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one
Bell Centre
Montreal, Quebec, Canada
16 December 2010
Though Shane grew up an Ottawa Centaurs fan, his favorite games to attend were always Montreal Voyageurs games. Montreal has a reputation for being the loudest, most passionate fanbase in the league, and the noise on game nights is unlike anything else.
Shane loves playing in Montreal. He loves the chants, the way the crowd's energy feed his adrenaline, and the chance to give something back to a fanbase that supported its team so fiercely. And luckily, even as a rookie, Montreal seems to love him, too.
Montreal's cheers for its favorite players were only outdone by one thing: their boos for the players and teams they hated.
And, well, Montreal hates Ilya Rozanov.
The boos are deafening as Rozanov argues with the ref, the same one who immediately blew the whistle when Rozanov knocked a Montreal forward to the ice. Johansson sits there winded, still sprawled on the ice. It's a textbook example of interference—Rozanov stopped him when Johansson wasn't anywhere near the puck.
Rozanov doesn’t seem to think so.
“He had the puck! I did what I do, which is try to get it," Rozanov argues. "You might not know this, since you obviously cannot see.”
“Johansson did not have the puck,” the ref says, sounding tired in the same way a parent sounds when dealing with a stubborn child. “I saw it and called it.”
“Ah, but you are wrong.”
Shane keeps a safe distance, circling near the scene. He'd been on the ice when the penalty was called. Most of his teammates had gotten into a brief skirmish with the Bears players afterward, but the refs had broken it up before things escalated. The Voyageurs were just standing up for one of their own. Shane isn't really the type to get into push-and-shoves, though. It's his first season, after all. He's known for scoring goals, not throwing punches.
The refs have managed to send away everyone except themselves, the linesmen, Rozanov, Johansson, and the captains. Shane is close enough to listen.
“Are you stupid? Are you blind?” Rozanov spits out angrily. “He is faking! He acts like a poor little child, he can get up himself.”
Shane looks at Johansson, who still looks like all the air got punched out of his lungs. He doesn’t look like he can get up himself. An alternate captain helps him up.
“He obviously can’t,” says Picard, the Montreal captain. He turns to the ref. “Listen, it’s textbook interference. Let’s make the right call here.”
“But he is faker, like toddler!” Rozanov shouts.
Picard gives a look to the Boston captain, Holeček, obviously annoyed. “Come on. I know that's Boston's whole thing, but can you not keep your rookies in check? We wouldn't have to deal with this if your team didn't play like a bunch of meatheads.”
Holeček scowls. “Maybe keep your own rookie in place, and I’ll deal with my own.”
The Boston captain gestures over to Shane.
Shane freezes, realizing he’s been caught. Apparently he'd been inching closer and closer to the conversation, because now he's basically hovering. Usually only players with a letter are allowed to discuss calls with the refs, so a first-year player blatantly eavesdropping isn't exactly a great look.
Picard sighs and shakes his head, sending the Boston players one final glare before gliding over to Shane, a small smile on his face.
“Hey, rook. Back to the bench,” Picard says, clapping a gloved hand on Shane’s shoulder. Picard’s close to retirement, but he had taken a liking to Shane. Picard had been taking him under his wing all season, teaching him the little things that came with wearing the C one day.
Shane nods, but not before casting one last look back at Rozanov.
He’s big, taller than the refs even though he’s just a rookie, but he looks strangely small at the moment. His shoulders are hunched in towards himself and his head is lowered into a scowl, like a little kid standing next to his parent in the principal’s office after getting in trouble at school.
Rozanov glances over, catching Shane staring. Even though he’s still scowling, the corner of his mouth twitches upwards when their eyes meet, like he finds the whole thing funny. Shane nearly shudders—all he can think about is the way Rozanov’s lips had twitched in the locker room after their commercial shoot, a towel wrapped around his naked waist as he practically invited himself into Shane’s hotel room—
Picard raises an eyebrow, tilting his head towards the Voyageurs bench. Shane nods once before skating away.
A team medic is checking on Johansson at the bench, while the rest of the Voyageurs seem to be fuming, muttering about what a dirty player Rozanov is.
“Dude, I can’t believe they let Rozanov get away with this stuff,” Hayden says as Shane sits down beside him, handing over his water bottle.
Shane frowns. “Get away? They called a penalty on him.”
“Yeah, finally. He’s always trying to bang up players when they’re nowhere fucking near the puck, but usually he never gets called on his bullshit. That’s why he does it all the time—’cause seven times out of ten, nobody says anything.”
Shane knows that he does it pretty often. Shane’s obsessed with hockey—he catches all the game highlights and knows everyone on every team—but Ilya Rozanov has always been a special interest of his. Only because he’d been drafted ahead of Shane.
(Definitely not because something inside him burns whenever someone says Rozanov, a feeling that isn’t hatred but feels just as hot. And definitely not because he still remembers how Rozanov’s lips tasted in that darkened hotel room.)
“At least they got him this time,” Shane says, right as the refs announce Rozanov’s penalty, their voices drowned out by the deafening cheers of the Montreal crowd. “I just hope Jo’s okay.”
Johansson seems fine, but he’s still out of breath and a little frazzled. Coach Parsons seems unhappy about that, considering Johansson is the first power play unit’s center and it’s almost time for them to head out.
Coach scans the bench before his eyes land on Shane, narrowing. “Hollander, you take Johansson’s place on the first power play unit.”
Shane’s eyes widen. “Me?”
“Yes, you!” Coach says. “Same thing as practice.”
Shane wants to argue—I barely practiced on the first unit, and when we did, it was with Johansson on my wing. I have terrible chemistry with the left wing because he’s too slow for me. Why can’t you just send the second power play unit out until Jo feels better?
Instead, he pushes himself off the bench and heads for the ice without another word.
J.J., a younger defenseman on the team, bumps his shoulder as Shane passes.
“Relax,” he says. “You’re Shane Hollander. Just do your thing.”
Shane tries to take the words to heart as he skates out for the power play, but the truth is he isn’t feeling anywhere near as confident as everyone seems to think he should be.
He isn’t used to this unit yet, not really, and the chemistry feels all wrong without the players that he’s used to. Stever is on his left wing instead of Hayden, and while Stever is solid enough, he’s slower, and Shane keeps having to slow down so they don’t get completely out of sync.
The puck drops, and Shane is able to grab it. Shane fights to find open lanes and read the Boston penalty kill, but Stever is always half a beat behind where he needs to be. Shane’s used to Hayden on his wing, but with Stever, there’s no chemistry. He’s not familiar—he doesn’t know what to do.
When Shane circles back low to collect the puck again along the boards, he skates in the pentagon formation, trying to gauge the best move to make. Suddenly, a Boston defender closes in hard and fast. Shane twists away to protect the puck, but his elbow comes up awkwardly in the scramble and catches the Bear right in the jaw. A ref’s hang comes up, and the whistle cuts through the noise immediately.
