Archive of Our Own

Shane’s in Ottawa. It’s a rare Wednesday when the Centaurs and the Metros both have a day off. He drove down directly from the rink last night (an uninspiring but adequate 3-1 win against Boston), too tired for more than shared handjobs in the shower before falling asleep on Ilya’s chest.

Ilya had to get up early to take Anya for a run, and Shane’s been thinking about getting out of bed to make breakfast in a lazy kind of way that mostly involves watching last night’s highlights on his phone. The Cens lost 4-2, but Ilya got a gorgeous goal off a rebound and Luca Haas is going to be one to watch any day now.

There’s no rush. They have no plans for the day, and if Shane hasn’t showered it’ll be even easier to tempt Ilya back into bed for a round of lazy morning sex before breakfast.

The door opens downstairs to Anya’s excited barks and then skittering paws as she comes bounding up the stairs to leap onto the bed and try to lick Shane’s face.

Not exactly who he was hoping to be kissed by, but he gives her a hug and a pet anyway, keeping his chin firmly up and out of reach. “Yes, hello. Where’s your daddy, huh?”

She barks happily and wags her tail more, apparently not at all tired out – although now Shane looks at the time, they’re back pretty early.

Ilya comes in, wearing shorts and a tanktop, arms and throat glistening with sweat that Shane immediately wants to lick off. But he’s not looking up, he’s got his phone in one hand and is frowning down at it.

“Is everything okay?” Shane asks. His parents are fine – they’ve already messaged him this morning about a new coffee shop they’ve found – but Svetlana’s in Moscow, so maybe there’s been news about Ilya’s family? Or something’s happened to one of Ilya’s teammates, one of the rookies hadn’t been at the game last night. An injury?

“Hmm, yes,” Ilya says, but slowly like he’s thinking about it even as he’s answering. Then he looks up finally, finds a smile that isn’t quite reassuring and sits on the edge of the bed to lean in for a kiss. “Good morning.”

Shane kisses him back because he’s always going to kiss Ilya back, but he can’t stop thinking about it. “You’re back early. Is there… did something happen?”

Ilya hesitates a moment, glances back at his phone. “There is…” he pauses, then turns around properly so he’s sitting cross-legged on the comforter, and takes Shane’s hand. “I am going to ask you something, and I want you to try not to freak out, okay? Take a breath, think about it.”

That sounds… serious. Also like Ilya is really trying to put into practice what he’s learning at therapy, so that’s good. It means whatever this is, it matters and Shane has to step up as well. He sits up a little, squeezes Ilya’s hand back. They’re already engaged, so it can’t be that. Does Ilya need to go back to Moscow? Can he do that, is it dangerous for him to do that? Should Shane go with him?

“The Centaurs are having a barbeque,” Ilya says. “At Bood’s place, this afternoon.” He runs his thumb across Shane’s hand, steady back and forth. “I would like to go, and I would like you to come with me.”

Oh. Okay. That’s… Shane can feel his heartbeat ramp up. The Centaurs, Ilya’s team, and Ilya’s face looking like he’s expecting Shane to shut down again and how hard must it be for Ilya to ask after what happened last time, but also has anything changed from last time? The Centaurs don’t know about Shane, right? Ilya hasn’t told them, he’d have told Shane if they knew.

“Shane,” Ilya says, firm and grounding, pulling Shane out of the spiralling thoughts. “It does not have to be big deal, okay? They know you are my friend, they know you have family in Ottawa.” He lifts Shane’s hand to his mouth to brush a kiss across his knuckles. “They are my friends, and I want you to meet them.”

Which is normal, and fine, and a perfectly reasonable thing to want. And Shane knows - he knows - that the mysterious Harris is gay and in some wildly unrealistic twist of fate dating Troy fucking Barrett. He knows that, at least according to Ilya, the whole team is fine with this. He’s met Wyatt who is great at the camps and his lesbian sister and her wife. The Centaurs probably know about her too, they’re probably fine with it.

Ilya’s thumb keeps moving across his skin, catching his ring on every pass. Shane tries to focus on that.

“You said we could be less careful,” Ilya says. His tone is light, very deliberately not an accusation, just a gentle reminder.

Shane had said that, and he had meant it. But he hadn’t exactly… thought through… what it meant. “I’m not ready to tell them about us,” he says, which isn’t a no. He’s trying really hard not to make it a no.

“Then we go as friends,” Ilya says, as though it could be that easy. “Is casual, not an exclusive event. Partners will be there, Harris might bring a Harris sibling, Bood’s neighbours will come by.” He turns Shane’s hand over to kiss his palm, his stubble scraping lightly against the sensitive skin there. “You know Wyatt, from the camps.”

It’s fine. It should be fine There’s no reason for Shane to be freaking out. But then, there never has to be. He tilts his fingers a little to touch the tips to Ilya’s chin. To hold him there, looking up at Shane like Shane is everything Ilya could ever want.

“You said once,” Ilya says. “Before your parents found out about us, that you wanted me to meet them. Not as your boyfriend or your lover, just to shake their hands at a game or an awards night.” His other hand has reached under the sheets somehow to curve around Shane’s ankle, rubbing against the hair there. “Proof that the people you loved all existed in the same world.”

That silent aching need to know that the world could have both things in it. He does remember.

Ilya lowers his head again to touch his lips to Shane’s wrist. “I want to know that the world I live in when you leave still has you in it.”

