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The Ottawa Centaurs’ social media team had been lobbying for this for months. Now that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were not only teammates but also very publicly married, the demand for "behind-the-scenes" content was at an all-time high.
Harris leaned against the doorframe of the locker room, looking at Ilya with a mixture of hope and trepidation.
"Ilya, the league and the social media team want you mic’ed up for the game tonight," Harris said. "Just... try to keep it professional. No swearing, no state secrets, and please, for the love of the game, don't make the editors spend forty hours in the booth."
Ilya, who was busy trying to find his lucky socks, looked up with a slow, wicked grin. Shane, sitting at the stall next to him, immediately closed his eyes and exhaled a long, weary breath.
"You want me to talk for the fans, Harris?" Ilya asked. "I am very good at talking. I have many things to say about Shane’s defensive positioning."
"I’m sitting right here," Shane muttered.
"See?" Ilya gestured vaguely at his husband. "He is already so sensitive. This will be great for the TikToks."
The game against Boston was fast and physical, but the real entertainment was happening on the Ottawa bench. The social media producer in the control room was already sweating.
"Okay, Ilya is live," the producer said. "Let’s see what we’ve got."
The feed crackled to life. Ilya was sitting on the bench, leaning heavily into Shane’s space.
"Hollander," Ilya’s voice came through, clear and insistent. "Hollander, look at me."
"I’m watching the play, Ilya," Shane replied, his eyes fixed on the ice.
"The play is boring. Look at my visor. Is it smudged? I feel like I am looking through a fog."
Shane finally glanced over, wiped a thumb across Ilya’s visor, and pushed his head back toward the ice. "It’s fine. Focus."
"You are so bossy since you became my teammate again," Ilya grumbled. "At least in Montreal you had to be polite to me. Now you treat me like a common rookie."
"You're a three-time MVP, Ilya. You’ll survive."
Later, during a power play, the mic caught Ilya as he glided past Shane near the blue line.
"Hey, Shane!" Ilya hissed. "Did you remember to take the chicken out of the freezer?"
Shane didn't even turn his head. "Yes, Ilya. I took it out at noon. Get in the circle."
"Good. Because if we have to order pizza again, I am going to lose my muscle definition."
BEEP. The editor in the truck hit the button. "He started talking about his 'perfect physique' again," the editor sighed. "We’ll have to cut that part."
In the first period, the Centaurs broke out on a three-on-two. Ilya carried the puck across the blue line, dancing around a Boston defenseman with a flashy deke that drew the goalie toward the near post. At the last possible second, Ilya flipped a no-look, backhand pass perfectly into the slot.
Shane was right there. He didn't even have to settle the puck; he just hammered it home.
The mic erupted with the sound of Ilya’s celebratory shout. He chased Shane into the corner, jumping onto his back during the huddle.
"Did you see that?!" Ilya yelled into Shane’s ear, loud enough to peak the audio levels. "That pass was a gift! I wrapped it in a bow for you, Hollander! You are welcome!"
"Nice look, Ilya," Shane panted, trying to stay upright under Ilya's weight.
"Nice look? It was a work of art! I am like... what is the guy? Da Vinci. I am the Da Vinci of the secondary assist."
In the second period, it was Ilya's turn to find the back of the net. It was a classic Hollander-to-Rozanov play—a cross-ice pass that Ilya hammered home with a one-timer. As the team swarmed them, the mic caught the immediate aftermath.
Ilya didn't celebrate with a simple fist pump. He skated straight to Shane and threw his arms around him, nearly knocking them both over. Amidst the chaos of the goal celebration, Ilya grabbed Shane's head with both gloves and pressed a loud, exaggerated kiss to the side of Shane's helmet.
The mic captured a distinct clink of plastic on plastic, followed by Ilya’s muffled, triumphant voice: "My husband is the best passer in the world! Everyone else is trash!"
Shane laughed, his face turning a visible shade of pink under his mask as he tried to untangle himself. "Ilya, you're on camera. And you're mic'ed."
"I do not care! I am proud!" Ilya shouted, still clinging to Shane’s jersey as they skated toward the bench. "That kiss was for the fans, but mostly it was for me!"
