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The crowd is loud.
It’s one of the first things that Shane notices as he exits the tunnel, eyes blinking rapidly against the sudden onslaught of light. Even after all these years, it’s something he’s not grown used to. The atmosphere right before a game — loud yelling, cheers and boos combined with the constant sensation of harsh lightning and the tightness of his own skates. The weight of his stick in his right hand is grounding; he clenches his hand around it as much as he can with his gloves on.
The constant buzzing underneath his skin, the tremble in his lip has him wanting to turn back around and walk back to the locker room. Take off his gear and run to the car so he can go home. Shane really doesn’t want to be here, and that’s saying something. He fucking loves hockey, and despite not knowing his new team for long, they’ve made it fun again. Shane loves being on the ice again, and he has the Centaurs to thank for that.
Right now, though, all that fun has left him. That anticipation of a good game, a challenging one. It’s like he’s back on the ice for his very first game when he was a kid, hands shaking as he held onto his stick for dear life. Blinking, Shane looks down at his skates through his visor and sighs. Perhaps he should sit this game out.
The thought makes him want to snort and hit himself across the head. Ilya would never allow it, and deep down, Shane doesn’t want to, either. He wants to be there on the ice with his new team, proving to the Voyaguers what they lost when they abandoned Shane all those months ago. It still hurts every time Shane thinks about it. He should have yelled at them when they accused him of letting Ilya win — he should have stood up for himself. Instead, he walked out and left them all to make their own assumptions, jump to their own conclusions.
Since then, though, Shane’s life has been a whirlwind of improvement. It’s like he’s been riding a high ever since Ilya suggested he join the Centaurs, and a small sliver of him is scared of the other shoe dropping. But whenever that happens, all Shane has to do is look at his husband and feel the world shift again, righting itself.
Even now, when he should be at the front, Ilya stands next to him, their shoulderpads touching. “We’re going to crush them.”
Shane chuckles. “You think so?”
“He might crush them.” Wyatt says as appears next to Ilya, his smile less bright than normal. The entire team is on edge, their heads fully in the game even though it hasn’t started yet. Adoration is an emotion Shane has grown more accustomed with over the past few months, and he can safely admit that he adores the entire Centaurs team. Their acceptance has meant more to Shane than he could ever describe. They’ve kept Ilya happy and alive over the years when their relationship was hidden from the rest of the world, nothing but supportive for a captain who kept such a large secret.
Now that it’s out, though, they’re even more protective over their captain. And the moment Shane stepped onto the ice in Ottowa wearing the Centaur’s black and red colours, that protectiveness translated over to him, too. He can feel it in the way the team buzzes around them, waiting for their time on the ice.
“Remember what I said.” Ilya calls over the loud cheers in the arena. The entire place is packed. The Centaurs nearly getting the Stanley Cup last season really put them back on the map, making more and more people show up for each and every game. It’s rare to see an empty seat nowadays, their fans loud and proud. The fact that most fans carry pride flags and some of the members use rainbow tape during every game has Shane feeling safe in ways he has only ever felt at the cottage, together with Ilya.
Even if the tape is known to be shit.
“No punching.” Troy replies. Bood and Dykstra join in too, Luca nodding solemly. “Unless provoked.”
Shane whips his head around. “No punching at all.”
“мое солнышко,” Ilya says, tilting his head. He’s got one eyebrow raised, as if questioning Shane’s decisions. “Are you sure?”
“Very.” Shane huffs, pushing away from the rest of the team.
Before anyone can say anything else, the cheering changes directions. Suddenly, it shifts to loud booing and yelling of curse words. Shane doesn’t have to look to know that the Voyageurs have come into view, a deeply hidden satisfaction making his blood sing. Sure, he doesn’t want his teammates to get in trouble or lose them the game by ending up in the penalty box, but the Voyaguers being knocked down a peg by a not so adoring audience? That Shane can deal with.
Shane leaving the Voyaguers and signing with Ottowa had caused quite the stir in the hockey world. Of course, people assumed that Shane and Ilya wanted to play together and they were right in assuming that. Shane had been done with being apart from his husband for long periods of time, and Ilya thought the same. The fact that the Centaurs had room was a bonus. Yet, a lot of people questioned Shane’s decision. Up until people started looking into it, and an inside source from the Voyaguers office blabbed to a handful hockey social media platforms.
