Ilya pulled up the #hollanov page on Tumblr and hit refresh. When that yielded nothing, he clicked on the second open browser window and refreshed the tag on Twitter, too. Fucking nothing.
Well, not nothing, but nothing particularly new. A small subset of fans were dissecting his and Shane's every public interaction, every glance, building elaborate theories about when things might have started between them. Some people argued that it had started the first time they'd ever met, which was true in its own way. Some people argued that it was impossible it had started before Ilya had moved to Ottawa, that they could never have found the time to be together before that. Some people argued that it wasn't happening at all, that fans who thought so were were all delusional and looking for something that wasn't there.
The hollanovtruther blog had posted a full timeline of their careers and where they had intersected, and everyone had debated how they might possibly have managed to carry on a relationship with so much time apart. Ilya had spent some amount of time wondering that himself, especially when he'd still been in Boston, so he understood their skepticism.
There were fewer horrible comments than Ilya would have expected. But then, some bigots probably were probably disgusted at the idea of posting using the internet's designated couple hashtag for them, like even typing it might make them spontaneously gay. So that had probably shielded Ilya from some of it.
Stills from the commercial they'd shot near the very beginning were being reposted while everyone debated whether they could detect lust in Shane or Ilya's eyes (they could). Someone posted slow-mo of when they'd presented at the NHL awards and insisted they could see that Ilya's hand was lingering on Shane's back (it was). People posted photos of Shane with Rose Landry and debated whether they had any chemistry (they didn't). Fans proposed that Ilya had moved to Canada to be closer to Shane (he had).
And they posted, over and over again, footage of Shane's injury. Lip readers tried to guess what they were saying to each other from broadcast footage when their lips were visible and grainy cell phone footage when they were not. Ilya always clicked away from those, so he had no idea if they'd guessed correctly.
Shane might not know much about the internet, but he'd understood enough to see where this was all heading. He had been right that they were living on borrowed time. That even if this had remained nothing more than an internet rumor, it would not have gone away. It would have followed them endlessly, not in reputable news stories but in whispers, and that was just as bad, or maybe even worse.
Ilya could still barely believe that Shane had been the one to suggest their current PR strategy. He could barely believe that even after Shane had suggested it, he hadn't tried to backtrack even once. Sure, he was being twitchy and weird and so very Shane about it, but even that was cute.
Yes, Ilya Rozanov was so hopelessly in love with his husband.
His husband. Only a small group of people knew so far, but it wouldn't be long until quite a lot people knew, or at least suspected. The internet speculating that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov might be secretly married was almost—almost—as good as actually announcing it. It was more fun, anyway, the mischief of it, the childlike glee Ilya felt every time he spoke to someone and they couldn't tell if he was being serious or sarcastic, if he was fucking with them or telling the truth.
Maybe Ilya had rubbed off on Shane, finally. Well, Ilya had definitely rubbed off on Shane quite a number of times, but maybe Shane had finally learned to find a little joy in keeping people on their toes.
Ilya refreshed the webpage again, though it hadn't been even five minutes. What fear he'd had had dissolved almost entirely into anticipation after his meeting with Wiebe and the owner. Farah had insisted as part of the strategy she'd drawn up for them that they go to their respective teams' management and disclose their marriage, and Ilya had been surprised when his own side had been supportive. Wiebe had been, in fact, supportive beyond Ilya's wildest imaginings. Ilya hadn't told the team yet, and he didn't intend to for some time, but he felt oddly confident that they would be supportive, too, when the time came. It had been Shane's idea, anyway, to let the rumors of their relationship work as an asshole detector, to see what comments other players might make when they still thought it might be a joke.
Plus, Ilya wanted to fuck with them. Obviously. All in good fun, nothing malicious.
The only reason Ilya wasn't able to set aside his apprehension entirely was that Shane's experience with Coach Theriault had been...less positive. It was ironic, maybe, that Shane had wanted this wedding ring as a shield for Ilya, but Shane had been the one who had needed it. No one had suggested benching Ilya, let alone removing him from the Centaurs roster, but Shane's coach had implied that their marriage was the only thing that had saved Shane from being sat down. A married couple, apparently, would garner more sympathy than a couple who was seen as just fucking—especially when they were two men, and too many people acted like gay and bisexual men were degenerates who were at war with family values. Ilya knew this rhetoric well enough, and Shane's ring was, apparently, his shield.
Ilya wanted to be Shane's shield, but at least it was Ilya's ring. That was something.
He refreshed the page again, impatient. After years of worrying about their relationship being outed, it was nice to be excited for a change. A qualified excitement, of course, because Shane's coach was an asshole, but Shane wasn't losing his job, not this season at least. Ilya had started having some ideas about that, too, ideas that he'd never have spoken aloud before because of how impossible it had seemed, except now the Centaurs were winning, and Shane's coach was a dick, and suddenly so very many things seemed possible.
Nothing. Well, the post on the top of the feed was Ilya and Shane in face-off position, a heart drawn around their heads. It was precious, and Ilya saved it to send to Shane later. But it was not what he was waiting for. Because Shane had deliberately filmed every single FanMail video this week in his bedroom, and in every one, one of the two plastic heart rings sat innocuously on the bedside table—the twin to the one Ilya had posted on Instagram months ago.
Shane was getting twice as many FanMail requests as he had before all of this had started, and Ilya was very sure at least half of them were from people reading the #hollanov tag and searching for more evidence. Someone had to notice the ring and post their video. Right?
Unless Shane chickened out, a voice in the back of Ilya's head murmured, and he hated that voice. He told that voice to shut up. Shane could be oblivious sometimes, but he was not malicious. He would not lie to Ilya, not about something like this.
Someone settled heavily on the seat next to him, and Ilya looked up see Zane Boodram. He'd almost forgotten he was not alone. And Bood looked over Ilya's shoulder to see him browsing the #hollanov tag. Embarrassing.
