Chapter Text
His leg is bouncing. His teeth are gnawing on his mouth guard. His hands are gripping his stick. All the while, Shane is glaring down that ice like it personally insulted him not to be on it.
There are no thoughts. He's only counting in his head, counting down the seconds. Not to calm himself down. Because that's obviously not working. He's counting the seconds until he can get on that ice.
The only thing that got him out of that bubble is the gloved hand that suddenly gripped his thigh.
Shane turns his head to see his very relaxed husband, all smiles, maybe a little teasing smirk on his stupid (pretty) face as he watches Shane absolutely get in his own head. Looking almost endeared to be seeing him like this.
"Shanya, relax. Is first game of the season. Not too much of anything. And is against Buffalo, we can win even if we close eyes-"
"If we don't win this game, we're not fucking tonight," Shane practically growls through gritted teeth before Coach Weibe taps him on the shoulder.
He doesn't even spare a glance at the very shocked Ilya when he puts on his mouth guard and jumps over the sides, already gunning for the puck, skating like a leopard locked in on its prey.
"Uh, is Shane okay, dude?" Young asks next to him, seeing the absolute energy Shane is giving on the ice right off the bat.
Ilya doesn't even have time to reply before their attentions are both taken by the goal horns blowing, signifying a goal for their team. It's barely even ten seconds since Shane was switched in.
Ilya, now mesmerized as all hell, eyes practically shining as he watches his husband make a chirp on the ice about how Buffalo's center doesn't deserve that C on his sweater because the man skates worse than a fucking rookie while still fresh out of scoring their team's first goal for the season.
Ilya feels excitement bubbling in his veins. He already knew this is going to be a legendary season for them.
"...I'm not sure. But I feel we need to win."
And Ilya would be right about the legendary part. He just didn't think it would be like that.
"Well, maybe if you didn't want to lose to faggots on the ice, you should've fucking learned how to play hockey, not just how to run your mouth like a little bitch."
"What the fuck did you say?" The Dallas Forward Ilya has never bothered to get the name of drops his gloves. The other men on Dallas's team already skating towards the fight only made Ilya skate faster.
Because those actions only made Shane's angry grin wider.
"Oh, can't play and can't hear? Maybe you should call the medic. That way you can get out of the ice with a halfway decent excuse for not scoring any fucking goals."
Both Ilya and Troy are already by Shane's side when the referee appears in between the two opposing forwards, already breaking up the fight before hits are thrown.
"Alright, boys, that's enough. Back to your sides. I won't tell you again."
Maybe it's because the referee is closer to Shane that he's the only one the ref pushes away. But it did nothing to calm him down. Exact opposite actually. Because Shane pushes back. "Tell that to the Dallas bastard. It's his mouth that needs to back off."
"Final warning, Hollander, or you're getting in the box".
Ilya wordlessly hooks his arms around Shane's, practically hauling him away from getting a penalty. But the man is obviously too annoyed to stop.
"It's Hollander-Rozanov. It's been for a fucking year now. Learn it."
"What was that?"
Shane turns back around to face the referee. "I said-"
Ilya makes quick haste to turn him back around and skate him away faster while Troy apologizes in Shane's place, talking about how Shane wasn't saying a thing and he's getting switched anyway.
Ilya just rubs a hand on Shane's back, still a little shocked (also half hard) at his husband's sudden outburst. He knew that Dallas bitch probably said something horrible and completely deserved it. And if things ended up in that way, Ilya would be happily exchanging blows with the entire Dallas team in place of his pissed husband, but Ilya has never seen Shane have an outburst like this. Hell, Shane barely escaped the penalty box and he is still actively trying to get in there.
If anything, Shane is acting like how Ilya would.
"Shane. You okay? You know you can't let them get in your head. We still have to wipe floor with them."
But obviously, Shane is not listening to a single word he's saying. The man's already scanning the ice for a specific face.
"Where the fuck is Evan? I need to sick him at 'em."
Ilya blinks. First time. First time he's ever heard those words come out of his husband's mouth. He did not even know those words existed in Shane's vocabulary.
"What? Shane–"
His husband is already skating away towards a certain defenseman. "Dykstra, need a favor."
The man was just tapped to replace another defenseman when the Hollanov pair skated towards him, both in varying levels of emotion. "Yeah?"
Shane, strict in the face, nodding his head towards the other side of the rink. "That guy, 67, make sure he gets it."
Evan steals a quick glance at Ilya behind Shane, who is, horrifyingly for Evan, at a lost for words. He hasn't seen his captain like this. And he was the mouthiest guy he's ever ever met.
"Uh... okay?"
"Good. Thanks. Owe you one."
Shane leans over and bumps helmets with the man before going over the boards, basically replacing himself even before the coach said a thing.
Weibe just watches as Shane sits down on the bench, head held down, before he glances towards Ilya with a questioning and almost accusing look on his face.
Weibe normally scolds Rozanov over this since he's the one normally on the verge of making a home in the penalty box. But this time, it was Hollander, Saint Hollander. He doesn't exactly know what to do when one of his most disciplined player starts acting up. Shane basically benched himself. And he was supposed to be the one doing the face-off, for fuck's sake.
And Ilya could only shrug. He has no idea either. But he will find out.
Shane sips the ginger ale he's been nursing in his hand for the better of the night, looking over his team from the bar, who was celebrating hard after another great win when he feels a light touch at the low of his back.
He already knew who.
"Shane. Sweetheart. You okay?"
Shane just squint his eyes at him. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
The Canadian just snorts before taking another sip of his drink, unconsciously leaning over to Ilya's touch before his gaze goes back, snickering as he watches Bood get cheered on in the middle of the dance floor while the man chugs his nth beer of the night.
"You sure?"
Shane sighs. "Are you talking about what happened on the ice? That's different, that asshole was being homophobic. I wasn't about to take that shit."
Shane, now remembering the whole interaction again in his head, slowly felt the same annoyance he did before, but now directed at his surprisingly unsupportive husband.
"And now that I think about it. I didn't think you would have wanted me to either. So, what the hell?"
Ilya quickly put his hands up.
"Oh, no, no. I am very proud. Very proud husband. Was actually half hard for the rest of the game."
"Okay, Ilya, that's-"
"But you have been... how do you say- harder on the ice lately."
Shane raises a brow. "Harder?"
"You know what I mean. You are just- well, acting more like me. I swear I am going to hear someone say I am bad influence on you or something. So I just want to ask if everything is okay? Anything you want to talk about? I am here. I will listen. Promise."