Fuck. Shane can’t… he has no defences against that, against Ilya. He doesn’t want to defend, he wants Ilya to be everywhere, always. He wants to exist, in Ilya’s life.

So he can do this. He has done, objectively, much scarier things, and at the end of the day he owes Ilya so much. And it’s terrifying but also… this was the point of the Foundation, right? To make it okay for them to just… hang out.

He reaches down with his free hand to twist his fingers into Ilya’s hair. “We could go as friends? You can do that?”

Ilya’s face breaks into a smile and Shane thinks he would do anything Ilya asked for that smile. He just has to remember that, has to hold on to that when his brain says the fear is stronger than the love.

“Sure thing,” Ilya says, adopting an exaggerated drawl. “Buddy. Chum. Business partner.”

Fortunately his face is still in Shane’s hand so it’s easy to shove him backwards, although harder to make him go far when Shane can’t bear to let go of his hair. “You’re an idiot.”

Ilya takes the opening to crawl forward and kiss his neck, his collarbone, before nestling himself in the space between Shane’s neck and shoulder, running a finger down Shane’s bare chest. “Is easy,” he says. “I say ‘Hollander is in town and we have meeting about the foundation, can I bring him to yours instead? Promise he is house trained, will not scratch the furniture-”

Shane shoves him off again but he can’t help the laugh bursting out of him. It’s ridiculous, it’s stupid, it feels like it can’t possibly work but also like there’s no reason it wouldn’t work. From everything Ilya’s told him about the Cens. Although that’s how they are with Ilya who’s on their team, their captain and their top scorer. Not some asshole from a team that smashed them 8-2 the last time they met.

God, what if they hate him? “You think they’ll say yes?”

Ilya looks at him, then leans down to kiss him properly, slow and lingering. He must have brushed his teeth before going out, he tastes like mint and Shane probably should have got up to brush his while he was out but Ilya doesn’t seem to care. Not if the way he licks into Shane’s mouth like he wants to map every inch of it is any indication and, god, Shane will never get tired of this. Of Ilya’s hair between his fingers, Ilya’s teeth catching lightly on his lip, Ilya’s hand running down Shane’s stomach sending all the blood pooling downwards.

Ilya pulls back slowly. “I need to feed Anya,” he says. He stands up, pulls his phone out of his back pocket and types something before tossing it onto the bed next to Shane. “Stay here, I will be quick.”

On the mattress, his phone buzzes once. Then again. Then about ten more times. Shane manages to ignore it for almost thirty whole seconds before he has to look. There’s already a string of replies to Ilya’s message.

Ilya comes back into the room, shutting the door to keep Anya out. He strips off his tank, tossing it into the laundry basket, and Shane manages to tear his gaze off the frankly slightly terrifying string of messages still coming in to ogle the glisten of sweat on his boyfriend’s chest.

As distractions go, it’s a good one, until Ilya catches him looking and smirks, turning to give Shane an even better profile view. “Did you miss me? You are hungry too, so tired last night you could not even suck my dick.”

Shane throws a pillow at him. “You’re terrible.”

Ilya crawls back up the bed towards him, pushing the quilts down to bare Shane’s chest. “But you lo-ove me.”

The mattress vibrates again with another message, then another. And Shane shouldn’t be thinking about that, when he’s got Ilya kneeling on either side of his thighs, but he can’t quite… “They said I could come.” He thinks. That was the gist of it.

Ilya kisses his stomach. “Told you so.”

Shane isn’t going to be distracted. “They said you don’t normally go. To the barbeques.” Now he’s thinking about it, he can’t remember Ilya ever mentioning them outside of that one terrible boxing day. But the group chat seemed to imply they were a regular thing. Bood had even said if it gets you to come, like Ilya has never been. Like he didn’t even go, that last time.

Ilya shrugs, sitting back on his heels so they’re more face to face. He doesn’t look annoyed to be interrupted, more mildly confused. “They are on days off,” he says, as though it’s obvious. “I am busy on days off.”

Which is – right. Shane knows that Ilya moved to Ottawa so that they could spend their few days off together but he hadn’t really thought –

Montreal don’t have team barbeques. Not like this, last minute invites in a group chat that includes their social media manager. They have game watch parties and late night drinking parties with squads of sexy women, but they definitely would never spend multiple minutes discussing how great another captain is.

But no one’s said he isn’t welcome. He vaguely remembers Jones from a few years back, he played left wing on the third line and got a handful of goals in the season he spent with them. Not a terrible performance, but they traded him for a draft pick with more growth potential and Shane hasn’t really thought about him since.

Apparently Jones still thinks about him.

“We’ll have to take separate cars,” he says. Because if they’re just friends having a business meeting they can’t show up together.

“Oh no,” Ilya drawls, kissing his stomach again. “The environment.”

Shane shoves him. Well, pushes him back a little. Not too far. “Shut up.”

Ilya rests his chin on Shane’s stomach, looks up at him with his big beautiful eyes, his hair slicked back from the shower, and how is Shane meant to deny that face anything. “So we will go?”

Ilya just wants him to exist near them. He can do that. He’s almost certain he can do that. “Okay.”

🏒

Ilya leaves first, in one of his many sports cars. Shane takes the land rover because that’s what he drove down from Montreal so it makes sense for him to have it, not that anyone’s going to ask. He stops at the shop to get a crate of decent beers and a six pack of ginger ale so there’ll at least be something non-alcoholic for him to drink.

