Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

May 2019

Montreal

The night was buzzing. The streets of Montreal were packed with young crowds drifting in and out of clubs and bars serving loud music and booze of questionable origin. Eric opened his studio at eight p.m. sharp; reckless kids were his bread and butter on the weekends. Working as a tattoo artist, he’d seen his fair share of people doing wild things and making snap decisions. People who’d drink too much and stumble into the studio in the middle of the night after a club, asking for a tattoo they’d surely regret by morning. Being located in downtown Montreal, sandwiched between two nightclubs, made his shop a prime target for those impulsive moves. Because of that, he had a rock-solid liability waiver—drafted by a top-tier lawyer, no loose ends, no chance of a lawsuit.

Life had been good to him. He had a solid reputation among his clients, gave sound advice, and his fine, delicate linework made him a local favorite. After the disaster of failing to find a decent job with a nursing degree from a bottom-tier college, he’d thought his life was over. It was a friend who told him his sketches were too beautiful to stay on paper and nudged him toward tattooing.

Bless her heart.

And God bless whatever allowed him to witness an actual angel on Earth when a tall Asian man, built like a tank with an angelic face, walked into the studio at two in the morning.

"Good evening." He was sober. That shocked Eric more than his looks; nobody showed up sober at this hour.

"Hi, good evening. What can I do for you today?" Lord, he sounded forced. Of course he did—this man was completely throwing him off his game.

"I’d like to get two tattoos. They’re small, so I think it’ll be quick—not that I know the first thing about tattooing," he said, clearly nervous and being so cute that Eric had to resist the urge to hug him. "But there’s a catch."

"What is it?"

"I need you to sign an NDA."

Eric’s eyes narrowed, scanning the man even more closely. Of course a guy looking like that wouldn't be just anyone. Who was he? Curiosity simmered in his blood, prickling his skin. Well... to find out, he’d have to sign the damn thing.

"Alright, pretty boy. I’ll sign your NDA, you sign my contract, you pay me, and you’ll walk out of here with your first tattoo."

The man gave a shy smile that made Eric’s legs wobble.

"Let me see your ID so I can put your info in the contract."

Eric opened his laptop on the counter, ready to start the paperwork, but the client didn't budge.

"I need you to sign this first," he said, pulling a few pages from an envelope Eric hadn’t even noticed in his hands.

"I can't even know your name first?" The artist was floored. Who was this guy, for God's sake? The Prime Minister's son?

"Sorry, I know you don't recognize me, but it’s really important." He looked away, his cheeks flushing and highlighting a face full of freckles.

Left with little choice, Eric took the papers and signed without even reading. His lawyer friend would probably kill him for it, but curiosity was already eating at his bones. He needed to know everything about this man, and he needed to know now.

When he handed the document back, he finally received the ID. It read: Shane Hollander, born in Ottawa. The name felt like a missed connection. Where did he know a Shane Hollander from? He was famous, clearly; the name rang a bell, and "normal" people don't go around making tattoo artists sign NDAs.

He printed two copies of his own contract and handed them over along with the medical history form. Eric pointed to a corner with a small table meant for clients, unable to resist watching him. He noticed how his new client seemed to read every single word of the contract—the kind of document most people sign without even checking if their own name is spelled right.

"So, did you bring your own ideas, or are you looking for something original?" he asked, already guessing the answer.

Instead of answering, the young man handed him two slips of paper that made zero sense to Eric. One just had a sequence of numbers, mostly separated into groups of four by hyphens. The other had something written in another language. Maybe Japanese? No, he’d watched enough anime to know it wasn't, and he knew for sure it wasn't Korean.

"Please, just tell me you’re one hundred percent sure about what’s written here," he blurted out. Shane laughed.

"I am, don't worry. This one I need you to tattoo exactly as it is. The other one, you can do in your own handwriting—I don't want it perfectly straight anyway. It’s just important that they stay in that exact order."

Still curious but not wanting to push his luck, Eric got to work. After Shane explained the placement, Eric created a stencil of the number sequence, and the other man’s face lit up.

The Russian script—Eric couldn't help but ask the language—was placed at the base of Shane’s spine. It was inside a small rectangle, which wasn't in the original plan, but Eric suggested it be done in an ultra-fine line, and Shane agreed.

The numerical sequence followed the natural curve of Shane’s iliac crest, and Eric needed every ounce of self-control not to be a creep and stare at an abdomen that looked like it had been carved by a Renaissance artist. He concluded Shane must be an athlete; not even models had a physique like that.

He was biting his tongue to keep from asking what the numbers meant. They couldn't be important dates because they included things like 1410 and 2481. Man, he wanted to ask Shane Hollander to write a book on the meaning behind his ink.

"Keep the tattoos well-moisturized. I’ll give you a sample cream, but you should pick up a full tube at the pharmacy tomorrow. And I don't need to tell you not to scratch them, even if it feels impossible, right?"

"You got it. I'll take good care of them." He didn't even need to say it; if Shane cared for his tattoos the way he cared for the rest of his body, they’d last a lifetime without needing a touch-up.

"If you can stop by in fifteen days so I can check the healing, that would be great."

"Um, I won't be in Montreal in two weeks... I have a game in the States. But the season is wrapping up; can I come by next month? Or I could send you a photo? As long as you promise to delete it immediately. Seriously, I can't risk this leaking to the press under any circumstances."

"Shane, I figured that much when you made me sign an NDA at two in the morning. Before tonight, I’d only seen that kind of thing in movies. My number is on the contract, send the photo, and I promise it’s gone as soon as I see it."

"Right." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away again.

"One day, when you don't have to hide anymore, I hope you tell me what kind of madness I helped Shane Hollander commit." This earned an honest laugh from the other man.

"You don't follow hockey, do you? It’s funny, I’m not used to talking to people who have no clue who I am."

"Nah. A bunch of guys chasing a puck isn't really my thing, no matter how hot they are. Should I ask for an autograph?"

"No, please. I like pretending I'm normal," he replied, laughing. "Thanks, Eric. If my..." he hesitated before continuing, "if my boyfriend likes it, he’ll probably send you a very over-the-top gift. If it’s too absurd, just text me and I’ll handle him."

Eric resisted the urge to translate the tattoo he’d just finished. To avoid temptation, he tore the sketches into dozens of tiny pieces; he had to respect the client's privacy. What he couldn’t resist was googling who the hell Shane Hollander was. He nearly fell out of his chair when he realized he’d just tattooed the Prince of Hockey. His first celebrity client, and he couldn't tell a soul because he’d signed an NDA.

June 2019

Montreal

Eric found it odd when he turned the corner and saw a man in a suit leaning against his storefront. He was carrying a briefcase and had a badge hanging from his neck, though the details were tucked under his blazer. A movie played in his head—his health permits were up to date, no recent complaints... what could it be?

"Eric Porter?" the man asked as Eric approached to unlock the studio.

"I have a delivery for you. Need you to sign here, please." The man held out a paper. Eric stepped inside, reading it, nothing major, just a proof of delivery for goods, the kind of thing he signed weekly for suppliers. But this man wasn't a supplier.