There's a telltale sign when Ilya is being deadly serious. And that's when he doesn't respond to his own accidental innuendos. Shane has half the mind to take him seriously as well, respond just as earnestly. But the sight of Ilya being concerned for Shane's well-being is basically chum in the water.
"Or..."
"Or?"
"Or maybe..." Shane turns towards Ilya, pressing his body against the man, face inches away from the Russian. "I've always been a hothead."
"And this time, I just know my team would back me up when I get mouthy. And so I do."
Okay, truthfully, truthfully, Ilya went into that conversation fully prepared to play the part of a caring and supportive husband, ready to solve a problem or offer help in any way he can. But now?
There might as well be an angel singing choir screaming showtunes in his head. His gorgeous husband is whispering trigger phrases to his face, freckles and boba eyes on full blast. Ilya is strong but he's certainly not God's strongest soldier.
"Well, if you put it like that. Now I want to see you fight at every game," Ilya flirts back, wrapping his arms around his husband's waist, eyes trained on each other.
"You can get penalty, I also get penalty, and then we can make out in the box."
Shane groaned, feigning annoyance despite the wide amused grin on his face. "No... Don't put that in my head!"
"Oh, why not?"
"Because..." Shane drags on, looking away and all around, trying to avoid the intense stare he's getting from his husband as if he didn't start it in the first place. "I might think about it the next time someone's being an asshole and push more just so it can happen."
"Then I'll get in the box, and you'll follow me in there. And with both of us out, the other team will get the power play of a lifetime and we'll lose the game and we'll lose our standing in the playoffs. And we'll be the league's laughing stock for the rest of our lives because we can't keep our hands off of each other when we can just be making out right here, right now."
Ilya only needed to blink once to digest all that. "Oh. I like that alternative. We should try."
Shane laughs, shaking his head. His rants never deterring his infatuated husband by the slightest. Shane was just about to press his lips against Ilya's when-
"Sir, your order."
Shane quickly moves away and out of the Russian's grasp while Ilya only turns his head behind him, a very over-it server sliding his tray over from the counter.
"Ooh, thank you." Ilya quickly takes the tray, handing over a fifty at the server who doesn't even blink when she takes it and leaves without a word. Poor woman has possibly seen worse... Ilya should've made it a hundred.
Ilya turns back around, now with food in hand to face his husband, whose thoughts are very obvious. "What? It's onion rings."
"Seriously, Ilya? Club food?"
"Is okay. It is vegetable. Healthy."
"It's covered in oil."
"Yes. Probably vegetable oil."
He pinches a ring, lifting it up to Shane, letting him have first bite. He knows Shane hasn't eaten anything yet. "Want to try? You should. Just one-"
Shane practically swats it out of his hand.
The offending onion ring falls to the ground. Ilya's two fingers still in the air while his eyes follow his food down to the floor, then questioningly back at Shane.
Ilya's face automatically changes from light surprise to highly concerned when he sees Shane's. The man is much more shocked than he is, with a thick layer of disgust piled on.
"Sor- sorry. I didn't mean- it just smelled really bad and-"
Shane forcibly swallows down, eyes puckered shut, one hand gripping the counter, fighting off the sudden bile mixed with ginger ale that rushed up his throat. "Fuck. I think I'm gonna be sick."
The food is already forgotten as Ilya quickly comes to support him. "Hey, hey."
"I'm good. You just have your- heaugh." He retches, doubling over, but nothing coming out.
Ilya, now in full alarm, rubs his hand firmly on Shane's back, other hand ready to catch anything that comes out, fully prepared for if or when his husband needs to paint the club floor. "I'm sorry- I'm sor- euGH."
"No. No. It's probably bad or something-" Ilya takes the already dented can from Shane's vice grip, putting it back to the counter to get a better hold on him. "You need toilet? Maybe you've had too much ginger."
"I'm fine. I think- I think I got it," Shane sloppily breathes out, slowly straightening up, somewhat calming down. But his eyes were already watery. Ilya is not taking any chances.
"Nope. We go back to hotel now."
Shane doesn't even argue when Ilya slings his arm over his shoulder, hand supporting his waist.
"BOOD. BARRETT. WE'RE LEAVING. DON'T LET HAAS DIE."
"Guys. You can just say you want to bang."
"Yeah, we're actually surprised you guys even came down with us!"
"EYYY. GET SOMEEE."
Ilya flips them off, other hand stilling his husband who is focusing hard on walking.
"Ungrateful children, all of you!"
Shane is fine once they get back to the hotel room. Completely fine. Almost like nothing-happened type of fine. And if Ilya didn't know Shane enough, he'd probably think Shane was just acting all sick to get him alone so he can have his way with him. But Ilya is too worried to even joke about that.
Shane says that's exactly what happened though, trying to butter him up. But Ilya knows better. He insists Shane to go change for bed and they should consult with Dr. Terry about his choking in the morning.
Shane makes a joke about choking on his dick instead.
Ilya's very, very concerned, even offers to help him change his clothes for him. But once Shane's hand is inside his pants and his tongue is licking stripes below his ear... Again, he isn't really that strong.
Shane slept like a baby on Ilya's bare chest all night, all marked up and satisfied. He barely even moved, barely even made a sound, just soft and quiet breathing. He was completely fine the entire evening. Ilya can vouch for that. Because the man didn't sleep a second that night.
"Good game. But better luck next time." Luca nods, his stick over his shoulders as he flashes a grin towards his opponents. Game's not done yet. There's still a period remaining. But with a score of 6-1 in favor of the Centaurs. It's hard not to get cocky.
"Fuck off, rook."
"The only reason Centaurs are winning anyway is because you have Hollander and Rozanov," the winger spits on the ice. "Without them, your team is close to shit. Rest of you do fucking nothing."
Luca laughs, knowing those are just sore words from a loser (even if there may be some truth in it). But then he feels a presence behind him. The type of presence that starts playing boss level music.
"Oh, so you admit you're shit players?... That can't play for shit?"
If it was a few months earlier, if you ask Luca who is making those chirps behind him, he would say it's Rozanov, hands down. But he's been paying attention this past few months to know exactly who's behind him. "Uh, Shane-"
"Running your mouth, Hollander?" Another guy from Pittsburgh scoffs, skating closer. "You know, game's not over yet."
"Fuck, it should be. I'm getting bored," Shane laughs, wide toothy smile on his lips as if he wasn't insulting another player to his face.
The guy laughs humorlessly. "Bored? Oh, is that why you've been skating like we're on concrete? You're slowing down, Hollander."
"What? Marital bliss fattening you up?"