Also to give Ilya time to get there first, so it doesn’t seem like they both left at the same time.

Not that anyone will ask.

He slides his ring off his finger where it’s been since he got home on Friday and into his pocket. Can’t wear it on it’s usual chain if he’s in the same space as Ilya. Or, maybe he could and no one would notice, but he’d be thinking about it the whole time. It’s in his pocket, he can feel it, it’s not like he hasn’t got it with him it’s just–

He doesn’t know how to stop overthinking. Which is the whole fucking problem. He drives past the house twice. Not because he can’t find it – it’s a huge fuck-off mansion with twenty cars including Ilya’s unsubtle orange ferrari parked outside – but just psyching himself up to actually stop. There’s no spaces in the driveway, he doesn’t want to walk halfway down the street in public in Ottawa.

He pauses by the side of the road, reaching for his phone. Maybe he’ll tell Ilya he couldn’t park, but he hopes Ilya has fun and he’ll see him later.

There are three messages already that must have come in while he was driving.

They are saying I cannot get Hollander to come to a centaurs bbq 😢

Saying next time I should invite Scott Hunter, maybe he will show up.

Need you to come and defend my honour

Fuck. Fuck. Shane’s stomach twists, he’s letting Ilya down again, and his phone goes off again in his hand.

But if it’s too much and you’re not coming, that’s okay I know it is a lot for you

Let me know and I will come back home, we can have nice chill afternoon <3

I love you

And fuck, now Shane feels even worse because his husband is amazing and wants him to be comfortable and all he’s asked for in return is Shane to get out of his goddamn car. Fuck parking, Shane pulls onto the verge of Bood’s driveway which is blocking in about three other cars but whatever, that’ll be later’s problem.

He climbs out of the car, wastes another minute trying to decide whether he should wear his jacket or not – Jennie said the jacket ‘made’ this outfit when she last reviewed his wardrobe but it’s still pretty warm and he’s got a nice enough black shirt underneath – before he realizes he’s stalling (again). He throws it over his arm, grabs the bag from the bottle shop and walks deliberately up to the house.

The door is open, but it’s not his team or his house so he shifts his load to ring the bell. They hadn’t discussed how they were going to approach this, is Shane meant to shake Ilya’s hand like it’s a business meeting? Are they going to hug? He’s got the bag in the wrong hand for a handshake. Maybe someone else will come to the door and he’ll have to figure out how to introduce himself to fucking Zane Boodram who he’s only ever met before on the ice in three layers of hockey gear.

“Hollander!” Ilya bounces down Boodram’s massive fucking hallway and solves the handshake question by just flinging an arm over Shane’s shoulders. “My close personal friend Shane Hollander,” he says, loudly enough to carry to the back garden.

His hand squeezes Shane’s shoulder once, a quick hello from the boyfriend rather than the business partner. That, more than anything, lets Shane relax a little. It’s Ilya’s team, Ilya’s event, Shane just has to follow his plays. “Hi.” Ilya had called him Hollander, is Shane meant to call him Rozanov? That doesn’t seem friendly. Shane tries to remember what he’d said at the last press conference. Surely he calls him Ilya at the camps, right?

Ilya grins. “Did you bring the papers?”

Papers? Was Shane meant to bring papers? For the barbeque?

“For the foundation,” Ilya prompts, slowly and deliberately. “That I need to sign, yes?”

Oh, oh. Shane had almost forgotten the ruse that got him through the door. “Yeah they’re –” he has no papers. Nothing that could even pass for papers. Maybe they should have spent more time planning and less time trading blowjobs in the shower. “- in the car,” he finishes, unconvincingly. “We can do it later.”

Shane Hollander, head of the Irina foundation and casual friend of Ilya Rozanov, would still be interested in meeting the Centaurs, right? It’s hard to figure out in his head, where the line is between the real him and the role he’s playing but he tries. “You promised me dinner first.”

“Oooh,” someone – Shane can’t see who – calls from the back door. “He playing hardball, Rozy? Not like your usual dates!”

There’s a half second of hesitation – Ilya glancing at Shane his eyes saying: is this okay? And waiting for Shane’s, sure? – before Ilya laughs and shouts back, “You are all just jealous that you do not get to have dinner plans with second best player in the league!”

And, well, Shane could never resist an open net. “What do you mean, Rozanov? I bet they have dinner with you all the time.”

The backyard erupts in cheers, laughter and chirping at Ilya’s expense. Ilya shakes his head, “Can’t believe I am being bullied on all sides. You see what I must put up with!” but he’s leading Shane out to the back yard and positively beaming as he’s doing it.

Which is okay. Which is good. Shane knows how to do this.

🏒

The back yard is half covered by an enormous deck laid in a dark wood, with a wooden cover making it almost a room except for how it opens to the lawn and a line of tall pine trees running along the back fence. There are kids, from toddlers to a girl who looks about ten, running around on the grass chasing a soccer ball. A handful of rookies surround a fire pit off to one side, although they all jump to their feet as Shane and Ilya step outside. The edges of the deck are lined with benches covered with stylish matching throw pillows, hockey players and a handful of women who are probably wives and girlfriends. Or maybe sisters, or neighbours. They don’t quite outnumber hockey players but it’s a closer thing.

