was a considerable line that had already formed and with the appearance of a majority of the Centaurs active roster, it made up quite a crowd.

It started with one person in the queue who looked back and recognised Ilya Rozanov standing behind him, who then mentioned it to the person in front of him who then mentioned it to the person in front of him. One by one the entire queue of people had invited Ilya and the Centaurs to go ahead of them until there was no longer a line preceding the group and the person currently gearing up for the punch faltered his attempt when Shane made his appearance with a pocket full of tokens. With a feeble yelp of ‘holy shit, it’s Shane Hollander’ he barely clipped the target with the knuckle of his pinkie before he ended up diving headfirst into the space behind the machine next to it.

Shane offered a hand and pulled the poor guy free before clapping him on the back and offered – what in Bood’s honest opinion was an extremely hesitant and insincere – “Good attempt.” He clearly did not think it was even remotely good an attempt. Shane’s poker face, or lack thereof, was always telling.

But clearly Bood (and Ilya) (and maybe Wyatt) were the only people who noticed because the guy had a look of complete awe on his face as he clutched his hand that Shane had just grabbed like he’d just touched God himself before running off with an excited, “Shane Hollander touched my hand!” that was eventually drowned out by the sound of the arcade.

“So… should we make this a team competition?” Dykstra suggested.

“That sounds like fun actually,” Chouinard seconded. Bood thirded.

Wyatt was already stretching and LaPointe, Holmberg and Haas started shoving the remaining food into their mouths before tossing the empty wrappers into the trash.

Ilya and Shane shared an amused look.

“You too, Harris?” Ilya asked.

Harris was in the middle of trying to find a position to be able to hold both dolls under one arm comfortably but was failing to do so. He looked up when he heard Ilya’s question.

“I mean I will attempt. Not sure what that’s going to look like. I did watch some punching how to vids back in high school but that’s about it.”

“I’m sure you will have higher score than Barrett,” Ilya said with a wink at Troy.

“Fuck you, Roz,” Troy replied, but there was an amused grin on his face.

Ilya had a scandalised look on his face as he grabbed Shane by the arm and pulled him close, burying himself into his side. “I am spoken for, Barrett. No fucking for you today or ever! Harris, please get your boy.”  

Harris seemed to have finally given up on trying to hold both gigantic dolls under his arm and had shoved them into Troy’s unsuspecting hands. “Instead of trying to proposition your captain, why not make yourself useful and hold this for your amazing and kind boyfriend you already have.”

“Jesus – fuck, come on babe.”

“Now he wants to fuck Jesus too?” Chouinard pointed accusingly.

“Okay, everyone shut the fuck up,” Troy groaned. “And can we get this over with. I’m looking forward to beating all your asses – not like that! Shut up Roz!”

“I say nothing!” Ilya said, raising his hands in surrender looking offended.

“It was written all over your face. Anyway! Who’s going first?”

“I think it should be the youngest first,” Hayes said. “Then the supporting characters like Chuiey, D and Boyle.”

“Supporting what now?” Chouinard, Boyle and Dykstra asked simultaneous, twirling around to glare at Wyatt almost in unison. Wyatt either didn’t notice the glower or was pointedly ignoring them.

“Then Bood, me, Barrett and Harris next. Obviously, Roz and Hollzy are the final bosses.”

“Anyone care to wager a bet? – I didn’t forget that supporting character comment by the way, Hazy man.” Dykstra pointed an accusing finger at Wyatt. “Top and lowest scorer and what you think the score is. Closest to score wins.”

“I’ll take that bet!” Bood said already pulling out his wallet. “I’ve got ten bucks on Roz. Top scorer. Seven-fifty. Lowest? I’ve got ten on you, D-man. Four hundred even. Sorry, bro.”

“I’m just taking shots left and right tonight. Fuck you guys very much.” Dykstra pretty much snatched the money right out of Bood’s hands. Taking notes on his phone.

Wyatt went next. “My money’s also on Roz. Seven… eighty top score. Holmberg, three-fifty. Sorry Holms.”

