Archive of Our Own

The conference room of the Montreal Metro headquarters was built to intimidate. That fact showed in every cold, deliberate angle.

It was long and low, with dark glass walls and thin steel lines. The air smelled of new leather and old money, tinged with the faint astringent bite of cleaning solution someone had applied too liberally that morning. Fluorescent panels in the ceiling hummed a quiet, perpetual note, bleaching the color from every face. This was the kind of place where contracts worth millions changed hands, where careers could be ended with a single vote, where the coffee was always bitter, and nobody ever asked for sugar.

The table ran down the center like a runway for executions. Its surface was so highly polished that anyone would later notice the executives' own chins reflected back at them, distorted and small.

At the far end sat James Fortin, Montreal Metro's owner and CEO. He had not risen when others entered. His hands were folded on the table, knuckles pale, his posture regal in the way of men who had long ago stopped asking for respect and simply expected it. His eyes moved slowly, the habit of being obeyed. To his right and left, the executives flanked him like chess pieces: dark suits, silk ties knotted tight enough to suggest discomfort, expressions arranged into masks of professional displeasure that did not quite hide the curiosity beneath.

At the near end stood Coach Theriault. He was smiling, a stiff, rehearsed smile, the kind a man wears when he has practiced his lines in the mirror and is now praying he remembers them.

The door opened.

Yuna Hollander stepped inside with the unhurried ease of someone entering her own living room.

She wore a tailored ivory blazer over a charcoal dress shirt and tailored slacks. She wore no jewelry except small pearl studs and her wedding ring. Her dark hair was swept neatly into place, every strand obedient. Her expression was composed to the point of serenity, not a single muscle betraying what she might be thinking. In one hand, she carried a small black clutch bag, the kind that held only essentials. No folder. No notes. No assistant trailing behind her.

She did not look like someone walking into hostile territory. She looked like someone attending a luncheon; she might leave early if it bored her.

Coach Theriault cleared his throat, a quick, dry rasp, and hurried forward as if to close the distance before anyone else could speak. "Mrs. Hollander. Thank you for coming."

She inclined her head once. Polite. Distant. The gesture of a queen acknowledging a footman.

"Please," he said, gesturing toward the empty chair at the opposite end of the table, directly across from Fortin, a deliberate placement, a psychological chess move. "Have a seat."

Yuna walked the length of the room. Her heels met the floor in soft, precise beats, like a metronome set to 'unbothered'. Every eye followed her. The silver-haired executive at the far left stopped breathing for a moment. Another man, younger, with a nervous tie, pressed his knuckles against his lips. She did not look at any of them until she reached the chair.

She pulled it out herself. No one offered. She sat, placed her clutch bag neatly on the table behind her right elbow, folded her hands on the gleaming surface, and waited.

Silence stretched for a breath. Then another.

The hum of the fluorescents seemed louder now. Somewhere in the building, a distant phone rang, unanswered.

Mr. Fortin leaned forward slightly. The leather of his chair creaked. "We appreciate you meeting with us on such short notice, Mrs. Hollander."

"I was told this concerned my son." Her voice was gentle, cultured, perfectly even, the same tone she might use to order tea. "So yes. I made time."

"Where is Shane, by the way?" Theriault asked. Too quickly, as if he were checking a box.

Yuna's lips curved just a fraction, not a smile exactly, more like the memory of one. "He's with Ilya. In their private cottage." She said it casually, the way one might mention the weather.

The room went quiet in a different way now. Not the polite silence of waiting. The silence of a held breath.

A few of the executives shifted in their seats. The youngest one, the nervous tie, actually glanced toward the door, as if expecting someone to burst in. The silver-haired man's mouth tightened into a bloodless line. One executive exchanged a look with another across the table, a quick flicker of alarm.

Shane Hollander, Montreal Metro's golden boy. The team captain. Their star player. The face of the franchise, the name on half the jerseys in the stands. And he was dating Ilya Rozanov, his long-time rival, the man he had battled for years on the ice, whose name had been printed beside his in every headline about every brawl, every playoff collision, every whispered 'they hate each other.' The one no one had ever expected to see standing on the same side of anything.

The news did not just surprise the team. It shook them physically. The silver-haired executive's pen rolled out of his fingers and tapped against the table.

The silver-haired man, whose nameplate read D. Mercure, VP Operations, spoke first. His voice had the dry scrape of old paper. "We will be direct. We are very disappointed in Shane."

Yuna did not react. Not a blink. Not a twitch.

Another executive, a round-faced man with a red tie, continued, tapping one finger against the table. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a judge's gavel. "We built this team on trust. Transparency. Loyalty. Finding out that Shane has been hiding a relationship for years, hiding it from us, from his teammates, from the fans, is not something we take lightly."

A third added, leaning forward, his cuffs crisp and white. "Especially considering the media fallout. The speculation. The distraction it has caused for the team during a critical season."

Theriault nodded as if he agreed. But his eyes flicked briefly toward Yuna, gauging her, a man reading a room he no longer understood.

Mr. Fortin clasped his hands on the table. His wedding ring clinked softly against the polished surface. "And then there is the playoff incident. People are still talking about it. The footage of that fall is everywhere. Fans are questioning his judgment. Some even question his integrity." He let the word hang in the air like smoke.

Yuna's fingers shifted slightly over one another, the smallest movement, a butterfly adjusting its wings. Nothing else about her moved.

Another voice spoke up, sharper now, almost aggrieved. "We are not accusing Shane of anything intentional, of course. But perception matters. Optics matter. A team like ours cannot afford scandals."

"Yes," said Mercure, the silver-haired man, picking up his pen. He pointed it at the center of the table for emphasis. "Which is why, moving forward, we expect certain priorities to be clear. Hockey must come first. Not relationships. Not personal matters. His focus needs to be on the game."

They finally paused. The room settled into a quiet that felt staged, rehearsed, as though they believed they had delivered something reasonable, something generous, something any grateful employee would accept.

Mr. Fortin leaned back in his chair. The leather exhaled. "Despite everything, we are willing to be understanding. Shane has done a great deal for this team. We recognize that. We are prepared to forgive the situation, provided that next season he performs at the level we expect and leads the team back to the Championship Cup."

He gave a small nod. A benevolent king granting mercy from on high.

No one spoke after that. They watched her.

Yuna let the silence breathe. She let it expand until it filled every corner of the room, until the hum of the lights seemed to grow louder, until the executive with the nervous tie actually swallowed. Then she glanced from one face to another, taking her time, her expression thoughtful, the way a person might consider a business proposal of mild interest. A little tedious. Not quite worth her full attention.

When she finally spoke, her voice was still soft, still courteous. But something colder lived beneath it now, something that made the temperature in the room seem to drop.

"Are you done?"

The question landed lightly, like a feather dropped from a great height. Yet every man at the table straightened. Mercure's pen stopped moving. Fortin's jaw tightened.

He frowned faintly. "Yes."

"Good," Yuna said. She folded her hands more neatly, aligning her fingers with precision. "Then I will clarify why I am here."

No one interrupted. Even the hum of the lights seemed to hold its breath.

"My son, Shane Hollander," she continued, "has already decided that he will not be playing for Montrea again."

The words did not rise in volume. They did not need to.

A flicker of surprise crossed Theriault's face, his rehearsed smile finally cracking. Mercure's eyes widened, just for a second. The round-faced executive's tapping finger froze midair. Another man at the far end, the one who had said nothing so far, actually leaned back as if he'd been pushed.

Mr. Fortin's frown deepened. "I'm sorry? I think I heard you say Shane is not playing for Montreal again."

Yuna met his eyes. Held them. "You heard me correctly. Shane will be leaving the team."

"That is a rash decision," one executive said quickly, his voice climbing half an octave. "Surely that can be discussed."

"It cannot." Her tone remained calm. Absolute. The same tone a parent uses to tell a child that bedtime is not negotiable.

Mercure set down his pen with a deliberate click. "Mrs. Hollander, perhaps you should speak with him. He may be reacting emotionally to recent events. This team has supported him for years."

Yuna raised an eyebrow at him. Just one. It was devastating.

"Supported him?" she said softly.

"Yes."

"For eleven years," she said, and now her voice was still gentle, but each word fell like a stone into still water, "my son treated this team as his second family. He gave you loyalty. He gave you victories. He gave you three championships after years of not having one. And when his relationship came out into the spotlight, when accusations were thrown at him after that fall on the ice, what did he receive in return?"

No one answered. The silence was a living thing now, crouched on the table between them.

She continued, her gaze steady enough to hold each of them in place. "He was questioned. He was doubted. He was disrespected."

The word settled across the table like frost. Theriault actually shivered, or maybe it was imagination.

"I will be damned," Yuna went on, still gentle, still polite, "if I allow my son to continue playing for a team that treats him that way."

Theriault shifted in his seat, the leather squeaking. "Mrs. Hollander, no one intended to disrespect Shane."

"And yet," Yuna said, "that is precisely what happened."

Another executive cleared his throat, a wet, nervous sound. "The team is offering a reconciliation. We are also thinking of a salary increase. A significant one. As long as Shane plays for the team, of course."

"No," she replied. "You are offering conditions."

Silence again. This time it had weight. It pressed down on the room like a held breath about to break.

The owner's jaw tightened. His regal posture seemed less regal now, more like a man clinging to the back of a chair on a sinking ship. "Mrs. Hollander, Montreal is prepared to be generous. We are willing to move past this if Shane proves himself next season."

She looked at him for a long moment. Long enough that he blinked first.

When she spoke, her voice was almost kind, the way a surgeon's voice is kind before delivering news that cannot be undone.

"My son does not need to prove himself to anyone in this room." A pause. Her gaze swept them all. "Not even the league itself."

No one spoke.

She rose from her chair in one smooth, unhurried motion. Picked up her clutch bag. Adjusted the cuff of her blazer, first the left, then the right, as if she had all the time in the world.

"I did not come here to negotiate," she said, settling the bag in the crook of her arm. "I came to inform you of Shane's decision. He's leaving the Montreal Metros."

Mercure leaned forward, his silver hair catching the light. "At least let us speak with him directly."

"Shane is not available." Yuna's smile was brief and brilliant. "He is busy preparing for his wedding with my amazing future son-in-law, Ilya Rozanov. And I'm busy as well. I have meetings this afternoon with his current sponsors, and several potential new endorsements are very eager to work with him."

Theriault stood automatically, his chair scraping back with a sound like a wounded animal. He seemed unsure whether to escort her or stop her. His hands hovered at his sides.

Yuna walked toward the door without glancing back at the table. Her heels made those same soft, precise sounds, step, step, step, like a countdown.

At the door, she paused. Then she turned.

She offered them a polite smile that did not reach her eyes. It was the smile of a woman who had already won and was simply being gracious about it.

"I do hope," she said lightly, "that your homophobia and judgments carry you all the way to the finals."

No one moved. Mercure's face went gray. The round-faced executive's mouth opened and closed like a fish.

Her gaze swept across their faces one last time, calm, certain, utterly unafraid.

"Though I doubt it," she added, tilting her head slightly, "since you no longer have Shane."

The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.

Inside the conference room, the silence she left behind felt heavier than any accusation. The fluorescents hummed. Mercure's pen lay where it had fallen. Theriault stared at the closed door as if he had just watched a ghost walk through it.

And somewhere down the hall, Yuna Hollander's footsteps continued, precise, unhurried, already moving on to the next thing.

---

Montreal Metro Statement on Shane Hollander

The Montreal Metro team announced today that Captain Shane Hollander has officially ended his contract with the team.

Hollander has been an integral part of the Metro for the past eleven seasons. Since joining the team, he has represented the team with exceptional professionalism, leadership, and dedication both on and off the ice. During his tenure, Hollander served as team captain and played a key role in shaping the culture and identity of the Metro.

"We are grateful for everything Shane has contributed to this team over the past eleven years," the team's PR Director said in an official statement. "His commitment to the team, his leadership in the locker room, and his impact on the ice have left a lasting mark on the Montreal Metro franchise."

The organization thanked Hollander for his years of service and wished him continued success in the next chapter of his career.

"Shane will always be a part of the Metro family. We wish him nothing but the best moving forward."

---

HollanderBabe24: Eleven years. ELEVEN FUCKING YEARS! And this is how it ends? A short press release? Unbelievable.

HockeyGal2481: Say what you want but Shane Hollander gave everything to Montreal Metro. The organization should have done better by him.

JJEuthusiast97: He abandoned the team when things got difficult. A real captain would have stayed.

MTLhockeymom69: No. A real captain deserves respect. If the rumors about how the locker room treated him after their last game with the Ottawa Centaurs are true, I don't blame him for leaving. He deserves better!

PuckTalkRadio: Still can't believe Montreal let their golden boy walk away.

CentaurBoy81: Imagine letting your captain leave and then watching him possibly join Ottawa Centaurs.

MistressOfRozanov: If Hollander actually plays with Ilya Rozanov on the same team, the entire league is doomed.

MetroTillIDie: Good. Let him go play house with Rozanov. Montreal will rebuild. We're champions anyway, unlike Centaurs.

SabLovesHockey: Yeah, the Metros' three championship cups are all because of Shane and none before him. Good luck with that!

LucaFan88: You guys realize Hollander is one of the best playmakers in the league, right? Any team he signs with soon will definitely get a Cup.

GoalieStatsGuy: Montreal losing their captain AND top center in one move is insane management decision.

HockeyDramaDaily: This might be the wildest storyline of the season: from former rivals to a secret relationship to marriage to leaving Montreal to possibly joining Ottawa. I hope it happens. It has been years since we last saw Rozanov and Hollander play on the same team together.

HockeyGirlMTL: Whatever happens next, thank you for the memories, Captain. #Hollander24

---

Ilya's house, now their house, in Ottawa, was quiet in a way that felt unfamiliar.

For more than a decade, Shane had lived in Montreal. Montreal was never silent. It was the hum of arena lights, the echo of skates cutting ice, the roar of a crowd that knew his name. He was Shane Hollander, the Captain of Montreal Metro. For eleven years, he woke up knowing exactly who he was.

The Captain.

Montreal Metro's golden boy.

The player who gave everything for the Montreal Metros.

Tonight, the silence felt like proof that it was over.

The bathroom light was the only one on. Steam filled the air, thick and heavy, clinging to his skin like a second layer. Shane stood under the shower, the water still running over him, warm but useless against the cold settling deep in his chest. The cold that had started the moment he watched the Montreal skyline disappear from the car window.

He pressed his forehead against the tile of the shower wall.

He left the Montreal Metros.

He really left.

The thought crashed into him again, not as a memory but as a physical blow. His breath hitched. His chest tightened. The steam that had felt soothing a moment ago now seemed to press against his lungs, heavy and suffocating.

No more team meetings. No more leading the boys to the playoffs. No more wearing that Metro's jersey. Eleven years of work. Eleven years of loyalty. Early practices when his body screamed for rest. Playing through injuries that he should have sat out. Defending teammates in interviews who would later question him. Smiling when he wanted to scream.

And in the end, it had felt like it meant nothing.

His heart began to race. Not the steady pound of exertion, but the frantic, skipping beat of something wrong. His fingers curled against the wet tile, knuckles white. The water sluiced over his back, but he couldn't feel it anymore. He could only feel the shaking in his hands, the way his throat seemed to close, the way the air turned thin and useless.

The moment he chose Ilya, they questioned him.

They questioned his focus. His commitment. His ability.

As if loving someone made him weaker.

A sob tore out of him, raw and involuntary. He slapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late. The sound had already escaped, swallowed by the drum of water against tile. His shoulders shook. His knees went weak. He leaned harder into the wall, forehead pressed to cold ceramic, breath coming in short, sharp gasps that wouldn't fill his lungs.

You're being dramatic, a voice whispered in his head. You chose this. You left.

But another voice, louder, crueler, answered: They made you leave. They pushed you out the moment you stopped being convenient.

He thought of Theriault's thin mouth. His teammates' disappointment. The way they had looked at him in that locker room, not as a person, but as a problem to be managed. Eleven years, and he had become a liability overnight.

His chest heaved. The water was too hot now, scalding, but he couldn't move. His body had locked in place, trapped between the tile and the spray, and all he could do was gasp and shake and try not to drown in air.

He did not regret Ilya. Not even for a second. He would choose him again. Every time. In every life.

He regretted being scared.

He regretted the years of secrecy. The careful glances over shoulders in the rink. The secret meetings in Montreal or Ottawa whenever their teams play against each other. The pictures coded messages were deleted immediately after reading. The days they have to pretend to be just friends and co-founders of Irina Foundation. He thought if they waited for the right time, the right season, the right moment, it would hurt less.

But it didn't matter.

Whenever they chose to tell the truth, people would talk. They would judge. They would be disappointed.

So what was the point of hiding?

Another broken sound left his throat, louder this time, swallowed by the running water. His legs buckled slightly. He caught himself on the wall, palms flat against the tile, and hung his head as tears mixed with shower water and slid down his face.

I gave them everything. Everything. And they threw it away because I fell in love, Shane thought.

The bathroom door opened softly.

"Shane?"

Ilya's voice was careful. Not panicked. Just worried. The kind of worry that came from someone who had learned to recognize the sound of a breaking heart from across the house.

Shane didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was too tight, his breath too ragged. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead harder against the tile, as if he could push the panic out through sheer pressure.

A second later, the water was turned off. The sudden absence of sound was almost worse, the silence rushing in like a held breath finally released.

Then Ilya's hands were on him, warm and steady, gripping his shoulders. He turned Shane gently, not rushing, not pulling, just guiding. Shane resisted for a moment, ashamed of his red eyes and trembling lips, but Ilya's grip did not loosen. It only softened.

"Hey," Ilya whispered. "Lyubimiy, look at me."

Shane lifted his head.

His eyelashes were wet, clinging together. His cheeks were flushed from the heat and from crying. His eyes were red and glassy, the kind of exhausted that came from holding something in for too long. He looked younger like this, smaller, the captain's armor stripped away until only the man remained.

"I left Montreal," Shane said, and his voice cracked on the last syllable. "I'm not their captain anymore."

Ilya's face tightened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. But his touch stayed gentle. He cupped Shane's face in both hands, thumbs brushing away water that could have been from the shower or from tears. It didn't matter which. He wiped it all away.

"I know," Ilya said quietly.

"They forgot everything." Shane's words spilled out now, fast and uneven, breath still coming in short, panicked gasps. "Everything I did. It didn't matter. The moment I chose you, it was like I betrayed them."

Ilya shook his head slowly, his thumbs still moving against Shane's cheekbones. "That's not true."

Shane let out a sound that was almost a laugh but had no humor in it, just bitterness. "They made me feel like it."

Ilya didn't argue again. Instead, he stepped closer, closing the small gap between them until there was no space left. The shower floor was wet beneath their bare feet. Ilya was still fully dressed, his t-shirt already soaked through, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

"Shane," he said, his voice low and steady. "Listen to me. You're having a panic attack."

Shane's breath hitched again. "I... I can't... I can't breathe."

"Yes, you can." Ilya placed one hand flat against Shane's chest, right over his heart. "Feel that? Your heart is racing, but it's still beating. You're still here. You're safe. Now, breathe with me," He took a slow, deep breath in through his nose, his own chest rising beneath his wet shirt. Shane tried to follow, but his first attempt came out shaky and too quick, a half breath that did nothing.

"Again," Ilya said patiently. "Watch me. In," He inhaled again, slower this time, and held it for a moment. Shane watched the rise of Ilya's chest, the calm set of his jaw, and forced himself to copy. This time, the breath went deeper, filling his lungs even though they burned.

"Good," Ilya said. "Now, hold. One... two... three."

Shane held, his fingers curling into the wet fabric of Ilya's shirt.

"Out," Ilya said. Shane let his breath go, and some of the tightness in his chest went with it.

"Again," Ilya murmured. "In."

They breathed together in the quiet of the bathroom, the only sounds the drip of water from the showerhead and Shane's gradually slowing gasps. Ilya kept his hand on Shane's chest, a warm anchor, and counted each breath softly.

"In... hold... out. Good. In... hold... out. That's it, sweetheart."

Shane's shoulders began to lower. The frantic trembling in his hands eased to a fine tremor, then to almost nothing. His heart was still fast, but no longer skipping. The air no longer felt like glass in his throat.

"I'm here," Ilya said. "I'm not going anywhere. Just keep breathing with me."

They did it two more times. Then three. By the fifth breath, Shane's body had stopped shaking entirely. He was still crying, silent tears mixing with the leftover water on his face, but the panic had receded. The suffocating weight on his chest had lifted.

"Okay," Ilya said softly, "You okay?"

Shane let out a shuddering exhale and dropped his forehead onto Ilya's shoulder. Ilya caught him immediately, one arm wrapping around his back, the other cradling the back of his head.

"I'm sorry," Shane whispered into the wet fabric of Ilya's shirt. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Ilya said firmly but gently. "Never apologize for this."

They stood there for a long moment, Ilya holding him up, the cold air of the bathroom starting to creep in now that the steam was dissipating. Shane shivered.

"Okay," Ilya said again. "Let's get you dry."

He stepped back just enough to reach for the towel rack. He grabbed the largest towel and wrapped it around Shane's shoulders, pulling the edges closed over his chest. Then he took another towel and draped it over Shane's wet hair, blotting gently.

"You're still shaking," Ilya observed. "Cold?"

"A little," Shane admitted. His voice was hoarse.

Ilya didn't answer with words. He simply took the towel from Shane's hair and rubbed it briskly but gently over his arms, his back, his legs. He knelt on the wet bathroom floor to dry Shane's feet, then stood and wrapped the towel around Shane's waist.

"Can you walk?" Ilya asked.

Shane nodded. His legs felt weak, but they held.

Ilya kept one hand on the small of his back and guided him out of the shower, over the bath mat, and into the main part of the bathroom. He grabbed a soft bathrobe from the hook on the door and slid it over Shane's shoulders, then tied the belt securely, his fingers steady.

"Come," Ilya said softly. "Bedroom."

He led Shane out of their ensuite bathroom into their bedroom. The sheets were rumpled from earlier, the curtains drawn, the only light coming from a small lamp on the nightstand. Ilya sat Shane on the edge of the bed.

Shane's hands shot out immediately and grabbed fistfuls of Ilya's wet shirt. His knuckles were white. His breathing was still shallow, but no longer panicked.

"I'm here, sweetheart," Ilya murmured. He didn't pull away. He didn't ask Shane to let go. Instead, he climbed onto the bed behind him, positioning himself against the headboard, and pulled Shane back against his chest. Shane folded into him without hesitation, his back pressed to Ilya's front, his head falling back against Ilya's shoulder. Ilya wrapped his arms around him.

"Just rest now," Ilya said quietly.