Fuck.
He knows it was a penalty. It had been completely accidental, but the embarrassment still burns hot up the back of his neck as the ref skates over and points firmly toward the penalty box.
“It was an accident,” Shane says quickly. “I didn’t even hurt him. I was just trying to protect the puck.”
The ref gives him a tired look, the same look he’d given Rozanov earlier. “Doesn’t matter, kid. You made contact.”
Before Shane can say anything else, Stever glides up beside him, looking guilty. “Sorry, Hollzy, my bad. You good?”
Shane manages a tight nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… bad timing.”
He keeps his head down as he skates toward the box, refusing to glance toward the Voyageurs bench where he knows Coach Parsons is probably staring daggers at him for wasting the fresh power play opportunity they’d just been handed.
The Bell Centre is full of loud, angry boos now, echoing around the arena, and Shane has to remind himself forcefully that they’re directed at the refs and the call, not at him personally. Still, it feels awful, like he’s let the whole passionate crowd down after they’d been cheering for him just minutes earlier.
He skates into the penalty box with his shoulders tight, dropping heavily onto the bench as the ref announces the call. For a long moment he just closes his eyes. He’s been in the penalty box before—he’s a hockey player, it’s impossible not to—but he hates taking stupid penalties. Especially when he blows an advantage that they were given thanks to Rozanov’s idiocy.
At least they’ll be back at even strength for some of it, he tells himself, trying to find any kind of silver lining in the mess he’s made. The timer on Rozanov’s original penalty is already counting down, and Shane can feel the other man’s presence before he even opens his eyes.
Rozanov is sitting there with a stupid crooked smirk on his face, chewing lazily on his mouthguard as he leers at Shane through the layers of glass and the scorekeepers between them.
“Well, if it isn’t Shane Hollander,” Rozanov sing-songs, full-on grinning now. “Funny seeing you here. Who would think a Canadian good boy like you would make such a sin, no?”
“Just a penalty, Rozanov,” Shane retorts, keeping his eyes trained on the game in front of him. “I know you have that one-sided points race with me, but just a reminder—penalty minutes don’t count.”
Rozanov barks out a loud laugh, shaking his head. “Ha! You are funny. People say you aren’t, but I should tell them my friend Hollander is actually funny.”
Shane scrunches his nose. “We aren’t friends.”
“No? We were very friendly last time,” Rozanov replies, voice dropping lower. Shane barely suppresses a shudder, the memory hitting him hard—the feel of Rozanov’s warm mouth around his cock, the way Rozanov had felt in his own, hot and overwhelming in that darkened hotel room. “You know, we never talked about that.”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“No? But was fun.” Rozanov’s smirk deepens, and Shane can feel the weight of his gaze even without looking over. “Very fun.”
Shane ignores him as best he can, staring hard at the jumbotron and willing the seconds to count down faster. With all the stoppages, the penalty feels endless. He’s itching to get back on the ice.
“You know, it will be an advantage with you not on the ice,” Rozanov continues. “Maybe I should use that time to score a goal. Get a one-up on you in our scoring race.”
Shane snorts. “You know, I never agreed to any race.”
“Ah, but you are slacking. Being in penalty box limits your ice time.”
“You’re in the penalty box more often than I am. And, besides, one of us has six more goals than the other, and it’s not you.”
Rozanov ponders that for a moment, then shrugs. “I’m feeling lucky today. Is only second period, there is plenty time left to score. I’ll be out before you. Maybe I should take advantage?”
“You only have twenty seconds of one-man advantage,” Shane responds. “And that’s only if the puck is in the right place. You might just get sent back down to your own zone for more defense.”
“Crazier things have happened,” Rozanov sing-songs. “You should know that well, Hollander.”
With a wink—a stupid, wink!—Rozanov steps out of the box the moment his timer hits 0:00, beelining straight toward the puck in the Bears’ zone. Shane just shakes his head—half at Rozanov’s pure audacity, half at the mere idea that he could actually score in such a short window. It seems unlikely, no matter how good Ilya Rozanov is.
Of course, fucking Ilya Rozanov proves him wrong.
The Bears manage a clean two-on-one in the Voyageurs zone during those twenty seconds, and Rozanov makes a perfect shot that flies past the Montreal goalie’s shoulder. The arena erupts in a mix of groans and boos as Boston celebrates.
Shane is let out of the box only four seconds before his own penalty would have expired, and he resists the strong urge to snap his stick over his knee. Instead he clenches his jaw tight and skates back to the Montreal bench, glaring in Coach Parsons’ direction. He highly doubts the man will still be behind the bench next year.
The boos are even louder now as the Bears swarm Rozanov on the ice. Shane watches the celebration with narrowed eyes, his grip tightening on his stick. Rozanov catches his gaze from the Boston bench and throws him another wink, bright and mocking.
Shane clenches his stick even harder.
𓏵
two
O2 Arena
Prague, Czech Republic
19 May 2013
It’s always nerve-wracking when a game is tied and headed into overtime, especially when it won’t be decided by shoot-outs. While NHL games move to a shoot-out after five minutes, playoff and international elimination games stay in 5-on-5 overtime, with full twenty-minute periods continuing until one team finally scores.
In any scenario that would be stressful, but when it’s for a gold medal, Shane’s nerves feel so tightly wound that he worries he might explode into a bundle of raw anxiety.
The IIHF World Championships is one of the biggest international hockey tournaments, where countries face off against each other every year. Though it’s not quite as prestigious as the Olympics, it still carries serious weight. Shane has represented Canada at Worlds several times now. Canada is known for dominating the tournament—they have by far the most wins of any country, and Shane desperately wants to add another gold to that legacy.
Especially when they’re in overtime against Russia of all teams.
The game has been tight the entire time, locked in a scoreless tie that has stretched on and on. As a last-ditch effort, both coaches have been rolling out their top lines more frequently—Shane and Rozanov included—to squeeze out every possible scoring chance. It’s a smart strategy, one many teams use in do-or-die hockey, but Shane can feel his own game deteriorating the longer he stays on the ice. His shots are getting sloppy, his skating heavier and more sluggish. Still, even at his most mediocre he remains one of the best players on the Canadian roster, so Coach keeps sending him out.
The foremost thing on Shane’s mind is winning—he wants it so badly it hurts. But it’s getting harder and harder to focus purely on hockey when his body keeps reminding him exactly how exhausted he is.
The only silver lining is knowing that the Russian coach is working Rozanov just as hard, if not harder.
“Go easy on me this time?” Rozanov asks as he trails behind Shane during a break in play. “You won last year, and I still don’t have a Worlds gold yet. Is only fair.”
Shane scoffs. “Just for that, I’m going to play even harder.”