He signed the paper and handed it back, receiving a very thick manila envelope in return with a card stapled to it. On the card, it simply said: Спасибо (Thank you)

No signature, nothing, but he recognized the Cyrillic alphabet from last month’s tattoo. The gift from Shane Hollander’s boyfriend had finally arrived.

Eric almost passed out when he opened the envelope to find stacks of US dollars. Serious money. Ten thousand dollars exactly, he discovered after counting. He was being paid ten thousand USD for a tattoo he’d charged one hundred and fifty Canadian dollars for.

Shane Hollander was right when he said the gift would be over-the-top. Totally absurd.

He grabbed his phone and texted his client immediately.

To: Shane Hollander

“He sent me ten thousand dollars. I can’t accept this, it’s way too much.”

“Haha, I showed him yesterday, he went crazy for it. Keep it, you earned it. They look perfect and I’ve never seen this man so happy.”

“Shane.”

“Eric, I’m a very rich man. If you complain, I’ll send another ten thousand.”

It was clear that last message didn't come from his client. Eric sat down, still unable to believe his luck. That money would change everything; he could stop working the graveyard shift, move the studio to normal hours, and finally have a life. He wiped a stray tear from his face.

To: Shane Hollander

“Thank you.”

March 2021

Montreal

Eric was having lunch at a downtown restaurant with friends when the news broke. He wasn't paying attention to the TV, of course; Anna was telling a juicy story about her new boyfriend’s family. It was her boyfriend who pointed at the screen.

"Oh my god, I don't believe it."

The sports channel was on, and the screen was split between the anchors and a grainy video of two men kissing. The headline read: "Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov caught kissing in fanmail."

Shane Hollander... Eric couldn't help but feel sad for the guy. He’d been so kind; he didn't deserve to be outed like that on national TV. He had a right to a life outside the spotlight.

"Who’s Ilya Rozanov?" he asked his friend's boyfriend, Liam.

"He’s the best player in the league," Liam said, shell-shocked. "Actually, he’s tied for the top spot with Hollander... God... I can't believe this."

"Rozanov? Is he Russian?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah."

Eric felt even worse for his client. How long had they been hiding that relationship? Shane Hollander wouldn't get a tattoo for something recent; from the little Eric knew of him, he was sure of that.

He didn't think Hollander would ever contact him again, but two weeks later, the same suited man from years ago walked into the studio just before closing time, this time carrying a box.

"Eric Porter, please sign here."

Eric signed without reading this time, too curious. The man had barely left before he was tearing the box open. The first thing he saw was a frame, about 12x16 inches, with a photo of Shane Hollander’s back. He was wearing low-waisted dark pants, and the tattoo Eric had done was right there, lines intact at the base of his spine. The photo had two autographs: his client’s and his boyfriend’s, Ilya Rozanov. He couldn't help but laugh. It was clear this hadn't been Shane’s idea. He’d love to meet Rozanov, the guy seemed to have a great sense of humor.

“Dear Eric, I saw on your Instagram that you have frames of your work on other clients. I think it’s unfair you don’t have one of my fiancé, so I decided to provide it. Спасибо I.R.”

He took a photo and sent it to the contact he’d never deleted.

To: Shane Hollander

“Tell him I’ll find a good spot for you guys.”

“He says he’s going to book an appointment with you next off-season.”

“Can I finally ask what it says now?”

“You never googled the translation?”

Shane clearly found that shocking; he was obviously surrounded by people who didn't give a damn about his privacy.

To: Shane Hollander

“I wanted to respect your privacy. If you wanted people to know, you would’ve done it in English or French.”

“That’s kind of you. Thank you.”

“Well?”

“Property of Ilya Rozanov.”

Chapter Text

May 2019

Montreal

Shane Hollander is not a man of impulsive decisions. No, he likes to plan everything down to the last detail.

That is, until Ilya Rozanov is involved. Because when it comes to the Russian, all his self-control goes out the window. The problem was that their relationship made Shane want to do wild, reckless things.

The latest idea hit him in the locker room after practice, when JJ started chatting with him. Shane was sitting there, unlacing his skates, while his friend stood in front of him with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Shane had never felt even a flicker of attraction toward his friend, but as he looked at the bare torso covered in nonsensical scribbles that JJ swore had deep meanings, an idea took root.

He could get a tattoo.

From that moment on, he didn't hear another word out of JJ's mouth. It wasn't anything important anyway, something about a new CCM release. Shane had already received a box of the new gear and hadn't even bothered to open it.

He drove home wondering if Ilya would like to see him with a tattoo. God knows how much he loved seeing the Russian inked. A smile spread across his face, his boyfriend would never see it coming. It would be one hell of a surprise.

I need to do this.

Once the idea was in his head, he knew he couldn't get it out. But there was a catch: he had to do it in secret. If he asked any of his friends for help, he’d face a barrage of questions, unwanted design ideas, or inquiries about the meaning. No, he’d have to go solo.

His search for an artist was extensive. He needed someone talented but low-profile enough that he wouldn't be recognized; the last thing he wanted was for this to end up in the media. Shane eventually settled on Eric Porter’s studio for two basic reasons: it was open late into the night, less chance of being seen, and Eric was clearly gay, he could tell just by looking at his professional Instagram profile.

With the studio chosen, he dedicated himself to designing the idea. He spent hours online carefully studying Russian to make sure he didn't end up with a tattoo full of grammatical errors, and he reviewed years of messages with Ilya to write down every hotel room number, every important date. Every relevant number ended up on paper in chronological order, starting, of course, with the most significant: 2481, followed by 1410, and many others before ending with the date they first said "I love you." In the middle, he couldn't resist including Ilya’s birthday (it was important, after all).

With the artist and the designs decided, he scrambled to print the NDAs. Yuna had provided the document a week after she found out about them.

"It’s important to have something to protect you both in case someone finds out, my son. I know you trust your discretion and that it's worked so far, but it’s necessary," she had said, and he eventually accepted it. The document came in handy; after all, tattoo artists don't have oaths or laws requiring confidentiality.

When the night he’d marked in his calendar finally arrived, he was buzzing with anxiety. Not because he was second-guessing himself, no, he was absolutely sure of what he wanted, but because it was a huge step. He didn't have a single tattoo, and suddenly he was there, getting two for his boyfriend. Some would call it madness, but he had no uncertainty when it came to Ilya.

Never when it came to Ilya. Once he finally admitted to himself and to Ilya how important the Russian was in his life, he knew there was no turning back. He would never not want Ilya Rozanov. There was no way not to love him. Shane promised himself they would be forever; he would dedicate his life to it. Even more than hockey.

The street was busy when Shane parked right in front of the studio, in a rental car to minimize risk. Eric was alone, scrolling through his phone. The perfect scenario, Shane thought.

"Good evening," he greeted.

"Hi, good evening. What can I do for you today?" The artist's tone sounded forced. Shane wasn't sure if he’d been recognized or if the man was annoyed at having someone show up during his downtime. Probably the latter, who in their right mind gets a tattoo in the middle of the night?