Shane swallowed. His throat was raw. "I'm just sad," he admitted, his voice small. "I'm sad I left. Montreal was my home. But I couldn't stay somewhere that didn't trust me and respect us. They questioned my ability to lead because I love you," His voice broke again, fresh tears spilling over, "I gave them everything."

"I know," Ilya said. He pressed a kiss to Shane's temple, soft and lingering. "You gave them eleven years. You gave them championship cups. You gave them your body, your health, your peace of mind. That's not small, Shane. That's your whole adult life. Of course you're sad. It would be strange if you weren't."

Shane holds his hands tighter on Ilya's arms around him.

"You can cry," Ilya continued, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "Cry today. Cry tonight. But just this once. Let it out. And after that, no more."

Shane pulled back slightly, confusion flickering through the exhaustion on his face.

Ilya leaned his forehead against Shane's temple, their breath mingling. "Because I know you. The man I love is strong and brave. If you need to be weak right now, then I will be strong for both of us. But you don't get to be like this forever."

Shane let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh. "You sound strict."

"I am protective," Ilya said softly, his lips brushing Shane's ear. "Of you, of course."

There was silence for a moment. Just breathing. Just the weight of Ilya's arms around him.

Shane looked down at his own hands, still on Ilya's arms. "I feel stupid. You're dealing with your own things. And I'm here crying in the shower like a child."

Ilya's arms tightened around him. "You are not a child. You are a man who lost something that mattered to him. That is not stupidity. That is grief," he paused, "I'm fine. I have you. I have Yuna and David. I have Anya. I have my team. My friends." He hesitated for a second, then added, "I go to therapy. I'm not carrying everything alone anymore."

Shane blinked, turning his head to look at Ilya's face. "Really?"

"Yes." There was no shame in Ilya's voice. Just honesty, plain and steady.

"If you want," Ilya continued, "you can meet my therapist. Talk to her. She might help you. Not because you're broken. Because you don't have to carry this alone either."

Shane thought about it. The idea felt strange, vulnerable, like standing in front of a stranger and admitting every crack in his armor. But maybe not impossible. Maybe even necessary.

"Maybe," he said quietly. "I'll think about it."

"Take your time," Ilya pressed another kiss to his hair. No pressure. Just steady support. Just a door left open.

Shane looked at Ilya and studied his face. The sharp lines of his jaw. The softness in his eyes that only he got to see. The way Ilya looked at him like he was something precious, not something broken.

"What if no one wants me?" Shane asked suddenly. The question was small, almost childish, but the fear behind it was real. "What if I don't belong anywhere now?"

Ilya's expression shifted into something fierce. Not angry. Determined.

"I will beg the owners of the Ottawa Centaurs to take you," he said. "I will tell him to cut my pay if they have to. I will get down on my knees and not get up until they say yes."

Despite everything, despite the ache in his chest and the rawness in his throat, Shane let out a weak smile. "You'd really do that?"

"I don't have to," Ilya said, brushing his thumb under Shane's eye, catching a stray tear. "You're Shane Hollander. Everyone wants you to play on their team. They would be lucky to have you." He paused for a moment, caressing Shane's cheek with his thumb, slow and tender. "But I can hope you end up in Ottawa. So we can play together. Win the Cups together. And we can go home together."

Shane exhaled, something warm spreading through his chest, melting the last of the ice. "I like that," he whispered.

Ilya leaned in and kissed him.

It was slow. Gentle. Not desperate, not hungry, not trying to prove anything. Just certain. Just there. Ilya's lips moved against Shane's with a patience that felt like a promise. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against Shane's again.

"Do you want to dress up?" Ilya asked after a moment.

Shane shook his head, "No," he hesitated, then looked at Ilya with a vulnerability that still surprised him, even after all these years. "Take your clothes off," Shane said softly. "Lay down with me."

"Okay. But let me dry your hair first before we get into bed, yes?" Ilya asked.

Shane just nodded.

Ilya did not tease him. He did not make a joke or lighten the moment. Instead, he quietly walked to the ensuite bathroom and returned a moment later with the wireless hairdryer in his hand. He stopped in front of Shane, his movements calm and careful, as if Shane were something fragile that needed to be handled with the utmost care.

Shane stayed where he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, and Ilya gently began drying his hair. The warm air filled the quiet room, a soft hum that replaced the silence. Ilya ran his fingers through the damp strands, slowly and patiently, untangling small knots with his fingertips. He tilted Shane's head this way and that, making sure every section was dry, never rushing. The warmth seeped into Shane's scalp, into his tired bones, and he felt his shoulders lower an inch.

When he finished, Ilya turned the dryer off. He studied his work for a moment, then nodded, satisfied.

"Take off the bathrobe," he said quietly.

Shane obeyed without hesitation. He slipped it off his shoulders and handed it to him. Ilya took it and placed it aside, then pulled the comforter back, revealing the cool sheets beneath.

"Go on," he said.

Shane slid into the bed. The sheets were still warm from their body heat earlier, soft against his bare skin. Ilya pulled the comforter over him and tucked him in properly, smoothing the edges around his shoulders, making sure he was comfortable.

"I'll just take a quick shower," Ilya told him. "I'll be right back. I'm still wet from the bathroom."

Shane nodded softly, his eyes already half closed.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened again.

Ilya came back, fresh from the shower. He has already dried himself and smells good. He did not bother with clothes. He simply slipped into the bed beside Shane, pulling the comforter over both of them.

The moment he settled down, Shane moved closer.

He pressed himself against Ilya's bare chest, seeking the familiar warmth, the steady beat of Ilya's heart. His cheek rested over Ilya's left pectoral, right where the rhythm was strongest. His legs tangled with Ilya's. His arm draped across Ilya's stomach.

Ilya immediately wrapped both arms around him, pulling him closer and closer until there was no space left between them. He pressed his lips to the top of Shane's head and just breathed him in.

They were not perfect. Shane still ached for Montreal, a dull throb that would take time to fade. Ilya still carried his own shadows, the ones from a childhood spent in cold rooms and colder silences. The league still talked. The world still watched. The internet was probably dissecting their relationship at that very moment.

But here, under the blanket, in the quiet of their shared home, none of that felt bigger than this.

Shane's breathing slowed. His heart finally settled into a calm, steady rhythm. The trembling had stopped completely. His fingers uncurled against Ilya's skin, relaxed at last.

"I love you," Shane murmured against Ilya's chest, the words muffled but clear.

"I love you, too," Ilya replied, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Shane's cheek. "Sleep, lyubimiy."

Shane nuzzled closer, if that was even possible. His body softened, heavy and warm, held safe in the circle of Ilya's arms.

And for the first time since leaving Montreal, he felt like he still belonged somewhere.

Right here.

In this bed. In this house. In this man's arms.

He closed his eyes, and the silence that had felt so unfamiliar at the beginning of the night finally wrapped around him like a blessing.

---

A few days later, the kitchen of the small lakeside cottage was warm and bright, filled with the comforting smell of garlic, tomato sauce, and melted cheese. Outside, the late afternoon sun reflected off the calm water beyond the trees, but inside, everything felt soft and domestic.

Ilya stood at the counter, carefully slicing the golden-crusted chicken parmesan he had just taken out of the oven. The cheese stretched slightly with each cut, the sauce bubbling gently along the edges.

Behind him, Shane hovered close, leaning slightly over his shoulder.

Ilya didn't need to turn around to know he was there.

"Want a bite?" Ilya asked.

Shane nodded immediately, like he had been waiting for the question.

Ilya picked up a small strip of chicken with a fork and turned just enough to feed it to him. Shane leaned forward and took it, chewing thoughtfully.

His eyes lit up.

"That's really good," Shane said. "It tastes like the one we had at that restaurant recently."

Ilya shrugged, a little pleased with himself. "I tried finding their exact recipe. It was impossible. So I just found something on the internet and hoped for the best."

"Well," Shane said, nudging his shoulder lightly, "it worked."

Ilya sliced another piece. "Do you want more?"

Shane brightened. "Can I?"

"Of cour—"

"No."

Both of them turned at the same time.

Yuna stood by the stove where she was finishing the pasta, one eyebrow raised in mock disapproval, "You can wait until we're all at the table," she said firmly.

Shane sighed dramatically. "Fine." But before stepping away, he leaned in and kissed Ilya quickly on the cheek. "Worth it," Shane murmured. Then he glanced around the kitchen. "What are we drinking?"

"Prosecco," Yuna said, gesturing to the counter. "It's already chilled."

Shane nodded. "I'll just have sparkling water with lemon."

Right then, David stepped inside the kitchen.

"Table's ready," he said. "Whenever the chefs are done."

Yuna pointed toward the plates lined neatly beside the counter. "Ilya, pass those to me."

One by one, Ilya handed her the plates while she spooned pasta onto each serving. The red sauce coated the noodles perfectly before she added a generous sprinkle of herbs.

Once the plates were ready, Ilya added slices of chicken parmesan on top.

They carried everything to the dining table together.

Shane grabbed the bottle of Prosecco and three wine glasses before heading to the kitchen again. A moment later, he returned with a glass of sparkling water with lemon and a small bowl of grated Parmesan cheese.

Everyone settled into their seats.

For a moment, the only sounds were forks against plates and quiet appreciation for the food.

"This is really good," David said after his first bite.

Yuna nodded toward Ilya. "He did the chicken."

Ilya lifted his shoulders slightly. "Internet recipe."

"Well, keep using that internet," David said.

Shane smiled quietly beside him, clearly pleased.

The conversation shifted easily after that.

"So," Yuna said, "what's the plan with the Montreal apartment?"

Shane took a sip of his sparkling water before answering, "I think we'll finish the summer camp there first," he said. "Then, I will talk to a realtor. I might sell it, rent it out, or let it be. But I'll start bringing some stuff back here in Ottawa. Some I might leave there for now. Or sell. Or give away."

"To whom?" David asked.

"Maybe JJ or Hayden," Shane said with a small shrug. "But I'll sort through everything first."

At the mention of Montreal, the mood shifted slightly.

David leaned back in his chair, shaking his head, "I still can't believe how the team handled everything," he said. "They made it look like you just walked away. Like none of it had anything to do with how they treated you."

Ilya's jaw tightened slightly, "Montreal team is a coward," he said bluntly. "They make Shane look like he just left out of nowhere."

Shane didn't say anything, but his shoulders stiffened just a little.

"People are talking about it everywhere," Ilya continued. "Media, fans, analysts. Everyone has an opinion about why Shane left the Metro."

Montreal Metro had been Shane's home for more than a decade.

And now it was a bittersweet past.

Yuna sighed, swirling her Prosecco in her glass, "If I were petty, I would tell everyone that the Metro practically begged me to talk to Shane and convince him to stay. They even offer a salary increase."

Shane looked up immediately, "Even if you talked to me, I would still choose to leave. It doesn't feel like home anymore."

David nodded without hesitation, "That's Montreal's loss. Eventually, the public will either understand what really happened... or they'll move on."

The table fell into a quieter kind of silence after that.

Yuna broke the silence by then changing the subject. "Speaking of public matters," she said, "I have received many offers."

"Offers?" Shane asked.

"From teams," she replied. "Very generous and creative ones."

The younger Hollander's attention sharpened. "Anything interesting?"

Yuna's eyes shifted briefly to Ilya, then back to her son. "One in particular."

"Which is?" Shane waited.

"Ottawa," she said.

For a moment, neither Shane nor Ilya spoke. Their eyes met, something unspoken passing between them, quick but unmistakable.

Yuna continued, calm as ever. "I gather that the owners are siblings from old money. I did not expect them to be interested since Ilya is already there, and the team did really well last season. They offered something big but not as big as other teams."

David blinked. "How big?"

"The other teams," Yuna went on, "have offered fifty percent more than Shane's previous salary in Montreal. Financially, Ottawa is not the strongest proposal, but given that Shane lives with Ilya now and well, born here, Ottawa makes sense for me."

Ilya rested his forearms on the table. "The owners, they are nice and generous people," he said. "Especially when they believe you are worth investment."

Yuna inclined her head slightly. "I see that." She turned to Shane. "In the end, the choice is yours, Shane. As long as you do not sign with a West division team, or Toronto."

David smiled faintly at Shane. "When you're ready, you decide. No pressure from anyone."

Shane did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted back to Ilya.

Ilya reached for Shane's hand and lifted it. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of Shane's palm, his lips warm, his expression steady and sure, "No matter where you sign, I support you."

Something settled in Shane's chest then, calm and certain, like a final piece sliding into place. He had known his answer for a while. He had felt it forming during quiet mornings in Spain, during walks along the shore, during every moment he had watched Ilya laugh without worry.

Now it felt sealed.

He curled his fingers slightly around Ilya's hand, his thumb brushing once across his knuckles, and smiled.

---

July came.

Morning arrived over Manhattan in a wash of pale gold light that filtered through the tall windows of the penthouse. The city below was already awake, traffic murmuring like distant surf, but inside the apartment, everything felt calm, held in that quiet pocket between early errands and the rush of the day.

Scott Hunter stepped through the front door with the faint scent of summer air clinging to him, a thin sheen of sweat still along his neck from his run. His T-shirt clung slightly to his shoulders, darkened at the collar, and his breathing had just begun to slow into something steady again. He rolled his shoulders once, loosening the last of the tension, then glanced toward the kitchen.

His husband, Kip, was there, standing at the counter in soft morning light, carefully pouring a thick purple smoothie into a tall glass. The blender sat beside him, still humming faintly as it powered down. The smell of blueberries and bananas hung sweetly in the air.

Scott's expression softened immediately.

He crossed the room without a word, slid an arm gently around Kip's waist, and kissed him. It was an easy kiss, familiar and warm, the kind that came from habit and affection rather than urgency. Kip smiled against his lips.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Kip said.

"Good morning." Scott brushed his thumb along Kip's side before nodding toward the glass. "What's the plan today?"

Kip placed the smoothie on the counter. "Library. I need to find a book they don't have online. I'll be back before dinner."

Scott nodded. "Okay. I've got practice later anyway."

Kip glanced at him. "Want a sandwich first?"

"Sure," Scott said, already pulling out a chair. He sat down, reached for the smoothie, and took a long sip. "Wow. That's good."

"I know," Kip replied lightly, turning toward the fridge.

Scott leaned back in his chair, one ankle hooked over his knee as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. His expression was neutral at first, relaxed in that slow morning way. He unlocked the screen, thumb moving lazily through notifications.

Then a new message popped up.

Carter: Did you see the news?

Scott frowned slightly.

"What news?" he muttered.

Another message arrived almost instantly, followed by a link.

He tapped it.

The page loaded.

And then his entire face changed.

His brows drew together sharply. His mouth twisted. "You've got to be kidding me," he said, the words coming out in a low, incredulous curse.

Behind him, Kip looked up from the cutting board. "What? What happened?"

Scott stared at his phone, eyes scanning fast, jaw tightening as he read. "Unbelievable."

Kip set the knife down immediately and walked over. "Scott?"

Scott didn't answer right away. He simply turned the phone slightly so Kip could see.

Kip leaned in.

His eyes moved across the screen.

Then he blinked once, sharply.

"Ohh, wow," Kip said under his breath.

The headline blazed across the sports site in bold, unmistakable letters:

"SHANE HOLLANDER SIGNS WITH OTTAWA CENTAURS"

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Outside, a horn blared somewhere far below, the city continuing as if nothing monumental had just happened. Inside the kitchen, the air felt suddenly charged.

Scott dragged a hand over his jaw, half impressed, half stunned. "Metros really fucked up this time, letting go of Shane like that."

Kip huffed softly. "The league's gonna lose its mind," he glanced at Scott. "You realize what this means, right?"

Scott tilted his head as he stared at his husband, "What?"

Kip folded his arms and smirked at him, "Ottawa's winning the Cup this coming season."

Scott barked out a laugh. "That's impossible."

Kip pointed at the phone. "Scott, do you realize that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are on the same team now? It's like letting God and Satan be on the same team. And let's not forget Troy Barrett and Luca Haas. Their goalie is Wyatt Hayes. Even Boodram, Dillon, and Dykstra did so well last season!"

Scott stood, amusement still lingering in his eyes. He stepped closer, slid his hands around Kip's waist, and pulled him gently in. "You really think the New York Admirals are just going to let that happen?"

Kip tilted his head, lips twitching. "No. Of course, you won't," he paused, gaze thoughtful, "But it's going to be a hell of a fight."

Scott hummed softly, unconcerned, his thumbs brushing slow circles against Kip's sides. "Doesn't bother me," he said. "Montreal's the one in trouble. They just lost their golden boy." His mouth curved faintly, satisfied.

"They're heading straight back to their losing streak."

---

The announcement spread through the hockey world like a storm.

Harris, via Ottawa Centaur's official Instagram account, posted about Shane holding up his Ottawa Centaur's jersey with his family name and number. Beside him are Coach Wiebe and the owners of the team. Within a minute, Shane Hollander's name trended across sports platforms, fan forums, and social feeds. Ottawa Centaurs supporters erupted in celebration, their timelines flooded with welcome edits, highlight clips, and captions written in all caps. For them, it felt like a prodigal son returning home. Shane was Ottawa-born, a hometown legend who had once left to conquer the league elsewhere. Now, he was back, not as a rookie with promise but as a champion with history carved into the sport.

Montreal's side of the internet was bitter and messier.

Some fans called him a traitor. Others accused him of disloyalty, of abandoning the team that had built him. But their outrage did not dominate the narrative for long. Across the wider hockey community, the tone tilted the other way sharply. Commentators, analysts, and rival fans mocked Montreal for letting him go. Social media posts piled up with variations of the same sentiment: You let Shane Hollander walk away? Face the consequences of it! Many pointed fingers at the team itself, blaming the attitudes of the owner and executives, suggesting that prejudice and pride had cost them their greatest player.

Shane read none of it in real time.

His phone buzzed steadily on the table beside him, lighting up every few seconds with messages. Some came from players from other teams he's acquainted with, some from his and Ilya's common friends, some from brand people who knew him. Congratulations. Shock. Excitement. Curiosity.

Some messages made him smile.

Hayden: Congrats, buddy. Proud of you. Also, this is going to be weird as hell when we play against you.

JJ: Congrats, Shane. Can't believe Hayden will be our captain now. Montreal is an idiot for letting you go.

Fabian: Hi Shane! Congratulations on joining the Ottawa team. Ryan told me a bit of what Ilya told him. Fuck Montreal! Anyway, Ryan and I will be in Ottawa soon for my show. Please be there so we can celebrate!

Scott: Congrats, Hollander. See you this coming season. If you and Rozanov are in New York, let's have a drink in Kingfisher with Kip, Eric, and Kyle.

Rose: OMG! Shane!!! Congratulations, babe! You're finally home! Ottawa will definitely win the cup this coming season! I'm so happy for you.

David: I'm happy for you, Shane. Congratulations!

Yuna: I just read the news article about you joining Ottawa. I'm so proud of you.

Shane huffed softly through his nose, warmth settling in his chest. Hayden had always been honest. He typed back a quick reply, then set the phone down.

He was happy with his decision.

He loved Montreal. He always would. Eleven years of his life lived in that jersey could not simply vanish. But love did not erase betrayal, and it did not excuse disrespect. What the team had said, what they had implied, the way they had doubted him, it had cut deeper than any loss on the ice. Walking away had not felt like abandoning home. It had felt like choosing himself.

Ottawa's owners had welcomed him personally. Coach Wiebe had shaken his hand with a firm, approving smile. Harris from media relations had already briefed him about upcoming promotional plans, including a pictorial and his first official post as a Centaur. Everything was moving quickly, efficiently, like a machine that had been waiting for him.

For now, though, the noise of the league felt far away.

He and Ilya were at the cottage.

The place rested beside a quiet stretch of lake, surrounded by tall trees whose leaves whispered whenever the wind drifted through. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, painting warm gold across the wooden floor. It smelled faintly of pine, lake water, and whatever Ilya was cooking in the kitchen.

Shane sat at the dining table, elbow resting against the wood, chin propped lightly on his hand as he watched his fiancé move around the stove.

He blinked once.

Fiancé. Soon-to-be husband.

He muttered a quiet curse under his breath, almost disbelieving.

Ilya Rozanov will be his husband. They will get married soon, yet the word still felt new every time it crossed his mind, like something precious he had not yet gotten used to holding.

At the stove, Ilya glanced over his shoulder. "Shane."

"What?"

"Dinner is ready."

Shane pushed back his chair and stood. "Okay." He walked to the cabinet and reached for plates.

Behind him, Ilya's voice softened slightly. "You okay?"

Shane turned his head. Their eyes met.

He smiled, slow and genuine. "I feel perfect."

Ilya's expression shifted, curious and fond all at once. "Perfect?"

Shane nodded once. "Yeah. I just realized something. We will get married soon. And we're going to play on the same team. We don't have to hide anymore."

For a moment, Ilya did not move.

Then he switched off the stove, crossed the kitchen in a few quiet steps, and lifted his hands to Shane's face. His palms were warm from cooking, his touch gentle as he cupped Shane's jaw. He leaned in and kissed him, slow and full, the kind of kiss that spoke more than words ever could.

Shane's hands slid naturally to Ilya's waist, holding him there, kissing him back just as deeply.

When they finally pulled apart, they stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, eyes locked.

"I love you," Shane said.

Ilya's gaze softened. "I love you, too."

They wrapped their arms around each other and stood like that for a while, breathing in sync, the quiet lake outside murmuring against the shore. There was no rush. No cameras. No reporters. Just them.

Eventually, they separated, smiling faintly, and carried the plates to the table.

They began eating.

After a few bites, Ilya spoke. "Harris wants a pictorial and a question-and-answer session with you soon."

Shane nodded. "That's fine."

"I want to be there," Ilya added. "Maybe we can take photos together. In Centaurs uniforms. Good promo, yes?"

Shane's eyes lit. "Yes."

Ilya watched him for a moment, then asked, "You hear from the Metros?"

"Only JJ and Hayden," Shane said. "JJ told me Metro is an idiot for letting me go."

Ilya huffed softly. "He is correct."

Shane smiled.

"Eric messaged me," Ilya continued, "He and Kyle sent their congratulations. Eric says Centaurs might finally win the Cup this season. With the lineup we have."

Shane's smile lingered, quieter now. "I hope so, too."

A small pause settled between them. Then Ilya's expression shifted, a flicker of apology crossing his features.

"I am sorry," he said. "You are not the captain in Centaurs. Or alternate captain. I am the captain. Bood is alternate."

Shane waved a hand lightly. "It's fine. I was captain for long years. That's exhausting, honestly. I don't miss the pressure."

Ilya studied him, then smiled, pride clear in his eyes. "You were a great captain, lyubimyy."

Shane scoffed softly. "I know."

Ilya laughed under his breath.

