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Shane hears his heart crack as soon as Ilya utters the words, when he tells Shane that he has never had any family sit in his reserved seats. And Shane’s reaction is probably stupid because Shane knew; he has always known, obviously, he just never stopped and really thought about it.
But maybe what is really, truly threatening to turn Shane’s heart into shreds is Ilya’s nonchalant attitude. Ilya isn't even complaining about the fact, he doesn’t look particularly sad either.
Shane doesn't remember how they got to talk about this but now they are and Ilya is simply… stating a fact. It shouldn’t sound like a fact. Grass is green. Skies are blue. Ilya Rozanov’s family should have bothered to support him. Ilya, instead, is acting like he is not breaking Shane's heart at all.
And Shane is obviously not blaming his boyfriend for not being distraught by such a horrible thing. Shane knows Ilya and he knows that he has been doing his best to live, and not just survive, dodging the pain as if it were a shower of bullets coming his way.
He knows that a part of Ilya will always bleed because the wounds that his family inflicted on him will never really heal but he also knows that he is allowed to feel heartbroken on his boyfriend’s behalf. If he could, he would make sure that Ilya was loved by every room he walks into.
But there’s something that he can do.
And he will.
Shane vividly remembers last Wednesday. Their schedules allowed them to sleep together at Ilya's place, in Ottawa and Ilya spent the minutes before falling asleep wistfully saying that he would "come out right now" if he could.
And the thing is that Shane was terrified, and more importantly, he still is terrified, but as much as he is scared, he is also stupidly in love with the man whose head is currently in his lap, so that he can pet his curls.
So Shane formulates a plan while his fingers twirl around Ilya’s curls.
He has always loved planning. Following a perfectly detailed schedule has always helped him feel in control of his life, of his own self. Ilya didn’t fit in Shane’s plans, but now he is Shane’s plans. That’s why planning, now, is easy. Easy as breathing, even if Shane is scared.
He arrives in Ottawa on the morning of the next Centaurs’ home game, and goes straight to his parents' house.
He and Ilya were supposed to spend three days together, holed up in Ilya’s bedroom if Ilya had his way, because, by some miracle, their schedules allowed this rarity, but Shane lied and said a last-minute meeting with the Metros PR team would unfortunately keep him in Montreal so he couldn't get to Ottawa as planned.
He chats with his mom, informs her that he is planning a surprise for Ilya, so she won’t spoil his presence if they talk, and drinks his protein smoothie, before leaving the house.
Knowing that he is in the same city as his boyfriend makes Shane miss him even more, even if it probably doesn’t make sense, but Shane focuses on the task.
He drives to the closest Ottawa Centaurs merchandise shop, thankfully not so close to the rink. And his heart is in his throat all the time, and maybe he should call his agent and tell her that he is about to break the whole hockey world, and probably cause an international accident if things were to go south, but he doesn't.
By the time his hand touches the shop door handle, he has accepted that his heart moved from his ribcage to his esophagus and that his hands will probably never stop trembling.
He ignores both things and thanks his lucky stars that the shop is empty, and the kid who's currently working at the shop doesn't make a fuss of him. He's barely twenty, Shane thinks. His name is Lucas, his name tag says. And he recognizes Shane but doesn't ask for photos or even autographs, he just tells Shane that he is a legend. That makes Shane blush furiously but he knows that it really is the best scenario.
Lucas doesn't even bat an eye at Shane's purchase. And that is something. Capital S-something, if you ask Shane. So he is extra grateful for this kid.
Because he is Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Metros and he has just bought two Ottawa Centaurs jerseys.
He has spent his Montreal-issued money on two jerseys of an opposite team. He would laugh if he weren’t so worried. But it’s alright, he is doing it for a good cause, for the best one.
And all the worry tends to dissipate when he checks the jerseys in the car. He couldn’t stare at them, analyzing them in the shop. The sooner he got out of there, the safer it was, so now here he is in his car, carefully examining the back of the jerseys.