"I’d like to get two tattoos. They’re small, so I think it’ll be quick—not that I know the first thing about tattooing." Great, his voice sounded off too, anxiety bleeding through his words.

Dammit, Shane Hollander. You’re an adult whose job involves hitting, skating, and getting beat up by men the size of mountains. Get it together. He took a deep breath, seeking calm.

"But there’s a catch."

"What is it?" Eric didn't even blink. Did he deal with that many "catches"?

"I need you to sign an NDA."

Shane could almost see the gears turning in the other man’s head as his eyes narrowed, seemingly analyzing Shane’s soul. Eric Porter definitely had no idea who Shane Hollander was; he wouldn't have looked so shocked if he did.

"Alright, pretty boy. I’ll sign your NDA, you sign my contract, you pay me, and you’ll walk out of here with your first tattoo."

Shane let out a sigh of relief and smiled. He would pay whatever it took to leave with those two tattoos and a guarantee of silence.

"Let me see your ID so I can put your info in the contract."

He hesitated. The man might not recognize his face, but he might recognize the name. He couldn't risk it.

"I need you to sign this first." He placed the NDA papers on the counter next to the laptop.

"I can't even know your name first?" Shane shook his head.

"Sorry, I know you don't recognize me, but it’s really important."

He looked away, feeling his face heat up. God, he hated getting into these situations, and he hated being the center of attention off the ice, even more so when he was alone in a room with someone else.

After Eric signed the documents, Shane finally handed over his ID. Watching the other man frown at the card, Shane was certain he hadn't been recognized at all. He was living in his ideal world; this was going better than he’d dared to hope.

The studio contract and medical form were well-drafted. Shane had read enough contracts and filled out enough forms to recognize professional work. Good questions, no room for the client to lie.

"So, did you bring your own ideas, or are you looking for something original?"

Instead of answering, he pulled the two sketches he’d made at home from his pocket. After tossing several attempts, the Cyrillic finally looked right, and he’d stopped remembering new "important" numbers. From the confused expression on the artist's face, Shane knew he didn't understand a thing, which was perfect.

"Please, just tell me you’re one hundred percent sure about what’s written here." Shane couldn't help it; he laughed heartily at the concern. It was a fair point; plenty of people messed up foreign language tattoos, especially Asian languages, his mom loved pointing out those mistakes.

"I am, don't worry. This one I need you to tattoo exactly as it is. The other one, you can do in your own handwriting, I don't want it perfectly straight anyway. It’s just important that they stay in that exact order."

Shane explained the placement. He wanted the numbers to follow the curve of his iliac crest. Eric had a fine touch; the numbers turned out small and delicate, subtle and, in Shane's opinion, very handsome. The Russian script needed to be centered at the base of his spine, because he knew his boyfriend’s reaction would be priceless every time Ilya took him from behind. He couldn't think about that right now, though; he couldn't exactly get hard in a tattoo shop, alone with another man. That would be a dick move.

He really liked the suggestion of putting the Russian script inside a rectangle, like a stamp. Because it was definitely a stamp. A very important stamp of ownership.

Shane thought it would hurt, he expected it to hurt, but the needles were nothing more than a slight nuisance, almost ticklish. Of course, his pain tolerance was different from normal humans who don't play contact sports. Still, he was surprised and relieved.

"Keep the tattoos well-moisturized. I’ll give you a sample cream, but you should pick up a full tube at the pharmacy tomorrow. And I don't need to tell you not to scratch them, even if it feels impossible, right?"

"You got it. I'll take good care of them." After all, there wasn't a part of his body he didn't care for. He’d take excellent care of a part of himself so special, so important.

"If you can stop by in fifteen days so I can check the healing, that would be great." That was going to be an issue.

"Um, I won't be in Montreal in two weeks... I have a game in the States. But the season is wrapping up; can I come by next month?" He suggested, though he knew it wasn't fair to the artist. "Or I could send you a photo? As long as you promise to delete it immediately. Seriously, I can't risk this leaking to the press."

"Shane, I figured that much when you made me sign an NDA at two in the morning. I’ve only seen that in movies. My number is on the contract, send the photo, and I promise it’s gone as soon as I see it." Shane smiled. Eric really seemed like a good guy; he’d made the right choice.

"Right." What’s the next step? Already paid, so... just leave?

"One day, when you don't have to hide anymore, I hope you tell me what kind of madness I helped Shane Hollander commit." Shane laughed again. Eric was definitely helping with a madness, and for once, Ilya wasn't the one leading it.

"You don't follow hockey, do you?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "It’s funny; I’m not used to talking to people who have no clue who I am."

"Nah. A bunch of guys chasing a puck isn't really my thing, no matter how hot they are. Should I ask for an autograph?"

"No, please. I like pretending I'm normal," he replied, laughing. "Thanks, Eric. If my..." he hesitated, but only for a second, he had an NDA to protect him now "if my boyfriend likes it, he’ll probably send you a very over-the-top gift. If it’s too absurd, just text me and I’ll handle him."

Shane was absolutely certain Ilya would love it, and once he regained his composure, he’d be incredibly grateful for the artist's work. Shane had to take care of himself before bed just thinking about what his boyfriend would do to him when he saw it, knowing his mind couldn't even touch the reality.

His new tattoos caught attention in the locker room the next day. Of course they did. He barely drinks, never parties, treats his body like a temple, and suddenly shows up with two tattoos? His teammates had questions. Lots of them.

"Holy shit, is that a tattoo, Hollander?" JJ was the first to notice when Shane pulled his shirt off after practice.

"Damn, I don't believe it, Cap!" Mitty crossed the locker room to get a closer look. Shane froze, remembering Mitty had played in the KHL. He immediately turned to face them, hiding his back.

"What are those numbers?" Comeau asked, leaning down near Shane's waist to see better.

How could he explain the numbers? Well, he had the perfect excuse.

"It’s a Lily thing. I can't even explain it."

Cheers and hoots filled the room. Shane flushed and quickly pulled his shirt back on; he could shower at home, away from curious eyes.

"Damn, I knew that Boston girl was special, but enough for a tattoo?" JJ was floored. Shane almost felt bad for lying to his friend. "Picked out the ring yet, Cap? Because you’re definitely marrying her."

Oh, that put ideas in his head. There was nothing he wanted more than to put a ring on Ilya’s finger and make it official that he belonged to Shane. Hell, he wanted to change his name, his house... his team. He wanted to play with Ilya, finish his career alongside the Russian, the love of his life.

Well... ideas for another time.

June 2019

Ottawa

Shane managed to hide the tattoo from Ilya for three weeks. It took a lot of effort; he had to invent new angles for the photos his boyfriend requested in the middle of the night.

On the night before they were finally set to see each other, he thought about sending a photo with the tattoo partially visible, just to tease him, because he loved to tease. But he changed his mind; he wanted to face the consequences of those tattoos in person.

