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Ilya doesn't say anything on the ride home, but the contract isn't enough. Shane was, of course, the image of professionalism when it was presented to him. He's free agent, leaving Montreal high and dry after they confirmed his biggest fear, confirming how harsh the rejection would be, how acceptance was a pipe dream Shane was grasping for.
Everything is signed, accounted for, and documented officially when it's said and done. Shane meets the Centaurs, and they confirm Ilya’s bias of them being “the best team ever” as they tell Hollander they're going to beat Montreal's ass into the ground someday. Shane likes it. He enjoys them, from what Ilya sees; he even tells him verbally, which is as high a reward as he'll ever hear.
But Shane doesn't talk about what happened. Something clearly brewing in the other man at the slew of events, all in rapid succession. Ilya does his best to empathize. His brooding manifests in long club nights, alcohol so strong it can peel paint, and can dull the heartstrings long enough to ignore them.
Shane does not do any of that. He carries on as usual. His mood dips now and then, but never truly angry, and Ilya wonders if this is all just a bad dream for his husband. Fears he regrets those moments behind Hayden's house. But that is the darker side of Ilya’s mind speaking. He does not let it linger long before dispelling it.
Shane is a grown adult; if there was any of that, he would have said. He would have been crystal clear, and crying, and held tight in Ilya’s arms about it.
But Ilya cannot help but fear that what Shane is feeling is nothing and that—that is new.
Yuna is his metaphorical coach when Ilya has these unprecedented moments.
“Oh, he will implode–not explode, just so you're clear on what to expect,” Yuna says over FaceTime, plopping a grape into her mouth as she chews with a furrowing brow.
“I remember when he was young, really young, like eight, ten–still understanding his emotions,” Yuna paints the picture for Ilya as he stands in their kitchen, phone propped on a fruit bowl. Little Shane Hollander, hockey gear too loose because he was too excited to get on the ice before someone could fix it.
“His childhood friend moved away, played wing to his center–it's then we understood just how talented Shane could become,” Yuna nods her head as the memory washes over her face, a small smile gracing Ilya's small screen.
“Same week, lost a home turf game, sprained an ankle–nothing terrible, he needed ice, time to relax–but you would've never seen a kid so pissed in his life.”
Ilya smiles because he can see it. Splotchy red skin with freckles spanning across a round face. Unable to process what occurred, to reckon with it, to accept it.
“It took him, I want to say–David?” The camera blurs in a streak of oranges and whites, then David's face pops up, and Ilya waves to his father-in-law.
“You remember Shane's big upset? Ottawa home, barely even ten years old.”
Ilya sees Yuna’s hand rest on David's shoulder as the man tilts his head like the memory will come toppling out of a shelf in his mind.
“Ah, yes, but why? Is Shane fine?”
“I think he will, like Yuna said, implode.” Ilya lowers his tone in the low light of his kitchen. He hopes Shane is tired enough not to hear the concerned sighs that emanate from his phone.
“We've prodded as much as we can before getting scolded,” David explains. “But, we're here regardless, and just remind him you're always going to be in his corner.”
Ilya glances down at his ring. It glints in the warm ceiling light. Maybe Shane was right about “a warm light household” being important. He looks back up, smiles big and wide so as not to cause more concern for his in-laws.
“There’s going to be ups and downs, Ilya. The downs will always feel heavier. But the two of you are together to shoulder that, and to rely on your friends and family when it becomes too much, ok love?”
Yuna has a way of making Ilya’s heart warm from the inside out as he nods, his face growing hot before he waves goodbye and goodnight.
⋆˙⟡♡🏒
Ilya buys a bat and a hockey stick from a nearby sports retailer. He buys Shane’s favorite protein bowl from half an hour away, and the only bag of chips Shane indulges in when he’s stressed.
Another look at his phone confirms what he’s been dreading but expecting. A game versus Montreal this coming Sunday. The team meant to play against them was mysteriously scheduled for another date, but anyone with a nose can smell the bullshit.
Returning home, he finds Shane already in the backyard, sipping on one of his nasty concoctions he swears up and down let him play at his peak. Ilya would be more upset if he had to eat unsatisfying food while learning he’s playing against the team that betrayed him.
Grabbing the bat and hockey stick, Ilya sighs as he pets Anya in passing and approaches his pacing husband. As soon as the glass door slides, those dark eyes, wide and too jumpy for a slow mid-afternoon, settle on him.
“Are you planning to beat someone up?” Shane’s concern is clearly directed at Ilya’s hands. “Or, or are we practicing something?”
Ilya slides the door closed, not keen on facing Shane should any bugs enter the house. He takes the steps down and tosses the items towards the trunk of a tree before closing in on Shane, wrapping his arms around those broad shoulders.
A little ‘oof’ spills from the man, but he adjusts and holds on just hard. He can’t help himself from dipping his head low, smelling the cucumber soap and mint shampoo Shane is obsessed with.
“It feels like someone's fucking with us,” Shane says quietly, his hand rubbing circles into the small part of Ilya’s back.
“Season’s barely started, thought we’d be playing them later.”
Shane’s breath breezes past Ilya’s nape before he backs away, pressing a kiss to the top of Shane’s forehead.
“I want to help you get your anger out,” Ilya says nonchalantly. Shane’s brow arches suggestively at this.
“Now whose mind is in the gutter, no, not that way.” Ilya lets the chuckle slip.
“Oh my g—ok, that's not my fault!” Shane defends. “You’ve practically Pavlov dogged me.”