On the back of each one, there is Shane’s best idea, in Shane’s opinion. His jersey has the number 24 on it, and the name S. Rozanov. On the kid-sized one, with the number 81, there’s A. Rozanov.
He puts them back in the Centaurs shopping bag and drives home, where he explains his plan to his parents.
Yuna Hollander, as predicted, freaks out. She literally gets up and does a lap around the dining room table, under Shane’s flabbergasted gaze, then sits back down and ties her hair back.
“Shane.”
“Mom.”
Shane huffs, because he understands the concern, he really does, but he made up his mind.
“Are you sure?” His mom asks, and Shane thinks that she has the right to.
“I am,” he confirms, nodding.
“Will Ilya be fine?”
Shane falters a bit, but still doesn’t give up. “Yes. I mean, things can always quickly go to shit– sorry,” he comically widens his eyes, “but he’s almost a Canadian citizen now, and I don’t want to do that for this reason but we could get married if the worst scenario became reality, and he really, really wants to come out, he’s ready, and holds back because of me–”
His mom interrupts him before he can start hyperventilating, chuckling softly at him. “Okay, alright, Shane, I get it.”
Shane finally takes a deep breath and smiles, feeling a little lighter. “Okay.”
“Let me see the jerseys now, come on,” his mom asks and Shane’s face turns a bright red.
“Oh,” he mutters, while retrieving the bag.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you in Centaurs merch, honestly,” his dad announces, quiet until that moment but still supportive as ever.
“Oh that makes two of us,” his mom says and Shane snorts. “Make that three.”
One jersey is expected, Shane thinks, while Yuna passes her hands on the name printed on the back of it. She definitely doesn’t expect her son to pull another one out of the bag.
“S. Rozanov?” Yuna smirks, “real–”
Her words die on her lips when she sees the other jersey. It’s so small, compared to Shane’s, and she can clearly see the 81, but she doesn’t know what name could possibly be hidden on the back.
They aren’t expecting a child, are they? No. Shane can’t get pregnant. “Ilya isn’t pregnant,” is somehow what she ends up blurting out, embarrassing herself and then joining in on the laughter that echoes in their dining room.
“Oh, he will be happy to know that you think this is for his daughter,” Shane says, drying his eyes that filled up with amused tears. “Because it is, anyway.”
He turns the jersey in his hands so that both his parents can read the name printed on the back, and Yuna’s eyes shine with love. “Oh my God, Shane, this is too cute!”
She is so sure of that and it helps Shane relax. He knows that Ilya will not be mad but hearing from someone else that he’ll appreciate the gesture is nice.
His dad agrees. “Ilya is gonna lose his mind, son.”
“But how are you gonna sneak Anya into the rink?” David asks, and Shane is surprised to find out that it wasn’t his mom who asked this.
“I’m going to talk to the head of security as soon as I’m sure that Ilya left, they can’t say no, right? Ilya says they love me,” Shane almost innocently explains, and it instantly makes his parents laugh because they have never heard Shane talk about his fame, his popularity, or the way people appreciate him. So now, hearing him say that he thinks that people in Ottawa love him enough to break some rules is funny.
“What? Why are you laughing, that isn’t nice of you.” Shane hopes he is not pouting, but he probably is. Ilya would probably say something like Cute angry kitten, Shane can literally hear his voice.
“Don’t you think they love me?”
Shane is concerned now.
“No, what? Buddy, of course. People in Ottawa love you, it was just funny because you never mention that,” his dad finally explains and that clears things up.
“Oh. Okay, okay.”
“This is a nice thing, Shane. We’re proud of you.”
Shane’s smile wobbles a little but he quickly recovers, so they can then chat a bit more and then have some lunch and then Shane can go to the rink to gently trick the security guards into letting him sneak a dog in the captain’s seats.
It turns out that sneaking a dog into an NHL rink isn't that hard if you're Shane Hollander and you are in Ottawa.