Shane had barely made it through the door before Ilya slammed him against the wall. He didn't mind having his body pinned against his boyfriend's bare chest; it was frustrating how Ilya seemed to have no idea how hot he was.

Ilya kissed him hungrily, with a longing that spoke of the days apart, pulling Shane into his arms and forcing him to wrap his legs around Ilya's waist while he was still kicking off his shoes.

"Miss me?" he asked mockingly before returning to kiss his partner.

"Every single day, moy lyubov," Shane smiled, hugging him tight. "Have you eaten?"

"I had breakfast. I think I can hold out for a few more hours before I get hungry."

He could hold out for many hours if it meant being in bed, naked, with his hot boyfriend.

"Good."

Ilya didn't let him back down to the floor. No, he was carried to the bedroom and tossed onto the bed exactly the way he liked. He could delay the surprise just a little longer, couldn't he? With a smirk, proud of himself, Shane sat up and reached for the button on his partner’s pants. He undid it and slowly pulled the zipper down. The pants slid off without resistance.

As Shane began to kiss around Ilya's waist, Ilya threw his head back and ran a hand through Shane’s hair, tugging firmly. He knew exactly what his boyfriend wanted, he also desperately wanted to pull down those black boxers and feel Shane’s mouth on him. He missed this so much.

"Shane, please," Ilya begged as Shane kissed him through the fabric. "Don't be a rebel."

"What do you want, baby?"

"To fuck your mouth. To fuck you. Dammit, I want you, Shane."

Holy shit.

Shane needed to regain control. He needed to remind Ilya how fully dressed he still was, in his uncomfortable jeans tightening over his own arousal, his shirt already damp with sweat.

"These jeans are killing me," he said, looking down at his lap with the most forced look of innocence.

Ilya cursed in Russian before pushing Shane back onto the mattress and starting to peel off his pants. Shane had pulled his boxers up a bit higher than usual on purpose, the tattoo wasn't visible yet when the jeans were tugged away.

"This hard for me, moy lyubov?" Ilya said, touching him through the boxers. "I bet you drove all the way from Montreal like this, just waiting for me to take care of you."

He wasn't wrong. He was more than right.

Shane moaned when Ilya increased the pressure. He eventually slid the boxers down, revealing the edge of the tattoo. He felt the Russian’s movements freeze, his eyes widening.

"Shane, sweetheart, what is this?" he asked, as if he didn't dare assume.

Shane smiled, satisfied.

"Oh, this? Just a little something I did last month when missing you became unbearable." Not even a child could sound as innocent as Shane forced himself to sound, he even blinked slowly and bit his lip to hide a grin.

Ilya knelt at the edge of the bed, his face close to Shane’s hip before pulling the boxers all the way down. Shane propped himself up on his elbows to watch the reaction of the man looking at his body like it was sacred. God, he felt precious in Ilya's hands.

"1410... 2481... 1506..." The words seemed to have vanished from Ilya's mouth—at least the English ones. He was muttering things in Russian that Shane couldn't understand. "Shane Hollander, you will be the death of me. They’ll have to write on my tombstone: 'Here lies Ilya Rozanov, died of Shane Hollander.'"

"Do you like it?"

"Do I like it?" Ilya climbed onto the bed, pressing his entire weight against Shane’s. Shane moaned at the contact and the sound of his boyfriend’s voice whispering in his ear. "I didn't think it was possible for you to get any hotter, moy lyubov, and then you go and get a tattoo for me... My birthday, Hollander... I... I am permanently marked on this immaculate skin, along with these beautiful freckles... I love you so much."

"I love you, Ilya. I’d tattoo your name just so everyone would know for sure that I’m yours."

"You are mine, Shane. Mine..."

Ilya finally lost control, biting Shane’s shoulder hard between kisses. Shane didn't know if he was moaning from the strong hands touching him or laughing in anticipation of the next surprise.

"Baby, please..."

"Please what, sweetheart? What do you need, my love?"

"I need you, Ilya. I need you."

"I’m right here, my love," he replied, pressing himself harder against Shane, his hand sliding over Shane’s length in a slow, agonizing rhythm.

"I need you inside me, Ilya. Please."

Ilya pulled back to reach for the lube on the nightstand. He applied it and quickly returned to Shane’s body, sliding a finger between his cheeks without entering—unfair torture.

"Baby, please... don't torture me."

"I won't. But only because you were a good boy and got a tattoo for me." With that, he slid a finger inside. Nowhere near enough. Shane complained and was rewarded with a second finger.

"God, I thought about you every day since last time. These past weeks have been torture."

"Tell me what you did when you thought about me."

"I... I’d call you and come while listening to you moan for me." Shane was losing his ability to speak; he needed to come so badly. "Fuck me, Ilya. Please."

Ilya leaned over him, meeting his mouth in a hot, wet kiss. Dammit, he was breathless, his body shaking.

"How do you want me to fuck you today, my love?"

"On my stomach, please." Ilya found the request odd, it showed on his face. Shane never asked for that when they hadn’t seen each other in a long time; Ilya also loved seeing his boyfriend’s face. "Just this once, please. I promise to go on top next time."

Ilya was still confused but gave in when Shane trembled under him again. He knew if he didn't stop, the other man would end up coming.

Shane turned over on the bed. He knew Ilya hadn't seen the second tattoo yet because he was too busy kissing the freckles on Shane's neck, whispering how beautiful he was and a string of Russian words that threw Shane off the rails. He had to use all his self-control not to grind against the mattress, he was desperate for attention.

He felt the moment Ilya saw it. The body over his went rigid, and the hand on his waist gripped with an absurd, almost painful strength.

"Shane..." Ilya’s voice was low, almost a prayer. "Fuck, baby..." He felt fingers tracing the base of his spine—light, careful touches, as if he were made of glass. "I don't believe this."

"What’s wrong? Don't tell me it's misspelled. I researched for hours to be sure." Shane knew it wasn't wrong.

"It’s right," Ilya replied hoarsely. "It’s all right. You are mine, Shane Hollander. My property. Mine."

"Yours, Ilya. From the day I met you until the day I die. Yours."

"Mine." He felt kisses over the tattoo and then bites around it. "Make it worth it, my letting you fuck me without seeing your face after so many days."

"Oh, Shane... I think you’d better be prepared to be fucked all afternoon... and all night. Because today we’re going to find out just how many times a day you can come. You aren't leaving this bed."

"Then start already," Shane commanded, being impertinent. He got a sharp slap for it, and like the slut he was, he moaned.

He gripped the sheets when he felt Ilya enter him fully, without hesitation, just the way he wanted.

"Please, Ilya. I want to remember you inside me for the rest of the week."

"We’re on vacation, love. You’ll have me inside you every day for the rest of the week. The rest of the month. Fuck, Shane, I want to be inside you for the rest of my life."

Ilya slowed the pace to keep from coming too quickly. Shane complained.

"Turn to me, moy lyubov. I want to be looking at your face and those beautiful freckles when I come," he pleaded.

Shane almost cried when Ilya pulled out, but he obeyed quickly, using what little strength his legs still had. He turned over, and the first thing he saw was the look of pure devotion he was receiving. Ilya didn't take long to push back inside him, moving faster now, both their bodies shaking.

