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There are many ways to prove your love for your husband. Grand gestures. Matching tattoos. Sharing fries without keeping score.
Ilya Rozanov prefers humiliation. Specifically, the very controlled, extremely intentional humiliation of confidently butchering English idioms in front of the entire Ottawa Centaurs locker room—because it makes Shane Hollander laugh.
It starts on a random Tuesday morning practice, the kind where the rink smells faintly like burnt coffee and fresh tape, and everyone’s dragging just a little because they flew in from Vancouver at two in the morning. They’re married now—have been for months—and the Centaurs have mostly adjusted to the fact that their captain and their star winger are disgustingly in love. Mostly.
Harris is going over the week’s schedule in the locker room, clipboard in hand, brow furrowed.
“Sorry for the short notice, boys,” he says, glancing up at them. “League moved the media availability to tomorrow.”
Ilya leans back in his stall, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking every inch the calm, intimidating captain. Shane is two stalls over, lacing his skates with suspicious focus and a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Ilya clears his throat. “Harris, don’t beat around the balls and get to the point.”
There is a full three seconds of silence.
Harris blinks.
The room freezes.
Shane makes a strangled noise that he tries to disguise as a cough, but it comes out high and bright and utterly incriminating.
Harris stares at Ilya like he’s just been body-checked by grammar. “…Don’t beat around the what?”
Ilya’s face remains perfectly serious. “The balls. Is saying, yes? We do not circle balls. We go directly.”
That’s it. Shane loses it. He bends forward, shoulders shaking, giggling helplessly into his glove like he’s twelve instead of a two-time Cup champion. The Centaurs erupt a second later.
“Cap!” someone howls from the far end of the room. “You’ve been in North America for, like, a decade!”
“Is expression my husband taught me,” Ilya replies smoothly, gesturing toward Shane with lazy elegance. “Very educational man.”
Shane can’t even defend himself; he’s laughing too hard, eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed. And that’s the part that makes it worth it.
Because here’s the thing: Ilya knows.
He’s not stupid, and Shane Hollander has never been a convincing liar. Not when his ears turn pink and he bites his lower lip to keep from smiling. Not when he explains an idiom with a suspicious amount of enthusiasm. Not when he looks like he’s about to burst every time Ilya repeats it back.
It started innocently enough one evening in their kitchen, months ago. Shane had been leaning against the counter with a ginger ale while Ilya scrolled through something on his phone, frowning slightly. He had paused an interview clip where a reporter had asked him about the cost of upgrading training equipment for the team.
“Reporter said new equipment ‘costs an arm and a leg,’” Ilya said slowly, testing the phrase. “Why arms? Why legs? Seems excessive.”
Shane snorted softly, already amused. “It just means something is really expensive.” He nudged Ilya’s hip with his own and added with exaggerated patience, “You’re not actually paying with body parts.”
Ilya hummed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing in concentration as if committing it to memory.
“So if something is very expensive,” he said carefully, “I say… it costs two arms and three legs.”
Shane groaned immediately. “No. Absolutely not. Please never say that out loud.”
Ilya looked thoughtful for a moment longer, then nodded solemnly as if accepting the correction.
The idea, unfortunately, had already taken root.
Two days later after practice, the Centaurs were slumped around the locker room while a rookie complained loudly about how much the new equipment upgrade had probably cost the organization. Someone joked about the team budget, and before anyone else could speak, Ilya lifted his head from where he’d been unlacing his skates.
“Yes,” he said gravely, “very expensive. Probably costs two arms and three legs.”
The room went silent.
Leblanc blinked.
Someone in the back choked on their sports drink.
And Shane—who had been sitting two stalls away—completely lost it. He laughed so hard he tipped sideways off the bench and had to brace himself on the floor, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
The entire locker room turned toward him.
“Hollander,” one of the defensemen said slowly, “why are you dying?”
Shane tried to answer but only managed breathless wheezing.
Ilya watched him for a moment, thoughtful, and then very calmly added, “My husband teach me English, yes.”
That was the moment the Centaurs started paying attention.
Because after that, the idioms started appearing everywhere.
During a video review meeting, Harris was explaining that the team needed to stop cutting corners on defensive coverage. He was halfway through the explanation when Ilya leaned forward in his chair.
“Yes,” he agreed seriously. “We must not cut the corners too small.”