Ilya is right. People really love Shane, here. To the point that Shane feels a little bit embarrassed when interacting with them. Too humble, Hollander, Ilya would say. As if that’s a thing.
All that Shane needs to do, after a short trip to the stadium, is wait until Ilya will have left the house to go and retrieve Anya. Then he will be at the VIP gates with her and the head of security will give him a pass.
In the meantime, he tries not to spiral about the worst-case scenarios that have been threatening to haunt him since he started planning this whole thing.
It also helps that his mom eventually talked to Farah, his agent, so now they have a plan for any possible situation. After all, Shane doesn’t know what Ilya plans to do with his presence. He doesn’t know whether Ilya wants to post an official statement or not, he doesn’t know what he wants to do, so having someone who knows what to do is kind of comforting.
He is about to burst out of his skin, sitting there, alone with his thoughts, so he decides to go for a walk around the house, making sure that no one spots him (he will surprise Ilya even if it’s the last thing he does), and is glad to see that by the time he has showered and got dressed, it’s time to drive to Ilya’s, to get Anya.
Anya greets him with her usual energy. She’s such a bundle of joy that Shane sometimes struggles to find the reason for it. Maybe it’s exactly what Ilya loves the most about dogs: they are constantly looking for more things to explore, more people to love. They are like an overexcited factory of love and happiness, even if there’s nothing new or exciting to celebrate. This is what Ilya loves and Shane struggles to see. But Shane understands, and now, kneeling on the hardwood floor with a fluffy Anya in his arms, he thinks he loves it too.
“Hey, Anya! Hey, hello, I missed you too, yeah,” he mumbles between frantic kisses that he tries to dodge —because he still isn’t a super fan of dog saliva on his skin, and that’s okay— and sneaky attacks that end up being ridiculous requests for cuddles.
Shane stays on the floor with her for longer than he should have, probably, but he can’t bring himself to feel guilty about giving Anya some extra love.
Then he takes the bag, puts it on the floor, and waits for Anya to suspiciously inspect the contents, carefully sniffing every inch of it.
“You like them?” Shane asks, even if she can’t answer, obviously, while one hand of his sinks deep into the soft fur.
“You will be a very good looking girl, the prettiest daughter.”
If Ilya heard Shane, Shane wouldn’t hear the end of it, but Shane is sure it will stay between him and Anya, so he can indulge in calling her Ilya’s daughter.
He takes a deep breath, feeling like he’s getting ready for a playoff face-off, and prays that Anya will let him get the jersey on her.
The size seems to be perfect, so he slowly gets to work.
First he puts her head gently through the head opening, then he puts his hand in the sleeve and pulls her paw as delicately as possible into it.
“Oh, thank fuck,” he breathes out, as if that had been some grueling task.
“You’re ready to go, now sit.” He beams, and gets his phone to take a ridiculous amount of pictures, because Ilya has to see it all.
He gets her collar, which is white, matching the jersey stripes, and then the leash, and soon finds himself trying to calm down a very excited dog who is only interested in zooming her way through the living room.
“Please,” he whispers to himself, but he knows that he just has to wait. Eventually Anya will calm down and sit next to him, ready to go out.
Shane puts his jersey on in the car, once they are in the stadium parking lot, since the security guards gave him access to the players' lot so he doesn’t have to worry about prying eyes.
He snaps a few pictures of himself and Anya, both proudly showing the Centaurs logo, even if what is printed on the back of the jerseys is a reason for much more pride.
And then he has to refrain himself from sending it to Ilya.
He laughs when the security guy gives him a pass for himself but another one for Anya too. It says Anya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov’s family.
And Shane almost throws a tantrum because his pass only says Shane Hollander, not Ilya Rozanov’s family.
But if things go well tonight, maybe he can get that. They would get him a new one. They love him!