That fire spread even faster than Hayden’s video. Or, at least, it felt like it. From one day to the next, Farah was bombarded with requests to have Shane come for an interview, for a quote. They even asked Ilya for a few words. He was ready to give them, but Shane declined each and every offer. Ilya has little to no good things to say about the Voyaguers, and that’s putting it lightly. Even if Shane thinks it’s hot, it has no place in articles that can be read online.
So yeah, Shane doesn’t want his teammates punching any of his ex-teammates. Simply because the booing should be embarrasing enough, especially for a team that was once so heavily adored.
Not that he’s kidding himself thinking that they are no longer adored, because they are. Even after the article got published about how they treated Shane, their fans didn’t falter. They are still there, even showing up to away games wearing blue and red jerseys. They’re outnumbered here, though, and that’s somehow comforting.
“I know you said no punching—”
“Wyatt,” Shane interupts with a huff, shaking his head. “You’re in the goal. What are you going to do?”
Hayes snorts, puffing out his chest. “You don’t know what I can do.”
“We’re going to do this without fights, without punching anyone.” Shane repeats the words he spoke in the locker room, a warmth settling in his chest despite the chill of the ice. Ilya stood beside him, giving Shane the power and confidence needed to speak out to his new team. He’s not known them long enough and he’s not the captain, so giving speeches isn’t exactly his job, but he wanted to say his piece anyway.
The team was receptive and understood. Well, kind of. Even Harris looked less than pleased with Shane’s speech.
It hadn’t even been an actual speech, really. Shane merely asked them to not provoke or let themselves be provoked by the chirps and what not. During warm ups, the stares and angry looks from his ex teammates were palpable even from a distance, making Shane’s skin itch, but he doesn’t want his current team to stoop to their level. Even if it hurts.
Ilya gives him a smile. Shane’s heart flips like it always does, gloved hand reaching up to his own chest. Ilya mirrors the movement, placing his hand across where his necklace is resting underneath his layers. The golden cross, the ring that joined it a few months ago at the beginning of summer. It helps calm the nerves, the anxiety in his stomach settling slightly. Ilya quickly presses a kiss to Shane’s helmet and he doesn’t even have time to gasp, to scold him. Normally, he isn’t one for PDA. Now, though, it makes him grip his stick a little tighter with a little more confidence.
Coach Wiebe breaks the spell, making Shane look away from his husband. The older man stands near the boards, arms crossed. “Let’s do this.”
The first period goes by as well as can be expected. The Centaurs are still getting used to having Shane in their midst, though due to their diligent practice and Shane studying them all meticulously over the summer, they perform well. It’s different, playing with the Centaurs, but not in a bad way. They’ve won two games so far this season — out of four — and Shane hasn’t enjoyed hockey this much since God knows how long.
Even the nasty glares from his ex-teammates barely reach him, their chirps silenced by the cheers and hollers from the stands. As the last minute from the first period ticks by, the crowd roars to life. Ilya zips across the ice, followed closely by two players from the Voyaguers. Shane manages to keep the smirk off of his face — they’re not fast enough to keep up with Ilya whatsoever.
Haas is there, Troy on Ilya’s other side. They pass the puck in quick succession until it’s back with Ilya, soaring through the sky and into the left corner of the net right before the buzzer sounds. Ilya throws his arms up in the air, Haas and Troy skating over to him and cheering.
Shane stands from the bench and leans onto the boards, watching as his husband skillfully skates over to their side of the rink. “Nice shot.”
Ilya’s smile is blinding, eyes twinkling. “I had a good assist.”
“That’s right.” Troy smirks, bumping his shoulder against Ilya’s before leaving the ice. The team trickles out of the arena and into the locker room, where Harris is waiting with a smile and a tripod.
Shane goes to his stall immediately, dropping down in his seat. Ilya joins him, leaning against him as Bood, Dykstra and Young get snared into whatever it is that Harris is planning. He’s been diligent about keeping up with the Centaur’s social media, even more so than last year. At least, that’s what Ilya told him. Harris is nice — he’s sweet and the human version of a puppy.
Coach Wiebe joins them in the locker room after a minute of chaos, a smile on his face. “You’re all doing amazing. Great assist there, Barrett! Rozanov, you’re on fire. Hayes, best saves I’ve seen from you so far this season!”
The praise keeps going, Wiebe finding something to say about each and every single member of the team. Shane allows it to wash over him as he takes a sip of water from his bottle, the comforting weight of Ilya next to him making it easier to breathe. It’s strange, having such a positive coach. At first, Shane didn’t really know what to do with it. He still kind of doesn’t — Theriault hadn’t been the nicest, no matter how well the team was doing in a game. There was always something to improve, something that needed ironing out.
