Chapter Text
Shane had been in the public eye long enough to know not to google himself. It would only lead to bad things, an inflated ego or a hypercritical opinion.
His whole life, Shane would never do such a stupid thing as look up his own name. Who cared what people were saying, as long as he worked hard and felt good about his play, especially with how much he won? Shane had three cups, four Art Rosses, two Harts, and three Conn Smythes for his trouble.
But the knowledge that it wouldn’t be good for him didn’t really stop Shane from doing it either. Since the disastrous end of the season in Montreal, it seemed all Shane could do was type his own name into an incognito tab and feel his stomach drop to his toes.
It was every night now, under the covers while Ilya snored peacefully. Shane’s shoulders never failed to crowd up to his ears, spine curved protectively around his phone. The headlines stung, always, but Shane read them anyway.
Anonymous Montreal Staff Calls Shane Hollander a “Locker Room Cancer.”
Voyageurs Look Forward to “Drama-Free Season.”
Mental Game “Better Than it’s Been in a Long Time” for Voyageurs Goalie Patrice Drapeau.
The truth of it gnawed at him: Shane had been bad for the locker room in Montreal. He had made people uncomfortable. And it was homophobia at the root of it, sure, but Shane had been the problem.
Before he’d come out, things had been fine. After, it was a shitshow.
As the new season approached, a different logo on Shane’s jersey, his shoulder missing the C it had held for almost ten years, one thing was clear: Shane couldn’t let that happen on the Centaurs.
Which was why today, media day, mattered so much. Shane needed to make a good impression. He needed to be viewed as a teammate, not a liability or a mascot. He needed to be fucking normal.
Which was far, far easier said than done for someone who struggled to buy new socks because he didn’t like how they felt on his toes. Especially when his new captain also happened to be his Adele-singing, breakfast-making husband. For the first time in actual NHL play, Shane and Ilya would play on the same team.
“Spinach, peppers, tomato, feta . . .” Ilya mumbled over the stove, tapping the handle of the spatula against his bottom lip. “Anything else, solnyshko?”
“No, thanks,” Shane mumbled, kicking his feet where they dangled from the barstool he was on.
Ilya had been a saint all week. Rubbing the tension out of Shane’s shoulders. Helping him take deep breaths when Shane thought too much about what felt like his impending doom. Cooking him food that was gentle and easy on his anxious tummy.
Ilya knew he was scared, of course, but he had no idea about the googling. Shane had been careful about that. He’d tuck his phone away quickly when Ilya entered the room, distract him with kisses or Anya or videos of Hayden’s kids on their vacation to Scotland.
Because Ilya would never understand it. He would just tell Shane that all the articles were bullshit. Shit, Ilya would probably flush Shane’s phone down the toilet and fuck him senseless in his trophy room again. But that would just be Ilya protecting Shane, and Shane didn’t want to avoid it anymore.
He needed to face it and fix it.
“I put extra spinach in,” Ilya announced, sliding a plate under Shane’s nose. “Nutrients for my pretty husband on his first day.”
Shane smiled weakly. The omelet did smell good – Ilya was always better at eggs than Shane, more patient. Still, Shane’s stomach rolled as he cut a bite with the side of his fork and stuffed it in his mouth.
“You are nervous,” Ilya murmured as he tucked into his own eggs. His hand stretched across the breakfast bar and laced with Shane’s fingers. Ilya’s hand was as warm as Shane’s was clammy.
“It just . . .” Shane sighed into his omelet. “I need this to go well, you know?”
Ilya nodded sagely. “It will. I told everyone to be nice to you. No chirping until at least week two.”
Shane’s tummy did a weird, swirling thing. “Did you actually? ‘Cause I don’t want special treatment–”
“No,” Ilya huffed, squeezing Shane’s hand. “Of course not.”
Shane exhaled through his nose. His throat felt tight enough that he was distantly worried about swallowing the eggs.
“You will be okay,” Ilya reminded him, squeezing his fingers. “You have no reason to be worried.”
Shane chewed slowly. He was sure Ilya really believed that because Ilya had an almost unhinged faith in Shane’s perfection. He never judged when Shane left bar trivia because the music was too loud, or when he ran five kilometers over his exercise plan because he couldn’t slow his heart rate. He’d just look at Shane, moony-eyed and adoring, like Shane’s weirdness was just some adorable little quirk.
Ilya was very nearly on the level of the fangirls on Twitter who put little sparkle emojis over Shane’s head and used Snapchat filters to give him rosy cheeks and heart eyes. Maybe Ilya was on that level – he was the one who showed those things to Shane, anyway, mostly when Shane was locked in his head and panicking, the way Shane had been for three months.