"What'cha looking at?" he asked, though he'd plainly already seen. Giving up on whatever dignity he might still have, Ilya angled his phone more obviously toward Bood. "That's cute," Bood cooed, gesturing at what had appeared on Ilya's phone screen with his latest refresh.
Ilya hadn't looked at this one yet, and so he turned his phone back toward himself so he could. This time, someone had photoshopped an image of him and Shane standing next to each other in front of some generic house with Anya standing in front of them. The person's image manipulation skills were horrible. It was clear that the photo was a composite of three separate pictures stuck onto a stock photo background. None of the lighting matched. Ilya could see some of the edges where one image ended and the next began.
They looked like a family. Ilya's stupid little heart melted.
"The internet is crazy," Ilya said, keeping his tone carefully neutral. It could mean anything. He watched Bood, waiting for him to make some comment, to say something awful. Except Ilya didn't really expect him to.
"They could be doing worse things." Bood shrugged. He squinted at the image in front of him. "That's your actual dog, right?"
Ilya nodded. "Anya," he confirmed. It was the photo he'd uploaded onto his Instagram in response to the speculation about dog hair on Shane's jacket. There hadn't been any good, clear pictures of her online before that, so he'd thought it best to give the fans one. For...science.
Bood's nose scrunched up, and Ilya tensed. Maybe this was the moment he realized he'd misjudged Zane Boodram. Maybe this was the moment he said some kind of slur and dashed Ilya's optimism against the rocks. Except what Bood said was, "Isn't Anya a diminutive of Anna?"
Ilya laughed, his relief bright in his chest. "Yes," Ilya drawled. "Her full name is Anna Ilyinichna Rozanova-Hollander." He held up his phone to showcase the Frankensteined family photo of the three of them, grinning.
Bood blinked and stared, uncertain whether or not to take Ilya seriously. That was his favorite look to put on someone else's face, except for the look of bliss Shane got when Ilya fucked him.
"Wait, seriously?" Bood asked after a beat.
"No," Ilya deadpanned. Except, he belatedly realized...maybe yes.
Bood snorted, clapping Ilya on the back. "You're crazy, Roz," he said, though there was only affection in his tone. "Some guys would lose their shit about this, but not you."
"Some guys are not secure with themselves," Ilya said with a shrug. And some guys are not fucking the man the internet thinks they are fucking. Bood smiled.
"Truer words, man," he said, shaking his head as he wandered away. Ilya wasn't sure what he meant, but he wasn't going to ask, either. Sometimes, it was less effort to stew in a little bit of confusion. And with hockey players, it was always difficult to know whether Ilya had simply failed to understand English or the man in question had been concussed too many times to make sense anymore.
Ilya refreshed Tumblr and—
—and there it was, a still of Shane standing in his bedroom, the plastic ring circled in red where it sat on his bedside table. Next to it was a screencap of Ilya's Instagram photo showing the other ring.
The post just said:
Guys?!?!?!?!
#hollanov #omg it's real #someone bring me my fainting couch #what is happening #they're MARRIED aren't they
Ilya could not fight his grin, even if he'd wanted to.
Operation fan the flames, part two was...their real wedding rings. Ilya was quite proud of that plan, actually, and the strategic way he planned to deploy it. It would be too much, far too much, for both of them to suddenly begin wearing rings, though Ilya had considered it briefly. Mostly because he and Shane had not been able to agree which hand was the wedding hand, and wearing their rings on opposite hands might create an adequate enough amount of confusion to slake Ilya's trickster impulses. But he'd opted for something subtler in the end.
This part had come later by necessity, because they hadn't had rings yet when they'd gotten married in that tiny ceremony—if it even deserved to be called a ceremony—with only Shane's parents and Hayden Pike in attendance. Shane had dragged Ilya to the local municipal office to get their marriage license the morning after he'd proposed, just as he'd promised. Not that there had been much dragging, really, but Ilya had wandered through the whole day in a fog, wondering when he might wake up from the very strange dream he was having. Shane, though, had been on a mission, and nothing could be more formidable than Shane Hollander with a goal in front of him.
It was a good thing, anyway, because Shane had been on the road just after that, and by the time he had returned, Ilya had been on the road, and it did seem to be necessary for both of them to be present in order to finalize their marriage. They would have waited weeks otherwise, and neither one of them wanted to wait weeks once they had decided.
Ilya had claimed the right to deploy this particular bomb, because, really, it was Ilya's turn. Shane could not conceive of this whole Rozanov-esque scheme and then not allow Ilya to do any of the work. And Ilya didn't think Shane would have enjoyed this part, anyway, because Shane was slowly realizing that the only teammates he got along with were Hayden Pike and occasionally J.J. Boiziau, because Shane was so antisocial that it had taken him ten years to realize his team was full of assholes.
Ilya had asked, of course, if Shane had wanted to call the whole thing off. He wasn't sure how they could, at this point, but if Shane had asked him, Ilya would have moved mountains to find a way. But Shane had been firm in his commitment to continue, and so when Ilya went to talk to the press after his game, he made certain to pull his necklace out from beneath his shirt, where it was perfectly visible to every camera that would be on him.
On his necklace, nestled beside Ilya's mother's cross, was Ilya's wedding ring.
He'd been wearing it there for days now, ever since the rings had finally arrived. He'd kept the chain tucked into his shirt mostly, though he figured the team might have caught a glimpse of it in the locker room. No one had said anything, but they just might not be observant. Not compared to fans on the internet, at least. Ilya had more faith in the internet.
Flashbulbs went off before Ilya's eyes, and the Centaurs staff gave the go-ahead to the first reporter. "What did you think of your performance today, Ilya?" the reporter asked, pen poised over a notebook. Generic, repetitive, expected question. Ilya had answered it a thousand times after a thousand games.
"Very proud," Ilya said. He chose his words carefully, wanting to get the English exactly how he meant it. "I did a good job. But I have a very good team surrounding me. It is easy to do well when I have support both on and off the ice."