“You’re tired, though,” he sing-songs, skating smoothly toward the face-off dot in the Canadian zone. “Been on the ice for what, ten minutes of overtime already?”
“You’ve been on ice just as long as I have.”
Rozanov shrugs, leaning down to take the face-off as Shane mirrors his stance. “Yes, but I’m not tired. You are. Your face is red, like pomidor.”
Shane doesn’t know what that means, but he’s long since gotten used to Rozanov slipping into Russian around him—probably because Rozanov enjoys having the upper hand while Shane is left clueless. Rozanov says Russian randomly in sentences, speaks Russian when he chirps Shane, naked in bed… for some reason, the smooth roll of Rozanov’s native language always makes something in Shane melt, even though he has no idea what the words actually mean.
He feels like Pavlov’s dog, cursed to shiver and flush every time Rozanov says something to him that he doesn’t understand. Rozanov has always been an expert at turning even the smallest comment into a sexual innuendo, but Shane has gotten equally good at refusing to take the bait.
So instead he mutters, “I can feel your breath, you know.”
“Ah, you would like how that feels,” Rozanov replies instantly, smirking.
Fucking damn it.
The puck drops, and Shane wins the face-off cleanly with a quick snap of his wrists, sending the puck back to his defenseman along the boards. Even though he’s tired, he manages to get in the right spot for his man to send it back towards him. Rozanov isn’t far behind—he rides Shane on his every move, trying to grab the puck from him.
Shane grits his teeth, trying to keep Rozanov away as he handles the puck. Shane drives hard along the glass, fighting Rozanov for every inch of space. Their shoulders grind together, bodies pressed tight in the tight quarters as sticks clash and tangle in a frantic scramble for the puck. Shane leans into the battle, digging in with his skates, but he feels Rozanov’s grip suddenly tighten around his own stick, deliberately holding it trapped.
Really?
Shane fights with Rozanov to free his stick, hoping that a ref sees it. Thankfully, he does, because the ref closest to them blows the whistle, hand shooting straight up to signal the stoppage. Shane smirks as Rozanov lets out a loud groan when the official points directly at him.
“Oh, come on! Really?” Rozanov complains, throwing his hands up in disbelief.
“Yeah, obviously,” Shane shoots back, unable to hide his grin. “You held my stick.”
“No—both of you,” the ref says, gesturing between them with an impatient wave. “Rozanov, holding the stick. Hollander, slashing.”
“What?” Shane shouts, pointing at himself in genuine shock. He doesn’t remember committing any penalty—he had only been trying to wrench his stick free from Rozanov’s grip. “Me?”
“Yes, Hollander,” Rozanov says, a smug look on his face. “Obviously.”
“You can’t be serious,” Shane protests. “It was reactionary!”
“But you still slashed him. It is still a penalty,” the ref replies, hands raised in a calming motion that does nothing to soothe Shane’s growing anger.
“That’s so fucking unfair!” Shane exclaims. “Rozanov was the one who held my stick! The refs haven’t been calling shit all game—why call something this soft now?”
“Because both of you committed penalties,” he says, voice irritatingly calm.
Shane usually prides himself on keeping his cool on the ice, but the exhaustion, the overtime pressure, and the gold medal on the line have his frustration boiling over. The words keep tumbling out before he can stop them.
“You just want to call both of us because it’s overtime and you don’t want to give Canada the man advantage. You shouldn’t be making those kinds of calls in a gold medal game. That’s stupid.”
“Enough, Hollander! I expected this from Rozanov, but not you.”
“Because I shouldn’t be called!” Shane shouts.
Rozanov crosses his arms, wearing that infuriatingly smug smirk. Shane wants nothing more than to wipe it off his face.
“You know, I always say this,” Rozanov drawls. “Players like Hollander are too used to getting away with obvious penalties.”
Shane turns to glare at Rozanov, eyes flashing angrily. “You can’t say anything, Rozanov, you obviously held my stick!”
“And you obviously slashed me.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that you started it.”
“We are both getting called, Hollander, why does it matter?”
“Because you did it to provoke me!” Shane hisses. “You just wanted to get me off the ice!”
“You are already like a zombie out here,” Rozanov fires back. “Maybe I am doing you a favor. You should be thanking me.”
Shane clenches his fist, pointing angrily at Rozanov. “You—”
“You two need to stop,” the ref finally interrupts, physically pushing them apart. “Go to your boxes. Now.”
Rozanov looks like he would rather throw a punch at the official and take the game misconduct than comply, but he eventually skates toward the penalty box with a muttered curse. Shane goes to his own, jaw clenched tight, frustration still burning hot in his chest.
“Russia, number eighty-one, two-minute minor for holding the stick. Canada, number twenty-four, two-minute minor for slashing.”
On the jumbotron, the replay immediately begins to roll. Shane watches as Rozanov clearly holds his stick—an obvious penalty. But then he winces, sucking in a sharp breath, as the replay shows his own past self struggling desperately to free the stick and whacking Rozanov hard across the calf in the process.
Guess it really was a slashing penalty after all.
Shane sighs heavily, rubbing his face with both hands before closing his eyes. At least he’s away from the sweaty heat of his teammates on the bench. Even though he’s still pissed off about the stupid penalty call and about being taken off the ice when his team is relying on him, he appreciates the chance to finally catch his breath. His legs feel like lead and his lungs are burning; two minutes of rest might actually do him some good.
Two minutes of rest, Shane tells himself. He believes his team can kill this penalty, and when he gets back out here he’ll be fresher, sharper, better equipped to push through the exhaustion.
“—ollander. Hollander!”
“What?” Shane snaps, eyes flying open. He turns to glare at Rozanov across the divider.
Despite being stuck in this brutal game for over two hours and getting pulled off the ice in what is literally all or nothing, Rozanov doesn’t look fazed at all. In fact, he looks almost giddy.
“Don’t worry, I am sure your team won’t miss you too much,” Rozanov says cheerfully. “Even though they look like beer league out there. You have been playing double the minutes of everyone else and they still look this bad—it is no wonder they haven’t scored yet.”
Shane clenches his jaw and says nothing, refusing to take the bait.
“Or maybe you being out will actually help them,” Rozanov continues, undeterred. “They work you so hard you are slow now. There is no need for you when you play like this. You look like Hayden Pike out there, even though he is stuck back in Canada with his million kids.”
“Shut up,” Shane groans, dropping his head between his knees.
“You don’t like hearing that? Well, your lines are getting sloppy and your backhand is weaker than it already was. It is only a matter of time until Russia breaks through your defense, the game ends, and you and the rest of the poor Canadian boys have to watch sadly as we get crowned with our gold medals—”
“No, shut up as in I’m tired,” Shane snaps, lifting his head to glare at him properly. “And I can tell you’re tired too.” Rozanov is still grinning, but he’s leaning heavily against the boards now, chest heaving. Shane has no idea how the man still has the energy to be this annoying. “I can hear you breathing from over here.”