"Touch yourself for me, my love. Come for me. I want to feel you coming around my cock."

He obeyed, because that’s what he did best: obey Ilya Rozanov in bed, being at the mercy of the Russian who had become the love of his life. Thinking about how much he loved him, he came, messy over both of them. Ilya smiled, coming a second later.

"Fuck, I love you so much," Shane said, pulling his boyfriend down into a tight hug with an athlete's strength.

"I love you, Shane. You are the love of my life. I love you so much," Ilya replied between kisses. "I’ll love you for the rest of my life, you know that, right? You just showed me a piece of paradise."

"You’re going to spend the rest of your life with me, Ilya. Because I’m yours, yes, but you’re also mine and I’m never letting you go. Never. I’m going to marry you. We’re going to have kids, grandkids, and get old and wrinkly before we die."

"Is this a proposal?" Ilya asked, laughing against his neck.

"It will be if I don't shut up. God, you fucked the common sense right out of me."

"Relax, my love. I want to marry you too, but I’m going to buy you a ring for the proposal..." They went back to kissing, Shane didn't want to leave, no matter how sweaty and messy they were. "Or maybe I should get a tattoo as a proposal."

Shane laughed.

Ilya kept his promise to fuck him every day of their vacation. Every day started with him on his stomach and the Russian worshiping his tattoo, always ending with them looking at each other and trading words of love.

And, just as Shane predicted, as soon as Ilya's brain stopped melting from pleasure, he wanted to know everything about the tattoos. Where the idea came from, when he’d thought of it, where he’d gotten it done, with whom.

And then he sent a scandalous gift to the artist, just as Shane predicted, and said he would also get a tattoo from him when possible, and that he wouldn't go to anyone else.

March 2021

Ottawa

Shane hadn't thought about Eric in a while. He barely remembered the man. It was Ilya who had the idea to send a gift to the artist after Eric posted a tour of the renovated studio on Instagram. Ilya saw a wall with frames from various clients and insisted it was absurd that his fiancé wasn't up there.

So, he was the one who took the photo, making sure to make Shane look "very sexy" (his words). He was the one who had the photo developed and framed in two copies, and he was the one who made Shane autograph the frame before sending it off.

He was shocked when Eric asked about the meaning of the tattoo. He never imagined the man wouldn't have googled it. Shane almost cried with gratitude for a man he barely knew.

"You know I’m inviting him to the wedding, right?" Ilya asked when he saw who Shane was texting.

"Oh, are you?" he asked, surprised.

"Of course. He’s going to tattoo my wedding band."

Chapter Text

June 2019

Ottawa

Ilya was anxious, bordering on agonized. He and Shane hadn’t seen each other in weeks, since Ilya hadn’t even qualified for the playoffs and Montreal had grinded it out until the Cup semifinals.

He was pacing back and forth in the living room when he heard the jingle of keys at the door. Naturally, Ilya sprinted to meet his boyfriend. Shane looked so beautiful and gave in to his kiss so quickly. God, how he’d missed that taste, the heat of their tongues meeting. Bless his athlete’s strength for making it so easy to haul that man into his arms and feel the pleasure of Shane clinging to him as if his life depended on it.

"Miss me?" It was pure audacity to ask that in the middle of a kiss when the answer was obvious. Ilya loved this Shane even more—the confident one who dared to tease him.

"Every single day, moy lyubov." The answer earned him the most beautiful smile in the world. Oh, Ilya was head over heels for this man. "Have you eaten?"

Please say yes, let me carry you to bed right now.

"I had breakfast. I think I can hold out for a few more hours before I get hungry."

Well, Ilya intended to make excellent use of those hours.

"Good."

That was all he said before blindly navigating the way to their bedroom, the other man still in his arms. No way in hell was Ilya letting him go anywhere but the bed. Shane seemed perfectly happy with that when his back hit the mattress, giving a wicked smile that nearly brought Ilya to his knees right then and there.

Then Shane sat up on the bed, looking deep into his eyes as he undid Ilya’s pants, peppering kisses that grazed the edge of his underwear.

"Shane, please," Ilya begged, completely shameless, as Shane kissed him through the fabric. "Don't be a rebel."

"What do you want, baby?" Fuck.

"To fuck your mouth. To fuck you. Dammit, I want you, Shane."

Shane’s face gave away that he hadn’t expected such blunt honesty, but he was driving Ilya insane. Steps needed to be taken, urgently.

"These jeans are killing me," Shane said, glancing at the prominence in his own lap.

"How could I be so selfish with you?" Ilya said in Russian, pushing Shane’s torso back against the mattress before undoing his pants and shucking them off his body.

Did Shane know how breathtaking he looked lying there in their bed in black CK boxers, his shirt clinging to his body with sweat? And so hard...

"This hard for me, moy lyubov?" Ilya said, touching the shape through the fabric. Shane moaned. "I bet you drove all the way from Montreal like this, just waiting for me to take care of you."

Ilya needed more—more contact. He needed Shane’s body trembling under his touch. He squeezed firmer, earning a beautiful moan in response. He was ready to strip that piece of fabric away and go down on his man when he saw the tattoo for the first time.

"Shane, sweetheart, what is this?" His brain couldn't process what he was seeing. And Shane just smirked with feigned innocence.

"Oh, this? Just a little something I did last month when missing you became unbearable."

Jesus, this man is going to be the death of me.

Shane had such an inviting smile in his fake innocence. Ilya wanted to fuck that smile, but he had other priorities. He stripped the boxers off the other man in a rush, his knees finally giving out at the sight of the heaven laid out on his bed.

"1410... 2481... 1506... You did this for me? Hollander... You’ll be the end of me, my death, and I’ll die happy at your mercy. June 15th, my fucking birthday, marked forever right here. Shane Hollander, you will be the death of me. They’ll have to write on my tombstone: 'Here lies Ilya Rozanov, died of Shane Hollander.'"

"Do you like it?" How could he even ask that? His voice was so small, as if Ilya wouldn't love it, as if he didn't want to make Shane Hollander his religion.

"Do I like it?" Ilya climbed onto the bed, forcing his body against Shane’s, letting his own hardness show just how much he liked it. "I didn't think it was possible for you to get any hotter, moy lyubov, and then you go and get a tattoo for me... My birthday, Hollander... I... I am permanently marked on this immaculate skin, along with these beautiful freckles... I love you so much."

"I love you, Ilya. I’d tattoo your name just so everyone would know for sure that I’m yours."

"You are mine, Shane. Mine..." Completely his. Ilya decided right then he needed to marry this man—put Shane Hollander’s name next to his on paper, at a courthouse, with a judge and the whole nine yards.

He was no longer in his right mind. He needed to taste Shane, but he didn't want to get off him either, so he started kissing and biting wherever he could reach. He’d probably leave marks, but they were on vacation, who cared? Not him. He wanted to mark Shane’s skin even more.