Shane blinks, grin frozen on his face while his stare just blanks. They were smack dab in the middle of the rink but even from afar, Ilya could see it, all the way from the benches. That guy poked something he shouldn't have. Shane is this close, if he wasn't already there. Ilya would already be bouncing out over the boards if his two teammates didn't sense it and immediately held on to him.
Cause Shane just laughs, rubs at his eye casually so the man wouldn't see it twitching. "Hold on. I'm sorry. This is awkward."
"I don't think we've met. Remind me who are you again? Does your coach know you snuck on the ice today?"
Luca's stomach drops as the Pittsburgh Captain's face hardens. Oh no, Shane's out here trying to get punched.
The man drops his stick and pushes Shane, hard. Gasps are heard around the crowd, players from the benches are already standing up, getting ready themselves. There was no reason for two opposing teams to be engaging in a fight in between periods.
But Shane, oh, the absolute bastard he was being. Haas doesn't know if it's because there's a full moon or something. Because instead of being deterred, the man doubled down.
"Woah, seriously. What? You're trying to get more minutes on the ice or something?"
The man immediately drops mitts and full speeds towards Shane, and as if to prove a point, Hollander only swiftly moves to the side, easily letting that man check himself to the boards.
The man groans, having a hard time getting up but Hollander only looks down on him and mutters. "How's that for skating fast?"
Shane was about to skate away and leave it at that when he hears a whistle right behind him. He turns to find an unimpressed referee. One he actually knew personally, just deadpanning at him.
"Hollander-Rozanov. Box. Two minutes."
Shane's jaw drops.
"What? He charged at me! I didn't do anything. Hell, I didn't even say anything that wasn't the fucking truth. Plus, they were targeting our rookies the entire game. You should've called them for that-"
The referees just sighs, maybe a little disappointed. "Don't make me turn it into five."
"Are you freaki-" "Shane, c'mon."
Haas had to pull at Shane, looking at his senior teammate with a pleading look just so he'd listen. There was a little lingering guilt on his face, knowing he somehow had a hand in this.
Shane only takes a deep breath before skating towards the direction of penalty box when-
"Yeah, right. Go in the sin bin where you belong, Russian fucker."
Shane stops in his tracks and skates right to the face of that mouthy forward at a speed Luca thought was going to end with someone getting decked. But he possibly did something way worse.
"I can sit in that whole fucking box for the rest of the game and your team will still be hearing your hometown's disappointment by the end of it."
"HOLLANDER-ROZANOV. LAST WARNING."
"Fuck, man, Hollander was a beast out there."
"I mean, we get the need to show off but ending a game with a 10-2 at your opponent's own home rink? ...that's just a humiliation ritual."
"Dude, I know. And beast is the right way to call it too."
The two sports anchors in oversized jerseys were riffing off of each other as they show a playback of the fight that had happened. Ultimately, showing Shane getting in the face of the Pittsburg Captain and spouting a few words before helping himself towards the box, obviously pissed out of his mind.
"Hollander's been in the penalty box this season more times than his entire career combined. I mean, what the actual hell has happened to our Saint Hollander?"
"He's gotta be on something. And look, I don't mean drugs. Never that. We both know he'd never. What I mean is-"
The camera then moves from the penalty box to the other side of the court, towards the players' benches, all with solemn and serious faces. Only one was smiling, amused.
"Anddddd... There you go. That guy."
"Yup, makes sense now."
Ilya was featured on the screen, front and center, even with a helmet on, looking pleasantly surprised, arms crossed in front of his chest, looking over towards the box with a somewhat proud smile on his face.
"Maybe that's what happens when you marry a guy like Rozanov. Knew something's gotta be rubbing off on hockey's golden boy."
"I don't think he's our golden boy anymore, to be honest. And as much as it hurts me to say this, there really is only one person to blame."
"Hollander's still the GOAT though. But he's got to find a way to cool it-"
The tv in the locker room shuts off. Everyone's gaze turns towards the arm directed at the screen, unsurprised to find Shane at the other end of it.
"Is this hockey commentary nowadays? Hah, they let anyone with a microphone have an opinion now. Garbage."
All they talked about was him. As if Shane scored all ten of those goals, which he didn't. It was a team fucking effort. Hell, his husband even scored a natural hat trick and they didn't even talk about it once. A disgrace.
He throws the remote somewhere in the room before taking a towel and heading straight to the showers. "I'm going first."
No one else speaks a word until after they were sure Shane has already started showering.
Once they hear the water turn on, they all barrel towards their captain for answers.
"Hey, is Shane okay?"
"Dude, seriously, what the hell did you do?"
"Whatever you did. You have to fix it. This is getting out of hand."
"I've been taking checks for him this past few months. I'm bruised as fuck, you gotta do something, Cap."
"You didn't cheat on him or anything, right?"
"Everything is fi-" Ilya stops and just stares at that one absurd teammate- "why the fuck did that cross your mind? No. Of course not. I am loyal. Devoted. Whipped. Locked up. Husband forever and even after that. What the hell is wrong with you?"
Ilya scoffs, flipping him off to his face, somewhat offended to even be accused of such a thing. "Don't ever let Shane hear you say that. Complete lies. Ridiculous."
He puts his hands on his hips, putting on that captain stance. "And everyone, Shane is fine. Just a little pressured."
"He's had back-to-back wins with the Metros... And they are the worst fucking team on the planet."
There are murmurs of agreement across the locker room. Everyone on the team is knowledgeable about what happened to Shane's past team, of course.
"So, Shane really wants to score one with his home team. This team. And we are not going to waste what he's giving. He has lots of energy, and lots of drive and we will ride it with him. ALL. THE WAY. TO PLAYOFFS."
"NOW, LET ME HEAR IT, CENTAURS. FUCK METROS!"
"FUCK METROS!"
"I CAN HEAR YOU."
The locker room full of men quickly quiets down as a half naked Shane walks out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, with a confused expression.
"Are you guys seriously talking shit about the Metros right after winning against Pittsburgh? For no reason?"
The Centaurs all unanimously glance towards their captain, a.k.a. their representative, who only shrugged.
"Is not shit talk, I am hyping up team... It's what a good captain does."
"Huh." Shane nods, unconvinced. "Right. Don't forget we still have a roadie in Philadelphia before the match with Boston."
"And Ilya, as captain, you should be getting ready to talk to the press, hit the showers and get dressed already."
"Bood, you're alternate, it won't be good if I show up next to him after that, you should also be ready to pick up after him."
"Everyone, move. We have a dinner with the sponsors tonight before we hit the road. C'mon!"
