The Voyageurs just barely limped into the playoffs as a Wild Card team. For the Centaurs, that kind of result would have been cause for celebration, but for the Voyageurs, it was nothing short of a disaster. Shane could feel it at every team meeting, in the dressing room, in all the press coverage. Barely making the playoffs was unforgivable for the Montreal press, so much so that it almost felt like they hadn't made the playoffs at all.
Shane was sure that he wasn't actually being petulant when he thought to himself that it wasn't his own performance that was the problem. He was a captain, so maybe it was his responsibility to make sure the team didn't go as far off the rails as it had, but Shane was tired. Shane was tired of his teammates who thought it was perfectly fine that he was gay but it was also perfectly acceptable to say anyone they hated was a fif, and that especially meant Ilya Rozanov. He was tired of the word distraction.
And even if he couldn't trust himself, he tended to believe Ilya when Ilya said that Shane was playing well. Because Ilya was a lot of things, but he wasn't the type of person who would lie to Shane to spare his ego, at least not about hockey. If Shane's hockey performance had suffered, Shane's team, the fans, and all the press would have to get in line behind Ilya to tell Shane how shitty his performance had been. Ilya would not hold back, no matter how much he loved Shane. Or maybe it was because he loved Shane that he wouldn't lie about something like that.
They split the first two games of the series in New York, and returning to Montreal with the series tied was better than Shane had expected. He was almost in good spirits by the time they were gearing up for game 3 in Montreal, and in even better spirits because for the first time, Ilya would be there to watch him live. Ilya would be sitting next to Shane's parents, a fact that had Ilya as excited as Shane had seen him about almost anything. Shane was already exhausted by his teammates' reactions to everything, but Ilya's absolute glee at realizing he'd be filmed in the crowd sitting next to Shane's parents came pretty close to completely erasing any of Shane's annoyance about that.
Shane had created a monster, really, giving Ilya this many opportunities to troll the entire hockey world. But he thought it with the kind of helpless affection that he now realized came with loving someone who delighted in chaos. Shane would do quite a lot to put that smile on Ilya's face, and since his team was already being unbearable, it wasn't likely to make things worse.
Still, Shane was not prepared for the gooey feeling in his chest when he first took to the ice to see the three of them seated side-by-side, Ilya enthusiastically cheering him on. This might actually be enough to show up on ESPN—the picture if not the intense internet speculation about their relationship. Shane wasn't even afraid of it anymore, not really. It was like being eased very slowly into icy water, giving his body time to get used to it. It took much longer than the quick plunge, but Ilya hadn't complained. Much.
Shane scored a goal five minutes into the game, and the first thing he did was look up to the stands where Ilya and his parents were seated. Ilya and his mom were yelling and hugging in absolute, unselfconscious celebration. And it struck Shane hard that this was what all his teammates were able to have, and had been able to have their whole careers. Their partners supporting them without worrying about what people would think, standing in the audience with everyone knowing exactly why they were there. A bit more complicated with Ilya, of course, since even in an ideal world, they'd rarely have been able to sit in the crowd and watch each other play, but it was the principle of the thing.
Shane turned back toward center ice, still riding the high of the goal, and stopped. There was a replay on the Jumbotron of Ilya and Shane's parents screaming and clapping, and then Ilya and Yuna Hollander embracing, both of them beaming. Right there, blown up for the entire arena to see.
"Jesus Christ," Shane murmured under his breath, and when he looked over, Drapeau was glaring at Shane like Shane had punched his best friend in the face. Shane fought the urge to roll his eyes. If his team believed he was somehow compromised because he happened to suck Ilya Rozanov's cock, he'd just have to prove them wrong by scoring more goals.
Shane was not excited for game 4. A few years before, he would have thought it would be impossible for him not to be hyped up for the playoffs, but a lot had changed since then. He had been to the playoffs enough times, had even won it all. He'd never thought he'd lose his love for hockey—and he hadn't, not really. The game itself had never been the problem. The love he had for the game was just buried under so much other shit right now that it was hard to find that pure, uncomplicated joy he used to feel stepping onto playoff ice.