"Baby, please," Shane implored as Ilya reached down to grip him. His voice was so beautiful, his face twisting in such a perfect way.

"Please what, sweetheart? What do you need, my love?" he whispered.

"I need you, Ilya. I need you."

"I’m right here, my love," he replied, teasing with a slow rhythm.

"I need you inside me, Ilya. Please."

Ilya would never disobey a request that sweet. He would do anything Shane asked him like that. Shane could tell him to set the world on fire and he’d do it with a smile. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, applied it, and then just traced a finger over Shane’s entrance, just to tease, just to feel him squirm.

"Baby, please, don't torture me," Shane begged.

"I won't. But only because you were a good boy and got a tattoo for me." He slid a finger inside without looking away from his boyfriend’s face. Shane pouted and grinded against his hand, demanding more. Ilya laughed before inserting a second finger.

"God, I thought about you every day since last time. These past weeks have been torture," Shane said, his voice weak.

"Tell me what you did when you thought about me."

"I... I’d call you and come while listening to you moan for me."

Oh, he’d done that every day this past week. He’d been much more worked up than usual; you could feel his desperation through the phone.

"Fuck me, Ilya. Please," he begged, breathless.

Ilya leaned in close, taking in every detail of his face—every freckle that made him so gorgeous and those parted red lips. Ilya wanted to devour them... and that’s exactly what he did.

"How do you want me to fuck you today, my love?" he asked as a mere courtesy. He knew exactly how Shane liked to be fucked after days apart.

"On my stomach, please." Okay, maybe he didn't know his boyfriend as well as he thought, because that wasn't the answer he expected. Did Shane not want to look at him? Why? What had he done wrong? "Just this once, please. I promise to go on top next time."

Ilya didn't get it, but Shane's body was already trembling under his. If he wanted to be fucked on his stomach, who was Ilya to say no? Especially when the request was made with such urgency.

Shane turned over, revealing the constellation of freckles near his neck. Ilya leaned down to kiss the area, worshiping his boyfriend’s skin.

"So beautiful, my love. So perfect with these little freckles painting your skin. The things I would do for you, Shane..." he whispered in Russian between kisses. "I’d give you the world, Shane Hollander. I’d give you my name, my legacy, my life, just for the pleasure of having you this surrendered to me forever... So mine."

He kissed his way down Shane’s back, hearing him moan softly against the mattress. However, his body went into total shock when his eyes locked onto another new tattoo. Ilya lost all motor control; his jaw dropped and his vision blurred.

“Property of Ilya Rozanov”

Property of Ilya... 

Ilya Rozanov.

 Written on Shane’s back.

Ilya’s heart felt like it was trying to kick through his ribs. His brain short-circuited again.

"Shane..." Ilya’s voice was low, almost a prayer. "Fuck, baby..." He touched the tattoo with his fingertips, terrified it might rub off if he touched it too hard—terrified it wasn't real. "I don't believe this."

"What’s wrong? Don't tell me it's misspelled. I researched for hours to be sure." Of course it wasn't wrong; Shane would never tattoo something he wasn't 100% sure of.

"It’s right," Ilya said, his voice barely a rasp. He didn't have the strength for anything but staring at the ink. "It’s all right. You are mine, Shane Hollander. My property. Mine."

"Yours, Ilya. From the day I met you until the day I die. Yours." Or until Ilya died—he felt like he could die of love at any second.

"Mine." Ilya regained control of his body and leaned down, kissing the tattoo tenderly before leaving sharp bites all around it. He wanted to consume Shane.

"Make it worth it, my letting you fuck me without seeing your face after so many days."

"Oh, Shane... I think you’d better be prepared to be fucked all afternoon... and all night. Because today we’re going to find out just how many times a day you can come. You aren't leaving this bed."

"Then start already," Shane said, being the spoiled brat he pretended didn't exist inside him. Ilya gave a wicked grin, raised his right hand, and brought it down in a sharp crack against Shane’s ass. Shane moaned in response.

God, this man is going to be the end of me.

He used all his self-control not to enter Shane too roughly, yet he still pushed all the way in at once, groaning with pleasure as he felt Shane’s heat tighten around him and saw Shane grip the sheets.

"Please, Ilya. I want to remember you inside me for the rest of the week." Ilya let out a low chuckle.

"We’re on vacation, love," Ilya reminded him. "You’ll have me inside you every day for the rest of the week. The rest of the month. Fuck, Shane, I want to be inside you for the rest of my life."

He forced himself to slow down. They hadn't had sex in forever and Shane had shown up full of surprises; the game would be over too fast if he didn't pace himself.

"Turn to me, my love. I want to be looking at your face and those beautiful freckles when I come," he pleaded.

Shane whimpered when Ilya pulled out, but he obeyed quickly, rolling over and gifting Ilya the sight of his flushed, sweaty face and eyes shimmering with pleasure. The sheer amount of love Ilya felt for him couldn't be put into words, so he pushed back inside and fucked his love into him.

"Touch yourself for me, my love. Come for me. I want to feel you coming around my cock."

Shane didn't look away from Ilya’s eyes as he reached down. He didn't take long to come, his eyes rolling back as he spent over both of them.

A vision of Heaven. Paradise.

Ilya came less than ten seconds later.

"Fuck, I love you so much," Shane said, pulling Ilya down into his arms.

"I love you, Shane. You are the love of my life. I love you so much," Ilya replied, kissing Shane as if he were the oxygen he needed to survive. "I’ll love you for the rest of my life, you know that, right?" They weren't empty words; he needed Shane to know for certain. "You just showed me a piece of paradise."

"You’re going to spend the rest of your life with me, Ilya. Because I’m yours, yes, but you’re also mine and I’m never letting you go. Never. I’m going to marry you. We’re going to have kids, grandkids, and get old and wrinkly before we die." Ilya’s eyes welled up; he blinked fast to hide it.

"Is this a proposal?" he joked to mask his emotion, burying his face in Shane’s neck.

"It will be if I don't shut up. God, you fucked the common sense right out of me."

Please don't shut up. Please, I want this.

"Relax, my love," he forced himself to say. "I want to marry you too, but I’m going to buy you a ring for the proposal..." They went back to kissing. "Or maybe I should get a tattoo as a proposal."

Shane laughed, and Ilya looked at him, enchanted.

It took a while for his mental faculties to fully return, but when they did, he made Shane tell him the whole story of the tattoos.

And he sent a thank-you to the artist. Something simple, in his humble opinion.

June 2021

Montreal

There was a time when walking the streets of Montreal made Ilya excited. He’d spent years yearning for the day he could visit the city, just to see his dark-eyed rival with the most beautiful freckles he’d ever seen. Once upon a time... that was before the Montreal fans turned on their captain because of an on-ice accident—and worse, were backed by the players of that pathetic little team.

Now, Ilya Rozanov detested Montreal exactly as much as the city hated him. He avoided it at all costs. People who recognized him gave him dirty looks, but honestly, who cared? He was there for a more important reason: finally meeting Eric Porter.

