Chapter Text
Shane had done hundreds of interviews in his life, which was probably why he knew something had gone wrong before he and Ilya had even made it through the door.
“Why are you walking like that?” he muttered.
Ilya, one hand still wrapped around the handle, stopped halfway into the interview room and looked over his shoulder. “Like what?”
“Like you’re entering a nightclub.”
“I am walking.”
“You’re doing a thing with your shoulders.”
“I have shoulders.”
Shane stared at him.
Behind them, someone on the production team made a noise that was very obviously supposed to be a cough.
Ilya’s mouth twitched.
Shane narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were going to.”
“I was thinking.”
“That’s usually worse.”
The cough behind them became a laugh.
Great.
They had been in the room for approximately nine seconds.
Shane stepped around Ilya and into the studio properly, resisting the urge to straighten his shirt again. He had already checked it in the car. Twice. Then once more in the lobby bathroom because Ilya had told him there was something on the collar and had waited until Shane was examining himself in the mirror to admit he had been lying.
Apparently marriage had done nothing to improve Ilya’s character.
The room was smaller than Shane had expected, designed to look more intimate than a press conference without tipping over into whatever awful soft-focus celebrity interview thing Ottawa’s media department had promised him this was not going to be. Three armchairs had been arranged in a loose semicircle over a dark rug, two angled together for him and Ilya and another opposite for the interviewer. There were cameras behind them, lights overhead, cables taped neatly to the floor, and several people wearing headsets who all looked up when they entered.
Shane recognised the interviewer immediately. Natalie Mercer had been covering hockey for almost fifteen years, first as a beat reporter and then as one of the league’s better long-form journalists. She had interviewed Shane enough times that he knew she preferred questions that sounded harmless until halfway through answering them you realised you had somehow disclosed a childhood trauma.
She stood and smiled.
“Shane. Ilya.”
“Natalie.” Shane crossed the room and shook her hand.
Ilya did the same. “Hello.”
“Thank you both for doing this.”
“Of course.”
“Shane made me.”
Shane turned his head.
Natalie laughed. “That didn’t take long.”
“I did not make him.”
“You said, ‘It would be good for us.’”
“That isn’t making you.”
“I heard obligation in tone.”
“You hear obligation whenever I ask you to do anything.”
“Because you are very persuasive.”
“That’s not—”
Natalie was already grinning.
Shane closed his mouth.
This was going to be a disaster.
The ridiculous thing was that he wasn’t nervous. Or at least not nervous in the way he would have been a year ago.
He was aware of the cameras. He was aware that this interview would be watched by millions of people before the week was over, clipped into pieces and dissected and slowed down and reposted with captions by people who would notice everything from the placement of his hands to the number of times he looked at Ilya. He knew there would be questions about their marriage, about Ottawa, about coming out, about the video, about what happened afterward.
But there was no secret sitting underneath any of it anymore.
That still felt strange.
For most of his adult life, an interview had been an exercise in subtraction. Remove Ilya. Remove Russia unless it was hockey-related. Remove certain vacations. Remove half his summers. Remove the real reason he knew Ottawa restaurants so well. Remove anything that made him sound too invested when Ilya was mentioned. Remove stories involving hotel rooms and early-morning flights and Christmas gifts and arguments conducted in two languages.
Now there was nothing to remove.
Ilya was standing beside him, wearing his wedding ring openly, complaining because Shane had made him attend an interview about being Shane’s husband.
Shane could have kissed him just for existing there.
He didn’t, because there were people trying to attach microphones to them.
But he wanted to.
“Sit,” one of the producers said, smiling. “We’ll get you mic’d.”
Ilya dropped into the chair closest to the centre and immediately stretched his legs out.
Shane looked at him. “You took my chair.”
“They are identical.”
“That was my chair.”
“How?”
“I was walking toward it.”
“You were standing.”
“I was clearly—never mind.”
Ilya shifted across with exaggerated effort. “Please. Take sacred chair.”
“You don’t have to move now.”
“I insist.”
“You’re being annoying.”
“You married me.”
“That doesn’t mean I endorse everything you do.”
Natalie sat opposite them while a technician clipped a microphone to Shane’s shirt.
“You two always like this?”
“No,” Shane said.
“Yes,” Ilya said at exactly the same time.
The technician laughed.
Shane felt heat crawl into his face. “Can we start over?”
“No,” Ilya said. “This is excellent start.”
Shane glanced at him and caught the gleam in his eyes.
That softened something immediately.
Ilya was happy.
Not performatively happy. Not making jokes because there were cameras and he enjoyed an audience, although both were true. Actually happy. There was something almost boyish about him lately, some constant low hum of satisfaction that Shane kept catching when Ilya thought nobody was looking. At breakfast. In the car. Walking through the Ottawa training facility together. Standing in their kitchen while Shane complained about where he had put the knives.
Their kitchen.
Their house.
Their life.
Shane still sometimes had to stop himself from staring.
Ilya caught him doing it now.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look weird.”
“Thanks.”
“You are welcome.”
The technician finished with Ilya’s microphone and stepped away.
Natalie glanced toward one of the cameras. “Are we good?”
Someone behind it gave a thumbs-up.
“Okay.” She settled back into her chair and looked at both of them. “Ready?”
Shane nodded.
Ilya said, “Probably.”
“Great confidence.”
“I have never regretted anything.”
Shane snorted.
Ilya turned instantly, triumphant. “There. Already.”
“What?”
“You made noise.”
“I make noises.”
“You do not usually make that one in interviews.”
Shane stared at him for a second, then looked at Natalie. “Can you edit him out?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
The red light came on.
Natalie looked into the main camera.
“I’m Natalie Mercer, and today I’m joined by two men who, for a very long time, were most famous for appearing to dislike each other.”
Ilya nodded gravely.
“Correct.”
Shane looked sideways at him.
Natalie continued. “They are Olympic champions, Stanley Cup winners, two of the biggest names of their generation, longtime rivals, newly minted Ottawa teammates and, as the world learned very publicly earlier this year, husbands.”
She turned toward them.
“Shane Hollander. Ilya Rozanov. Thank you for joining me.”
“Thanks for having us,” Shane said.
Ilya smiled. “Happy to be here.”
Natalie let the silence sit for one beat.
“So.”
Shane knew immediately what she was doing.
“Married.”
“Yes,” Ilya said.
Shane added, “That is generally what happens after a wedding.”
There was a beat of absolute silence.
Then Ilya slowly turned his head toward him.
Shane’s stomach dropped.
What had he said?
Natalie burst out laughing.
Behind the cameras, someone else did too.
Ilya was staring at Shane like he had discovered a new species.
“What?” Shane asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Ilya looked back at Natalie. “I think maybe he has been replaced.”
“Oh my God.”
“No, really. This is not interview Shane.”
“I made one joke.”
“You made joke before me.”
“That happens.”
“Not publicly.”
Natalie was still laughing. “Should we be concerned?”
“Very,” Ilya said.
Shane rubbed a hand over his face.
Wonderful.
Four minutes in.
Natalie glanced down at her notes. “All right. Let’s start with the obvious. How does it feel?”