He ignores the looks he is getting once he’s allowed to walk around with Anya, because the entrance to the reserved area of the stadium is quite far from the VIP area, and his shoulders sag with relief when he realizes that all he has to do now is go sit down.
“You ready?” He asks Anya, who obviously just looks at him, blinking in confusion.
Shane hopes the noise won’t be too much for her ears, kind of hates himself for not thinking about it sooner.
And then, in the blink of an eye, they are sitting in Ilya's family seats.
Shane needs to concentrate to take a full breath. His lungs expand slowly, and he tries his best to relax, so that he doesn’t look like he’s about to pass out or like someone is holding him at gunpoint.
He sees some of the WAGs, whom he knows because Ilya has shown him photos from one of Bood’s barbecues, but they don’t approach him and he is too scared to do anything else except stare at the ice as though breaking contact with it would kill him.
One of his hands is on Anya’s back, petting her with a thumb. She awkwardly leans over Shane's shoulder, probably to look around. Shane is sure she has never seen so many people. Ilya has never brought her to the rink, despite wanting to.
“You’re okay, we’re fine, papa will see you soon,” he tells her, hoping that his voice ends up being soothing to her ears, even if she doesn’t look concerned at all.
Maybe this is sensory overload for Shane only. He has never been on the other side of the boards— not lately anyway, and it really is an overstimulating nightmare.
But he doesn’t complain. He isn’t suffering or enduring the thing. He’s here for his boyfriend and he is happy to be.
Somehow, Anya finds a comfortable position before the players enter the ice to stretch. She settles down with her head on Shane's thigh, and Shane has never been so terrified in his life but also he has never been more proud.
Ilya is about to be on the ice, probably he won’t even look up, sure that no one will be there for him and start his pre-game ritual. But Shane will be there. And he is proud.
He has lifted the Stanley Cup more than once and yet he has never been as proud as he is right now, wearing his boyfriend’s name on his back, showing everyone that Ilya Rozanov has got people in his corner, because he is the best and he deserves all the love in the world.
So he just sits there, refrains from biting his nails until they bleed. Instead, he tries to hide his fear by standing tall and steady, waiting for Ilya to notice them.
He texts Yuna.
I’m here, he writes and immediately feels ridiculous because the last time he updated his mom about his whereabouts was probably more than ten years ago.
Good job, she sends back. Shane thinks that maybe she’s been looking at her phone waiting to hear from him. He can’t blame her. He was freaking out a bit when he left the house.
They haven’t said anything yet. Probably no one noticed you’re there, she texts reassuringly. Even though Shane knows that the WAGs chat must be going crazy with texts right now.
Good, he types, then snaps a picture of Anya and sends it. He smiles like an idiot too, while looking at it.
Best girl, his mom replies and Shane simply agrees, reacts to the text with a heart, and pockets his phone.
They just have to wait for Ilya to notice that for the first time in his life, there's family where family is supposed to be: right by his side.
That happens so late into the game that Shane begins to suspect that his boyfriend did see them but is pretending he didn’t just to mess with him.
It happens because Shane is apparently sitting in the row behind Luca Haas’s family, and Luca scores, and he looks at his baby brother (this kid is barely eight, if Shane isn’t wrong, and is tremendously cute, with the Haas jersey— Shane wonders if he and Anya look as cute), pointing at him and winking, and then his movements halt suddenly, his mouth hanging open in shock.
Shane can’t hear him, but he is sure he is shouting to get Ilya’s attention, which is a bit difficult because Ilya likes to say that Haas is his son and said son has just scored so he is busy celebrating him. Eventually, poor Haas has to physically turn Ilya around, gripping one of his forearms and then pointing at Shane and Anya.
Shane’s stomach does something crazy. Maybe the last time he felt this much movement in his ribcage he was in room 1410, kissing a boy for the first time, realizing that he had never kissed anyone before, not really.
He waves. He’s so awkward that he flinches when he sees himself on the Jumbotron. Fuck. He has really not thought about this.