"Copy!"
"Heard!"
"Aight, co-cap!"
Ilya simply watches as everyone returns back to fixing their stuff, one by one hitting the showers just like their alternate ordered. Ilya whistles, swaggering towards Shane, eyes scanning all over him. "You know... maybe you should be captain next year. Looks good on you, telling us what to do."
Shane's eyes settles on him, face flat. Gaze still sharp, still somewhat in captain mode. But Ilya can see his husband in that glare somewhere.
"You kidding me?" Shane's hand reaches out, gripping the emblem stitched at the left of his sweater, dragging Ilya closer. "This C is already as good as mine."
"I'm just letting you keep it this season."
Ilya's jaw drops, getting a face full of his husband, melting something in him that he couldn't help but whisper. "You are so strict, captain."
A smirk slowly made its way to Shane's lips before he lets go of Ilya, but the man stayed exactly where he was.
"Like I said, get going. I'm hungry. And I don't want to miss my meal."
Ilya's eyes widen. "Me, the meal?"
"I mean real food, Ilya. Go!"
Shane pushes Ilya towards the showers, a lovesick smile basically plastered on his face. Cause he knows, if he plays his cards right, he'll be able to convince Shane to make a meal out of him too. (He would, very easily, man doesn't really need that much convincing)
The post-game interviews don't even take that long anyway. They all had one question. What is going on with Hollander. And Ilya already knew how to spin that.
"Different? No, no... Obviously, Shane just has lots of energy. Is very good for the game and is very good for the team," he laughs, "I mean, I will not take full credit. It's just very kind of him to be taking the chirping off of my plate so I can focus on scoring this time. We're great like that. Take turns. He's a very supportive husband."
"So, captain, are you saying the Centaur fans don't need to worry? At all?"
"Only thing fans need to worry about is how they're gonna watch us make it to the playoffs. Nothing else." Ilya winks.
Okay. Maybe there is some need to worry.
Because Shane knows he's different. He can feel the fucking difference. He's so mad. All the time. He doesn't even know why. It's been months since he's had this temper. They started just before the season started too. The best he can do is direct it on the ice. He has promised himself that he will not be pouring any of his overflowing anger on his husband. And he had barely accomplished that.
But that's not even his biggest problem.
Shane has been eating more, way more than he knows he should. He's been sneaking snacks when no one's looking. But he's actually losing weight and he knows that's not right.
He thinks it's because he and Ilya has been more... active these days. They are on the right track for the playoffs, winning games left and right. Hell, their team is even breaking records. If that doesn't get both of them going more than usual, then nothing would.
But Shane's actually losing weight. Not too much, but still a noticeable number. And somehow, he still feels like he gained more of a pudge. His abs had even visually softened, no matter how many reps he adds to his routine. And there's this feeling in his lower torso. He'd say his stomach but it feels lower, maybe even deeper. He couldn't really explain it.
The best excuse he could think of is the water. He possibly drank some bad water at some point and now his body is bloating to unbelievable heights. He's also been peeing more often. That is one of the more concerning parts.
"Fuck, is it my prostate?" Shane whispers to himself, looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, touching his stomach, feeling the small change. Small but definite.
But there really shouldn't be anything wrong with his prostate. He hasn't heard any family history about it. His strict diet is approved by a nutritionist. The only thing out of the ordinary about his prostate would be just how much Ilya pokes at it when they...
...
And that can't possibly be it... at least, Shane thinks so.
No, actually, he's sure. Because he has researched this, so that can't possibly be it. It must be something else. (Cause there's no way he's giving that up.)
There's the cravings too. And they're getting bad, real bad. He's had them before but nowhere near like this. He's eaten a snickers at almost every hotel they've stayed at. He's sometimes even eaten a second portion of the meal preps he makes. And when he realizes what he's done, it just adds to his souring temper even more. Like he's actually losing control now. And who was he without his routine?
The only thing stopping him from having a full on freak out is the fact that he's losing weight when he was eating outside his approved calories. But that's actually what's upsetting him the most. Losing weight is as bad as gaining it, especially in the middle of the season, especially when they have a great chance of making it to the playoffs.
He's heard of fast metabolism but this was ridiculous. Maybe he really should get a consult about th-
"Moya lyubov?"
Shane sucks in a breath, quickly taking another towel and rubbing it to his hair. "In here!"
Ilya comes inside the bathroom and whistles, taking in the sight of his husband before basically jumping him. "Hello, pretty."
Shane laughs, feeling Ilya's lips on his neck, thick arms enveloping his naked torso, setting fire on every inch of skin he touches. Shane shrinks back. "S-stop, we need to meet the rest of the team in ten minutes."
"Relax." Ilya pauses from kissing his neck, inching his lips closer to the mans' ear. "Bus is not leaving without their star players."
"Ilya."
Ilya pretends not to hear him, hands freely going around, feeling everything they can grab on. Shane's shoulders, arms, thick thighs, his titschest. Everything was all soft, yet hard, toned and defined. Don't even get him started on the sounds coming out of Shane's mouth. Oh, Ilya's is positively swimming in Shane Holl- "Wait, wait, Ilya...Not today."
"I'm bloated. I look horrible."
That's the only thing that gets Ilya to stop.
His mouth practically pops off of the spot he's been sucking on Shane's neck, the bright red mark just out of the Shane's sight greets him before he looks at his husband, wide eyed.
"Where?" He mutters, looking at his husband's body all over, completely confused. "Where is horrible. I don't see it?"
Shane sighs, still breathing hard from Ilya's antics, shaking his head at this dumb conversation. He refuses to let him play dumb. If he noticed it, Ilya surely would've too. "Just-"
"Is it down here, where?"
A noise pushes out of Shane's mouth as he feels Ilya's sneaky hands grab at something under his towel. "Ilya..."
Ilya gasps dramatically, looking at him through the mirror. "My Shane is seeing things."
"Give me moment. I will look for you."
Ilya easily lifts Shane up to the bathroom counter before the man could even react, immediately getting on his knees and flipping up the flimsy hotel bathroom towel Shane had around his waist to let his head inside.
"Hey, what are you- ah- fuCK!"
They are twenty minutes late. Everyone is already on the bus. Shane, very embarrassed, made an excuse about sleeping late, profusely apologizing for wasting everyone's time. But all his efforts are overthrown by Ilya coming into the bus behind him, complete with sunglasses, a shining complexion and a shit-eating grin on his face that just screams he scored. It also didn't help that Bood started clapping, resulting to the whole Centaurs line-up cheering and congratulating their captain who proudly took it all, giving high-fives all around, promising to foot the entire bill of everyone's drinks when they win against their next match with Boston.