Also, Ilya was right—Shane's team was full of assholes.
Shane had scored the Voyageurs' only two goals, and everyone on the team except Hayden had glared at him in the locker room after the loss. J.J. had at least looked torn. Shane had given them what he hoped was a rallying speech afterward, something about how they were still in this, how one game didn't define a series. But he could see in their faces that they weren't buying it. They weren't motivated. They were looking for someone to blame, and Shane's personal life was the easiest target. They were only down one game but somehow the series felt like it was lost already.
Shane tried to shake it off as he headed into the arena. He needed to focus. Needed to find that part of himself that still believed in this team, believed they could turn this around.
Shane entered the arena and stopped dead. "Jesus fucking Christ," he said aloud. Gathered around Ilya and Shane's parents were a great deal more people he recognized, people who had no business being in the audience of a playoff game in Montreal. And worse, they were all holding absolutely horrible signs.
Zane Boodram's said: IN HOLLANDER WE TRUST
Luca Haas's said: TEAM HOLLANDER
Evan Dykstra's said: HOLLANDER MODE: ON
Troy Barrett's said: MAKE 'EM HOLLANDER!
And Wyatt Hayes stood directly next to Ilya with a sign that just said: SHANE♡
Shane caught Ilya's eye. What the fuck, he mouthed. Ilya shrugged, his own expression bemused. Hayden materialized beside Shane, following his gaze up into the stands.
"Is that the entire Centaurs team?" he asked, clearly startled. Shane blinked hard, half-expecting the vision to disappear, but when he opened his eyes, Ilya's entire team was still there, scattered through the stands. He wondered how they'd managed to get that many tickets for a sold out playoff game. He wondered if the people they'd bought the tickets from had known who they were selling them to. "What are they doing here?"
"I have no idea what's going on," Shane answered honestly.
Shane scored a hat trick. The Voyageurs lost. It was incredibly predictable considering the current state of the team, but Ilya's teammates at least were happy with the outcome. Which was a positive considering they'd all paid for tickets and driven two hours from Ottawa.
"You'd better ask him quick, before someone else snatches him up," Wyatt said as they filed out of the arena, the crowd still buzzing around them. He nudged Ilya with his elbow, grinning like he'd just delivered the world's cleverest piece of advice. It took Ilya a very long time to understand Hazy's meaning.
"We are already married," Ilya reminded him, playing dumb. Wyatt slapped Ilya on the back.
"You know that's not what I meant."
Ilya sighed, but inwardly he agreed. Keeping his mouth shut was beginning to kill him.
"It would not be good for the gay married hockey players to be accused of tampering, I think," Ilya said, shaking his head in amusement. He tried to keep his tone light, but it was something that genuinely concerned him about the idea of Shane joining the Centaurs. Ilya didn't want to fuck things up by mentioning it to Shane at the wrong time.
"You're bisexual," Wyatt remarked unnecessarily. Ilya rolled his eyes. Hazy's expression turned thoughtful, which was always a bad sign. "Anyway, does it count as tampering if both your dicks are out at the time?"
Ilya barely suppressed a laugh. "I do not think there is a clause in the tampering rules about dicks," he said. Also, Ilya loved his team and he desperately wanted Shane to experience the same feeling. "Go home," Ilya said, smiling. "I must go congratulate and console my husband."
"Good luck!" Hazy said with the brightness only possible from a hockey player whose divisional rival had just lost a significant game. Even if the Centaurs' season was over, there was nothing greater than when a rival team had a bad day.
Shane was disheveled, freshly showered, and delightfully confused when Ilya next saw him. His hair was still damp and sticking up in odd directions, and he had that post-game exhaustion written across his features that somehow made him even more beautiful. Ilya's heart did that same stupidly adoring flip it always did when he looked at Shane.
"How the fuck did you convince your entire team to cheer for their divisional rival?" Shane asked, though he looked more dazed than angry. And adorable, like a hissing kitten.
Ilya held up his hands in surrender. "Was not me," he said truthfully. "When they get an idea, I cannot stop them. They are an irresistible force. And they were not cheering for Montreal. They were cheering for you."