Ilya was, in fact, quite proud of that response. It was true while also managing to be very suggestive to a certain audience. He felt good about his English right now; the answer was sharp and clever and said just what he had intended. Shane would kill him, and then he would kiss him.
"You've seemed unusually relaxed out there recently. What's your secret?" called another reporter. Oh, this was easy. Too easy.
"I am feeling very settled now, I think," Ilya replied. "My life in Canada is wonderful. I have more there than I did in Boston. Maybe I have won no Cup yet with the Centaurs, but I think that will change soon."
That one earned them a mandatory emergency meeting with the commissioner. Ilya felt a little guilty for that. He supposed maybe he'd pushed things a bit far, but he hadn't thought such innocent comments would bring the commissioner down on them. Apparently, though, when you added it all together, it was enough to make the man very angry.
Ilya was already in New York, but the league threatened to put Shane on the next available plane to join him for the meeting. Ilya knew this was meant to be a punishment, but it felt very much like a reward, the prospect of seeing Shane six days earlier than he'd thought he would. He could kiss Crowell on the mouth for that, and he mostly wanted to because he knew Crowell would be disgusted by it.
Farah advised that they refuse the mandatory meeting and scheduled her own call with Crowell instead. Ilya wasn't entirely sure he understood what "mandatory" meant if you could just refuse it, but apparently it was possible. The disappointment of not seeing Shane was offset by the relief of not having to deal with Crowell, and Ilya flew back to Ottawa with his team as planned.
Not long into the flight, Ilya's phone pinged with a message from Instagram. He smiled when he saw who it was from. Shane, forced to use Instagram messages because he knew Ilya was on a flight. Shane, who would become a social media expert any minute, kicking and screaming all the way.
You are a menace, the message said, and then there was a link, from IceBreakers Daily, which was an absolutely awful website no one read. Ilya looked up the word 'menace,' grinned, then looked at the headline.
Rozanov 'feeling very settled': Behind the #Hollanov Marriage Rumors
His phone pinged again.
FrozenFame.com: Sharp Eyes Spot Wedding Band—Are Hollander and Rozanov Married or Just Messing With Us?
And again.
Puck&Tell.com: Ten Clues Hollander and Rozanov Have Been Married for Months (and We All Missed It)
And again.
RinkWatch.com: NHL Refuses to Comment on #Hollanov Marriage Rumors; Fans Say That's Basically a Confirmation
Ilya clicked on the last one and skimmed through it.
When pressed for comment about the alleged Hollanov wedding, an NHL spokesperson simply said, "We don't discuss players' personal lives." The internet, naturally, took that as a yes.
"That's PR-speak for 'they're totally married,'" wrote one fan on Reddit.
"If it's a lie, they would definitely deny it," wrote another.
The silence has only added fuel to the fire, as neither player's team has released a statement. Meanwhile, search traffic for "Hollanov marriage license" has quadrupled in the past 24 hours.
Ilya laughed under his breath. They were all essentially fan blogs pretending to be real news sites. It wasn't like ESPN or The Athletic were running the story. Not yet, anyway. It was a crazy thing for Crowell to be getting so upset about. Ilya typed out his response.
It is okay to admit I am better at this than you are.
Shane sent back an eye rolling emoji and then a middle finger emoji.
Farah scheduled a Zoom call with both of them the next afternoon. Shane was already waiting when Ilya joined the call, but that was no surprise. Very Shane Hollander of him to be so early, and Ilya knew he was worried, which always amplified all of Shane's particular Shane-ness. Ilya hoped they had nothing to worry about, but despite the confidence he projected to Shane, he wasn't quite so sure. He knew that whatever happened, they would still have each other, but he did not know if they would still have hockey.
Ilya could live without hockey, though, or at least without the NHL. But he didn't know if Shane could live without hockey, and that scared him a little.
Shane looked very studious with his glasses on, his hair pulled back into a ponytail. Ilya loved Shane's glasses. He loved Shane's hair. He loved Shane's everything.
"My team is a shitshow," Shane said by way of greeting. "They think you're trolling them."
Ilya blinked. "I am trolling them," he pointed out, hoping to make Shane laugh. It also had the benefit of being the truth.
Shane looked at the sky as if asking God for patience. "I can't believe this was my idea," he murmured. "Jesus."
Farah's video popped onto the screen, and whatever small amount of tension had left Shane's shoulders came flooding back immediately. He looked like he was about to pop. Thankfully, Farah didn't waste any time on pleasantries. That was one of the things Ilya liked about her. She knew how to read a situation, and she'd been Shane's agent for a long time. She knew what he was like.
"I'm sure you're eager to know about my call with Commissioner Crowell," Farah said, and Ilya almost motioned with his hand to urge her to get on with it. Shane would call him rude if he did that—Shane, who sat politely straight-backed and tightly-wound.
"Yes," Ilya affirmed simply. Shane should be proud of him for his restraint, really. And Farah deserved better than to have to deal with Ilya being a little shit. She was the one dealing with Crowell so they didn't have to.
"Well, the first thing I told him was that it was completely inappropriate for him to reprimand a player for wearing the same sort of inoffensive jewelry many other players wear, or for saying he likes his team and enjoys living in the city they represent," Farah said evenly.
Shane's eyes widened cartoonishly behind his glasses. Ilya barked out a short, strained laugh.
"You really told him that?" asked Shane incredulously.
"I did," Farah affirmed, calm and matter-of-fact. "I also pointed out that both of your jersey sales are up three to five percent compared to a few months ago."
Shane blinked owlishly. "Are they really?" Shane asked. Ilya hadn't known about that either.
"Yes," she confirmed. Ilya idly wondered if he drove into the city and walked into the nearest gay bar if he'd stumble into an unexpected sea of Rozanov jerseys. The thought was deeply amusing.
"Which one of us is three percent and which one is five?" Ilya asked with a grin. Farah just raised her eyebrows at him and ignored the question, which was probably for the best. Or maybe not. Competition always turned Shane on.