His face plastered on the screen is such a recurring occurrence during his games that Shane pays it no mind. The problem is that this isn’t his game and Shane is wearing another team’s jersey. He hopes his smile is enough to hide his internal freak-out.
Ilya looks like someone has screwed his skates to the ice, or like he has frozen and is now part of the rink itself. Because he is not moving. He is standing as if he were carved out of marble, and not breathing, his heart not beating. Shane can’t see his eyes and for a solid moment he is seriously worried that he has fucked their lives up. But then Ilya smiles. Shane would recognize that smile from outer space. And then he waves back, and then proceeds to play the greatest hockey game of the century.
Or— well, Shane is a little biased. But Ilya plays incredibly well, after he spots him, and Shane is a proud boyfriend, okay? Ilya is fantastic. No chance to argue about that.
Appearing on the Jumbotron once has caused Shane enough embarrassment to last a lifetime and he hoped it wouldn’t happen again, but on account of the greatest hockey game of the century, Shane spends so long staring at his face on the screens that, by the end of the game, he is used to it. Because Ilya scores twice and obviously makes a scene every time, pointing at him and Anya and even blowing them a kiss after both goals.
Shane’s cheeks are scarlet, at the end, but he is sure that he has never been happier. Not when he signed his first NHL contract, not when he lifted the Stanley Cup, not even when Ilya found the courage to confess his love. Shane’s chest is bursting with joy because, even if they still haven’t said anything explicitly, he can proudly and loudly show his affection and support for Ilya.
It feels amazing. God. It’s exhilarating. The beauty of it fights the fear, keeps it at bay. Shane feels like he can take over the world when he sees Harris approaching him.
“Hello.” Harris looks a lot like most of the stadium staff every time they’ve met Shane today, and Shane smiles at him while getting Anya to stand up, ready to leave the stands.
“Hi, you must be Harris,” he says, because the man seems a little nervous. “Ilya talks about you a lot.”
Maybe that was wrong? Harris pales and Shane wants to scream into the void. “What?” He asks, quite rhetorically, “All good things! You got him Anya!”
Shane opens one hand and uses it to point at Anya, as if Harris could have missed her, then pets her, scratches her behind the ears, and grins when her tail begins wagging. “Say hi to Harris,” he also adds, addressing the dog, under Harris’ perplexed eyes.
The man clears his throat, “uh, okay, great then. Ilya told me to get you, would you mind coming with me to the locker room? They’re all waiting for you two,” he tells Shane.
And Shane should have expected it, he was expecting that, but it still sends shivers down his spine. He freezes for a beat, grips Anya’s leash tighter, and then lets go, tries to shake the anxiety off by stretching his neck and eventually agrees to follow Harris, obviously.
“Yeah, if that’s okay with you, and, uh, the coach, I guess?” He hesitantly smiles, trying to look braver than he feels.
“Oh, of course, it was the coach himself that suggested that.”
Shane does a double-take, because despite having heard great things about the whole Ottawa team, witnessing them firsthand is a different thing entirely.
“Okay, cool. Let’s go then.”
He desperately hopes that he doesn’t sound like he’s swallowing glass, because that’s a little bit how he feels.
“Come on, Anya,” he says softly to Anya, and then proceeds to follow the other man to the locker room.
It feels so weird and bizarre that Shane feels like he’s floating on a soft cloud, fluctuating his way through the stadium instead of walking with a dog in tow. Maybe he is dreaming, maybe this is a fever dream. He is walking to another team’s locker room wearing another team’s jersey. He can’t even imagine the choice of words coming from his coach if he found out— it’s bad enough that everyone and their mother has seen him in the stands by now.
But he won’t think about that, he won’t let himself feel the fear, only the love.
Anya’s nails tiptapping on the linoleum floor are the only sound that follows Harris and Shane, until they approach the locker room and they can hear the players’ voices too.