Wiebe doesn’t mention the fact that Montreal scored, or that Boyle fumbled. He doesn’t mention that they have two more periods to go and that they shouldn’t get cocky, that they don’t deserve to settle into the potential win yet. Instead, he pats everyone on the shoulder and promises drinks if they score again.
When the coach steps out of the room, Shane sags a little more. Despite the positivity, the cheering from the crowd and the fact that they’re two points ahead in the game, he still heard Drapeau call him several slurs. He still felt that extra hard shove from Schneider as they battled for the puck. The last thing he wants to do is cry, surrounded by his new team, but it hurts. But when they get home, Shane will be able to talk to Ilya about it all.
They’ve been working on that, too. Shane has joined Ilya for a few sessions with Dr. Galina since they got outed, and it’s been nice. It’s helped them figure some stuff out together, and now Shane feels more comfortable expressing his negative emotions to Ilya, too. Ilya relishes in it. Just last week, Shane ranted about their neighbor who refuses to pick up his dog’s shit while they are so diligent about Anya’s, and Ilya listened to him with the brightest smile on his face.
Shane throws his eyes skyward. Fuck his own PDA rules. Without thinking, he reaches for Ilya’s ungloved hand and squeezes.
Ilya instantly breaks off his conversation with Young, frowning as he looks at Shane. “Everything okay? Has anyone said anything?”
“I’m okay,” Shane replies softly, nodding. “We’ll talk after, okay?”
Instead of a verbal answer, Ilya leans in again. Their helmets knock together. Shane chuckles, lifting his slightly so that Ilya can kiss his nose.
“Anyone seeing this?” Bood’s voice booms through the room.
“My eyes!” LaPointe yelps.
“I thought we had rules!” Troy complains from where he’s standing next to Harris, holding his own water bottle.
“I think those rules can be forgiven for today.” Harris says.
“Rules can be forgiven for always.” Ilya grumbles, standing up again. Troy reaches out a hand for a fist bump, clearly agreeing with Ilya, and the Russian gives in eagerly. Shane huffs, but doesn’t say anything. Part of him knows he’s being ridiculous with his PDA rules, but the other part can’t get over the fact that everyone knows now. Even if all of these people saw them getting married, saw them kiss in their backyard and have known for months. The whole world knows, were able to see their honeymoon pictures which Ilya gladly shared on his Instagram.
Before Shane can protest, Coach Wiebe comes into the room again and hustles them all out the door. The crowd greets them with cheers, their flags flying high with the adrenaline of being two points ahead in the game. The Voyageurs are already on the ice, their faces grim.
Shane swallows as he makes eye contact with Hayden, who is standing with J.J. He nods, briefly, before turning back to his own team.
He’s out on the first rotation, skating onto the ice with Ilya in the middle. The buzzer sounds, and Shane’s entire world narrows. He forgets about everything going on outside of the rink, banishes all thought from his head. They play rough, perhaps a little too rough, but Shane can’t do anything about it. Ilya pushes Schneider into the boards with such force it makes even Shane’s brain rattle, and even Haas manages to nearly shove Becker to the ice.
Montreal scores once and when they get back onto the ice for the third period, the tension is palpable in the air. Shane grits his teeth through another goal, looking back to find Hayes staring back at him with an apology written all over his face. As Shane skates toward the boards for a shift, he races past Hayes to give him a high five. The goalie’s frown turns into a grin and Shane steps off the ice with ease, bumping hands with Bood as he races onto it.
Unfortunately, Montreal advances again and gets past Dykstra. He’s quick to follow, but not quick enough as Gagnon pulls back his stick and shoots. Hayes notices the fake-out, though, and catches the puck in his left hand before it can surge past him and into the goal.
Ilya skates to the middle, already leaning down for the face off. Schneider, the guy who took Shane’s spot after he left, is smirking as he does the same. His mouth moves, a glint in his eye. Shane’s stomach drops, hand curled tightly around his stick. Ilya doesn’t flinch, though, merely whispers something back. Schneider spits on the ground. The buzzer sounds, and Ilya’s off again.
Taking a deep breath, Shane readies himself to go back onto the ice. Boyle pats him on the shoulder as he steps out, immediately rushing over to Ilya. “What did he say?”
“Nothing,” Ilya replies, not needing to ask what Shane is talking about. “Is okay.”