"I also reminded him that nothing either of you have said or posted online violates any team or league policies," she continued instead. "And that unless they intend to also reprimand every male hockey player who is married to a woman, any action taken against either if you is clear grounds for a discrimination lawsuit."
Ilya smiled. Whatever they were paying Farah, it was not enough. They should be paying her more.
"And that was it?" Shane pressed, and Ilya could see he was practically twitching. It did seem a little too easy, Ilya had to admit. "Crowell didn't push back?"
Farah shrugged. "He pushed back, but ultimately there's nothing he can do," she assured them. "You can consider the matter settled for now. But if anything else comes up..."
"We will call you immediately," Ilya replied, before Shane could find another thing to worry about. Several rounds of effusive thank-yous later, Farah excused herself for another client meeting she'd already pushed back in order to meet with them first, so they let her go. When they were alone on the call again, Shane shook out his arms as if that would relieve his tension. Ilya could clearly see it hadn't.
"Are you okay?" Ilya probed. Shane took another long breath.
"Just...too keyed up, I guess," Shane admitted. "My body hasn't quite realized it can calm down yet."
Ilya wiggled his eyebrows. "I can think of something that will calm you down," he suggested. He watched Shane's expression shift as understanding dawned. It was very satisfying how scandalized Shane looked.
"Farah organized this meeting!" Shane whisper-yelled, as if somehow she would hear them if he spoke too loudly. "She could...come back! And see us!"
"Why would she come back? Our meeting is finished."
Shane threw up his hands. "I don't know! But she could!"
Ilya rolled his eyes theatrically, trying to hide how endearing he found Shane just then.
"Yes, okay, she could come back to what she thinks is an empty video meeting room so she can stare at her own face," Ilya said, very plausibly. "Maybe she has no mirror and the camera is all she has to look at herself. So we will not have phone sex in Farah's Zoom meeting room, in case she pops up and sees us."
"I don't have time anyway," Shane said. "I'm going to be late for practice if I don't leave soon."
Ilya sighed. "Fine. Maybe hit someone in practice, then. Release some tension. I vote for Comeau."
"Oh my God," Shane groaned, but he was smiling. Which meant that even though he had not convinced Shane to have weirdly risky phone sex, Ilya still felt like he had won something.
Ilya hated going to Detroit. He didn't have a good reason for it, really. Some people talked about Detroit like it was the world's biggest shithole, but it didn't actually seem too bad to Ilya. The downtown area had some decent architecture, and the waterfront wasn't terrible. There were worse cities to visit. But Ilya was Russian, so what did he know about what made a good American city?
Still, he didn't like going to Detroit. He liked when he got to fly somewhere that was still warm in winter, like Tampa. Plus, Detroit fans were annoying. Their players were fucking annoying, too. Or maybe Ilya was just in a bad mood because he'd thought he would get to see Shane six days early and instead they hadn't even been able to jerk off together in Farah's Zoom room. Jerking off alone did not hold the same appeal.
At least after this game, he would finally be able to see Shane in person again. And neither of them had been kicked out of the NHL. Things could be worse. Much worse. He should focus more on the positive.
Wyatt Hayes plopped down onto the bench next to Ilya. He was already mostly in his hockey gear, and Ilya was not. "Hey Roz," he greeted, and there was something weird about his voice. Maybe he felt weird because he was about to tell his captain he was running late gearing up for the game. Except when Ilya looked up, he realized the room had gone strangely silent, and everyone was staring at Ilya and Wyatt. Uh-oh.
Wyatt clasped a hand around Ilya's shoulder. "We all just wanted to say that…" he trailed off. That was unusual. Wyatt Hayes was not a man who became lost for words. Ilya felt himself tense instinctively. "Well...if it's true that the only reason you came to Ottawa is to be closer to Hollander…then we're really glad you two are together."
Ilya blinked. He looked around at his team, and they were all staring at him with identical stupid faces, wide-eyed and earnest. Ilya had the urge to rub his eyes to see if the image wouldn't dissolve like smoke. He'd spent weeks carefully planning little hints and breadcrumbs for fans on the internet to find, but somehow he hadn't actually prepared himself for his own team confronting him about it with such sincerity.
"You believe gossip rags that say I am married to Shane Hollander," Ilya stated, far more flustered than he should be. It wasn't an admission. It was, in fact, the opposite of an admission. When he and Shane had agreed to go down this path, he had known there would be a day when he would have to tell the truth. He wanted to tell the truth. Except apparently he was hesitant to.
"Well that ring," Hayes said, gesturing toward Ilya's chain, "it's new. You never used to wear it."
Ilya wondered if one of them had noticed it immediately when he'd begun to wear it or if they had only paid attention after a dozen sports gossip sites had started reposting Tumblr and Reddit speculation like it was real news.
"It is new ring, yes," Ilya confirmed. He didn't elaborate, letting the silence stretch out. Let them work for it a little. Hazy had said a nice thing, but nice words were not enough to grant Ilya an entirely new personality.
"Roz, come on!" Bood yelled from a few feet away. "We support you in whatever. Give us something!"
Ilya's eyes were not stinging. Well, they weren't after he'd blinked a few times to steady himself, anyway.
"You really think I am in love with Shane Hollander," he intoned slowly. Even Ilya could not believe this had escalated quite so quickly. Clearly, he was far too good at hints and innuendo. It had gotten him a husband, and it had convinced the internet and his team with so very little hard evidence.
"Well…are you?" It was Haas who asked, his voice cautious but not mocking. Not like he thought it was a joke. Luca Haas, who had always looked up to Ilya, and there was nothing in his expression now that suggested that had changed just because they thought Ilya was in love with a man. It was...funny. Ilya's heart did something strange in his chest, and he felt like himself again.
"I think Shane Hollander is very annoying," Ilya said seriously. It wasn't even a lie. Shane was very, very annoying sometimes. He was stubborn and uptight and far too concerned with following rules that didn't matter. He was also the most wonderful person Ilya had ever known.