Shane’s brain goes into overdrive, his heart pumping blood furiously. He can hear the beat in his ears. Maybe they’re ringing too, for a moment. And things get progressively worse when Harris knocks on the locker room door.
Luckily for Shane, though, Ilya doesn’t even wait for Harris to announce their presence, he simply yanks the door open and throws himself at Shane.
Shane literally wobbles, despite being almost six feet of strong muscles. He barely manages to let go of Anya’s leash so they don’t pull her down, and then has to concentrate so that he and Ilya don’t find themselves on the floor— it would be mortifying.
“Ilya,” he cackles, oozing happiness, pure and unadulterated.
“Shane,” Ilya mutters in Shane’s neck, face squashed into the skin. Then “Shane!” He shouts, so loud that Shane feels his own eardrums vibrate. He even jumps a little, dragging Shane up and down with him. He looks like an overgrown child.
“Yeah, it’s me. Shane,” Shane laughs, still clinging to his boyfriend, holding him, squeezing him, grateful that Ilya got rid of the protective pads.
“Shane,” Ilya is suddenly overcome with so much cuteness aggression that he has to close his eyes and take a breath to stop himself from biting his boyfriend’s cheeks and nose and shoulder. And— wherever, really. Ilya wants to eat him.
“You are fucking crazy!” He yells. At least Shane is sure he is yelling because his teammates laugh.
“Yeah, it was probably a bit–”
Ilya shakes his head and pulls away slightly. Shane takes him in. He’s only wearing his compression pants and undershirt, his hair is drenched in sweat and the curls are completely unruly. Anyone else would probably find him (and any athlete in his position, honestly) a bit disgusting, but his eyes are shining and his lips are curved, forming that cute smile that screams I can’t believe this is real! and Shane loves him so much that it’s physically impossible, now of all times, to contain the magnitude of his feelings.
“I love you so much, Ilya,” he says. And it’s ridiculous because they are not even touching, Anya is excitedly running around Ilya, in circles, and Ilya tries to pet her without breaking eye contact with Shane.
Shane is standing there, in front of him, telling him that he loves him, wearing his name on his back and— “Is that kids jersey?” Is somehow what leaves Ilya’s mouth, making Shane laugh.
“Yes.” Shane sounds choked with emotion. Maybe he will cry, maybe Ilya will cry too. Maybe they will all cry.
Ilya is the first one to break, but first he throws himself back into Shane’s arms— calmly, this time— and only when his face is completely hidden from prying eyes does he allow himself to cry.
Shane does his best to rock them without actually moving too much, gladly seeing, out of the corner of his eye, that Anya is too busy mingling in the locker room. The guys must be playing with her.
He drops kisses all over Ilya’s face, like a waterfall on his temples, his cheeks, then on the underside of his jaw. “I love you,” he whispers. Again. He will say it until his last breath. God only knows how much Ilya deserves to hear it.
“Yes, yes, I am very sexy, strong Russian man,” eventually Ilya says, leaving Shane’s embrace and drying his tears with a trembling hand. He tries to sound smug and hopes that the thing he is doing with his lips is a shit-eating grin. But he sounds choked up and his smile is the look of someone who’s trying his best not to sob.
Everyone laughs, and Ilya hears them, but Shane is the one to get his full attention.
He takes Shane’s face in his hands and kisses him quickly, briefly. It’s just a little peck on the lips and yet the bravest thing Shane has ever done. It’s a fucking hurricane in his stomach.
He grips Ilya’s ribs through the undershirt. “Is this okay? You mentioned that you never had family at the rink and I thought– I mean, I only did this because you said you wanted to come out, I would have never–”
He is rambling, he knows he is. He also feels the smack of his boyfriend’s lips on his when Ilya shuts him up in his favorite way. So he can’t stop the grin, then, when Ilya pulls away and leans with his forehead on Shane’s lips, in a silent invitation to be kissed.
