Chapter Text
The steam from the showers still hung in the air like a lazy fog, mixing with the sharp tang of sweat-soaked gear and the faint metallic bite of ice rink residue that always clung to the Ottawa Centaurs' locker room. It was the first day of the new season, and the space buzzed with the low hum of anticipation, benches lined with half-unpacked duffels, sticks propped against walls like forgotten soldiers, and the rookies's nervous chatter cutting through the veterans's easy banter. Nathaniel Holmberg, Alexander LaPointe, and James Young, all fresh-faced pros stepping into the NHL spotlight for the first time, had just wrapped their initial practice. The team was a powerhouse, stacked with talent, and the welcome from Captain Ilya Rozanov, assistants Shane Hollander and Zane Boodram, had been disarmingly genuine, high-fives, inside jokes about the grind ahead, even a round of protein bars passed around like party favors.
But now, as the veterans filed out, the rookies: Nathaniel, Alexander, James, and the team's perpetual baby, Luca Haas, lingered as instructed. Luca, not quite a true rookie but young enough to be treated like one, shifted on his bench, his face already flushing under the fluorescent lights. He knew what was coming; the others didn't. The locker room door clicked shut behind the last straggler, leaving the four of them alone with Ilya and Shane. Ilya, broad-shouldered and commanding at 6'3", stood at the center of the room in his practice jersey, arms crossed like he owned the damn place, which, as captain, he pretty much did. Shane, leaner but no less imposing, hovered nearby, his eyes fixed on the scuffed tile floor, cheeks already tinged pink.
"Welcome to the Ottawa Centaurs, rookies", Ilya’s captain's voice started, deep and resonant, cutting through the sudden quiet like a skate blade on fresh ice. He paced slowly, his gaze sweeping over Nataniel's wide-eyed stare, Alexander's fidgeting hands, James's forced casual lean against a locker, and Luca's averted eyes.
Shane stayed next to him, watching the floor, his cheeks pinker now, a subtle heat rising as if he could feel the weight of what was about to unfold.
"I'm going to show you the method of how I've taken several teams over the years to the Stanley Cup, and it's bulletproof", Ilya continued, his tone matter-of-fact, like he was diagramming a power play on a whiteboard.
The rookies exchanged confused glances. Nathaniel blinked, his stance barely hiding the bewilderment. "Method? Like... team-building drills?", Alexander muttered under his breath, while James just raised an eyebrow, assuming it was some motivational speech.
"Even the Montreal Metros received the results of my method, right, Hollander?", Ilya shot a sidelong look at his husband, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Not really", Shane commented, noncommittal, his voice steady but his flush deepening, eyes still down.
"Bullshit", Ilya barked with a laugh, clapping a hand on Shane's shoulder. "If I haven't taken you in hand all these years, you would've probably spiraled to losing all of your games".
Now Luca was as pink as Shane, his ears burning as he stared at his skates, memories of his own "lessons" flashing unwelcome through his mind. The other three froze, the air thickening with unspoken questions.
"So, rookies", Ilya went on, undeterred, "all those amazing teams: Boston Bears, Montreal Metros, and now the Ottawa Centaurs, had to adhere to my method of captaining", he moved to a nearby bench, sitting down with deliberate weight, the wood creaking under him. Then, without fanfare, he reached out and pulled Shane to his right side. Shane complied smoothly, not addressing their curious stares, his body settling against Ilya's like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I take discipline seriously, not just on the ice", Ilya addressed them, his voice dropping to that authoritative timbre that made even veterans snap to attention. "You have to learn responsibility. You are adults".
"Yes, sir", Nathaniel murmured automatically, echoed by Alexander's quick "Yes, Cap", while James nodded stiffly. Luca just swallowed hard, mumbling his agreement.
"If you ever broke the rules of what responsible adults do, you will end up over my knee", Ilya's words hung there, blunt and unyielding.