Boyle followed. “Boodman. Eight hundred. And sorry, man, LaPointe: one fifty.” To which he became the recipient of a double finger salute courtesy of LaPointe.

After sheathing his fingers, LaPointe bet on Roz at eight hundred. Haas for lowest. Three hundred.

Dykstra bet on Bood, seven-ninety and Boyle at four-fifty.

Haas bet on Roz at eight hundred, and LaPointe at three-seventy.

Troy bet on Harris. Got smacked on the arm by the aforementioned Harris and promptly changed to Roz at seven-seventy. And Dykstra at four hundred.

Bood bet on Roz at seven-ninety and Dykstra at four-seventy.

Holmberg bet on Roz for eighty hundred. Dykstra at four-fifty.

Harris bet on Hollzy at seven-eighty and Dykstra at four-eighty. To which Shane responded by leaning across from where he was standing beside Ilya to give Harris a nod of appreciation.

And lastly, Roz also bet on Hollzy at seven-ninety. Dykstra at four hundred.

“Okay, firstly: fuck you guys, literally. Secondly, Roz sweeping the polls tonight. But no pressure, Cap,” he said with a pointed wink.

“I live for pressure. Same cannot be said for you, D-man.”

“Let’s just get this over with so we can go back to never hanging out again because you guys are so damn mean.” Despite his words and his tone, there was a sparkle in his eyes that clearly insinuated otherwise.

Just like Wyatt had suggested, they started with the youngest.

Haas went first.

From beside Ilya, Share was watching this first attempt with a critical eye and expectation that was unsurprising.

Haas rotated his shoulder, stretched out his neck from side to side before getting into punching stance. He took a considerable running start once the machine signalled him to begin. The punch landed centre mass, sending the numbers on the back shooting up. It slowed down as it crept up into the high five hundreds before stopping with certainty at five hundred and ninety-nine.

“Running start is never a good idea. Not enough hip.”

LaPointe and Holmberg went next, both attempts started out pretty much the same way, except Holmberg took an even longer running start, missed the punch ball completely and much like the guy that went before them and landed headfirst in the space behind the machine beside. LaPointe followed up with an abysmal and near embarrassing punch which made Boyle’s one hundred and fifty guess become a reality.

By that point a considerable amount of people had gathered. A look around the arcade showed that a majority of the machines were now empty; everyone having abandoned their night to witness the upcoming fails and triumphs of their hometown team.

“Just bad form and sloppy attempt.”

“Even if I lose, I already consider myself a winner,” Boyle announced proudly, arms raised in appreciation of the non-existent cheers.

The perpetually maligned Dykstra shoved everyone else out of the way as he stepped up to the machine. “I’ll show all you guys what country strong looks like!”

Country strong ended up churning out a measly three-eighty, much to the amusement of the whole Centaurs team and the spectators around.

“Not enough hip. Too forward leaning and bad elbow alignment.”

Thankfully, if you asked Dykstra one thing he was known for, he’d admit it was his lack of shame or feeling of embarrassment and amazing taste in music (and inability to do math) so the blow was more to the punch ball than it was to his ego.

“I think the machines broken. It’s the only explanation.”

Bood grabbed him by the shoulder, tucked his head under one arm and rubbed the hardest part of his knuckles into the softest part of his head.

“Careful, Boodman, his skull might cave in since there’s nothing much inside holding it up.”

The laughter rippled through the whole team as Dykstra continued to struggle against the assault on his skull and his self-esteem.

Boyle went next. He pulled a respectable supporting character number at an even six hundred.

“Decent enough. Punching with too much shoulder and elbow. Overreaching.”

Wyatt stepped up next to the plate. Stretched his shoulders, back and hips and pulled a more than respectable seven-hundred fifty much to the surprise of everyone watching.

“Good stance. Good technique. Needs to channel more into the punch itself.”

Harris reluctantly went next but not without stating to the whole crowd his reluctance. “If I pull something or break something, the person who suggested this is going to have to be my sugar daddy until I can go back to work, just so you’re all aware.” He then leaned forward and planted a kiss on a disgruntled Troy’s cheek, grinning playfully at him. It didn’t take much for Harris to break through Troy’s surliness to bring out a reluctant but genuine smile.