Shane had spent the entire back half of the summer trying to come up with a plan for . . . this, for switching teams while getting paid millions less than he was worth and giving up captaincy, all in order to become his husband’s backup. Shane had tried to come up with rules, or at least guidelines, with Farah, with his parents, with even Hayden and JJ. (Ilya had called them the “homophobe bloc” the entire time, but their opinion as straight men and the only ones to be Shane’s actual teammates was invaluable.)
The conclusion in every single conversation had been the same: there was no planning for this. Shane was going to have to figure it out. Which he hated always, but especially now.
Ilya was still looking at Shane over the breakfast bar, his eyebrows creased with concern. Shane needed to reply, even though he had absolutely nothing to say.
“I guess,” Shane finally muttered.
Ilya’s face softened, his eyes starting to look like Anya’s when she was begging for scraps of Shane’s chicken breast. “Is okay to be scared,” Ilya said, sweeping his thumb over Shane’s knuckles. “I will take good care of you.”
Shane opened his mouth to interject, but Ilya didn’t let him.
“Not in a big way,” Ilya said, a hint of exasperation at the very edge of his voice. “I will not say anything or whatever. But I know you, moya lyubov. If I see you need a break, I will get you one. If you need water, I will make sure you drink. We are teammates in more ways than one.”
Shane felt his cheeks heat. “Thanks,” he murmured into his plate.
“Always. Eggs good?”
Shane swallowed awkwardly, belatedly realizing he had no idea. He hadn’t been thinking about it at all.
“Yeah. They’re, um, warm.” That was true, at least; he could tell as much from the steaming plate.
Ilya just smirked. “Your compliments, Hollander. They overwhelm me.”
Shane laughed despite himself, feeling the rolling in his belly slow a bit.
“Sorry,” Shane said. “They’re good. Thank you.”
“You do not need to panic, kotik. Is just media day. We don’t even need to play.”
Shane snorted. Media day was far, far worse than playing. At least playing was something Shane was competent at. He was no fucking good at locker room stuff, at social media challenges and press junkets and whatever.
Harris hadn’t paired him and Ilya together for the interviews for a million reasons, not least of which being that it would be impossible for either of them to get a word in edgewise when the press saw them. Shane had already seen the hundreds of thousands of comments on the Centaurs’ socials when they’d announced Shane was joining the team. It had made him vaguely sick, even as Ilya went on his private account and dutifully liked every single positive one and reported all the negatives.
And Shane was mostly glad they weren’t paired together – media day would be overwhelming enough without having to explain his marriage to the entire world with his husband right next to him, watching every single word out of Shane’s mouth – but it still made Shane’s stomach clench weirdly that Ilya would be there at all. Their whole careers had been on opposite teams, opposite styles, just . . . opposites.
It was like a weird Twilight Zone episode, like borrowing a friend’s deodorant or wearing a school uniform on a weekend. Nothing really wrong, nothing that Shane could point his finger at and panic over. But still, just a bit, irrevocably fucked up.
Media day meant way more than playing. Shit, he and Ilya’d played on the same team at All-Stars before. Media day meant no more hiding. It meant that Shane was wearing his wedding ring on his ring finger, obvious as anything. It meant that Ilya was making Shane an omelet before driving him to the arena where they would be in the locker room together and practice together and shower together and go home together and every single person in the entire universe would know.
They’d know that Shane was pathetic for Ilya. That Ilya would always come first, before any teammate, locker room chemistry be damned. They’d know that Shane was selfish, and weird, and a shitty teammate. And knowing that meant distrust, which meant hatred, which meant another situation like Montreal. If the past six months had proven anything, it was that knowing was the enemy. And here Shane was, waltzing into media day like it was an evil witch’s lair and he was an idiotic little Hansel.
Shane ducked his head, willing the room to stop spinning.
“Shane.” Ilya’s voice was as distant as it was thick with worry as he scraped his chair back and put his fork down with a clatter on the granite counter top.
“I’m fine,” Shane said, sitting back up. “I am.”
He was. He would make himself be.
Ilya hovered awkwardly, half-out of his chair, arms outstretched to Shane.
“Are you sure?” Ilya asked, his words so soft that Shane wanted to call out sick and just spoon Ilya all day, the way he’d been doing the entire summer when he wasn’t googling himself in secret and panicking over the season.
“I’m sure.”
Shane finished his omelet with careful, mechanical precision, put his plate in the dishwasher, and dutifully grabbed the gear bag he had packed the night before. Ilya was scrambling with his own bag, having neglected to put anything into it despite Shane’s reminders.
Of course, Shane took the opportunity to check Twitter.
He didn’t follow any of the accounts; that would be idiotic, career suicide. But he had searched them enough that whatever algorithm popped them up to the top of his feed, easy as anything.
