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The hit came with four minutes left in the third.
Ilya saw it from the bench. Pouliot, a six-foot-four enforcer who skated like he was apologising for taking up space, caught Shane along the boards with an open-ice check that sent Shane into the glass at an angle no body was designed to meet.
Shane went down.
Shane did not get up.
Three seconds. Five. Seven.
Ilya's gloves hit the bench. Coach Wiebe's hand clamped his shoulder before he could stand.
"Rozanov. Sit."
Shane got up. Slow. He skated, with assistance, toward the tunnel. He didn't look back at the bench, which meant he was either fine or concussed enough to forget Ilya existed, and neither option did much to loosen the knot behind Ilya's sternum.
The rest of the game passed in a blur. Ottawa won, 4–2. Ilya didn't care.
Post-game pressers were, in Ilya's professional opinion, one of the worst inventions of modern sport. Worse than shootouts. Worse than the trapezoid rule. Forty minutes of grown adults asking the same three questions in different configurations while he sat behind a microphone in a suit that was too warm and pretended he had not watched his husband crumple against the boards.
Shane was fine. The text from the team doctor had said precautionary assessment, no concussion protocol. Shane's own text had said, in its entirety: I'm fine. Stop texting me. Do your presser.
So Ilya sat behind the microphone and did his presser.
The usual questions came first. How did you feel about the power play in the second? How important was tonight's win for the playoff push? Can you talk about the line chemistry with Barrett?
Ilya answered on autopilot. Yes, good power play. Yes, important win. Yes, Barrett is fine player, very talented, always nice to play with someone who can keep up.
Then the new one raised her hand.
Ilya didn't recognise her. Young. Lanyard still stiff. Notebook open to a fresh page, which meant she hadn't been taking notes, which meant she'd been rehearsing her question. The veterans in the second row shifted. Crenshaw from TSN raised his coffee cup to his mouth and left it there, a shield more than a sip.
"Ilya, can you comment on the hit in the third? How's Hollander's head?"
Silence.
Several things happened in Ilya's brain at once.
The first was the image of Shane against the glass, sliding, not moving for five seconds, seven, nine, however many it had been because the number grew every time he replayed it. The cold in his chest. Fear. Enormous, paralysing, iron-tasting fear that made his hands forget they belonged to a professional athlete.
The second was the recognition that this woman, this poor, innocent, brand-new journalist who had just started what was probably her dream job covering hockey, had asked Ilya Rozanov, on camera, in front of God and thirty-six members of the Canadian sports media, how his husband's head was.
How's Hollander's head?
Oh.
Oh, no.
Ilya bit the inside of his cheek.
Crenshaw lowered his coffee. His eyes were wide. He knew. The bastard knew, and he was already enjoying himself.
Ilya's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.
"How's Hollander's head?" Ilya repeated, because he needed to buy himself time and also because hearing it again was not helping.
The reporter nodded. Earnest. Bright-eyed. Oblivious. "Yes, he took a hard hit and didn't return. Are you able to share any updates on his condition?"
Ilya pressed his tongue against his teeth.
Don't say it.
Don't.
Shane will kill you. Shane will divorce you. Shane will change the locks, take the dog, and never cook for you again. You will die alone in a rented apartment eating cold cereal from the box while Anya judges you from someone else's sofa.
But the joke was right there. Gift-wrapped, with a bow, sitting on a silver platter under a spotlight, and the universe was watching him with both eyebrows raised.
The media room was silent. Every veteran reporter knew what was happening. Beaumont-Holt from Sportsnet had her hand over her mouth. Crenshaw had set down his coffee and was white-knuckling both armrests. Harris, who had been hovering by the door in his capacity as Senior Director of Communications and not at all in his capacity as a man who lived for chaos, had taken out his phone and was filming. Ilya was going to kill Harris later, but that was a problem for future Ilya.
Present Ilya had bigger concerns.
"Shane is fine," Ilya said. Measured. Calm. "Precautionary assessment. No concussion."
Good. Professional. Done. That was the answer. Walk away. Be a mature adult who has been married for two years and has a mortgage and a dog and a reputation as a serious—
"His head," Ilya continued, because he was none of those things, "is outstanding."