“You are crazy man, Hollander,” Ilya chuckles, gripping Shane’s jersey— the one with his name, oh fuck. Ilya is so ruined for anyone else. Ilya is ruined, period. And he loves it.
“S. Rozanov?” He says, brows raising in a challenging manner but eyes shining with emotion. “This is what you want, Hollander?”
Shane shrugs, takes Ilya’s hands in his and kisses them. “I want you, Ilya, always, no matter what, I want you.”
Ilya swallows the need to cry until he has no more tears left to shed, because this is not the time. He will break down later, when he is in his bed with Shane and Anya.
And fuck— Anya. His perfect girl. He doesn’t know why he never thought to buy her a Rozanov jersey, but hell— is he glad Shane did.
It’s like a switch has been flipped, and he leaves Shane in the hallway to run into the locker room and get to his dog.
“Anya! Anya! Idi syuda, malysh!”
The Centaurs look like they went walking through a hurricane and then went swimming in a tsunami when they see their captain playfully chasing his dog in the locker room.
“Rozy!”
“Yo, cap!”
“Hey, Ilya! Ilya!”
They try to get his attention but Ilya looks like a toddler who’s been given full unlimited access to the playground, powered by sugar and sheer, childlike energy.
“They won’t stop, don’t even bother,” Shane mutters, from the doorway. He’s almost completely stepped into the room but he still feels like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing.
“Can I come in?” He asks, amusement painting his features, and he knows— he knows, because he is one of them— that hockey players are loud and sometimes obnoxiously so, but nothing could have prepared him for the volume of the cheers coming from the Centaurs.
He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and smiles fondly when he spots Ilya on the floor with Anya, talking to her in Russian and English. He doesn’t need to hear him to know that he is telling her that she is the best girl ever and his favorite daughter.
“Hello, I’m Shane, Shane Hollander,” Shane says and Ilya lifts his head to look at him.
Ilya observes him. Shane even waves. Fuck. Shane has just waved to his teammates to introduce himself, as if they didn’t know him, as if Hollander, Metros #24 hadn’t been a nightmare on the ice for these men since the first time he stepped foot into a rink.
Fuck. Ilya has to eat him.
He is too cute to be real.
“I am–”
Shane is relieved because these guys seem to be giving him all the time he needs, they’re silently waiting for him to continue, kind and genuinely happy for their captain.
“Shane is my boyfriend, he could not resist me,” Ilya fills in, still on the floor. Then, because he would never leave Shane alone in this and because he can finally show off his boyfriend, he stands up and walks to Shane.
Shane rolls his eyes fondly while every single Centaur groans at the captain’s antics. Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever been able to conjure this level of happiness, contentment.
“I could not resist you?” Shane repeats, parroting Ilya’s words and trying desperately to hold back laughter.
Ilya moves until he is, somehow, all over Shane even if they’re still standing. “Okay, you’re right,” he mournfully says, and everyone thinks he’s being serious. But then he reminds them that he is Ilya Rozanov, professional menace since day one.
“He wanted help to become second best hockey player, so he asked me,” he says, pointing a finger at his own chest for greater effect. “Then he fell in love because he couldn’t resist.”
“Fuck you,” Shane laughs, followed by everyone else in the room, and playfully shoves him.
“This is assault, Harris! Call your cops!”
Shane frowns and while everyone else laughs, Harris explains. “My cops would be the HR team.”
Shane joins them laughing. Subtly, he tries to gauge the reaction of the room, looking around, while Ilya grips his bicep because if he doesn’t touch his boyfriend he is going to die. It’s serious like that.
“Okay, okay, listen up,” he says, getting everyone’s attention.
“This is my Shane.”
Shane thinks about engagement rings while something wet hits his eyelashes.
“He is very brave, and I love him very much, so if you have problem with that, say it, so I can kick your ass now and then call Harris’ cops.”
Shane chuckles, because Ilya’s face has never been more focused, scanning the room for threats that Shane is sure he won’t find.