Shane frowns, but he drops it. The middle of the rink isn’t the best place to hash this out, so he focuses back on the puck. It’s not long until he himself has it, the round object skating across the ice as Shane speeds up for the goal. He dodges one of the defense men, passing to Haas.
Haas takes the puck and rushes, turning and shooting it back to Shane. It lands against his stick beautifully and Shane smiles, ready to shoot until a force hits him in the side. He’s pushed against the boards, hard, and drops to one knee onto the ice. A roar goes through the arena, boos sounding from every which way. Shane gets up immediately, though, and shakes it off as best as he can.
“You alright?” Ilya asks when he passes thunder in his eyes.
Shane nods. He can feel a bruise forming on his shoulder, but he keeps that to himself. For now. Instead, he focuses on Ilya. “All good. Part of the game, right?”
Ilya’s eyes are talkative enough on their own to show that he wants to say more but before he can do so, Shane skates off again. As the minutes tick by, they manage another goal. Having won back their larger advantage, the game gets a little easier. The sneers and chirps, however, get louder, though Shane tries to shake those off, too.
The puck is with Shane again as they enter the last minute of the game, sweat beading on his forehead as he rushes forward. Haas is somewhere to his left, but before Shane can pass it to him, a shadow looms. Someone hits him again, though this time, it’s enough to send Shane flying into the boards at such a speed he sees white for a split second.
There’s a roar somewhere to his left and a sickening crack which resonates through Shane’s skull. He blinks once, twice, before the world comes into view again. Ilya’s holding his own hand, glaring down at the ice. Where Stedlund is sprawled out, clutching his nose.
Movement from behind Ilya makes Shane look away from his clearly wounded husband to find the rest of the team on the ice, too. It’s chaos colored in black and red and blue and white, a scrimmage the likes of which Shane hasn’t seen in ages. Part of him wants to get up, wants to tell everyone to knock it off and that this isn’t necessary.
The other, more selfish part that Shane has allowed himself to become more acquainted with over the past few months, feels a sick satisfaction at the fact that the Centaurs are fighting for him. Against the very team that threw him out like garbage.
On top of the shouts and grunts coming from the two teams on the ice, the roar of the crowd is deafening. People are yelling out names, screaming for both him and Ilya. Waving their flags, cheering when one of the Voyageur’s defence men goes down.
He stays laying on the ice for a breath, eyes focused on Ilya once more. There’s blood on his knuckles, and he’ll be bruised like hell tomorrow, but the worry in Shane’s heart is nothing compared to the love and adoration he feels for his husband, his everything.
The moment breaks as Gagnon, a player from Vancouver who got transferred to Montreal after Shane left, appears behind Ilya without his gloves and lands a hit to the man’s shoulder. Ilya’s eyes go wide at the impact, a grunt leaving him. Shouts ring around the rink as the referees and security try to get the two teams to split up.
For the first time in his entire hockey career, Shane ignores the voice in his head that tells him to stay calm, to take the high ground. Be the bigger person, and stay out of things. The voice sounds like his mother, like every single coach he’s had since he first got on the ice at age five. Like his grandfather, who warned him that people would not be nice to him simply because he was born looking different than most of his peers in hockey.
He gets up from the ice, vision still swimming from hitting the boards as hard as he did, and his gloves are off before he can think about it. Gagnon has turned around again, clearly ready to rejoin the scrimmage that has now been pulled apart as much as they are able to. Before Ilya can figure out what Shane is doing, he calls out to the other man.
Gagnon turns around and Shane’s fist collides with the man’s cheek. Pain shoots through his knuckles, down to his elbow, but Shane doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t let it show as Gagnon grunts and yelps, nearly falling over at the impact. The crowd goes absolutely crazy, Shane throwing a quick glance up at the screens hanging high above them, his face shown on all of them.
“If you ever touch my husband again, I’ll personally get you kicked out of the NHL.” Shane snarls despite the eyes on him. Gagnon cowers a little.
This is being broadcasted. Shane just took his gloves off and punched someone on the ice for the first time in his entire career. And all because someone punched Ilya.
“Дорогой,” Ilya starts, clearly shocked. His cheeks are red though, pupils blown.
Shane gets to revel in the satisfaction of that for barely a second before Coach Wiebe and Coach Theriault start shouting at each other. The effect is instantaneous: the Centaurs pull back as one. Shane takes Ilya’s hand in his, leaving his gloves on the ice, and pulls him along to where the rest of their team is.