The room detonated.
Not immediately. First there was a beat of silence while every brain processed what had just happened. Then Crenshaw made a noise like he was being strangled. Beaumont-Holt dropped her pen. Two reporters in the back row lost it simultaneously, and the laughter spread from there like a brushfire.
The new reporter blinked.
The media handler stepped forward, face so blank it constituted a formal warning. "We'll take one more question—"
"I mean," Ilya said, because he was already dead and there was no point in half-measures, "is no complaints."
Harris's phone was shaking. Ilya could hear him wheezing from across the room.
"Okay, that's all for tonight," the media handler said and ushered Ilya out of the room at lightning speed.
Down the corridor, in the treatment room, Shane Hollander sat on a padded table with an ice pack pressed to his temple and heard, through two closed doors and forty feet of concrete, the unmistakable sound of an entire press corps losing its composure.
He lowered the ice pack.
He picked up his phone.
Ilya checked his phone in the corridor.
Four texts from Shane.
Shane
I swear to god Ilya!
I can hear them laughing from the treatment room…
What did you do???
Ilya.
That last one. Just his name and a full stop. No exclamation mark, no question mark, no follow-up. Worse than shouting. Shane's version of a locked door.
I was asked a question. I answered honestly.
Shane
WHAT DID YOU SAY???
You will see on the highlights.
Shane
I will not "see it on the highlights." Tell me right now what you said.
Someone asked about your head. I said is outstanding. This is true, no?
No response for eleven seconds. Ilya counted.
Shane
Outstanding
You said outstanding
On TELEVISION
Was going to say "best I've ever had" but thought this would be too much…
Shane
TOO MUCH???? YOU THINK "BEST I'VE EVER HAD" IS WHERE THE LINE IS????
Ilya grinned at his phone. Shane was fine. Shane was furious and fine and probably red from his collarbones to his hairline, and Ilya loved him so much it was stupid.
I was scared tonight. When you went down. I did not like it.
A pause. Longer this time.
Shane
I know. I'm sorry.
I'm okay. I promise.
But I'm going to kill you.
Okay. Will be waiting at home. Will make tea.
Shane
Make it chamomile.
And don't think tea fixes this.
No. But you will forgive me because my face is handsome and you love me.
Shane
Debatable. On both counts.
Then, thirty seconds later:
Shane
Outstanding though?
Really?
Ilya laughed out loud in the corridor, and a passing equipment manager gave him a wide berth.
Really, solnyshko.
Shane
Okay well.
Thank you, I guess.
I'm still going to kill you.
I know. Worth it.
By the time Ilya reached the parking garage, the team group chat had detonated.
Harris posted his video with the caption:
Harris: rozzy really went on national television and reviewed hollander's head like a yelp review
Bood: five stars no notes
Bood: would recommend to a friend
Troy: babe are you okay
Harris: I have never been better in my entire life
Harris: this is the single greatest moment of my professional career and I have a framed photo of Chiron in a Centaurs jersey
Wyatt: Guys maybe we should give Shane some space
Bood: wyatt respectfully shut up this is history
Evan: Caitlin is asking me why I'm laughing so hard I woke the baby
Evan: I showed her the clip
Evan: she says and I quote "outstanding is such a weird word to use for that. like he's grading an essay"
Troy: GRADING AN ESSAY
Bood: hollander's head: A+, demonstrates thorough understanding of the material
Shane: I hate every single one of you.
Bood: THE MAN HIMSELF
Harris: HOW'S YOUR HEAD SHANE
Shane: Harris I will get you fired.
Harris: you can't I'm too important to the brand
Harris: also troy would divorce me and then who would play on roz's line
Shane: Literally anyone. A traffic cone.
Ilya: traffic cone cannot keep up with me. only barrett.
Troy: honestly I'm flattered and also dying
Luca: I don't understand what is funny about this? He was asked about a head injury and said outstanding. Is that not a good update?
Bood: oh no
Harris: oh sweet baby haas
Troy: do we tell him
Luca: Tell me what
Bood: luca. buddy. "head."
Luca: Yes? Head injury?
Luca: Oh.