Ilya smiles. “Later then. But right now, you need to get all your…what is weighing your heart down, out of you.”
Shane starts to look more concerned, and looks to the discarded bat and hockey stick by peeking over Ilya’s shoulder.
“Are we fighting each other?” Shane frowns. “That’s not going to help.”
“No, but taking it out on Mister Tree over there will,” Ilya explains, and moves near the stick. “I wanted to take you to those rage rooms, but I think your PR manager will come for my head, so instead we have rage room at home—in the backyard, technically.”
Shane looks at him, blinks for a second, then sighs in defeat.
“Did someone put you up to this?”
“No, sweetheart. I asked Galina about this, and she said it can be helpful to talk about painful events when you are doing something at the same time, makes it hard for the brain to block it out.”
Shane approaches slowly; it's becoming difficult to hold eye contact for him now. Maybe he’ll say something about him spilling the beans to his therapist. He won’t have any answers if Shane gets a whiff that he’s even asked his parents.
“Do you think I’ve been trying to block it out?” His husband asks in a low tone, feet mindlessly kicking the grass that needs to be cut.
Yes. Ilya says in his mind. Because I am scared that if you are, you are hurting in a way I cannot help.
He shakes his head. “I think you are having trouble letting it out, your frustration. You have been very quiet about it.”
Ilya bends down slowly to grab the stick before handing it over to Shane. With bated breath, he watches those hands grab for ownership of the wood. His gaze flies up, while Shane’s stays low, looking over the stick like it's the most interesting thing in their backyard. But Ilya needs Shane not to dismiss this, or make an excuse that he isn’t feeling up to it.
He hopes with all his heart that his therapist was right, and to be prepared for it to be bad before it gets better.
“I’m sorry.” Shane whispers, a tinge of irritation in his tone. “I want to move—I don’t want to linger on it.”
Ilya shakes his head and rests a hand on Shane’s neck to rub his thumb along a pulse point.
“No more sorry. Go beat up the tree, and let it out.”
Shane looks as awkward as a newborn fawn as they approach the old evergreen. He takes one last look at Ilya, who gestures with a come-on look, before Shane huffs and shakes his head.
Shane arches his arms up, his muscles temporarily blocking out the sunlight that dances on his face. His chest fills with an inhale, strong enough that Ilya can see before clubbing the bark in one strong swing. The dull hit reverbs for a moment, until it's just the two of them again.
It’s not a bad hit. It’s almost textbook, the way Shane goes about swinging the thing, no real anger behind it. Is Shane truly mad? Has it burrowed too deep behind the scarred tissue of his heart for Ilya to coerce it into the open, or is this a wild goose chase?
Ilya says nothing about the strength behind it; it’s practically nothing, but he figures Shane is trying to work out how to get his emotions to come to the front of his mind.
“And… I’m just supposed to talk?” Shane asks incredulously, his shoulders sagging.
Ilya nods, arms crossed and fingers growing restless as they knead against his biceps for comfort. He doesn’t like seeing Shane distressed, but it's either he continues to bottle this up and let it affect his performance, or lets it all out as the sun hangs hot and high over them.
With an exhale, Shane squares his shoulders, angles his body with a right foot out and left behind it to properly swing. Bark chips from the strikes made, the hits picking up pace as Shane’s face grows hot.
“I don’t know what else I could have done to stay on the team,” Shane says with a sharp inhale, building up his conviction. He strikes again, splinters fly to the ground.
“I don’t know what else I could have given them.”
Whack.
“We’re in fucking twenty-first century for crying out loud!”
Whack.
“And I’ve made mistakes before, I’ve tripped, or twisted an ankle.”
Whack.
“I’ve played against you for nearly ten years! Why the ever-loving fuck would I let you win now?”
Whack. Whack. Whack.
“What did I deserve to be looked at like that!” Shane’s voice cracks the same moment the stick does, and the head snaps off before flying somewhere into the taller grass.
He keeps hitting.
“Three cups. Nearly a decade of games. Probably the most peak performance of my life–”
WHACK. WHACK.
Ilya bites his tongue and lets Shane continue. He's not sure the other man wants to address the sudden tears or the now frustrated tone of his voice. It starts to spill out of Shane, all his anger. No longer a little drip, but a raging river.
“I gave them–” Shane chokes a little, and his steam starts to fizz as his hits get slower.
“My life, my insights, my passion and dedication, my after-hours to bond and drink, and it's just, it's bullshit.”
Ilya steps in once Shane hastily throws the thing into the grass. He uses the long sleeves of his flannel to wipe his face, and his breath starts to stutter once Ilya closes around him. It’s instinctual at this point. They near each other, and one cannot help but fall into the other's orbit.
Shane’s hand tightens on Ilya’s shirt as his head dips to hide from the world.
“I hate them.”
“That makes sense.”
“But they meant a lot to me.”
“They can both be true,” Ilya says quietly. “I am pretty sure.”
“I'm so–I'm so tired, Ilya,” Shane whispers, and his fingers dig into Ilya’s arms like the confession hurts.
“I've been very tired for a long time. I was so tired, hiding both of us. But I managed it well, I think. But this–this is too much for me now.”
Ilya keeps his hands on Shane's upper back. He fights the need to cry because he thinks it will make Shane worse than he is now. He was warned to watch for outbursts, to prepare for a blowout, and to brace against the turbulence of Shane's mood.
He was so prepared for yelling, shouting, and awful word vomit to have their neighbors concerned enough to call. Yet here he is, crumpling like a withering plant in Ilya’s arms, all his energy spent, all his emotions laid bare and draining him.
