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5
Ilya glared at his tv screen as Shane placed a friendly hand on the interviewer who was asking him how he felt about the Voyageurs win. He was asking a question in French, or maybe mumbled English–it didn’t matter because that’s not what Ilya cared about. It was laser-focused on Shane’s hand, the way his fingers squeezed lightly, the way it fucking lingered. He was leaning in close enough that the reporter’s ear was mere centimeters from Shane’s lips.
His fingers flexed around the glass in his hand. He swirled the ice cold vodka around before tipping it to his lips and taking a sip. He had broken out the good stuff to watch the game. The Voyageurs were game three into the playoffs and they had just taken away another win against the Admirals. Shane was still out of breath and sweaty and beautiful, and all Ilya wanted to do was be the one standing next to him listening to the panting answer to whatever stupid question the journalist asked, with his hand on Ilya’s shoulder.
4
“Someone needs to teach this guy how to party!” JJ Boiziau yelled as he walked up to the bar of the All-Stars’ game with his arm around Shane’s waist. Several other rowdy hockey players ran up behind them and piled on top of Shane, nearly knocking the man to the floor.
Ilya watched from his table where Marleau was going on about…something. Maybe the girl he had picked up the night before. His eyes and attention were locked on Shane.
“Time for your annual fun, buddy,” JJ said, ruffling Shane’s hair. Ilya seethed. The actual annual fun would happen in one or the other of their hotel rooms as soon as they could sneak away, but not before they both made a show of palling around with their respective teams and leaving separately.
“Roz. Roz, are you listening?” Marleau asked, waving his hand in front of Ilya’s face.
“Yeah, sorry Marly. What were you saying?”
“I was saying that it was probably good for Hollander to remove that hockey stick from his ass during All-Stars every year.”
Ilya smirked. “I don’t know, I think he likes having something up there,” he replied.
Marleau laughed and called Ilya an asshole, shoving his shoulder. For his part, Ilya’s smirk faded as he took another sip of his beer.
3
Why the fuck was Hayden Pike’s Instagram popping up in Ilya’s algorithm? Okay, so he followed a lot of hockey players, and okay he and Shane were tagged in a lot of the same posts from hockey, ugh, influencers, and alright he spent time searching for posts about Shane Hollander a lot when he was alone in his hotel room. But still. Hayden. Pike.
Then again. The post had @shanehollanderhockeyofficial tagged in it and it was a carousel of photos of the Pikes hosting a barbecue. Ilya scrolled through, trying to catch a glimpse of dark eyes and freckles when he stopped.
Shane’s smiling face filled the screen, cheeks pink, hair twisted into an insane formation with butterfly clips, sparkles on his cheeks, and wearing rainbow fairy wings. He read the caption.
uncle of the year award goes to @shanehollanderhockeyofficial. thanks for humoring the twins, uncle shane!
Ilya felt his eyes prickle with tears. That casual familial connection, the friendship, even with someone like Hayden Pike, the way they could just claim Shane on social media without a second thought? Want burned like a lump in Ilya’s throat. He didn’t want to trade places with Shane. He wanted to be there, getting his nails painted and hair decorated.
He swallowed roughly, brushing tears away from his cheeks, and if he took a screenshot? That was between him and his phone.
2
Rose. Fucking. Landry.
1
Ilya congratulated his team members, tapping gloves as they came off the ice, telling each one of them that they did a good job and that he loved them.
Normal captain stuff.
He was grinning like an idiot. They had won their away game against Montreal and he was about to go to town on Shane Hollander when they met up after the game. Sex was always better after he won. It was the best fucking, shit, what was it called? Aph…Apro…It made him bonkers horny.
He walked off the ice and did the whole post-game routine. The interviews, the shower, getting back into his suit to leave the arena, then he was going to change in his hotel room, sneak out while his roommate was celebrating in the bar, and take a taxi to Shane’s apartment. He was relieved that since admitting their feelings for each other that he gets to go to Shane’s actual place (he even had a key), and soon Shane would be moving into his new house, closing after the season was over.
The traffic was horrible, actually. He nearly opened the car door to run to Shane’s place rather than sit trapped in a vehicle that had slowed to a crawl. He decided to scroll through the post game footage. He smiled as the commentators talked about how well he played and the rivalry between him and Shane, then frowned as they cut to footage of Shane playing and analyzing where he made mistakes.
But the thing that got him, that really got him, was the footage of Yuna and David meeting Shane off the ice and enveloping him in a big hug.
One day. One day, he’d get to claim a hug from all of the Hollanders in front of the world, and things would be the way they were supposed to be.
+1
The timer had thirty seconds left but the game was over. Ilya looked around the ice and found Shane where he was coming off the bench and skating towards him at top speed, colliding heavily in a hug. He whipped off his helmet and looked around the Ottawa arena with tears in his eyes.
His teammates, his best friends, his brothers celebrated around them, hugging and crying. Roger Crowell walked onto the ice accompanied by the team carrying the cup, a sour look on his face. For the third time, Ilya shook his hand and accepted the cup, holding it over his head and screaming in triumph. Shane beamed as he joined Ilya, letting him pass the cup to Bood, pulling him close and kissing him. He locked their hands together and held them over their heads. He felt so much joy in his heart, he was afraid he might explode.
Yes, this was the third time Ilya won the cup, but it was the first time with his husband.
A legacy.