“You’re so mean. I should tell the world this: Shane Hollander is tired and mean!”
“I’m not in the mood to argue with you today. I’m tired. You’re tired. Let’s just use this as a chance to catch our breath, alright?”
Rozanov blows a loud raspberry. “You’re no fun.”
“I’ll be lots of fun after I win gold.”
Rozanov perks up at that, a gleam in his eyes. “Oh, really? And will you let me get in on your fun?”
Shane feels his face burn red. “Not like that, asshole! Just—” He balls up his fist and waves the thought away. “Shut up.”
He leans back against the glass, trying to actually rest. From the other side of the divider he can hear Rozanov’s cackling laughter. Shane shakes his head. Hopefully Rozanov wastes more energy laughing. That way, this overtime might actually be a little easier on him.
𓏵
three
TD Garden
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
8 February 2015
Shane tries not to get into fights. It has never really been his thing—that role belongs to the enforcers, and he knows better than to waste his ice time on stupid penalties when his team needs him out there scoring.
But sometimes he lashes out anyway. A couple of roughing minors here and there when the other team gets under his skin, but never often. He only crosses that line when he is truly pissed off.
And right now, Rozanov is really pissing him off.
Rozanov had been on him the entire game, for reasons Shane still doesn’t fully understand. Before warm-ups, Rozanov had texted him a hotel room number along with a very explicit picture of his dick, which Shane had promptly ignored. He hates when he does that before games—it throws him off balance, leaves him too aware of his own body and too distracted by memories he should be locking away until after the final buzzer.
Apparently Rozanov hates being ignored even more. The spam of follow-up texts right before puck drop had made that clear, and the grudge had carried straight onto the ice.
All night Rozanov had targeted him relentlessly, chirping at everything Shane did—the way he stretched, the way he skated, even the way he breathed. His checks had been harder than usual, more vicious, and when Shane had tried to ask him what the hell was wrong, Rozanov had simply ignored him.
Is he seriously still mad about being ignored?
Shane is planted firmly in front of the Boston goalie, screening him, when J.J. works the puck along the blue line looking for an opening. Shane fights to stay in position, ready to tip anything that comes through or jump on a rebound.
However, Rozanov is glued right behind him, delivering repeated cross-checks to his lower back—sharp, rough ones that threaten to knock him off his skates. Even as Rozanov bats at him, clearly trying to goad a reaction, Shane keeps his eyes locked on the play, jaw clenched tight.
J.J. passes to Gagnon, who fires a hard one-timer from the blue line. The puck rebounds off the goalie’s pads and in a chaotic scramble, and Shane lunges to swipe at it. The goalie covers it up just in time and the whistle blows, signalling the end of play. Before Shane can even straighten, another vicious cross-check from behind jolts him forward, nearly sending him sprawling onto the goalie.
Shane whips around, eyes blazing with fury. Rozanov stands there with a flat expression, mouthguard dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“Would you fucking get off my ass?” Shane shouts, shoving him hard in the chest.
“Ah, but it’s such a nice one,” Rozanov retorts.
“Shut up,” Shane snaps. “You’ve been on me all game. What the fuck is your problem?”
Their teammates start circling around them, tension crackling in the air as captains from both sides square off. Shane hates causing a scene, but the anger has boiled over and he can’t hold it back anymore.
“You know why,” Rozanov retorts.
“Oh, how mature,” Shane bites back. “What? Do you die without any attention?”
“What, are you jealous because you never get any?”
Shane balls his fist. “So what? News flash, Rozanov: the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“Never said it does, Hollander.”
“Then start acting like your fucking age! I can’t believe you’re captain when you’re out here throwing tantrums like a fucking child.”
Rozanov snorts. “And I can’t believe you’re captain when you’re the biggest coward out here.”
Shane’s vision goes white with pure anger. He drives Rozanov hard into the side of the net, and Rozanov immediately responds by slamming him back into the boards, Shane’s helmet banging loudly against the glass. They start pulling at each other, then grabbing jerseys, yanking at helmets, neither willing to let go. The refs rush in, blowing their whistles frantically, but both of them hang on tight, shoving and grappling against the boards.
“Stop! Let go of each other, now!” one of the refs yells, hands trying to pry Shane’s glove off Rozanov’s jersey.
Stubbornly, Shane doesn’t let go, too furious to listen. Around them, the rest of the Voyageurs have paired off with Bears players in their own holding matches, while the Boston fans bang on the boards and roar for a fight.
The refs keep trying to pull them apart, but it takes both linesmen to finally wrench them away—one dragging Shane back while the other holds onto Rozanov. Even separated, Rozanov keeps spitting insults across the distance.
“Always so sensitive, Hollander. Can’t take what you dish out?”
“Fuck you,” Shane fires back. He has to shout as the linesmen pull them farther apart toward their separate penalty boxes. “You started this shit all night for no reason!”
“You’re a fucking weak pussy.”
“And you’re a fucking asshole!”
“Stop it!” the linesman hisses in Shane’s ear, finally releasing him near the Montreal penalty box. The other linesman is still pushing Rozanov toward the opposite door, both of them arguing cartoonishly. “Really, Hollander? I expected this from Rozanov, but not from you.”
Shane wants to rip his own hair out in frustration. “He was doing this shit all game!”
One of the refs—the one who had made the call—skates up to them, looking both angry and exhausted. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t fight him! Ignore him. He always does this.”
“Then why don’t you call him on it?” Shane demands, voice rising. “Two fucking periods of this bullshit! I’m sorry you’re so fucking incompetent that it got to this point, but he started it!”
The moment the words leave his mouth, Shane knows it was a mistake. The ref’s expression turns murderous. Shane swallows hard, suddenly very aware that his game—and the rest of this period—rests in the hands of these officials.
Shit.
“Go to the box, please,” the ref orders coldly, pointing toward the penalty boxes.
“I—”
“Go to the box, please.”
“Rozanov started it—”
“Hollander, I won’t say it again!” the ref barks, spit flying from his mouth. “Go to the fucking box! Now!”
Shane shakes his head in frustration as he skates into the away team penalty box, still boiling with anger. He barely acknowledges the attendant before flopping down hard on the bench, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
“Montreal, number twenty-four has a two minute minor for roughing,” the ref announces, but he’s barely heard over the loud roars of the Boston crowd. “Boston, number eighty-one has a two minute minor for roughing.”
“So fucking stupid,” Shane mutters under his breath, throwing his stick onto the floor with a loud clatter. He knows he’s acting immature—the Boston fans are banging on the glass and shouting insults at him—but right now he doesn’t care.
“Oh, yes, throw little tantrum like a crybaby,” Rozanov shouts from the other side of the divider, voice thick with sarcasm. “That will surely help.”