This is the scariest shit of Ilya’s life.
He's not licensed. He's living the experience but he does not want to jinx anything and claim his boyfriend is depressed. Even thinking it is ruining his mood, is making him spiral, and rethink the past year.
The past decade.
“Listen to me.” Ilya urges Shane’s head up. He does not inhale too hard once those watery eyes look up to him for comfort, but he holds steady, for both of them.
“We are going to beat Montreal's ass so bad the announcers will refer to them as Ottawa's punching bags.”
Shane smiles. It's weak, but it's there.
“And then,” Ilya murmurs, wiping a rogue tear hanging off the edge of Shane's stubbly chin. “We are going to celebrate so hard that we end up in an article.”
“Good or bad press?” Shane chuckles.
“What does it matter? We are married. We would win in this made-up scenario, and reporters do not fill our bank accounts, so I do not care.”
His husband nods, those beautiful freckles high on his cheeks as he smiles. Ilya presses a kiss to one of them, tasting salt and sweat before doing the same to the other side.
“Ok, moyo solnyshko?”
Shane nods.
“And after?” Shane questions, barely audible if it weren't for their proximity. “As a prize?”
Ilya cannot help the kiss he gives Shane. He wants to give all his strength and audacity to his man as he smiles into it.
“Has anyone told you, your mind is naughty?”
Shane sighs exasperatedly before tucking his head right back into Ilya’s chest. A moment passes, and the heat keeps rising despite the orange tinge to the leaves.
“What's the bat for?” Shane's words are muffled against Ilya.
“I had a feeling you might break the stick and need something else to help.”
“Why not get another stick?”
Ilya looks at Shane with mock incredulously.
“That is all they had left. You think I am a money man, yes?” Ilya gently pokes at Shane's side to tickle him. It barely works; his only weak spot is currently in socks and shoes.
“Want me to be your sugar daddy?”
“Alright.” Shane groans. “You're done.”
“I can give you a nice allowance, pretty thing, let us find a nice arrangement.”
Shane is already peeling himself back, face wet and eyes red, but smiling. He immediately rolls his eyes and heads for the house.
“I have no idea who you are.” He sings songs.
“You take my money and give no sugar. You are a terrible sugar baby. We can work on this.”
Shane shuts the sliding door while Ilya pouts.
⋆˙⟡♡🏒
Game day comes. Ilya should feel less anxious, but it only seems to settle once he sees Montreal on the other side of the ice. Their center feels empty. Pike holds there, like an ill-fitted piece on a board. There should be a handsome man there, glaring at him with ferocity and excitement.
Instead, all he gets are the still-sorry eyes Hayden gave them so many weeks ago.
“Do not go tripping, Pike. We do not want your team accusing you of throwing now, do we?”
The face off is quick, the buzzer blares shrilly, and Ilya smiles when the puck is in his possession. He focuses on the power of his thighs, the twist of his wrists when stick handling past a defenseman.
Ilya promises to do his best to keep a good attitude.
It's what he told his team, and he’d feel like a shit captain by not leading by example.
“But it's so hard not to want to just sock them, you know?” Barrett said in their pregame huddle.
“We can have the same effect by beating them at their own plays.” Shane intercepted. “The coach is conservative; he won't change tactics. He's probably told them to just anticipate me messing them up.”
Ilya nodded along. The rest of the team mirrored their understanding. A week and a half of running drills of Montreal’s plays. As much time as they could get out for Shane to help them understand what and how they operate.
“And the name-calling,” Boodram grumbled. “What do we do about the shit they feel comfortable saying?”
Once Ilya presses hard into the offensive zone, he punts the puck hard left, maybe too wide to be comfortable. Troy skates in to catch it, sweeping past Boiziau before making the call himself, and aiming to score.
Not enough precision goes into the hit, and it's blocked by their goalie as the arena makes a roar in reaction.
“Come on, try again next time since you think you're hot shit.”
Schneider taunts Troy as he skates right back to the defensive zone, not bothering to turn around as the Montreal player mutters some joke. Ilya catches the muscle of his jaw working, not even grumbling, to his credit.
The puck drops again.
“If we're talking about the regular shit, ignore it. They were never good at it anyway. It's just a way to get you guys heated, especially since you're younger.” Shane said. “They're going to taunt you about that. Ignore it. Same stuff Ilya and I went through as rookies.”
Pike says nothing; he looks too focused on looking focused, and maybe that's why Ilya wins another face-off.
“I think he means–you know–the language they're going to throw at you,” Hayes points out quietly.
Listening as he pushes the advance, the tell-tale sound of a hockey stick striking the ground twice has Ilya pass the puck without even looking.
He hits some other defensemen in the process, listening to them curse up a storm as the pass makes it, races past, gets lined up for the shot and–
“Oh,” Shane paused. He pressed a finger to his chin. “The right answer here is to ignore them. Only so much homophobia they can spew before their minds short-circuit between that and paying attention to the game.”
There were a few nervous chuckles. Shane gave a small smile in return.
“SHANE HOLLANDER‐ROZANOV MAKES THE QUICK PLAY AND SCORES THE CENTAURS FIRST GOAL!”
The arena, albeit a small portion rooting for Ottawa, makes its presence known as the ice reverberates with cheers and whoops. Shane skates past his old teammates with a strong exhale and a deep, furrowed brow. He doesn’t reflect any of the smiles the centaurs send his way, and Ilya glances to find his focus too deep to disrupt.
“Is this going to be the whole game, Hollander?” Comeau chirps as they get in place for another puck drop. “Gonna keep scoring while your team sits back and does jackshit?”