And they look so casual. And sure, Shane’s seen Jackie at home with the kids, rushed off her feet in sweatpants with no make-up, but at team events the WAGS are always a well dressed unit. Perfect hair, perfect teeth, make-up on point. The Cens ladies are lovely, yes, but they look relaxed, comfortable. Wyatt’s wife – she’s visited the camps, Shane thinks her name is Lisa – is leaning against Wyatt on a bench wearing a loose superhero t-shirt that might belong to Wyatt. She smiles and waves at him.

And Troy Barrett is here. Sitting on a bench leaning back against one of the roof pillars with an arm casually draped over the shoulders of a young man in a plaid shirt and a beard, relaxed and happy and apparently entirely unfazed by homosexual PDA in a yard full of hockey players.

It’s one thing to know Troy Barrett has a boyfriend, but it turns out it’s a whole other thing to actually see Troy Barrett having a boyfriend.

Ilya comes up behind him, touches a hand to his shoulder. Casual and friendly to outsiders, but a reminder for Shane that he’s not alone here. “Centaurs, this is my good friend Shane Hollander. Hollander, that’s Bood on the grill, his wife Cassie-” Ilya does a run around the whole deck, too many names for Shane to memorize. He’s met most of the players at least, but it’s different seeing them in casual clothes, not flashing by on the rink or in the handshake line, and different to the headshots on google when Shane’s tried to match faces to Ilya’s stories.

Bood is at the back wielding some truly impressive BBQ tools and wearing a kiss the cook apron. His wife Cassie is tall and blonde, stacking plates on a side table. There are other players Shane recognizes: Dykstra, Chouinard, Wyatt and their partners: Caitlin, Selena, Lisa. The Centaur rookies – Luca Haas, LaPointe, and Young. A bunch of other names that Shane didn’t follow and will not remember later.

But doing the math, it seems like about half the Centaurs are here, hanging out, on their one rare day off.

“That’s Harris,” Ilya finishes, gesturing to Barrett’s bench. “Girl-Harris, and Harris’s boyfriend.”

Chouinard laughs, “Not that you have favourites huh, Rozy.”

“My favourites are down here,” Ilya says, crouching down at Harris’s feet where Anya is lying on the deck next to another dog Shane only knows from pictures. “This is the greatest team mascot: Chiron. And this is my best girl Anya, the most perfect dog in the whole world.”

Anya looks up at Shane, and it feels weird to not be able to go and pat her head like he would if she came into the bedroom or he went downstairs. She cocks her head at him and gives a little bark, like she’s wondering the same thing.

“Ignore Rozy,” Bood says, leaving the grill to come over, holding out a hand for Shane to shake. “He’s ridiculous. But welcome, it’s great to have you. Sit wherever you like, the food’s going to be a few more minutes.”

“Sorry if I’m intruding on a team thing,” Shane says. “Ily– Rozanov thought it was a good idea, but I don’t have to stay if that’s –”

“No!” Bood cuts across him before he’s even got the disclaimer out. “No, the more the merrier! I always make too much. I mean, when Rozy said he was inviting you I think we mostly thought it was a joke but I guess the two of you really are friends, huh?”

Shane glances over to where Ilya is now sitting fully on the floor so he can rub Chiron’s belly while Harris laughs. He’s holding onto Anya’s collar with his free hand, not in a way that would be obvious to anyone else but Shane can tell he’s holding her back from coming to greet him.

It hurts, in a way he hadn’t expected. He knows Anya belongs to Ilya more than him. Ilya adopted her, her main home is in Ottawa, Shane didn’t even want a dog.

But like… that’s his dog.

Ilya distracts Anya with a treat, and Shane forces himself to look away from them to where Bood is still waiting for an answer. “We spend a fair bit of time together,” he says on autopilot, one of many lines he’s practiced over the years for the press. “With the foundation, you know.”

“The two of you are doing really great work there,” Cassie comes up and kisses Shane on the cheek. “Welcome, it’s really an honor to have you. Roz talks about you all the time.”

Shane does not panic and demand to know what Ilya says about him. It’s probably normal things. It’s fine. “Thanks,” he says, and he knows he’s using his press smile as well but he doesn’t know how to stop faking it. He goes for a distraction instead, reaching into his bag. “I brought beer.”

She takes the crate with a delighted ooh. “Oh you got the good stuff! Would I be a terrible person if I hid it until all these hockey players have gone? Present company excepted of course, have as many as you like, but those men won’t appreciate it like I will.”

She reminds him of Rose, kind of. In a way that makes it easier to relax as he pulls the pack of ginger ale out of the bag to show her. “I’m good, I don’t really drink in season.”

He’s prepared for Bood to roll his eyes or someone to call him a buzzkill or a pussy, or whatever insult is in season in Ottawa for boring hockey players.

He’s not expecting Bood to crow delightedly, “Canada dry! Classic.” and for several other people to cheer in agreement behind him.

“See,” Dykstra – Shane thinks it’s Dykstra – says, coming up behind him. “This is why we need to get more proper Canadians on the team.” He claps Shane on the shoulder.

Bood is still grinning. “There’ll be some in the fridge if you want to grab a cold one, Hollander.”

The only person at Montreal who stocks ginger ale for team events is Hayden, who jokes that he should put in a tap the amount Shane is at his house. But there’s half a shelf of Canada Dry in Bood’s fridge. And there’s beer, obviously, but also diet coke, sparkling water, and a weirdly large amount of Drover farms apple cider.