“Being married?” Shane asked.
“Being married publicly.”
That distinction quieted something in him.
He looked at Ilya automatically.
Ilya was already looking back.
Shane smiled before he could stop himself. “Good.”
“Very profound,” Ilya said.
“Do you want to answer?”
“Yes. Fantastic. Next question.”
Shane laughed.
Natalie smiled. “You seem comfortable.”
“I think we are,” Shane said, and realised as he spoke that he meant it. “It’s still strange sometimes. Not the marriage. That doesn’t feel strange. We’ve been…” He paused.
Ilya raised his eyebrows.
Shane sighed. “Whatever we’ve been for a very long time.”
“Very romantic.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“But the public part is still new. People knowing. Going somewhere together and not thinking about whether someone’s taking a picture. Saying his name in an interview without having to work out whether I’ve said it too many times already.”
Ilya’s teasing expression faded.
Shane looked down at his hands for a second.
There were so many tiny things he had never noticed himself doing until he stopped doing them.
Counting mentions of Ilya.
Carefully neutralising his voice when reporters asked about him.
Making sure his eyes didn’t follow Ilya too long across a room.
Leaving places separately.
Always separately.
“I didn’t realise how much energy it took,” Shane said. “Until I didn’t have to do it anymore.”
Natalie nodded. “Hide?”
“Yeah.”
Ilya’s knee pressed against his.
It had been touching Shane’s since they sat down, but the pressure changed slightly.
Deliberate now.
Shane didn’t look at him.
He didn’t need to.
Natalie gave them a moment before smiling again. “Okay. Before we get too emotional five minutes in, I have been told there is some disagreement over the proposal.”
Shane immediately groaned.
Ilya sat straighter. “There is no disagreement.”
“There is.”
“No.”
“You proposed.”
“You proposed.”
“I had the ring.”
“You expressed intent.”
“That is not proposing.”
Natalie looked delighted. “I feel like I’ve accidentally opened litigation.”
“You have,” Shane said.
Ilya leaned toward her. “Here is truth.”
“Oh, fantastic.”
Shane muttered, “This should be good.”
Ilya ignored him. “Ottawa had away game. Our plane had problem.”
The room sobered slightly.
Shane’s chest tightened even now.
Problem was a spectacular understatement.
The plane had dropped hard enough that players had hit the ceiling. Oxygen masks had come down. One engine had failed. The emergency landing had ultimately been successful and nobody had been seriously hurt, which meant within days everyone had started describing it as a scare, an incident, a malfunction.
Shane remembered exactly where he had been when he got the first message.
He remembered Ilya calling afterward, voice too casual.
He remembered being unable to get enough air into his lungs while listening to Ilya say he was fine.
He remembered the horrifying simplicity of the thought that had taken over everything else.
I could have lost him.
Ilya glanced at Shane.
The humour softened in his eyes.
“He came home,” Shane said.
“To his house,” Ilya added.
“Your house.”
“Our house now.”
Shane looked at him.
Ilya smiled.
It hit him stupidly hard.
Our house now.
Shane had spent years having pieces of himself everywhere and nowhere. A place in Montreal. The cottage. Hotel rooms. Ilya’s house in Ottawa, where Shane had once known which floorboard creaked and still somehow thought of himself as a visitor.
Now his books filled the shelves. His coffee machine sat in the kitchen because Ilya’s had apparently been “piece of capitalist garbage.” Shane’s coats occupied most of the hall closet. There were framed photographs they no longer had to hide upstairs. His favourite mug sat beside Ilya’s in the cabinet.
Home had stopped being geography.
“When I got back,” Ilya continued, “he was weird.”
“I had almost watched you die.”
“You did not watch.”
“You know what I mean.”
“He was very emotional.”
“You were almost in a plane crash.”
“There was plane crash.”
“There was an emergency landing.”
“Yes, after crashing part.”
Natalie blinked.
Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we not litigate the plane crash too?”
Ilya smiled. “Fine. I arrive home. There are candles.”
Natalie’s eyebrows shot up. “Candles?”
“Not that many.”
“Many.”
“There were maybe ten.”
“Twenty.”
“There were not twenty candles.”
“You counted?”
“I bought them.”
“Ah.” Ilya pointed. “Premeditated.”
“It was not premeditated.”
“You purchased supplies.”
“Earlier that day.”
“Yes.”
“Because I panicked!”
“I know.”
The softness in Ilya’s voice caught him.
Shane looked over.
Ilya was smiling, but differently now.
He remembered it too.
The living room dim except for candlelight. Shane standing there with a ring he had somehow managed to buy while his hands were shaking. No speech prepared. No plan beyond the certainty that waiting suddenly felt obscene.
I almost lost you.
I’m done waiting.
Marry me.
Ilya had stared at him for so long Shane had briefly thought he might pass out.
Then Ilya had said yes before Shane had even finished whatever incoherent second sentence came after it.
“I was scared,” Shane admitted. “I knew he was okay by then, obviously. He was home. He was fine. But…” He swallowed. “It changed something.”
Ilya’s fingers brushed the side of his hand.
Shane turned his palm over instinctively.
They linked fingers between the chairs.
“I’d spent years thinking there would be a better time,” Shane said. “After this season. After that contract. After retirement. After one more thing. And then suddenly there was almost no more time at all.”
Nobody made a joke for a moment.
Shane could feel Ilya looking at him.
When he finally looked back, Ilya’s expression made his chest ache.
Proud.
That was what it was.
Not because Shane had proposed. Not because they were telling the story publicly.
Just proud of him.
Ilya felt it so fiercely sometimes it almost embarrassed him. Shane had always been brave in ways nobody understood because nobody knew what the bravery cost. People saw discipline, composure, perfection. Ilya had seen the nights where Shane lay awake beside him terrified that one wrong photograph could destroy everything. He had watched Shane get on planes and return to Montreal and put his face back on.
And now Shane sat beside him, wedding ring visible, talking about being frightened without treating the admission as a failure.
Ilya wanted to kiss him.
He settled for squeezing his hand.
Natalie smiled. “So Shane proposed.”
“Yes,” Shane said.
“No,” Ilya said.
Shane turned. “We just told the whole story.”
“You proposed technically after you already told me you wanted marry me.”
“When?”
“Earlier.”
“That is incredibly vague.”
“You said, ‘I want to marry you so badly sometimes I feel physically ill.’”
Shane’s entire body heated.
Natalie made a startled noise.
Ilya looked pleased.
“That,” Shane said carefully, “was during an argument.”
“Still declaration.”
“That was not a proposal.”
“You declared marriage intention.”
“I was upset.”
“You were romantic.”
“I was having some kind of breakdown.”
“You said you wanted marry me.”
“And then you did not produce a ring.”
“I was giving you chance.”
“You had a ring?”
“No.”
Shane stared.
Natalie laughed so suddenly she had to cover her mouth.
“You are such an asshole.”
Ilya grinned.
“You had no ring.”
“I knew you would eventually handle logistics.”
Shane looked at Natalie. “This is what I live with.”
“You chose.”
“I was vulnerable.”
Ilya squeezed his hand. “And now trapped.”