Several of his teammates' faces fell. Dykstra looked more disappointed than he did whenever they lost a game. Tanner Dillon's face was scrunched up in confusion. Bood looked like Ilya had just told him Christmas had been canceled forever.
Even after their supportive words, the devastated reaction surprised Ilya somehow. Ilya knew that some portion of the internet had become obsessed with finding clues to this little mystery, but part of Ilya hadn't expected anyone to genuinely care this much about his happiness. Maybe they had all just hoped that he had someone, that he wasn't alone when so many of them had wives and children to go home to. Or maybe they'd all been obsessively refreshing the #hollanov tag until they had become its biggest fans and greatest defenders.
The whole point of this, Ilya knew, of not coming out immediately and not ignoring it, of taking this middle path that Shane had suggested, was to see who would be assholes about the rumors. Ilya's teammates were not assholes. They were, maybe, the opposite of assholes. Ilya took pity on them.
"Also, I am married to Shane Hollander," he admitted.
The room erupted into cheers.
They were on fire. It was maybe, possibly, the best game they had played since Ilya had joined the Centaurs. Everyone was in sync and working together like they had been a winning team for a decade. The passes were crisp, the positioning was flawless, and every line change felt effortless. Ilya had never felt better, or freer, on the ice, not even when he'd won the Stanley Cup.
Roger Crowell was an idiot. Anyone who accused Ilya and Shane of being a distraction had never been on a team like the Ottawa Centaurs. Only shitty teams were distracted by two men in a relationship. It said something about them, something that they should probably dig deeper into in therapy. It should not be Ilya and Shane's problem.
Ottawa was up 2-0 after the end of the first period. Ilya skated to center ice to take the face-off against Detroit's center Brayden Lawson when play resumed. Lawson was one of those assholes with a bad reputation, but as a fellow asshole with a bad reputation, Ilya tried not to judge.
"What the fuck is all this shit about you and Hollander?" Lawson demanded as they waited for the puck to drop. "You never seemed like a faggot to me."
Okay, now Ilya was going to judge. It was clear that Lawson was trying to rile Ilya, but Ilya was a master at this, and he'd heard the word a thousand times before—in Russian, in English, in French. He was immune to it.
"What does a faggot look like?" Ilya countered with a cheeky grin. Lawson's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Like—"
The puck dropped. Ilya won the face-off.
Ottawa was up 3-0.
"Seriously, Rozanov," Lawson pressed as they bent down for the face-off, like he was still burned at not having gotten closure before, or at not having successfully flustered Ilya. "Everyone said you've had sex with a thousand women."
Ilya shrugged. He didn't know why Lawson was acting as though Ilya potentially liking dick was an insult to his own masculinity.
"A thousand is very generous," Ilya answered, which he knew was not an answer at all. Lawson looked even more annoyed, which had been Ilya's intention. Ilya knew he was very good at being annoying.
"So why are you letting people say this shit about you?" Lawson demanded. His voice had taken on an edge of genuine bewilderment, clearly unable to fathom why Ilya wasn't furious.
Ilya tilted his head. "You have never heard of a bisexual before?"
A red flush was creeping up Lawson's neck. A vein actually bulged.
Ilya won the face-off.
Ottawa was up 4-0.
Lawson's face was red now, and his jaw was set in a tight line. Ilya stopped silently across from him, wondering what it would be this time. He was almost looking forward to whatever bullshit was about to come out of Lawson's mouth. And he wasn't disappointed, either.
"You know, everyone who reads that shit thinks Hollander is the one who takes it," he hissed out sharply, "but I bet it's you, Rozanov. I bet you're his little bitch."
It was difficult for Ilya not to laugh at that. It was so...juvenile. So boring, to equate being fucked with a lack of strength. Ilya had really been hoping for something more creative. He raised an eyebrow.
"Ah, so you are not man enough to take a dick," Ilya accused archly. A look of absolute confusion passed over Lawson's face. It was clear that he was not quite certain what he was being accused of or whether he should be insulted. Before he had decided, the puck dropped.
Ilya won the face-off.
He raced down the ice with the puck, keeping Troy and Bood both in his peripheral vision. Troy was streaking down the right wing, Bood trailing slightly behind on the left. Ilya kept his head up, reading the defensive coverage as it shifted. Detroit's defensemen were backing up, giving him space—too much space. Idiots.
He crossed the blue line and saw Troy break toward the net, his stick ready. There was a slight gap to his right, and when he ducked into it, a perfect passing lane opened up. Ilya shifted his weight, preparing to feed Troy the puck for what should be an easy one-timer.
He lifted his stick to make the pass—
A body slammed into him from behind and to his left, the hit coming in at an ugly angle. The force drove all the air from Ilya's lungs in one violent rush. His body careened sideways, too dazed to brace himself as he fell.
"What the fuck," Shane said the moment he walked through the door to Ilya's house. Ilya couldn't blame him; he knew he looked like shit. He held an ice pack to his face, and another was wrapped around his left side. A cut on his lip pulled very time he moved his mouth. He hadn't looked in the mirror for a while, but the last time he had checked, his face had already shown the beginnings of a mottled purple bruise. The plane ride back to Ottawa had been excruciating.
Anya, who very much did not understand why her papa was boring and would not move from his spot on the couch, danced excitedly around Shane's feet. Shane instinctively reached down to pet her, but his eyes remained on Ilya. Ilya hated to see Shane so worried, but he also felt warm, inside at least. On the outside, he was cold from the ice packs, though they weren't as frozen as they had been, either. Ilya hadn't been motivated enough to get up to get new ones.
"What happened?" Shane demanded, and Ilya knew the sharpness in his tone was worry and not anger. Shane only got that edge in his voice when he was trying not to panic.
"You did not see?" Ilya asked. Shane had had his own game to play, but...well, Ilya's game had turned out more exciting.