Shane takes a cold ginger ale and turns back to the group. Ilya’s still on the floor with the dogs. Shane’s not sure he can sit next to Ilya and not touch him, but Dykstra has an empty space on the bench next to him and he beckons Shane over. “You grew up here right, Hollander? Where did you play juniors?”

It’s smalltalk, but it’s hockey smalltalk so it’s easy. Shane talks about the local rinks, driving to Montreal for games as a kid because even then there wasn’t much to see from Ottawa – Dykstra makes a face but concedes the point – and what it was like playing for team Canada.

After a while, Ilya lets go of Anya and she comes over to sniff Shane’s knee and find out why he’s been ignoring her. No one’s paying close attention so he pats her head and ruffles her ears and she settles down at his feet.

“Huh,” Dykstra says. “Anya doesn’t usually take to strangers.”

Shane shrugs, taking a drink to hide his smile. Maybe he shouldn’t feel pleased that people can tell Ilya’s dog likes him but, well.

She’s a good dog.

🏒

It’s easy, is the thing. The afternoon doesn’t turn into a wild party, half the crowd aren’t even drinking and the ones that are are drinking for pleasure, not calling for rounds of shots or seeing who can spill the most beer down their shirts. Shane signs a hockey stick for a very red-faced rookie who looks about twelve, he talks to Dykstra about building the well at the cottage, and to Harris’s sister about fruit trees that don’t require much maintenance, and to a lot of different people about hockey. Bood’s cooked a wide range of delicious food, most of it heavy on the protein so Shane really only has to skip the bread which honestly is a better meal than he’s had in most restaurants.

Bood positively beams when he says this. “Shane fucking Hollander,” he says. “You are welcome back any time.”

At some point the topic of Louis Gavron comes up, Bood and Dykstra’s conversation spilling out into the wider Centaurs. Gavron’s been scoring a lot of points for San Francisco while skirting the edge of every foul it’s possible to get away with on the ice and the Centaurs are heading down there after the break. There are multiple players off on injury leave because of him, but he still got invited to All Stars.

“It’s bullshit,” Barrett says. “And he’s cosying up to Kent so you know he’s a misogynistic fuckbag on top of everything else.”

They’ve bitched about him in Montreal too, but there it’s ‘he’s a fucking cocksucker’ or ‘Fucking gay ass pussy,’ like Shane isn’t even in the room. He’s never heard a Metro use ‘misogynistic’ as an insult. Half of them would be more likely to wear it like a badge of pride. Half of them are still friends with Kent, saying the accusations against him are bullshit, that it’s a witch hunt.

Maybe that’s Shane’s fault. He’s the captain. And he did try, for a while, but Hayden was the only one who ever backed him up. JJ tried on occasion, but then he was the first to call shitty tape gay and to say he was going to fuck opponents up the ass, like that was some terrible thing. He’d apologise later, if he remembered. But only to Shane and only in private and it never changed anything in the moment.

It was an uphill battle. And the more Shane tried to fight it the more the team started muttering about how he’d changed. How maybe he didn’t have what it takes, even though the only thing that had changed was that they knew.

Then Theriault took him aside and told him he needed to work on not making the rest of the team uncomfortable and Shane had given up. He’d written it off, figured that was just hockey culture and there was nothing he could do about it.

But the Centaurs are all agreeing with Barrett. Someone asks if there’s been any progress with getting Kent to trial. Wyatt’s wife Lisa starts explaining how cases like that are very difficult because of the reliance on eyewitness testimony and how much it can suck for anyone who does testify and everyone just… listens to her.

It feels like the camps. Like those two weeks in summer when everyone loves hockey and loves each other and wants to build something great, except it’s not two weeks in summer. This is their lives. All year round.

Troy Barrett is having this whole conversation lying down with his head in Harris’s lap. The only person to make any kind of comment was Selena Chouinard who said, “You two are so sweet it’s disgusting.”

Everyone’s coupled up. Bood and his wife are wrapped around each other on the bench behind the barbeque, Dykstra has his head in his wife’s lap on the sofa. The kids are inside watching a movie, occasionally someone will go in to check on them and it’s not always the wives. Chouinard went. Bood went. Dykstra made them a bowl of popcorn.

Ilya is sitting by the fire pit on the other side of the deck, arguing passionately about F1 with the rookies. Anya’s lying on the ground next to him, he has a hand absently on the back of her neck. Shane has a ginger ale in one hand but he reaches into his pocket with the other to run his thumb along the edge of the ring.

“So.” Wyatt Hayes has ended up on the bench next to Shane. He’s got one arm slung around his wife but she’s ignoring him to talk to Selena and she’s small so he can speak to Shane over her head. “When did you two meet?”

Shane is distracted trying to hear what Ilya was so fired up about so it takes him a second to register the question and then he says, “Who?” before realizing his staring is probably not all that subtle.

Wyatt nods at Ilya anyway.

“Prospect cup,” Shane says. “2008.” And then stops before he can add that Russia won, Canada had more shots on goal but couldn’t get their defence together. Shane got more points, Ilya got more goals. They shook hands twice, outside in the parking lot, and Shane could still feel it for hours after.

Wyatt laughs. “Right, of course. I meant, when did you actually get to know each other? Like, you hated each other, didn’t talk for years, and then suddenly you were starting a charity? How does that happen?”