He felt it then, simple and steady, the deep contentment that had settled in his chest ever since Shane had chosen this path. Shane was here. Shane was happy. Shane will be his husband. The coming season would bring noise, rivalry, expectations, and battles on the ice that would test every player in the league.

But that was later.

For now, Ilya only wanted this. The quiet cottage. The soft clink of cutlery. The man across from him looked at him as if he were home.

And he intended to savor every second.

---

The next day, the sun was already high, warm light spilling through the wide kitchen windows of Shane and Ilya's cottage. The beams caught dust motes floating lazily above the counter and turned the wooden floor into honey. The air still carried that lazy end-of-summer feeling, a mix of cut grass from the garden and the faint sweetness of the tomatoes Shane was slicing. Training camp was only a few weeks away, but for now, everything felt slow. Peaceful.

Shane stood by the counter in a worn Ottawa Centaur training shirt that belongs to Ilya and loose gray shorts, his bare feet planted on the cool tile. He was focused on slicing tomatoes with careful, even strokes, the knife making a soft thud each time it met the cutting board. A small pile of uneven slices had already formed off to the side, because perfection was for the ice, not for breakfast.

Ilya was at the stove, stirring something in a pan, the occasional sizzle of butter punctuating the quiet. Every few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder just to look at his future husband. Shane caught him once and rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched.

They had fallen into an easy rhythm like this. No cameras. No reporters. No rivalry. Just domestic mornings and shared space.

The only sounds were the soft sizzle from the stove, the quiet hum of the fridge, and the occasional thud of the knife.

Then Ilya's phone started vibrating loudly against the marble countertop, skittering a few inches like an angry insect.

Ilya frowned. "Who's calling this early?"

Shane shrugged, not looking up from his tomato.

Ilya wiped his hands on a towel and grabbed the phone. The moment he saw the name on the screen, his lips curved into a slow smirk. "It's Marley."

Shane snorted under his breath. "Ohh." He set the knife down and leaned a hip against the counter, suddenly very interested.

Ilya answered casually, leaning back against the counter with the phone pressed to his ear. "Hey, Marleau. What do you want?"

There was no greeting from the other end. Just a sharp, demanding voice.

"Tell me it's not true," Cliff said.

Ilya blinked once. "What?"

"Don't play dumb, Rozy!"

Ilya glanced at Shane, who was now pretending very hard not to listen while clearly listening, one eyebrow raised, and his head tilted.

"Be specific," Ilya said lazily, drawing out the words like he had all morning.

"Hollander joined Ottawa. Tell me that's fake."

For a second, Ilya just stared at the wall. Then, he started laughing. Not a small chuckle. A full laugh that bounced off the kitchen cabinets and made Shane's shoulders shake in silent amusement.

"This is not funny, Rozanov!" Cliff hissed. Through the phone, they could hear what sounded like a chair squeaking, as if Cliff had just stood up and sat back down in frustration.

Ilya tried to calm down, but he was still smiling, his teeth showing. "Ahh. That," he said, wiping his eye with his free hand. "Yes, it's true."

There was a loud groan from the other side of the line, followed by the distinct thud of a forehead meeting a desk.

"Rozanov," Cliff Marlow said slowly, dangerously calm, "tell Hollander not to do it."

Ilya's eyebrows lifted. "Why? You scared?"

"The hell I am!" Cliff snapped immediately, his voice climbing half an octave. "You cannot have both of you on the same team. Have you forgotten when you two played together in the All-Stars Game East vs. West years ago? You two were unstoppable! You two in one team is bad news for the whole league. That's unfair. That's practically illegal. Someone needs to call the league's office."

Ilya rubbed his nape, grinning. "You're overreacting, Marley."

"Overreacting?" Cliff repeated, incredulous. "You playing for Ottawa is already a nightmare. Now add Shane? Do you know how that sounds?"

Ilya smirked. "Like a championship?"

"Like a disaster!" Cliff shot back. "For the rest of us!"

He did not stop there. His voice gained speed, like a goalie who had just let in three soft goals and needed to vent.

"And don't even get me started on the rest of your lineup. Barrett had been so good last season. He was never like that when he was with Toronto. And Wyatt is a damn wall. And Luca Haas? What did you guys feed that kid last season? He improved so much since the beginning of the season; it's terrifying. Even I was impressed."

Ilya's expression shifted into something proud, almost smug. "We all just worked hard and were thirsty for a Cup."

"That's not the point!" Cliff groaned. The sound of a hand slapping a table came through the speaker. "You're building some kind of super team. Like a Hockey Avengers!"

Ilya tilted his head, considering. "Maybe. I think so. Probably," he replied smoothly, each word a tiny dagger. "But it's final. He already signed with Ottawa Centaur."

There was a string of curses on the other end, colorful and creative, involving several family members and a goat.

"Montreal is fucking idiots," Cliff added bitterly, his voice dropping into genuine disgust. "Absolute fucking idiot."

Ilya nodded in agreement, his smirk softening into something genuine. "That, we can agree on."

Right then, Shane's tomatoes were done and placed inside the salad bowl. "Okay, I'm done," he said softly, wiping his hands on the paper towel he grabbed from the paper towel rack.

Cliff went quiet for half a second. Then, "I want to talk to him."

Ilya laughed under his breath. "Why?"

"Because you clearly manipulated him into this," Cliff accused. "I'm going to talk sense into him."

Ilya rolled his eyes so hard Shane could see it from three feet away. "You're not even friends."

"He's my best buddy's future husband," Cliff argued immediately, as if that settled everything. "That makes him my responsibility as well. Put him on, Roz!"

Shane walked closer, already curious. His bare feet padded softly on the tile.

Ilya shook his head in disbelief but handed the phone over. "Marleau wants to talk to you."

Shane raised an eyebrow, taking the phone from Ilya. Ilya stood beside him, leaning in so close their shoulders touched, shamelessly eavesdropping. Shane pressed the speakerphone button.

"Hey, Marleau," Shane said.

"Are you fucking serious, Hollander?" Cliff demanded, "You actually signed with Ottawa?"

Shane chuckled softly, low and warm. "Already did." Shane glanced at Ilya. He just smirked.

"You're killing me, Hollander," Cliff groaned dramatically. The sound of him flopping back into his chair came through. "You and Ilya can be married and all that romantic bullshit, but being on the same team? That's torture. For Boston. For every team in the league."

Shane shrugged casually, even though Cliff could not see him. He caught Ilya's eye and grinned. "I think it'll be fun."

"Fuck!" Cliff cursed, and then, with the tone of a man having a revelation, "This is Montreal's fault!" A pause. Then, as if offering a genuine solution, "You should've joined Boston instead."

"Hey!" Ilya called out, "No! Too far! We're a set now. Can't be separated!"

"Shut up, Rozy. You made it work with Hollander as Jane back then!" Cliff shot back.

Shane's head snapped toward Ilya. "You know about Jane?" His eyes narrowed playfully. Ilya shrugged, but he's smirking at Shane.

"I'm big and strong, but I'm not dumb, Hollander. Shane and Jane. Jane and Shane. Montreal Jane. It makes sense after that Pike's FanMail video," Cliff pointed out, his voice suddenly smug. Then, with the curiosity of a hockey player dissecting a play, "By the way, how about Roz? What's his fake name?"

Shane's face split into a grin. He looked at Ilya, who was already shaking his head furiously. "Uhhh... Lily?" Shane muttered, barely containing his laugh.

A beat of silence. Then Cliff's deadpan voice: "Cute. Doesn't suit him, though."

"Shut up, Marleau!" Ilya hissed, reaching for the phone. Shane held it away, laughing.

Shane recovered, still smiling. "Boston hates me, Cliff."

"That's not the point," Cliff said, his tone shifting from teasing to something more serious. "This upcoming season is going to be a bloodbath."

Shane's smile softened, but his eyes held that competitive spark. "It'll be the same as always. Except Ilya and I aren't rivals anymore. We'll be married. And we get to play together."

There was a dramatic sigh from Boston. Long. Suffering. The sigh of a man who had already accepted his fate but wanted it noted for the record.

"So, you're coming to our wedding?" Shane asked.

"Yes, wouldn't miss the wedding of the year." Cliff muttered, resignation dripping from the word. "I'll be arriving a day before your wedding."

"Good," Shane replied easily. Then, with a sly glance at Ilya, "To compromise, I won't play when Ottawa faces Boston."

"Forget it," Cliff shot back immediately. "Rozy, Boodram, Barrett, Haas, and Hayes will still play."

Shane burst out laughing and handed the phone back to Ilya.

"Don't be sad, Marley," Ilya said, his voice dripping with false sympathy.

"Fuck off, Rozanov," Cliff replied automatically, no heat in it. "First, you left Boston. Then, you build a super team in Ottawa. Now, you're marrying your former rival, and you will both be playing for the same team. How is that fair?"

Ilya grinned, wide and genuine. "Aww, Marley, I miss you, too."

There was a pause. A softer one this time. The kind that said more than words.

"Yeah, whatever," Cliff finally said, his voice quieter. "See you soon, you fucking beautician!"

"See you," Ilya answered.

"I gotta go," Cliff added. "I need time to process this nightmare and mentally prepare."

Ilya chuckled. "Bye, Marley."

He ended the call and set the phone down on the counter with a soft click.

For a moment, the kitchen felt quiet again. Warm. Domestic. The sun had shifted slightly, now warming the back of Shane's neck.

Shane was standing close now, only inches away. The scent of tomatoes and coffee hung between them.

Without thinking, Ilya slid an arm around Shane's waist and pulled him in. Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya's shoulders naturally, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, his fingers threading through the short hair at the nape of Ilya's neck.

Ilya pressed a soft kiss to Shane's temple, then his cheek, then the side of his neck. Then, without warning, his fingers found Shane's ribs and wiggled.

Shane yelped and tried to squirm away, laughing. "You asshole! Stop it!"

Ilya did not stop. He tickled again, and Shane buckled, his laughter bouncing off the kitchen walls. He tried to push Ilya away, shoving at his chest, but Ilya was stronger and held him close.

Then Ilya kissed him again, soft and warm, and Shane melted.

His hands stopped pushing. They curled into the fabric of Ilya's shirt instead. He sighed into the kiss, and when they broke apart, he rested his forehead against Ilya's.

"You're impossible," Shane whispered.

"And you're staying," Ilya whispered back.

And in a few weeks, the same ice. The same jersey. The same side.

Ilya smiled to himself.

Let the league panic.

They were just getting started.

At that moment, the hallway outside the Montreal Metro locker room smelled faintly of rubber flooring and sharpened steel, that familiar blend of cold air and effort that clung to arenas long before practice even began. Hayden slowed his steps as he approached the door, his gym bag slung over one shoulder, his expression neutral in the quiet way it always was before training.

Then he heard the voices.

Loud.

Sharp.

French words overlapped each other inside the room, rising and falling in heated bursts. The tone alone was enough to make him pause. It was not normal locker room noise. Not jokes, not teasing, not the usual pre-practice chatter. This sounded tense. Agitated.

And over it all, he heard JJ.

"I already told you, I didn't know!"

Hayden frowned slightly and pushed the door open.

The noise hit him all at once.

Several players stood clustered near the center benches, their gear half unpacked, their faces tight with irritation. JJ stood in the middle of them like a man caught in a storm, hands raised halfway as if he had been trying to calm things down and failing miserably.

JJ spotted him first.

"There," JJ said quickly, pointing. "Ask Hayden."

Every head turned.

Gilbert Comeau stepped forward. "Did you know?"

Hayden blinked. "Know what?"

"About Shane," Gilbert said. "Signing with Ottawa. Did you know he was going to do that?"

Hayden shifted his bag slightly on his shoulder. "No."

Patrice Drapeau crossed his arms, jaw tight. "Was it planned from the start? Him moving there? To be with fucking Rozanov?!"

Hayden's gaze flicked to JJ.

JJ looked exasperated. "They keep asking me like I've been hiding some secret master plan. I told them it wasn't like that!"

"The fuck it wasn't!" Patrice snapped. "He leaves Montreal, engaged to Rozanov, and now suddenly he's a Centaur? That doesn't just happen."

Voices rose again, questions stacking over each other, accusations half-formed and tossed into the air like loose sticks thrown on a fire. The locker room filled with noise, sharp and relentless.

JJ groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Guys, seriously, stop. You don't make sense at all!"

No one stopped.

Hayden stood there for a few seconds, listening. His expression did not change at first. He watched them the way he watched plays unfold on the ice, quietly, carefully, taking everything in.

Then something inside him snapped.

"WILL YOU ALL SHUT. THE FUCK. UP!!!"

The shout cracked through the room like a slap.

Silence dropped instantly.

Every player froze.

Hayden's voice had never sounded like that before. He was the calm one. The steady one. The guy who diffused arguments, not started them. Hearing him yell angrily was so unfamiliar that it stunned them more effectively than any referee's whistle ever could.

Hayden's chest rose once as he breathed out slowly, jaw tight.

"Can you blame him?" he asked, "Can you actually blame Shane for leaving Montreal?"

No one answered.

He stepped forward slightly, his gaze sweeping across their faces. "He spent eleven years here. Eleven fucking years! He gave this team championships. He gave everything he had every season. And what happened?"

His eyes hardened.

"One mistake. A mistake I made! I was the one who took that stupid video for FanMail and didn't check it before sending it, and outed him and Ilya. Not him. Me! And after that, all it took was one fall on the ice. One trip. Something that happens every single game. And suddenly what? You all started doubting him. Acting like he threw a playoff on purpose."

A few players shifted uncomfortably.

Hayden continued, frustration threading through every word. "He trusted you guys enough to tell you the truth. He told you he's gay. He wasn't ready to tell you about him and Ilya, but they are together. And that was never any of our business to begin with."

No one interrupted.

He exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. "Shane gave his best to this team. Every damn year! And what did he get back? Suspicion. Judgment. Disrespect!"

The word lingered.

"So yeah," Hayden said, quieter now but no less intense, "he fucking left Montreal. He signed with Ottawa. So what? That stopped being our business the second this team failed to protect him when he needed it most."

He turned away from them and walked to his locker, the sound of his footsteps loud in the stillness. He set his bag down, unzipped it, and began pulling out his gear with steady movements.

"You guys better play ten times harder now," he added over his shoulder. "Because we don't have Shane anymore. We're the laughing stock now for letting Shane Hollander walk away. If you want everyone to take Montreal seriously this season, you're going to have to prove this team still has something without the best player we ever had. The same player we pushed away with our own bullshit."

He paused, then let out a quiet scoff.

"I hope all that shit you threw at him was worth it."

No one spoke.

The locker room stayed silent except for the soft rustle of fabric and the dull clink of equipment as Hayden dressed for practice. His words hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable.

Because he was right.

They had not just lost their best player. One of the top players of the whole league.

They had lost their friend, the one who had been there from day one, the one who had carried them through seasons, losses, victories, and everything in between.

And there was no getting that back.

---

A day before the wedding, Ilya and Shane were out for lunch with someone.

The restaurant Ilya had chosen sat on a quiet street not far from the river, tucked between two historic stone buildings that gave the neighborhood a certain old-world charm. Large windows looked out onto the sidewalk, the glass reflecting the soft afternoon light of Ottawa's late summer. Inside, everything was calm and polished. Low golden lamps glowed above each table. White tablecloths fell in perfect lines. The gentle murmur of conversation blended with the quiet clink of cutlery and glassware.

It was the kind of place where people spoke softly without being asked.

Shane sat beside Ilya at a table near the window, his fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of water that he had barely touched. The condensation had already formed a thin ring against the linen beneath it. Outside, a couple walked past holding hands. Inside, a waiter refilled bread baskets two tables over.

He tried to look relaxed.

He really did.

But his leg bounced faintly beneath the table, a small nervous rhythm that he could not quite stop. The soft tapping of his knee against the underside of the table was barely audible, but Ilya felt it through the floor.

Beside him, Ilya watched with quiet amusement. His fiancé leaned back comfortably in his chair, one arm resting on the back of Shane's seat, his expression calm in a way that suggested none of this felt complicated to him at all.

"Shane," Ilya said gently.

Shane glanced at him.

"It's just Svetlana. Don't be nervous." Ilya said.

Shane huffed softly. "I am not."

"You are."

"I'm not." Shane's leg bounced faster.

Ilya smiled, slow and knowing. "You are nervous."

Shane hesitated, then sighed. "Okay," he admitted quietly. "Maybe a little."

Ilya's eyes softened. "Why?"

Shane stared down at the table for a moment, tracing the edge of the folded napkin with his thumb. The linen was crisp and white, and he smoothed a crease that did not need smoothing.

Because you almost married her.

Because she knows parts of your life I never saw.

Because she was there when I wasn't.

He did not say any of that out loud. Instead, he shrugged. "It's just... tomorrow's already a big day. Meeting Svetlana today just makes everything feel more real."

Ilya leaned closer to Shane, his shoulder pressing warm against Shane's arm. "Sweetheart, there is nothing to worry about," he said. His voice was low and certain, the kind of certainty that came from knowing someone completely.

Shane wanted to believe him. He really did.

Before he could respond, the restaurant door opened.

A beautiful woman stepped inside.

Shane recognized her immediately from photos he had seen before. Svetlana carried herself with quiet confidence, her posture elegant, her dark hair falling smoothly over one shoulder. She wore a simple cream dress and small gold earrings that caught the light when she turned her head. She scanned the room for only a moment before her eyes landed on their table.

Then her face lit with a bright smile, warm and genuine.

Ilya stood first.

"Svetna!"

She crossed the room quickly, and before Shane could even stand properly, she had already wrapped Ilya in a tight embrace. Her arms went around his neck, and he lifted her slightly off the ground, laughing.

"Ilyusha," she said with a laugh, "Look at you. Still alive."

Ilya chuckled, hugging her back. "You miss my handsome face that much?"

She leaned back and gave him a look of exaggerated disbelief. "Handsome? Maybe. Dramatic? Always."

Then her gaze shifted to Shane.

Warm. Curious. Kind. Her eyes traveled over him once, not sizing him up, just seeing him.

"You must be 'Jane'," she said.

Shane stood fully this time, smoothing the front of his shirt. "Hi. I'm Shane Hollander." He held his hand out for her, a polite reflex.

"My Jane," Ilya said amusingly, his arm still around Svetlana's shoulders.

Svetlana stepped forward and hugged him instead, brief but sincere. When she pulled away, she studied him with open interest, her head tilted slightly.

"I have heard many things about you," she said.

Shane felt his ears warm slightly. "I hope it's nice?"

"Ilyusha speaks highly of you. It's all nice," Svetlana assured him before letting him go. She patted his arm once, as if confirming he was real.

Ilya gestured toward the chair beside him. "Sit, please."

Svetlana settled into her seat, folding her hands neatly on the table as a waiter approached with menus. She ordered a glass of white wine without looking at the list. The waiter nodded and disappeared.

For a few minutes, the conversation stayed light. They talked about her flight from Boston, the weather, and the restaurant's bread basket, which she immediately stole a piece from.

Ilya and Svetlana slipped easily into familiar banter, occasionally shifting into Russian. Shane caught a few words: ty glupyy (you're silly), zamolchi (shut up). He could not understand the language itself, but the tone carried clear affection, the ease of old friends.

"You still argue like an old man," Svetlana teased.

"And you still talk too much," Ilya replied calmly.

She laughed. "You missed me."

"Never." But Ilya was smiling.

The ease between them was undeniable. They finished each other's sentences once, arguing playfully about a restaurant they used to go to in Boston. Shane watched, his leg still bouncing under the table, though slower now.

And strangely... it did not feel threatening.

It felt like watching two siblings who had known each other for years. There was no lingering tension, no loaded glances. Just history. Just friendship.

Their meals arrived soon after, plates arranged beautifully with careful precision. Shane had ordered pasta, but he barely touched. Ilya had steak, which he cut into neat squares. Svetlana had fish, which she ate with small, precise bites.

For a while, they talked about travel, about Boston, about the wedding preparations. The conversation flowed naturally enough that Shane almost forgot how tense he had been earlier.

Almost.

Halfway through the meal, Ilya's phone buzzed on the table, rattling against the white tablecloth.

He glanced at the screen, then frowned slightly.

"Sorry," he said, already pushing his chair back. The legs scraped softly against the floor. "It's Coach Wiebe. I need to take it. I'll go outside."

He touched Shane's shoulder briefly as he stood up, a quick squeeze, then disappeared toward the door. The glass door swung shut behind him, and Shane watched him through the window, phone pressed to his ear, walking a few steps down the sidewalk.

And just like that, Shane found himself alone with Svetlana.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The restaurant sounds filled the gap: the clink of forks, the low hum of conversation from the table behind them, a waiter murmuring something about dessert.

Shane picked up his water glass, took a sip, and set it down.

Svetlana watched him. Not staring, just observing. Her fingers rested lightly on the stem of her wine glass.

Then she tilted her head slightly, studying him.

"Are you nervous? About the wedding?"

Shane let out a quiet breath. "Yes," he admitted, because lying felt pointless.

She smiled gently, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You shouldn't be."

He looked at her, curious.

"You are marrying Ilyusha tomorrow," she continued softly. "And he loves you very much."

Shane blinked. His throat felt suddenly tight. "Am I too obvious?" he asked, a small self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips.

Svetlana chuckled lightly, a warm sound. "Ilya told me. He told me to be 'nice' to you."

Of course he did.

Svetlana reached for her glass of wine, taking a small sip before setting it down again. She wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin, then folded her hands on the table.

"You should not worry about me," she said.

Shane hesitated. His fingers found the edge of his napkin again. "Well... you and Ilya used to date."

She immediately shook her head. "No."

Shane frowned slightly.

"Not date," she clarified. "We hooked up."

Shane's eyes widened.

She paused, thinking, her brow furrowing as she searched for the right words. "Like... Hmm... What do you call this in English?" She paused, then her face lit up with recognition. "Ahh! That's it. Friends with benefits," she added thoughtfully, nodding to herself.

Shane nearly choked on his water. He coughed into his fist, his ears now definitely red.

Svetlana laughed at his reaction, a full, unguarded laugh that turned a few heads at nearby tables.

"We have been friends since we were very young," she continued, her voice softening. "I know Ilyusha like the back of my hand." She held up her hand, palm facing him, as if to prove it.

Her expression softened further, the humor fading into something more tender.

"But there was one part of his life he kept hidden from me."

Shane listened quietly, his leg finally still.

"His Jane," she said.

Shane blinked.

"I knew something was happening because he never put his phone down," she explained with a small, knowing smile. "Even when we were out together, he was always texting. Always smiling at his screen like an idiot." She shook her head fondly. "Ilya tells me everything. His hook-ups, his drama, his fights. But not Jane."

Her eyes met Shane's. There was no judgment there. Just understanding.