A beautiful flush appeared across Shane's freckled cheeks, and Ilya wanted to say everything just then. They love you because I love you. They want you on their team. They want to support you and they want you to be happy, all because I love you.
But he couldn't say that, because Shane still needed to be focused on the playoffs his team was certainly going to lose. Also because it would be tampering, not that he thought Shane would run straight to the commissioner to report him. Still, it was better to wait.
"My teammates were not pleased," Shane said, with the kind of understatement that suggested they'd been absolutely furious. But he didn't sound particularly upset about it. If anything, there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking simultaneously exhausted and oddly lighter than he had in weeks.
"Your teammates are assholes," Ilya said, not for the first time. He meant it more than ever. They didn't deserve Shane, didn't appreciate what they had in him. It made Ilya want to bundle Shane up and take him home to Ottawa immediately.
Shane sighed. "Yeah," he agreed softly.
The Voyageurs were knocked out of the playoffs one game later. Shane was disappointed. Shane was annoyed. Shane was reading the message Farah had drafted for them over and over, and it made him anxious, and he hated that it made him anxious.
It also made him angry, and that was his more relevant emotion. Shane had a lifetime of practice dealing with anxiety, although he was still bad at it. His therapist had helped a little. She'd helped a lot with this, which was good, because Shane was sure he'd never have sorted through his feelings otherwise.
Being at the cabin helped. Waking up with his ass pleasantly sore every morning with Ilya curled around him helped. Being away from his passive-aggressive teammates who seemed to hate Ilya for reasons that had nothing to do with sport rivalry helped a lot. But Shane was still angry.
Shane sat outside with his morning coffee, one hand absently stroking Anya where she lay sprawled beside him, his gaze fixed on the dock. The same dock Ilya had once threatened to cover in candles to propose to Shane. It had been a joke, Shane was pretty sure, but for a moment, Shane imagined a world where that had happened. Where they could have just posted a photo of Ilya on one knee and Shane flushed with surprise and happiness, and no explanation would be necessary, the way every straight NHL player was able to. He imagined a world in which he didn't need to release a statement to explain how and why he was in love with Ilya Rozanov. A world where loving someone didn't require a press release and a PR strategy.
Part of him wanted to release that statement so badly. Part of him wanted to scream to the world that Ilya Rozanov was the sweetest, most wonderful man in the entire universe and the asshole persona was largely an act. That he liked to rile people up because it was funny but he was almost never malicious. That he was soft and sweet with children and animals and sometimes he burst out with the most devastatingly romantic utterances anyone in the world could say, without access to most of the fussiest descriptive words in the English language.
And part of him wanted to hoard all those pieces of Ilya like treasure, keeping them safe and secret and just for Shane.
An arm slid around Shane's neck, and Shane tensed in surprise, then relaxed. Ilya kissed Shane's temple sweetly, then blew into his ear. Shane jerked away.
"What the fuck!" he yelled, laughing. "Asshole."
Ilya settled down in the seat beside Shane, resettling Anya so her head was on his lap. He still looked bleary with sleep, one half of his curls plastered flat to his head. This was the Ilya Rozanov Shane wanted to tell the whole world about. This was the Ilya Rozanov Shane wanted to guard jealousy like his own little secret.
"You were thinking very hard," Ilya said by way of explanation. "Is not thinking time now. Is relaxing time. And fucking time." Ilya wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, except he did seem more interested in scratching Anya's head than fucking at that very moment. Soft and sweet with children and animals, Shane thought again, and he loved Ilya fiercely. He hated that he might be about to ruin that contentment.
"I don't want to post Farah's statement," Shane said without preamble. Better to rip the bandaid off all at once.
Ilya's expression did a lot of very complicated things. Shane saw the disappointment flash across his face before he seemed to force it away until he was carefully blank.
"Okay," he said neutrally, so instantly the Ilya of the early years, who would never make himself vulnerable to Shane. Shane hated that he'd put that expression on Ilya's face, even for a second.