"It was a decent pass, Hollander!" Ilya added more loudly as they hit the bench, returning to his usual persona. "But the finish? The finish was all Rozanov magic."
"You're unbelievable," Shane whispered, though he was smiling as he sat down.
"You love it," Ilya replied, leaning in close so the mic caught his smug grin. "You scored, I scored. We are the kings of Ottawa."
In the third period, the game took a sharper turn. A Boston winger took an unnecessarily hard run at Shane along the boards, finishing the hit late. Ilya was there in less than a second, gloves off, shoving the player back with enough force to start a full-blown scrum.
By the time the refs sorted it out, both Ilya and Shane were being led to the penalty box—Ilya for roughing, and Shane for a minor slashing call from earlier in the play.
Ilya reached the box first. His hair was a mess, his helmet dangling from his hand after being knocked off in the fight. When Shane stepped into the small enclosure, Ilya didn't even wait for him to sit down. He reached out, pulled Shane toward him, and pressed a firm kiss to Shane’s cheek.
"You are okay?" Ilya asked, his voice low and buzzing with leftover adrenaline.
"I'm fine, Ilya," Shane said, sitting down and adjusting his gear. "You didn't need to get a penalty for that."
"I did," Ilya insisted, sitting beside him. He leaned his head back against the glass, ignoring the cameras pointed directly at them. "No one touches my husband like that. Is bad for my blood pressure."
They sat in silence for a moment as the crowd roared around them. Then, Ilya leaned closer to Shane’s ear, and the mic picked up his voice shifting gears completely.
"Shane? Did Anya get her walk before we left?"
Shane blinked, the transition from 'enforcer' to 'dog dad' catching him off guard. "Yeah. I took her out for twenty minutes. Why?"
"I think she is mad at me. She looked at me very suspiciously when I was putting on my shoes. I think she knows I am the one who hid her squeaky squirrel."
"You hid it because you said the noise was giving you a migraine," Shane reminded him.
"It was! But now I feel guilty. She has the sad eyes. We should buy her the organic treats on the way home. The ones that look like little ducks."
"The ones that cost fifteen dollars a bag?"
"Yes. My daughter deserves the best," Ilya said firmly. He looked at Shane, a soft, domestic smile playing on his lips. "Also, we are out of the oat milk. You like the oat milk."
"I'll add it to the list," Shane said, his voice softening.
In the broadcast booth, the producer put his head in his hands. "They’re in the box for roughing, and they’re talking about duck-shaped dog treats and oat milk. This is the most wholesome disaster I’ve ever seen."
The final "Mic’ed Up" video was a viral sensation within an hour of being posted. It wasn't just the goals that people shared, though the "helmet kiss" clip was played on a loop across social media; it was a quiet moment during a timeout late in the third that really hit home.
The bench was tense. The game was tied. The mic picked up the heavy, rhythmic thrum of the arena music, and then Ilya’s voice, uncharacteristically soft.
"Hey."
"Yeah?" Shane asked.
"Your skate lace is loose. Left foot."
The camera showed Shane looking down, seeing the lace, and quickly bending over to tighten it.
"Thanks, Ilya," Shane said, straightening up and bumping his shoulder against Ilya’s.
"I cannot have you tripping," Ilya said, his voice dropping to that low, private register they usually kept for their home in the Gatineau Hills. "I need you on your feet. We have a lot of winning to do."
"Let's go win it, then," Shane said.
That night, back in their quiet living room, Ilya was scrolling through the comments on the Centaurs' Instagram page.
"Look at this," Ilya said, shoving the phone in front of Shane’s face. "The fans are obsessed with the 'penalty box kiss.' And Anya has her own fan club now because I mentioned the squirrel."
Shane laughed, pulling Ilya closer on the sofa. "I didn't steal your favorite hoodie this morning just for you to embarrass me on national TV."
"I didn't embarrass you. I marked my territory," Ilya corrected, tossing the phone aside. "But tell Harris if he wants more content, he has to pay me in chocolate croissants. Expensive ones."