"When he finally told me he was dating you, everything suddenly made sense." She paused, letting the words settle. "The secrecy. The late-night calls he would not explain. The way he would disappear for weekends and come back looking... peaceful."

For a moment, she simply looked at him. Then her expression softened into something deeply fond, almost maternal.

"Ilya loves you," she said quietly. Her hand reached across the table, gently covering Shane's. Her palm was warm, her fingers light.

"And because he loves you, I became fond of you. I want to be your friend since you'll be my best friend's husband. Ilya loves you, and you make him happy, and for that, I am grateful to you. He deserves this happiness after years of hiding himself in the dark."

Shane's throat tightened unexpectedly. He swallowed, but it did not help.

"Thank you," she continued softly, her thumb squeezing his hand gently. "For loving him."

She looked down at their hands for a moment, then back up at him. Her eyes glistened faintly.

"You know, he thinks very poorly of himself sometimes. He always has. Even when we were young, he carried so much alone. But now, he can love you openly. And I have never seen him happier." Her voice wavered slightly. "I want nothing but happiness for both of you."

Shane exhaled slowly, the tension that had lived in his chest all morning finally loosening. It felt like a knot being undone, thread by thread.

"I'm really glad you came to the wedding," he said sincerely. His voice came out rougher than he intended. "Besides my parents and me... you're the closest thing Ilya has to family."

Svetlana's eyes filled slightly. She blinked rapidly. "Ohh no," she murmured, dabbing beneath one eye with her free hand. "Now I cry." She looked at him accusingly, but there was no heat in it. "You ruined my makeup."

Shane smiled, a real smile that reached his eyes. "You still look beautiful."

She laughed softly, a sniffly laugh, and squeezed his hand once more before letting go. She picked up her napkin and patted her eyes carefully.

"You are sweet," she said. "I see why he loves you."

Just then, the restaurant door opened and closed. Ilya returned to the table.

He stopped when he saw them. Svetlana was dabbing her eyes. Shane was smiling. Their hands had just separated.

One eyebrow lifted.

"So," he said slowly, sliding back into his seat. "You steal my husband-to-be now, Svetna?"

Svetlana released Shane's hand with an innocent smile, though her eyes were still slightly red. "Impossible," she said. "You two are madly in love."

Ilya studied Shane for a moment. His gaze was sharp, but his expression softened when he saw Shane's face. He looked calmer now. Lighter. The tension lines around his mouth had smoothed out.

"What did you talk about?" Ilya asked, looking between them.

Svetlana answered immediately, her voice perfectly deadpan, "I offer him a threesome on your honeymoon."

Ilya hissed. "Svetlana."

Shane burst into laughter, loud enough that the couple at the next table glanced over. "Relax," he said quickly, holding up his hands.

Ilya frowned at him, but there was no real anger in it. Just exasperation.

Then Shane added, "I said no. I don't get hard for women. Maybe she can send a gay friend or something?"

Ilya stared at him.

Then at Svetlana.

Both of them were laughing now, Svetlana with her hand over her mouth, Shane with his head tilted back.

Shane raised his hands higher. "I'm joking!"

Ilya shook his head slowly, but a smile was fighting its way onto his face. "Not funny. I do not share."

"Good," Shane said with a grin.

Ilya reached forward and cupped Shane's jaw, his thumb brushing over Shane's cheekbone. Shane smiled up at him, soft and warm, and for a moment the restaurant disappeared.

Svetlana smirked, lifting her wine glass again. She took a long sip, watching them over the rim.

"Maybe I visit Ottawa often now," she said sweetly, setting the glass down. "Just to annoy you."

Ilya glared, but his hand stayed on Shane's jaw. "Just stay in Boston, Svetna."

She only smiled wider, unbothered.

The conversation drifted easily after that, warm and playful. Svetlana told a story about Ilya getting lost in Boston when he first moved there, ending up in a neighborhood he definitely should not have been in. Ilya protested that he knew exactly where he was going. Shane listened, laughing, his hand finding Ilya's knee under the table.

The meal stretched comfortably as they talked and laughed, dessert appearing and disappearing. Svetlana stole a bite of Shane's chocolate cake. He pretended to be offended. She pretended not to care.

And for the first time that day, Shane felt completely at ease.

Tomorrow, he would marry Ilya.

And instead of nerves, the feeling that filled his chest now was simple excitement.

---

It's Ilya and Shane's Wedding.

The house stood bright under the warm afternoon sun, its wide backyard transformed for the wedding. A wooden arch was wrapped in soft ivory fabric and clusters of pale flowers. The breeze carried the faint scent of roses and freshly cut grass, and somewhere near the patio, soft music drifted gently through the air.

Guests had begun to gather.

Most of them were tall, broad men in suits that looked slightly unfamiliar on bodies used to hockey gear. Conversations moved in low waves across the yard. Laughter broke out here and there. A few players from the Ottawa Centaurs stood together, their voices deep and relaxed.

When Rose Landry stepped forward into the crowded backyard, the atmosphere shifted slightly.

She was used to it.

Heads turned almost immediately. Some of the players recognized her from films and television. Others knew her from sports headlines, the actress who had once dated Shane Hollander. Either way, curious glances followed her as she crossed the lawn.

Rose did not seem bothered.

She walked with easy confidence, her dress flowing lightly around her legs, sunglasses resting casually on top of her head. The late afternoon sunlight caught the soft gold tones in her hair.

She had barely taken a few steps toward the seating area when a familiar voice called out.

"Rose?"

She turned.

JJ approached from across the lawn, his brows lifted in clear surprise. He still looked the same, tall and solid with the posture of someone who had spent most of his life on the ice.

"Hey, JJ," Rose said with a warm smile.

He stopped in front of her, still looking slightly stunned. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Rose tilted her head slightly. "Of course I'm here. Shane is my best friend."

JJ hesitated, then gestured vaguely between them. "Yeah, but... you two used to date."

Rose's smile faded just enough to show she was not amused.

"Yes, but I am one of his best friends now," she said calmly. "And since I'm his best friend, I also know what happened in the Montreal locker room."

JJ blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"I read some articles," Rose replied. "More than a few, actually. Funny thing about reporters, most of them ended up telling the same story. And even he didn't deny or confirm it, Shane avoiding the talk about it means what the articles said are true."

JJ shifted slightly.

Rose continued, her voice still even but far more pointed now, "The players doubted Shane's play during the playoffs. They questioned whether he tripped on purpose. And some of them weren't exactly welcoming about his relationship with Ilya."

JJ let out a quiet breath. "You can't blame them completely. It's Rozanov."

Rose raised a brow, "Shane is happy with Ilya," she said firmly. "I've seen it myself."

JJ studied her for a moment. "You knew?"

Rose nodded, "When we were dating, I felt like something was off. Then, I talked to him and found out that he's into men. A man, actually," she said simply. "That's how we became best friends. And later, he told me about Ilya, too. Since he knew that I knew he was gay, he confided in me."

JJ rubbed the back of his neck.

"Montreal really messed up," Rose continued. "Dropping Shane like that after everything he did for the team." Her eyes were fixed on him. "And honestly, I'm disappointed in you."

JJ frowned. "I stood up for him."

"Yes," Rose said. "But you probably doubted him first."

JJ straightened slightly. "I was upset because he didn't tell me. Hayden knew. You knew. I thought we were closer than that."

Rose's voice softened a little, "He was scared, JJ. Scared for his career. Scared for Ilya. Scared for himself."

JJ looked away briefly, "I know," he said quietly. "We talked about it. We're okay now. I tolerate Rozanov now. Still think he's a prick though."

Rose sighed, "Shane loves him. I just hope you really support them now."

Before JJ could respond, a woman approached them from the side.

"Ahh! Rose Landry."

Rose turned.

The woman standing there was tall and striking, her dark hair styled elegantly, her posture relaxed but confident.

"Hi," Rose said politely.

"Hello," the woman replied with a small smile. "Would you like to stand with me? There are no seats in this wedding."

Rose glanced briefly at JJ.

Then she nodded. "Sure."

As Rose turned to follow her, the woman paused for a second. Her eyes slid slowly over JJ from head to toe, then back up to his face again.

She smirked.

Then she turned and continued walking.

JJ stood there, slightly baffled.

Rose and the woman moved toward the side of the ceremony area where several Ottawa Centaurs players were standing together, chatting casually while they waited for the ceremony to begin. A few of them looked over curiously as the two women joined their side of the lawn.

The woman turned to Rose with an easy smile.

"I should introduce myself," she said. "Svetlana Vetrova."

Rose smiled, "Rose Landry."

Svetlana nodded. "I know who you are. The Hollywood actress," she paused, "And Shane's ex-girlfriend."

"Yeah, but now, I'm just his girl best friend." Rose corrected lightly.

Svetlana chuckled softly. "That's cute."

Rose studied her for a moment before asking, "Which groom are you here for?"

"Ilya," Svetlana replied without hesitation. "We're best friends," she smirked, "We also used to hook up."

Rose blinked once, then laughed quietly. "Well," she said, "Shane and Ilya must be very nice people if both of their exes showed up to their wedding."

Svetlana smiled, her expression warm, "They are," she said simply. "And they are perfect for each other."

For a moment, they both watched the guests gathering across the lawn, the quiet excitement building as people settled into their seats.

Then, Svetlana suddenly looked back at Rose with curiosity.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Where do you shop?"

Rose blinked.

"I really like your fashion style," Svetlana added thoughtfully.

Rose's face brightened immediately, "Oh my God, finally someone asks me that."

Svetlana laughed.

Rose began explaining enthusiastically, listing boutiques and designers she loved, describing fabrics and cuts with animated gestures.

Beside her, Svetlana listened with genuine interest.

A few minutes later, the murmur of conversation across the lawn softened as the opening notes of the wedding ceremony music started.

Guests gradually pay attention to the aisle. Conversations faded into gentle whispers. The warm afternoon sun filtered through the trees that bordered the property, casting soft patterns of light across the rows of white chairs.

At the front, near the arch of ivory fabric and pale flowers, Ilya stood waiting.

He looked striking in his black tuxedo. The crisp white dress shirt beneath it made the dark fabric stand out even more, and the black bow tie sat neatly at his collar. His posture was straight, composed, though those who knew him well could see the faint tension in his shoulders.

This was not the tension of nerves.

It was anticipation.

He looks down at Anya. Anya stood beside him, her white bow looked cute on top of her head. Then, his gaze went back up and remained fixed toward the path that led from the house.

Then the music changed.

A soft ripple of movement passed through the guests as everyone turned.

Shane appeared at the far end of the aisle.

A quiet collective breath seemed to pass through the crowd.

He wore an all-white tuxedo, the clean lines of the jacket sharp and elegant against the afternoon light. The black bow tie at his collar created a striking contrast, and his hair had been styled neatly, though a few strands had already fallen slightly out of place.

But what people noticed most was his face.

Shane looked radiant.

His smile was soft but unmistakably joyful as he walked slowly down the aisle, his eyes locked on Ilya the entire time. Around him, friends, teammates, and family watched with open affection.

When Shane finally reached the arch, he stopped in front of Ilya.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

They simply looked at each other. Then, Ilya took Shane's hand and walked with him to the arch where the wedding officiant, Nancy, was waiting for them.

The ceremony itself was simple and solemn, just as they had wanted. The officiant spoke about partnership, loyalty, and the quiet strength of love that survives time and distance. There were no long speeches, no grand dramatic gestures.

Shane held Ilya's hands between his own. His fingers were warm, steady, though his heart had been racing since the moment the music started.

Ilya looked at him the way he always did when the world disappeared around them. Focused. Soft. Entirely certain.

Then it was time for their vows.

The officiant smiled gently, her gaze moving between the two men standing beneath the white arch draped with soft greenery. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled light across the garden. Somewhere behind the guests, a bird sang once and then fell silent, as if listening.

"Ilya, you may begin."

Ilya took a slow breath.

For once, the famously confident hockey player looked almost thoughtful, as if he were carefully choosing each word before letting it leave his mouth. His jaw relaxed. His shoulders settled. He glanced briefly at the guests, at his mother wiping her eyes in the front row, at Svetlana grinning with her phone half raised.

Then he looked back at Shane, and the rest of the world seemed to soften at the edges.

"When I met you in Regina," he began, his voice steady but warm, "I did not think I was meeting the person I would spend the rest of my life with."

A few soft chuckles passed through the guests. Yuna smiled knowingly.

Ilya's lips curved slightly. "To be honest, I thought you were too small to be a hockey player."

More laughter. Shane huffed, but his eyes were bright.

"Maybe it was how you approached me. Or maybe it was your brown eyes," Ilya continued, tilting his head slightly as he studied Shane's face. "Or maybe it was your beautiful freckles." He paused. "I still do not know which one. But I remember thinking that you were very annoying."

Shane's cheeks flushed faintly. He opened his mouth to protest, but Ilya squeezed his hands gently, and the protest died into a smile.

"But something changed," Ilya continued, his voice dropping into something softer. "It changed the night of the All-Star Game in 2017."

His thumb traced slow circles on the back of Shane's hand.

"That night, when I told you about my family. About things I had never told anyone before. About the dark parts."

For a moment, his gaze lowered slightly, as if the memory itself still carried weight. When he looked back up, his eyes were bright.

"When I finished, I expected you to look at me differently. Maybe with pity. Maybe with distance. Maybe you would walk away and pretend the conversation never happened."

He swallowed.

"But instead," he said quietly, "you just held me."

The garden had gone completely silent now. Even the bird had stopped singing.

"You held me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I was not broken. Like I was just... someone worth holding." Ilya's voice roughened. "And in that moment, I realized something."

His thumb brushed gently across Shane's knuckles.

"I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life. Not because of hockey. Not because of convenience. Because with you, I found home. I found peace. I found someone who loved me exactly as I am, including the parts I used to hide."

Emotion flickered across his expression now, breaking through the calm confidence he usually carried. His jaw tightened once, then relaxed.

"I am grateful every day that you chose a life with me," he said. "You could have walked away so many times. When it was hard. When it was scary. When people questioned us. But you never did."

Shane's eyes had already begun to tear up. A single drop slipped down his cheek.

"You may be my rival on ice," Ilya continued, his voice steadier now, filled with quiet conviction. "But you are more than that to me. You are the love of my life. My best friend. My family."

He lifted Shane's hand and pressed a brief, tender kiss against his fingers.

"I promise that I will love you forever. Not just for this life, but for as long as time exists. Even eternally."

The quiet emotion in his voice made several guests blink rapidly. Yuna pressed a handkerchief to her mouth as tears fall from her eyes. David put his arm around her.

Ilya exhaled softly and looked at him again, his eyes shining.

"I love you, Shane. I love you so much."

The officiant nodded gently, her own voice slightly thick as she turned toward Shane. "Shane, you may say your vows."

Shane took a small breath. His hands trembled faintly as he reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, worn at the edges from being unfolded and refolded so many times.

He looked at Ilya.

Then he looked down at the paper, then back at Ilya, and seemed to make a decision.

He tucked the paper back into his pocket.

He did not need it.

And when he began speaking, it was not in English.

"Moya lyubov," he said softly. My love.

Both Ilya and Svetlana froze. Svetlana's hand flew to her mouth. Ilya's eyes widened, his lips parting slightly in disbelief.

The words hung gently in the air, foreign to most of the guests but unmistakably tender.

A ripple of quiet surprise passed through the crowd, but Ilya barely noticed them. His entire world had narrowed to the man in front of him, the man speaking in a language he had never heard him use before.

Shane continued, his Russian careful but clear. He had practiced for weeks, in secret, with a Russian tutor he hired online. Every syllable had been rehearsed until it felt natural.

"I want to tell you something I have never told anyone," he said, his voice soft but steady. "Before you, I did not know what it felt like to be completely seen. I was the captain. The golden boy. The player who always smiled. But you looked past all of that. You saw the person underneath."

Ilya's breathing had become uneven. His chest rose and fell.

"We have been through many things together," Shane continued. His fingers tightened around Ilya's. "Even though we officially started dating in 2017... I liked you long before that."

A faint smile tugged at his lips. Ilya let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh, his eyes wet.

"I was scared at first," Shane's voice softened. "I was scared of what people would say. I was scared of what it would mean for my career. I was scared of losing everything I had built."

He paused, his own tears falling freely now.

"But I realized something when I heard the emergency landing of your plane in Tampa. I was more scared of not having you in my life. I was more scared of waking up one day and wondering what if. I was more scared of losing you than losing anything else."

Ilya's composure cracked. A tear slid down his cheek.

"I want to wake up beside you every morning," Shane said quietly. "And fall asleep beside you every night. I want to play hockey with you until we both retire, and then I want to sit in rocking chairs with you and argue about who was better."

Ilya chuckled in amusement.

"I want to hold your hand when we are old, and our knees do not work anymore," Shane continued, his thumb brushing gently over Ilya's hand. "I want to be the person you come home to after every game, every road trip, every hard day. I want to be your peace the way you have become mine."

He looked at Ilya with deep affection, his eyes red and shining.

Then his voice dropped further, becoming almost a whisper.

"And I promised Irina something."

At the mention of his mother's name, Ilya's face crumpled. His shoulders shook. He bit his lower lip, trying to hold himself together, but the tears came anyway.

Shane did not look away. He held Ilya's gaze, his own tears falling, his voice unwavering.

"I promised her that I would love you enough that you would never feel sad or lonely again. I promised her that I would take care of you. That I would remind you every day that you are worthy of love. That you are not broken. That you never were."

Ilya let out a small, broken sound.

"I will love you like she loved you," Shane said. "I will love you until my last breath. I will love you in this life and in every life after. I love you so much, Ilya. So much that I do not have words for it. So much that it scares me sometimes. So much that I would do it all again. The hiding. The fear. The waiting. All of it. Just to end up here. With you."

Tears slipped down Ilya's cheeks in steady streams. He was not even trying to wipe them away anymore.

Shane lifted one hand and wiped them away carefully with his thumb, the way he had done a hundred times before in quiet moments.

Ilya laughed quietly through his tears, shaking his head slightly, his nose red, his smile wobbly.

"Ya tebya lyublyu," Ilya whispered back. I love you.

Shane smiled softly, his own face wet, his heart so full it ached.

"I love you, too," he said, switching back to English, because some things did not need translation.

Svetlana is crying beside Rose. Rose handed her some facial tissue from her purse, and Svetlana wiped her own tears.

"Was Shane's vow good?" Rose asked Svetlana quietly. Svetlana looked at her and smiled.

"It's a beautiful vow. It's perfect," Svetlana said in tears.

Then, it's time for their rings. Those standing close enough could see the emotion in Shane's eyes when Ilya slid the ring onto his finger.

And when Shane returned the gesture, Ilya's usually controlled expression softened in a way that felt almost boyish.

The officiant paused, giving them a moment. Then she smiled and said, "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husbands. You may kiss."

Ilya did not wait. He cupped Shane's face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on Shane's cheeks, and kissed him. It was not a polite wedding kiss. It was deep and certain and full of everything they had waited so long to say.

The guests erupted into applause. Someone whistled. Svetlana was openly sobbing while Rose cried beside her, rubbing Svetlana's back.

When they finally broke apart, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane's.

"I cannot believe you said your vow in Russian," Ilya whispered.

Shane smiled, breathless. "Did you like my surprise?"

Ilya kissed him again, quick and soft.

"I love you," Ilya said.

"I know," Shane replied. Then, quieter, "Ya tebya tozhe lyublyu." I love you too.

Ilya laughed, bright and joyful, and pulled him into another hug.

The garden was full of light and flowers, and the people they loved most.

And for the first time in both their lives, nothing felt hidden anymore.

As the ceremony ended, the mood shifted quickly from solemn to celebratory.

Music filled the yard again, louder now. Servers moved through the crowd with trays of champagne. Conversations rose into cheerful noise as guests congratulated the newly married couple.

Ilya soon found himself sitting with Ruby and Jade, who looked at him with very serious expressions while eating cakes.

"You two were already married before," Ruby said suspiciously.

"In our home!" Jade added.

"Yes," Ilya nodded solemnly, "This was not the real wedding." he took a bite of his own cake, "The real one was the one you did. This was just for a show."

Ruby smiled at him, then nudged Jade, "I told you."

The two girls seemed to consider that explanation carefully.

Nearby, Shane found himself surrounded by Hayden, JJ, Troy, and Harris.

Hands clapped his shoulders. Someone handed him a drink.

"Congrats, buddy!" Hayden said. Shane took the drink from him. He looks at it. It's champagne. "Don't tell me you won't drink that," Hayden scowled at him.

"Come on, Shane! It's just a champagne!" JJ pointed out.

Shane shook his head, "No, I just... I haven't drunk champagne for a while," Shane took a sip of his champagne. He nodded, "It's good."

"Of course it's good. It's a champagne on your wedding day!" Hayden points out.

"I wish I understood Russian. Your vow must be something for Ilya to cry like that," Harris said.

Shane smiled, "It was a simple vow."

"Rozanov won't cry like that if it's simple," Hayden said. Shane just shrugged and sipped his champagne again.

"We're looking forward to the first practice," Troy said with a grin while looking at Shane. Shane smiled back and raised his glass to him.

"Really, Barrett? In front of us?" JJ asked.

"Not my fault your team let go of Shane," Troy stated.

"Ohh come on, man! As if we wanted that. Damn! I will really make the team practice hard this coming season!" Hayden said.

JJ looked at him, "Including me?"

"Of course!" Hayden said, like he can't believe JJ even asked that. JJ groaned in frustration.

Shane laughed lightly. "You'll live, JJ."

A few minutes later, Shane and Ilya had their first dance as a married couple. Harris had picked out a song for them.

The reception tent glowed with warm fairy lights strung across the party area, their reflection shimmering in the glassware on each table. The late summer evening had cooled into something gentle, and the air smelled of flowers and champagne.

Ilya placed one hand carefully on Shane's waist while Shane rested his hand on Ilya's shoulder. Their fingers intertwined naturally, as if they had done this a thousand times before. Maybe they had, in hotel rooms and empty arenas and quiet living rooms when no one was watching.

The first notes of the song carried through the room.

They began to sway gently to the rhythm.

It was simple. No complicated steps, no grand movements. Just the two of them moving together while the soft lights of the reception reflected across the polished floor. Shane's other hand rested lightly on Ilya's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the crisp white shirt.

Shane looked up at him.

There was something bright in his eyes now. Something calm and deeply happy. The kind of happy that did not need to be loud.

"We're married now," Shane said quietly.

The words seemed almost unreal even as he said them. Like a dream he was still waking up from.

Ilya smiled, his thumb brushing gently over Shane's knuckles. The touch was featherlight, almost reverent.

"Yes," he replied softly. There was a small breath of laughter in his voice, warm and disbelieving. "We are."

For a moment, he simply looked at Shane like he was memorizing the moment. The way the fairy lights caught the gold in his hair. The slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes. The small smile that would not leave his face.