Luca: OH.
Harris: and there it is
Luca: Ilya said that on TELEVISION???
Ilya: 😇
Shane: Do not send that emoji. You are not an angel. You are a menace.
Ilya: a menace with outstanding reviews apparently
Troy: I'M ON THE FLOOR
Shane: I want everyone to know that I took a hit to the head tonight and THIS is the support I'm receiving from my teammates.
Bood: thoughts and prayers
Wyatt: Seriously though Shane how are you actually feeling?
Shane: I have a mild headache and a husband who will be sleeping on the couch tonight.
Harris: mild headache but outstanding head. man can't even take a night off
Shane: HARRIS.
Evan: wait has anyone checked twitter
Bood: oh god
Harris: checking
Harris: [link]
Harris: it has eleven million views.
Shane: It's been forty minutes.
Harris: the internet works fast when the content is good babe
Troy: don't call shane babe
Harris: sorry force of habit
Harris: the internet works fast when the content is good, mrs rozanov
Shane: I am going to drive to your house.
Harris: we have a security system
Shane: Good. You'll need it.
Ilya: I cannot believe I am saying this but I think Harris should stop now.
Bood: the man who started the fire is now calling the fire department
Shane: The man who started the fire should not have told a room full of reporters that his husband's head is "outstanding."
Ilya: but is true
Shane: STOP
Tanner: just got home and caught up on this thread. want everyone to know I am sending this to my wife with zero context
Wyatt: I'm going to bed. Shane, glad you're okay. Ilya, you're an idiot. Everyone else, goodnight.
Bood: goodnight dad
Wyatt: I'm two years younger than you, Bood.
Bood: goodnight dad
The clip went viral instantly: it was fast, it was stupid, and past the point of saving.
Within the hour, Ilya's publicist sent a carefully worded email suggesting that perhaps, in future, he might consider a more measured response to questions about a teammate's medical status. Ilya forwarded it to Shane, who responded with a single emoji: 🔪
Within two hours, the original broadcast clip had been reposted, screen-recorded, subtitled, and stitched across every platform that existed. Harris's angle, shakier and more intimate, leaked within three. He swore it wasn't him. Troy said nothing, which said everything.
Sports media went first.
@SNBeaumont_Holt
I have covered hockey for fourteen years and nothing has prepared me for Ilya Rozanov's face when asked about Hollander's head. The man fought a war with himself on live television. The war lasted four seconds. He lost.
❤️ 224.7K 🔁 41.3K
@CrenshawTSN
For the record I knew what was going to happen the second the question was asked. You could SEE him trying to be a professional. You could SEE the exact moment he gave up. Years of media training. Gone. Like dust.
❤️ 148.9K 🔁 29.6K
Then fan accounts.
@centaursdaily
ilya rozanov was asked "how's hollander's head" about a HEAD INJURY and said "outstanding" and "no complaints" this man got up there and left a positive performance review on national television
❤️ 302.1K 🔁 87.4K
@rozanovsdimples
the four second pause before he said outstanding. he was calculating the divorce proceedings in real time and decided shane was worth losing
❤️ 198.6K 🔁 52.1K
@hockeybutgay
NOT ILYA RATING SHANE'S HEAD ON A SCALE FROM CONCUSSION TO OUTSTANDING
❤️ 131.4K 🔁 34.8K
@shollander_stan
"is no complaints" is SENDING me he said it like he was filling out a customer satisfaction survey
❤️ 167.2K 🔁 43.9K
@centaursgirlboss
I need everyone to understand that there were reporters in that room who have known Ilya Rozanov for a DECADE and they ALL saw it coming and not one of them warned her
❤️ 189.3K 🔁 51.7K
@paborito
the veterans sitting in the back row weren't being polite they were in the blast zone and they KNEW IT
❤️ 106.8K 🔁 28.2K
Hockey Reddit was, predictably, a disaster.