"I saw a clip of the fight, but..." Shane trailed off, having satisfied Anya enough to reach Ilya at last. He reached out and curled his fingers around Ilya's, and Ilya let Shane pull the ice pack far enough away to uncover his face. Shane winced at whatever he saw there. "Jesus."
"Mm, no. It was Brayden Lawson," Ilya corrected. "Not Jesus. Jesus is against violence, I think."
Shane snorted, shaking his head in exasperation. "I can't believe—I mean, he's an asshole, but what the fuck led to...?" Shane waved expansively in the direction of Ilya's person.
"Oh, Lawson said I did not look like a faggot," Ilya began. Shane rolled his eyes. "Then I taught him what a bisexual was. He said I probably was the one who gets fucked, and I told him he was not man enough to take a dick up his ass."
Shane released a shocked guffaw of laughter, then reigned himself in with an almost guilty look on his face. "Of course you did," Shane said fondly. He crouched down in front of Ilya and gingerly removed the half-melted ice pack, lifting Ilya's shirt to survey the damage. "Jesus," he said again, and this time Ilya didn't make a quip. "Are they just bruised or...?"
Ilya didn't want to tell Shane that two of his ribs were broken. His silence must have been incriminating enough, though, because Shane's expression sagged and he pressed his forehead gently against Ilya's knee. Ilya reached down and carded his hands through Shane's hair, dislodging the elastic tying it back.
"So much for not being a distraction," Shane said into Ilya's shin.
"Hm," intoned Ilya noncommittally. "Is hockey. Fights happen. Even when nobody on the ice is gay married to a hot hockey player husband."
Shane laughed darkly, running his hand up and down the back of Ilya's calf. Which was nice, considering that was one part of his body that was not bruised.
There was a lot more that Ilya didn't say. He was not happy about it, of course, because he would miss too many games because of this, and Ottawa had looked like they might even be playoff-bound, and now Ilya was not so sure. Ilya and Shane had both been lucky, relatively speaking; Shane had only had one major injury that had taken him off the ice, and Ilya had been able to play through most of his. Ilya was glad that this time, it had been him and not Shane. Ilya sometimes still had nightmares about Shane lying prone on the ice, so he hoped any future injuries, if they happened, would be his too.
"But my team is very supportive of us," Ilya said brightly. "Is not all bad."
Shane's head snapped up, his dark eyes bright with a panic he barely suppressed. "You told them?"
The air between them went tight and still. Ilya could practically hear the anxious thoughts racing through Shane's head.
"They already were very sure," Ilya told him delicately. "They know me too well and see through my jokes, I think. I only...confirmed." Ilya watched Shane swallow convulsively once, twice, and Ilya was not upset at that. It was one thing to know that they had been on the road to outing themselves, but it was another thing to understand. Ilya cupped Shane's cheek, brushed his finger along Shane's eyebrow. "They all cheered."
Shane's smile was only a little forced. "That's something positive, at least," he agreed.
They both remained there, just breathing together for a minute. It was nice to feel Shane's hand on him again, finally, and Ilya's hand on Shane, even the places they were touching were not the sexy ones. Ilya looked down at Shane's dark hair, at his husband crouched as he was between Ilya's legs. Ilya was a little hazy from the painkillers, but apparently his dick was stronger than the drugs, because the sight of Shane between his legs was doing certain things to him. Shane pressed a kiss against the side of Ilya's knee, which didn't do anything to discourage Ilya's dick.
"What can I do?" Shane asked softly. "Can I get you new ice packs?"
Shane started to rise without even waiting for Ilya's answer. Ilya caught him by the shoulder, preventing him from rising.
"You could suck my dick," Ilya suggested. Shane stared at him in disbelief.
"You have broken ribs!" he guessed, unfortunately correctly. "Your face is all smashed up!"
Ilya raised an eyebrow, then fought a wince because that would just prove Shane's point.
"My dick is not broken," Ilya pointed out. He reached for the band of his sweatpants, pulling it out to glance at the appendage in question. "Yes, he is very interested in you in that position, Hollander."
Shane shook his head, though he was smiling. "You are impossible," he said, but he might well have been saying I love you for all the emotion in his voice. He raised himself onto his knees enough to place a soft kiss at the uninjured corner of Ilya's mouth. Then Shane settled himself between Ilya's knees. "You are not allowed to move. Seriously. You are not allowed to hurt yourself worse for a blowjob."
"Oooh, bossy," Ilya crooned, and Shane leveled him with unamused look. Ilya sighed. "Yes, dear husband, I swear I will let you do all the work if you will suck my dick right now."
Some mixture of the invocation of the word husband and the obedience seemed to convince Shane. In truth, Ilya really liked being able to say the word husband, too, and he didn't exactly want to move much either. Because despite what he said, everything hurt, and he didn't want to take more painkillers even though he was nearly due for them. Probably an orgasm would help.
Ilya's sweats were loose enough that Shane was able to free Ilya's cock without Ilya lifting his hips. He looked a little surprised to see that Ilya really was semi-erect, as if he'd thought Ilya was lying about what seeing Shane on his knees did to Ilya. Proof of Ilya's arousal seemed to be enough to halt any of Shane's objections, because he wrapped his fingers around the base of Ilya's cock and lowered his head to dart his tongue out, tasting the tip.
Ilya unconsciously bucked his hips the tiniest bit, then hissed in pain as his ribs protested the movement. Shane pulled back.
"I'm not kidding," Shane warned. "I will stop."
Ilya had no trouble believing that, but it had always been difficult to control himself where Shane Hollander was concerned. So many times, Ilya's brain had told him he should do one thing, and his body had done the opposite. Ilya tangled his fingers in Shane's long hair.
"Let me?"
Ilya tightened his fingers in Shane's hair just enough to show what he meant. Shane's gaze darkened.
"Yes," he breathed.