"What?", James asked, scandalized, his voice cracking as he straightened up from the locker. The others gaped, Nataniel's mouth falling open, Alexander's eyes widening in disbelief.
"Yes", Ilya confirmed, calm as ever. "My lovely assistant captain will help me demonstrate now".
Before any of them could process it, Ilya maneuvered Shane across his lap, the motion efficient and practiced. Shane didn't talk or resist, his body going pliant as Ilya hooked fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugged them down, along with his briefs, baring his ass to the cool locker room air. Shane's cheeks, firm from years of skating, were exposed fully, pale skin prickling with goosebumps, the curve of his glutes taut and vulnerable. The rookies's jaws collectively dropped; this wasn't some weird prank. This was raw, intimate, and happening right in front of them.
"Over my knee if you are ever naughty", Ilya explained, his large hand resting possessively on Shane's bare lower back. "As rookies, once you are considered adults, you will receive discipline differently".
With that, Ilya's palm came down, hard, a sharp crack echoing off the lockers. Shane's body jolted slightly, but he didn't move, didn't reach back to cover himself. The spanks followed in a steady rhythm, no count, just relentless swats that turned Shane's ass from pale to pink, then a blooming red. Each impact landed with a meaty smack, Ilya's arm flexing with controlled power, covering every inch, upper thighs, the sensitive undercurve, the full cheeks that jiggled faintly with each strike. Shane's breathing hitched, then turned to soft gasps, building to quiet sobs as tears welled in his eyes. He cried openly now, shoulders shaking, but still, he stayed in position, legs straight, hands gripping the bench edge, never once trying to shield his reddening skin.
The rookies watched in a mix of horror and stunned silence, their reactions splintering like cracks in ice.
Nathaniel, the stoic of new members, stood rigid, his face a mask of shock, fists clenched at his sides as if fighting the urge to intervene. He'd heard whispers of tough love in pro leagues, but this? His cheeks burned with secondhand embarrassment, eyes darting away only to snap back, unable to fully look away from the captain's hand painting Shane Hollander's ass a deep crimson.
Alexander, the fiery kid always with mischief in his eyes, crossed his arms tightly, his expression twisting into something between outrage and fascination. "This is fucked", he whispered to no one, but he didn't move, his gaze locked on the way Shane's body absorbed each spank, the subtle arch of his back, the glistening trail of tears slipping down his cheeks.
James, the American hotshot who'd trash-talked his way through juniors, let out a low whistle that died in his throat, his casual lean forgotten as he shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his stance. Horror etched his features, wide eyes, parted lips, but there was an undercurrent of reluctant curiosity, his mind racing to reconcile the assistant captain's stoic endurance with the raw vulnerability on display.
Luca, though, had seen this before, back in his early days with the Centaurs when Ilya had pulled him aside for " the lesson". His reaction was pure mortification, face buried in his hands at first, then peeking through fingers as memories flooded back, the sting, the humiliation, the strange clarity it brought. He squirmed on his bench, thighs pressing together, a flush creeping down his neck as he relived his own bare-assed adventures over Ilya's lap, the way it had left him sore and strangely focused for weeks.
"You have to be good while over my lap", Ilya lectured over the steady rhythm of smacks, Shane's quiet cries punctuating each word, "because if you try to escape or cover, I will spank you longer or bring a wooden paddle I use for special naughty infractions. Clear?"
"Yes, sir", came the ragged chorus: Nathaniel's voice tight, Alexander's grudging, James's barely audible, Luca's a mortified mumble.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of those unyielding swats, Shane's ass now a uniform scarlet, hot to the touch and throbbing visibly, Ilya stopped the assault. Shane lay there, thoroughly spanked, crying softly over his husband's knee, his bare skin radiating heat, tears falling to the locker floor. Ilya rubbed a soothing circle on his back, letting the moment settle.