Harris stopped mid-sentence.
Several players groaned immediately.
Shane pressed his lips together so tightly his entire face trembled.
“Cap,” Leblanc muttered, rubbing his temples, “that’s… not how that works.”
Ilya looked unconcerned. “Corners are dangerous if cut wrong.”
Shane buried his face in his hands while the room erupted.
Some idioms only got small reactions. During morning skate, a trainer asked how Ilya was feeling after a minor knock during the previous game.
Ilya shrugged and answered confidently, “I feel slightly under the sky today.”
There was a collective pause.
“Under the… sky?” the trainer repeated carefully.
Shane snorted, unable to help himself.
A couple of the younger players groaned in unison.
“Cap, it’s ‘under the weather,’” someone corrected.
Ilya nodded thoughtfully as if accepting new tactical information. “Yes. Under the weather. That is what I said.”
Shane’s shoulders shook quietly beside him.
Other times the Centaurs actively baited him.
One afternoon after practice, someone mentioned the team accidentally revealing a new jersey design too early.
Leblanc immediately looked at Ilya. “Cap, what do you call that again?”
Ilya didn’t hesitate.
“Ah yes,” he said with complete confidence. “When someone releases the kitten from the purse.”
The locker room exploded.
Shane bent forward against his locker, giggling helplessly.
“It’s the cat out of the bag,” someone wheezed.
Ilya shrugged. “Kitten is smaller. Easier to release.”
Harris, unfortunately, was starting to suffer.
The breaking point came during a media availability when a reporter asked whether the team hoped to accomplish two things with their new line combinations.
Before Shane could intervene, Ilya answered calmly.
“Yes, of course. We hope to kill two birds with one grenade.”
There was stunned silence.
The reporter blinked.
Shane made a sound like he’d been physically struck and turned away from the microphone, shoulders shaking violently as he tried to contain the laughter.
The Centaurs behind the cameras were already losing it.
Harris looked like a man watching his life flash before his eyes.
The moment they stepped away from the microphones, he grabbed Ilya by the arm and dragged him a few feet down the hallway.
“Rozanov,” Harris hissed, exhausted, “please—please stop doing that in public.”
Ilya tilted his head. “Doing what?”
“The idioms!” Harris said, nearly pulling his hair out. “You’re going to give the entire media department a stroke.”
From a few steps away, Shane was leaning against the wall, still giggling uncontrollably.
Ilya glanced at him and then back at Harris.
“But they laugh,” he pointed out reasonably.
Harris looked at Shane—who was now wiping tears from his eyes—and groaned.
“Yes. That’s the problem.”
The worst one, however, happened a week later in the locker room after a brutal overtime win.
The Centaurs were exhausted but buzzing with energy as they started peeling off equipment. Someone suggested wrapping up quickly so they could go celebrate.
Leblanc stretched and said, “Alright boys, let’s call it a day.”
Ilya immediately nodded.
“Yes,” he agreed confidently. “Let us phone the day.”
The room went quiet for half a second.
Then Shane absolutely lost it, and not in the usual way—not the quiet giggles or the soft shoulder shakes.
He laughed so hard he doubled over against the bench, clutching his stomach, breathless and helpless in a way that almost never happened. His face was bright red, eyes squeezed shut, laughter spilling out of him uncontrollably.
The Centaurs stared.
Someone whispered, “Oh my god.”
Leblanc wiped tears from his own eyes.
“Cap,” he wheezed, “you broke him.”
But Ilya didn’t answer.
He had gone completely still, standing in the middle of the locker room, just watching his husband.
Shane was still laughing—full, open, unguarded laughter that echoed against the concrete walls, the kind that came from deep in his chest and rarely escaped in front of other people.
Ilya’s expression softened immediately.
The noise of the room faded for him, the shouting and teasing from the team dissolving into distant background sound.
After a moment, Leblanc nudged him.
“Cap,” he said with a grin, “you’ve been in North America for years. How are you still this bad?”
Ilya finally looked away from Shane and shrugged lightly.
“Practice,” he said simply.
Across the room Shane wiped his eyes, still smiling helplessly as he caught Ilya looking at him.
And Ilya decided right then that if it took ruining every idiom in the English language to hear that laugh again, he would gladly do it.
By that point, the Centaurs had fully caught on.