"I am very happy right now," Ilya continued quietly. His smile softened even more, his voice dropping lower. "Even happier that your vow was in Russian."

Shane's eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Your Russian is good," Ilya said, almost teasing, his thumb still moving lazily against Shane's hand. "I'm glad only I understood your vow."

Shane huffed softly, but his eyes sparkled. "Svetlana understood it, too," he pointed out.

Ilya chuckled under his breath, a low, pleased sound. "Yes, and she was crying."

"You cried too!" Shane said.

Ilya shook his head, "I don't remember that."

Shane laughed softly, the sound bright and easy.

Ilya tilted his head thoughtfully, his gaze soft. "I think maybe I should have done mine in French."

Shane shook his head immediately. "I love your vow. It's perfect." The words were simple, but they carried a warmth that made Ilya's expression soften again.

"I'm glad," Ilya murmured.

They continued swaying slowly to the music. Around them, guests watched with smiles, cameras flashing occasionally. But neither man noticed. They were wrapped in their own small world, a bubble of quiet joy.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

They simply looked at each other, the quiet happiness between them almost tangible, like a third presence in the dance.

Then Shane leaned forward slightly.

Without hesitation, he pressed a gentle kiss against Ilya's lips. It was soft at first, just a brief press, but Ilya kissed him back just as softly, one hand sliding slightly higher along Shane's waist as he held him closer. His fingers spread against the small of Shane's back, pulling him in.

He did not care where they were.

Did not care about the guests watching from their tables, or Svetlana pretending not to sob into her napkin, or Wyatt yelling "Get a room!" from somewhere near the bar.

Today was their wedding.

And the only thing that mattered to him was being close to Shane.

By the end of the slow song, Shane thought the moment would simply fade into applause and maybe another romantic track. He was already imagining something soft, something slow, something that would let them stay in this warm, floating feeling a little longer.

Instead, the music suddenly switched.

And then, an unmistakable beat burst from the speakers. A deep reggaeton bassline thrummed through the tent, followed by the rapid-fire Spanish of Bad Bunny.

Shane blinked in surprise before bursting into laughter.

"Ohh my God," he said, shaking his head as he looked up at Ilya. "Did you plan this?"

Ilya, however, looked completely serious.

Dead serious.

His eyes were locked on Shane's, but there was a glint in them, a playful spark that Shane knew meant trouble.

Then he started dancing.

And not the gentle swaying they had been doing a moment ago.

No.

Ilya rolled his shoulders slowly, letting the rhythm take over his body. His head tilted back just slightly, then forward, his spine moving in a slow, liquid wave. His hips began moving with confident ease, swaying side to side before rolling forward in a smooth, controlled motion that should have been illegal at a wedding.

The guests immediately started cheering. Someone whistled. Harris pumped his fist in the air.

Shane covered his mouth, laughing helplessly, his shoulders shaking.

"Ilya—"

But Ilya was not stopping.

He stepped closer, one hand sliding confidently to Shane's waist as he pulled him a little nearer. His hips moved again with the beat, slower this time, body rolling in a way that looked far more like a late-night club dance than a wedding reception. He dipped his knees slightly, then rose, his torso undulating as he brought himself flush against Shane.

The crowd roared with laughter and whistles. Someone shouted, must be Bood or Dykstra, 'Go, Rozanov!'

Ilya circled him slightly, still holding his waist, his movements smooth and deliberate. He dropped one hand to his own thigh, then dragged it slowly up his side as he rose, shoulders rolling again with exaggerated confidence, clearly performing just for Shane. His lips curled into a smirk.

Shane could barely stay upright.

He was laughing too hard now, his head dipping forward, his forehead almost touching Ilya's chest. He simply bobbed along to the beat, his own hips making no effort to match Ilya's, watching his husband shamelessly show off in front of their entire wedding party.

"You're ridiculous," Shane said between laughs, his voice breathless. "You are absolutely ridiculous."

Ilya only grinned, his teeth white against his smile, and rolled his hips again, clearly pleased with himself. He mouthed along to the Spanish lyrics, badly, intentionally wrong, and Shane lost it again.

That was when the guests finally gave up pretending to stay seated.

One by one, people began stepping onto the dance floor. Svetlana grabbed Rose's hand and pulled her up. Troy clapped Harris on the back and pointed toward the dance floor. Even Shane's mother, who had been quietly crying happy tears all evening, stood up and swayed in place.

Soon, the lawn was full of movement. Everyone was dancing, clapping, and celebrating together.

And in the middle of it all, Ilya kept dancing for Shane.

Not for the crowd. Not for the cameras. For Shane.

He looked at him like he was the only person in the world, even as bodies swirled around them. His hips moved more slowly now, more intimate, as if the beat had become something just between them.

He reached out and held Shane's nape, his fingers warm against the back of his neck, and pulled him closer. Not roughly. Gently. Inevitably.

Shane placed his hands on Ilya's waist, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt. His laughter had faded into something softer now, a quiet smile that said everything.

They leaned toward each other, foreheads touching first, breath mingling.

And then they kissed like there was no tomorrow.

It was not a quick peck. It was deep and slow and full of promise, the kind of kiss that made the people around them cheer and clap and pretend to look away. Ilya's hand tightened on Shane's nape. Shane's fingers curled into the fabric at Ilya's hips.

When they finally broke apart, the song was still playing, the bass still thrumming, the crowd still dancing.

But Ilya only had eyes for Shane.

"I love you so much," Ilya said, loud enough to be heard over the music.

Shane smiled, his nose brushing against Ilya's. "I love you more."

Then he kissed him again, just because he could.

At the edge of the party, Hayden, Cliff, and Zane stood near the bar area, drinks in hand.

They watched the dance floor where Ilya continued to dance while Shane looked at him with affectionate amusement.

Cliff shook his head slowly, "I still can't believe those two are actually married."

"Yeah," Hayden said. "Considering they were on and off for more than nine years before they finally started dating seriously."

Zane sipped his drink thoughtfully. "Must have been hard. Sneaking around all that time."

"You know," Cliff said, "I never understood why Ilya left Boston for Ottawa back then. I figured it was just crazy." He glanced toward the dance floor again, "But now, knowing he did it just to be closer to Hollander... I didn't realize Roz had that soft side."

Hayden chuckled, "You should see him at home with my kids."

Cliff raised a brow, "You're kidding."

"I'm not," Hayden said. "It's unbelievable."

"Ilya is a good person," Zane said. "He just had a rough life early on. But now things are different." He glanced toward the dance floor again, "Now, he gets to live as Shane Hollander's husband."

Cliff frowned slightly, "Not Ilya Rozanov's husband?"

"Nope," Zane shook his head.

Both men looked at him.

"As far as I know," Zane continued casually, "he took Shane's last name. On the ice, he's still Ilya Rozanov. But legally... he's Ilya Hollander now."

Hayden let out a quiet curse. "Damn. He really had it bad."

Cliff chuckled. "I'm not surprised. That man is ridiculously in love with Shane."

Hayden then turned toward Zane, "You must be happy."

Zane frowned slightly. "Why?"

"Because," Hayden said with a smirk, "you're finally going to win a Cup."

Cliff nodded immediately. "That's true."

Zane laughed, "I think we will," he admitted. "We've got Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander now. Plus, Troy Barrett and Luca Haas. And Wyatt has been on fire lately as a goalie." He reached over and patted Hayden on the shoulder. "Sorry, man. Looks like Montreal might never see a Cup ever again."

"Montreal really screwed up letting Shane go," Cliff said.

Hayden sighed, swirling the drink in his glass, "I know. But as the new captain... I'll do my best."

Zane lifted his glass slightly, "Good luck," he said with a grin. "Hopefully we'll see each other in the playoffs."

And across the lawn, beneath the warm glow of string lights, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov continued dancing together, completely unaware of the hockey debates happening just a few steps away.

A little later, the music had softened into a slow, swaying melody that seemed to wrap itself around the guests like a warm embrace. Ilya found himself dancing with Svetlana near the center of the floor, their movements unhurried and graceful. Beside them, Shane danced with Rose, and though the pairing might have looked awkward to an outsider, the two couples formed a quiet, beautiful picture. There was no tension, only a peaceful rhythm of feet gliding over the polished floor and hands resting gently on shoulders and waists.

Svetlana leaned closer to Ilya, her voice warm with sincerity. "I want to congratulate you, Ilyusha. You married the love of your life," she said in Russian.

Ilya smiled, a real smile that reached his eyes. "Thank you for coming, Svetna. It means a lot to both of us."

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," she said simply. Then her tone shifted slightly, turning more thoughtful. "There's something I should tell you. Sasha knows about the wedding."

Ilya's step faltered for just a heartbeat. "Did you tell him?"

"Not exactly." Svetlana shook her head. "He invited me on a vacation to the south of France, but I explained that I couldn't go because I was attending your and Shane's wedding."

A flicker of worry crossed Ilya's face. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. But Svetlana offered him a reassuring smile. "Don't look so concerned. He sends his congratulations. He wishes you and Shane a very happy married life."

Ilya nodded slowly, letting the words settle. "Then thank him for me. When you see him."

"I will," Svetlana said. She paused, as if choosing her next words with care. "I hope that someday, you and Sasha can be friends again. He knows where he stands in your life, Ilya. He understood that years ago when you rejected his advances. He doesn't hope for anything more than friendship now. Not soon, maybe, but someday."

Ilya offered a faint smile. "Maybe," he said softly. It was not a promise, but it was not a closed door either.

Just then, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned his head and found Shane and Rose standing beside them. Rose was looking directly at Svetlana with a playful spark in her eyes.

"Would you mind if I borrowed your best friend for a dance?" Rose asked, her tone polite but carrying an undercurrent of friendly mischief. "You can dance with my best friend in exchange."

Svetlana laughed softly and released Ilya's hand. "He is all yours," she said, stepping back. Then she took Shane's wrist with natural ease and pulled him gently away. Shane merely smiled at Ilya and shrugged, as if to say, What can I do? The two of them drifted off together, leaving Ilya and Rose standing face to face on the edge of the dance floor.

Ilya looked at Rose. She smiled up at him, and there was nothing sharp or challenging in her expression. Instead, she seemed almost hopeful. "May I have this dance?" she asked, as if requesting permission to enter not just his physical space but something deeper.

Ilya hesitated for a second. Then he nodded. "Okay."

Rose placed her hands lightly on his shoulders. Ilya, after a brief pause, set his hands on her waist, barely pressing, as though he was afraid of holding on too tightly. They began to sway slowly to the music, the space between them filled with the quiet rustle of fabric and the soft hum of the string quartet.

Then Rose spoke, and her words caught Ilya completely off guard. "You know, you can't avoid me anymore."

Ilya's brow furrowed. "Wasn't avoiding you, Rose Landry."

"You were," Rose said gently, but with certainty. "And I know why."

Ilya said nothing, so she continued.

"When I was with Shane, he made me feel special. Despite our busy schedules, he always made time to send me a message or call me. He was the perfect boyfriend to me. But I wasn't the perfect girlfriend for him. Not even the perfect partner. I felt that he was holding something back, and that was a familiar scenario to me. So, I talked to him and found out what he had been keeping from me. From everyone. And I understand now. As much as Shane loved me back then, he was never in love with me," She let out a small, sad breath. "We're not compatible as lovers. Like a square peg and a round hole. We just didn't fit."

"I know you weren't compatible," Ilya admitted quietly. His voice was low, almost guarded.

"Right," Rose said. "But we are best friends. I am someone Shane trusts with his life, and I trust him with my life. And I want to be there for him. I want to protect him as much as I can. I know you would do anything for Shane. I see that. But I hope you will let me be friends with you, too. Not just with Shane. With you, Rozanov."

Ilya scowled, though it was more confusion than anger. "Why would you even want to be friends with me?"

Rose's expression softened. "Because Shane speaks so highly of you. I can see how much he adores you. And anyone he adores that much has to be a good person. A great friend, even. Just from knowing Svetlana for a few hours, I can already tell the kind of people you surround yourself with. You're not cruel. You're not cold." She paused, her voice turning earnest. "I'm not asking you to accept me right this second. I'm just asking for a chance. A chance for us to get to know each other and be friends. That's all."

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. The music played on, and the other guests danced around them like shadows. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but a part of him still felt jealous of Rose. She had been Shane's public girlfriend for so long. She was beautiful, kind, and perfect on paper. She could have given Shane a safe, normal life, a life with far fewer risks than the one Ilya could offer. And yet, every time Shane spoke of Rose, all Ilya ever heard was genuine affection. She was supportive. She was loyal. She cared about Shane with a fierce tenderness that could not be faked.

Finally, Ilya let out a slow breath. "Okay," he said.

Rose blinked. "Okay?"

"Okay," Ilya repeated. "I'll give you a chance. I'll get to know you. You are my husband's best friend, after all."

A wide, radiant smile broke across Rose's face. "I promise I will do my best to pass your standards," she said.

"You should," Ilya replied, but there was no sharpness in his tone. It almost sounded like a tease.

Rose leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes glittering. "Since we're trying to be friends now, I'll tell you a secret."

Ilya raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Go on."

Rose crooked her finger, signaling him to lean down. He obliged, bending his tall frame so she could whisper into his ear. Her breath was warm against his skin. "Shane told me years ago that he preferred to be the hole rather than the peg."

Ilya pulled back slowly and stared at her. His face was unreadable for a second. "Really? He said that?"

Rose nodded, then smiled. "Word for word."

For a moment, Ilya just looked at her. Then, a genuine smile spread across his face, slow and warm, like sunlight breaking through clouds. He began to laugh, a deep and surprised laugh that seemed to loosen something in his chest. Rose laughed along with him and gave his arm a light, playful slap.

"Don't you dare tease him about it," she said, still giggling. "This is our inside joke. I tease him with that to make him blush and shy."

"I will definitely tease him about it," Ilya said, his voice still shaking with laughter. "But only when we are alone. I promise."

Rose extended her hand. "Deal."

Ilya took it and shook once, firmly. In that small gesture, something shifted between them. It was not yet friendship, not fully. But it was a beginning.

---

The flight to Ibiza the morning after their wedding felt strangely calm. Like the quiet exhale after a long, held breath. The whirlwind of the past few days (the vows, the champagne, the faces of a hundred guests) had receded into a soft blur somewhere behind the clouds.

Shane had slept through most of it, his head a warm, heavy weight against Ilya's shoulder somewhere over the Atlantic. Every now and then, he would shift in his sleep, his nose brushing Ilya's neck, and Ilya would feel his own pulse skip.

Ilya barely slept at all.

He spent most of the flight watching Shane instead. The way the pale morning light from the window caught the tiny hairs at his temple. The way his lips parted slightly with each slow breath. The faint shadows under his eyes that even sleep could not erase. Remnants of a night neither of them had wanted to end.

Every so often, Ilya's gaze drifted down to their hands resting together on the armrest. Shane's fingers were loosely curled around his, and the black and gold wedding band on Shane's finger caught the light like a small, private flame. Every time Ilya saw it, something warm and heavy settled in his chest. Not quite disbelief, not quite certainty, but something in between.

Married.

The word still felt unreal. A language he was still learning to speak.

A few hours later, their car pulled into the driveway of a five-star hotel overlooking the bright waters of the Mediterranean. The afternoon sun had softened into that warm golden light that made everything feel a little dreamy, a little suspended in time.

Palm trees lined the entrance. The sea stretched endlessly beyond the property, glittering in the distance like a sheet of crushed sapphires. The hotel itself looked almost impossibly elegant, all white stone walls, glass balconies, and wide terraces facing the beach below. A hush seemed to hang over the place, as if the world had agreed to be quiet just for them.

Shane stepped out of the car first, stretching his arms slightly after the long trip. He rolled his shoulders, then his neck, and finally just stood there, breathing in the air.

"Wow," he murmured.

The air smelled faintly of salt and sunscreen, mixed with the distant, muffled sound of music drifting from somewhere along the beach. A guitar, maybe. Or just a radio. It was hard to tell.

Ilya came up beside him, sliding a hand casually to the small of Shane's back as they walked inside. The touch was light, almost unconscious, but Shane felt it all the way down his spine.

The lobby was cool and quiet compared to the heat outside. Polished marble floors reflected the sunlight pouring through the tall windows that faced the ocean. A chandelier hung overhead, not gaudy but delicate, like frozen water. The receptionist smiled at them, something knowing in her eyes, and Shane felt a flush creep up his neck.

He barely paid attention to the check-in process. He was too distracted by the view through the glass walls. Too distracted by the warmth of Ilya's hand still resting at the small of his back.

When they finally reached their suite upstairs and the door clicked shut behind them, the sound seemed to echo in the sudden silence. Then the silence itself felt heavy, full of unspoken things.

Shane immediately walked further into the room.

The suite was enormous. Soft neutral colors, a wide living area with a cream colored sofa, and beyond that, a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass that opened to a balcony overlooking the water. The bed was visible through an open doorway, dressed in white linens that looked cool and crisp.

But Shane barely noticed the bed. Not yet.

He stepped out onto the balcony instead. The Mediterranean stretched out before him, endless blue meeting the pale sky at the horizon. Boats moved lazily across the water, leaving thin white trails behind them like stitches on fabric. The late afternoon sun reflected across the sea like scattered gold, a thousand tiny mirrors winking at once.

The heat was gentler out here, softened by a breeze that carried the smell of salt and something floral. Jasmine, maybe.

"Wow," Shane said again quietly.

Behind him, the door slid open.

A moment later, warm arms wrapped around his waist. Ilya pressed his chest against Shane's back, his chin resting lightly on Shane's shoulder. The weight of him was familiar and new all at once. Familiar like a favorite shirt. New like the first time they had ever touched.

"You like it?" Ilya asked softly. His voice was low, almost a whisper, and Shane felt the vibration of it against his spine.

Shane leaned back into him instinctively. His body knew what to do even when his mind was still catching up.

"It's beautiful."

Ilya hummed quietly. Then he kissed the side of Shane's neck. The warm brush of his lips landed just below Shane's ear, slow and unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. As if the sun might stop moving just to let them stay here.

Ilya's hand slid under Shane's shirt. His palm was warm, slightly rough, and it found Shane's chest with easy confidence. He groped him gently, fingers spreading over the curve of Shane's pectoral, thumb grazing over his nipple. Shane shivered despite the heat.

"Ilya," Shane murmured, though there wasn't much protest in his voice. The name came out breathy, almost a sigh.

Ilya kissed his shoulder this time, lingering slightly longer. His lips parted just enough for Shane to feel the wet heat of his tongue for a moment before he closed his mouth again. The warmth of the sun, the quiet sound of the ocean below, and the familiar closeness of Ilya behind him made Shane feel pleasantly lightheaded. As if the balcony might tip and spill them both into the sea, and he would not even mind.

Ilya turned him gently until they were facing each other.

The breeze pushed a strand of hair across Shane's forehead. Ilya reached up and tucked it back, then cupped Shane's jaw with both hands. His palms cradled Shane's face like something precious, something breakable. Shane leaned into one of those palms, his eyes fluttering half shut.

Ilya gave him a brief kiss first. Just a press of lips, dry and soft, a question more than a statement. Then he leaned back just enough to look at him.

Ilya was still crazy about Shane's brown eyes. They were the color of whiskey held up to light, or the bark of a birch tree after rain. Warm and deep and full of tiny flecks of gold that seemed to move when Shane's gaze shifted. And the freckles. God, the freckles. Scattered across Shane's nose and cheeks like a constellation, Ilya had never learned the name of but wanted to chart forever.

He could not believe that he was married to Shane Hollander. That this man with the shy smile and the fierce heart had chosen him. Had said yes in front of all those people and meant it.

For a moment, they simply stood there.

The ocean breathed behind them. The breeze played with the edges of their shirts.

Shane looked at him and suddenly smiled. A little shy and a little amazed, the way he always looked when he forgot to guard himself. "We're really here," he said.

Ilya reached up and brushed another stray hair from Shane's forehead. His fingers lingered against Shane's temple.

"We are," he said.

Then he leaned down again to kiss him properly.

The kiss started softly. Almost tentative after the long day of traveling, as if they were rediscovering each other's mouths for the first time. Shane's lips parted easily, and Ilya tasted the faint sweetness of the juice Shane had drunk on the plane. But it quickly deepened. Ilya's tongue slid against Shane's, slow and deliberate, and Shane made a small sound at the back of his throat.

Shane's hands slid instinctively to Ilya's shirt. He gripped the fabric lightly at first, then tighter, bunching it just above Ilya's hips as Ilya pulled him closer. Their chests met. The warmth of Ilya's body seeped through both layers of clothing, and Shane felt his own heartbeat pick up, a drum somewhere behind his ribs.

By the time they broke apart, Shane's breathing had already changed. Faster. Shallower. His lips were pink and slightly wet, and his eyes had gone dark around the edges.

He laughed quietly under his breath. A nervous, happy laugh.

"We should probably shower," Shane said. "And go out a little. Explore."

Ilya tilted his head slightly. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his gaze fixed on Shane's mouth.

"I cannot wait," he said calmly, "to consummate our marriage."

Shane stared at him.

Then he burst out laughing. A real laugh, bright and loud, the kind that made his whole body shake. It echoed off the white walls of the balcony and scattered into the open air.

"You're unbelievable."

But he was still smiling when Ilya kissed him again.

This time slower.

Ilya's hands moved to the hem of Shane's shirt, fingers sliding underneath to brush against the warm skin of his stomach. His thumbs traced small circles just above the waistband of Shane's jeans. The touch was light, almost teasing, but it sent a shiver up Shane's spine that he could not hide.

Shane's own hands came up to Ilya's chest. He could feel the steady thump of Ilya's heart beneath his palm. Steady, but faster than before.

The kiss deepened again, and Ilya pulled Shane's shirt upward, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over Shane's head. The fabric whispered against Shane's ears, and then the warm evening air touched his bare shoulders. He felt exposed for only a second before Ilya's hands were on him again, palms flat against his ribs, thumbs brushing his nipples.

Shane laughed breathlessly against Ilya's mouth.

"Okay, okay," he said. "You win."

A shirt fell to the floor. Then a pair of jeans. Then the soft sound of a belt unbuckling, followed by the quiet clink of metal against the nightstand.

Their luggage remained untouched near the door as they disappeared into the bedroom. Shane glanced back once, a half smile on his face, and then the bedroom door swung shut behind them.

Ilya led Shane toward the queen‑size bed. The warm glow from the floor‑to‑ceiling window, covered with sheer curtains, painted the room in shades of amber and gold.

"On the bed, sweetheart," Ilya said.

Shane climbed onto the mattress and settled in the middle, his body sinking slightly into the soft duvet. His eyes followed Ilya's every movement, captivated as his husband slid off his boxers. The sight of that chiseled, toned body made Shane's breath catch in his throat. His heart raced with an intoxicating mixture of desire and pure admiration.