“Fuck you!” Shane yells back. “I’m not throwing a tantrum—you started it!”
Rozanov doesn’t reply with words. Instead he grabs his towel and makes an exaggerated rubbing motion at his eyes, pretending to wipe away fake tears.
Game misconduct be damned, Shane really wishes he could climb over the divider and have another go at him.
After the game, in a random hotel room in Boston, Shane is pretty sure he has the hottest sex of his life with Rozanov.
Maybe he shouldn’t have caved so easily. Rozanov’s smug expression the entire night made it very clear that Shane had ultimately “lost” their stupid argument on the ice. But as Ilya pinned him against the mattress, teeth scraping over his throat and hands gripping hard enough to leave marks, Shane couldn’t bring himself to care.
Whatever. It was worth it.
𓏵
four
Canadian Tire Centre
Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
11 January 2019
“What the fuck? That’s so unfair!”
“What’s so unfair about it?” Ilya retorts from where he’s half-sitting, half-laying down on the ice. He grins up at Shane, mouthguard dangling out of his mouth. “You tripped me, Hollander.”
“I didn’t fucking trip you, asshole, you fell!”
“Yes, I fell because your stick came under my skate,” Ilya responds, standing up. His hazel eyes are sharp on Shane, but Shane stands firm. “Pretty sure that is the definition of tripping, and the penalty got called, so…”
“Wanna know what’s also a penalty? Embellishing.”
Ilya blows a loud raspberry at the ref, giving the official an exaggerated look of innocence that makes the poor man’s face go even paler as he stands trapped between the two of them. The rest of the Centaurs and Voyageurs have already skated a respectful distance away, clearly wanting nothing to do with whatever this argument is about to become.
“Typical move, changing the subject,” Ilya says.
“I’m not changing the subject, you fucking dived! I’ve seen babies act better than you did on that one!”
It’s hard for Shane not to smile, the easy banter flowing like it always does when they’re together. They don’t get nearly enough chances to be close in public, and the entire hockey world still believes they can’t stand each other, so they’ve learned to lean into the rivalry just enough to keep everyone fooled. Even though they are stupidly, secretly in love, it doesn’t stop them from annoying the absolute hell out of each other on the ice.
Shane can tell by the way Ilya’s lips are pressed tightly together that he is fighting the same urge to laugh. He’s glad about it, because if he did, their overdramatic arguing would turn into uncontrollable laughter.
(Or into Shane tackling Ilya to the ice, only to kiss the stupid smirk off of his face.)
The ref finally steps in, face red. “That’s a tripping call, Hollander.”
“But—”
“To the box.”
“You heard him,” Ilya says, a smug look on his face.
Shane throws his hands up in defeat, letting himself get pushed towards the penalty box. He knows that it was a trip, but what he isn’t really sure about is if it actually knocked over Ilya. He has a feeling that he embellished to sell the penalty, but still, he can’t prove it, since his stick really did get under Ilya’s skate.
“Hey, Hollander, if you want to get my attention, tripping me like a schoolboy on the playground might not be the best way to go about it,” Ilya says, trailing behind him for a moment.
Shane glares at him over his shoulder, a scathing look. “You’re so…”
Aggravating? Frustrating? Annoying?
All three at the same time, which makes it even more annoying because I still love you so much?
“Knock it off before I give you a penalty too, Rozanov,” the ref snaps.
Ilya puts his hands up in a placating gesture before skating off, but not before giving Shane a cheeky wink. Shane shakes his head as he enters the away team penalty box, ignoring the bangs on the glass from the Ottawa fans. Ottawa likes Shane enough, with Shane being the face of Team Canada Hockey and a hometown hero, but he doesn’t feel the love now.
He accepts a water from the penalty box attendant, the door shutting behind him. He sighs and sits down, trying not to let his frustration get the best of him. It’s common for people to get penalties—some players practically get into the box every game. Ilya used to be one of those players, but he has mellowed out in Ottawa. Tripping is an offense that Shane does accidentally pretty often, but it’s not his fault that other players aren’t as quick on their feet as him.
“Montreal, number twenty-four, two minute minor for tripping,” the ref announces. The crowd cheers, happy that their home team has a one man advantage.
Shane groans, letting his head fall back against the glass. He’s jolted a little at the banging from the fans, them trying to get a reaction out of him. He just hates putting his team down a man. A man advantage is big, and he would hate for the opponent to score because of him.
(Which is unlikely, honestly. Though the Centaurs do have a couple good players on the team, which forms a decent powerplay, their power play is ranked 32nd in the league. There are 32 teams in the league. The Voyageurs’ penalty kill is ranked pretty high, so Shane isn’t too worried about the goal getting scored.)
But he knows that if somehow, miraculously, the Centaurs were to score a goal during Shane’s penalty, he would never hear the end of it from Ilya.
And he probably won’t hear the end of it from his parents, either.
“Oh, Hollander, I like the look of you in there,” Ilya sing-songs, stopping in front of the glass. He has a huge grin and a mischievous glint in his eyes, admiring Shane through the barrier like a little kid going window shopping.
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane snaps. “Maybe you should go over to your team.”
“Maybe you should learn how to control your stick,” Ilya says, eyes dragging over Shane seductively.
Shane’s face turns bright red. He’s glad that it can easily be chalked up to the exertion. He opens his mouth to retort, but Ilya is already cackling before skating off, taking his place on the Ottawa power play. Shane just shakes his head and laughs, knowing he can’t win that argument.
“Sorry, man, he’s an asshole,” the attendant says, passing him a towel.
Shane half-laughs, half-scoffs, using the towel to wipe off his visor. “When is he not?”
The attendant shrugs. “Can’t deny that. But, come on, he’s Ottawa’s guy. Hard not to love him.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Shane says quietly, a small, private smile tugging at his lips.
Ilya adjusted well to Ottawa, even though the team isn’t very good. Ilya genuinely likes it here, and Shane feels a warm rush of affection knowing that Ilya had moved from Boston to Ottawa just for him, just so they could be closer. Even if it meant giving up better hockey opportunities, there was still so much love for the person he loves.
As the Ottawa power play starts, Shane’s mind drifts to all the ways he could get Ilya back—either on the ice or after the game. He could send him hard into the boards, chirp him mercilessly the next time they’re near each other. Or just destroy Ottawa outright, which isn’t exactly hard because they aren’t a very good team, but it would still be satisfying.
Maybe when they finally get home he could mess with Ilya’s stuff, or refuse to put out until Ilya is begging on his knees. But then again, Shane doesn’t actually want to go without sex with Ilya—it’s been so long since they saw each other in person that Shane wants to jump his boyfriend’s bones the second they’re alone. Maybe he could force Ilya down on the mattress, riding him hard and refusing to let him come until he’s begging, or until Shane comes first…
It turns out Shane doesn’t have to be the one to get Ilya back. Karma strikes only twelve seconds into the power play, when Ilya is called for tripping. Shane is barely able to suppress his laughter as Ilya is guided toward the penalty box, his arguments to the ref falling on deaf ears.