After practice, while they’re cooling down and peeling tape off their sticks, Leblanc shakes his head at Ilya with a grin that suggests he’s been waiting to say this for weeks.
“Cap, you know he’s messing with you, right?”
Ilya glances up from where he’s unlacing his skates, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
“Messing?”
Leblanc gestures across the locker room where Shane is sitting a couple stalls over, suspiciously focused on the tape around his stick. “Yeah. He’s feeding you garbage idioms on purpose.”
A few of the other Centaurs nod immediately, eager to pile on.
“Every single one of those sayings is wrong.”
“Buddy’s been setting you up since October.”
Across the room, Shane’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t look up, just keeps winding tape around the blade like it’s suddenly the most important task in the world.
Ilya considers this information with complete seriousness. After a moment he nods slowly.
“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. “That would be… how you say… low blow to the belt.”
The room explodes with laughter.
Someone slaps the bench. Someone else groans loudly.
Shane covers his face with his hand, giggling helplessly.
Leblanc wipes his eyes and shakes his head. “Cap, seriously. You’ve been in North America for years. How do you still fall for this?”
Another player snorts and adds with a teasing shrug, “Man, Hollander’s making you look like an idiot.”
The words land wrong.
Across the room, Shane’s laughter cuts off immediately. His ears turn bright red and he ducks his head, shoulders curling inward as he suddenly becomes very interested in the tape around his stick again.
For a second the room stays loud and careless.
Then Ilya straightens slowly.
The shift in the air is subtle but immediate. The same calm presence that commands the ice settles over the locker room.
He looks at the player who said it, expression steady.
“Idiot?” Ilya repeats mildly.
The teasing grin fades a little.
Ilya leans back against the bench, arms folding loosely across his chest. His voice stays calm, but there’s something firm underneath it now.
“I enjoy this game,” he says simply. “It makes my husband laugh.”
The room quiets.
Ilya shrugs one shoulder as if the explanation should be obvious.
“One of my goals in life is making Shane laugh,” he continues easily. “You should try it sometimes. Is very rewarding.”
A couple of the guys chuckle awkwardly. Someone mutters an apology under their breath.
Across the room, Shane finally glances up.
Ilya meets his eyes immediately.
The softness in his expression appears just as quickly as the firmness had, and he sends Shane a small, reassuring smile—warm, steady, unmistakably fond.
Shane’s shoulders relax almost instantly.
A moment later Leblanc clears his throat loudly, trying to recover the locker room mood.
“Alright, alright,” he says, pointing at Ilya. “But Cap, you still gotta admit—some of these are brutal.”
Ilya tilts his head thoughtfully.
“English is complicated language,” he says with complete seriousness. “Many traps.”
Shane snorts despite himself.
The locker room laughter starts again, lighter this time, and someone throws a towel at Leblanc.
Every so often over the next few minutes, when Ilya glances up, he catches Shane still smiling quietly to himself down the row.
That night, when they’re back home in their townhouse in Ottawa, Shane leans against the kitchen counter watching Ilya make tea. The house is quiet, the city lights glowing softly through the tall windows, and the adrenaline from the game and the locker room chaos has finally started to fade.
Shane is still smiling to himself.
“You know they’re going to start keeping a list,” he says, arms folded loosely across his chest as he watches Ilya move around the kitchen. “I swear Leblanc already looked like he was drafting a spreadsheet. And Harris…” Shane snorts softly. “…Harris looked like he was reconsidering his entire career.”
Ilya pours hot water into two mugs with calm precision before walking over and handing one to him. Instead of stepping away, he stays close—crowding gently into Shane’s space the way he always does, like proximity to Shane is simply the natural state of the universe.
“Is good for morale,” Ilya says mildly. “Team laughs. They relax.”
Shane squints at him over the rim of his mug.
“You knew, didn’t you?”
Ilya tilts his head slightly.
“Knew what?”
Shane gestures vaguely toward him. “That I was teaching you the wrong ones.”
A quiet beat passes between them.
Then Ilya smiles slowly, the kind of smile Shane used to only see in dim hotel rooms and long summer afternoons when the world outside didn’t matter.
“Shane,” he says gently, “you giggle before I even finish sentence.”
Shane flushes immediately.
“I do not.”
“You do,” Ilya replies calmly, reaching up to brush his thumb lightly along Shane’s cheek. “Your ears become pink. You try to hide it but you cannot. You look like you have secret in your mouth.”