Shane tells him to shut up and sit down. And he does. But it doesn't deter his spirit. Shane just shakes his head.
Because yes, sure, they definitely only slept late. And Shane had already forgotten about that little moment they had before the big moment they shared. But Ilya didn't.
He keeps watch of Shane when he falls asleep on his shoulder, lashes fluttering shut as he sleeps quietly. Ilya shushes everyone near their vicinity as he just studies Shane's sleeping form.
Ilya knows Shane's hiding something, and he's very intent on not telling him. Shane was just like that. If he thinks he can handle it on his own, he would not bother anyone else. And Ilya doesn't know how to get out of him. But he will get to the bottom of it. Because that's what they promised each other, didn't they? For better or for worse.
Shane blinks. The dizziness hitting him hard. He can practically feel his very breath throbbing in his head.
He bites the inside of his cheek, grips the stick tighter and swats, eyes on the prize no matter how hard it was to maintain sight.
The puck flies straight, past an opposing defenseman's stick, goes under his own winger's legs and through the goalie's mitts into the net.
A phenomenal shot. Another goal. 5-3, with the Centaurs in the lead. He can barely hear the loud horns and the enthusiastic play-by-play announcers. He can't even celebrate. All he could think about is how that's more comfortable. That there is only a few minutes before time. It's the last period and they had Ilya and Barrett both on the ice. They would be able hold off against Boston without him.
Shane heads straight towards benches. It was barely even two minutes since he got on the ice. Basically just scoring once and immediately getting out.
"Switch," he gasps, hands gripping the sides tight, eyes held down, one knee on the ice because he can barely hold his body up.
Coach Weibe quickly nudges another player to replace him.
"You good, Hollander? Can you get over the boards? Did something happen?"
He breathes. "...just need a minute."
But he was lying. He actually needed Ilya. He needed his husband to touch him, pat his head and tell him everything's going to be okay. That, or to shove his fingers down his throat to help him vomit everything in his stomach.
A hand reaches over to hold his forearm while another grips the back of his sweater, almost nudging him back over the boards. Only a little assistance but he's thankful. He barely had enough control to stay upright.
Shane raises his head only once his ass finally drops down the benches. Because somehow even that is enough to get his stomach churning. He is faced by his coach and a plethora of concerned teammates. He just waves them away, talking about needing rest.
Shane lifts his head, looking over the ice, just high enough to cross eyes with Ilya, who stopped in the middle of the rink, eyes trained on him. Another guy from Boston stops next to him, looking just as concerned for Shane. Marleau, Shane remembers, from their wedding. Good guy.
Shane only gives him a stern nod, gesturing his head towards the direction of the goal. Ilya nods, but Shane saw the hesitation on his face so he continues to hold his gaze until Ilya finally looks away and continues to play.
Shane is fine. He was already safe back on the benches. There was no reason to throw the game, not when there was still time for the other team to bounce back.
But Ilya had different thoughts though, clenching his teeth together, forcing himself to focus on the game when his mind has already strayed. Ilya wanted to go towards Shane, ask him if he's alright, ask him if it's because of someone on the other team and to point him out so Ilya can get one in before the time ends. But he wanted- he needed to be by Shane's side. But he knew Shane would hate it.
The most he can do is to make this game finish as soon as possible.
And the game does. But Shane couldn't even celebrate with the team as the whistle blows, signifying the end of the game, and another win for the Centaurs.
He's hunched over. He's pushing it down.
He's pushing it down because if he doesn't, bile will be all over the floor.
Once Ilya reaches Shane, who skated like he was the paramedics. It's like nothing happened- again. Shane lies about snot blocking his nose, making it harder to breathe while playing on the ice. Coach tells him to drink some medicine and go to sleep early. That he needs his best players to be on top form and some cold shouldn't stop them from getting another cup.
Shane nods and smiles, acting as if he knows it's also nothing.
Ilya, though, knows a lie when he sees it. And he wasn't about to let this one go. Not anymore.
In the locker room, while Shane is in the middle of changing, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He gets turned around, just in time for Ilya to grab the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together.
Shane stills, amused and a little baffled while Ilya just stares at him mutely. "Uh... Getting comfortable there?"
"Sigh. Guys."
"C'mon, not here."
"Respect the single people, man."
"Hey, we won. And I even scored a goal. They can make out for all I care."
"You're warm," Ilya finally talks, serious, with no ounce of humor in his voice. But Shane just pushes him away.
"I'm warm because I've been skating my ass off."
"You need medicine. Something."
Shane snorts. "I need a shower."
Ilya walks closer towards him. "I help you."
Shane furrows his brows at him, weirded out.
"Okay, too far."
"Guys, please!"
"Oh, I need to find someone."
"Can I go first before you guys do at least?"
Ilya sighs before addressing every whiny brat in the room. "Everyone, grow up. Shane is sick. I need to take care of him."
"My nose was blocked. I just needed to sneeze, I'm fine now." Shane waves it off, widening his eyes at his husband, hoping he'll get the message. There was no need to alarm the team. Not when this win against Boston just expedited their standings. Team morale had to be kept high.
Ilya saw it. But was taking none of it. "No, not fine. There is something. Shane."
Sometimes, Shane really hates how perceptive Ilya has became for him. And he hates how Ilya has figured out that he can use those eyes to get something off of him.
Shane could only lean in and whisper softly, using his husband voice so Ilya would lose his captain voice. "I'm fine, really. Don't be weird. Hmm?"
"Just join me later, okay?"
Promise of later sex always got Ilya to back off. Which is good because it buys Shane time.
Because everything was absolutely not fine.
Maybe it was triggered by his parents' worried phone call:
"No, mom. Don't worry. It just looked bad on camera. I was really alright. I just had a blocked nose, is all. You know how hard it is to skate when you can't breathe. No- I- yes, dad. I know. Ilya already made me take the medicine.... I promise I'm taking care of myself. I'm fine. He's taking care of me too. It's not like I'm alone. There's nothing to worry about. We're fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine... Promise."
He can say it over and over. But he knows it's not true.
Because here Shane was, on the balcony floor of a hotel room in Tampa, chewing silently with tears in his eyes.
Yup, whatever this is. It's horrible. It sucks. And Shane wishes it was over. He wishes he was home. He wishes he was back in Ottawa, in his cozy house with his beloved husband, not in this impersonal hotel room, looking over a city he has no connection with. Just hours from playing another team that has the same chances of taking the cup away from his team's hands.
