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Shane questioned his life choices for a brief moment as he walked toward the bleachers of the massive ice arena. Why him? Why was he here? And for the love of all that is holy, why was he still friends with Hayden and Scott?
But as expected, this existential crisis didn't last long; no crisis in Shane Hollander's life ever lasted long—he was far too busy for that—but honestly, the real reason was that his competitive drive instantly overrode his logic.
One moment he'd be thinking about how to sprint faster on the ice, and the next he could be diving into player statistics and racking his brain over new tactics. He sighed, squared his shoulders, and started walking toward the two disasters waiting for him in the stands.
Hayden, in yet another spur-of-the-moment decision, had made a ridiculous post-practice bet. Fitting the theme of the day, Shane's teammates were acting as if their biggest goal in life was to drive Shane crazy and gaslight him into doing stupid things until his dying breath. The team is like a family, or whatever the fuck they say.
Before Shane could even get close, Hayden spotted him. He waved frantically, as if Shane was the only person in the stands and they had just won the Stanley Cup. At that moment, Shane came to the same conclusion once again: Hockey players thrived on drama. Hockey players are just a bunch of soap-opera-loving dramatic aunts hiding behind their muscles, but that was the truth.
Hayden was vibrating with an energy that suggested pure caffeine and adrenaline were pumping through his veins. Seeing this, Shane seriously weighed the "run away" option again. How big is this arena? How fast can I run? No, Hayden and Scott are professional athletes, and unless I'm on the ice, they'd tackle me in under five seconds. I can't escape. Damn it.
Shane looked at Hayden again. The last time he saw him this cheerful, they were at a rookie camp, and they had broken the TV while playing mini hockey in their hotel room. Shane still woke up in a cold sweat at night from the coach's terrifying glare that day. He wasn't always rich and important.
He finally reached the duo. Before Shane could even sit down, Hayden grabbed him and planted him directly next to Scott. Shane realized his chances of escape had officially dropped to zero. He was sandwiched between them; they were acting like two predators who had cornered their prey.
Under the arena's cold lights, a single thought crossed Shane's mind:
Really... is it worth it for a $500 bet?
I mean, fundamentally, he didn't need the 500 bucks; he was much more interested in the "we'll do your laundry in the locker room for you" part of the bet. I mean, come on, nobody wants to touch that radioactive sweat-covered jersey. Not even hockey-devoted Shane.
Scott looked at Shane almost apologetically with that infamous smirk of his that was both annoying and somehow reassuring. It was the kind of smile that said, "I'm just a smart guy who cares about team chemistry." But the funny part was, this calm-looking guy was actually the team's absolute menace.
Scott looked ready to record every single second of this moment. For Shane to remember later and turn beet red from embarrassment... Or rather, for them to show it to the entire Toronto locker room and mock him for months.
Maybe for years, maybe even at his funeral.
Shane's shoulders tensed up, but Hayden suddenly placed a friendly hand on his back. He started rubbing small circles, as if to say, "Come on, Hollander."
Shane narrowed his eyes at him. Are you a teammate or a menace? Pick a side. Oh, he definitely had friends standing on the wrong side of the line.
Hayden was pretending to watch the players on the ice rink, but he was actually watching the mounting panic on Shane's face.
"Look," Scott whispered, leaning into Shane's ear with that smooth, scheming voice. "You're just going to yell a little bit. 'That's my boyfriend!' That's it. Then it's over and done with. Just think about it... a massive steak dinner at the best restaurant in Toronto, on us. Plus, you'll have won the bet. And the most important part, free laundry. I'm talking laundry, man."
Shane's heart sped up for a second. The words "winning the bet" echoed in his brain. His eyes drifted involuntarily to the ice. Wearing a black Boston practice jersey, Ilya Rozanov was working on his shots at center ice with the confidence of someone who owned the entire world.
And the only thing Shane could think of was:
It's not worth 500 bucks. Never worth it. That guy is Russia's monster on the ice!
But Hayden was still rubbing his back, and Scott already had his phone held high. And Shane... was a hopeless case when it came to competition. He refused to lose. He never, ever backed down or gave up. He always got what he went after. Just like an alligator snapping turtle.
Ilya's infamous, flawless blonde hair shined under the arena lights from beneath his helmet, looking like it had stepped straight out of Shane's nightmares (or his secret fantasies). Damn it... With his massive shoulders flexing as he prepared to shoot the puck, Ilya clearly stood out from the other ordinary players on the ice. Shane tried to take deep breaths to stop his thoughts from drifting to very inappropriate places. Come on, Shane, get a grip. It's just 500 bucks and a bet.
Of course, the victim his teammates chose couldn't be just anyone. Naturally, this target had to be the NHL's top talent and a walking ego, "Ilya Rozanov." Shane gritted his teeth and turned angrily to Hayden.
"You forgot to mention," Shane said, emphasizing every syllable with rage, "that the main character of this bet was Rozanov."
Hayden raised a single eyebrow and smirked.
"I didn't really sweat the minor details," he said in an incredibly relaxed tone. "Besides, if I'd told you... it wouldn't have been any fun!"
Shane's face tightened with anger.
"I'm going to make you pay for this later," he growled.
Hayden's only answer was a wider grin. Beside him, Scott was snickering quietly as he adjusted his phone's camera.
After what felt like hours, Shane finally stood up, despite his trembling knees. He straightened up with a heavy seriousness, as if he were stepping out for the toughest play-off game he'd ever face.