Ilya doesn't look at Shane, but good god does he want to. This isn't even the worst of it. They've barely played the first period, and Ilya thinks he might get heart palpitations on behalf of Shane. If he starts to target Comeau, the cons outweigh the positives. He’ll keep a penalty box seat nice and warm, and get an earful from his husband for not keeping his head in the game.
That is the worst offense Ilya can think of, not giving his best when Shane needs it more than ever, and he bites his tongue about it.
“You'd know a lot about doing jackshit since I scored for you your whole career.” Shane huffs.
Ilya peers up and sees some eyes go wide.
The ref seems to pause a moment before stuttering and dropping the puck. Pike takes control because Ilya is still reeling from Shane's insult and can't help but turn for a split second. Shane just shrugs, and Ilya has to continue like he didn't just hear trash talk out of his very boring husband's mouth.
This is the best day of Ilya’s life.
Another goal is made by Barrett, who showboats a little before skating back over. Another is scored by Montreal, who all huddle in celebration before pulling back.
One more puck drop, and Ilya miscalculates a player's move, passing the puck back to his defensemen to make an easier pass to a wing player. As soon as Shane gets a handle on that puck and gets just close enough to Schneider—
Ilya’s skates break hard into the ice, his breath still in the moment, when Shane gets shoved into the boards.
The hit is fast. Brutal. A typical move.
If it hurts, Shane says nothing. He steadies his knees, glances up, and the glare of the overhead lighting makes it hard to see what emotion overcomes him. The moment Ilya believes he's fine, he tries finding the puck in play, then hears a loud crack from where Shane stands.
Schneider’s head is thrown back when Ilya whips back around. There’s already the sound of a whistle, maybe two, as Ilya inhales sharp enough to sting. Shane’s arm is already restrained before calming down as Schneider steadies himself like a newborn fawn on ice.
“Fuckin’ watch where you skate, huh?” Shane shakes his fist as a ref is already coming up from behind. The words about a penalty are about halfway out the ref’s mouth before Schneider has to say something back.
“Hot shit Hollander over here trying to show out for his little boyfriend?” Schneider mocks, spitting onto the ice as he leans on his stick for support. “Get fuckin’ real, I bet Rozanov over there rails you harder than I just did.”
“But, if we’re being honest, the right answer isn’t going to feel right in the heat of the moment. They’re going to say some shit that’s really going to get under my skin, same with you all.”
Shane rubbed the low bridge of his nose, pressing against his freckles as they shifted with the movement. Those warm eyes meet Ilya’s intense stare and crinkle with his smile.
Shane’s hockey stick goes flying. The whistles blow hard and loud.
“And if I’m being honest,” Shane said reluctantly. “I may act extremely unprofessional.”
The penalty was already guaranteed before this scuffle. Shane will be sentenced to the box just as soon as Ilya can find a way to pry him off of Schneider before the punishment is doubled.
“Fuck you, Hollander!” Someone screams as they yank at Schneider; each hit the other player makes against the other is a strong, vibrating smack that echoes on the ice. Ilya doesn’t even remember joining the fray, much less putting himself between Shane as their team yank him back while trying to get a few cheap shots in.
“You’d fuckin’ wish!”
The crowds are too riled up for this. Shane is too prepared to let his emotions make this game less about hockey and more about grievances. Ilya can already hear Shane chastising him that he didn’t pull him out of it fast enough.
His skates glide through open air as the Centaurs finally get Shane out of the fury of blows. He breathes hard, his face red and clearly embarrassed as he starts to come down.
“I’m good,” Shane whispers and gently pulls his arms back to his sides. He follows the ref's movement, a quick signal to stick his ass where he knows it should be. Ilya feels disoriented at the rush of blood in his head, but it's a reminder they have a score to settle.
He told his husband they would be leaving this arena as winners.
Ilya never specified how, and he cares less by the next whistle blow.
⋆˙⟡♡🏒
“Alright. Listen.” Ilya closes in around his teammates. While the first period was won—by a hair— nerves are high. It’s the second period when they time out, their faces are getting red, their eyes still sharp, but breathing hard as they listen to their captain.
“Forget whatever Shane said today,” Ilya starts and doesn’t miss the offense on his husband's face. “We start talking back, right now. We play hard, we fake, we taunt. Whatever keeps them distracted, and we run circles around them while they try and get their shit together, ok?”
Faces begin to nod before Coach Wiebe pulls out a small whiteboard, reminding them of plays to use and to put Montreal in the dirt.
“Remember,” Ilya smiles, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “They are Ottawa’s punching bags, starting tonight.”
The buzzer sets off once the time-out ends, and both teams pull away from the rink's side to find their place. It’s a chilling silence as they both prepare to face the other, only eyes forward and mouths pressed thinly are what the eye can see.
But Ilya doesn’t care, and he’s been known to be a loudmouth.
With the puck in possession, and Ilya shoulder to shoulder with Comeau, he brakes hard before leaning right. Anticipating the pass to go with him, Ilya inhales and sends the thing underneath the man's open legs.
“You see, you don’t eat enough carrots thats why you are thinking so slow.”
Comeau just looks at him with an arched brow, trying to follow the play before hissing the goal made.
“Carrots are for sight, dumbass.” The player chirps back, skating back with shoulders high.
“Yes, that too, should get eye appointment after this, heard it is very important!” He calls out, just to make sure he isn’t ignored.
Skating back, Shane looks pensive as Ilya smiles.