Troy has a nosebleed. Bood is clutching his arm, and Haas, LaPointe and Young look like they’re ready to vibrate out of their skin. Chouinard, Holmberg, Boyle and Dykstra jumped the railing after Shane hit the ice, the three of them having lost their helmets and gloves somewhere. Each and every single one of them has something. Even Hayes, who skated away from the goal when the scrimmage started. Shane’s heart swells, though the guilt is bitter on his tongue. This is going to cost them.
He chances a look at the Voyageurs. A sick and twisted spark of satisfaction creeps onto Shane as the team looks worse for wear. J.J. and Hayden are on the outskirts of it, having not really joined the actual fighting but trying to keep their teammates out of trouble. They don’t look over to where Shane is, but he doesn’t care about that right now.
Coach Wiebe leads them off of the ice, a stern expression on his face. The fans still haven’t calmed down, hitting the boards and yelling obscenities at the Voyageurs and trying to take pictures of the Centaurs. Shane keeps his head high, though he doesn’t look at anyone other than Bood walking in front of him, his hair matted because of the sweat and his helmet.
Everyone is quiet, the sounds of their breathing the only thing breaking the silence until they reach the locker room. Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand in his before clearing his throat. Coach Wiebe stands in the middle of the room as they all file to their collective stalls. At first, Coach tried to give them stalls on opposite sides of the locker rooms. To keep the peace, so to speak.
Ilya protested loudly and dramatically in the way he always does, so now their stalls are next to one another. The first time Shane walked into the Centaurs’ locker room for his first official practice as part of the team and saw their jerseys next to one another, their names on the back, he nearly cried.
“I’m sorry, coach.” Shane starts after his heart has settled a little. He clenches his right hand into a fist, his knuckles inflamed. “I didn’t—”
“Hollander,” Coach Wiebe interrupts, shaking his head. He’s holding up both of his hands, and sighs. “You have nothing to apologize for. The way Stedlund hit you was foul. Are you okay?”
Shane blinks. Even after the games they’ve played, he’s still not fully used to having a coach who supports him, who has his team’s back through everything. “I — I’m good, coach. I didn’t hit my head too hard or anything.”
Ilya squeezes his hand again, making Shane’s heart sink. It must have been terrifying for Ilya, to see it happen. To watch Shane hit the ice once more, the only difference being that this time, they were on the same team. “You still need to get checked, малыш.”
“We’ll have the team medics take a look.” Coach says, before turning to the rest of the team. “Now. I understand the urge to protect one of our own. Your reactions were completely and one hundred percent justified in my eyes.”
Someone whoops. Young, LaPointe and Troy hit the bottom of their sticks against the ground while the rest claps. Coach raises a finger, and the room falls quiet in an instant. They may be a chaotic bunch, but something Shane has discovered is that when Coach wants everyone’s attention, he gets it. “However, this will have consequences for some of you.”
Shane drops his gaze to the floor. They broke so many rules in the last minute of the game. If he had been faster, then Stedlund wouldn’t have been able to check him into the boards. They would have won before shit hit the fan.
“Worth it.” Troy calls from his seat, holding ice against his nose.
Dykstra raises his hand for a high five. The sound of their two hands colliding breaks the tension in the room as Coach Wiebe lets out a snort. Shane’s shoulders droop, forces himself to relax.
“I’ll go and check what the referees are saying.” And with that, the coach is out of the room.
“Hollzy, how you doing?” Hayes calls from his seat, already taking off some of his padding. “You really punched the fuck out of Gagnon.”
“Deserved.” Shane replies easily, finds that he doesn’t feel the need to hide the vindication he felt after defending his husband. “How is everyone else?”
“Like I’ve been ran over by a bunch of assholes.” Haas says from his stall, though he looks relatively unharmed. Which is a good thing, considering the fact that Luca is their youngest. If he had been hurt severely, the Centaurs would have lost it even more than they already did.
They don’t just ride or die for their captain. It’s one of the things Shane loves about this team, that everyone is equal. He tried to do the same in Montreal, but Theriault put a stop to that whenever he noticed. He wanted the team to revere Shane, to see him as someone higher than them. It always left a distance, despite his trying and Hayden’s, too. Looking back on it, Shane is sure the guys despised him for it. He came in as a rookie, already a legend. Already their coach’s favorite. It must have stung.
Regardless, that doesn’t allow them to be dicks to him or his husband. Ilya is sitting next to him, a large hand splayed out over Shane’s thigh.