That did it.
Shane tried to hold it in and failed completely.
The laugh came out ugly and loud, enough that he bent forward with his free hand over his face. He could hear Ilya laughing beside him, which only made it worse, because Ilya’s laughter had always been contagious and Shane had spent years trying not to respond to it in public.
There was nothing stopping him now.
By the time he got himself upright again, his eyes were watering.
Natalie stared at him.
“What?”
“I’ve interviewed you at least ten times.”
“Oh God.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh like that.”
Shane wiped beneath one eye. “That feels insulting.”
“It’s not.”
“It is little bit insulting,” Ilya said.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Mine.”
“Obviously.”
Natalie shook her head. “All right. The wedding. Small?”
“Very,” Shane said.
“Perfect,” Ilya corrected.
Shane’s smile came easily.
“Yeah. Perfect.”
They had married in the garden at the cottage, under a sky Shane had spent the entire previous week obsessively checking weather forecasts for. It had been warm without being oppressive, the grass slightly damp from rain the night before, flowers spilling around the edges of the garden because Shane had refused to let anyone make it look too arranged.
There had been no elaborate aisle.
No string quartet.
No seating plan.
This last decision had apparently been his greatest crime.
Natalie glanced down at her notes and started laughing before she even asked.
“I’ve been told I need to ask about something called Chair-gate.”
Shane closed his eyes.
Ilya leaned back triumphantly. “Finally.”
“It was twenty minutes.”
“People needed chairs.”
“They did not.”
“Old people.”
“Cliff is not old.”
“Tell Cliff this.”
“I have.”
“JJ complained for six months.”
“JJ complains when restaurants give him sparkling water.”
“He wore dress shoes.”
“He chose the shoes!”
Natalie was already laughing. “Wait. There were no chairs at your wedding?”
“No,” Shane said.
“Correct,” Ilya said solemnly. “No chairs.”
“It was in the garden. It was casual. There were maybe thirty people—”
“Who stood.”
“For twenty minutes.”
“Human rights violation.”
Shane turned toward him. “You agreed with me!”
“I was in love.”
“You are still in love.”
“Yes. Now I have clarity.”
Shane gaped at him.
Ilya was trying not to smile.
He loved this.
God, he loved this.
He loved watching Shane forget cameras existed. Loved the flush across his cheeks. Loved that his hands moved when he argued now instead of staying carefully folded. Loved that every few minutes Shane would say something dry and absurd and then look genuinely confused when the room laughed.
This Shane belonged to nobody but himself, but Ilya felt viciously privileged that he had known him first.
Natalie managed to recover. “Who coined Chair-gate?”
“JJ,” Shane said.
“Hayden,” Ilya said.
They looked at each other.
“JJ.”
“Hayden started.”
“JJ named it.”
“Yes, perhaps.”
“And Cliff encourages it.”
“Cliff was victim.”
“Oh my God.”
“Entire Ottawa team has opinions.”
“They weren’t even all there.”
“They heard stories.”
“You tell the stories!”
“History must be preserved.”
Shane dropped his head back against the chair.
Natalie said, “So if you renewed your vows—”
“There would be chairs,” Ilya said.
“We are never renewing our vows.”
Ilya looked offended. “Why?”
“Because apparently I’d have to rent furniture.”
The crew lost it again.
Shane pressed his lips together, trying not to join them.
He failed.
Natalie waited until the room settled. “Speaking of vows, you didn’t do them during the ceremony?”
“No.” Shane’s smile faded into something softer. “We did them before.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Yeah.”
“That was Shane’s idea,” Ilya said.
Shane shrugged. “I didn’t want everything to be public.”
Even after everything had become public, there were things he still wanted to protect. Not conceal. Protect.
There was a difference.
Their vows belonged to them.
The wedding itself had been full of people they loved, laughter and champagne and JJ loudly threatening to steal garden furniture from the neighbours, but before any of that, Shane and Ilya had stood alone together inside the cottage.
No cameras.
No audience.
No expectations.
Just them.
Natalie looked at Ilya. “And I understand Shane surprised you.”
Ilya’s mouth tightened.
Shane immediately smiled.
“Oh, no.”
Ilya pointed at him. “Do not.”
“You brought up Chair-gate.”
“This is different.”
Natalie’s eyes moved between them. “What happened?”
Ilya sighed. “He did vows in Russian.”
Natalie’s expression softened. “Really?”
Shane suddenly found the seam of his trousers fascinating.
His Russian was good. Better now than it had been. Ilya had spent years correcting him with varying degrees of patience, and Shane had practised those vows until he could say them without stumbling because he wanted Ilya to hear them in the language that had first taught him what love sounded like.
He hadn’t expected Ilya to cry.
Not immediately.
Definitely not that hard.
Ilya stared ahead with the expression of a man recounting military defeat.
“I lost.”
Natalie blinked. “Lost?”
“Battle.”
“With?”
“Tears.”
Shane snorted.
Ilya turned. “You think funny.”
“A little.”
“You ambushed me.”
“I said vows.”
“In Russian.”
“Yes.”
“You practised secret.”
“That was the point of the surprise.”
“You weaponised my language.”
Shane’s shoulders started shaking.
Ilya looked at Natalie. “He was smug.”
“I was not smug.”
“You smiled when I cried.”
“Because I love you!”
“Exactly. Cruel.”
Shane laughed so hard he had to look away.
When he looked back, Ilya was watching him.
The joke was still there, but underneath it lived the memory of that room.
Ilya had understood every word.
Shane had watched recognition move across his face sentence by sentence, watched him try to keep his expression together, watched his eyes shine and his jaw tighten. By the time Shane finished, Ilya’s face had been wet.
Shane had never felt more certain of anything in his life.
Ilya reached over now and brushed his thumb against Shane’s knuckles.
“You did good,” he said quietly.
The words were simple enough that nobody else would understand what they contained.
Shane did.
His chest tightened.
“So did you.”
Ilya smiled.
Natalie gave them exactly long enough to make Shane suspicious she was enjoying herself, then said, “Who cried more overall?”
Both men immediately pointed at Shane.
“Oh, fuck you,” Shane said.
The room exploded.
Shane froze.
Ilya’s eyes widened.
Natalie covered her mouth.
Shane stared straight ahead.
“I would like that removed.”
“No,” Ilya said instantly.
“Oh my God.”
“You swore.”
“I swear.”
“Not in interviews.”
“I’m married now. Apparently I’m reckless.”
Ilya looked delighted. “This is best day of my life.”
“You got married.”
“Second best.”
“Plane crash?”
“Lower.”
Shane shook his head.
Natalie was wiping tears from her eyes. “Okay. Home life.”
“Dangerous topic,” Shane said.
“Very,” Ilya agreed.
“You live together in Ottawa now.”
“Our house,” Ilya said.
Shane looked at him.
The response had been immediate.
Not my house.
Our house.
Ilya saw the way Shane’s expression changed and felt something warm settle under his ribs.
He had owned the house for years. Bought it because someone told him that was what adults did once they had money and stability. Filled it with expensive furniture selected by someone else, objects he barely cared about, rooms he sometimes didn’t enter for weeks.