Harris didn’t do much by way of preparation. He just skittered over once the leather ball dropped down and threw the strongest punch he could, which landed straight dab in the middle.

Five hundred and twelve.

No one said the words ‘keep it in your pants’ to Troy, it was more implied because if the look Troy gave Harris almost immediately after was any indication, it wasn’t a forgone conclusion.

“Damn, Harris. You were holding out on us this whole time?”

Harris just laughed. “I’m just a small-town boy who was surrounded by even smaller minded people growing up,” he said nonchalantly.

“Power is there. Technique needs polishing.”

With each mediocre borderline terrible attempt, Ilya had slowly but surely drifted further into the foray, which left Shane lingering just slightly apart from the rest of the group by himself; arms crossed over his chest, dark hoodie hanging loose over his shoulders and a look of intense concentration on his face.

Bood was standing closest to Shane and he was absolutely certain by that point that the mutterings he’d been hearing after everyone took their turn on the machine had come from Shane’s direction. He thought he’d had one too many drinks that night that he was starting to believe that the voices in his head were speaking directly into his ear.

He decided not to mention it to Shane or to bring attention to it since he was sure he was the only one who heard. He decided to just linger and watch what Shane would do or say when the next person stepped up to the plate.

Unfortunately, the next person to step up to the plate was him.

He’d been excited for his turn the whole time but he’d become considerably less so in the few seconds before he was dragged into the centre by both Boyle and Wyatt.

“Don’t be scared, Boodman. No matter how badly you do, you couldn’t possibly do worse than D.”

Dykstra’s head snapped up instantly. “LaPointe got a one fifty. Bergy literally landed on another machine. How am I the worst?”

“You just are, man. Better to accept it now rather than later.”

“You guys suck.”

Bood ended up with a near mind blowing eight hundred. He was both pleased and relieved with the result though he made a point only to show the pleased part. No one, especially not Dykstra, needed to know how nervous he’d been that he might actually wilt under the pressure. His muscles weren’t just for show, he was an athlete after all, but sometimes he watched those videos of the aesthetic vs. functional muscles and he wondered if he’d actually be able to carry bags of cement from one point to another. But none of the guys needed to know that particular fact about him.

The person who celebrated harder and with more enthusiasm than Bood was Boyle, who was two for two right on the nose.

“This isn’t fair. I think Boyle’s using black magic. It’s the only explanation.”

“Good technique. Good power. Tension in the arm at impact.”

Bood’s eyes were trained on Shane even from afar so even though he couldn’t hear what he said, he was certain he saw his lips moving. Shane didn’t even seem to notice Bood looking at him.

He accepted everyone’s congratulations graciously, punched Dykstra on the shoulder playfully in the name of ‘passing on some actual strength’ before returning to his spot closest to Shane.

“Good job, Bood,” Shane said when he approached.

Bood offered a fist which Shane bumped with a chuckle. “For good luck,” he said.

He watched a look flicker across Shane’s face. It wasn’t a look he saw often, or ever, off the ice.

It was a look of pure, undeniable confidence.

“Thanks. I’ll probably need it,” he said with a small grin.

Bullshit. Bood wanted to say. But he didn’t.

Both turned to watch as Troy stepped up to the machine.

Five hundred and twelve.

It was an unexpected and hilarious turn of events.

“Jesus, Troy.” Once again, came Wyatt with the scathing commentary. “Remind me again, which one of you is the athlete?”

“Fuck off, Hazy.”

“Barrett, I think I will tell Weibe to swap your position with Harris,” said Ilya with a laugh.

“Fuck off too, Roz!”

“Come on, Roz, be nice,” said Harris, coming up to stand beside Troy and sliding his arm that wasn’t currently hugging the two dolls against his side into Troy’s. “You know I can’t skate.”

Troy immediately snatched his arm out of Harris’s hold.

“Come over here, bro,” Dykstra called, opening his arms wide in invitation. “I’ll treat you right, unlike all these fuckers here.”

Troy walked over and immediately buried himself in Dykstra’s arms, who in turn rubbed his back and muttered ‘there, there’ comfortingly beside his ear.