The team around them dissolves into their own conversations. Ice packs are given out and Troy fills everyone’s water bottle without needing to be asked. Hayes goes to get their team doctor just in case. Throughout all of this, Shane’s eyes don’t leave his husband. “Ilya—”
“Are your hands okay?” Ilya interrupts him, a frown splitting his forehead. “Do you need bandages, мой любимый?”
Shane looks down at his hands. There’s blood on his knuckles, both his and Gagnon’s, but Ilya’s look way worse. “They’re good, baby. Yours?”
Ilya shakes his head. “They need to check your head.”
“Hazy has gone to get a medic.” Shane replies, taking Ilya’s hand from his thigh and squeezing. He raises it to his mouth and kisses the bloody knuckles, thoughts of bacteria leaving his mind as the slight iron taste fills his mouth. “I’ll get checked out.”
Ilya’s shoulders relax, and the smile he gives Shane is genuine, if tentative. It’s enough to get Shane’s heart to calm down, for it to settle again after such a game. The fire in his veins has been replaced by lead, but Ilya’s warmth is enough to keep him upright. They sit together, hands intertwined and Ilya guiding Shane’s head onto his shoulder, until the medics burst into the locker room.
It’s a blur of everyone getting checked. Small wounds are patched up and Shane sits through a thorough concussion exam — Ilya making Mark, their medic, check twice just to be sure — before getting dressed. Ilya helps him with that too, and by the time they’re ready to leave, Harris slips into the room with a grim expression on his face.
Shane’s heart sinks. “What?”
“They want you and Ilya for press.”
“Of course they do.” Ilya mutters. Normally, he doesn’t mind talking to the press. Shane argues that he loves it, even. Now, though, his husband just wants to get home. It’s visible in the way Ilya’s standing, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched and the way he won’t let go of Shane’s hand as if it is a tether. As if Shane will float away the moment he lets go.
“We can do it.” Dykstra says, pointing at Bood and himself. “You guys need to go home.”
“All of us do.” Shane replies, shrugging. His head feels fine — he was cleared from a concussion — but he’s sure he’ll be sore tomorrow. Everyone will be, considering they haven’t fought like this on the ice at all this season.
Despite the homophobia in the league, no one taunted the Centaurs enough to create a scrimmage. Sure, Ilya dropped his gloves when Breckett in Florida called Shane a not so creative version of the f-slur, and the team plays rougher against teams that have expressed clear dislike for him and Ilya, but Shane has not experienced a fight like this on the Centaurs before.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have much of a choice. If you guys don’t do press, this whole thing will blow up. With Montreal’s PR department, probably not in your favor.” Harris says, voice quiet. Shane loves Harris — has grown to adore the man, even. He does his best to protect the team and its reputation, but has been a menace on social media when it comes to people sharing unwanted opinions about the queer people on the team. It’s like he’s got a get-out-of-jail-free card for those interactions, most of the board looking away whenever he goes on a tangent again on Twitter.
So, Shane knows that Harris doesn’t like to do this. That he’s here with a heavy heart, despite the fact that his focus should be on his own boyfriend.
He nods. “We’ll do it, but—”
“I’ll steer the conversation and questions.” Harris interrupts with a nod. “Those vultures will not do anything I won’t allow them to.”
“I can go alone,” Shane starts when Harris quickly makes his way over to where Troy is sitting with the rookies, still icing his own eye. “You don’t have to.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow at him. His look is distant, like he’s somewhere else entirely. Shane wants to bring him back, wants to take his hand and guide him home to him, but he can’t do that until they’re nestled in their own sheets, Anya sleeping in her own bed by the foot of theirs. “You are not going alone.”
It’s a statement, not a question. Normally, Shane would tease. Tell Ilya he doesn’t get to dictate what Shane does. Now, though, it settles him. Ilya will take the brunt together with him, and it’s always easier to recover from something when you have someone else in your corner.
After quick goodbyes to the team, Ilya and Shane follow Harris through the maze of hallways before they reach the press room. It’s loud, even from through the doors, and Shane shivers. Ilya squeezes his hand in his again, three times. Shane responds in kind.
Harris takes a deep breath. “Like I said, I’ll be steering the questions. If you guys, at any point, are done, just let me know and we’ll call it quits.”
Ilya nods. “Thanks, Harris.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
The moment Harris opens the door to the press room, people start talking. Their voices are loud, camera flashes going off every other second. Shane blinks against the brightness of them, letting himself be guided by Ilya’s hand until they reach the two microphones that have been set up for them.