"I don't mean that I don't want us to official," Shane insisted quickly. "I'm not backing out."
"Okay," Ilya said again, tentatively. The fact that Ilya wasn't saying anything made it suddenly impossible for Shane to shut up.
"I just hate that we have to explain ourselves. Every straight NHL player gets to just show up to events with his wife, gets to wear his wedding ring and post a wedding photo, and nobody demands an explanation. I don't want to have to justify how we fell in love or defend our relationship to strangers. There are parts of you that are just mine, and I don't want to share all of that with the entire world just to prove we're legitimate. I just want to be married to you the way everyone else gets to be married to their spouse. Without a fucking press release."
Ilya's expression changed to something soft, and within seconds to something utterly wicked.
"So I am supposed to just start wearing my ring on my finger and calling you my husband?" Ilya asked, glee in his eyes. "No explanation at all?"
Shane was suddenly a tiny bit terrified of what he'd unleashed. "I mean, we should probably—"
"Is the greatest gift you could give me!" Ilya exclaimed, so utterly transformed from his blankness of seconds ago. "Well, besides your ass. And your love!" he added belatedly. "Of course your love."
Shane rolled his eyes, fighting a smile. Ilya could be such a little shit sometimes, and Shane really should not encourage this behavior by finding it endearing. He couldn't help it, though.
Ilya started reaching for the clasp of his chain, where his wedding ring still rested, like he wanted to get his ring on his finger as quickly as possible now that he had permission. His fingers fumbled with the clasp in his eagerness, so Shane gently batted Ilya's hands away and helped him undo it. He took Ilya's ring into his hand, feeling almost reverent about it.
"The right hand," Ilya said holding it out. His voice had gone quiet in a way that made Shane's chest tight.
Shane gently slid Ilya's ring onto his finger. Both their eyes were a little misty when Shane finished, and Ilya stared down at the ring on his hand like he couldn't quite believe it was real, like he was afraid it might disappear if he looked away. Shane reached for the clasp of his own newly-acquired chain.
"Should I wear mine on the right, too?" Shane asked. They'd had this conversation before, but they'd never quite resolved it. It hadn't been relevant yet. But if it was important to Ilya, Shane would do it in a heartbeat.
Ilya took Shane's ring between his fingers, shaking his head. "You are not Russian Orthodox," he said simply.
"Are you?" he asked, feeling strange asking the question. They were already married, and somehow Shane didn't know. Ilya wore his mother's cross, but this was the first time Shane had heard Ilya express any thought or preference on religion.
Ilya's lips pursed as he thought. At last he shook his head. "Not really," he said. "Was important to my mother, though."
Shane understood. He hated that he'd never met Irina Rozanova. Hated that Ilya had no family left to love and support him—no blood family, at least. But he had Shane, and Shane's family. And, implausibly, the Ottawa Centaurs. Shane hoped that would be enough.
Shane held out his left hand and let Ilya slide the ring onto it. The act sent a shiver down Shane's spine. Ilya was grinning wildly.
"This will confuse everyone," he declared gleefully. Shane felt a rush of affection mixed with mild trepidation. He'd definitely created a monster. But god, he loved this monster, loved to be the one to put that smile on Ilya's face.
Something was on Ilya's mind. Shane was pretty sure it wasn't something bad. It wasn't like it had been before, when Ilya hadn't been sleeping, when Shane had noticed him coming back to bed in the middle of the night smelling of cigarette smoke. But it was something.
"Is everything okay?" Shane asked the first week at the cabin. Ilya nodded.
"Is not anything bad," Ilya assured him. "I just cannot talk about it yet. I will tell you in about a month."
A week later, when Shane asked, Ilya said, "I will tell you in three weeks."
The next week, Ilya said, "I will tell you in two weeks."
The next week, Ilya said, "I will tell you in one week."
And finally, finally, Ilya said, "You know how your team is filled with assholes? Except Hayden Pike, who is I guess okay, and has a very nice wife and beautiful children."
"Yes," Shane acknowledged tentatively, slightly terrified about what would come out of Ilya's mouth next.