He parked his new Lamborghini in front of the studio—the car, surprisingly, had been a gift from Shane, who made him promise not to take it out in the winter or on any snowy day. Shane Hollander was going to be the death of him one of these days; the man couldn't be more perfect.

A bell chimed as he entered the studio, drawing the attention of two figures sitting on a black leather sofa.

"Ilya, you’re late. Why are you always late?" Svetlana scolded him by way of greeting, but stood up to hug him hard. Ilya buried his face in her curls, which always smelled good.

"I’m two minutes late, Sveta. Eric has a 15-minute grace period," he replied, rolling his eyes.

Eric was sitting on the sofa, eyes wide and jaw dropped. Ilya laughed and extended a hand.

"Ilya Rozanov. Pleasure to meet you."

"Eric... Porter. God, you two are a vision. God really has favorites."

"Good sense of humor. Shane didn't tell me that part." If Eric was this stunned meeting them, Ilya could only imagine how he felt seeing Shane shirtless. Lord knows how Ilya felt every time he saw his fiancé half-naked around the house, totally oblivious to his own beauty, and with a stamp of ownership dedicated to Ilya on his back. "Before I forget, Shane told me to give you this."

Ilya handed a manila envelope to the artist, who opened it immediately. His expression turned to one of surprise as he turned the envelope upside down over the counter, dumping out a pile of shredded paper.

"What is this?"

"It’s the NDA you signed. Everyone knows everything now... or almost everything. There’s no reason to keep you bound to it."

"Oh... I’m so sorry about what happened to you guys. No one deserves to be outed, especially not on national television." Ilya shrugged. Now that the hardest part was over, he didn't care much. Life was lighter now that he could love Shane out loud.

"Twitter was much worse than the TV press, but we had a lot of support too."

"True. I saw what the Voyageurs fans were saying. I made my friends burn their jerseys. They aren't allowed in my house."

"Their loss is my gain. Now my fiancé is playing on my team and will be my husband next season." Eric cheered, excited. "And I’m going to be the captain. I’ll get to boss him around every day. My life is great."

"Don't believe a word he says, Eric, sweetheart. Shane Hollander walks him on a leash like a chihuahua," Sveta said, laughing as she sat back down. "What are you getting tattooed, anyway?"

"What else? A stamp of ownership for my future husband, of course," Ilya replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And I want mine in English, so no one has any doubts."

"Ilya, that man hasn't left the house alone since you guys moved in together. No one on this planet has doubts."

"Well, then I need a tattoo so the aliens won't have doubts when I get abducted. Eric, please, make it something intergalactic."

Eric roared with laughter, rolling his eyes at Ilya’s cheeky tone.

"Well, did you bring a sketch in your handwriting, or do you want mine? God, I was shaking with fear of messing up Shane’s Cyrillic."

"My handwriting is terrible. No, you’re going to use the perfect script of my perfect fiancé." He handed over the sketch Shane had spent two hours perfecting.

"God, you two are insufferable. Good thing I booked an Airbnb for me and Rose. There’s zero chance I could spend a month with you and not develop diabetes from all this sweetness." Svetlana’s complaining tone wasn't serious, and he knew it. No one was happier for him than she was.

"Speaking of Rose Landry, where is she? I thought you guys were going to Ottawa with me."

"Yeah, right. Like she’s going to wait around while we get tattoos when she could be dragging Shane through a mall," her sarcasm was dripping. "She took a cab to Ottawa. She’s meeting Shane and some guy... Harris? I never remember. Who is he again?"

"Troy Barrett’s boyfriend."

"Oh, right. God, I need to study the guest list so I don't embarrass myself with the WAGs. I know all their stats but I forget their names."

They chatted about the guest list while Eric prepared the room. Svetlana also showed the tattoo ideas she’d brought. Ilya pretended not to notice they all referenced Rose, because the two of them refused to admit how obsessed they were with each other—and he couldn't judge, considering his own track record wasn't much better.

"So, in the same spot as Shane’s?" Eric asked after getting everything ready.

"Oh, no. I don't want it hidden. Put it here." He pointed to the side of his neck.

"You’re crazy, seriously," Sveta commented, but Eric seemed to agree with a little chuckle. "Ilya... that’s going to be visible in anything you wear."

"That’s the point!" He shrugged before pulling his shirt off to make the artist's job easier.

Sveta laughed again but didn't say anything else. She knew Ilya well enough to know nothing would change his mind.

"Anyway, should I thank you for my new baby?" Ilya changed the subject, barely feeling the needles piercing his skin.

"Beautiful, right? I couldn't believe it when he asked for my help picking it out. What did you do to deserve it?"

"Fucked the common sense out of him every day." This time, the other two laughed without judgment.

"What are you getting him as a wedding gift? He’s driving Rose crazy because he doesn't know what to get you. I promised I’d subtly investigate your gift."

"Very subtle, congratulations." He could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "I don't know. The only gift I want to give him is my last name."

"You’re going to make him change his name? You know you’re marrying a man whose last name built a hockey empire, right?"

"Now you offend me, Sveta. My last name carries just as much weight in the league."

"Exactly. Neither of you can give up the name."

"Relax. We’re hyphenating. I’ll be Ilya Grigoryevich Hollander-Rozanov." A shiver ran through him saying it out loud. Eric chuckled when he noticed.

"God, you really are a puppy in his hands... I’m proud of you. That’s how a man your size should behave. I taught you well."

His tattoo didn't take long, and neither did Svetlana’s. By two p.m., they were leaving the studio after Ilya handed the wedding invitation to Eric—who had a minor emotional breakdown learning he was being invited to a party full of famous people—and settled the matter of the rings, because he wasn't joking about that.

On the way back to Ottawa, he dropped Sveta off at her Airbnb downtown. Rose was already there waiting for them—Sveta had told her not to be with Shane when Ilya arrived because she didn't want to witness that interaction. The actress had wisely obeyed.

Shane was sitting on the sofa watching a documentary about hockey in the USSR with Anya when Ilya arrived. He stood up, anxious, and laughed out loud when he saw his fiancé’s "innocent" face, the tattoo clearly visible on the side of his neck.

"You’re crazy, Ilya."

"You got a tattoo of your secret boyfriend’s name and I'm the crazy one for tattooing my future husband’s name less than a month before the wedding?"

"We’re both crazy."

"We’re perfect for each other."

Chapter Text

​April 2021

​Montreal

​Shane walked into the locker room cursing himself, the gods, and anyone else who crossed his mind.

​He was fucking livid.

​It was no one’s fault but his own—and he knew it. He was the one who tripped; he was the one who couldn't get to Ilya in time. Him. And now Montreal was out of the playoffs in the first round, a humiliating exit for the franchise.

​"I can’t believe I fucking tripped."

​He was muttering to himself at his stall, but he heard a sharp scoff of disapproval from J.J. beside him. Shane shot him a look, a massive question mark in his eyes.

​"Did you really trip?" J.J. asked. Shane’s expression shifted to pure disbelief. His friend couldn't be suggesting what he thought he was... right? "I don't know, Hollander. Just tell me... Please tell me you actually tripped."