Then Shane slowly invaded.
At first with a toothbrush.
Then spare clothes.
Then coffee.
Then books.
Then an entire drawer of things Ilya had never understood why one person needed.
Now Shane’s shoes sat by the door. His handwriting appeared on notes stuck to the refrigerator. There were photographs downstairs instead of hidden away. His ridiculous collection of spices occupied half a cabinet.
The house had never felt more like Ilya’s than when it stopped being only his.
Natalie caught the look between them. “Does it feel different now that it’s officially both of yours?”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “It does.”
“How?”
Shane thought about it. “I don’t know. I used to stay there a lot, obviously. But there was always this part of my brain that thought of it as Ilya’s house. Even when I knew where everything was.”
“He knew where more things were than me.”
“That remains true.”
“Yes.”
“But now…” Shane shrugged. “My stuff is everywhere.”
“Everywhere.”
“You told me to move in.”
“I did not know extent of belongings.”
“I own a normal amount of things.”
“You have twelve pans.”
“That is not excessive.”
“There are two people.”
“They do different things.”
“They become hot.”
Shane stared at him in horror. “That is your understanding of cookware?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Natalie laughed. “Who cooks?”
“Shane.”
“Me.”
“Who thinks they can cook?”
Shane immediately pointed at Ilya.
Ilya sat upright. “I can cook.”
“You cannot.”
“I make eggs.”
“You boiled scrambled eggs.”
Natalie’s face went blank.
Ilya frowned. “They were cooked.”
“In water.”
“Efficient.”
“It was disgusting.”
“You ate.”
“I took one bite.”
“You consumed.”
“To confirm it was as bad as it looked.”
Ilya spread his hands toward Natalie. “Homophobia.”
Shane made a choking sound.
He bent forward, laughing into his hand.
Natalie shook her head. “I’m sorry, what?”
“He criticises bi man cooking.”
“I am gay!”
“Internalised.”
Shane could barely breathe.
“I hate you.”
“No.”
“No, unfortunately not.”
Ilya’s grin softened.
“No.”
The simple answer sat between them.
Shane looked at him.
There were still moments where saying it openly felt like touching something sacred.
I don’t hate you.
I never did.
I love you.
Everyone knows.
Natalie cleared her throat. “Who is messier?”
Both pointed at Ilya.
“That was immediate.”
“There is no debate,” Shane said.
“I have system.”
“Your system is putting things down wherever you happen to be and trusting that eventually I’ll move them.”
“Yes. Successful.”
“You leave cabinet doors open.”
“I may return.”
“Hours later?”
“Possibility.”
“You sleep diagonally.”
“Body chooses freedom.”
“You steal my clothes.”
“They are our clothes.”
“They don’t fit you.”
“Some stretch.”
“You ruined my McGill sweatshirt.”
“It became crop top.”
“It cost eighty dollars.”
“Fashion.”
Shane covered his face.
Natalie said, “And Shane has designated towels?”
Ilya’s eyes lit up.
Shane immediately turned. “Who told you that?”
“Sources.”
“Hayden.”
“Could be anyone.”
“It’s Hayden.”
Ilya was grinning. “There are towel rules.”
“There are not towel rules.”
“Blue for shower. Grey for hands. Small white—”
“Stop.”
“—for face.”
“Those are basic hygiene distinctions.”
Natalie laughed. “Do you deliberately use the wrong ones?”
Ilya looked offended. “Of course not.”
Shane stared.
Ilya held it for two seconds.
“Yes.”
“I knew it.”
“It makes you passionate.”
“You’re a psychopath.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” Shane muttered.
Natalie looked down at her notes. “How long were you actually together?”
Both men went still.
Then Ilya smiled.
Shane groaned.
“That depends,” Shane said.
“On?”
“How you define together.”
Natalie leaned forward. “Oh, this is promising.”
“It is not,” Shane said.
Ilya nodded. “Very complicated.”
“Were you together as rookies?”
Shane glanced at him.
Ilya was visibly enjoying himself.
“Define together,” Shane repeated.
Ilya said, “He hated me.”
“I did not hate you.”
“You absolutely hated me.”
“I thought you were arrogant.”
“I was.”
“You still are.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t hate.”
“You fucked me.”
The studio went silent.
Shane’s eyes closed.
“Ilya.”
“What?”
“Oh my God.”
“We are married. People understand mechanics.”
Natalie’s jaw had dropped.
Someone behind the camera made a strangled sound.
Shane’s face felt hot enough to combust.
“You cannot just say that.”
“Why?”
“Because this is an interview!”
“About relationship.”
“There are levels of detail!”
“I did not describe position.”
“Ilya.”
Ilya started laughing.
Shane tried to stay angry and lasted perhaps four seconds before Ilya’s face destroyed him.
He leaned forward, hand over his eyes.
“I’m never doing this again.”
Natalie was laughing too hard to speak.
Ilya patted Shane’s thigh. “You are doing very well.”
“Fuck off.”
Another shocked laugh from the crew.
Ilya looked delighted all over again.
“Twice.”
“Stop counting.”
Natalie eventually managed, “So there were… phases.”
Shane sat upright again. “Yes.”
“Many phases,” Ilya said.
“Some of them incredibly stupid.”
“Mostly because Shane.”
“Excuse me?”
“You had rules.”
“We needed rules.”
“You had rule about texting.”
“Because you texted me at three in the morning!”
“You were awake.”
“I was awake because you texted me.”
“You answered.”
“That is not the point.”
Natalie grinned. “How did nobody figure it out?”
Shane and Ilya both said, “People did.”
They looked at each other.
Shane laughed softly.
“Some people knew,” he explained. “Some people suspected. Some people probably decided it was none of their business.”
“Some people are stupid,” Ilya added.
“Also that.”
“Who knew first?”
“That’s complicated too.”
“Hunter,” Ilya said.
“Probably.”
“Hayden suspected.”
“Hayden knew me better than almost anyone.”
“JJ knew and became nightmare.”
Shane laughed. “JJ believes whispering makes information confidential.”
Ilya nodded. “Once whispered across entire locker room.”
“He was thirty feet away.”
“Everybody heard.”
“He genuinely thought nobody could.”
Natalie smiled. “You mentioned Hayden. I have to ask about the video.”
The laughter ebbed.
Not completely.
But enough.
Shane’s thumb moved over Ilya’s knuckles.
He had known the question was coming.
Everyone did.
Hayden filming a video for a fan. Shane and Ilya outside the window behind him, kissing without any idea they were visible. Hayden sending it without noticing.
The next morning, the entire world knowing.
“Have you forgiven him?” Natalie asked.
“Yes,” Shane said immediately.
There was no hesitation.
Beside him, Ilya nodded.
Shane frowned slightly. “Honestly, I don’t know that there was ever anything to forgive.”
“He did not know,” Ilya said.
“No. He was recording something for a fan. We happened to be outside. He didn’t see us. He sent it. That was it.”
“How did he react when he realised?”
Shane gave a small, humourless laugh. “Badly.”
“He looked sick,” Ilya said.
“He blamed himself.”
“Still does sometimes.”