“You haven’t even scheduled your own eye appointment…” Shane mutters while patting Ilya’s back. Evan is still grinning from making the goal, skating past with rosy cheeks and clear eyes. Ilya skates over with too much speed and slams into their defensemen, smiling wide while shaking his shoulders.
“Look at you!” Evan laughs against the move. “Next, we fix your horrible playlists.”
“They do not need fixing!”
Ilya will find a way to hijack Evan’s accursed 2013 geriatric phone and blacklist him from playing music one day, but he gets back to the game.
Ice shreds beneath the tenacity from both teams, bodies slam, and the occasional shove nearly breaks another fight. Shane fakes every chance he gets, taping his stick into the ice as an obvious play that Montreal can’t help but look towards. The pass goes to Nick instead, coming up fast before they can react.
“Penguins skate better than your slow ass,” Troy taunts. “The ice isn’t moving, by the way, you can move on it whenever you like.”
Boiziau is the one to start skating up with a look in his eye and his mouth half-opened. His finger is already pointing towards Troy’s direction before Hayden Pike, Ilya’s enemy for most of the time, puts his arm around the defenseman’s neck and skates back.
By another drop, Ilya takes a moment to glance at Shane and find the smallest smile there, unsteady, but there.
Defense gets tighter from then on. Ilya knows they’re ahead but can’t find the nerve to glance at the scoreboard yet. His hair sticks to his forehead, and the back of his neck feels like a fireplace as he fends off the ‘what if’ scenarios in his head.
This game is the most personal he’s been in, climbing up fast on the most physical, but the time is still ticking, and Ilya wants to win because Shane needs it. He can’t deny what his husband asks him. Ilya thinks of curling over, prone, in a fetal position when that happens. He’s not made for denying Shane’s asks.
Troy skates back as quickly as Pike gains control of the puck. Following him, Ilya makes space to try to sweep the puck from the man. Pike adjusts in a moment, a split-hair decision to push his advance before any of his teammates get the chance to meet him.
Ilya’s seen the play before. He’s studied it; his breath always used to go from lazy to intentional. He’d have to brace himself and turn too slow to find that Shane would be just behind him, too fast for Ilya to account for in the flurry.
Instead, Schneider tries to catch up to where he should already be, challenging Shane. The pass is quick, it’s direct, and Ilya admits in his head, it’s a good play. But there’s no one to receive it, and as soon as the barked “shit!” exits Pike, Shane’s already taken control.
Their eyes meet for barely a second, just a short spark before they’re both shooting off towards the goal. Ilya’s teeth ring from the scrape of metal beneath him. His face braces the cool air, listening for the bodies behind him and closing in as Shane races off.
Someone, a player Ilya can’t recall, catches up just before Shane considers taking the goal himself. Ilya moves to put himself just center of the goal, eyes speaking so loud it’s like they’re having a conversation.
Shane doesn’t pass. In the moment, Ilya nearly curses and forces his mind to process. His lungs in greedy inhales while his heart shakes against his ribs from exertion and unease. The player makes his move, leaning hard into Shane, too close to the boards, and Ilya braces for the slam to knock both their air out of his husband and him.
Ice shaves hard from the abrupt breaks Shane gives himself, his right leg pushing out to stop from colliding into the player as they slam face-first into the boards. Bouncing off a second later, Shane is already navigating the sea of players who try to defend against him.
Nearly closing him off, Shane looks up for support, and Ilya taps his stick twice in the rush of the moment, no words fast enough to convey to Shane I am here.
The puck slides, swift, and Ilya takes the distraction of Shane to swing. To his left, just out of his peripheral, a pair of skates, the blur of a stick—
The defense is off Shane like they were never there. He lingers just in sight, brows furrowing as Ilya gets pinched off. All or nothing, he’s always believed, and looks to the goal while white and blue jerseys encroach on him.
“Here!” Troy calls out, his voice hoarse, and quickly sends the eyes his way. Away from Shane. Away from the goal.
Ilya sends the puck back, hisses when someone crashes into him after the last-second move. He shoves them off, eyes frantic to find where the sound of skates whistling has gone.
They don’t shove back.
Heads are following Shane, who is skating like it’s a walk in the park, before flinging the puck into the goal. The follow-through is textbook, but the score made is undeniable, so close to overtime.
Shouting, yelling, the commentators all knock Ilya from his narrow headspace. His smile is immediate when Shane turns around, blue and white jerseys skating off in the deafening celebration.
Luca is yelling something from the side, and Evan and Troy are already skating to nearly knock Shane over in aggressive hugs and pats.
⋆˙⟡♡🏒
Cringing at the final buzzer, Shane barely gets a chance to shuck his helmet off before getting crashed into.
A mix of ‘what a fucking play!’ and ‘holy shit! holy shit!’ floods his ears as he laughs through the shoving of bodies around him.
“OTTAWA, TAKING THE WIN TONIGHT OVER MONTREAL, WHAT A STANDOUT PERFORMANCE FROM BOTH TEAMS!”
Shane doesn’t get the moment to disagree with the announcers before his team hauls off the ice in a blur. Everyone is clapping another person’s back, smiles so wide they have to hurt. Shane turns too late as the contents to their cooler pours over both coach Wiebe and Ilya’s back in a rush of artificial blue drink.
Blonde curls whip as everyone yells at Ilya shaking the liquid off before demanding they hurry into the locker room. A dejected chorus echoes in the room as soon as Ilya grabs Shane, and presses a fat kiss to his cheek.