Shane attempts to look offended but fails spectacularly.
Ilya’s voice softens even further.
“I know correct sayings,” he admits easily. “I read. I listen. I have Google.”
Shane’s eyes widen.
“You—”
“But when I say wrong one,” Ilya continues, his mouth curving with quiet amusement as he lightly mimics Shane’s laugh, “you laugh like this.”
Shane huffs in embarrassment, swatting lightly at his chest.
Ilya’s gaze softens as he adds quietly, “And I would rather look like fool than lose that sound.”
Shane’s smile fades into something gentler.
He sets his mug down on the counter and steps closer until their chests nearly touch, hands bunching in the front of Ilya’s T-shirt like he’s grounding himself.
“You don’t look like an idiot,” Shane murmurs.
Ilya lowers his forehead to Shane’s, familiar and steady.
“You look like my captain.”
Ilya’s eyes warm.
“And your husband.”
Shane exhales softly.
“Yeah,” he says. “That too.”
He lingers there for a moment, quiet and close, before huffing out a small laugh.
“Also,” Shane adds, glancing up at him again, a little amused now that the embarrassment has worn off. “You didn’t have to go full captain on them back there.”
Ilya shrugs lightly, completely unbothered.
“He was wrong.”
Shane studies him for a moment, cheeks still faintly pink, remembering the way the entire locker room had gone quiet when Ilya spoke.
Ilya’s expression softens as his thumb brushes absently along Shane’s wrist.
“I do not mind,” he says quietly. “Let them talk.”
Shane huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Ilya tilts his head slightly. “You were laughing.”
Shane’s face immediately goes red again.
“That’s not the point.”
Ilya’s mouth curves faintly, warm and amused.
“It is exactly the point.”
Shane groans softly and presses his forehead into Ilya’s shoulder.
The next morning, it escalates.
They’re in the media room after practice, a couple of reporters scattered in the seats. One of them asks about the team’s recent winning streak and whether they feel pressure to maintain it.
Ilya nods thoughtfully. “We take it one step at a time. No need to panic before cow leaves barn.”
A reporter chokes.
Shane bites the inside of his cheek so hard he’s going to leave a mark.
Another question comes about balancing personal life and professional responsibilities now that he and Shane are publicly married teammates.
Ilya glances sideways at his husband, eyes warm. “Is easy,” he says calmly. “We do not mix business with…how you say…romance potatoes.”
The entire room dissolves.
Shane fully loses composure this time, ducking his head and laughing into his fist, shoulders shaking helplessly. A photographer actually lowers his camera because he’s laughing too hard to focus.
Afterward, in the hallway, Harris corners them with a look that’s half-exasperated, half-fond.
“Romance potatoes?” he repeats flatly.
Ilya shrugs. “Is complicated vegetable.”
Harris points accusingly at Shane.
“You. Stop corrupting my captain.”
Shane finally sobers enough to say, “I swear I didn’t—” but he can’t finish because he starts giggling again.
Ilya slides an arm around Shane’s waist and pulls him in, pressing a quick kiss to his temple despite the people walking past.
“Do not worry, Harris,” he says calmly. “When it matters, I speak correctly.”
And he does.
In the huddle before a tough divisional game, when the room is tense and the stakes are high, Ilya’s voice is steady and precise.
“We trust each other. We stay disciplined. We finish every check and every shift. No shortcuts.”
There’s no twisted idiom. No mangled proverb.
Just their captain.
Shane watches him with that same quiet awe he’s carried since he was nineteen — angry and hopelessly in love.
Later, when they win in overtime and the locker room is loud and electric, one of the rookies shouts across the room,
“Cap! Any pearls of wisdom?”
Ilya looks at Shane, who’s already smiling in anticipation.
He clears his throat dramatically.
“Yes. Remember, boys—when life gives you lemons…”
Everyone leans in.
He pauses just long enough.
“…you make sure they are not actually oranges.”
The laughter is immediate and explosive.
Shane laughs the loudest of all, bright and unguarded, the sound cutting through the noise like a goal horn. Ilya watches him instead of the team, committing it to memory.
Because he’d fall for every trick in the book.
He’d mix up every saying on the planet.
He’d butcher every idiom in the English language.
If it meant Shane Hollander would keep laughing like that for the rest of their lives.