Shane nodded.
That hurt in a different way.
Hayden had stood beside him through almost everything. The video had changed Shane’s life, but Hayden had never chosen to expose him. If Shane was going to assign blame, there were plenty of people who had made deliberate choices afterward.
Hayden wasn’t one of them.
“He apologised so many times I eventually had to tell him I was going to punch him if he said it again.”
Natalie smiled faintly. “Did you?”
“No.”
Ilya said, “He should have.”
“You like Hayden.”
“Yes. Still could punch.”
Shane shook his head.
Natalie glanced down.
“Did Montreal know before the video?”
Shane’s hand stopped moving.
“Yes.”
Natalie looked up.
“How long?”
“About a year.”
That clearly surprised her.
“A year?”
“Roughly.”
“And your teammates?”
“Most of them, yeah.”
“How did that go?”
Shane leaned back.
This was where things became harder.
Not impossible.
Just harder.
“Better than I expected at first.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Shane noticed.
Of course he did.
“There were comments,” Shane continued. “A few slurs. Mostly stupid stuff. Some guys needed time. Some guys didn’t care at all. A lot of them were just…” He shrugged. “Normal about it.”
“But they didn’t know about Ilya?”
“A few suspected.”
“They hated me,” Ilya said.
Shane looked at him. “They really hated you.”
Ilya smiled faintly. “This was mutual.”
“That was part of the problem.”
Natalie caught the change immediately. “That it was Ilya?”
Shane stared at their joined hands.
“Yes.”
The room had gone quieter.
The lights suddenly felt warmer against his face.
“There had been a game,” Shane said slowly. “Before the video came out. Montreal against Ottawa. I lost the puck late. Fell. Ottawa scored. Won.”
Ilya remembered.
Of course he did.
He remembered every second after the game too, because Shane had called him furious with himself, going over the play again and again while Ilya tried to tell him one mistake did not erase sixty minutes.
There had never been any question in Ilya’s mind.
Not once.
Shane would rather break every bone in his body than deliberately give away a game.
Natalie said, “And after the video?”
Shane’s mouth tightened.
“They started asking questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
He looked up.
“Whether I fell on purpose.”
Silence.
Natalie blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
Ilya could feel anger arriving in his body like weather.
It always came this way when he thought about that room. Shane surrounded by men he had trusted, men he had played beside for eleven years, being asked whether he had betrayed them because he loved someone wearing a different jersey.
Ilya had wanted names.
Shane had refused to give them.
Not because they deserved protection.
Because Shane had still been protecting the idea of the team even while the team was breaking him.
“They thought you deliberately lost possession so Ottawa could win?”
“Some of them did.”
“Because you were with Ilya.”
“Yes.”
Natalie’s face had changed.
“So what happened?”
Shane inhaled.
This was not yet the question.
Not the one.
But he could see where they were heading.
“They confronted me. I told them it was ridiculous. I told them I’d fallen. That was it. Hockey players fall down sometimes.”
Nobody laughed.
“They didn’t believe you?”
“Some did.”
“And others?”
Shane looked away for a second.
“Others told me they didn’t know if they could trust me anymore.”
Ilya’s hand tightened around his.
Shane felt it.
A warning.
A promise.
Both.
He glanced over.
Ilya was watching him, not Natalie.
Always him.
Shane loved him so much it made him ache.
He had spent years thinking loving Ilya was the dangerous part.
It had turned out loving Ilya was the safest thing in his life.
“Hayden stood up for me immediately,” Shane said. “He didn’t even let me finish defending myself before he started.”
A small smile pulled at his mouth.
“He was furious.”
Ilya nodded. “Very loud.”
“You weren’t there.”
“He told me.”
“Of course he did.”
“Eventually.”
Shane smiled despite himself.
“And JJ?” Natalie asked.
That one was harder.
“JJ took longer.”
Ilya watched Shane carefully.
“He was angry,” Shane said. “Not because I was gay. Because it was Ilya. Because he felt like I’d lied to him. Because everything happened at once.” Shane paused. “I was hurt by it. I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t. But he came around.”
“And you forgave him?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation there either.
“People can fuck up,” Shane said. “What matters is what they do afterward.”
Ilya looked at him.
There were entire histories contained in that sentence.
Natalie let it sit.
Then she glanced toward her notes.
“There has been a lot of speculation around your departure from Montreal.”
Ilya felt Shane change before he saw it.
The muscles beneath their joined hands went rigid.
Shane’s shoulders straightened.
His face closed slightly.
Interview Shane.
The old one.
Natalie continued carefully. “You spent eleven seasons there. Won championships there. You’d talked publicly in the past about wanting to retire in Montreal. Then within months of the video, you were gone.”
Ilya’s chest tightened.
He hated this part.
Not because Natalie was asking. She had been professional. Shane knew the subject would come up.
He hated what came after the question.
The memories.
Shane sitting at their kitchen table in the middle of the night staring at nothing.
Shane saying, They don’t want me there.
Shane insisting he was fine and then standing in the shower for forty minutes because he didn’t know where else to cry.
The Montreal jersey folded in a box instead of hanging in a stall.
Eleven years turned into something Shane couldn’t talk about without sounding like someone had died.
Natalie said, “Was leaving connected to what happened after you were outed?”
Ilya answered before Shane could.
“He does not need answer.”
The words came out sharper than he intended.
Natalie immediately nodded. “Absolutely.”
Shane turned his head.
Ilya met his eyes.
You do not owe them this.
That was what he wanted Shane to hear.
Not Natalie.
Not the audience.
Them.
The people who had already taken enough.
Natalie looked down at her notes. “We can move on.”
“Yeah,” Shane said.
His voice sounded distant to his own ears.
The next question was there waiting.
He could see it on the page in Natalie’s hand.
Ottawa.
Probably something safe.
Maybe the adjustment to playing with Ilya.
Something funny.
He could answer it.
He should answer it.
Shane looked down at his wedding ring.
His thumb moved over the band.
He thought about Montreal.
God.
He still loved Montreal.
That was the most humiliating part sometimes.
He loved the city in winter. He loved the noise in that arena when the crowd knew they had a team worth believing in. He loved the stupid restaurants Hayden dragged him to after wins. He loved the route he used to drive to practice. He loved banners hanging from rafters that he had helped put there.
Eleven years.
Almost half his life.
He had arrived young enough that Montreal had taught him how to be an adult.
He had bled for that team.
Played injured for that team.
Won Cups for that team.
He had thought those men were his family.
Then one video appeared online and somehow every act of loyalty became conditional.
Maybe he fell on purpose.
Maybe he had been feeding information to Ilya.
Maybe he cared more about his boyfriend than the team.
Boyfriend.
Husband.
The man sitting beside him now, holding his hand so gently Shane could almost forget how furious Ilya was.
The morning after the video, Shane had walked into a locker room full of people who already knew he was gay and somehow felt less known than he ever had in his life.
His coach had called the situation embarrassing.
A distraction.
Asked why Shane couldn’t have been more careful.
As if being kissed by the person you loved outside a window was professional misconduct.
Then the league benched him.
Benched Ilya too.