“Hello everyone,” Ilya greets. “We hope you had fun at the game.”
“What do you think—”
“Shane! Any opinions on the voy—”
“Can you two explain—”
The journalists are firing off questions left and right. Shane quickly finds Harris’s gaze already locked on them, wincing with every camera flash. Shane clears his throat, straightens his shoulders and looks back into the crowd. “One question at a time, please.”
He doesn’t focus on their faces. Doesn’t care to, not after everything the press has said about them in the last couple of months. Sure, there have been nice publications, but the old guard from the hockey world can’t seem to let the fact that two men, who are married to each other, are on the same team and proud about it.
Harris hurries up to the podium, holding his own microphone. “We’ll go with Sports One first.”
A lady stands up, hair in a tight bun. She’s holding her phone which is probably recording, glasses perched on her nose. Shane sags slightly with relief — she’s younger. Usually, Sports One has older men sitting in the crowd for them. “Shane, I believe this is one of the first times in your entire career that you dropped your gloves. What happened?”
Shane blinks. He expected the press to ask about that, to be curious as to what the fuck happened on the ice to make him escelate like that, but he didn’t think they would start out with it. He swallows again. Ilya squeezes his hand. “Some things were said that crossed a line.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Alright, Hockey Inside, your turn.” Harris interrupts with ease. The woman doesn’t look impressed with him, but she sits down nonetheless. Ilya’s breathing gets a little easier.
A man stands up, hair already going slightly gray. Shane has seen most of these people before, and he knows they have names. He simply doesn’t care enough to remember them. “It was a tough fight against Montreal. Ilya, as captain, do you have plans to fix some of the mistakes that were made?”
Ilya’s intake of breath is picked up by his microphone. “We made no mistakes. Montreal played dirty from the beginning. We got more points. I’m proud of our team.”
The man seems to disagree, but Harris is quick to pick out someone else. After a few more questions, Ilya nods his head at Harris in a clear sign that they want to be done after the next question, and Shane smiles. “Okay, we have time for one more question. NHL Network, make the most of it.”
Another man stands up, wearing a dress jacket. His beard is graying slightly, and he’s holding an old fashioned recorder. “Both of you played amazingly tonight, gentlemen. It was a real fight. Shane, could you maybe comment on your departure from Montreal?”
The compliment is nice. The rest of the question, not so much. Shane’s heart sinks down to his stomach, his left hand shaking. He can keep his mouth shut, simply say ‘no comment’ and go home. But then, the faces of his old teammates flash before his eyes. He’s kept his mouth shut about the way they abandoned him to the rest of the world. There’s speculation and due to the leaked story, the Voyageurs popularity has gone down a little.
But there’s been no confirmation from Shane. He hasn’t denied the rumors, nor has he told the world that they’re true. That his teammates, the one he fought alongside of and won three cups for, abandoned him because of his love for Ilya Rozanov. Sure, the gay thing wasn’t easy to accept for them either, but the gay thing translating into a relationship with Rozanov really sealed the deal.
From one day to the next, Shane meant nothing to them anymore.
He blinks once, twice, three times before squeezing Ilya’s hand back. Harris is standing to the side, watchful eyes on Shane’s face and microphone raised to declare the end of the press session.
Taking a deep breath, Shane makes up his mind. He’s done protecting those bigots, done making them feel like they got away with it, can keep getting away with it. He was ready to never say anything about it, but then they punched his husband. The person Shane loves more than anyone in the world, his other half.
“Sure. They decided I was the dirt underneath their shoes after mine and Ilya’s relationship got leaked. Despite the cups I won for them, the way I carried them on my back for years, they think they’re better than me because I have a husband and they have wives. Well, they’re not. So, when it came to signing a new contract, I was one step ahead. I told them I wasn’t resigning, and that was that.” Shane’s shaking by the time he’s done, Ilya a strong presence beside him. Immediately after he finishes, the room erupts in yells and more questions, people wielding their phones and recorders like swords.
“Thank you for coming.” Ilya says into his own microphone before pulling Shane off the podium and toward the door. Harris stays behind, trying to calm the crowd down. The door falls shut behind them, muffling the noise.
Ilya doesn’t say a word as they walk. His eyes are focused, yet glazed over, and Shane feels like he’s done something wrong. He shouldn’t have said all of that. Maybe Ilya didn’t want him to? Maybe he should have asked him first, discussed this. Shane is the one who always wants to discuss things, after all. Never impulsive, or spontaneous.