“No ground power. Again, too much arm punching. Confidence going in, weak finishing.”

It took all of Bood’s self-control not to point a finger right in Shane’s face and yell out an accusing, ‘aha!’

Instead, he was forced to school his expression into one of indifference even if the satisfied smirk kept tugging at his corner of his lips. He had to make sure Shane didn’t notice he was being watched or listened to, otherwise he would never get to the bottom of what was going on with him.

Ilya waved an arm in the air to get Shane’s attention, calling him up to the front.

Bood never cursed at Roz with any actual malice, but he kind of wanted to at that moment.

“Moy lyubimyy. Rock, paper, scissors to see who goes first?”

“Sure,” Shane replied with a shrug.

Bood started praying right then. To God, to the gods, to his ancestors, to the spirit of the Centaur to let Ilya go first. He wanted to see what would happen. He needed to see what would happen.

Ilya pulled paper. Shane pulled scissors and Bood nearly pulled a muscle with how hard he resisted pumping his fist in the air in triumph.

So Ilya went first, and Shane unfortunately stayed up front beside him and out of hearing range.

“Good luck kiss?” Ilya suggested, his lips already puckered in preparation.

Shane smiled, kissed him and said, “Sure, you’re going to need it.”

A chorus of ooh’s and aah’s went up around them.

“Oh snap, Roz. You just gonna stand there and take that?”

“I love you so much and I’m so turned on right now. But you’re going down tonight, solnyshko, and I don’t mean in that good life changing way.” He thought for a second. “Well, that too. But later.”

A chorus of groans and shouts of ‘get a fucking room guys’ went up around them.

“All I see is a whole lot of talking and zero results, babe.” Shane replied with what could have been mistaken for an innocent smile, if not for the fire of excitement burning in his eyes.

Ilya grinned. The sparkle in his eyes was obvious even from where Bood was standing. He handed his jacket to Shane’s awaiting hand.

“I’ll show all you children how it’s done,” he announced to the group.

Bood noticed the way Haas had stepped up closer into the circle to have a better viewpoint, he looked so excited he was nearly hyperventilating.

“Dykstra, Barrett. I’m sorry, but there is no hope for you two unfortunately. Is just genetics.”

“Seriously!” both yelled simultaneous. “Even now?”

Ilya laughed.

Bood didn’t really have much experience in actual fighting styles besides what he did for workouts in the gym, but even he could see that Roz looked naturally more confident and had better stance than everyone else right from the get go.

He set up the punch, fist lined up perfectly against the ball, legs apart and the other fist up in front of his face. He took a deep measured breath and let it out in a short sharp burst at the same time as he threw his fist out towards the leather punching ball.

The ball snapped back into place with a thump and the numbers flew up, reaching the top seven-hundreds almost instantly and didn’t stop climbing until it got past eight hundred. It came to a stop with a resounding final click at eight hundred and twenty-five.

The cheers that erupted was nearly deafening. It seemed that every single patron of the arcade that night was gathered around the punching machine by that point.

Ilya pumped his fist, letting out a whoop in celebration. Shane clapped his hands and had a proud look on his face.

Bood intentionally situated himself beside Haas because the kid looked like he was on the verge of passing out.

Ilya stopped in front of Shane and made sure to flex a few times before leaning in and grabbed him possessively around the waist. “Was that hot?” he asked, uncaring of anyone around them or what pictures or videos might surface on social media before the end of the night.

“You’re always so hot,” Shane replied.

Bood was happy for Ilya and Shane for finally being able to be their truest self and show their love freely, but he also wished that they’d consider the feelings of others, such as their youngest, Haas, who still to this day anytime he was faced with further proof of Shane and Ilya’s relationship looked like he was about to take one step straight into the grave.

“Your turn, Shane,” Ilya said, pulling back from the kiss he planted on Shane’s lips. “Or do you just want to crown me winner right now?”

“In your dreams, Rozanov.”

Ilya grabbed his jacket out of Shane’s hand as he stepped up to the machine and pressed the button to drop down the leather ball one final time.