“Get a room!” Troy calls out, his grin infectious as Shane does the same, unable to hide it any longer. Sure, his cheek and uniform will be sticky with the disgusting drink later, but he shoves that away for now.
“Leave the lovebirds be!” Weibe defends. Shane shakes his head with a nervous smile, almost ready to run his mouth about their policy on PDA, but too ecstatic to care.
Helmets are shucked off, showers are taken with awful, several off-key voices in a muddled melody. The energy of the room is so electric, Shane is pretty sure he hasn’t had a high like this with his team in a long while. His smile falters at the thought.
“Monk’s, everyone better be there in twenty, or there will be a witch hunt!” Shane hears Harris through the locker room door, not intruding to avert multiple states of undress.
“I need a bunch of videos to post this week, I know where you all live!”
Filtering out one by one at the threat of their social media manager’s unsaid promise to drag them from their homes, the Centaurs make their exit from the locker room.
Ilya is the last to shower as Shane finishes up.
He keeps his head down under the cold spray of water, just to get a grip on his spinning thoughts. There’s no script in his mind on what to tell the reporters when they eventually push. He thinks of people already propping up some idea that Shane is smug and satisfied after his win. No doubt, multiple sports commentators will try to grow the Ottawa v. Montreal rivalry into something big, something to narrow in on this season. Shane suspects that’s what the NHL was gunning for, and while he is satisfied and a little smug, he doesn’t want it.
He doesn’t want a heated game against his old team to be the reason eyes draw towards them. Any mention of games here on out will ask the same thing: Was it as satisfying as beating Montreal?
Shane’s hand stalls on the metal handle, and he blinks away cold water as it washes down the black, endless drain.
He won’t go through this season being defined by this. Ideas start blooming, deadly and silent, that maybe if they lost, it’d be better. That fewer reminders of this game might pop up. That Shane can try to get all this behind him.
Another hand is slow to settle over his heart as Shane’s eyes screw shut.
Where are these thoughts coming from?
Why is this win making it worse?
Why doesn’t this feel as good as it should?
“Solnyshko.”
Ilya’s hands startle Shane as his eyes fly open, a sharp inhale at the touch against his neck. The other makes for his side, where a soft purple bruise blooms. Ilya looks down at it, then back up with an arched brow to Shane.
“Just needs ice. Promise.”
The sound of the shower spray makes Ilya’s soft hum of acknowledgement hard to register, so he steps in closer. There isn’t anyone else in the room. Shane tilts his head a little in thought and reaches a wet hand to pet through the nape of Ilya’s loose curls.
“You played like you were out for blood,” Ilya notes. His hands start their lazy trails up and down Shane’s side, a soft pressure so as not to irritate the bruise. It’s a sweet movement, considerate and thoughtful, and wholly unhelpful as Shane’s cock hardens.
“Quit it,” Shane says, but never takes a step back, never finds the willpower in these moments to grow a spine. He doesn’t need it, with the way Ilya loves to hold him close, keeping him upright to kiss his face senseless.
“So snappy tonight,” Ilya presses in and falls under the shower spray of Shane’s stall. The man is suddenly grateful for the shitty shower curtains and hastily yanks them close before Ilya crowds him into the cold, wet tile.
“I thought they were going to pull you from the game for a moment,” Ilya chuckles to himself, gently tilting Shane’s head up as Shane just lets him. “Is a nice surprise, unexpected.”
Shane stares up as Ilya takes his thumb, traces it across Shane’s lower lip, then slips past to press down on his tongue. He hums while blinking through the hard spray, his thoughts doing that thing where they scatter to make room for the immediate moment with Ilya.
“We won,” Shane says as best he can with a finger in his mouth. The words carry their own insinuation as something lights in Ilya’s face.
“My husband's prize,” Ilya recalls, and presses down harder. Shane hisses as Ilya’s other hand finds Shane’s cock, lazy strokes riling the poor man up a wall. “He is so greedy, I think. He wins all these games, is already the best player in the league, and wants a prize still.”
Shane does everything he can to not bite down as Ilya presses his cock flat against his belly, running his thumb over the cockhead to smear the beading precum. Ilya smiles as Shane whines, turning his head this and that way, trying to shut his mouth before—
“Ilya, Ily—fuck.” Shane sputters, licking against Ilya’s thumb as his hand braces on a shelf made for product. Some bottle goes smacking the floor in a dramatic clunk as Shane grunts, trying to hide his voice behind it.
“And what prize do you want, sweetheart?” Ilya’s thumb pulls away as he huddles beside Shane’s ear, close enough that he doesn’t see Ilya take both their cocks to begin rutting against the other.
Another hand smacks on the tile in response, and Shane buries his face into Ilya’s nape to stop from shouting.
“Solnyshko, there is a better prize at home after Monk’s,” Ilya reassures Shane as he shakes his head. He doesn’t care. He’s already thought of the logistics on this.
“I prepped already.” Shane hisses, tugging Ilya in closer with a desperation that only rises when he really wants something. “Please, Ilya. My prize, I want my prize.”
Ilya’s cock bobs as he looks at Shane, and for good measure, wraps a hand around to reach Shane’s ass. He presses up flush against him, his groan low before he presses at Shane’s entrance, and finds a type of slickness water can’t give.
“It was in case,” Shane explains, feeling his face burn as Ilya gives his undivided attention. “I did it before the game to relax, and then, uh, I found some extra in my bag and—I mean these are shower stalls, so there’s privacy and I thought we were going straight home, so…”
His hair is sticking to his forehead, and Shane pushes it away to watch Ilya’s eyes practically glitter. It’s like watching a star shimmer in the night sky, calling for attention. Shane only gets to see it for a moment before Ilya is turning him around, pressing his chest flush against the tile, his nipples sensitive to the cold as he groans at the contact.