“Ilya—”
“Мое сердце,” Ilya interrupts, pulling Shane into a small alcove. They’re near the exit, close to the parking lot. Ilya presses his lips against Shane quick and chaste, the touch barely there. Shane whines when the man pulls back. Like he knew that Shane needed reassurance before he could fall into a downward spiral. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Shane whispers against Ilya’s chest. “So much.”
“Come on, let’s get you home.”
THE HOLLANDERS AND ROZANOVS:
Yuna: Shane, I think you broke the internet.
David: again.
Yuna: we’re proud of you, boys. Gagnon deserved that punch.
It’s nice, to see his mother approve of him dropping his gloves. She’s the one who always told him to be serious, to never rise to the taunts from other players. Chirping was as far as Shane had always gone. The spotlight was on him even more after he finished his first year on the Voyageurs. As an Asian-American hockey player, he needed to be good. To be decent, never get in trouble. Otherwise, the press would have a field day.
His mother has always told him that, warned him about it. And now, here she is, cheering him on for dropping his gloves. Ilya is really having an impact on everyone in his family.
“My parents approve of the fight.” Shane says into the quiet of the car. Ilya’s driving, like he almost always does, and his eyes are focused on the dark road ahead of them. They pass the sign their neighbors hung up that morning — Go Shane and Ilya! Go Centaurs! — and Shane smiles.
Ilya hums. “Your parents are very wise.”
“Alright, kiss ass.”
“I cannot help that they like me more.” Ilya shrugs. His right hand drops away from the wheel and onto Shane’s thigh instead. They drive onto their driveway, the car coming to a stop.
Shane huffs. “I’m their son.”
“Yes, so am I.” Ilya says. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And, it is. It’s become a thing for his parents to support Ilya like he’s their son, too. They’re aware of Ilya’s past, of course, and Yuna has taken it upon herself to make Ilya feel like a part of the family as much as she can. They sit in the crowd, wear custom made Hollander-Rozanov jerseys and brag about them to everyone.
“That would make us brothers.” Shane jokes, shaking his head. “Not exactly ideal.”
Ilya gives him a look before leaving the car. Shane follows suit, ready to grab his bag only to find Ilya already at the front door holding both his and Shane’s. Shane grumbles. “I could have carried that myself.”
“You are injured.” Ilya replies, like that explains it.
When Shane passes him as he walks through the front door, he kisses Ilya’s cheek.
Anya jumps up from her comfortable position on their couch, yipping and eager for pets. They give her plenty, and Ilya promises to feed her while Shane goes to change. When he returns, Ilya is sitting on the couch, phone in hand.
The television is playing a replay of Shane’s punch. He frowns. “Do we have to watch this?”
“What, my husband is hot when he fights.”
“Ilya—”
“But you shouldn’t have.” Ilya interrupts, sighing. Shane swallows around the dryness in his throat. So they’re doing this now.
He sits down next to Ilya and takes his hand. As if on autopilot, he feels for the wedding ring on Ilya’s right hand and fiddles with it. “He punched you first.”
“You got checked into boards.”
“You had your back turned to him. It could’ve been bad.” Shane fights, tears making his eyes burn. He can’t imagine losing Ilya. Doesn’t even want to think about it. He’s selfish — Shane needs to be the first one to die so that he never has to live a day without Ilya. Ilya keeps saying that they’ll die on the same day. Shane hopes so. That way, he won’t have to wait for Ilya in the afterlife.
“But it wasn’t.” Ilya replies. “People will say I’m a bad influence.”
Shane frowns, heart shattering into tiny pieces. It’s awful, when Ilya gets like this. Like he’s supposed to be the brute in the relationship. “You’re not, Ilya. I love you, and I want to defend my husband.”
“The press—”
“They’ve been saying the Centaurs don’t deserve me for months. That you somehow persuaded me to come to Ottawa. I wanted to set the record straight.” Shane replies quickly, words loud in the otherwise quiet living room. Anya perks up from her bed, blinking. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Ilya. I want the world to know that.”
There are tears in Ilya’s eyes. He blinks, and some of them roll down his cheeks. Shane quickly wipes them away, and Ilya’s laugh is like music to his ears. It’s breathy and light, with so much love. “Я тебя люблю.”
Shane smiles, leans in for another kiss. When they pull back, he keeps his forehead pressed against Ilya’s. “Я тоже тебя люблю.”