And Shane knows the agreed story by heart. He’s had to pull it out for any number of journalists who didn’t bother to check the last ten interviews. They got talking at the all star game, first about hockey then about life. Shane had said he was thinking of setting up a charity, Ilya had suggested the direction. Beneath the rivalry there had always been a level of mutual respect.

Shane could recite it in his sleep, but he finds sitting on this bench looking at Ilya on the far side of the fire, that he doesn’t want to say any of it.

“We never hated each other,” he says. “We met in 2008. We talked outside the stadium, then at the draft, then the next year at world Juniors.”

Ilya is laughing at something someone said. Troy has gotten involved in the debate somehow, leaning over Harris’s shoulder to join in. Anya lifts her head and barks, looking around as though to see if Shane is watching.

Of course he’s watching.

Shane doesn’t want to come out on center ice after the cup final but…

But.

“We’ve been meeting up since,” he says. It feels almost like he’s watching himself do it, from somewhere high above where he doesn’t have to worry about how it ends. “Every time we played in the same city, pretty much.” He can’t take his eyes off Ilya, who is now proclaiming that without him Troy and Harris would never have got together and that he is the patron saint of love.

The team are laughing, Bood says, “Sure Ilya, you can be the cupid of gay hockey romance,” like that’s something a hockey player can just say.

“It only got serious a few years ago,” Shane says. “Or maybe it was always serious, but it took us a while to notice.”

“Shane,” Wyatt says, and Shane has to force himself to turn back to him since he’s meant to be having a conversation, except Wyatt is also looking over at Ilya now, like he’s trying to work something out. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve been friends this whole time? Because I was sitting next to you at All Stars a month ago and I really thought you might kill each other.”

“That’s not -” how is he meant to explain them to someone else? He’s never had to try before. He’s never wanted to try before. “We’re engaged,” he says. Because it’s true. Because all of a sudden he wants to say it out loud. “We’ve been together for… ten years, on and off.”

He thought it would feel more like something. He’d thought, if he was honest, that it would be terrifying.

But he doesn’t feel scared or sick to his stomach or like he’s about to freak out.

He doesn’t feel relief, either. It feels like… like losing your balance right by the net, not knowing yet if you’re going to score a goal, or trip and crash down onto the ice.

The silence drags for one second, two, three. Wyatt’s sister is gay, Wyatt is friends with Harris and Troy, there’s no reason to think he’d ever…

But he hasn’t said anything.

And then he laughs, a full body laugh, shaking his head and almost knocking Lisa onto the floor. “Oh my god, Shane, you almost had me for a moment there.” His eyes narrow. “Wait, does this mean he told you he’s engaged? Do you know who it is because he just grins when I ask-?”

Shane rubs his thumb over the ring in his pocket one more time then slides it back onto his finger. Wyatt’s still talking but it fades into the background.

The thing about losing your balance, on skates, is that to stay on your feet you have to let the momentum carry you forward without hesitating, without second thoughts.

Shane stands up. Ilya glances back at him and doesn’t look away, a question forming between his eyebrows, and Shane isn’t afraid at all.

“Ilya,” he says, deliberately choosing the correct pronunciation instead of the bastardized americanization everyone else uses. The one he pretends to use, in public. Then in Russian, slowly to make sure he’s getting the words right, “This man doesn’t believe you’re my fiancé.”

And no matter what happens next, no matter how these people react or if the whole world finds out and everything Shane has built comes crashing down, it’s worth it in this moment for the way Ilya looks at him. Like Shane is the Stanley Cup and the Hart and every single day at the cottage all rolled into one.

“Are you sure?” Ilya asks, also in Russian.

“Completely.” Shane takes a step forward. He doesn’t know what Wyatt’s doing, doesn’t know what anyone’s doing because he can’t tear his eyes off Ilya’s face and the smile breaking across it. He switches back to English, just to make certain. He can feel his own smile, can’t stop it. “Come here.”

Ilya almost trips over Anya in his haste to get up, cocky grin almost breaking through the sheer joy. “You come here,” he says, but he’s already moving and so is Shane, catching hands in the middle of the deck in front of everyone.

It’s not a live televised cup final. It’s not center ice at Madison Square Garden. It’s twenty people in a backyard strung with fairy lights and it turns out Shane does want to kiss Ilya in front of them all.

He wants it so much.

They’re both smiling too much for it to be a good kiss, but on the other hand Ilya is almost laughing in awe and disbelief into Shane’s lips and that’s better than good, it’s amazing. Shane lifts a hand to Ilya’s cheek, lets his ring catch the light, Ilya’s arms wrap around his back, and the whole world could disappear around them for all Shane would notice. Ilya’s smile tastes like jerk chicken and coca cola, he smells like woodsmoke, he’s solid and warm in Shane’s arms and they’re going to be okay.

The kiss breaks and Ilya rests his forehead against Shane’s, creating a small space that’s just the two of them apart from the world. “I love you,” Ilya says.

Shane feels solid again, back in his body. Whatever comes next he did this. He chose this. And they’re in it together. And it’s going to be amazing. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he says.

Ilya steps back. Not far, just enough to see the crowd. He keeps one arm around Shane’s waist, keeping Shane tucked against his side.

Everyone is staring at them. Troy has sat up straight, Wyatt is standing up, Shane has never seen so many mouths literally dropped open.