Anticipation flickered in Ilya's eyes as he climbed onto the bed. His lips descended on Shane's in a brief but intense kiss. Their physical and emotional connection wrapped around them like a living force, feeding the flames of their passion.

When Ilya broke the kiss, he looked deep into Shane's eyes. His voice was sincere, almost vulnerable. "Would you believe me if I said I am nervous right now?" He wanted to be sure Shane was ready.

Shane's gaze met his, eyes sparkling with certainty. "Yes," he replied. "And you are not alone. I feel nervous, too."

Curiosity flickered across Ilya's features; his eyebrows rose inquisitively. He gave Shane a quick kiss, then remembered the condoms and lube. He started to get up, but Shane stopped him.

"Where are you going?" Shane asked.

"The lube and condom. I need to get them from my luggage," Ilya said.

"You... we don't need the condom," Shane said, blushing.

Ilya understood. He kissed Shane's cheek and smiled. "Just lube?"

Shane nodded.

Ilya slipped out of the room, fetched the lube from his suitcase, and returned quickly. He placed the lube on the bedside drawer before he positioned himself again between Shane's legs. With a gentle touch, he pushed Shane to lie back, then tenderly cupped his face, brushing away any lingering shyness.

"I am so lucky to be your husband," Ilya murmured, his voice thick with adoration.

A smile graced Shane's lips, radiant with trust and affection. He reached out, fingers grazing Ilya's cheek, drawing him closer. "Kiss me, Rozanov," Shane whispered, desire flooding his voice.

"Correction, I'm a Hollander now," Ilya pointed out.

"Ilya," Shane sounded almost begging.

Ilya obliged without hesitation. Their lips melded in a kiss that spoke of longing, passion, and the beginning of a new chapter in their shared love story.

With careful hands, Ilya helped Shane remove his boxers. He traced the contours of Shane's body, caressing every inch of exposed skin. Finally, Shane lay bare in the center of the bed, the cool sheets a gentle contrast against his heated skin. Ilya positioned himself above Shane, his limbs finding their place between Shane's parted thighs. The air grew thick with anticipation. The magnetic pull between them intensified with each passing moment. Their bodies hovered inches apart, ready to meld together in a passionate dance.

At an unspoken invitation, Ilya leaned down and captured Shane's lips in a searing kiss. Their mouths moved in a symphony of desire, tongues entwined with hunger. Each kiss deepened their connection, igniting a fire that threatened to consume them both.

Their hands roamed freely, exploring dips and curves. Ilya's touch, both gentle and commanding, sent shivers of pleasure cascading through Shane's every nerve. They became lost in a world of sensation, bodies moving in harmony, seeking to satisfy the burning desire that coursed through their veins.

As their kisses lingered and their breaths mingled, whispered words filled the air.

"You are mine," Ilya murmured in Russian against Shane's lips, his voice dripping with gentle possessiveness.

"Yours," Shane answered in English, his voice laced with aching need. Their words became a mantra, echoing in the space between them, affirming devotion and sealing their connection.

After indulging in passionate foreplay, Ilya reached toward the nightstand drawer and retrieved the lube. Anticipation lingered as he uncapped the bottle, coating his fingertip with the silky liquid.

With delicate motions, Ilya spread the slickness onto Shane's entrance. His eyes never left Shane's face, searching for any sign of discomfort. Shane reassured him with a soft hum, letting him know he was all right.

Taking a deep breath, Ilya gradually inserted his first finger, watching Shane's response. Shane winced for a moment, and Ilya paused.

"I'm okay, Ilya. Don't stop," Shane insisted, his voice brimming with desire.

Encouraged, Ilya began a slow, rhythmic motion, gently exploring Shane's depths. The exquisite sensation pulled a sensual moan from Shane, igniting a flame deep inside Ilya.

Driven by their intimate connection, Ilya introduced a second finger. Shane's grip on the sheets tightened. Passionate moans filled the room, the sound of pleasure harmonizing with their desires. Ilya's pace quickened in response to Shane's fervent cries, fueled by growing ardor.

Their eyes locked in a profound gaze, each immersed in the intensity of the moment.

"Ilya, please. I need you," Shane begged.

Ilya positioned himself between Shane's inviting thighs and delicately applied lube to his own cock. He noticed the adoration and nervousness lingering in Shane's expression, so he tried to lighten the mood.

"Why am I nervous all of a sudden?" Ilya whispered, his voice tinged with anticipation.

"Because it's our first time as a married couple," Shane replied, his voice full of happiness.

Ilya's smile radiated affection. He leaned closer until their breath mingled and their noses brushed. "Yes. You are right, husband," he whispered, gently kissing Shane's lips. "Now, I will show you how fuck you as my husband."

Before Shane could react, he felt Ilya's cock begin to push inside. He caught his breath in surprise and pleasure. As Ilya fully entered him, Shane's held breath escaped in a rush, replaced by a smile. Looking into each other's eyes, they took a moment to adjust. Shane nodded, still smiling, giving Ilya the go‑ahead to move.

At first, Ilya was careful, thrusting slowly in and out to ensure Shane felt no discomfort. Shane's moans grew louder as they found their rhythm. Their bodies glistened with sweat. Shane's nails dug into Ilya's back as he matched his movements, syncing their hips together. The subtle difference was incredible. Shane could hear the bed creaking beneath them and the sound of their skin meeting with each thrust. Ilya's panting and occasional groans as he going in and out of Shane. With their new angle, Ilya hit every right spot inside Shane. Overwhelmed with pleasure, Shane's legs gave way and fell to the sides. Sensing this, Ilya swiftly positioned them over his shoulders.

The new angle allowed Ilya to penetrate even deeper, intensifying every sensation coursing through Shane. His eyes rolled back in sheer bliss; he could not contain his pleasure.

"Fuck, Ilya! Harder!" Shane moans.

With every thrust, his moans escaped, and his hips desperately met Ilya's movements. Then Ilya leaned down, pressing Shane's knees against his chest, and drew their lips together in a passionate kiss. Shane eagerly tangled his fingers in Ilya's sweat‑dampened hair, anchoring himself as their tongues danced, savoring their connection. Ilya increased his pace. Their faces were mere millimeters apart, and they could not tear their eyes away from each other.

Suddenly, Shane's toes curled, and his knees shook against Ilya's sides, signaling that he was about to come. Waves of pleasure surged through him, intense and swift. His moans filled the room, momentarily stifled by the air trapped in his throat until he found his voice again and released them loudly. Each wave crashed over him, and Ilya continued to thrust a few more times. Shane's body trembled. His legs tingled, and his hips twitched from overwhelming sensitivity. He almost wanted to ask Ilya to stop, but he also longed to feel Ilya's release inside him. Gripping Ilya's shaft with his inner muscles, he moaned Ilya's name, urging him on. Finally Ilya surrendered, throwing his head back as he thrust a few more times. His brows furrowed, his lower lip caught between his teeth, and moans of ecstasy escaped him as he reached his climax.

Both lovers collapsed onto the bed, basking in the warm afterglow of their passionate union. Ilya gently withdrew and curled beside Shane again. Their skin, still moist with sweat, created an intimate connection that Shane cherished. He loved the evidence of their passion, even the sticky residue on his stomach. Ilya adored how Shane did not mind getting dirty and sweaty, only pulling him closer and wrapping his arms around him.

They lay together wrapped in the warmth of the soft comforter. A comfortable silence filled the room. Their bodies intertwined as they relished their blissful intimacy. Time seemed to stand still while they basked in the gentle caress of each other's touch.

Breaking the silence, Shane's voice softly pierced the tranquility. "Ilya?"

"Yes, moya lyubov?" Ilya kissed Shane's temple.

"Can you fuck me while I'm on top of you now?"

Ilya smirked. "I thought you would never ask."

Outside, the Mediterranean went on glittering, indifferent and eternal. A boat horn sounded far away. Somewhere on the beach, someone was still playing that distant guitar.

Inside, the only sounds were breath and skin and the slow, steady rhythm of two people learning each other all over again. A new language made of touch and silence.

---

By the time they finally left the hotel again, the sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon. The sky over Ibiza glowed in shades of gold and pink, soft as watercolors bleeding into one another. The air still held the warmth of the long summer day, but a gentle breeze had started to drift in from the sea, carrying with it the faint salt of the Mediterranean.

The streets near the beach were lively now. Music drifted from bars and cafés, a mix of Spanish guitar and something more modern thrumming from open doorways. Groups of tourists laughed as they passed by, their voices rising and falling in several different languages. The scent of grilled seafood and saltwater mixed together in the air, and somewhere nearby, someone was frying churros.

Shane walked beside Ilya, his hands tucked into the pockets of his light linen pants. Years of habit were hard to shake. Even now. He had spent so long guarding himself, keeping his hands to his sides or buried in his pockets, that the instinct did not disappear just because they had said their vows.

He glanced sideways at Ilya walking next to him. Relaxed. Confident. Completely comfortable in his own skin. Ilya walked like he had nothing to hide and nothing to fear, which was easy for him. He had always been braver than Shane in the small ways.

Shane looked ahead again. Then down on the pavement. The cobblestones were worn smooth in some places, rough in others, and he counted a few of them before his thoughts caught up with him.

They were married. And nobody here knew who they were.

The realization settled slowly in his chest, not like a weight but like warmth. Like the first sip of coffee on a cold morning. He was just another tourist in a crowd. Just a man walking beside his husband.

Before he could overthink it, Shane reached out. His fingers gently caught Ilya's hand.

Ilya stopped mid-step. He turned his head slightly, looking at Shane with mild surprise, one eyebrow raised just a fraction.

Shane shrugged casually, though his heart was beating faster than it should have been. "It's crowded," he said.

Ilya's lips slowly curved into a smile. A real smile, not the sharp one he gave to reporters or the polite one he gave to strangers. This one was soft and private and meant only for Shane. Without hesitation, he intertwined their fingers, his palm warm and dry against Shane's.

They continued walking like that through the lively street. Shane felt something warm spread through his chest, radiating outward until it reached his fingertips. It was such a small thing. Holding hands. Something children did without thinking, something couples did in movies without fanfare. But for years, it had been something they could only do in private spaces, behind closed doors, or in the dark of a car.

Now, they walked openly through a crowded street in Ibiza, their fingers laced together, and no one stared. No one pulled out a phone. No one whispered behind their hands.

Shane glanced down at their hands, smiling to himself.

They wandered through a few small shops along the way. In one, they laughed over ridiculous souvenirs: a ceramic donkey wearing sunglasses, a shot glass shaped like a bull's horn, a t-shirt that said 'I left my liver in Ibiza'. In another, they stopped to admire bright beach clothes and handmade jewelry, and Ilya tried to buy Shane a leather bracelet. Shane refused. Ilya bought it anyway.

Eventually, they reached a restaurant that overlooked the beach. Their table sat near the railing, the ocean stretching endlessly before them as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The water had turned from bright blue to deep indigo near the horizon, with a trail of orange light rippling across the surface like a silk ribbon.

Candles flickered softly between them as they ate. Small glass votives holding tea lights that cast dancing shadows across the white tablecloth. The food was simple but good: fresh bread dipped in olive oil, grilled fish that flaked apart at the touch of a fork, a bottle of crisp white wine that tasted like green apples and limestone.

Ilya leaned back slightly in his chair, watching the water. His shirt collar was unbuttoned one button more than usual, and the candlelight caught the line of his throat.

"Tomorrow, we go swimming," he said. Not a question. A statement of fact.

Shane nodded easily. "Sure." He took a sip of his drink, the wine cool against his tongue, before his attention drifted toward a nearby table.

Two men sat there, clearly a couple. They were laughing together, leaning close as they talked. One of them had his hand on the other's knee. Then the one with the hand on the knee reached forward and kissed the other without hesitation. Right there, in the open. A quick kiss, barely a second long, but unmistakable. A claim. A comfort.

Shane immediately looked away, his cheeks warming. He reached for his wine again, though the glass was nearly empty.

Ilya noticed instantly. He had a talent for noticing things about Shane, even the small ones. He followed Shane's earlier gaze and spotted the couple. The woman at the next table was watching them with a fond smile. No one else seemed to care.

Then Ilya looked back at Shane.

"You want that?" Ilya asked. His voice was quiet, not teasing, not challenging. Just curious.

Shane nearly choked on his drink. He coughed once, then set the glass down. "Fuck, no," he said quickly. "It's a public place."

Ilya shrugged lightly, his shoulders rolling in that easy way of his. "We could. We are married. And we are in a foreign country." He said it like it was simple. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Shane shook his head, still flustered. His ears felt hot. "I don't know," he admitted. "I'm just not used to it."

Ilya rested his elbow on the table and propped his chin on his hand. He looked at Shane with an expression that was half fondness and half amusement. "You have seen our friends make out before."

Shane huffed softly. "That's different."

"How?"

"They're not us." Shane could not explain it better than that. Kip and Scott had always been more open, more unafraid of what people thought. They had earned that right somehow, or maybe they had simply taken it. So as Troy and Harris, Ryan and Fabian, Eric and Kyle. Shane was still learning.

Ilya studied him quietly for a moment before nodding. He did not push. That was one of the things Shane loved about him. Ilya knew when to press and when to wait.

"Okay." Ilya traced the rim of his wine glass thoughtfully, his finger making a slow circle around the thin crystal. Then he seemed to remember something. His eyes lit up slightly, that particular gleam he got when he was about to say something that would make Shane blush.

"You know, after Scott kissed Kip at the ice rink," he said slowly, "I started thinking about it."

Shane blinked. "Thinking about what?"

Ilya looked directly at him. The candlelight reflected in his eyes, making them look almost amber. "Kissing you in public."

Shane's face turned even redder. He could feel the heat spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. He picked up his fork just to have something to hold.

"Maybe on the ice rink," Ilya continued, his voice calm, almost conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. "Or here in Ibiza." He leaned slightly forward across the table, closing some of the distance between them. The candle flickered between them. "I just want to kiss you and tell everyone you are mine. That you are my husband. That I am Ilya Hollander, Shane Hollander's husband."

Shane ducked his head slightly, embarrassed but smiling. He could not help it. The smile kept trying to break through, no matter how much he tried to suppress it. He cleared his throat before speaking again.

"Maybe someday," he said quietly. The words came out softer than he intended.

"Okay." Ilya smiled softly, his expression warm and content. He leaned back again, giving Shane space, and picked up his wine glass. The moment settled between them like a held breath finally released.

The ocean continued to shimmer beyond the railing, and the candles burned lower, and somewhere behind them, the same guitar played on.

---

The next few days in Ibiza passed in a blur of sun, laughter, and the kind of quiet happiness Shane still wasn't entirely used to. The kind that snuck up on him when he wasn't paying attention, usually right after Ilya said something ridiculous or did something even more ridiculous.

They spent most mornings by the beach. The water was impossibly clear, the sand warm beneath their feet, and the sky stretched endlessly blue above the Mediterranean. Tourists lounged under umbrellas while music drifted lazily from nearby beach bars. It was perfect. Idyllic. Exactly what Shane had been looking forward to.

Until Ilya stepped out of the hotel bathroom wearing a Speedo.

Shane stared at him.

The brief was black. That was the only neutral thing about it. It fit Ilya like it had been sewn onto his body by a tailor with very specific intentions. The fabric clung to his hips, hugged every muscle, and left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Shane felt his brain short-circuit, then reboot, then short-circuit again.

"Ilya," he said slowly. His voice came out strangled, "No."

Ilya looked down at himself, then back at Shane. Completely unbothered. As if he had just stepped out in a sensible pair of cargo shorts.

"What?"

"I bought us matching swimming trunks." Shane pointed toward the bed, where there was a perfectly normal, knee-length, respectably modest swim trunk lying folded with a matching white polo with it. Shane is wearing the same one, but his swim trunks are dark blue, while the one in bed is forest green. They had little anchors on them. They were cute. They were safe.

"Yes," Ilya said calmly. "I saw them. Thank you."

"So why are you wearing that?" Shane asked, gesturing vaguely at the brief. He refused to look directly at it. He also refused to stop looking at it. It was a crisis.

Ilya glanced down at himself again, then shrugged. "For tanning."

"Tanning," Shane repeated flatly.

"Yes. Less fabric means more sun. More sun means a better tan. Better tan means..." Ilya paused, as if searching for the right words. Then he smiled. "I look good."

Shane groaned and dragged a hand over his face. He could feel a headache forming behind his right eye. Or maybe that was just his blood pressure.

"If I could, I would go naked for a fair tan," Ilya added, leaning casually against the dresser. He crossed his arms, which only made things worse. "It is the most efficient way."

Shane's head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "You absolutely would not!"

"I know," Ilya said with a small, infuriatingly sweet smile. "You would probably go back to Canada immediately. Board the next flight. Leave me here alone with my brief and my shame."

"You don't have shame," Shane muttered.

"Exactly. That is why we are a good match," Ilya winked at him.

Shane glared at him. It was a weak glare at best. He could feel it crumbling around the edges because Ilya looked so stupidly pleased with himself. And also because the brief was still there. Still existing. Still committing visual crimes against Shane's sanity.

"So I compromise," Ilya said, gesturing down at the brief as if it were a reasonable middle ground. As if the alternative had been a single fig leaf and a prayer.

Shane sighed. A long, deep, world-weary sigh that carried the weight of every questionable decision he had ever made that led to this moment. He wanted to lock Ilya up in the hotel room and make him change. He wanted to shove him back into the bathroom and throw the matching trunks at his head. He wanted to close his eyes and count to ten and wake up in a universe where his husband had a normal understanding of public decency.

Instead, he grabbed his sunglasses and shoved them onto his face. He picked up the white cotton polo shirt on the bed and threw it at Ilya. Ilya catches it.

"Let's just go before I change my mind," Shane said as he walked out of the bedroom.

Ilya's quiet laughter followed him out the door. Low and warm and deeply satisfied. The laugh of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had no intention of stopping. He wears the stupid polo to match his husband. Compromise, right?

Shane walked down the hotel hallway at a brisk pace, refusing to look back. He could hear Ilya's footsteps behind him, unhurried and smug.

"You are blushing," Ilya observed.

"The sun is bright."

"It is not even eight in the morning."

"Shut up, Ilya."

Ilya laughed again, and Shane felt the corner of his own mouth twitch despite himself. He was going to kill his husband. Right there on the beautiful beaches of Ibiza. It would be a crime of passion, and frankly, any jury would understand.

But first, he was going to need sunglasses that were a lot darker.

---

Their days settled into an easy rhythm. The kind of rhythm Shane could get used to. The kind that made him forget about hockey schedules and press conferences and the fact that at any moment, someone might recognize them.

Mornings at the beach. Swimming in the warm water, floating on their backs like lazy seals, lying in the sun until their skin turned pink. They also spent a lot of time arguing about sunscreen. Shane insisted on it. He applied it religiously, like a man preparing for battle. Ilya claimed he didn't need it. He said his skin was 'naturally resilient'. Shane said his skin was 'naturally delusional'.

"You will burn," Shane warned, holding out the bottle.

"I will bronze," Ilya corrected.

"You will look like a lobster."

"A handsome lobster."

Shane threw the bottle at him. Ilya caught it, grinned, and applied exactly one dot to his shoulder before tossing it back. Shane wanted to drown him. He loved him, but he also wanted to drown him.

Afternoons were spent wandering through the narrow streets of Ibiza, stopping at small cafés and restaurants to try whatever local food caught their attention. Shane discovered he loved the fresh seafood. The grilled octopus, the garlic shrimp, the white fish that flaked apart like clouds. He ate with enthusiasm, making small sounds of approval that he would never admit to.

Ilya discovered he loved watching Shane eat the fresh seafood. He would sit across the table, chin in his hand, smiling like a man watching his favorite show.

"You are staring," Shane said.

"I am appreciating," Ilya said as he ate some oyster.

"It's creepy."

"It's romantic."

"It's creepy romantic."

Ilya nodded. "I will take it."

Evenings were a different story entirely. Ibiza came alive at night. The sleepy beach town transformed into something else, something louder and brighter and slightly unhinged. Music spilled from every corner of the island, thumping bass lines vibrating through the cobblestones. Nearly every night, they ended up in a different club, and nearly every night, Shane asked himself why he kept agreeing to this.

For Shane, the clubs were an experience. That was the polite word for it. The music was loud, painfully loud, the kind of loud that made his teeth rattle. The lights flashed in strobing patterns that seemed designed to induce a seizure. The crowds were endless, a sea of sweaty bodies and raised hands and drinks that cost way too much.

And apparently, he and Ilya attracted attention everywhere they went.

Men approached them. Women approached them. Groups of people approached them like they were a two-for-one special. Some recognized them as hockey players, pointing and whispering and pulling out phones. Some clearly didn't care and were simply flirting, drawn in by Ilya's ridiculous shoulders or Shane's unfortunate inability to look mean.

The first time it happened, Shane had frozen awkwardly while a woman tried to dance very close to Ilya. She was beautiful and confident and completely undeterred by the fact that Ilya was standing there like a statue. Shane stood three feet away, holding a drink he no longer wanted, unsure if he should intervene or run.

Ilya had calmly lifted his hand. The black and gold wedding band caught the flashing club lights, sending a tiny glint across the dance floor.

"Sorry," he said easily, with a small shrug. "I am married."

Then he walked towards Shane, stood beside him, and wrapped an arm around Shane's waist to pull him closer, so close that Shane's chest bumped against Ilya's arm. Shane had blushed so hard his ears burned. He could feel the heat radiating off his own face like a space heater.

"You could have just said no," Shane muttered as the woman wandered off.

"I did say no. I also wanted to touch you."

"You always want to touch me."

"Yes," Ilya said, as if this were a perfectly normal answer. "That is also why I married you."

It happened so often over the next few nights that Shane almost got used to it. Almost. He still tensed up every time someone approached. He still felt that flicker of awkwardness, that instinct to step back and let Ilya handle it. But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

One night, a man tried to buy Ilya a drink. Ilya opened his mouth to refuse, but Shane beat him to it.

"He's taken," Shane said flatly. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. The man took one look at Shane's face and retreated.

Ilya turned to stare at him. His expression was somewhere between delighted and stunned.

"That was hot," Ilya said.

"Shut up."

"I am being serious."

"I know. That's the problem."

Ilya grinned, wide and bright, and Shane had to look away before his own face caught fire again. He was never going to survive this week. But at least he was having fun. At least he was laughing. At least, when Ilya pulled him onto the dance floor five minutes later, he didn't even try to resist.

---

One day, they walked along the beach while the sun slowly sank toward the horizon. The beach had quieted as the day tourists disappeared, leaving only a few couples walking along the shore, their voices carried away by the breeze.