"And you know how my team is wonderful and supportive?" Ilya continued, grinning. He looked far too pleased with himself, like a cat who had just presented its owner with a dead lizard or mouse.
"Thanks for rubbing it in," Shane replied dryly. Ilya ignored him.
"Well you are free agent now," Ilya said wickedly. "And I have an idea. Is a great idea. One of my best ideas."
Shane offered to go sign the contract alone. It was a nice thing to do, and also it was very stupid. Ilya dragged him to Wiebe and let his coach say all the things Ilya had already said but Shane did not believe coming from him.
"The press will be mostly all about you two either way," Wiebe told Shane. "It's better for everyone involved if we just embrace it."
"Just embrace it, honey," Ilya said in a saccharine sweet voice. Ilya never called Shane "honey." He could see Shane fighting not to make a face at him in front of his new coach. Ilya didn't care, because he wasn't trying to make a good first impression.
"We would prefer to do a press conference with both of you after you've signed your contract, Shane," Wiebe said, entirely ignoring Ilya's antics. Wiebe was a good coach and very used to Ilya's shit. "But only if you're okay with it."
"We are okay with it," Ilya said, because he and Shane had already discussed it. Also because Ilya had so many things he wanted to say to the press, for probably the first time ever.
"Great," Wiebe said. "We'll get everything scheduled."
The Centaurs' group chat exploded. There were emoji, gifs, and a lot of slang Ilya did not understand, though the enthusiasm was clear enough. Shane was pacing and worrying that the Centaurs players would be upset with him taking so much attention for himself, so Ilya added him to the group chat and left Shane to answer the thousand messages that resulted while he took Anya for a walk. By the time Ilya got back, Shane looked slightly dazed, which Ilya considered a success. Then Ilya sucked his cock and fucked him until the combined power of two orgasms meant that Shane absolutely passed out and could not find a new thing to worry about.
Ilya seated himself to Shane's left at the press conference. He made sure both their hands were on the table, his right and Shane's left, just next to each other. Shane had given him an indulgent, exasperated look when Ilya had explained his careful staging, but he hadn't objected.
The first few questions were normal. Nobody asked about Shane and Ilya's marriage, because it existed only in the realm of internet speculation, and legitimate news outlets couldn't be seen chasing unconfirmed gossip. Shane's answers were bland and boring and so very perfectly Shane. Ilya was practically vibrating in his chair, waiting for a question to come his way. It seemed to take an eternity.
"And Ilya," someone finally said, "how does it feel to be playing on the same team as someone who was your rival for so many years?"
Shane looked at Ilya out of the corner of his eye. Ilya could see the responsible part of Shane urging him to give his own bland answer. The part of Shane that had been trained to never make waves, to always say the right thing. But there was another part of Shane, too, the part that had given Ilya permission to do this, that wanted it even if he was too anxious to say so himself.
"Of course I loved competing against Shane all these years," Ilya said, blandly. Shane relaxed a little next to him, clearly relieved that Ilya seemed to be behaving himself, even though Shane had been the one who'd explicitly given Ilya permission to say much, much more than this. "One of the biggest joys of my career has been playing against Shane Hollander, and especially beating Shane Hollander."
Shane gave him a look. The assembled press laughed. Cameras clicked.
"But," Ilya added, and Shane was already flushing so beautifully pink, clearly expecting what was coming. Ilya was feeling very, very pleased with this outcome. He had been upset when Shane had not wanted to release Farah's statement, but this was so much better. "I am also happy to be on the same team as my husband."
It was pandemonium. Reporters shouted questions over each other. Cameras clicked at a more rapid pace. Ilya turned to Shane and took his hand, grinning, quite very pleased with himself. Shane was staring back at him with an expression that was equal parts mortified and delighted, like he couldn't decide whether to kiss Ilya or strangle him.
The photo, when it appeared on the sports news sites not long after, showed Shane looking back at him—fond, exasperated, and so clearly in love. And in the photo, clear as day, were both their wedding rings, Ilya's on his right hand, Shane's on his left, their fingers intertwined on the table for the entire world to see.
Ilya framed it.