Shane jumps when he hears the balcony door slide open, hiding whatever is in his hand behind him.
"Moya lyubov... Is late."
Even when half asleep, his husband is still gorgeous and has the power of melting Shane's thoughts away... well, maybe not all of them.
"I know... Sorry. Go back to sleep. I was just getting some fresh air."
Ilya sighs as he sits down on the cold balcony floor next to Shane, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "You don't need to hide it. I already see snickers bar."
Shane keeps quiet while Ilya continues to rub his eyes, forcing himself to wake up when something cold and sticky is placed on his palm.
Ilya blinks at his hand, before looking back to his teary-eyed husband. "Why give it to me? I did not say it to take."
"You finish. I won't take your chocolate." Ilya leans forward to give it back but Shane moves away as he sucks in a breath. Guilt grating on his own voice.
"You should... It's my second one."
And that was the straw that broke the camel's back. "It's just- I already ate the meal I prepared for dinner but I'm still- I'm just so hungry. And... I really, really wanted the sugar."
"And I couldn't sleep. Something just feels- it's so- So I just-
"Shane."
"Do you know I'm losing weight?" Shane snaps, as if that sentence has been building up in his chest for months. And Ilya could see it in his eyes.
"You've felt it, right? You noticed it. Not a lot. But I am."
"But how? I do this. I keep doing this. And it's just-I don't get it! It doesn't make any sense!"
"Shanya." Ilya kneels over, placing his hands on either side of Shane's face. "You are having panic attack."
"Everything's okay. Just look at me." Shane stares up at him, focusing on the man's breathing and the brightness of Ilya's eyes as it reflected the city lights.
"No, it's not." Shane's voice was small. Like he has gotten tired of telling himself those exact words for months now. And he has.
"No. It is." Ilya insists as he nods. "This, all of this is okay."
"It's just stress. You are putting so much pressure on yourself. Shane, it is not healthy. You know this better than anyone."
"And the candy? It's okay! We work out like monsters everyday," Ilya scoffs as he wipes the tears from Shane's cheeks, "two or three chocolate can do nothing."
Ilya breathes out a laugh just as the thought hits him. "You can even eat whole vending machine and we can burn it all off in an hour. And I'm not talking about going to the gym."
"Seriously, you ride me once and I feel like I lose million calories."
The absurdity of that comment forces a laugh out of Shane, pushing him out of that headspace. "...you barely even do anything when I'm on top."
"Yes. So it means you burn like two million up there." Ilya's grin widens, already seeing his success in the form of his husband's smile returning in his eyes. "So no need to worry. Nothing."
"We're going to the playoffs again this year, Shane. Together, as returning champions."
Ilya leans over and presses a kiss on Shane's nose, just over his favorite freckle. "There is no time for guilt. Just happy. Yes?"
Shane takes a deep breath and it already feels lighter that it just tickles him to have Ilya around him like this. But he could only stare at him, Ilya, the best choice he's ever made in his life.
"Yes? Shane?"
"Hmm." Ilya was going to take that as a yes.
"I love you."
Shane finally smiles wide, a few more stray tears escapes him as he hums again. "...love you too."
"There we go."
Ilya presses a quick kiss on his lips before pulling Shane onto his lap, keeping him off of the cold balcony floor. They embrace, and they stay there for a while, just relishing each other's company for a few moments until Shane pulls away, only to bring out another candy bar from his pocket.
"Split the third one with me?"
Ilya smiles wide, keeping his laughter in.
"Okay. Give. I even open for you."
Ilya isn't even going to talk about how he can see a fourth one still hiding in Shane's pocket. All he needs is his Shane happy.
And maybe he needs to check if his therapist can take another client, or if she can recommend someone. Because that was the first thing Ilya's going to do once they're back home in Ottawa.
"Hollander." Scott nods as he takes his place for the face-off. "Good to see you again."
"You mean you're ready to lose your chance at the cup again, old man?"
Hunter whistles. "Ah, right, almost forgot, it's Hollander-Rozanov now."
"He spit that insult directly in your mouth?"
Shane knows it's in good fun. Just a normal chirp. Nowhere even near the worst ones he's heard this season. And Scott's a good guy. Not to mention, one of them. But Shane's eyes just looks up with a certain venom in them.
"Yeah. You fucking bet he did."
"My husband's hotter than yours will ever fucking be."
Hunter squints his eyes, mixture of taken back and amused, a weirded out smile pulling at his lips.
He's never heard that chirp on the ice before.
"Shane, what?"
The puck falls and Shane easily takes it away.
Okay. This time, Shane can really admit he has gotten more sensitive these days with the chirps. This one was particularly embarrassing because Shane has actually personally met Kip, and he was a lovely guy.
But this specific moment though, it made Ilya laugh so hard that he asks if Shane can say it again to Scott with him in earshot this time.
It almost didn't matter that they lost this one. Playing the Admirals was either an easy win or a bitch to play. But the team will catch up. They know they will. Because they know they will make it. Shane trusts his team.
Shane's so fucking pissed.
"Hey, bud."
"Not right now, Hayden."
He takes his position for the face-off, right across his best friend and former teammate, Hayden Pike, and instead of talking nice, or exchanging fun tidbits like they always do when Hayden and Shane gets to do the face-off, all Hayden's going to get today is Shane's quietly seething face.
Because Shane already warned the team, Ilya especially, not to do anything if someone from the Metros says anything. It doesn't matter what happened before, all that matters is what is happening now. They're this close to the playoffs. Fucking around wasn't an option anymore.
But someone did run their mouth, Comeau to be exact, and now his team's best center and best defenseman are in the penalty box.
The only upside is that, at least, Ilya took Comeau and another defenseman from the Metros into the box with them, making the game an even four-on-four, just three skaters and a goalie each. It would be an exhausting play, but at least both teams are equally at a disadvantage.
And all this because someone just really had to go get a fucking penalty and bring someone along with them. And on the day that Shane's body was feeling incredibly heavy too, like he just got out of heavy drinking and hasn't recovered yet. Like his gravity has fully shifted and he still had to deal with Ilya pulling this shit.
Shane is not even going to spare a glance towards the box, because if he sees Ilya's proud smile, which he most likely already has (he did not), Shane might fucking lose it.
This was no one's power play. A dumbass play is more like it.
And this thought was further cemented by the time Shane scores. Because after the goal horns blow, he could hear shouting again at the other side of the rink. And he sees Ilya being held back by Evan from exiting the penalty bench, obviously incredibly pissed off and wants to show it. Shane is confused until he glances to the other side, only to see the Metro's new defenseman doing the same to Comeau.
