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Shane used to like grocery shopping just fine. He came into the store with a list, always, and traversed aisles efficiently as he picked up what he needed. It was peaceful, in a way. Just him, nutrition facts, and a relaxing game of Tetris going on in his cart. He was in and out in a matter of 30 minutes— 40 minutes, if the queue was long.
"This has so much sugar in it," Ilya comments in passing right before he dumps fluorescent-looking gummies next to Shane's chickpeas. "You'll get an adorable frown on your beautiful face every time you see me snacking."
"Ew. Take that out," Shane orders, but it falls on deaf ears. "Ilya. Ilya, this looks radioactive."
"You'll puff your chest as you tell me I-told-you-so ten consecutive times after I confess my tummy's hurting," Ilya grins, like it's his dream and he's casting a wish into the universe. Please make it come true! He leans in for a lightning-quick peck on the lips. "Can't wait."
Nowadays, with his husband in tow, Shane must admit he has formed stronger opinions on the matter: grocery runs are fucking awesome. Every Saturday, at 10 a.m sharp, he and Ilya make a whole event out of it. They get ready together, carry a tote bag each (never plastic!) to bring their shopping back home, and spend at least an hour and a half just prancing the entirety of Walmart like it's the best thing they have to do on a weekend.
At this point in their lives, in which they can finally lean into domesticity without provoking a global scandal, it kind of is.
Ilya annoys him with his reckless eating and spending habits the whole time. Shane deeply enjoys bickering about them with him for just as long. Most of all, Shane loves that they can truly have this, at last.
Just them, a game of Tetris in their overflowing cart, and sporadic kisses whenever they crave one.
(All. The. Time.)
Shane gives him a weak push to the shoulder, only feeding the horny spark in Ilya's eyes. Jesus, his husband wants him so bad. Shane constantly walks around feeling delirious with power.
"Stop pissing me off on purpose and go look for the protein powder for our shakes."
"Yes, Captain," Ilya says, diving in for another kiss. Shane chases after him as soon as he pulls back, going for a longer taste.
"Not your Captain," he whispers. God, he sounds gone already.
"Yes, my Captain," Ilya insists, giving Shane's sides a fond squeeze. "Everywhere but on ice. Or in bed."
Shane cocks a brow up and takes a step back.
"Okay, sometimes in bed too," Ilya amends. He kisses Shane again.
Eventually, with a great deal of effort, they part. Ilya bids him goodbye at an aisle intersection like they'll never see each other again, and Shane plays along just as dramatically. Some twenty year old ducks under his exaggerated waving and shoots him an irked look back, which makes him fold into himself with a meek sorry. He goes red in the face. Ilya's cackling can be heard even as he disappears around the dairy corner.
Shane continues on by himself to the produce section. He needs his extra time, anyway, because scouring and picking the ripest options is not for amateurs. Ilya always shoves his picks under Shane's nose, like he's a police dog that can sniff out bad form good. Shane has taught him his criteria— feel, weight, color, aroma— but Ilya insists he still needs his nose's professional opinion.
(Shane thinks Ilya just likes doing everything as a team. He does, too.)
"Shane Hollander?"
The voice startles him mid assessment of tomatoes, and he accidentally squishes one too hard. Fan encounters used to be occasional before he and Ilya went public, but being the first husbands in the NHL brings, unfortunately, attention from more sides than just hockey. His and Ilya's faces were plastered in every news outlet imaginable every time they so much as moved a finger for months.
Everyone knows their names now. Everyone wants to say hi. Shane kind of fucking hates it, but he doesn't blame them. Their intentions are good and their support genuinely means a lot when he remembers how it feels to have none, so Shane always makes sure to put on his best media-trained smile and chat for a bit.
He turns.
"Hi. Sorry, I— Paul Baker?"
Shane has debriefed the entirety of his very repressed, very gay teenage years with Ilya at length. The alienating aspects of it, the inner turmoil, the pain of not understanding yourself. Ilya's favorite topic, however, was Shane's obliviousness to his sweet, innocent crushes; according to him, he'd had many. Those conversations usually went like this:
"Oh, and I remember I had this neighbour, Kevin. He was pretty cool, and he was good at hockey from what I can remember, but, like, I wasn't as good as I am today, so. I don't know."
Ilya blinks. "You liked him."