For their protection, supposedly.
To let things settle down.
Ottawa had rallied around Ilya.
Montreal had looked at Shane like he had brought a fire into the room and expected them to thank him while it burned.
Shane had told himself for months that he did not need to say any of this publicly.
What was the point?
He had Ottawa now.
He had Ilya.
He had home.
Talking about Montreal would only drag everything back up.
It would become headlines.
Statements.
Arguments.
People picking apart his memories and deciding whether he had interpreted his own pain correctly.
And then another thought came.
So what?
Shane stared at his ring.
For fifteen years, he had been managing everyone else’s comfort.
He had managed Montreal’s.
The league’s.
Sponsors’.
Teammates’.
Fans’.
Reporters’.
His own family’s, sometimes.
He had spent so long trying not to create problems that even now, after everything, some part of him was still protecting the people who had broken his heart.
Why?
Beside him, Ilya shifted slightly.
Shane looked over.
Ilya’s expression was guarded.
Worried.
Protective.
But there was something else too.
Trust.
Ilya was not going to tell him what to do.
He never really had.
Even when Shane wished he would.
Especially then.
Shane remembered the first time he told Ilya what had happened in the locker room.
Ilya had gone so still Shane had been scared of him for approximately three seconds.
Not scared that Ilya would hurt him.
Scared of how much Ilya wanted to hurt everyone else.
But he hadn’t.
He had sat beside Shane.
Held him.
Listened.
Let Shane rage and cry and say contradictory things about loving Montreal and never wanting to see any of them again.
Ilya had never once asked Shane why he hadn’t fought harder.
He had only said, over and over:
I believe you.
I know you.
Shane realised suddenly that this was what he wanted.
Not revenge.
Not even an apology.
He wanted to stop helping them hide what they had done.
“Actually.”
Natalie stopped.
Ilya turned toward him.
“Shane.”
His voice was quiet.
Not a warning.
A question.
Shane looked at him.
There were cameras everywhere.
People watching.
Millions more would watch later.
His heart was pounding hard enough that he could feel it behind his ribs.
Ilya searched his face.
“You sure?”
Shane wasn’t.
That was the answer.
He wasn’t sure at all.
He was angry.
He was hurt.
He was still, unbelievably, grieving.
And for once, he decided certainty could go fuck itself.
“Fuck it.”
Natalie’s eyebrows rose.
Ilya’s lips parted.
Shane exhaled.
“Fuck it. I’m gonna answer.”
Nobody moved.
Shane looked straight at Natalie.
“Yes.”
“Leaving Montreal was connected?”
“Yes.”
Ilya sat back slightly.
He kept hold of Shane’s hand.
Shane needed that more than he was willing to admit.
Natalie’s voice was careful now. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Shane looked down once.
Then began.
“They knew I was gay for about a year before the video.”
“Yes.”
“And most of the guys were… mostly okay with it. Like I said. Not perfect. There were comments. There were things said that shouldn’t have been said.” His jaw tightened. “But they knew.”
He paused.
“What changed was Ilya.”
Ilya’s mouth flattened.
“They found out it was him. Then they started looking backward at everything. Every game. Every time I’d defended him in an interview. Every time I’d said something about Ottawa. And there was that game where I fell.”
“The game you mentioned.”
“Yeah.”
Shane could hear his own voice getting tighter.
“They asked me if I’d thrown it.”
Natalie was silent.
“They asked if I’d deliberately let him win.”
Ilya looked down.
His thumb moved slowly across Shane’s knuckles.
“I told them no. Obviously. I told them I’d never do that.”
Shane gave a short laugh with no humour in it.
“I remember thinking that was insane. That I even had to say it.”
His throat tightened.
Eleven years.
“I’d been there eleven years.”
The words came quieter.
“I’d played hurt. I’d played through things I probably shouldn’t have. We’d won Cups together. I’d been through everything with those guys.” He swallowed. “And suddenly they were looking at me like I might have thrown a game because I loved someone on the other team.”
Natalie asked softly, “What did that feel like?”
Shane looked at her.
“Like none of it mattered.”
Ilya turned his head away for a second.
That one hurt.
Shane kept going.
“I remember thinking, if eleven years isn’t enough for you to know I wouldn’t do that, then what exactly were those eleven years worth?”
The studio was completely silent.
No shifting.
No muffled laughter.
Nothing.
Shane felt exposed in a way he hadn’t expected.
But not ashamed.
That was new.
Natalie said, “And they asked you to leave?”
“Some guys did.”
The memory hit sharp.
Voices.
Anger.
Trust.
Distraction.
Get out.
Shane’s fingers tightened around Ilya’s.
“I tried to explain. Hayden stepped in almost immediately. He was…” Shane’s mouth pulled faintly upward. “He was very Hayden about it.”
Ilya smiled despite himself.
“Loud,” he said.
“Very loud.”
“And JJ?”
Shane sighed.
“JJ took some time.”
He stared at the floor.
“I was angry at him. Really angry. Because I needed him and he wasn’t there right away. But…” He paused. “He got there.”
Ilya watched him.
He was so fucking proud of him.
It almost hurt.
Not proud because Shane had forgiven JJ. Not because he was telling this story neatly.
Because Shane was allowing himself to tell it messily.
He wasn’t sanding away the contradictions.
He loved Montreal.
Montreal hurt him.
JJ failed him.
JJ was still his friend.
Hayden accidentally outed him.
Hayden was also the first person in that room to stand between Shane and everyone else.
People always wanted pain to be simple.
Shane had spent his whole life trying to make himself simple enough for people to understand.
Now he wasn’t.
Good.
Natalie said, “What happened when the video actually went public?”
Shane’s jaw worked.
“The league benched us.”
“Both of you.”
“Yes.”
Ilya nodded once.
“Did they give you a reason?”
“Safety,” Ilya said.
The contempt in his voice was obvious.
“Media attention. Distraction.”
Natalie looked at him. “How did Ottawa respond?”
“My team was good.”
That was an understatement.
Ilya remembered players sitting beside him in the locker room, furious on his behalf. Coaches checking whether he wanted to leave through a back entrance. Teammates offering to handle media. Men he had spent years pretending not to care about suddenly showing him exactly how much they did.
“They were angry,” Ilya said. “But not at me.”
Shane went very still.
Natalie noticed.
“And Montreal?”
There it was.
Shane stared ahead.
“My team was angry at me.”
Ilya’s chest tightened.
“For what?”
“For causing a problem.”
Shane’s voice had gone flat.
“For being a distraction. For not being more careful. For…” He shook his head. “Everything.”
“And your coach?”
Shane hesitated.
Ilya looked at him.
Shane knew what Ilya wanted.
Say it.
Not because Ilya wanted revenge.
Because Ilya had watched Shane spend months minimising it.
“He said things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Homophobic things.”
Direct.
Simple.
Shane felt something loosen immediately after saying it.
Natalie’s face hardened.
“Can you be more specific?”
Shane took a breath.
“He made comments about the locker room. About whether guys would be comfortable. About whether I’d been looking at teammates differently. He asked why I couldn’t have kept my private life private.”
Ilya’s hand tightened again.