Now he was even more baffled. Because how could they still be fighting with all the scorekeepers between the two boxes?
Shane doesn't know. And Shane is not going to bother. He still has a game to win.
And he does. Because of course, he does.
Shane knew the Metro's play like the back of his hand. Unfortunate for them, they may know his, but they can't do a thing about it.
Shane later finds out what Comeau was talking shit about. Talking about how Shane fell off when he started chasing dick instead of hockey. And that that must be why he's slowing down on the ice this season, nowhere near the peak performance he's shown when he was still with the Metros. Ilya just couldn't stop himself from pummeling his face black and blue after hearing all that.
Shane had decided he was a little less mad now.
And actually...
There's no discussing it anymore. For the last few months of the season, Shane had been different. Not completely different. But a definite change. Ilya could tell. Hell, everyone could tell.
Ilya personally blames the stress. But he's not really sure there's much he can help with that, knowing his husband.
Hockey is his life. Shane Hollander and hockey is almost always going to be in the same sentence.
And he's a back-to-back Stanley cup winner. No doubt his Shane wants to accomplish the same in a different team, a team who would actually support and stand by him, a team who would be proud to put his- their jerseys up in the rafters one day.
And the pressure must finally be getting to him. Ilya knows that better than anyone. But Ilya has only been getting more and more worried. Shane needed to get checked. And as soon as possible.
But they had a talk, a small one of Shane promising that he will take every test and meet with every doctor Ilya wanted him to. But after the games. Because they couldn't afford it now. Not when they were in the end game, not when they've reached the finals.
If anyone on the team even hears about Shane possibly being out of commission for the last round of the playoffs, that would be disastrous for the team morale, and Shane will never forgive himself for that. So Shane promises Ilya, he'll do it after the final game, and not a moment later.
At first, Ilya really didn't want to say yes. It's not like it was going to be the end of the world if a doctor looks at him. At most, maybe Shane would just need a pill or two, or maybe even a set of antibiotics, who knows? At least they weren't going to continue into this blind. Because not knowing what was wrong with his husband was killing Ilya. He didn't even want to think of the possibility that it was already too late.
With another lengthy conversation and a heavy heart, Ilya finally agrees, knowing this means the world to Shane. He does not like his husband taking his health second to hockey, but there was no moving him. All Ilya could do was make Shane promise that this would be the last and only time. Next time, it won't even matter if they're going for their third consecutive Stanley Cup. Shane will come first, end of discussion.
And it wasn't even supposed to a sexy moment.
But Shane pulls Ilya back to their shared hotel room in record speed. Hell, Shane doesn't even wait for Ilya to close the door.
Their mouths didn't let up for air, only using the ones already in each other's lungs. Teeth clacking against each other, hands wantonly grabbing at every crevice they can touch. They were slowly making their way to the bed, breathing hard on each other's lips when the door bursts open.
"Caps!! Let's go part-!"
"OUT!"
Shane shouts, barely even turning his head. The door shuts back up, not a second sooner, sounds of panic can be heard from the other side but it obviously didn't affect Shane.
Ilya laughs, a little nervous, and incredibly horny when Shane just drops to his knees in the middle of the floor, as if absolutely nothing just happened.
"I think- I think you scared our entire team."
With his hands on Ilya's belt buckle, Shane looks up, brows furrowed together, insulted to be even hearing about other people right now.
"What? You rather go drink with them than fuck me?"
"No." Ilya could not answer that fast enough.
"Good, now shut your mouth, and give me your dick."
Ilya's jaw slackens at his husband's words, fingers dropping to his belt to help his husband, now fumbling with his zipper that got stuck. Shane just clicks his tongue, irritated.
"Fuck, too slow."
Because Ilya could do anything, Shane pushes him to the bed and practically jerks his pants off of him, underwear and all. Like a hungry, clumsy wolf, needing to devour his flesh as soon as as possible. Ilya wanted to rub his eyes to make sure this was really happening, but he didn't want to miss even a second of his husband acting like a crackhead for his dick.
When the pants come off, Shane spares no time taking Ilya in his mouth.
And the moment, the exact moment, that his cock lands on Shane's tongue, all the tension, all the stress, all the anger, everything just seemingly bleeds out of Shane. His shoulders go slack, his mouth breaths out a small moan, his eyes fluttering to a daze. Like he was finally at peace.
It might be the hottest thing Ilya has ever witnessed in his life.
"Holy shit. Shane. Fuck."
And he cums just from that. Shane didn't even have to do anything more than just swallow what he gave.
Ilya wasn't even able to do the gentlemanly thing and pull out but he had a feeling Shane didn't want him to.
Because Shane's still not letting go, still holding him in his mouth, sucking softly.
Ilya already knows it's going to be a long night.
The last game. The final hurdle. The entire season was leading up to this. Best of seven games. It's now or never.
Everyone in his team is undoubtably on the edge of their seats, nervous as all hell, but their excitement was palpable.
Not to mention that, as ridiculous and as unserious as Ilya can be at times, he's still an amazing captain. With just a few words, he's able to reignite his team's spirit, sending their morale to the roof in a way that Shane can never replicate.
But to be fair, whose morale wouldn't raise if you promise to pay them thousands of cash if they win? (It doesn't work for Shane though. They share a bank account. That's just our money going in a circle, Ilya)
So, Ilya promises him something else. Something he can look forward to. Something that can start being a tradition whenever they win the cup... Shane scoffs at him... and agrees.
They know they were all practically celebrating already before they even win. And that they shouldn't. They shouldn't be cocky, they should focus and not let it get into their heads. But they're all already so proud of how far they've come. This is what they've been gunning for all season and it was finally within their grasp.
Just one last game to win. And Ottawa Centaurs will be back-to-back Stanley Cup champions.
Normally, Shane wouldn't even be worried.
He knew how talented his team is, and how well they all work together. Not to mention that no one is significantly injured in their lineups. He'd even go as far as say that everyone in on their peak health and performance today. They would already call those game advantages, especially for the playoff finals.
The only liability here is- well... Shane. The guy whose temper started like roaring flame at the beginning of the series and slowly simmered down, along with his speed and score counts.
It's not a big dip, but Shane knows his stats. And he's playing below his usual scores average. And he should be worried about that. But somehow, today, it almost didn't seem to matter. At least, not in comparison.
Because today was easy, it felt easy. Shane could've sworn there was something different.
When he woke up, his body still feels heavy. His gravity still feels askew. He can still feel something is off.