"What? No. Ilya, we literally just played hockey together sometimes," Shane argues.
"What did you think of me the first time you came up to me?"
"That you seemed cool, and…" Shane's features shift into 5 different emotions in the span of seconds. The last one betrays disbelief. "… You were good at hockey."
Ilya's lips curve smugly. "And what did we do, for a while?"
"Play hockey together. Sometimes," Shane frowned. "Man. I was so gay."
Ilya laughs. "Super gay!"
Paul Baker had been one of those realizations. They'd played together in the same junior team, and even got to compete in a few provincial championships side by side. Baker was a goalie, and as such, he was kind of weird. He got along with the rest of their teammates just fine, but he was always hovering close to Shane and working extra hard to pull him out of his shell. He was one of the only people from his past Shane would consider a childhood friend.
It was actually the fondness in his eyes as he recalled their few and scarce memories together that gave room for Ilya's favorite phrase: You liked him, Shane.
Fuck, he did.
"Yeah. Yeah, you remember me!" Paul Baker cheers happily. He has a stylish moustache and sparkly nail polish on. "Dude, I haven't seen you in so long. Like, ten plus years. What the fuck?"
"Wow," is Shane's eloquent response. It doesn't get better. "You're— wow!"
"This is great. Man, this is so great," Paul Baker doesn't hesitate to pull him into a tight hug. Before Shane can even process it, they're swaying side to side. "How have you been? Tell me!"
"Uh, good," Shane manages to push out. He awkwardly gives Paul Baker's back a few pats and then gently wiggles out of the embrace. "Awesome, actually. I moved back to Ottawa a few years ago. So it's been… yeah, great."
Paul Baker grins. "Nice. From where?"
Shane narrows his eyes at him. There's probably a total of 100 people in the whole of Canada who have no idea about Shane Hollander's name and life story. In Ottawa itself, maybe 10. And it's not cockiness, but simply the truth. Shane Hollander: asian, gay and married to his rival. Oh, and 2-time Stanley Cup winner, too, which is sadly secondary to most.
People practically drool all over themselves with the need to speak about him and Ilya. Shane has begrudgingly become used to it, and has learned how to hide most of his feelings about it to the general public. Ilya always jumps his bones right after his heated rants in the privacy of their home, anyway, and that's a thousand times better than having an online article about him up in some gossipy magazine.
("You're so sexy, my Shane. Yell at me some more."
"I'm not yelling at you!"
"You fucking should. I'm begging.")
"Montreal," he says, giving Paul Baker 5 seconds of silence to either admit he does know about Shane's career or prove he honestly isn't aware of it. Paul Baker just nods, looking just as blissfully out of the loop as a mere blink ago. Oh my God, Shane thinks. He's serious. "Uh, I played for the Voyageurs for a while, but now I'm a proud Centaur."
Paul Baker's jaw unhinges in shock.
"Dude! You still play hockey? Professionally?"
Shane can't believe this. Him. "Yeah."
"In the fucking NHL?"
"I was drafted at 18," Shane smirks. This, he never has trouble bragging about, and at some point it became increasingly necessary for him to do so. He's the best fucking player in the league— he and Ilya will never let anybody forget that. "Going after my fourth Cup, now."
Paul Baker's eyes can't widen any further, lest they fall out of their sockets. "I fucking bet. You were a beast on the ice. Man, that's so cool. Congratulations!"
"Thanks. What have you been up to?"
"Oh, I live in the States now, with a bunch of friends. New York. It's like every day the city spins a roulette. What will it be today? Raccoon infestation, or loose stabber in the neighborhood?" He laughs like it's the funniest thing ever. Like this information wouldn't immediately worry a normal person. "Nothing like it is here at home, right?"
Shane is very much a normal person. He's been to New York countless times, but it wasn't as nightmarish as Paul Baker's making it sound. Shane has probably seen three raccoons total in his life. And zero stabbers, fortunately. He's rightfully concerned.
"Right. Sounds… interesting," is what he settles for.
Paul Baker grins. He might be the merriest man Shane's ever met, and he knows Harris Dover. "It is!"
"What brings you back to Ottawa?"
"Oh, I'm here visiting family with my— here you are. Anton!"