“Ottawa, number eighty-one, two minute minor for tripping.”
Shane doesn’t know what feels better: that Montreal and Ottawa are both now down their best players, or that Ilya has eventually been dragged down with him.
“Hey, Rozanov,” Shane calls over the roaring crowd, a wide grin on his face. Ilya looks over at him with a scowl. “Maybe you should learn how to control your stick.”
Ilya rolls his eyes, adjusting his helmet with his middle finger, a matching smile on his face.
Even though he’s still slightly pissed off at him, Shane really wants to kiss his boyfriend.
𓏵
five
Bell Centre
Montreal, Quebec, Canada
21 April 2021
“So we meet again,” Ilya shouts, a lazy grin on his face as he peers at Shane from the Ottawa penalty box.
Shane glares back from Montreal’s penalty box, deadpan look on his face. He’s still fuming—angry that he got called for a practically non-existent penalty, angry that Ilya called for the same stupid penalty, and angrier that they’re both sitting out for the next two minutes of play because of it.
At least Ilya doesn’t seem too phased by it. In fact, he seems to be enjoying himself.
“You come here often?” Ilya asks in a flirtatious tone.
Shane snorts, shaking his head. “Not that often. But I heard you’re here a lot.”
Ilya spreads his arms. “Ah, but the penalty box is always better when you’re in yours, too. You always look so cute in there. Like a wet kotik.”
Shane tries to keep a straight face, but he can’t help grinning, mouthguard dangling loosely from his lips. Ilya looks triumphant at pulling even that small reaction out of him, his own stupidly big grin lighting up his face.
Ever since they got outed, hockey had become… difficult. It was bad enough that Montreal seemed to distrust him now, but bigotry ran deep across the league. Teammates, coaches, opposing players, and the media all scrutinized their every move, throwing snide comments at him on the ice. Shane tried to let it roll off his back, but the words still dug in sharp, leaving bruises he couldn’t quite ignore.
It had been difficult enough when it came from other teams. But this was the first Montreal–Ottawa game since the news about their relationship broke, and it felt a thousand times worse.
This was Ottawa and Montreal’s last regular season meeting. Both teams had already clinched their spots—Montreal as the top seed in the Eastern Conference, while Ottawa was fighting for the wild card and will face either Carolina or Montreal in the first round. No one seemed to trust that there wasn’t some kind of tampering when Shane and Ilya shared the ice, which was disappointing. Both of them would rather die than hand the other a win. Shane hated how every game against Ilya for the rest of his career would now be viewed through a different, tainted lens because of who he loved.
The refs, in particular, had become extra suspicious. They separated them constantly on the ice, made snide comments about “tampering,” and handed out soft penalties just to get them off the ice.
Which was exactly why both of them were in the box right now—for roughing, of all things.
(“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ilya shouted in the ref’s face. “Roughing?”
Even though the ref was much smaller than both of them, he stood his ground. “What I said. Two minutes for roughing, both of you.”
Shane had been gobsmacked. It was nothing—Shane made a joke to Ilya after the puck went out of play, which lead to Ilya playfully cuffing him on the cheek, and then Shane shoving him lightly back.
“Come on, man,” Shane had tried. “You know we weren’t getting into anything real. It was just pushing and shoving. No call needed.”
The ref’s face had gone red. “Yes it is, because I called it. Rozanov made contact with your face. You shoved him back.”
“I poked his cheek, that is it!” Ilya protested. “I have done far worse in the past and never been called!”
Shane had closed his eyes, taken a deep breath, and forced himself to stay calm. “Listen, you have both captains here. We’re telling you this is handled and nothing is going to happen. Let’s just play hockey, alright?”
The ref had sneered. “Right. And we’re supposed to turn a blind eye while you two cozy up in the corner? The refs are here to keep the game fair, which you two seem to know nothing about.”
The casual homophobic edge to the comment had hit Shane like a slap. He was used to it by now, but it still stung.
He must have looked like a kicked puppy, because Ilya immediately stepped between him and the ref, murder in his eyes like a guard dog ready to bite.
“Oh, I see what it is. You are a—” Ilya says something in Russian, a word Shane doesn’t know, but he assumes it’s something derogatory based on the way he spits it.
“Enough, Rozanov!” the ref barked. “Or I’ll add another minor for unsportsmanlike conduct.”
Ilya had muttered something that sounded suspiciously like I can show you unsportsmanlike conduct, but Shane had pulled him away and steered them both toward their respective boxes before either of them did something they’d regret.)
Shane is grateful now that Ilya is trying to distract him from spiraling. He lets the lingering anger dissipate as he looks over at the love of his life—his fiancé—smiling at the ridiculous situation they’ve been forced into.
It sucks, but they can make the most of it.
“Wet kitten?” Shane translates, grinning.
Ilya brightens instantly. “Yes! See, moya lyubov is so smart, even when he is mad at me for being so rough with him. Which is odd, because usually he likes that.”
Shane’s eyes widen, head snapping toward the fans clustered around the penalty boxes and the scorekeepers between them. Several of them are already laughing and shaking their heads—they definitely heard that. Thankfully most of the nearby crowd seems to be adults, probably because it’s a weekday game.
“Ilya, shut up!” Shane exclaims, his ears burning red.
“I must apologize! I should not have so brutally fought him today, taking him out. I will tell him, over and over, that I apologize and I was wrong and I should not have brought him down with me, since I am such a bad influence.”
“Ilya—”
“—I am sorry, please forgive me, and do not worry, I will beg for your forgiveness on my knees later tonight.”
“Stop it!” Shane hisses, but he can’t hold back the laugh that escapes him.
“I will beg and grovel at your feet, please, my beloved, you must forgive me,” Ilya continues, clasping his hands together theatrically. “And then I’ll tell him how much I love him, even though I know he loves hockey and winning more. I should know this, because we are both too competitive, but he always reminds me. I’ll show him how I regret taking his precious ice time away from him.”
Fans around them had started recording on their phones, and the handlers and scorekeepers were laughing outright. It seemed like everyone nearby was paying more attention to their ridiculous exchange than to the fairly boring 4-on-4 play happening on the ice without the league’s two best players.
Ilya was thriving on the audience, putting on a full show like he always did. Shane could never relate to that kind of spotlight-loving energy, but he couldn’t help laughing at his fiancé’s over-the-top theatrics anyway.
“You’re impossible, Rozanov,” Shane shouts, still grinning.
Ilya gasps, clutching his heart over his pads. “Demoted to last name! First I was—unrightfully!—sentenced to jail time, separated from my beloved, forced to gaze at him through layers of glass, and now he rejects me. Oh, it is heartbreaking!”