“Shane, your wallet and phone,” Ilya said, holding his hand out to receive the items.

Shane passed them over quickly before turning back towards the machine. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet a few times, loosening up the joints of his arms and wrists while rotating his shoulders.

A hush immediately fell over the team and the crowd of spectators that surrounded them. Bood’s heart started beating faster, he didn’t even really know why. He just knew that he was about to bear witness to something – good, or bad, or mediocre – he was about to bear witness to it regardless. From the excitement he could feel vibrating in the air he knew he wasn’t the only one who knew something huge was about to happen.

Shane had an uncharacteristically enthusiastic smile on his face that at the same time conveyed irrefutable confidence in what he was about to do.

Even Ilya’s grin had been wiped clean off his face. It was instead replaced by a look that conveyed single minded focus and intense concentration. Like Bood he obviously knew that he was about bear witness to something shocking.

Shane bounced up and down a few times, shifting his weight from one foot to another to get his blood pumping before he approached the machine. He lined up his punch just like Ilya had done earlier; the confident smile on his face didn’t falter even once. But unlike Ilya, his wasn’t a static movement. He lined it up almost like he was measuring it in his mind before he took a couple of steps back. He bounced twice more and with a single long step forward his fist found the centre of the punch ball sending it flying back into the machine with a whine and a thump that shook the whole machine.

The numbers flew up, bypassing every single score than that been made up until that point. It reached Ilya’s eight hundred twenty-five and overtook it effortlessly. Eventually it slowed to a ticking crawl until finally landing on a mind-blowing eight hundred and forty-nine.

There was complete and absolute silence.

The sound finally arrived like a dam explosion. Shouts of disbelief and astonishment rippled through the crowd until it reached fever peak.

Ilya didn’t move. He just stayed standing in place, staring at Shane with his mouth agape.

“Holy. Shit! What was that?” Dykstra yelled.

Wyatt had his hands in his hair and his mouth open like a fish on dry land.

Bood really had to catch Haas right then, scooping his arms under his armpits when the kid stumbled back and almost landed on his ass.

“Hollzy? What the fuck?”

The looks on everyone’s faces were hilarious in itself. Every single person was doing their own interpretation of The Three Wise Monkeys.

Boyle and Wyatt both had their hands on their heads. Harris had his hands over his mouth. Dykstra had his hands up in the air like he was praising the lord in church. LaPointe and Holmberg had their hands on each other in a half-surprised hug. Troy has his hands spread at his side like an explanation would find him faster if he welcomed it with his arms open and Bood hand his hands on Haas preventing him from planting ass first onto the floor.

Ilya still had one hand holding his jacket, the other holding Shane’s wallet and phone and his mouth doing a near perfect impression of the shocked face emoji.

Around them chatter was at a pitch that only dogs could hear; phones out, videos filmed, photos captured and social media posts drafted.

“Shane,” Ilya managed to breathe out finally. “Moy lyubimyy.” He took one unsteady step after another closer to Shane who had the look on his face of someone who didn’t understand what the big deal was. “Shane!”

“Yes, Ilya. I’m standing right here.”

“Shane… Barrett is the one named Troy, but you are the Trojan horse this whole time!?” He pointed a shaking, accusing finger at Shane.

“Ilya – What?” Shane looked at Ilya like he just spouted another only Russian speaking head.

“That was the hottest thing I have seen in my whole entire life, and you have denied me, moya lyubov? If you wanted a divorce this whole time, you should have said so. The betrayal would hurt less!” Ilya had a look of complete and utter heartbreak on his face. Maybe even a couple of tears.

Shane just shrugged, seemingly unaffected by the commotion he’d caused. “I mean… it was a decent punch. But it’s not even my best.”

The silence that fell once again was immediate and thick. A pin dropping at that moment could have rattled the walls.

“Hang on a second, Hollzy. I must have something in my ear,” said Wyatt, picking at his ear with his pinkie, “Because I’m pretty sure I just heard you say that that wasn’t your best punch?”

“Shane,” Ilya stepped up, having shoved his jacket and Shane’s items into Troy’s hands, and grabbed Shane by both arms. “Enough of this trickery. You taught yourself Russian and lies! Explain yourself.”