“I remember that one,” Shane said.
His voice cracked slightly.
Fuck.
He looked down.
“I remember thinking—I had kept it private. For fifteen years.”
Natalie didn’t interrupt.
“I had done exactly what everyone wanted. I’d lied constantly. Not directly, usually. But by omission. Every interview. Every event. Every time someone asked if I was dating somebody and I laughed it off.” Shane swallowed. “And then I get accidentally caught kissing my husband and suddenly the problem is that I wasn’t private enough.”
His eyes burned.
He hated that.
He hated crying in front of cameras.
Old instinct.
Old Shane.
Ilya saw it immediately.
He shifted closer, his free hand settling on Shane’s thigh.
Shane looked at him.
Ilya’s face was soft.
No embarrassment.
No panic.
Just love.
Shane breathed.
The tears did not fall.
But if they had, maybe that would have been okay too.
“I think that was the part I wasn’t prepared for,” Shane said quietly. “I knew people might hate me.”
Ilya’s thumb stopped.
Shane looked straight ahead.
“I didn’t think my own team would.”
That one landed.
He could feel it.
Natalie’s expression changed completely.
Shane let out a shaky breath.
“I loved that team.”
Past tense.
It hurt to hear.
“I loved that city. I thought I’d retire there. I gave them eleven years. We won Stanley Cups together. I thought those guys were my family.”
He shook his head once.
“And then one morning I was their teammate, and by that night I was a distraction.”
Ilya wanted to pull him out of the chair.
Take him home.
Close the door.
Put food in front of him even though Shane would insist he wasn’t hungry.
He also wanted the entire world to hear every word.
Because this was what Shane never understood.
People loved him.
Not the carefully engineered Shane Hollander who never swore in interviews and never had a hair out of place.
Him.
The man who reorganised the dishwasher.
The man who had learned Russian vows in secret.
The man who had stood in Ilya’s living room surrounded by too many candles after almost losing him and said marry me because waiting suddenly seemed ridiculous.
Ilya was proud enough to feel almost sick.
Natalie asked, “Do you think their reaction was because you were gay, or because it was Ilya?”
Shane considered that.
“Both.”
He glanced at Ilya.
“I think if I’d been with some accountant nobody had ever heard of, it would’ve been easier for them.”
Ilya nodded solemnly. “Accountants are less threatening.”
Shane barked out a laugh.
The room loosened by a fraction.
“Thank you.”
“I help.”
“You do.”
Natalie smiled faintly. “But the rivalry mattered.”
“Yes. I understand that part.”
Shane leaned back.
“I understand being shocked. I understand being angry I hadn’t told them it was Ilya. I even understand hating that it was him.”
Ilya put a hand to his chest.
“Cruel.”
“You were our biggest rival.”
“I was excellent.”
“You were unbearable.”
“Also.”
Shane smiled, then sobered again.
“But what I don’t understand is looking at me after eleven years and deciding I might have thrown a game.”
The smile disappeared completely.
“I can’t make that make sense.”
Natalie looked at him for a long moment.
“Was that why you knew you had to leave?”
“Partly.”
“There was more?”
Shane looked at Ilya.
Ilya’s expression sharpened.
This was the part they had barely discussed outside their closest circle.
Shane had already gone this far.
He could stop.
Nobody would blame him.
But now that the door was open, he realised how tired he was of standing behind it.
“The organisation didn’t protect me.”
Natalie went still.
“The team?”
“The organisation.”
Shane’s voice steadied.
“They knew what was happening in the room. They knew what was being said. They knew what my coach was saying. And everything was about managing it.”
“Managing you?”
“Managing the situation.”
His laugh was bitter.
“That phrase came up a lot.”
Ilya’s jaw clenched.
“They wanted things to calm down. They wanted me not to respond publicly. They wanted me to be patient with teammates who were ‘processing.’ They wanted me to understand how difficult it was for everybody.”
Shane looked at Natalie.
“No one seemed particularly interested in how difficult it was for me.”
There.
He had said it.
Ilya breathed slowly through his nose.
Natalie asked, “Did anyone ask you to stay closeted?”
“Not exactly.”
Shane thought about it.
“That’s what made everything harder. Nobody was stupid enough to say, ‘Don’t be gay.’”
Ilya’s mouth twisted.
“They just said things like, ‘Do you really need to discuss your relationship right now?’ Or, ‘Maybe give everyone time.’ Or, ‘Let the hockey be the story.’”
He laughed once.
“But the hockey wasn’t the story anymore. Not because of me.”
Natalie nodded.
“Did the NHL know what was happening?”
Shane froze.
Ilya looked at him.
This was another threshold.
Shane felt his heart pick up again.
He could hear the old voice in his head.
Careful.
Don’t make this bigger.
Think about the consequences.
He was so fucking tired of consequences.
“Yes.”
Natalie’s eyes sharpened.
“The league knew?”
“Yes.”
“How involved were they?”
Shane rubbed his thumb across Ilya’s hand.
“Very.”
Ilya watched him.
You don’t have to.
Shane knew.
That was exactly why he could.
“They were already involved because of the benching,” Shane said. “There were conversations after that about media. About what we should say. What we shouldn’t say.”
“With Commissioner Crowell?”
Shane hesitated.
Then nodded.
“His office. And him, yes.”
The studio felt electrically still.
“What did they tell you?”
“Mostly that everyone needed time.”
Shane’s mouth twisted.
“Time for the league to prepare. Time for teams. Time for sponsors. Time for fans.”
Ilya knew what was coming.
He had heard Shane say it in their kitchen once.
Quietly.
Angrily.
Like the sentence had been sitting in his throat for months.
Shane stared at Natalie.
“Everyone kept explaining why waiting would be easier.”
His voice was calm now.
Almost frighteningly calm.
“Nobody seemed interested in the fact that I had already waited fifteen years.”
Ilya looked at him and felt his chest crack open.
Fuck.
He loved him.
He loved him so much.
Shane was still holding his hand.
Still sitting beside him.
Still here.
Natalie didn’t speak for several seconds.
Then, quietly, “Did Commissioner Crowell personally tell you to wait?”
“He told me the league needed to be thoughtful.”
“About?”
“How this was handled.”
“And what did you hear in that?”
Shane considered it.
“I heard that everybody else’s comfort came first.”
He did not know if that was exactly what Crowell had intended.
Maybe it wasn’t.
That almost didn’t matter.
“That was how it felt.”
Important distinction.
Shane wanted to be fair.
Even now.
Ilya wanted to bite somebody.
Natalie said, “Did you feel supported by the NHL?”
“No.”
Simple.
No hesitation.
“Did you feel supported by Montreal?”
Shane stared down.
“No.”
That one hurt more.
Natalie allowed the silence.
Then she asked, “Do you regret leaving?”
Shane’s head came up.
“No.”
Immediate.
Ilya looked at him.
Shane saw it.
Pride again.
Warm and fierce.
“No,” Shane repeated. “I regret that it ended the way it did. I regret that I lost something I thought I was going to have for my whole career.”
His voice softened.
“But I don’t regret Ottawa.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched.
“Obviously.”