A chorus of reassurances slowly echoes through the locker room and Shane can finally relax, even if they still don’t know what everyone else is saying about them.
Ilya kisses his shoulder, and Shane blushes, they see that Anya is playing with Hayes.
Then Shane can’t resist. He has to talk hockey. “Uhm, Haas, right?” He says, looking at Haas.
“Yeah.”
Ilya snickers because Luca looks like he’s seen a ghost.
“That goal was incredible.”
Everybody groans.
“You broke him, Hollander,” someone says. Dykstra, probably. And then they’re laughing again while Haas thanks him and splutters some unintelligible words.
“He is a fan,” Bood explains.
And Shane has the audacity to blush. “Oh. Thanks.”
Ilya laughs, then decides that he has to take his boyfriend home, because seeing him with his name on the back is making him feel things that he didn’t think he could feel.
“I know you have questions, okay?” He addresses the whole room, “But now is not the time for questions.”
Shane snorts, then sits over the table in the middle of the room while Ilya starts walking to his cubicle. His feet dangle and soon Anya goes to sit between them, patiently waiting for them to bring her home. Shane thinks that she is the cutest thing ever, wearing the jersey with A. Rozanov on the back.
“I will bring Shane to the next barbecue, okay?”
Shane lifts his head and one challenging brow. “Oh, really?” He teases.
“Yes.” Ilya sounds sure but Shane can see the uncertainty deep down. He smiles, winks at him.
“So you will ask questions then, not now, yes?”
Most of the guys agree, the others who don’t speak are those who are in the showers or getting dressed to leave. Nobody cares— in the best way possible—, Shane notices. It’s amazing. So he sits there and grins, looking at Ilya who is obviously distracted and affected by his presence but is doing his best to get clean and get ready to leave, and exchanging words about the game with the others.
Shane wonders if he will ever be happier than this, Ilya wonders if he has the time to Google something. He would like to ask something along the lines of “can you die for too much love?”
He’s sure Google will have his answer. Or maybe not.
Because Shane Hollander is sitting in his locker room, feet dangling adorably from the table, he’s wearing his jersey, matching his dog who’s happily listening to him yap about hockey, and Ilya can’t believe his eyes. He feels a weird pressure in his chest, between his heart and his neck. Maybe he’s dying.
Shane looks so happy and carefree and Ilya wants to bottle this moment, is focusing hard so he doesn’t lose even one small detail of this scene. He wants to stop time.
He wants to teleport home and show Shane exactly how much this meant to him, but he also wants to freeze this moment, maybe put it in one of those little snow globes that his mama used to collect when he was a kid. Maybe he could shake it and instead of the snow fluctuating around, he could get Shane’s laugh. It’s his favorite sound, and his favorite sight. The way his nose scrunches up and his freckles become little blobs scattered across his face.
Fuck. Ilya can’t breathe.
“I shower at home,” in the end he declares, while Shane is focused on commenting on their power play with Troy.
“What?”
“I cannot concentrate, Shane.”
Someone snorts, somebody else cackles.
“You need… to concentrate to… shower?” Shane is so confused.
“Yes. You are here, looking like–” Ilya gestures at him with both palms open and upwards, as if to say Look at you, for God’s sake! And Shane looks at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he murmurs, meeting Shane’s eyes.
“Okay,” Shane replies, “shower at home, but what about getting dressed first?” Shane cheekily asks, because Ilya is wearing his boxers and nothing else.
Bood laughs, loudly. “God, cap is whipped.”
Ilya frowns and turns around abruptly. “I am not cream?”
Shane erupts into laughter. “Ilya.”
“What. What is this word?”
Shane shakes his head, “Get dressed, please. I’ll explain on the way home.”
Ilya does as Shane asked.
Bood nods and smirks.
“See? Whipped.”
Ilya still glares at him, but focuses on getting ready. Shane can explain in the car. He is not cream.