"Hey. Why does Canadian milk come in these flimsy little bags? They're kinda cute," A new voice chimes in. The man drops said dairy discovery into Paul Baker's cart and squeezes his bicep once. His eyes flicker in Shane's direction the very next second, noticing him only then. He flies a hand up to his chest. "Oh! Hello. Oh my God, that was so rude. Hi, I'm Anton."
"Don't worry about it," Shane says. Anton's tall and gorgeous, skin glowing golden even under dull supermarket lighting. Shane can feel his face warming up, as is his habit anytime someone so intimidatingly pretty looks his way. He's gotten better with time, but he still cringes whenever he remembers blurting I like your hair the first time he met Fabian. "I'm Shane. It's nice to meet you."
"Shane Hollander," Paul Baker fills in for him. "We used to play hockey together, in high school."
"Oh, nice. You do have that killer hickey bod," Anton gives him a quick up and down and a wink, giggling softly. "And a killer face too, but you were born with that one."
Shane's ears burn. "Thanks. I like your hair."
Fuck. He's done it again.
"Aw, thank you!"
"He's in the NHL," Paul Baker continues giving out Shane Hollander facts.
Anton widens his eyes and gasps, but it's a little too much. He's acting shocked because Paul Baker's tone was basically a cue card. Wow! The NHL! Paul Baker shakes his head, breathing out a soft, fond laugh.
"National Hockey League," he explains. "The best of the best in North America."
"Oh, period," Anton's face morphs into a slight frown, and he offers a deep nod. Shane knows it's appreciative because it's exactly how he spent most of his life staring Ilya down on the ice: with disgusted respect. "So you're a superstar."
Shane scratches at the hairs on his nape. "Ah, I don't know..."
"Wait! Oh my God, hold on!" Anton bounces on his tippy-toes, thrumming excitedly, and reaches into Paul Baker's cart. "I knew your face sounded familiar. This is you, right?"
He pulls out a black box of TRUELY cereal. Right next to the high percentage of protein promised, the cover hosts Shane and Ilya's faces side by side. They're professional shots that capture them speeding down the ice, wearing their Centaurs uniform, little specks of white framing their silhouette. They're in the box for every flavor, but Shane thinks it's fitting that Anton's showing him the FRUITY one. Ilya would find it hilarious.
"Woah, man," Paul Baker whispers in awe. He points at the box, then back at Shane. "You're in the cereal.
Shane sighs. "I am."
"And you didn't know about this?" Anton glares at Paul Baker, accusingly. He scoffs, throwing the box back into their cart. "Of course you didn't. First Julia Fox, now Shane Hollander. Seriously, Paul Baker. You need to be online. How else are we going to find out how many more celebrities you know?"
Paul Baker blinks. "By chance? It's already happened two times."
"Your levels of offline both charm and madden me," Anton says. He slings an arm around Paul Baker's shoulders, his other hand coming up to rest on his chest. He looks at Shane, rolling his eyes. "Can you believe him?"
"Who's Julia Fox?" Shane asks honestly.
Anton's face falls. "Oh, God. There's two of you."
Like a sixth sense, Shane feels Ilya approaching them before he even hears him. A gentle shiver runs up his spine, and his muscles, almost always unconsciously tensed up, loosen as warmth spreads from head to toe. The intensity of their love continues to shock Shane daily— how have they not gone crazy with it yet?
"Любимый!" Ilya jogs the last few steps, dropping a big, loud kiss to Shane's cheek as soon as he's within reach. Shane's heart skips a few beats. "They did not have the brand we like, but I think this one will do. I read the nutrition facts."
"Thanks, baby. Sounds good," Shane smiles.
Ilya's easy affection, their sweet names, the heart-eyes Hayden's always gagging at. Shane won't hide them anymore, but it doesn't mean he's stopped lifting up shields whenever it's time to come out for the nth time. Shane doesn't think there will be much of a problem, because Anton's visibly gay (can he say that?) and Paul Baker's got nail polish on. He's got to have at least a few progressive bones in him.
"Uhm, this is my husband, Ilya," Shane says. Ilya offers his greetings as he snakes an arm around Shane's waist, hooking a finger on a belt loop. "Ilya, this is Paul Baker. We used to play hockey together in high school. And this is his friend Anton."
"Husband," Paul Baker echoes.
Is it really so surprising? Shane swallows. "Yeah, husband," he says. "Since 2021."