But compared to his other matches, today feels better, much better, comfortable even. To the point where Ilya even asks him if his body was just acting up because they wanted to make sure they reach the finals.
Today, it feels like his body is giving him a pass. Like it's saying: just today, you have just until after the games.
And Shane is going to take that chance. He feels unreasonably thankful. He almost feels... fuzzy, even.
As if those thoughts weren't weird enough. Shane pats his tummy with a smile. As if thanking his stupid body for being cooperative for once.
Because he promises he's not going to waste it.
Play of the century.
Colorado Torrents v Ottawa Centaurs.
None of the teams score a single goal in the first two periods.
It isn't until the third period that Ilya manages to score a goal past their massive goalie.
But the Colorado Center manages to get one past Wyatt just seconds before the clock stops.
They tied. 1-1.
They had to go overtime. Sudden death. First one who scores wins all.
Both teams put their best players forward. Both Ilya and Shane are on the ice.
The crowd who was as loud as practically canons is now as silent as a heart attack. They could feel it too. The tension.
Because now, it wasn't a game anymore. It was a race.
Time for the face-off. Ilya takes front and center, Shane on his right wing, Troy on his left. Shane barely hears the taunt Ilya makes to the other guy but he guesses it must've worked because he won. And Ilya immediately passes the puck over to Shane.
Now it was practically a dead sprint towards the goal.
Shane has played enough hockey to know he's got a bad angle. No clear shots anywhere. He couldn't even safely pass the puck if he wanted to. And that was if the two players who was now hurdling towards him doesn't bodycheck him out of commission first.
What he had now wasn't a good shot. It was the type of shot you only make when there's seconds left on the clock and there was nothing left to lose.
It certainly wasn't the type of move you make when there's still 19 minutes left for better chances.
But there was something in Shane that told him to risk it.
It was sudden death. He had the puck. Might as well.
And so he does.
Shane grips his stick, and takes the shot, putting all his trust in his feeling.
And it didn't let him down.
The goals lights up. The horns blow. And he hears that familiar music from home.
1-2.
In favor of the Ottawa Centaurs.
They won.
They're Stanley Cup Champions.
Shane stills in surprise, eyes wide, staring at the goal he just made. No way...
He releases a breath. One he didn't even know he was holding when he feels someone crash into him. Ilya.
Through all the layers and all the paddings, he feels his husband's body on his, gripping him for dear life. Ilya's shouting, jumping, happiness practically radiating off of the man, pulling a smile out of Shane.
Holy shit. They actually won.
Ilya pulls away just enough to crash his lips to Shane's. Their helmets hitting together but it doesn't matter. Not right now. Not in this moment.
"I love you. I fucking love you," Ilya moans to his mouth, eyes closed, breathing hard, obviously running on pure adrenaline.
Shane laughs with him, dropping his mitts to put one hand on Ilya's cheek, the other gripping his sweater. "I love you too."
Shane lets out a breath before a shaky laugh just bursts out of his chest. "Fuck, Ilya, we won."
The smile on Ilya's face widens to a maniacal degree before the man just throws his head up at the sky. "WE WON!"
"WE WON!!!"
It all happened so fast. Every Centaur that had rushed into the ice crashed into the both of them, easily enveloping the couple as they all form a big red and black circle in the middle of the ice rink. All Shane can hear was the thunderous applause of the crowd, the booming victory music and the shouting of his fellow teammates ringing in his ears.
"CENTAURS! CENTAURS! CENTAURS!"
Shane and Ilya shouts along with the crowd. Both still in each other's arms, lost in the once-in-a-lifetime moment. This. This is what they were fighting for.
The MHL committee moves into the ice, and they see it, the Stanley Cup, their cup, being moved towards the table.
As the captain, Ilya is called for the official pictures and handover. But before they let go of each other's hands, Ilya leans over to Shane.
"I'll take trophy this time. You get the next."
Shane laughs. "You bet your ass, I will."
Ilya skates over to the commissioner, grins happily at the pictures before finally holding the enormous cup in his hands.
He turns towards his team and hoists it above his head and shouts, the team screaming and cheering with him.
Shane claps along as Ilya takes a victory lap around the rink, showing it off to the fans who was cheering right back at him.
In the meantime, the families of the winning team was finally allowed onto the ice. Shane could see his mom and dad walking briskly and excitedly towards him.
"SONS!" David cheers as he opens his arms wide.
"DAVID!" Ilya screams right back as he quickly hands the trophy to Haas before crashing into the older Hollander's arms.
Shane laughs, shaking his head at the two most important men in his life before turning his attention to his mom.
"I'm so proud of my boys," Yuna gasps, holding back her tears as she wraps her arms around Shane, giving him a big hug. "My back-to-back Stanley Cup Champions!"
"I love you!" Yuna gushes.
Shane just grins, embracing her right back. "Love you too, mom."
"Us too!" Ilya and David joins their hug, evoking a laughter from Shane that just tickles him from the inside. Just the fact that he was surrounded by his most beloved people, sharing this momentous win is a memory Shane will remember for the rest of his life... Until their next win, of course.
They pull away and Ilya quickly relives the last impossible shot Shane has made as if it was the most extraordinary thing he's ever seen in his life. Shane's not even sure if his parents are actually as impressed as they let on or if they're just humoring Ilya but he couldn't help but smile at it all. Because absolutely nothing could ruin this moment.
But it was time's up.
The borrowed time Shane has been on has up and went.
And it has completely slipped Shane's mind.
They've all taken their team photos, had personal moments with their family and had each team member hold the Stanley Cup in their hands. All that was left was to talk to the press as the new reigning champions of the MHL.
But they don't even get to the press before Shane's body falls. Just barely a few minutes out of the ice, his pelvis tightens horribly. To the point that his legs just gives out from under him. If Ilya wasn't next to him holding his hand, his face would've hit the floor.
Shane collapses to the ground, clutching his stomach, teeth clenched together tight as a new type of pain shot up from inside him.
He couldn't even call out Ilya's name. The pain practically took away his voice.
Shane could hear him though, calling his name, touching his face, begging him to keep his eyes open but he can't.
The pain was so sharp and so intense, Shane couldn't do anything but just crumple. It felt like someone was stabbing his guts over and over again, just taking the air out of his lungs.
Shane couldn't see Ilya, but he could hear the sheer panic in his husband's voice. He tries his best to say Ilya's name, but it all just comes out as a single breath.
The last thing he hears is Ilya shouting his name when it all faded to black.
So much for that playoffs sex.