"Now", Ilya said, voice steady as he helped Shane up slightly, "once you are not considered rookies anymore, you will receive adult spankings if needed".
All of them audibly gulped, Nathaniel's throat working visibly, Alexander swallowing hard, James's breath catching, Luca pressing his lips together in dread.
Without a word, Ilya positioned Shane bent over the same bench he'd been sitting on, Shane's sweatpants still pooled at his ankles, his reddened ass presented high and exposed. The assistant captain braced his hands on the wood, face turned away, tears drying on his cheeks but his breathing still ragged. Ilya stepped to a locker nearby, retrieving a big oak paddle, half an inch thick, at least 18 inches long and 3 inches wide, its surface smooth and unyielding, stained dark from use. He hefted it, the weight familiar in his grip, then swung once, the spank resounding through the locker room like a thunderclap, the flat wood connecting with Shane's already tender flesh in a deep, bruising thud.
One of the rookies, James, let out a yelp, jumping back as if the sound had struck him personally.
"One, thank you, sir", Shane groaned from his bare-bottomed position on the bench, his voice strained, ass clenching around the fresh welt blooming across it.
"This is an adult punishment", Ilya continued explaining, lining up the next stroke, "and it will depend on the infraction".
He delivered the second, a precise crack that made Shane's body jerk forward, the paddle leaving a perfect pink rectangle overlapping the hand-spanked glow. "Two, thank you, sir", Shane counted, his tone thicker now, knuckles white on the bench.
The rookies watched in awe and fear, Nathaniel's breath shallow, Alexander's fists balled so tight his nails dug in, James frozen with wide eyes, Luca hunching smaller, as if willing himself invisible. The third stroke landed low, across the sit-spots, eliciting a sharper groan from Shane. "Three, thank you, sir", the fourth bit into the center, wood meeting skin with a whip-like snap, Shane's thighs quivering but holding steady. "Four, thank you, sir", five came harder, a full-arm swing that echoed louder, painting a darker stripe. "Five, thank you, sir", Shane managed, voice breaking. The sixth and final one was the worst, slow and deliberate, the paddle compressing Shane's ass before rebounding with a sting that drew a real sob. "Six, thank you, sir".
Ilya set the paddle aside, the wood clattering softly, and knelt to help Shane back into his sweatpants, pulling them up gently over the inflamed skin, careful not to aggravate the fresh welts. Shane straightened slowly, wincing, but there was no resentment in his eyes, just that quiet, enduring partnership as he leaned into Ilya.
"Any questions?", Ilya asked, seating himself again on the bench and drawing Shane down onto his lap, not on the sore bottom, but sideways, cradling him close. Shane buried his face in Ilya's neck, arms wrapping around for comfort, his breathing evening out against the warmth of his husband's skin.
The rookies hesitated, still processing the display. Nathaniel spoke first, voice tentative. "Like... what counts as an infraction, Cap?"
Ilya nodded, one hand stroking Shane's back idly. "Good question. Regular rules are straightforward. No getting too drunk or being recorded while hammered, remember social media's a minefield. No slurs or homophobic shit; we're a team, not a frat house. Not taking care of your stuff, like lose your luggage or passport on a road trip, and you're answering for it. Poor performance on ice, like starting too many fights or showing bad sportsmanship, won't fly. Really stupid shit, anything that might involve the police, speeding tickets are avoidable most of the time, but reckless bullshit? No. Being reckless with your health, skipping physio, ignoring injuries. Disobeying orders from the medic, coach, or any of the captains. Goofing around too much in practice or on the bus. Anything that puts you or the team at risk. Break those, and we handle it like this".
They got the deal, nodding solemnly, Nathaniel with a determined set to his jaw, Alexander muttering "Understood", James rubbing his neck awkwardly, and Luca avoiding eye contact but whispering his acceptance. Perplexed and a little shell-shocked, they gathered their gear and filed out of the locker room, the door swinging shut behind them with a finality that left the space echoing.