Shane walked beside Ilya, listening to the soft sound of the waves. The sand was cool beneath his feet now, the heat of the afternoon finally fading. He felt loose and content, the kind of peace he rarely allowed himself to feel back home. His shoulder brushed against Ilya's arm with every other step, a small and easy contact that said everything.

Then he glanced at him.

The sunset light fell directly across Ilya's face. His hair glowed faintly gold at the edges, the sunlight catching along his jaw and shoulders. His skin looked warm, almost amber, and his eyes seemed deeper than usual, holding the last light of the day. He was not doing anything special. Just walking. Just breathing. Just existing.

For a moment, Shane simply stared.

Ilya looked beautiful. Maybe even more than usual. But that was not quite right either. It was not that Ilya looked different. It was that Shane finally had the space to really see him. No cameras. No deadlines. No voices calling their names from across a rink. Just this. Just them.

Shane felt something swell in his chest, something that started small and grew until it pressed against his ribs. It was not lust or desire. It was something quieter, deeper. Recognition. Wonder. The strange and overwhelming realization that this man was his. That he got to keep him.

Shane slowed his steps. Then he stopped entirely.

The sand shifted beneath his feet as he turned to face Ilya fully. The breeze played with the hem of his shirt, and somewhere behind them, a gull called out across the water.

Ilya noticed immediately and turned toward him, a small furrow appearing between his brows. "What's wrong?" he asked. His voice was soft, almost cautious.

Shane did not answer. He could not find the words. He did not need them.

Instead, he stepped closer. The distance between them shrank until Shane could feel the warmth radiating off Ilya's skin. He could smell the salt on him, the faint trace of sunscreen, something underneath that was just Ilya. A scent he would know anywhere.

Before Ilya could say anything else, Shane reached up and kissed him.

Right there on the beach. In the open. With the sunset painting the sky behind them and the waves lapping at the shore a few feet away. No hiding. No fear. Just Shane's lips pressing softly against Ilya's, a question and an answer all at once.

Ilya froze for only half a second. His body went still, surprised, as if he could not quite believe what was happening. Then he melted into the kiss. The tension drained from his shoulders, and his hand came up to cup Shane's jaw, his fingers curving around the bone with a gentleness that made Shane's heart ache.

He kissed Ilya back deeply, not rushing, not holding back. His own hand found Ilya's chest, palm flat against the steady thump of his heartbeat. The world seemed to fade around them. The sound of the waves grew distant. The colors of the sky blurred at the edges. There was only the warmth of Ilya's mouth, the soft press of his thumb against Shane's cheek, the quiet sound of Ilya breathing in through his nose like he was trying to memorize this moment.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathing a little harder. Shane's lips tingled. His eyes felt wet, though he had not been crying. Just overwhelmed. Just happy.

Ilya looked at him with wide eyes. His pupils were large and dark, and his expression was something Shane had never seen before. Not surprise, exactly. More like awe. Like Shane had just given him a gift he did not know how to name.

"We did it," Ilya said softly. His voice cracked on the last word.

Shane smiled. His whole face felt warm. "Yes," he shrugged lightly, a small, almost shy movement. "We can do it whenever we want now."

The simplicity of that sentence seemed to land between them. No schedules. No hiding. No fear of who might see. Just the freedom to love each other in the open.

Ilya laughed softly, a breathy sound full of wonder, before leaning down to kiss him again. Shorter this time, but no less tender. His lips brushed against Shane's like a promise.

When they broke apart, he pulled Shane into a tight hug. His arms wrapped all the way around Shane's back, holding him close, pressing him against his chest. Shane felt Ilya's heart beating fast, faster than it should have been for such a quiet moment. He buried his face in the curve of Ilya's neck and breathed him in.

"I love you," Ilya murmured. The words vibrated against Shane's temple, low and rough and utterly sincere.

Shane rested his forehead against Ilya's shoulder and closed his eyes. The sun was still sinking behind them, the sky growing darker by the minute, but he did not care. He would have stayed there forever, wrapped in Ilya's arms, with the sound of the waves and the warmth of his husband's body.

"I love you, too," he said. His voice was small, almost a whisper, but it was the truest thing he had ever spoken.

---

Two nights before the end of their honeymoon, Shane woke sometime after midnight.

The bed beside him was empty. The sheets were still warm on his side, but cool where Ilya should have been. Shane blinked sleepily, his mind slow and thick with dreams he could no longer remember. He pushed himself up on one elbow and looked around.

Moonlight spilled through the large windows of their hotel suite, casting everything in shades of silver and deep blue. The curtains swayed slightly from the breeze drifting in off the Mediterranean. The ocean was a dark breathing presence beyond the glass, endless and quiet.

Across the room, Ilya stood near the window.

He wore only his boxer briefs, the pale moonlight outlining his tall frame. His shoulders were tense, his head tilted downward slightly as he looked out toward the water. He looked like a statue. Like he had been standing there for a very long time.

Shane's chest tightened. He pushed the covers aside, his bare feet meeting the cool marble floor, and walked quietly across the room. The air was cooler here near the window, carrying the faint salt scent of the sea.

"Ilya?"

Ilya turned his head slightly when he heard his name. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but something in his posture softened. Just a little.

Shane stepped beside him, close enough that their arms almost touched. Without thinking, Ilya slipped an arm around Shane's shoulders, his palm warm against Shane's bare skin. Shane wrapped his own arms around Ilya's waist, pulling himself into the curve of Ilya's body. He could feel the slight tremble in Ilya's muscles, the tension still lingering there.

"Why are you awake?" Shane asked softly. His voice was thick with sleep but gentle.

Ilya stared out at the dark ocean for a moment. The moon traced a silver path across the water, broken by small waves. A single boat light blinked far in the distance.

"I think I am crashing a little," he admitted. His voice was low, almost hollow.

Shane frowned, his brow furrowing against Ilya's chest. He tilted his head up to look at Ilya's profile. "What do you mean?"

Ilya shrugged slightly, a small movement that made Shane's arms rise and fall with his shoulders. "Everything has happened very fast," he said quietly. "Wedding. You in the team. New life." He paused, his throat moving as he swallowed. "I am just... very overwhelmed."

The word hung in the air between them. Overwhelmed. Not sad. Not scared. Just too much goodness packed into too few weeks, and his mind did not know what to do with it all.

Shane's arms tightened around him. He pressed his cheek against Ilya's chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. It was a little faster than usual.

"Are you okay?" Shane asked. His voice was steady, but there was a thread of worry underneath.

Ilya nodded. His chin brushed the top of Shane's head. "I'm fine," he said. "Just a little anxious."

Shane leaned his head lightly against Ilya's shoulder, letting his weight settle there. He could feel the warmth of Ilya's skin, the faint goosebumps rising on his arm from the night air.

"You don't have anything to worry about anymore," Shane said gently. He spoke each word carefully, like he was placing them one by one into Ilya's hands. "We're married. We're on the same team now. You have friends, family..."

He looked up at him, meeting those dark eyes in the moonlight. Shane's own eyes were soft, earnest, holding nothing back.

"And I love you so much."

Ilya's expression softened. The tension in his jaw released. His eyes, which had been distant and guarded, suddenly looked wet. Not crying, but close. He blinked once, twice.

"I know," he said. His voice cracked on the second word, "I love you, too, Shane." He kissed Shane's temple. A long, slow press of his lips against the thin skin there. Shane felt the warmth spread through him like honey.

"Shane."

Shane hummed softly, his eyes fluttering half closed. "Yes?"

Ilya hesitated for a moment. His fingers curled slightly against Shane's shoulder, then relaxed. Shane waited. He did not push. He just held on.

"Can I ask you a favor?" Ilya said finally.

Shane did not even think. The word came out before Ilya had finished breathing. "Anything."

Ilya turned slightly, his arm shifting so that he could look at Shane properly. They were face-to-face now, inches apart. The moonlight carved out the planes of Ilya's face, his cheekbones, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw.

"Next time I have a session with my therapist," he said carefully, "I want you to come with me."

Shane blinked in surprise. His lips parted, but he did not speak. He waited.

"I want you to see it," Ilya continued quietly. His voice was steady but soft, like he was explaining something fragile. "To understand what I am working through."

He rubbed the back of his neck slightly, a nervous habit Shane had seen a hundred times. But this time it was different. This time it was not embarrassment. It was trust.

"It is nothing bad," he added. "I am getting better." He looked down at his own feet for a second, then back at Shane. "But I want you to understand. Is that okay?"

Shane was quiet for a moment. The waves whispered outside. The moonlight shifted as a cloud passed over the sky. He looked at Ilya's face, really looked at it, and saw how much it had cost him to ask. Ilya Rozanov, who never asked for help. Who carried everything alone until the weight bent his spine. He was asking now. Not for rescue. For understanding.

Then Shane smiled softly. A small, warm, certain smile.

"Okay," he said. "I'll go with you."

The relief on Ilya's face was immediate. His shoulders dropped a full inch. His eyes brightened, not with tears now but with something lighter. Gratitude. Love. A quiet kind of wonder.

"Thank you," he said.

Shane squeezed his waist gently, his fingers pressing into the warm skin just above Ilya's hip. "No," he said. "Thank you for letting me come."

Ilya nodded slowly. Then he leaned down and kissed him.

It was not a passionate kiss. It was soft and deep and full of everything he could not say. A thank you. I trust you. I am scared, but I am not alone anymore. Shane kissed him back just as softly, his hand sliding up to rest against the back of Ilya's neck, holding him there like something precious.

After the kiss, Shane gently took his hand. Their fingers laced together, warm and familiar, "Come on," he said.

He led Ilya back to bed. The sheets were cool when they slid between them, but Shane did not mind. Once they were under the covers again, Shane pulled Ilya close, turning him so that Ilya's back rested against Shane's chest. Shane wrapped an arm around him, palm flat against Ilya's heart. Their legs tangled together under the blanket.

Within minutes, Ilya's breathing slowed as he fell asleep. His body softened, the last traces of tension melting away. His hand came up to rest over Shane's, holding it there even in sleep.

Shane brushed a soft kiss against his forehead. He felt the warmth of Ilya's skin, the faint pulse at his temple, the weight of him against Shane's chest.

"I love you," he whispered into the dark. The words were so quiet they barely disturbed the air.

Then he closed his eyes too, and let the sound of the waves and the rhythm of Ilya's breathing carry him to sleep.

---

The clinic of Dr. Galina Molchalina was quiet that afternoon, the kind of stillness that made every small sound feel magnified. A soft clock ticked somewhere behind the reception desk, though no one sat there. The hallway outside her office smelled faintly of antiseptic, clean and sharp, but underneath that was something floral Shane could not quite place. It might have been dried lavender or perhaps a gentle chamomile tea brewing in a back room. A small row of chairs lined the wall, their cushions a muted gray fabric worn smooth by years of nervous visitors. Above the chairs hung a framed landscape painting, a calm lake surrounded by deep green trees, their leaves perfectly still as if the air itself had decided to rest.

Shane sat beside Ilya in one of those chairs. Neither of them spoke.

Ilya's hands were clasped loosely between his knees, his shoulders hunched forward just slightly, the way a person might curl around a private ache. Shane had seen that posture a hundred times before, in hotel rooms after bad losses, in the quiet of their own bedroom when Ilya thought Shane was already asleep. It usually meant Ilya was trying to look calm when he was actually tense, his body a careful lie.

Shane glanced at him. Up close, he could see the subtle tightness in Ilya's jaw, a small muscle flickering beneath the skin. The afternoon light from a high window caught the edge of Ilya's profile, making the tension there almost translucent. Without saying anything, Shane reached over and gently took his hand. Ilya's fingers were cool and still, but they curled around Shane's almost immediately, as if some part of him had been waiting for that touch.

Ilya looked up. His eyes were tired, a little guarded, but not closed off.

Shane squeezed his fingers softly, a press of warmth and bone and promise.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

For a moment, Ilya looked at him. Then his expression softened, the hard line of his mouth easing into something smaller and almost shy. He gave Shane a small smile, the kind that had always felt like a secret between them.

"I am okay," he said.

Before Shane could respond, the door at the end of the hallway opened. A woman stepped out, her white coat crisp and her posture professional. She looked toward them with a polite nod.

"Mr. Rozanov," she said. "Dr. Molchalina is ready for you."

Ilya nodded and stood. Shane stood with him, their hands still linked. Ilya glanced down at their joined fingers, then back at Shane. His expression had shifted again, softer now, almost vulnerable.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Shane nodded. "Yeah." He squeezed Ilya's hand once more, a small reassurance, and together they walked into the office.

Inside, Dr. Galina Molchalina was already standing beside a small seating area. The room was warm and carefully arranged, with a low bookshelf filled with thick volumes and a single green plant in a ceramic pot near the window. She was a composed woman, her gray hair pulled back neatly, her expression calm and attentive as she greeted them. She did not rush forward or shake their hands immediately. Instead, she waited, giving them a moment to step inside and settle into the space.

Ilya spoke first. "Dr. Molchalina," he said, then gestured toward Shane. "This is my husband, Shane Hollander."

The word husband seemed to hang briefly in the room, suspended in the warm air like a note held just a little too long. Galina's eyebrows lifted slightly with pleasant surprise, not shock but genuine warmth, before she stepped forward and extended her hand.

"It is very nice to meet you, Mr. Hollander," she told Shane warmly. Her voice was low and steady, the kind of voice that made people want to tell the truth.

Shane shook her hand. "Just call me Shane. I am glad to meet you, too."

Galina gestured toward the sofa across from her chair. "Please," she said. Shane and Ilya sat together on the couch, their thighs pressing together out of habit more than need. The cushions were soft but supportive. Galina settled into the single chair opposite them, crossing her legs at the ankle and folding her hands in her lap. For a moment, there was quiet, a respectful silence that felt less like awkwardness and more like permission.

Then Ilya cleared his throat. "I should apologize," he said.

Galina tilted her head slightly. "For what?"

"For not inviting you to our wedding." Ilya's voice was careful, each word placed like a stone across a stream. "Besides Shane, no one knows that I see a therapist." He glanced down briefly at his own hands. "So it was difficult to invite you."

Galina smiled gently, the corners of her mouth lifting without any strain. "That is perfectly fine," she said. "I was not expecting an invitation." Her eyes flicked briefly toward Shane before returning to Ilya. "Is there a reason you brought your husband today?"

Ilya did not answer right away. Shane felt the slight tension return to his husband's posture, that familiar tightening in the shoulders and the way Ilya's breathing seemed to grow shallower. Instinctively, Shane placed a gentle hand against the middle of Ilya's back, right between his shoulder blades. He could feel the warmth of Ilya's body through his shirt, could feel the small knots of muscle there. Ilya leaned into the touch just slightly, a barely perceptible shift, but it was enough.

Then he spoke. "I want him to know," he said quietly.

Galina waited patiently, her expression open and unhurried.

"I want Shane to understand what I am going through," Ilya continued. "He is my husband now." He glanced briefly toward Shane, and in that glance there was something raw, something unguarded. "He has the right to know the man he married."

Galina nodded slowly, processing his words without rushing to respond. Then she shifted her attention toward Shane. "And how do you feel about that?"

Shane sat forward slightly, his hand still resting on Ilya's back. "As long as Ilya is comfortable sharing this with me," he said, "I will be here." He glanced briefly at his husband before looking back at Galina. "I will always be here for him. No matter what I learn."

Galina gave a small approving nod. "There is nothing to worry about," she said calmly, and her tone carried no false cheer, only a gentle factual reassurance. "Ilya has improved a great deal since our first session."

Still, Ilya looked nervous. Shane noticed it immediately in the way Ilya's fingers curled against his own knee, in the slight parting of his lips as if he wanted to say something but had forgotten how to start.

Galina folded her hands together. "Why do we not start with what has happened since our last session?"

From there, the conversation shifted naturally, like a river finding a smoother channel. Ilya began explaining everything that had happened over the past weeks. Their relationship being revealed to the public. The playoffs. The loss. The media attention. The wedding. The honeymoon. He admitted that everything had been overwhelming, a flood of noise and lights and expectations. But he also admitted something else, something that made his voice drop lower and softer. He had never been this happy before. For the first time in his life, he could love Shane openly. Walk beside him in public. Hold his hand without fear.

"I am Shane Hollander's husband now," Ilya said quietly, and the words seemed to settle something in his chest.

At one point, he also explained that he had taken Shane's last name. Galina asked gently what his family might think. Ilya's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of old pain that passed quickly across his face like a cloud over the sun.

"My family," he said slowly, "is complicated." He explained that the only person he had left was his brother, and they had not spoken since their father's funeral. His voice did not break, but it thinned at the edges. "I am proud of my surname," he said. "But I want to carry the name that made me feel like I belong somewhere." He glanced toward Shane. "I want to honor David and Yuna," he said softly. Then his voice steadied, gaining back its familiar weight. "I am still Ilya Rozanov on the ice." His expression softened, the hard lines melting into something tender. "But I am Ilya Hollander for the rest of my life."

Shane smiled at him fondly, a slow, warm smile that reached his eyes. He did not say anything. He did not need to. The look itself was enough.

The session continued like that for a while. Galina asked careful questions, never prying but always curious. Ilya answered thoughtfully, sometimes pausing to find the right word, sometimes looking at Shane for reassurance. Shane listened quietly beside him, his hand occasionally moving in small circles against Ilya's back. And slowly, the tension that had followed Ilya into the room began to fade. His shoulders dropped from where they had been hunched. His breathing became deeper, more regular. By the middle of the conversation, he even laughed once, a low, quiet sound that made Galina smile.

Galina eventually turned her attention back to Shane. "How do you feel after hearing all of that?"

Shane thought for a moment. The room felt very still around them. "It is good to know how he feels about everything," he said. He hesitated slightly, his tongue touching his lower lip. "Some parts made me uneasy." He glanced toward Ilya, then back at Galina. "But knowing these sessions help him feel better, that helps me too." His voice softened, becoming almost a murmur. "I am proud of him." He placed a hand over Ilya's, palm to back of hand, fingers curling gently. "And I will be here for him. When he is happy and especially when he is anxious or crashing or lonely."

Ilya leaned closer and pressed a gentle kiss to Shane's shoulder, his lips warm through the fabric of Shane's shirt. The gesture was small and quick, almost reflexive, but it carried the weight of years of private comforts.

Shane fell quiet after that. Ilya noticed immediately. He studied Shane's expression for a moment, searching for something only he knew how to find, before speaking. "I need to use the restroom," he said.

Shane nodded. "Okay."

Ilya stood and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the latch seemed louder than it should have been.

Once the door closed, Galina looked back at Shane. Her posture remained relaxed, but her attention sharpened just slightly. "Do you have any questions?"

Shane did not hesitate. "Will he be okay?"

Galina smiled gently, and there was no condescension in that smile, only a quiet certainty. "Compared to our first session, he has improved tremendously. He still has difficult days, yes. But he is learning how to move through them rather than hide from them." She paused, letting that land. "He will be okay, Shane."

Shane nodded slowly. "Okay." Then he hesitated, his throat working around the next words. "Is there anything I can do to help him?"

Galina leaned back slightly, her hands unfolding in her lap. "You are already helping him," she said. She gestured lightly toward the door where Ilya had disappeared. "The fact that you are here today, that you told him you would support him, that is likely the reason he felt comfortable bringing you. You are not just his husband, Shane. You are his anchor."

Shane nodded, his throat tightening unexpectedly. He swallowed the emotion before it could rise too high, but his eyes felt warm. He blinked and looked down at his own hands for a moment.

"Actually," he said quietly, "I am going through something, too."

Galina listened without moving, her attention entirely on him.

"I had a moment after the announcement about me leaving the Montreal Metro." He rubbed the back of his neck slightly, a nervous habit he had never been able to break. "Ilya suggested I talk to someone." He hesitated again. The words felt awkward in his mouth, too heavy and too light at the same time. "I just do not know how comfortable I am talking about it with you. Since you are his therapist."

Galina studied him for a moment, her eyes kind but not pitying. Then she smiled, a genuine curve of her lips. "That makes perfect sense," she said. "Therapeutic relationships are built on trust and boundaries. You are right to want your own space."

Shane looked relieved, his shoulders dropping a full inch.

"I can recommend someone else," she continued. "A colleague of mine who specializes in athletes and major life transitions. He might be a better fit for you."

Shane nodded. "Yes. I think I would prefer that."

"Stop by sometime," Galina said. "I will prepare some information for you. No pressure, no timeline. Just an option when you are ready."

"Thank you," Shane said sincerely, and the words came out rough at the edges.

A few moments later, the door opened, and Ilya returned. He moved quietly, the way he always did when he was trying not to disturb a fragile peace. He sat beside Shane again, their hips pressing together on the sofa. Immediately, he noticed something different. Shane looked calmer. The furrow between his brows had smoothed out. His breathing was slower.

Galina smiled gently. "That is all for today," she said. She looked at Ilya with warmth. "I look forward to seeing you again, Ilya."

Then she looked at Shane. "And I am very glad I got to meet you, Shane."

Shane smiled politely, but there was real gratitude behind it. "I am glad to meet you, too."

Ilya stood and offered Galina a grateful nod. "Thank you," he said, and his voice was steady, fuller than it had been when they arrived.

Shane stood beside him. Their hands found each other again automatically, fingers intertwining like two parts of a single habit. Ilya squeezed once, a small pulse of warmth, and Shane squeezed back.

Together, they left the office. The hallway smelled again of antiseptic and flowers, but this time Shane noticed the floral note more clearly. Lavender. It was lavender after all. The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking the seconds as they walked toward the front door. Ilya's shoulder brushed against Shane's as they moved, a constant light pressure that said everything words could not. When they stepped outside into the cool afternoon air, Ilya stopped for a moment and looked at Shane. His eyes were clear, his jaw relaxed.

"Thank you for coming," Ilya said quietly.

Shane leaned in and pressed a kiss to Ilya's temple. "Always," he said. "No matter what."

And for a long moment, they simply stood there, hands still clasped, the door of Dr. Molchalina's office closing softly behind them.

---

The last flash went off with a sharp burst of white light, bright enough to leave a ghostly afterimage floating at the edge of Shane's vision. He blinked once, twice, and the spots slowly faded as he lowered his chin and relaxed his shoulders. The tension in his neck had been stubborn throughout the photo session, but he thought he had managed to look natural for at least a few of the shots.

Gen lowered her camera with a satisfied nod, her fingers already scrolling through the previews on the small screen. She hummed approvingly under her breath. Harris stood off to the side with a tablet tucked under one arm, and he stepped closer to glance at the images over Gen's shoulder. His professional focus was absolute, his eyes scanning each shot with the careful attention of someone who had done this a thousand times.

"Perfect," Harris said finally, tapping the screen to mark his favorites. "Some of these will be your photos on the website. The lighting is good, and your expression in the third one feels very approachable."