Shane rolled his eyes, completely unaffected by Ilya’s intensity. “Well, I’m right-handed naturally. But I’m southpaw when it comes to boxing.”

“South… huh?”

“I’m stronger punching with my left hand.”

Roz almost started sweating. He was breathing hard. “Shane. Punch. Now.” He turned around to address the crowd. “Someone token right now!” He still had one hand on Shane’s bicep, but it soon trailed down his arm to grab on to his hand.

Someone in the crowd tossed a token to Boyle who was standing closest to the machine.

“This is ridiculous, Ilya. It’s not a big deal,” Shane groaned.

Ilya twirled around, the look on his face showed that he was deeply offended borderline disgusted. “How dare you say that about my beautiful amazing husband and his amazing strength?”

Share rolled his eyes. “I’m your husband.”

Ilya still kept his hand in Shane’s. “And yet you spew all this slander?” He scoffed. “Boyle. Machine.” He snapped his fingers.

“Ready, Cap!”

He turned to face Shane again. “Moya lyubov,” he motioned towards the machine.

Shane sighed defeated. “Fine. This is the last time.”

Ilya scoffed again. “I will be the judge of that.” He paused and called to Shane again. “Shane, are you sure you can see the machine properly?” Shane managed a confused ‘wha –‘ when Ilya continued, “Maybe you should put on your glasses just this time.”

“Fuck off.”

Shane did almost all the same starting movements from the first time, except this time he had his right hand and right foot forward. This time however he didn’t set up the punch, he just approached the machine with a single steady step and released a punch that was somehow even visibly stronger than the first. The machine shook on his hinges. The numbers immediately shot into the eight-hundreds and kept climbing without a single look back. It bypassed eight twenty, eight-forty, and settled comfortable on a definitive eight hundred and seventy-two before the machine gave a proverbial shudder and completely shut down with one final mechanical exhale.

“Holy fuck, Hollzy.”

“What exactly just happened?”

Shane just casually walked over to a still flabbergasted Troy to retrieve his stuff, pointedly ignoring the shocked looks of his teammates and audience.

“Shane? How?” Ilya asked with the desperation of a thirsty man in the desert asking for a bottle of water.

Shane thankfully finally decided to take pity on Ilya. “I… I actually considered MMA as a backup plan if hockey didn’t work out. I was young and stupid back then and quickly learned better. But I kind of kept up with private lessons until a few years ago. Then It was just something I did at home to work out.” He explained it as casually as one would while talking about whether dark clouds in the horizon meant it would rain or not.

“And all these years? You didn’t think to mention it even once? I thought you loved me.”

“Jesus Christ, I didn’t know it was such a big deal, Ilya. It was just a hobby. You have hobbies too, right? And you don’t share them all with me.”

“What? Yes I do. My hobby is you! And sex… with you! And watching you do your other hobby: yoga.”

“Geez, Hollzy’s pipeline going from hockey to yoga to fucking MMA is… honestly, such Shane Hollander energy.”

“LaPointe,” Ilya said, “You say all those words and I understand them individually but I don’t have a fucking idea what you just said.”

Bood hated sounding like an old head, but he concurred with Ilya’s assessment.

“Maybe learn how to punch while putting more lessons into learning English better.”

“Fuck off, Roz.”

“But more importantly,” Ilya sobered up immediately and turned back to Shane. “How old were you? Why did you stop? Why did you keep it from your beloved, loving husband?”

Shane sighed. “One: Fourteen, but only for like four months. It was me and a few classmates that I don’t keep in touch with. Two: I got kind of hurt while rough housing one time and I didn’t want to jeopardise hockey. That and because my mom still doesn’t know about it to this day. Three: seriously, I didn’t know it was such a big deal.”

“Is big deal, Shane. Huge deal. I will sleep better at night with dreams of my strong, sexy and badass husband and during games I will have amazing fantasies of my strong, sexy and badass husband fucking up Montreal and other asshole players on the ice.”

Shane rolled his eyes but chuckled. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

Ilya seemed satisfied enough with his apology because he finally leaned in for a kiss after a whopping fifteen minutes had passed without them sharing a single kiss.