“My needy husband,” Ilya says, but the tone could not be more full of admiration than now. His fingers find Shane’s ass again and press into the warm heat before slipping past the tense ring of muscle. Shane stills, his knees growing shaky as Ilya presses in deep to stretch Shane out.
His aborted moans bounce off the tile in his attempt to stop them. He feels his lower back arch up, trying to guide Ilya to that spot, to make him feel every live wire in his body short-circuit at once.
“Oh my—fuck, f—come on, haah.”
“What do you want, my love?” Ilya taunts, knowing full well what Shane needs. “What does a winner like you deserve?”
Shane grabs every braincell still available to him before it floats away for good, and grinds his teeth to keep his eye contact with Ilya clear. With a soft exhale, he struggles with controlling it as Ilya strokes his prostate, timing it as Shane tries to tell him what he wants.
“You asshole.” Shane groans, his frustration mounting as his mouth falls open in a disgusting moan. He feels mortified; there is no doubt that at least one other person is in the vicinity. Never mind that, Shane starts wondering whether or not there are cameras close enough to pick up the audio.
It wouldn’t take a genius to note which of the centaurs haven’t left yet and just who is enjoying themselves too much.
“Stop thinking,” Ilya orders softly, pressing his cock against Shane’s ass as he nips at his ear. “Tell me, dorogoy, chto ty khochesh'?”
Shane’s mind parses through his rudimentary studies from the past year, connecting dots, phrases said on days Ilya challenges him to only speak Russian, and exhales.
“I want you to fuck me,” Shane begs, a hand pressing into the tile to try and get a better look at his husband. His ring clicks against the wall as he adjusts his grip for comfort.
“Here, in the showers, and then in the car when we get home, and—” Shane swallows hard because, despite the room's moisture, admitting what he wants still makes his throat dry. “And when we take our shoes off, I want you to fuck me into the floor of the foyer.”
“Yomayo,” Ilya’s mouth parts as his fingering slows, becoming more methodical and attentive, his brow furrowing.
“One for every goal you made, yes?” His fingers pull out, and Shane has to keep from chipping his tooth as his face presses back into the tile. He holds back the groan at the loss, but quickly struggles to keep his lungs in check as Ilya’s cock presses in.
“I deserve it.” Shane moans defensively, like Ilya was going to deny it to him anyway. “And I want it hard. Use the—the cock ring, I don’t care, make sure I complain about it tomorrow.”
He holds his breath at his tone. He knows what that sounded like, too bossy, bordering on an order Ilya doesn’t have to even entertain. But Shane can’t help this. He publicly touts that he won’t gloat out of respect for the other players. He often leaves that for Ilya and the media circuit to play up, but when Shane gets the moment to celebrate his wins behind closed doors?
“Done.” Ilya agrees and sinks into Shane at a torturous pace before pressing flush against his ass. Ilya’s hand curls into Shane’s hip, fingers digging into stretch marks, and the other intertwines with the hand Shane keeps on the wall.
“Fucking the winner is a better prize for me too,” Ilya says breathlessly, gently picking up pace until there is just enough slip from Shane’s leftover lube to make the glide easy.
“My husband deserves the best, no?” Ilya crowds into Shane’s back, takes a hand to hike up Shane’s muscled thigh, and presses him harder into the shower tiles. The groan is choked as Ilya’s hips piston, grinding Shane’s dick against the wall as he screws his eyes shut.
The humidity of the shower doesn’t help as Shane struggles for full breaths. His hand scrambles for Ilya’s hip, trying to brace himself helplessly as his skin slides against the tile with each thrust.
“Rozanov!”
Ilya hisses at the same moment Shane tightens around him out of surprise, slowling his husband’s pace as their heads whip to where the voice came from. In the sludge of his mind, Shane blinks through the spray to realize their coach is calling out for him.
“That’s Hollander-Rozanov to you!” Ilya responds before Shane gets the moment to come up with some excuse or plan. “What do you need?”
“I keep forgetting, I’m getting up there in age, don’t hold it against me.” Coach Weibe chuckles to himself. Shane looks back to Ilya with eyes full of warning that start fluttering shut as Ilya continues to press into him, slow and tender. He keeps his mouth shut as Ilya rakes his nails over Shane’s back, his look only full of mischief and the gleam that will make Shane regret the last ten minutes.
“Everyone wanted to make sure you lug your ass over to Monks. I still need to find Shane, too. Did he say anything about coming with? I know this game might’ve taken a lot out of him.”
Ilya makes a curious hum as Shane bites his tongue, feeling stars scatter in his vision as Ilya rolls his hip forward, pressing against his prostate in a move that forces air from his lungs. He makes sure whatever sounds that escape him are lower than the screechy, old shower head. Shane’s never been more grateful for old school, rusty pipes.
“He said he needed a second to clear his head,” Ilya answers, and in tandem, leans forward to wrap Shane in his hand. Shane’s fist is fast to fly into his mouth as his head leans back and his eyes roll with it. Ilya fists his cockhead in short bursts before letting go, edging Shane on with a wide smile.
“But do not worry, we cannot celebrate without him. I will make sure he comes.”
Shane’s gaze is half-lidded, but enough to convey his disgust since he can’t roll his eyes.
“Perfect,” Coach Weibe sighs. “And really, if it is too much for Shane, just let me know, I can make a convincing excuse.”