​"What? You seriously think I went down on purpose? For what? So Ilya could score? You’re out of your mind."

​"I know what I saw," Comeau barked, coming from God-knows-where to butt into the conversation. "That didn't look like an accident."

​"What the fuck... Do you guys actually think I threw the game?" He whirled around to face his teammates scattered across the room. Some—looking ashamed—lowered their gaze; Hayden shook his head vehemently along with two others, but about five of them, including Drapeau and Comeau, were looking at him with pure disgust. "Oh, fuck all of you."

​He shoved his gear into his bag. He could shower at home, away from these ingrates. But as he thought about a shower and Ilya waiting for him, an idea took root.

​"Actually..." He stepped back into the center of the room. "Everyone, gather ‘round," he shouted, his voice echoing.

​Hayden went to call the guys who were still in the showers, including the person Shane wanted most: Miitka, or 'Mitty,' who had shaken his head earlier when asked if he thought the trip was intentional.

​"Mitty, exactly who I need," Shane said.

​The left winger stared at him, confused, but stepped closer to the Captain, standing at the front of the group.

​"Your parents are Latvian, right?" The kid nodded, looking even more lost. "You played in the KHL. Do you know how to read Russian?"

​"I do... Not perfectly, but I can." From the sudden clarity on Mitty’s face, Shane realized the kid knew exactly what he was about to ask—and he already knew the answer. He’d probably known since day one.

​Shane dropped his bag on the floor and ripped his jersey off, leaving the team even more bewildered. Comeau was already muttering slurs and complaining about the "gay shit," but Shane ignored him and turned his back to the room, letting the tattoo sit in full view.

​"Mitty. Read it. Tell them what’s written on my back."

​Mitty hesitated. Of course he did. He’d be throwing fuel on the fire and putting his own neck on the line.

​"Go ahead, Mitty. I think this is pretty much public information at this stage of the game," Shane encouraged him. "What does it say?"

​"Property of Ilya Rozanov," the kid said. He didn't raise his voice, but it seemed to ring through the silent locker room.

​Shane turned back to the team with a manic grin—a smile usually seen on the ice, or on Ilya Rozanov’s face. Blame it on proximity. He stayed silent for a moment, letting the information sink in. Even Hayden looked shell-shocked; no one knew the real meaning—Hayden and his parents had assumed it was some vague romantic declaration.

​"That’s right, you bunch of assholes. 'Property of Ilya Rozanov.' I’ve been rubbing my relationship in your faces since 2019. Every practice, every game. I hoisted that fucking Stanley Cup last year already belonging to Ilya. And you want to know what else?" Once he started, Shane couldn't stop. He knew he didn't owe these people an explanation, but he needed to say it. "You know the 2016 Cup and my MVP? I celebrated by letting Ilya fuck me right after the NHL Awards." The shocked expressions were a feast for his eyes. He smirked wider. "You know the 2015 Cup and my other MVP? I celebrated by buying a goddamn apartment just so Rozanov could fuck me in peace... Good times. You ungrateful pricks have never known a Shane Hollander who wasn't in a relationship with Captain Ilya Rozanov. And you never will, because we’re getting married this summer."

​He paused, letting the silence turn heavy.

​"And honestly? I hope the Centaurs win the fucking Cup. I’ll love giving myself to their Captain as a victory prize. That’s it. And before I forget—fuck you all. Good luck even trying to make the playoffs next year, because I’m leaving this room and calling my agent to demand a trade."

​He didn't put his shirt back on. He just grabbed his things and stormed out like a tornado, feeling twenty pounds lighter and 200% more pissed off. On the way to his car, he told at least five people to go fuck themselves, including the GM and two PR guys.

​"Hello, Shane?" Farah answered on the first ring.

​"I want to play in Ottawa. Please make it happen. And I want to leave Montreal in as much shambles as humanly possible."

Chapter Text

Twitter Feed: May 28-29, 2020

Shane Hollander (@ShaneHollanderReal) Check out the new CK Jeans drops.

[Attached Image: Shane Hollander posing in black boxers for a CK ad; a numerical tattoo is partially visible near the waistband]

27k Retweets - 35k Likes May 28, 2020

Hollander4ever (@hoolllander4ever) IS THAT A TATTOO?????????

150 Retweets - 304 Likes May 28, 2020

> ↪ Shayde4life (@shaydenfan): > GIRL, DON’T PLAY. I’M LITERALLY D3AD!!!!!!!

Voyageurs Girl (@MiiiiiVoy) I actually lived to see the day Shane Hollander got a tattoo.

97 Retweets - 110 Likes May 28, 2020

Montreal Bitch (@BMontreal) HAS ANYONE DECODED THE NUMBERS YET?

450 Retweets - 604 Likes May 28, 2020

> ↪ Hollander #1 (@littlehollzy): > Twitter used to be faster. Just wait, the Hollanov conspiracy theorists will be here any second with 40-page threads.

HOLLANOV SUPREMACY (@HOLLANOVSTAN) I’m here with the list of all the numbers on Shane’s tattoo.

The first few are blurred/covered in EVERY photo CK released, but we know it ends in 1. Here’s the rest:

937 Retweets - 1.4k Likes May 28, 2020

> ↪ HOLLANOV SUPREMACY (@HOLLANOVSTAN): > 2008

2010

1410

1221

1822

1506

2013

1217

072017 (this one is the last and the longest).

↪ Nai (@hollanover): > I wish they were dates, but most of them don’t make any sense.

↪ Logan (@loginhockey): > 2008 was World Juniors, but he lost. Why would he tattoo that?

↪ HOLLANOV SUPREMACY (@HOLLANOVSTAN): > He met Ilya in 2008. It makes total sense.

 

Rozanov’s Bear (@aliceee) Not to give the Hollanovers a platform… but my baby bear’s birthday is June 15th (DD/MM)

May 29, 2020 512 Retweets - 890 Likes

> ↪ Teddybears (@t3ddyb34rs): > GIRL, I can’t believe I didn’t notice that sooner.

↪ HOLLANOV SUPREMACY (@HOLLANOVSTAN): > OMG HOW DID I MISS THIS.

 

HOLLANOV SUPREMACY (@HOLLANOVSTAN) 🚨 UPDATED list of what we know about Shane’s tattoo:

2008: World Juniors (Shane & Ilya met).

2010: The only commercial they have together.

1410: ?

1221: ?

1822: ?

1506: ILYA’S BIRTHDAY.

2013: ?

1217: ?

072017: ?

1k Retweets - 1.1k Likes

> ↪ Teddybears (@t3ddyb34rs): > Putting Hollanov aside for a sec, but Shane’s goddaughters, the Pike twins, were born in 2013.

Shane marry me? (@msHollander) Everyone is talking about the numbers and I just want to know why they covered the back tattoo.

[Attached Image: Shane Hollander from behind, shirtless, wearing dark jeans with the waistband of his boxers showing. On his lower back, there is a visible patch of skin that has been clearly airbrushed/edited with a different skin tone]

2.1k Retweets - 4.5k Likes