He rapidly started coaching himself internally: It's a bet... Winning the bet means victory... That massive, perfectly cooked steak... A clean jersey, but more importantly, not losing to them... Winning.
He took a deep breath until his lungs burned, clenched his fists, and turned his eyes to the ice.
Right at that moment, bouncing the puck with his stick, Ilya tilted his head slightly to the side and looked up at the stands. Their eyes locked.
Shane's heart was beating like it was going to burst out of his chest.
Beside him, Hayden eagerly leaped to his feet to watch, and Scott had already hit record.
And in that moment, as he prepared to yell, only one thought crossed Shane's mind:
I hope there's some good mashed potatoes to go with that steak.
Shane pressed a hand to his chest to suppress his heart rate. The steak, the jersey, the won bet, the 500 bucks... For all of it, Hollander! Now or never!
He filled his lungs with air to the absolute brim, gathered all his courage, and screamed at the top of his lungs:
"THAT'S MY BOYFRIEND!!!"
The voice echoing through the stands instantly silenced the entire arena. Pucks stopped gliding across the ice; the whistle dropped from the coach's mouth. The atmosphere was so silent that, for a moment, Shane truly believed time had stopped.
Ilya stood frozen on the ice. Slowly, his blonde hair catching the light, he turned his head toward the stands. There was no expression on his face—but that blankness was fraying Shane's nerves even more.
Shane's throat went dry. Ah... ah, damn it. If this were a normal opponent, he would've cursed me out by now. Why is he quiet?
Hayden was doubled over, trying not to laugh. Scott continued recording the video, snickering sinisterly.
The other players on the ice had started whispering:
"Did he just say boyfriend?"
"Ilya Rozanov's?!"
"Isn't that Toronto's golden boy, Shane Hollander?!"
Finally, Ilya slowly raised an eyebrow. His eyes locked onto Shane. It was as if the whole arena had vanished, leaving only Shane in the stands. He scanned Shane with that technical, hungry, focused gaze of a goalscorer analyzing a goalie's weak spot. He kept looking until Shane was practically begging with his eyes to disappear.
Then, without ever breaking eye contact, he let that famous, sly Russian smirk slip onto his lips.
And Ilya Rozanov, as if the most normal thing in the world had just happened, asked a single question in his smooth, slight accent:
"...Why not?"
Okay, now that was a huge surprise. Anyone else would have said, "Are you out of your mind, Hollander?" But Ilya? Ilya absolutely loved chaos.
Shane's "freeze" reflex kicked in again.
The crowd in the stands was dead silent.
Ilya slowly dropped his stick onto the ice. He didn't go back to practice; he glided on his skates, slowly making his way toward the stands, right up to the glass. He took his strides in a measured, unnecessarily calm manner.
Shane whispered to Hayden in a panic:
"He's coming. HE'S COMING. Why is he walking toward me?! Hayden, protect me!"
Hayden giggled.
"Hollander, I can't interfere right now, the angle is too good."
"You can just send that 500 bucks to my funeral! Hang my clean jersey on my casket."
Scott couldn't take it anymore.
"SHANE! Strike a pose! He's either going to bury you into the ice or kiss you! Either way, it’s going to be legendary!" he yelled.
Shane gritted his teeth.
With every sound of Ilya's skates scraping the ice, Shane's heart rate spiked.
120 bpm… 150 bpm… 180 bpm.
And finally, Ilya stopped right in front of the protective glass.
His head tilted slightly to the side, he was looking at Shane with that disturbingly handsome and arrogant smile.
Then he spoke loud enough for the entire arena to hear:
"Well then, Shenyka, why are you being so shy?"
One second... two seconds...
Then, the explosion.
Hayden leaned forward like he was going to fall out of his chair.
And Shane... Shane's brain completely formatted itself for a solid 7 seconds.
"I..." Shane said, his voice cracking.
"I... It was for a dare..."
But his voice had come out so high-pitched that the corner of Ilya's lip twitched almost imperceptibly.
He clenched his jaw to keep from laughing, and then—just to add the perfect amount of spice to everything—he opened the door to the player's bench and reached out his hand.
"Come down here, malysh."
While Shane's brain issued the "run" command, his legs had already executed the "go" command.
Hayden wasn't laughing anymore, because he had realized the seriousness of the situation and that Ilya was going to send this pass straight into the net. "Wow," Hayden said. "Rozanov is really... wow."
Shane involuntarily stood up at Ilya's call.
His feet moved toward the ice as if betraying him.
The crowd watching the practice started whistling and cheering.
"Rozanov's boyfriend is on the ice!" a voice shouted.
When Shane reached Ilya, with a flushed face, he whispered through gritted teeth:
"What is... the meaning of this? My manager is going to kill me!"
Ilya ducked his head and smiled. His eyes narrowed.
"I don't know. Isn't this how a rivalry works?"
Shane took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Ilya leaned in toward Shane's lips, which were trembling from tension. As he pulled the younger man in for a kiss that possessed almost the golden ratio of tenderness and typical Ilya Rozanov dominance, Ilya's heart started beating as fast as it did the moment he fired off a flawless slap-shot.
They only pulled apart when they were both breathless. Ilya looked at Shane again.
And right at that moment, Hayden's voice echoed from the stands:
"You owe me 500 bucks, Rozanov!"
In the end, the real mastermind behind the bet had been Rozanov all along.