“Who knew your English could be so romantic,” Shane says sarcastically, shaking his head and laughing.
“Hey, loverboys, cut it with the flirting,” one of the scorekeepers calls out.
“Boo, just putting on a show,” Ilya responds with a dramatic wave toward the ice. “It is boring without the two best players on the ice. But at least it is almost over.”
Shane glances up at the jumbotron. The penalty timer is winding down fast. The handler is already standing by his door, and Ilya is already on his feet in the opposite box, gear adjusted and ready to jump back into the game. Shane quickly does the same, securing his helmet and gloves.
Right before their timers hit zero, Shane catches Ilya’s eye. He mouths a silent thank you. Ilya’s expression softens for just a moment, a warm smile breaking through before he slips back into his game face. Shane takes a deep breath, clearing his mind as the doors open and they both step back onto the ice.
𓏵
plus one
Capital One Arena
Washington, DC, USA
12 March 2023
There’s something different about playing for Montreal versus playing for Ottawa.
On Montreal, everyone had relied on Shane to be the best. He was the captain, the face of the franchise, and by far their strongest player. Hockey had become so much of his identity that he had quietly stripped away every other part of himself just to be Shane Hollander, hockey player. He still loves Montreal and is grateful for the good years, but in hindsight he can’t help breathing a sigh of relief now that he’s gone.
In Ottawa, things feel lighter. He is still one of the best players on the ice (though Ilya would definitely argue that point), but the team has real depth. Ottawa doesn’t have to lean on him for everything. There’s a solid goalie, quick wingers, and defensemen who actually communicate. The culture is friendlier, he loves being back in his hometown, and the coach is kind for once.
And yeah… it’s pretty great playing with his husband.
Hockey is fun again when he’s on the same team as Ilya. Ottawa isn’t as dominant as Montreal had been in Shane’s best years, but the atmosphere is healthier. There’s less crushing pressure to perform every night. It had taken him some time to adjust to not being the first-line center anymore—Ilya had kept that spot because of his strong chemistry alongside Troy and Bood—but Shane doesn’t mind nearly as much as he thought he would. He likes playing with Luca and Holmberg on his wings, and he’s still getting the same minutes.
And besides, he gets to play with Ilya on the power play.
“Scariest power play in the league,” Bood says as they skate out, bumping shoulders with Shane.
Shane is on Ottawa’s first power play unit, as expected. He centers the line with Ilya and Troy on the wings, Bood at left wing, and Evan on defense. Before Shane arrived, Ottawa’s power play had been ranked dead last in the league. Now they’re one of the best.
“You would think the other teams would learn to be more careful,” Evan says with a grin, “and not take a dumb penalty.”
Troy snorts. “Not their fault Roz likes to bait people into penalties.”
Washington is down a player after one of their defensemen interfered with Ilya, knocking him down when he wasn’t near the puck. The ref had called it immediately. Shane has a strong suspicion Ilya had been baiting that particular defenseman all game—he was one of the more vocal conservatives in the league.
“You would know,” Bood teases, bumping Troy. “You’ve been on the other side of that before!”
“Hey, I can admit I deserved it back when I was in Toronto,” Troy says with a laugh.
“Don’t worry, he did the same thing to me when I was in Montreal,” Shane says, rolling his eyes.
“No shit?” Evan asks. “And you still married him?”
Bood laughs. “I don’t know, man. Knowing those two, it was probably some freaky mating ritual.”
“He probably just wanted your attention,” Troy says. “Like a little kid pulling pigtails on the playground.”
“Or it was foreplay,” Evan adds.
“Nah, none of the above,” Shane says, shaking his head with a fond smile. “He’s just an asshole.”
“I heard asshole. Are you talking about me?”
Of course Ilya chooses that exact moment to join them, freshly cleared by the team medic and grinning like he hadn’t just deliberately provoked a penalty.
“‘Course we are, captain,” Bood replies. “Nice penalty, by the way. I’m surprised they haven’t added ‘provoking other players’ as an embellishment call yet.”
“Me?” Ilya says, all faux innocence. “Provoking another player? This is lies. I would never!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bood says, rolling his eyes. “We all definitely believe you!”
Bood, Troy, and Evan skate toward the face-off dot in the Washington zone. Shane slows down when he notices Ilya wince slightly as he pushes forward, favoring one side.
“How’s your knee?” Shane asks quietly, so the others don’t hear. “That hit looked bad.”
Ilya has been dealing with lingering issues in his left knee for a while. He’d missed time the previous season, but the ache had never fully gone away. When Flemming crashed into him, he’d landed directly on that knee.
“Don’t worry about me. My knee will not take me out,” Ilya says, shaking his head.
Shane gives him a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, moya lyubov, don’t worry,” Ilya replies, pretending to sound annoyed even as his eyes go soft. “Terry cleared me. I don’t feel a thing. Though… maybe tonight I will feel a bit sore and need my sexy nurse husband to take care of me.”
“Shut up,” Shane mutters, cheeks warming. “I was just worried.”
Ilya’s expression melts into a full grin. “So sweet. You care about me!” He reaches out to pat Shane’s cheek. Shane bats the hand away with a scowl. “Do not worry. If something was wrong, I would tell you.”
“You sure?”
“I am sure,” Ilya confirms, voice gentler. “I promise.” He clears his throat and straightens up, slipping back into captain mode. “Now get into position and go score a goal. That is an order from your captain.”
Shane grins and skates to his spot at the dot.
The power play starts cleanly. Shane wins the face-off and the unit settles into their familiar pentagon formation. Evan and Bood work the puck back and forth along the blue line while Troy, Ilya, and Shane position themselves for one-timers.
Bood snaps a hard pass toward Shane, who sends it over to Ilya without even needing to look—he always knows exactly where his husband is on the ice. Ilya rips the one-timer, but the Washington goalie gets a piece of it and a Washington forward, Borgström, clears the rebound out of the zone.
They reset quickly, cycling back through the neutral zone before re-entering the Washington end. Evan sends another pass toward Shane, but it skips past him. Shane chases it down the boards, shoulder-to-shoulder with Borgström. The whistle blows for offsides just before Borgström winds up and clears the puck again.
A sharp cry cuts through the noise.
Shane whirls around to see Ilya on one knee, face twisted in pain. The cleared puck had slammed directly into his bad left knee. Borgström doesn’t even look guilty—his face is a flat expression that makes something ugly and protective flare hot in Shane’s chest.
In hindsight, he really didn’t think. All he felt was white-hot anger.
Shane drops his stick and shoves Borgström hard into the boards.
Borgström retaliates instantly, grabbing Shane’s jersey and trying to drive him back. Shane holds his ground, throwing open-handed smacks with his glove before locking Borgström in a tight headlock. He rains punches down, trying to yank the man’s helmet off as fury burns through him.