Ilya guided Shane's mouth back to his dick, and Shane took the direction easily, opening his lips and taking just the head of Ilya's cock in his mouth, warm and wet and perfect. It had been too long since Ilya had felt this, and he had expected to have marathon sex with Shane today to make up for the weeks apart. This would not be marathon sex, but Ilya would never complain about having Shane's mouth on him.
Ilya cupped the back of Shane's head, gently guiding him to move, to take more. Ilya didn't do this often; it had been many, many years since Shane had needed any direction on how to give a blowjob in general, and a blowjob to Ilya in particular. But Ilya didn't trust himself not to thrust if Shane was too tentative, and it at least didn't hurt when Ilya moved his right arm.
Shane took Ilya's direction like it was what he was born to do, let Ilya guide his head up and down. The sight of Shane's lips wrapped around Ilya's dick and the slight flush on his freckled cheeks was breathtaking—which might be good, because it hurt a little when Ilya breathed. He didn't care. He reveled in it, the easy way Shane took him, slow at first, and then faster, his tongue working expertly in tandem with the suction of his mouth. Pain and drugs were no match for the power of Shane Hollander's mouth.
Ilya rarely warned Shane when he was about to come, not anymore. Shane could read him well enough now without words, and anyway, Shane had decided a long time before that he usually hated mess more than he hated swallowing. Shane moaned around Ilya's length when Ilya held him firm, breathing shallowly against his broken ribs as he came.
After a few seconds, Ilya released Shane's head. Shane pulled back, releasing a pleased little sigh. He tucked Ilya's softening length back into his sweats, because of course he did.
"Come here," Ilya urged softly, and he had been right; an orgasm had done quite a lot to temper the niggling feeling of pain as the drugs started to wear off. He would need more soon, he knew. But he could put it off for a little while.
Shane stood slowly, looking around the sofa and Ilya's body, clearly trying to find some way to follow the direction without hurting Ilya. But the open spot on the couch was on the same side as Ilya's broken ribs. Shane awkwardly settled himself on the arm of the sofa and leaned down to press a kiss to Ilya's brow, shunning his injured mouth. Ilya was only a little annoyed by that.
He reached for the fastenings of Shane's pants. In consideration for Shane's general desire for easy cleanup, Ilya would usually have taken off his shirt before jerking Shane off, but that sounded too painful and he doubted the blue and purple canvas of his abs would turn Shane on anyway. So Shane would have to deal with semen on Ilya's shirt today.
Shane's hand stopped him when Ilya had him half-unzipped. There was a regretful look on his face, and Ilya could see why. Shane was not all that close to being hard, which was surprising, because sucking Ilya's dick tended to have a fairly predictable effect on Shane.
"Ah, you do not find me attractive when my face is purple," Ilya guessed. He tried not to be offended. Shane shook his head.
"I always find you attractive," Shane assured him earnestly. "It's just...it's difficult to get in the mood, knowing how hurt you are."
Ah, so this was a problem of motivation. Ilya was always in the mood for sex, but it was sometimes a little more difficult for Shane. If Shane said no, Ilya would certainly stop. But this was not a no. Ilya ran his finger along the seam of Shane's underwear very slowly, giving him adequate time to object.
Shane did not object. He even helped Ilya pull his pants and underwear down so Ilya didn't have to try to accomplish the task one-handed. Ilya wrapped his fingers around Shane's semi-hard dick, pleased to feel it firm a little in his hand.
"I'm not sure I can," Shane confessed with a small grimace. Ilya smiled.
"I think you can," Ilya said confidently, and then proceeded to prove it.
Ilya was bored. It turned out that having broken ribs and being unable to play hockey while watching his team lose without him was both boring and very annoying.
Ilya was proud of his team, though. Despite what he and the media tried to pretend sometimes, Ilya was not the whole team, and they did not fall apart without him. They still played well, better than they had the previous year. But some of the teams they had come up against had been excellent, and without Ilya, the Centaurs were not excellent. Ilya spent a couple of weeks grinding his teeth as he waited for his ribs to heal and watched Ottawa fall out of playoff contention.
It was okay, though, and he made sure to tell them so. It was not a failure. A year ago, no one would have even talked about the Ottawa Centaurs as a potential playoff team. This season had showed everyone their potential, and next season would be even better.
Especially if Ilya could convince Shane that he didn't need to put up with the asshole culture in the Montreal locker room once he became a free agent at the end of the year. If he could convince Shane that there was a team who would appreciate him and would mean he could come home with Ilya every night. That he didn't have to sacrifice to remain close to Ilya just because Ilya had once sacrificed for him. Well, except for the money, of course. It would mean a pay cut, but they had enough money. And Ilya would sell the few expensive cars he had left if that would make Shane feel better. He would even sell the Ducati.
He didn't tell anyone this, of course. It wasn't the sort of thing to talk about before the season ended, and Ilya would be the last one to start speculation that Shane was not dedicated to his team.
But the Montreal Voyageurs were not winning the Stanley Cup this year. Anyone who watched them could see it. Shane was still playing well, but the team was a disorganized mess. That was what happened when the locker room was a back-and-forth between bickering and silence. Montreal might make the playoffs, unlike Ottawa, but if Ilya could bet on it, he'd bet they wouldn't make it past the first round. Not that he'd ever want to bet against Shane, but Ilya did have eyes.
Things got a little better once Ilya's ribs had healed a little, when every movement didn't cause pain and he could almost take a deep breath again without wanting to scream. When he could stop taking the awful prescription pain meds and switch to the weaker over-the-counter shit. When he could work out sort of, a little bit, as long as there wasn't too much twisting and lifting involved.
Ribs were fucking annoying. At least if he'd broken his arm, they could have put it in a cast, but there wasn't anything to do for broken ribs but wait, and Ilya was not patient when it came to this. It would have helped if Shane had been there to give Ilya a hundred blowjobs to make him feel better, but Shane could still play hockey, which unfortunately meant travel.