“Hello Centaurs,” Ilya says, his face threatening to split in two he’s smiling so wide. “I would like you to meet my fiancé. Captain of the Metros, three time Stanley Cup winner, and 2009 rookie of the year: Shane Hollander.”

There’s a thump from the firepit.

The silence stretches for a single, long, moment. Shane has a second to think he was right, being gay is one thing but fucking your rival, loving your rival, marrying your rival is a whole other fucking –

Then Bood laughs. A full belly laugh of disbelief but also somehow delight. “Holy fucking shit, Roz.”

And the floodgates burst, suddenly everyone’s talking at once.

“You and Shane Hollander?” Dykstra.

“Ilya!” Cassie Boodram.

“Oh my god! Oh my god.” Harris.

“Your fiancé?!” Selena Chouinard.

“You asshole what the hell?” Troy.

And more that Shane can’t parse because everyone and their WAG is jumping on Ilya’s shoulders, trying to hug Ilya which turns into hugging them both because Ilya won’t let go of Shane and maybe it should be overwhelming but it’s just… they all seem so fucking happy.

Shane was expecting… he doesn’t know what he was expecting. He didn’t plan this. Shock maybe. More like Hayden or his parents, the why him and the are you sure and the did you ever lose on purpose?

Instead he has Wyatt clapping him on the shoulder saying, “Jeez Hollander I’m sorry for ever fucking doubting you.”

“Um guys?” a voice calls from the firepit. “Very happy for you and all, but I think you might have killed Haasy?”

“I’m fine!” comes a second, smaller voice. “I’m fine, I’m just… having my whole worldview shifted. I’ll be alright in a minute.”

And oh, Shane recognises that. Ilya does too, if the way his face softens is any indication. It’s not the cup final, it’s not center ice, but there’s always someone watching that maybe it means everything to.

Ilya glances at Shane – are you okay for a moment? – and Shane nods because, weirdly, he is. Wyatt has slung an arm over his shoulder and he’s laughing, everyone’s laughing and talking over each other. Anya has nosed her way into the crush and is nuzzling at Shane’s hand and this time he doesn’t have to ignore her, he can bend down to scratch her ears the way she likes and watch his fiancé saunter over to the fire pit.

“Yes, Luca,” Ilya says. “It is true that if you work hard and train very well one day you too may get to marry a Stanley cup winning hockey player.”

“Oh my god you are not helping.”

Wyatt shakes his head, looking down at Shane. “Ten years, huh?”

And Shane wouldn’t trade a second of them for the world.

🏒

Ilya takes Haas out into the garden. The team seems to trust him to do it, like they know as well as Shane does that Ilya isn’t going to hurt him, that he’s actually good at this. Cassie digs out some champagne – “I don’t care how long ago the engagement was, we’re just finding out so we’re celebrating!” – and Shane takes a glass. By the time they’ve been through about six rounds of toasts – “To Cap finally getting tied down!” “To the terror of a Hollander-Rozanov trophy cabinet!” – Ilya and Luca are back. Luca’s cheeks are dark red but he can’t stop smiling.

Shane remembers that feeling, packing for the cottage, writing out meal plans, unable to stop himself every ten seconds from remembering that Ilya was going to be there, with him. That he was going to eat this pasta with Ilya. That he’d wear that shirt with Ilya.

And he doesn’t have to stop himself from smiling when Ilya walks directly to him. He can tilt his head back for Ilya to give him a kiss, and he can shunt forwards a little so Ilya can squeeze into the tiny gap behind him.

The party becomes, unsurprisingly, a round of twenty questions about their relationship but it’s fine. Better by far than all the carefully scripted lies Shane has to parrot to the press, and he gets to sit with his back against Ilya’s chest and Anya plonked firmly against his knees, much happier now the natural order has been restored.

Boyle starts. “So Roz, you’re… what?”

“Not that you have to put a label on it if you don’t want to,” Lisa adds, as though she was worried that the Ottawa Centaurs were going to say something to make Ilya uncomfortable. It’s like a bizarre hockey mirror dimension. Is any other team like this? Maybe the Admirals, if Scott and Eric managed what Shane couldn’t to beat them into shape.

“I am bisexual,” Ilya says. “Shane is regular gay.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, out of habit, or just because he can, because it makes Ilya squeeze him tighter. If they were home, Ilya would kiss him. He doesn’t here probably trying to respect Shane’s boundaries.

Shane probably needs to figure out his boundaries because right now he just kind of wants to kiss Ilya again.

“See this,” Wyatt says. “This is why I thought you were hazing me.”

“That and the epic decade long rivalry,” Dykstra adds. “So come on, how does that even work?”

Ilya shrugs, taking the question before Shane has to dig for an answer. “Rivalry is mostly the press. And was fun, made games between us a bigger deal. Teams fought harder, more competition means we both play harder. Plus is always fun to beat Hollander –”

“Three Stanley cups!” Shane reminds him.

“– and when he has lost is even more fun.” Ilya is behind him but Shane can hear the wink.

“Jesus,” Chouinard says. “Shane, you couldn’t find a normal guy to date?”

Which is what everyone says. Every single fucking time Shane tells anyone about Ilya, they have to imply that it was a bad decision or Shane didn’t know what he was doing or that Ilya isn’t worth it.