The refs’ whistles blow immediately, but Shane barely hears them. He feels hands grabbing at his arms and shoulders, linesmen trying to break them apart, yet he refuses to let go.
“Hollander! Let him go, now!”
Shane evades the ref’s grip, swiping at Borgström’s helmet until it finally comes loose. White and black stripes blur in his vision as Borgström manages to rip Shane’s own helmet off. They’re both still tangled together when two refs finally pry them apart by force.
Shane’s hair is wild, his cheek stinging from a stray hit. He shakes off the ref’s hold once he’s calm enough. “I’m good. You can let me go.”
He leans down, grabs his helmet, and skates toward the Ottawa penalty box without looking back. The Washington fans are banging on the glass, booing loudly, but Shane can’t help the sharp, disbelieving laugh that escapes him.
“That’s a—”
“Penalty, I know,” Shane finishes for the ref, stepping into the box.
He thanks the attendant quietly as he takes a seat on the bench, accepting the towel handed to him. For a moment he just sits there, wiping the sweat from his face and then cleaning his visor, trying to settle the lingering adrenaline. He ignores the Washington fans banging on the glass and chirping at him. He knows exactly what he did, knows what the consequences are, and doesn’t regret a single second of it.
Shane glances up at the jumbotron and frowns. The replay still hasn’t been shown, and the refs haven’t finished announcing the calls.
Instead, the officials and linesmen are clustered near the scorer’s table, deep in discussion. It confuses him. He doesn’t think either of them earned a double minor or a game misconduct—it was standard roughing, nothing excessive.
After a long conversation, one of the refs skates over to the Ottawa bench. Coach Wiebe immediately gets into a heated argument with him, gesturing wildly before throwing both hands up in defeat. The ref continues down the bench, passing the rest of the Centaurs, until he stops in front of one player and escorts him across the ice toward Shane’s box.
That player is Ilya Rozanov.
Shane stands up, bewildered. The handler opens the door and the ref practically pushes Ilya inside. Surprisingly, Ilya doesn’t argue—he just scowls as he steps in.
“What the hell?” Shane shouts at the ref. “Him too?”
“Slashed Borgström during the scrum,” the ref says flatly before skating away.
Shane stares at his husband in shock. Ilya refuses to meet his eyes, looking like a guilty dog as he drops onto the bench beside him. The penalty box feels even smaller than usual with both of them in it, their thighs and shoulders pressed tightly together. Shane grits his teeth and looks straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. He has no idea why Ilya felt the need to jump into a fight that wasn’t his, and it pisses him off more than it probably should.
The ref finally gestures toward the Washington box where Borgström is sitting. “Washington, number forty-three, two minutes for roughing.” The crowd boos, then immediately cheers as the ref points across the ice. “Ottawa, number twenty-four, two minutes for roughing. Ottawa, number eighty-one, two minutes for slashing.”
On the jumbotron, the replay begins to roll. Shane watches himself shove Borgström into the boards, the rest of both teams piling in. He had assumed Ilya went straight to the bench to check on his knee, but instead the replay clearly shows Ilya skating right up and delivering a hard hit to Borgström’s thigh.
So, there’s the slashing penalty.
“Borgström deserved it,” Ilya finally says, voice gruff.
“Don’t,” Shane warns, still not looking at him.
Ilya turns with a wide-eyed, incredulous expression. “You are mad at me?”
“Yes, I am mad at you!” Shane says, finally turning to face his husband. “Why the fuck would you take a stupid penalty like that?”
“That is rich coming from you. You are also in the penalty box!”
“I was defending you! He shot the puck right at you after the whistle!”
Ilya stares at him, genuinely confused. “Okay? And he was on you. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Maybe let me handle it? I don’t need you playing attack dog, Rozanov. You didn’t have to make it worse.”
“What, now I am Rozanov?” Ilya asks, voice rising in disbelief.
“Yes. And you’ll stay Rozanov until this game is over.”
“Unbelievable,” Ilya mutters, shaking his head as he leans back against the glass.
A commercial break hits while the refs continue talking to the coaches and players on both benches. Shane sits rigid on the bench, jaw tight, doing his best to ignore his husband even though they’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the cramped space. The familiar heat of Ilya’s body radiates against him, impossible to block out. Ilya is just as tense beside him, arms crossed tightly over his chest, still radiating frustration.
Shane stares straight ahead. The jumbotron is showing clips of Washington fans cheering wildly, but he isn’t really paying attention. He’s too busy willing the commercials to end so the game can continue. He tries to avoid the penalty box camera, hyper-aware of his husband sitting right next to him and the poor attendant squished against the far side, clearly feeling like a third wheel and extremely uncomfortable.
Ilya’s thigh is pressed firmly against his own, and under normal circumstances Shane would lean into that warmth. Tonight he doesn’t. He keeps himself stiff and closed off.
He dissociates for a moment, mind running through the numbers. They’re only up by one goal—not nearly enough. Once this penalty expires, Washington will get their own power play, and being without both him and Ilya on the ice could prove costly. His thoughts drift, heavy with frustration, until Ilya suddenly barks out a loud laugh, jolting him back to the present.
Shane glances up, frowning. On the jumbotron above the ice, the camera has found them. A big pink heart is drawn around their shared penalty box like some kind of twisted kiss-cam graphic, with bright pink sparkly text underneath that reads “The Honeymoon Suite.” Shane is scowling in the footage while Ilya looks annoyed, which only makes the whole thing more ridiculous.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Shane mutters.
Ilya’s shoulders are already shaking with silent laughter as the graphic fades and the feed returns to the ice.
“Are you seriously laughing right now?” Shane demands, turning to look at him properly.
“You have to admit, it’s funny,” Ilya says.
“No—no, it’s not,” Shane retorts, but the words break off into laughter before he can stop them. He shakes his head, the tension in his shoulders finally cracking under the ridiculousness of it all.
Shane’s attempt to hold it together only makes Ilya laugh harder, and soon they’re both cracking up, shoulders bumping together in the tight space. It feels stupid and freeing at the same time. Shane reminds himself that it’s just hockey, just a game, and the fans probably aren’t even mad—if anything, they’re eating up the sight of their two star players stuck together in the penalty box like this.
Even now, playing on the same team, Ilya still somehow manages to get them both in the penalty box at the same time.
“You have to make this up to me, you know,” Shane says.
Ilya blows a raspberry at him. “Don’t worry, I will.” He knocks their knees together, hand tapping Shane’s thigh before brushing their shoulders and fully crowding into Shane’s space. “What do you say? Maybe later tonight?”
Shane scowls, playfully slapping Ilya’s hand away. “Make it up to me on the ice, asshole. Or else you’ll be in the penalty box tonight.”
𓏵