“Good.” He broke the kiss and reached down to intertwine his fingers with Shane’s. He lifted their clasped hands up and plated a kiss on his knuckles. “You can start by showing me one more time.”

“Ilya…” Shane rolled his eyes but he was already being pulled towards the machine that had finally rebooted.

Ilya ignored him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone with his free hand before turning around to address the rest of the team. “You, you, all of you, get your phones out. I want this on video from all angles.”

“Ilya, for fucks sake –”

“You, Odysseus, shush. You have no say.”

He turned around to address the spectators next. “And everyone else, who sends me the best video of Shane Hollander punching this machine I will personally gift them season tickets to all Centaurs games and signed merch from anyone on team.”

Roz clearly did not understand the pandemonium he started with his proposition.

“Ilya.” Shane chided,

“Shane,” Ilya mimicked in a teasing manner. “No talking. Just punching.” He directed him towards the machine that had been tokened up and was ready for a third-round pounding.

Shane sighed but knew when a battle was worth fighting and when it wasn’t. This was one of those not worth fighting.

So he took his place. Rotated his shoulders. Reluctantly waited for Ilya to give the OK (meaning that everyone with a phone in the vicinity was prepared to record the best possibly video they could) and he proceeded immediately to punch with zero build up.

Eight hundred and eighty-one.

Ilya made a noise that definitely wasn’t a whimper.

Nope

🥊🥊

Ilya kept leading Shane back to the punching machine like a horse leading its owner to the watering hole, three additional times by the end of the night. His score peaked at eight hundred and eighty-seven.

Ilya almost fainted that time despite arguing multiple times to multiple people that Russians didn’t do that.

Haas saw black for a full half second the moment the score came up on the machine. Lucky Bood there was there to catch both him and Ilya before both of them didn’t almost pass out.

The videos of Shane’s punch went up on social media and within hours had amassed millions of views from fans, non-fans and haters alike. The general consensus was that a majority of the people were shocked, but at the same time they weren’t all that shocked.

He was after all: The Shane Hollander.

No one intentionally picked a fight with Shane on the ice ever again.

Boyle won the bet by unanimous decision on account of him correctly guessing the exact points for the lowest (LaPointe) and the (almost) highest (Bood). Someone even got him a princess tiara from the prize counter that he wore proudly for the rest of the night and into the twenty-four-hour diner they all (including Shane Hollander and Harris) stumbled into after the arcade. He never let the anyone forget his win and proudly displayed the tiara in his locker for months and years to come.

No one was ever able to convince Dykstra that he had not in fact used black magic to win.

A few weeks after The Greatest Showdown of Greats in which Shane Hollander showed the world once and for all that he was him, the team walked into their barn and was met with a brand-new free punching machine in the training room, sponsored by Ilya (who had a second one delivered to his and Shane’s house at the same time, which Shane only found out when they returned home after practice later that day).

Neither Shane nor Ilya were contactable the whole day after, which lead the team to speculate that Shane had either killed Ilya for making the purchase behind his back, or Ilya had killed Shane with the amount of sex they were having in the aftermath of the discovery of Shane’s secret pastime.

Ilya finally reappeared in the locker room the day after looking more flushed than he did after an intense game and invigorated in a way no one had ever seen him before.

Shane walked in behind him wearing a sleeveless hoodie and his muscles looked even more defined than they usually did.

Luca saw stars. Bood saw the whites of his eyes and gently guided him towards the bench.

By the time he looked back towards the door Ilya and Shane were no longer in sight.

Dykstra pulled a door hanger from his locker that had the words ‘Beware! Roz and Hollzy Time In Session’ and placed it on the doorknob outside the locker room as a warning to anyone who would be passing by the hallway.

Ultimately, the person who had the best footage of Shane’s punch and the winner of the season tickets and signed merch from his favourite Centaur’s player – a very proud and promised to never let anyone live it down, Dykstra, ironically, was named Brad.

Young vowed to never, ever miss another team outing ever again for as long as he lived.

🥊 THE END 🥊