Shane smiled.
“Obviously.”
“What did Ottawa do differently?”
Shane looked at him.
Everything.
“They asked what I needed.”
Natalie waited.
“That was pretty much it. They didn’t ask if I was sure. They didn’t ask whether I could avoid talking about Ilya. They didn’t ask me to make this easier for them.” Shane shrugged slightly. “They asked what I needed.”
Ilya’s thumb stroked his hand again.
“And Ilya was already there,” Natalie said.
“Unfortunately.”
Ilya gasped.
Shane grinned.
“Yes. He was.”
“What is it like now, being teammates?”
“Awful,” Shane said.
“Beautiful,” Ilya said simultaneously.
Natalie laughed.
Shane shook his head. “He talks during video review.”
“I contribute.”
“You whisper jokes.”
“Contributions.”
“You critique my parking.”
“You park like eighty-year-old.”
“I park normally.”
“You take seven attempts.”
“I do not!”
Ilya laughed.
Shane was smiling again.
The heaviness was still there.
It would be there after the cameras stopped too.
But it wasn’t all there was.
That mattered.
Natalie smiled. “There is something I’ve noticed today.”
“Oh no,” Shane said.
“You’re very different.”
Ilya nodded. “Yes.”
“Stop agreeing.”
“No. She is correct.”
Natalie laughed. “I’ve interviewed you many times, Shane. You seem more relaxed. You’re laughing. You’re swearing.”
“Apparently.”
“You’re making jokes.”
“He always makes jokes,” Ilya said.
Natalie looked at him. “Does he?”
“Yes.”
Shane glanced over.
Ilya was completely serious.
“He is very funny,” Ilya said. “People did not know.”
Shane’s face warmed.
“That sounds like you’re defending my honour.”
“I am.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
Natalie turned back to Shane. “Do you feel different?”
Shane thought about it.
The answer came surprisingly easily.
“I think I’m probably just less scared.”
Ilya’s expression changed.
Shane looked at him.
There it was again.
That unbearable love.
The kind that made Shane wonder sometimes how he had ever survived pretending they were nothing.
“I used to think about every answer,” Shane continued. “Not because I was lying all the time. But because I had to check everything before I said it.”
He tapped two fingers lightly against his temple.
“Can I mention this trip? Was I with Ilya? Did anyone know I was there? Can I tell this story? Does it sound too personal? Have I talked about him too much?”
Ilya swallowed.
He had known.
Of course he had known.
But hearing Shane list it like that made him want to reach backward through time and hold every younger version of him.
“So yes,” Shane said. “I guess I am different.”
Natalie smiled. “Or maybe this is just the real Shane.”
Shane grimaced.
“That sounds threatening.”
Ilya nodded solemnly. “You should all be afraid.”
Shane started laughing again.
Natalie laughed with him. “One final question.”
“All right.”
She looked between them.
“After everything—fifteen years of secrecy, the video, the league, Montreal, the move, the wedding—what is the thing you appreciate most about your life now?”
Ilya looked at Shane.
The answer came instantly.
“Him.”
Shane went still.
Ilya shrugged.
“What?”
“You could have pretended to think.”
“No.”
Shane’s throat tightened.
Natalie smiled. “Shane?”
He looked at Ilya.
There were a thousand answers.
The house.
Ottawa.
The wedding.
Waking up next to him.
Driving to practice together.
Being able to touch him in a room full of cameras.
But they were all the same answer really.
“This,” Shane said.
Ilya’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“This?”
“Just…” Shane gestured vaguely between them. “Not having to leave.”
Ilya stopped smiling.
Shane looked down at their hands.
“For years everything had an ending. A flight. A separate hotel room. One of us going back to a different city. Even when things were good, there was always this countdown.”
He looked up again.
“Now I get to go home with him.”
Ilya’s eyes burned.
Fuck him.
Seriously.
He had spent the entire interview trying not to cry after being publicly reminded about the Russian vows and now Shane decided to say that.
Ilya cleared his throat.
Natalie smiled knowingly. “Are you losing another battle?”
“No.”
Shane looked at him.
“Oh my God.”
“No.”
“You’re crying.”
“I am not.”
“Your eyes are wet.”
“Lights.”
Shane’s smile widened.
Ilya pointed at him. “Do not enjoy.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
“Cruel man.”
Shane leaned closer.
Their shoulders touched.
For several seconds neither seemed to remember anyone else was there.
Natalie eventually said, “I think that’s probably a good place to end.”
Shane blinked.
“Oh.”
Ilya looked toward the cameras as though he had forgotten them completely.
Natalie turned toward the main camera.
“Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov. Thank you both.”
“Thank you,” Shane said.
“Pleasure.”
The red light went out.
And for one second, nobody moved.
Then the room seemed to exhale all at once.
People behind the cameras started talking. Someone removed a headset. A producer disappeared through the door.
Shane stared straight ahead.
His pulse was still racing.
He had done it.
Jesus Christ.
He had actually done it.
Ilya turned immediately.
“You okay?”
Shane laughed under his breath.
“I think so.”
“No.”
Shane looked at him.
Ilya’s expression was serious.
“I ask now. Are you okay?”
Shane let himself think about it.
Not Montreal.
Not tomorrow.
Not what statements would appear within hours.
Right now.
He was sitting beside his husband.
Their hands were still linked.
The secret was gone.
And now, apparently, so was another one.
“Yeah,” Shane said.
He realised it was true.
“Yeah. I am.”
Ilya studied him for another second.
Then nodded.
“Good.”
Shane breathed out.
“I think I just made this much worse.”
Ilya frowned.
“For who?”
Shane looked at him.
Ilya’s mouth curled slowly.
“Not you.”
Something in Shane’s chest loosened.
He laughed.
“God, you’re annoying.”
“Yes.”
“You know this is going to be everywhere.”
“Yes.”
“Montreal’s going to respond.”
“Yes.”
“The league is going to respond.”
“I hope so.”
“That sounded threatening.”
“It was.”
Shane shook his head.
Ilya leaned closer until their knees knocked.
“You know what else?”
“What?”
“You said fuck three times.”
Shane stared at him.
“That is what you took from this?”
“Historic.”
“I just accused the league of failing me.”
“Yes. Also swearing.”
“I swear all the time.”
“Not on camera.”
Shane rubbed his face.
“I cannot believe I married you.”
Ilya smiled.
“Living room. Candles. Your idea.”
“Unfortunately.”
“No regret?”
Shane lowered his hand.
Looked at him.
Ilya’s joking expression softened before Shane even answered.
“Not one.”
For a moment, the interview room disappeared.
No cameras.
No Montreal.
No league.
No statements waiting to be written.
Just Ilya.
His husband.
His home.
Ilya squeezed his hand.
“Me neither.”
Shane smiled.
Then, because he could, because nobody had to look away anymore, because there was no reason in the world not to, he leaned over and kissed him.
Someone behind the cameras made an approving noise.
Shane pulled back, laughing.
Ilya grinned.
“Oh,” he said. “Hayden is going to hate this interview.”
“Why?”
“Chair-gate.”
Shane groaned.
And just like that, the weight was gone again.