Rozanov asked about Hollander's head injury, gives... unexpected answer [Post-game presser]
hollander is going to MURDER him 14.8k
worth it honestly 12.1k
I want whatever the Ottawa media handler is drinking tonight because that person just watched their career flash before their eyes 19.6k
The reporter is brand new. She will never make this mistake again. She will tell her grandchildren about this day. 11.7k
in fairness literally no one could have predicted that a married NHL player would rate his husband's head game at a post-game presser when asked about a head injury 9.4k
have you MET ilya rozanov 23.8k
By midnight, someone had edited Shane's Wikipedia page. Under Personal Life, a new line read: Head described as "outstanding" by husband Ilya Rozanov during a 2026 post-game press conference. It survived three rounds of moderator review before being removed. Screenshots, of course, lived forever.
By morning, a Tumblr post had gained traction:
darlingofdots
okay but the thing that kills me is that you KNOW ilya was genuinely terrified when shane went down. you could see it during the game. the man was white as a sheet on the bench. he watched the love of his life not get up for five seconds and those were the worst five seconds of his life. and then not even an hour later the universe just. hands him this perfect setup. on a platter. and he KNOWS shane will kill him. he KNOWS. and he does it anyway because he is fundamentally incapable of letting a perfect joke die. this man contains multitudes and every single one of them is unhinged.
❤️ 24,312 🔁 6,891
A parody account surfaced overnight called @HollandersHead with the bio Outstanding. No complaints. It gained forty thousand followers before breakfast. Its only post was a five-star review graphic formatted like a Google listing:
Shane Hollander's Head
★★★★★ (1 review)
"Outstanding. No complaints." — Ilya R.
Bood found it first and dropped the link in the group chat without comment.
Shane: No.
Bood: I didn't make it
Shane: I don't care who made it.
Bood: but five stars though
Shane: I'm leaving this group chat.
Shane did not leave the group chat.
Ilya was on the sofa when Shane got home, a mug of chamomile tea cooling on the side table. Anya was curled against his thigh, nose tucked under her tail. She lifted her head when Shane came through the door, and her tail began to wag.
Shane stood in the doorway.
He looked fine. No visible bruising. His jaw was tight but his eyes were doing the thing where they were furious and fond at the same time, and Ilya had learned, over the years, that this combination meant he was safe. Probably.
"Outstanding," Shane said flatly.
"Yes."
"On television."
"Was a live broadcast, yes."
"My mother called me."
Ilya's stomach dropped. Of all the consequences he had calculated in that four-second window at the presser, Yuna Hollander had not been among them. This was an oversight. A fatal one, possibly.
"What did she say?"
Shane folded his arms. "She said, and I'm quoting directly: Tell Ilya I'm glad he appreciates you."
Ilya blinked.
"She was laughing, Ilya. My mother was laughing."
Ilya pressed his lips together. His chest was shaking.
"Don't you dare," Shane warned.
"I am not laughing."
"You are about to laugh."
"Your mother is a very wonderful woman."
"She sent me a thumbs up emoji. She has never sent me a thumbs up emoji in her life. I had to explain to my mother what a thumbs up emoji means in this context and now I want to be traded to Antarctica."
"There is no hockey team in Antarctica, solnyshko."
"Then I'll start one."
Ilya held his arm out. Shane didn't move for a long moment. Then he crossed the room, dropped onto the sofa next to Ilya, and let Ilya pull him in until Shane's head rested against his shoulder. Anya, deeply offended by the redistribution of sofa space, huffed once and relocated to the far cushion.
"I was scared," Ilya said, into Shane's hair. "Tonight. When you did not get up."
"I know." Shane's voice was quieter now. "I'm sorry."
"Is okay. You are here."
Shane exhaled against Ilya's collarbone. "You told a room full of journalists that my head is outstanding."
"I did."
"You said no complaints."
"Also true."
Shane was quiet for a few seconds. Then, muffled against Ilya's shirt: "It was kind of funny."
"Was hilarious."
"Don't push it."
Ilya kissed the top of Shane's head, which was, by all available metrics, outstanding.
Jessica Chen, rookie reporter, learned two things that day.
One: never ask Ilya Rozanov about any part of Shane Hollander's body unless you want the answer.
And two: the veterans don't sit in the back row because the view is better. They sit in the back because it's easier to hide.
He saw the pitch, recognized it was right down the middle, and swung anyway. A man of principle. 21.4k