But when Chouinard says it, he’s grinning. Because he knows Ilya, because Ilya is his friend. He knows Ilya is brave and funny and he trusted Ilya with Luca, he trusts Ilya to be his captain, so he’s not questioning Shane’s relationship or Shane’s life choices. He’s poking fun at Ilya because he knows, actually knows, how fucking lucky Shane is.

Which makes it easy for Shane to grin back and say, “Oh you know. Had to be into guys, had to be averaging at least eighty points a season, obviously needed at least one Stanley cup. And Scott Hunter was taken, so -”

The whole deck explodes in laughter and chirps, none louder than Ilya’s – “That is it, wedding is off, all of you hand back your invitations!” – and the whole time Ilya’s arms are wrapped around his stomach and no one is judging them at all.

“You do know what this means though,” Lisa says, once it’s calmed down again. “If they’re engaged… and Ilya’s a centaur…”

Shane’s not sure what she’s getting at, but Cassie and Selena both cheer. “Yes!” Selena says. “Oh my god, Shane give me your number and I’ll add you to the Night-Mares.”

Shane blinks. “Do I want to know what that is?”

Lisa gives him far too wide a grin. “WAGs chat. Wives, girlfriends, fiancés, and Harris.”

Harris is frowning a little. “Are we allowed to have a hockey player in the WAGs chat?”

“Are you allowed to have an enemy hockey player in the WAGs chat?” Boyle says. “Don’t you, like, talk about us in there?”

Shane hadn’t even realized the Metros WAGs had a group chat, although in hindsight it seems kind of obvious and maybe explains why Jackie kept asking him for ‘Lily’s’ number before she learned about Ilya.

She’d stopped asking, once she did know. Which is fine, obviously. They don't have to invite every partner, and it's okay if they wanted to keep it for the girls. The Centaur WAGs clearly didn't hesitate to welcome Harris but that's... different. And even they're having second thoughts about inviting an opposing player.

Except Selena is already leaning over Chouinard to pass Shane her phone, like it's decided. “Sorry babe, he’s a WAG. I don’t make the rules.”

Shane takes it, because he’s not sure how to refuse.

Across the deck Lisa is still grinning. “I apologize in advance for how much we trash talk the Metros.”

“I don’t,” Cassie says.

“Hang on,” Troy raises his head a little. “Do the Metros also know?”

Fuck. Shane focuses on the phone so he doesn’t have to look up. Ilya kisses his shoulder, which helps. “They know about me. Not about… the Ilya thing. You can’t – I mean, please don’t tell people?” Fuck, they were all such nice people and now they were also going to be caught up in all Shane’s fucking insecurities. “I mean, I love my team, they’re great, but they’re still a bit… about me being gay. And they hate Ilya, obviously, so –” He can’t look up.

“Hey,” that sounded like one of the other rooks, Shane still hasn’t got the hang of their names. “Was one of your teammates a dick about it?”

“I need names and faces.” That was definitely Dykstra. Shane can’t help glancing over. Dykstra’s a big outdoorsy guy, he does most of the Cens enforcing and he’s cracking his knuckles looking murderous.

Barrett snorts. “I’m sure I could guess a few.”

They’re ridiculous. And those are Shane’s teammates they’re talking about, it shouldn’t make Shane feel warm in his stomach to have the worst team in the league acting like some kind of white knights for queer hockey. “Please don’t beat up my teammates.” He passes Selena her phone back. “I’m sorry if I don’t text back much, I’m not great at group –”

“Hang on,” Barrett interrupts, his eyes on the phone as though he’s just realizing something important. “Roz, is this why you kept making excuses to avoid giving me Hollander’s number?”

Harris jerks out of his lap, looking affronted. “You asked for Shane’s number?”

“Before we were together!” Barrett says quickly. “Ilya knew… pretty early. Before you and me…” His ears are turning bright red. It’s weird but also amazing, the bad boy henchman of the MLH trying to hastily make up with his boyfriend. “And, I mean… it’s Shane Hollander.”

A lot of Centaur eyes swivel to look at Shane. Appraisingly. Now he’s the one going red. Ilya likes to remind him about the Cosmos hottest in hockey thing, and he knows he has a lot of female fans, but he’s not usually this… close to them.

“I did not give you Shane’s number because I am gay cupid and I knew you were in love with Harris,” Ilya proclaims loudly, effectively diverting the attention. “It was not for me to delay true love.”

“Also,” Selena says, with a sly little smile. “Because that’s your man.”

Ilya’s arms tug a little tighter around Shane’s stomach and he drops another kiss onto Shane’s shoulder. “Also,” he says, smug as the cat with the cream. “Because that is my man.”

And the team breaks out into another round of cheering. In the middle of it Shane rests his head back against his boyfriend’s chest, smiling so wide his cheeks ache.

Because they can have this. Here, with this weird nonsensical team, in Shane’s fucking home town, after all those years of hiding and sneaking and lying. They can have this.

He leans his head back to kiss Ilya’s jaw, the only part he can reach. “You were right,” he says. “Your friends are good people.”

Ilya shifts so they can kiss properly, a soft press of lips in the sparkling light that sets off another round of cheering. “Our friends,” he says.

Like Shane can have this too. Like Shane can be part of this beautiful, impossible thing.

And sure, why not believe in one more miracle, smiling under sparkling lights and a home town sky.

He slides a hand into Ilya’s hair and kisses him again.