"He proposed," Ilya brags, brandishing the hand that holds his wedding band. "Stole my idea, but. I've forgiven him."
"Shut up. You cried."
"No, no," Paul Baker laughs. Shane notices that Anton's still wrapped around him, staring at Shane and Ilya with an endeared glint in his eyes. "I mean that Anton is my husband. We're also friends, obviously. But we're married."
"Oh," Shane blinks. "Wow!"
"He's the other guy in the cereal!" Anton snaps his fingers. Paul Baker oooohs, tapping his forehead once. Duh! "Love that. You guys are so cute."
"Thank you!" Ilya grins. He subtly bumps his hips with Shane's. Relax. "How long have you been married?"
"Oh, it's pretty recent," Anton says. "Maybe late 2025?"
"Yeah, I, like. Had a problem with my visa, and I was gonna get deported, and then my ex-girlfriend stood me up at the altar," Paul Baker spits it all out in one breath. He gestures vaguely in the air, like it's old news. Water under the bridge. "It was a whole thing for a while."
"Like, a week," Anton laughs.
"Yeah, we got over it pretty fast."
Shane looks scandalized. "Oh my God. Deported?"
"She stood you up?" Ilya seems offended on Baker's behalf.
"No, no! Issa is wonderful, literally our ride or die," Anton assures them, fingers crossed. "We love her."
"Yeah, we broke up a few months ago and she was so understanding," Paul Baker says. "She's kinda our biggest fan now."
"Truly an angel. Hello? I was in love with her boyfriend! I married her boyfriend, even," Anton grimaces, guilty, then lets it dissolve into a chuckle. "But she still pushed me to go get him once she realized. She's. A. Saint."
Months? If their wedding was in late 2025, and Shane's math is correct, that would place them close to their first anniversary. Apparently, Paul Baker had both a husband and a girlfriend for more than half of it. Shane would've died of heartbreak before they even hit one week if it was him, but it's true that he and Ilya kinda do have a special kind of codependency issues.
Rose says that. Svetlana says that. It's the one comment from the wise women in their lives that they choose to ignore. They have reasons.
"I'm confused," Ilya admits.
"It's quite a long story," Paul Baker agrees. "But, hey! We should get dinner together tonight. I also want to learn about your life, buddy. You're in the fucking cereal."
Shane doesn't think anyone's called him buddy since he turned older than twenty. Maybe Coach Wiebe has, a few times. Some Voyageurs would use it to undermine Shane's capitancy the first few years, in which they'd whisper amongst each other: I'm supposed to listen to this kid? Shane quickly proved them wrong, of course.
From Paul Baker's mouth, it comes out candidly sweet. It means exactly what it means.
Anton puts a hand up. "Personally, I want to know if all hockey players are this hot?" He gestures between the three of them. "Like, should I get into this ASAP?"
Shane and Ilya laugh, both shaking their heads in sync. Eventually, as it happens with anyone who practices a sport, you build a sturdy physique. Muscles, abs, thighs. Most players also have a nice face to look at, Shane will admit, but it's the unpredictable aspect of their personalities that truly make or break them. When he and Ilya were forced out, a lot of players showed their true colors, and they fucking sucked. It's hard to know, within hockey, who is hiding their bigotry.
Ilya's thought process is probably the same as Shane's, but he's not one to turn down and opportunity to antagonize his biggest enemy.
"Definitely not," he says, confidently. "Have you heard of Hayden Pike?"
Shane clicks his tongue. "Ilya."
"Let me be the judge," Anton says. He pulls out Paul Baker's phone from the back pocket of his jeans, holding it in front of him to unlock it with Face ID. Paul Baker throws a peace sign up, even though it's probably not necessary. Anton types furiously. "Hm. Hayden… Pike… Wait, oh. I see it, kinda. He's cute."
Ilya acts like he's just been shot in the chest. "No!"
"Sorry, babe," Anton says. He points at Paul Baker. "I kinda have a thing for white boys."
"Ha. Me too," Shane snorts. Anton cackles, while Ilya grumbles about being put in the same white boy tier as Pike. Shane ignores him in favor of finding Paul Baker's eyes. "Dinner sounds nice, man. Our place? I'll text you."
"Sweet!"
Anton watches, amused, as Paul Baker pulls Shane into another awkward hug. "I can't wait to text the group chat."