But Shane was back in Montreal now. Ilya had wanted to drive there the same day Shane had gotten back, but Shane had made worried little noises about Ilya being in a car for two hours until Ilya had gotten it okayed by Terry, the Centaurs' team doctor. Terry had even written him a little note, grinning the whole time as he'd written it, clearly knowing why Ilya had asked. Being out to his team and open about his relationship with Shane was strange, but it was also nice.
Ilya took a photo of the note and sent it to Shane. He could not believe his husband required a doctor's note from him, but his husband was Shane Hollander, so maybe he did believe it.
Ilya: Get a ride to practice today. I will pick you up afterward, and then we can go home and have lots of sex.
Shane: It's an OPEN PRACTICE. There will be fans there!
Ilya: Exactly.
Three dots appeared on Ilya's screen, then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Shane: You're right. Pick me up at 3.
Ilya smiled. He always liked when Shane admitted he was right.
Ilya took the Porsche 718 Cayman. It was one of his stupider ideas, considering it could still snow, and considering Ilya's ribs. He should have taken the SUV instead of folding himself into his tiny sports car, but this was just so much funnier.
When Ilya arrived at the Voyageurs' facility, there were fans milling about outside, hoping to catch the players as they left, maybe angling for an autograph or two. It didn't take them long to spot who was driving the car as Ilya pulled up, and Ilya was met with a familiar chorus of boos, curses, and middle fingers. Ilya grinned at them and gave a little wave, which only made them angrier.
The fans could only keep it up for so long, of course. Ilya texted Shane to let him know he was there, and while he waited, the fans lost most of their steam fell back mostly into glares. Ilya's ribs hurt, and so he leaned his seat back to try to get more comfortable, daydreaming of blowjobs. Maybe even mutual ones, if he could possibly convince Shane that it would not be too taxing on Ilya's ribs if Shane simply fucked his face. Ilya idly imagined how flustered Shane might get when Ilya suggested that.
Some of the fans were taking pictures with their phones, which was admittedly what Ilya had intended, so Ilya tried not to visibly wince or get an inappropriately-timed erection, though they probably wouldn't be able to see. Better to be sure than regret later.
The door opened and a few players stepped out, including Shane. Ilya saw the exact moment Shane spotted him, and he could almost hear Shane's groan, even at a distance, even with all his windows rolled up. Ilya pulled up closer so Shane didn't have to cross the parking lot—and honestly, so they could hopefully get to the blowjobs sooner if Shane did not get accosted by fans—and rolled his window down. Hayden Pike gave him a tentative wave, so Ilya rewarded him with a compliment.
"Nice goal last week, Pike," he said by way of greeting. Hayden's face scrunched up in that way it did when trying to find the secret insult beneath Ilya's compliment, which was most of the reason Ilya did it. Pike was too easy to mess with.
"Fuck you, Rozanov," Gilbert Comeau said, which really was a very rude response to Ilya sincerely complimenting his teammate. Maybe Comeau was upset he hadn't scored himself.
"Sorry," Ilya returned lightly. "You're too ugly for me. I only fuck hot people."
Hayden released a sharp laugh that he plainly tried to suppress too late. Comeau's eyes hardened. His jaw clenched, and for a second Ilya thought he might actually try to start something in the parking lot. Shane quickly jogged around to the passenger side of the car and got in, giving Ilya a very pointed look, a look that said, Please stop antagonizing my teammates. We have to leave now.
Ilya rolled up his window and drove away without another word to his husband's teammates. He wasn't there to make things harder for Shane.
Ilya stayed focused on the road, because he was a responsible driver now, especially with Shane in the car. But out of the corner of his eye, he could see Shane looking at him with a very familiar mixture of fondness and exasperation.
"Of course you would," Shane mumbled, maybe to himself. "God, this car is so...orange."
Ilya grinned. "Not more orange than the last time you saw it."
Shane sighed. "My memory didn't do it justice," he said, though he plainly was not actually angry. Ilya knew what an angry Shane Hollander sounded like.
They rode in silence for a minute. Ilya could feel Shane working up to something, so he didn't interrupt the silence with chatter.
"I don't think my team is even making the playoffs at this rate," Shane said finally. "And Coach keeps making thinly-veiled comments about 'distractions.'"
Ilya was not surprised to hear that. Theriault and Commissioner Crowell were the same in that way. Both of them were stuck in some imaginary past where hockey was only for straight white men who never talked about feelings. They were dinosaurs, and eventually they'd go extinct, but in the meantime, they made everyone else miserable.
"You are not distracted," Ilya pointed out. "And I do not say that only because I am your husband. You have played great. Is your teammates' problem if they are so distracted by gay guys. Maybe means something deeper about them."
Shane snorted out a laugh. "I don't need that mental image," he replied, but it was good-natured. "You aren't being very subtle anymore, you know."
"What?" Ilya demanded, mock-offended. "Is it gay for one man to pick up another man from hockey practice?"
Shane laughed again, the last of his tension dissolving as he relaxed against his seat. "They way you do it, maybe," Shane teased. He paused again for a long time, and Ilya allowed him to gather himself. "Maybe it's time to...make us official? Announce it for real?"
Ilya's heart leapt in his chest. He almost pulled over so he didn't crash the car.
"Maybe when Montreal is eliminated from the playoffs," Ilya suggested. "So no one can call it 'distracting.'"
"Hey, fuck you," Shane said, even though he'd just said himself he wasn't sure his team would make the playoffs. "What if we win the Stanley Cup?"
Ilya shook his head. "Then you can pretend to be Scott Hunter and kiss me on the mouth on live TV," Ilya suggested, not entirely joking. Ilya glanced over and saw the soft, sappy look on Shane's face. Ilya felt soft and gooey inside, too, remembering how everything had changed for them that day.
The car felt smaller suddenly, in a good way. Like the space between them had compressed into something intimate and safe.
"Okay," Shane agreed at last. "We'll ask Farah to draft a statement." He paused, then added reluctantly, "And if Montreal wins the cup, I will kiss you on the mouth on live TV."