Shane let out a quiet breath he had not realized he was holding. The pictorial had gone smoothly, better than he had expected. The interview questions had been straightforward, nothing too personal or invasive. The PR team had treated him with an ease that felt sincere rather than rehearsed, which was a welcome change after the chaos of the past few months. Still, now that it was over, a different kind of tension began to settle in his chest, low and persistent.

Because next came the part that mattered more. The part that had kept him awake for a few hours last night, staring at the ceiling while Ilya slept peacefully beside him.

Harris glanced up from the tablet and seemed to read something in Shane's expression. "Ready to meet the team officially?"

Shane nodded once. "Okay." The answer came out a little too quick, a little too stiff, like a door closing before he could think about it. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah. Okay."

Harris's mouth curved slightly, a small knowing smile that did not mock but rather understood exactly what that tone meant. He did not comment on it, which Shane appreciated. "Okay, you can change clothes now. I will wait for you."

"Right," Shane said, grateful for the excuse to step away for a moment. He headed back to the small changing room where his street clothes were folded neatly on a bench. His fingers felt clumsy as he unbuttoned the dress shirt from the photo session and pulled on a soft gray Henley and his favorite worn jeans. He stuffed the dress clothes into his duffel bag, zipped it with more force than necessary, and took a slow breath.

When he came out, Harris simply gestured for Shane to follow.

The hallway toward the locker room felt longer than it probably was. The walls were painted in the Ottawa Centaurs' deep red and black, with framed photos of legendary players lining the corridor. Their eyes seemed to watch Shane as he walked, a silent audience of champions and grinders alike. He had walked similar corridors hundreds of times in his career, in Montreal, in Boston, in every arena across the league. Yet this one felt different, like stepping into a new life he had only imagined until now.

He had met the Ottawa roster before, of course. He had played against them for years, sometimes twice a week during the regular season. He had shaken their hands at center ice, traded words during scrums, and nodded across rinks during warmups.

But that had been then.

Back when he had still been a rival.

Back when he had still been secretly dating their captain.

Now he was married to that captain. Now, he wore their colors. Now, he would share a locker room with these men, not as an opponent to be studied and stopped, but as a teammate to be trusted and supported.

The thought made his stomach flip.

Harris stopped in front of the locker room door and rested a hand on the cool metal handle. He glanced at Shane, and his expression was kind, almost paternal. "You ready?"

Shane swallowed. His mouth felt dry. "Yes."

Harris's smile widened just a fraction. He took out his phone and set it to video recording. Then, he pushed the door open.

He stepped inside first, holding the door wide.

Shane followed.

A loud pop exploded through the room, startling him for just a second before his brain registered what was happening. Confetti burst into the air, black and red pieces raining down in a fluttering storm that caught the overhead lights and glittered like tiny jewels. Balloons bobbed overhead, a cluster of red and black orbs tied to benches and sticks and even one of the hockey racks. Applause filled the space instantly, loud and bright and unmistakably joyful.

Shane froze in the doorway, his duffel bag slipping slightly in his grip, his eyes widening as he took in the scene.

The entire team stood there, clapping, grinning, some of them cheering outright with their voices echoing off the metal lockers. At the front of the group stood Luca Haas, a young forward with eager eyes and a grin so wide it looked almost painful. He was holding a poster above his head like a fan at a concert, and printed across it was Shane's own face, captured mid-celebration from an All-Star game a few years ago.

And beside him stood Ilya.

He was smiling. Not his usual sharp, competitive smile, the one he wore during games when he wanted to intimidate an opponent. This was something softer, proud and warm and almost shy, a smile that only Shane got to see in the quiet moments at home. In his hands, he held a bouquet of lilies wrapped neatly in dark paper, their white petals bright against the red and black of the room. Tucked into the ribbon was a small plushie shaped like the Ottawa Centaurs mascot, a fuzzy beaver with a tiny hockey stick sewn into its hand.

Ilya stepped forward and held out the bouquet. "Welcome to the team, Shane Hollander," he said, his voice carrying across the room.

Shane's ears warmed. He could feel the heat spreading to his cheeks, but he did not mind as much as he thought he would. He accepted the bouquet carefully, his fingers brushing Ilya's for a brief second, a private touch hidden in plain sight. "Thank you," he said, his voice quieter than usual. He looked around the room at all the smiling faces, the confetti still settling on the floor, the balloons bobbing gently. "All of you. This is really nice."

A few players clapped louder in response, and someone let out a playful wolf whistle from the back of the room.

Ilya turned slightly, slipping into captain mode with effortless ease. He raised his voice just enough to be heard over the lingering chatter. "Okay! Let me introduce you to the team as our new team member." He gestured toward a tall player near the front, a defenseman with a calm, steady presence. "Zane Boodram. Assistant captain."

Zane nodded once, firm and approving, and extended his hand. "Good to have you, Hollander. We have been waiting for this since the trade rumors started."

Shane shook his hand, feeling the solid grip. "Thank you. Happy to be here."

"Troy Barrett, of course," Ilya continued, moving his gesture toward the familiar face.

Troy grinned and stepped forward to shake Shane's hand with enthusiasm. "Seriously, man. I am really happy you joined us." His eyes flicked briefly to Ilya and back, a knowing look that suggested he knew more than he let on. "It is going to be a good season."

Shane just smiled at him, a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"Not as happy as Luca," Wyatt added from the side, his tone playful as always.

All eyes turned toward the young forward.

Ilya's smile widened. "That is Luca Haas," he said, and Shane could hear the affection in his captain's voice. Shane looked at Luca.

Luca froze mid-smile, still holding the poster above his head. His ears turned pink. "Hi, Mr. Hollander," he said, then winced at his own formality. "I mean, Shane. Welcome to the Ottawa Centaurs!"

Zane grinned, enjoying the moment. "He has both his idols on the same team now. I think he might actually cry later."

A ripple of laughter moved through the room, warm and teasing. Someone patted Luca on the back hard enough to make him stumble a step.

"You will sign that later," Ilya told Shane, nodding toward the poster.

Shane looked at the poster, then looked back at Ilya. Ilya winked at him, a quick flash of mischief that made Shane's heart do a small flip. Shane looked back at Haas, who was still holding the poster like it was made of gold. "I will sign it later," he said. "Maybe with a little note. Something embarrassing."

Luca ducked his head, sheepish but clearly pleased, and the laughter around him grew louder.

Ilya continued the introductions, pointing each teammate out in turn. "Wyatt Hayes. Evan Dykstra. Nick Chouinard. Tanner Dillon. Jaden Young. Tomas Boyle. Jake Holmberg. Pete LaPointe." He added a few more names, the rookies and the veterans, until Shane had met every face in the room.

Each greeted Shane in their own way. Handshakes, nods, easy smiles, a few fist bumps. Wyatt hugged and lifted him like he didn't weigh anything. Evan joked about how annoying it would be to practice against him every day. Pete, always a gentleman, simply clapped Shane on the shoulder and said, "Glad you are here, Shane," which made Shane feel strangely emotional.

The tension in Shane's chest loosened with every name, every welcome, every small moment of inclusion. He had been nervous, truly nervous, in a way he had not expected. Leaving Montreal had felt like leaving a part of himself behind, even though he knew it was the right decision. But standing here now, surrounded by these men who had once been rivals and were now becoming teammates, he felt something shift inside him.

He felt like he belonged.

Then the locker room door opened again.

Coach Wiebe stepped in, his large frame filling the doorway for a moment before he moved inside. His gaze landed on Shane immediately, and his expression softened into a pleased smile, the kind a father might give a son who had just accomplished something important.

"There he is," Wiebe said warmly. "Welcome to the Centaurs, Shane."

"Thank you, Coach," Shane said, and he meant it.

Wiebe clasped his hands together once, a sharp sound that drew everyone's attention. "We will have practice today. Nothing too intense. I want to see how the lines look with you in them before the season starts." His eyes glinted faintly, a hint of competitive fire beneath the calm surface. "After that, we are heading to Monks for drinks. My treat."

A loud cheer went up, echoing off the lockers and the concrete floor.

Wyatt raised a hand immediately, his grin mischievous. "Shouldn't Ilya pay? His husband is the new guy."

Ilya nodded without hesitation, his expression perfectly serious. "No problem."

The room erupted again, laughter and hoots and a few whistles.

Evan laughed, shaking his head. "Careful. We might bankrupt you. Some of us have expensive tastes."

Ilya lifted a brow, his mouth curving into a slow smile. "Did you forget I married one of the highest-paid players in the league? I think we will manage."

More laughter filled the space, and Shane felt his own smile growing wider, unstoppable.

He shook his head, already turning toward his new stall, which had been prepared with his nameplate and a fresh set of practice jerseys. "I am not paying anything," he called over his shoulder. "I am new to the team. That is the rule."

Troy stepped closer to Ilya and gave his shoulder a firm pat, almost brotherly. "Good luck," he said with exaggerated sympathy.

Ilya narrowed his eyes slightly, though his smile remained. "With what?"

Troy just grinned and walked off without answering, disappearing into the cluster of players who were already discussing the best appetizers at Monks.

Ilya glanced toward Coach Wiebe, who only smiled knowingly before turning and leaving the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.

Ilya shook his head, amused, then looked toward Shane. Shane was setting his flowers carefully on the shelf above his locker, arranging the lilies so they would not get crushed, then positioning the small centaur plushie beside them like something fragile and important. He stepped back to admire his arrangement, his head tilted slightly.

A slow, fond smile spread across Ilya's face. He pushed off the wall where he had been leaning and walked toward his husband. Time to annoy him, he thought, but the thought was warm, not sharp.

He stopped beside Shane, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "You will look good in black and red," he said quietly, just for the two of them.

Shane glanced at him, and his expression was soft, content, nothing like the nervous man who had walked down this hallway hours ago. He leaned closer to Ilya and said something that he would only hear, "I'm excited to celebrate tonight," he said.

Ilya reached out and slid his hand on Shane's waist, his fingers brushing the fabric for no reason other than to touch him. "So am I," he said.

Shane laughed, a real laugh, and the sound drew the attention of a few nearby players. Zane raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and Harris, still holding his phone, lowered it with a satisfied nod. He had captured the entire welcome, from the confetti burst to the quiet moment between Ilya and Shane.

Shane looked around the locker room one more time. The confetti had been mostly kicked aside now, and the balloons bobbed gently overhead. His teammates were laughing and joking, already treating him like one of their own. His husband was standing beside him, warm and solid and proud.

He felt happy. Truly, deeply happy. The kind of happiness that settled into his bones and made him forget why he had ever been nervous in the first place.

A little while later, the team slowly filed out of the locker room, their voices fading into the hallway until only quiet remained behind. Soon, it was just Ilya and Shane left inside.

Ilya leaned back against the bench, waiting patiently while Shane finished tying the laces of his skate. The familiar sound of the laces pulling tight filled the small space. When Shane was done, Ilya picked up his stick and lightly tapped the blade against the floor.

Shane glanced up at him and smiled.

Ilya returned the smile without hesitation.

Shane was really excited to play with the Ottawa Centaurs. The team had welcomed both of them without hesitation. Everyone had been friendly, kind, and supportive toward him and Ilya, which made everything feel easier than Shane had expected.

"Okay," Shane said, rolling his shoulders back. "Let's go practice."

Ilya grinned. "That is my husband."

And together, they walked out of the locker room, heading toward the ice rink.

---

The cottage was quiet that evening, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only came from deep woods and slow-moving water. Soft golden light spilled through the windows as the sun slowly lowered behind the trees behind the cottage, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The light caught the dust motes floating in the air and turned them into tiny floating stars. The faint sound of the lake outside drifted in through the open door, a gentle lapping of water against the shore that rose and fell like a quiet breath.

Shane stood in their bedroom, finishing the last of the unpacking. His movements were unhurried, almost meditative, as he pulled the final shirt from the suitcase on the bed. It was a soft flannel, worn at the cuffs, one of his favorites. He folded it carefully, smoothing the fabric with his palm, and then slid it neatly into the closet beside Ilya's clothes. Their things were mixed together now. Shirts and jackets and hoodies, all sharing the same wooden hangers and cedar shelves. Ilya's dark sweaters pressed against Shane's lighter ones. Their sneakers sat side by side on the floor of the closet, a casual tangle of laces.

It was such a small thing, this mingling of belongings. But it made Shane smile every time he noticed it, a quiet private smile that spoke of something deeper than words. He had dreamed of this for years, of a closet where their clothes touched, of a home where no one would question why his things were mixed with Ilya's. And now that dream was simply real, as ordinary and precious as the air he breathed.

When he turned around, he saw Anya curled up on her dog bed near the corner of the room. The bed was a thick, round cushion in a dark gray fabric, and Anya had arranged herself into a perfect circle, her nose tucked under her tail. The dog was fast asleep, her paws twitching slightly like she was chasing something wonderful in a dream. A small snuffling sound escaped her, and her tail gave a single lazy thump against the bed.

Shane chuckled quietly, the sound soft and fond. "Living the life," he murmured to no one in particular.

Two days from now, they would leave the cottage and head back to the city. Back to their house with the large kitchen and the backyard where Anya liked to chase squirrels. Back to practice, to the cold bite of the ice, to the familiar rhythm of morning skates and video sessions and post-game meals. Their first game of the season with the Ottawa Centaurs was coming soon, the date circled in red on the calendar above Ilya's desk. And it would be their first season as a married couple, their first time stepping onto the ice wearing matching jerseys with the same team crest on their chests.

Shane closed the closet door and stepped outside.

The evening air was cool and fresh, carrying the clean scent of pine needles and damp earth. The wooden deck beneath his bare feet was still warm from the afternoon sun, but the breeze off the lake had turned cool, raising goosebumps along his arms. He wore only a thin T-shirt and a pair of running shorts, but he did not mind the chill. The smell of water and pine filled his lungs as he walked down the short path toward the lake, the grass soft and slightly wet with dew under his steps.

He spotted Ilya immediately.

Ilya stood near the edge of the water, his hands resting loosely in his pockets as he looked out at the calm surface of the lake. The fading sunlight came from behind them, from the direction of the cottage, which meant their faces were turned away from the setting sun. The lake before them reflected the sky in soft shades of orange and pink, a mirror of color that stretched to the far shore. Ilya looked peaceful in a way that Shane had learned to recognize over the years, a rare and precious stillness that came only when Ilya felt completely safe. He wore a grey tank top that clung to his frame, black shorts that ended just above his knees, and a pair of worn flip flops that had seen better days. His hair was slightly messy from the breeze, dark strands falling across his forehead.

For a moment, Shane simply watched him. He watched the gentle rise and fall of Ilya's breathing. He watched the way the reflected light from the lake caught the small silver band on Ilya's left hand, their wedding ring glowing softly. He watched the soft curve of Ilya's mouth, neither frowning nor smiling, just resting.

Then he walked over, his footsteps quiet on the grass.

Ilya noticed him approaching and turned his head slightly. A soft smile appeared on his face, the kind of smile that was less a movement of lips and more a light in the eyes. Shane stepped beside him and reached for his hand. Their fingers intertwined naturally, Ilya's palm warm and calloused against Shane's. The fit was familiar, perfect, like two pieces of a puzzle that had been searching for each other for a long time.

Shane squeezed gently. "Mom texted earlier," he said.

"Okay?" Ilya's voice was low and relaxed, unhurried.

"She said we should stop by tomorrow before we head back to the city."

Ilya nodded, his thumb brushing absently across the back of Shane's hand. "Of course," he said. "I still have to finish the puzzle with David."

Shane laughed softly, the sound carried away by the breeze. "You and Dad have been working on that puzzle for like a while."

"It is complicated," Ilya said defensively, though his smile gave him away. "There are many pieces, and they all look the same. David is not much help either. He keeps trying to place the wrong pieces in the wrong places."

Shane snorted, a short burst of amusement. "He's trying, Ilya."

"I know," Ilya muttered, but his eyes were warm.

For a moment, they both watched the lake again. The water moved slowly, lazily, the surface rippling in gentle waves that caught the colors of the sky. A loon is making the wolf sound again, as Ilya calls it. Behind them, the sun continued its descent, painting the back of the cottage in gold, but their faces remained softly lit by the reflected glow of the water.

Shane let out a quiet sigh, the sound full of something that was not quite sadness and not quite anticipation, but a mix of both. "I cannot believe the new season starts soon."

Ilya glanced sideways at him. "Nervous?"

"A little," Shane admitted. He watched a small fish jump near the shore, a silver flash that disappeared as quickly as it came. "But mostly excited." He nudged Ilya's shoulder lightly with his own, a small, affectionate bump. "Our first game together as a married couple."

Ilya smirked, that familiar crooked expression that had made Shane's heart skip a beat for more than a decade. "Are you really okay playing in the second line?"

Shane shrugged, the motion easy and genuine. "I am used to it." Coach Brandon Wiebe had explained the plan clearly during their last meeting. Shane would start the season on the second line, a change from the center position he had played for most of his career. It was a big adjustment, a shift in his role and his responsibilities on the ice. But eventually, Coach Wiebe had promised, he planned to move Shane back to center. The second line was a temporary home, not a permanent demotion.

Ilya leaned down and kissed Shane's temple, his lips warm and soft against Shane's skin. "I will center you soon," he said softly, the words carrying a double meaning that made Shane's chest feel full.

Shane smiled and rested his head against Ilya's shoulder. He could feel the solid warmth of Ilya's body through the thin fabric of the tank top, could feel the steady rhythm of Ilya's heartbeat. They stood like that for a long moment, watching the last streaks of sunlight ripple across the lake, the water turning from gold to copper to a deep, soft blue as the sun sank lower behind them.

Then Ilya spoke again. "Bood might step down as alternate captain."

Shane lifted his head slightly, his chin brushing Ilya's shoulder. "Really?"

"Yeah," Ilya said. His gaze remained on the lake, but his voice carried a note of thoughtfulness. "He told me he might want to take a step back for a while." Bood's wife had just had their first child. Shane had seen the photos on Bood's phone, the exhausted joy on the new father's face. "He wants to focus on his family," Ilya continued. "Coach Wiebe is still talking to him about it, making sure it is what he really wants. But Bood seems pretty certain."

Shane nodded slowly. "That makes sense. Having a baby changes everything." He thought of his own parents, of the way his mother had always said that hockey was important, but family was everything. "Good for him, honestly."

"There might be changes," Ilya added, his tone casual but with a small undercurrent of something else.

"Like what?"

Ilya glanced at him, and there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes, something almost shy. "Wiebe said the next alternate captain could be either Troy or you."

Shane blinked. The words took a moment to settle in his mind. "Me?"

Ilya nodded. His thumb continued its slow movement across Shane's hand. "I would be happy with either," he said. "Troy deserves it. He did so well last season. But I think you would look very good with an A on your jersey." His smile turned teasing. "Very handsome."

Shane huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I am fine with whatever happens," he said. And he meant it. The letter on his chest had never mattered as much as the game itself. He squeezed Ilya's hand again, a firm press of reassurance. "As long as I can still play hockey." Then he looked at Ilya warmly, letting his affection show openly the way he had learned to do over the past months. "And be with you."

Ilya's expression softened, the teasing fading into something deeper and more tender. "I agree," he said quietly.

They fell into a comfortable silence again, the kind of silence that did not need to be filled. The sun had nearly disappeared behind them now, and the lake had deepened to a soft twilight blue, scattered with the first faint reflections of stars beginning to appear overhead.

Then Shane spoke again, his voice thoughtful. "This season will be different."

Ilya hummed in agreement, a low sound in his throat.

"We will not have to hide anymore." Shane let the words hang in the air between them. No more pretending on the ice rink. No more careful glances across crowded arenas. No more acting like they were just rivals on ice and friends off ice. The weight of that secrecy had been a constant presence in their lives for so long that Shane had almost forgotten what it felt like to be free of it. "We are married now," he said. "And we are going to lead the Ottawa Centaurs to a championship."

Ilya chuckled, a low warm sound that vibrated through his chest and into Shane's shoulder. "Yes." He turned toward Shane, fully facing him now, their hands still linked between them. "We are not Lily and Jane anymore."

Shane laughed, the memory of that old alias surfacing with fondness. "Nope."

"Just Ilya and Shane." Ilya raised his free hand and cupped Shane's jaw gently, his palm warm against Shane's skin, his fingers curling along the line of his cheekbone. "Married." He said the word slowly, tasting it, savoring it. "And about to make this season very difficult for the rest of the league."

Shane grinned, wide and bright, the kind of grin that had been rare in the years of secrecy but came easily now. "Damn right." His hands slid naturally to Ilya's waist, his fingers finding the familiar dip of Ilya's hips, the solid warmth of him.

Ilya leaned closer, his forehead almost touching Shane's. When he spoke, his voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and he slipped into Russian the way he always did when his feelings were too big for English. "Ya tebya tak sil'no lyublyu." I love you so much.

Shane did not need a translation. He had heard those words enough times to know them in his bones, to feel them in the way Ilya looked at him, touched him, stayed beside him through every hard season. His smile widened, soft and sure. "I love you so much, too."

Ilya kissed him then. It was not a desperate kiss or a hurried one. It was slow, warm, and full of quiet certainty, the kind of kiss that said everything words could not. Ilya's lips moved against Shane's with a gentle pressure, and Shane responded in kind, his fingers tightening slightly on Ilya's waist. The lake murmured beside them with soft lapping sounds. The last glow of the sunset painted the backs of their shoulders and the edge of the cottage behind them, but their faces were illuminated by the pale rising light of the first stars reflected in the water. And for a long moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, to the warmth of their mouths and the steady beat of their hearts.

When they finally pulled apart, Ilya's eyes were soft, and Shane knew his own looked the same.

And as the last sliver of sun disappeared behind the cottage and the lake turned to a sheet of dark silver, Shane realized something simple but powerful. They had fought for this. For the love they shared, the kind of love that had demanded patience and courage and a willingness to risk everything. For the life they were building, brick by brick, season by season, in a cottage by the lake, a house in the city and a locker room that had finally opened its doors to them both. They had earned this peace, this quiet evening, this kiss.

And now they would take it with them everywhere. Onto the ice, into every game, every season, every victory that waited ahead. They would carry it into the first face off of the year, into the long bus rides and the late night flights, into the noise of the arena and the silence of their home. Ilya and Shane were married. Not secretly, not carefully, not in the shadows. But openly, proudly, with their hands intertwined and their futures aligned.

Together, they were ready to show the world just how far love could carry them.

Shane leaned his head against Ilya's shoulder once more, and Ilya pressed a kiss to his hair. The lake stretched out before them, calm and endless, and the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky above the water. Somewhere behind them, Anya let out a sleepy bark in her dreams, and Shane smiled.

This was home. This was happiness. This was only the beginning.