The sound of the door squeaking shut is like a gunshot at the races as Ilya picks up speed. Water slaps obscenely with each low grunt Ilya makes, and Shane is right behind, moaning so horribly he wouldn’t believe it unless someone recorded it. He’s not willing to put ideas in Ilya’s head.
“Ily—fuck, fuckfu—” Shane’s tongue is lead as his dick weeps and twitches.
“Come on, winner,” Ilya hums, and wraps his hand around Shane again, chuckling at how Shane tenses with a guttural moan before stroking him. “We have a celebration, then after, I can fuck you into the windows at hom—huuuunh, fuckk.”
Shane wants to smile into the wall as he feels Ilya orgasm first, feels him grip at his hip enough to bruise, burying into Shane like he means to die there. It’s enough that his own pleasure flies off the handle, accidentally biting his tongue as his cum spills over Ilya’s hand and down the shower wall.
“Shit, shit, shit—” Shane curses as he curls his head towards his chest, his hair sticking to the wall as he inhales hard enough to shudder. Ilya holds him up, his grip slipping but stubborn enough to keep Shane from dropping as his knees go weak.
Their breaths come and fall at the same time, quieted under the cool water spray that Ilya pats around to turn off. As soon as it's gone, Shane’s hearing becomes aware of the sounds around him, of his own heart thudding at his ribcage for the man holding him tight.
⋆˙⟡♡🏒
On the way to the car, journalists from local and far outlets find them. No doubt straggling behind to find and squeeze details from the Centaurs, since very few of them agreed to any post-game interview.
The cameras that flash are quick and disorienting as Ilya shields his eyes, finding it difficult to focus on the faces that crowd near while blinking the spots away from his sight. In his half blind walk, he starts shoving through his pockets, suddenly desperate to feel the dull plastic key fob to get the hell out.
Shane’s sneakers squeak as he waves them off.
“Hey guys, plenty of official interviews can be set up later.” Shane tries his hand at dissuading the nosy busybodies. A side glance, and Ilya hopes the cameras don’t pick up how flushed and pink Shane’s face is, how red his lips seem with his still-wet hair.
“This game was highly anticipated,” One of them, some channel eleven from the after image of their mics being pressed into their personal space. Ilya continues to blink the flashes away, and is halfway to listing in detail how they plan to celebrate if it means they’ll scatter away.
“You know we have to ask,” Another of them starts, barely keeping pace in heels. Ilya purses his lips at the thought of one of them tumbling over.
“As a former member, we are curious, did Montreal bring the heat the way they used to with you on the roster?”
Shane blanches at the question as his mouth opens before closing. Already privy to the real answer, Ilya nearly regurgitates what Shane admits in the black of night, head curled against Ilya’s chest, shaking with anger.
“They couldn’t do half the shit they’ve accomplished without me, who do they think they are?” Shane had sighed. “And just getting rid of me like that? As if they don’t know who I am, what I can do, and still capable of, it's ridiculous.”
“What about their trajectory towards championships?” Another crowds in, their tone insinuating they won’t be leaving until they get as much as a grunt from Shane.
“Hello?” Ilya cuts in, brow arching into the camera as they whip away from Shane for a moment. “I am still here, acting captain of the winning team. Why am I chopping liver?”
“Chopped liver,” a cameraman corrects. Ilya frowns their way as they become, suddenly, incapable of eye contact.
Shane gives a nervous laugh and a glance that warns Ilya to stop talking. They come to a pause on the asphalt, and Shane’s tongue runs over his lips as he glances down in thought. Even nervous, Ilya finds Shane has been better at these ambushes from the media. Ilya has, more than one time, made up bullshit answers in hopes they’d realize he’d never give anything serious. Instead, Ilya accidentally made himself entertaining.
“Montreal is a team with capable players and years of experience; they played just fine. I trained with some of the members throughout the years, so nothing I wasn’t used to.”
Shane goes digging into Ilya’s back pocket before he knows what's happening, feeling those hands pluck something before drawing away.
“But—they’re dealing with the loss of a very capable player,” He explains, trying to sound as indifferent as he can while Ilya smiles too big for the insinuation to mean anything else.
“There’s a common denominator regarding the championship wins, check the stats of those years, so really—I think you should ask them how they plan to reach that same goal.” Shane presses a hand into Ilya’s before interlocking it and tugging.
“But, what would I know, right?”
Voices speak over one another, two different radio stations and a local TV rep all fighting for their attention as they close into a parking lot.
“You are being too nice.” Ilya huffs as they jog away. The car beeps twice as both men throw themselves inside, smiling at the muffled voices of the journalists a foot away from the car.
“I’m showing good sportsmanship.” Shane defends. “That’s my brand.”
“That’s not what I heard on the ice.” Ilya whistles, pressing the start that gets the engine roaring before peeling off the parking lot. “I’m going to ask your PR manager if we can start trash-talking online again.”
“No.” Ilya smiles at Shane’s answer. “You got suspended already for calling my ass ‘too perfect to stay on a homophobic team’.”
“They were not appreciating your assets,” Ilya shrugs. “And they say this land allows ‘freedom of speech’, I was silenced for speaking truths.”
He stands by it as Shane still groans over the memory, his face covered by his hands as a blush creeps up his neck.
“Do not worry dorogoy, I will appreciate your assets back home, ok?”
His wonderful husband threatens to leave the car again and disappear from Ilya’s life at the cheesy joke. Ilya laughs and takes Shane’s hand before pressing a big, fat kiss into his knuckle on the way to Monk’s.