Chapter Text
“You have press, Hollander.” Ilya stuck his tongue out and shoved him towards the door. “Go. Captain’s orders. Go.”
“I’m going, I’m going!” Shane laughed.
“Faster you go, the faster we can leave,” Ilya called after him. “I have plans, Hollander!”
The locker room broke out in a chorus of friendly jeering. Boos and shouts to get a fuckin’ room and Holly take him with you and laughter as shirts were throw across the room, as bottles were shaken, popped, and sprayed with reckless abandon. Shane laughed the whole way to the door, ducking out into the corridor just in time to miss being splashed with champagne. He didn’t mind being sweaty on camera. Soaked to the skin, however…
Most of the questions were softballs. Easy lobs with answers just as simple. Shane had never been a fan of interviews, of being under a microscope, and he certainly wasn’t comfortable now. It was muscle memory, though. Switching from reporter to reporter, giving answers in English and French, when to look up or find the camera, when to smile and how much. It was exhausting, and he was already exhausted.
“One more question,” Harrison directed. Relief smacked Shane immediately. “Yep, right here.”
“Shane,” the journalist began. He smiled at her, knowing it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “This is your first cup playing with your husband, Ilya Rozanov.”
He nodded. “It is.”
“He’s known for a certain presence on the ice, of course,” she continued. “But at the end, I saw him make a beeline for your parents – your mom, specifically. I was wondering how that felt, watching that.”
His next smile was real. The kind that would hurt his cheeks if it stuck around for too long. The sort that he rarely gave on camera. “It felt amazing. I’m really lucky to have a team that feels like family, and to play with Ilya knowing that we both have people in the stands for us. The last few years haven’t been easy, sometimes they’ve been really hard, and we couldn’t have done any of it without those people. Especially my mom. I love how close they are.”
“They are? Close, that is?”
Shane nodded, still grinning. He was sure the clip had already gone viral. He was sure there were many versions of the same clip courtesy of fans, the WAGs, Harris’ diligent collection for social media. Shane knew, the first moment he got, he would be downloading all of them for safekeeping.
The final buzzer had gone, loud and predictable. The arena had been filled with cheers, chants, clapping and screaming for a hard-won victory that hadn’t always felt certain. For the first time in decades, the Ottawa Centaurs had brought home a Stanley Cup.
Shane had stopped hard, looking up at the scoreboard in disbelief. He’d won three cups before, but it had never gotten old. It had never felt anything less than special; something earned instead of expected, the attainment of it a final reward for the blood, sweat, frustration, purpling bruises, and aching exhaustion.
He had looked up at the scoreboards each time before. In a different color jersey. On a different team. Nearly a different person. He had never looked up at them, smiling so wide he thought his face would split. He had never taken it in with his husband. Laughing and whooping as his husband collided into him, pushing him up against the boards in a hug that would rival a boa constrictor. He’d never kissed his husband on the ice before, grinning wildly, not giving a damn who saw.
Shane had nearly combusted with joy.
So much joy.
Joy for and with the fans, the whole team, with Ilya.
Ilya, who had seen his parents step out onto the ice with the other families and made a beeline for his mother. Shane’s mother. Stopping just short with his gloves and helmet off, pulling her into a bear hug that Yuna returned with equal ferocity.
Shane had given them space, let them have the moment. His heart felt too big for his ribs, his face too small for his smile. Watching his mother cup his husband’s face and tell him, unequivocally, how proud she was of him, how well he played, and what a good leader he was. Watching his husband tear up as he nodded along, thanking her, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and telling her he loved her. Watching his face crumple all over again, when his mother held up an old photo, pulled from its frame, of a little boy and his mother at a palace in Saint Petersburg.
She was watching you too, Ilyunia. Made sure of it.
“Very,” Shane confirmed to the reporter. “She’s the best, looks after the both of us. Ilya loves her to bits.” He grinned, leaning into the microphone. “She’s his mamushka. What more can I say?”
Harrison ended the session and Shane said his goodbyes, then trudged back to the locker room. He paused at the door, knowing he was going to get sprayed with sparkling, maybe barreled by Wyatt or Haas, pulled into a filthy kiss by Ilya just because his husband was a menace and the one on the ice wouldn't have been enough for him. He pushed the door open, swept up by a wave of belonging, and braced for impact.