@montrealways had tweeted Looking forward to @VoyageursOfficial media day for the first time in hmmm 10 years? Weird coincidence. Anyway…
@gilberthomeau had said Can’t wait for Hollander to write Rozanov’s name on his stick like he’s an actual player and not just a puck bunny 🤐
@letspuckinggo had quote-retweeted a video from April of a shirtless guy with a Voyageurs tattoo on his bicep burning Shane’s jersey. It had been quite the trend over the summer. This account had added the caption Hope @VoyageursOfficial film one of these today.
The tweets were stupid, and they were mean, but it didn’t change the fact that Shane wasn’t closing his phone or navigating away or throwing his phone into the Gatineau River.
The only thing that made him finally look away and shove his phone in his pocket was Ilya waltzing into the mudroom, a tuft of Anya’s hair clinging to his black T-shirt where she had undoubtedly nuzzled while they were saying goodbye.
“Ready to go?” Ilya asked, scanning Shane over carefully.
“Yeah,” Shane said, forcing enthusiasm he didn’t feel into his voice. “Let’s do it.”
Shane wasn’t sure what he was expecting from the locker room. Some ugly Cens merch, for sure. Jerseys in the wrong color and water bottles with the wrong logo, certainly. Maybe even some rainbow tape, given the personnel of the team.
But Shane had figured it would be a scene he’d been in before: a group of NHL players getting kitted up for the first time since spring, and all the chatter and banter and chirps that came with it.
Instead, Shane was the eye of a storm of absolute and total chaos. For one, there were three massive dogs taking up the entire middle of the locker room floor, running around and barking and panting and licking at anyone who dared get close enough. For another, there were kids, like, everywhere. Sitting on laps, squished by the dogs, running underfoot. And there was a weird amount of women. Some were keeping an eye on the kids, but more of them were just chatting, leaning against stalls and sipping iced coffees.
“Is this normal?” Shane whispered to Ilya. The equipment manager had put their stalls next to each other, and Shane had already made a mental note to ask to swap with someone to limit any potential weirdness, but he was grateful for it now.
“More or less,” Ilya mumbled, shrugging off his gear bag. “The families usually leave when we start changing. ‘Too many penises,’ they say.”
Shane knew that was the time to laugh, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so.
“Should we-”
“Cap!” An older kid with a tuft of blond hair poking out of a Centaurs ball cap half-tripped over one of the dogs on his way to wrap Ilya in a bear hug.
Shane watched them awkwardly, the way Ilya clapped the kid on the back. Shane wasn’t sure he’d ever hugged anyone that enthusiastically on media day. The only people he would’ve were JJ and Hayden, and he saw them enough over the off season that it would have been weird to do so.
“How was Zurich?” Ilya asked as he broke the hug, keeping one hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Lots of Haas jerseys?”
Shane was grateful for the context the question gave him. Because this wasn’t a kid at all, but Luca Haas. Soon to be Shane’s linemate. They’d Whatsapped a bit over the summer, and obviously they’d played against each other last year, but he was practically unrecognizable now, baby-faced as he was, horn-rimmed glasses pushed up his upturned nose.
“Yes,” Haas said. “My secondary school even had a banner up.”
The pride in Ilya’s eyes made Shane’s chest warm. He’d seen Ilya with his teammates before, of course, but always from the other bench, from a distance. It was oddly sweet.
Shane had never commanded the same sort of open adoration in Montreal, or even in junior hockey. He’d always been captain, yeah, but no one necessarily liked him in the role. It was just fact, never to be questioned; right skate before left skate, the sun set in the west, and Hollander was captain. Nothing like the respect Ilya was getting so easily.
“Oh, and Mr. Hollander!” Haas added hurriedly, like he was doing Shane a great injustice by greeting Ilya first. “So good to meet you in person! Or, in regular clothes, I guess. Because we have played, of course, um-”
“Just Shane is fine,” Shane interrupted, awkwardly shaking Luca’s hand.
The formality was probably Shane’s fault; he’d begged off all the summer barbecues and whatever else that was happening during the off-season, wanting to meet his team as a teammate, not a WAG. He was regretting it now, though, watching the stars in Haas’s eyes.
Besides, at the end of the day, Shane was a WAG. Or a mascot, maybe. Not someone to be counted on or trusted. Not a proper teammate who had gotten their spot because it was a natural fit. No, Shane was just Ilya’s hanger-on. Why not just meet the team anyway and get this stupid panic attack out of the way in private, before it would ruin the team?
Any normal new teammate would have gone, especially if they were in Ottawa most of the summer. Fuck, Shane was already messing this up. It was just a matter of time before everyone else noticed, just like in Montreal.
“Wow,” Luca muttered, staring at their still-shaking hands. “You’re gonna be my linemate.”
“Yeah,” Shane said, breaking the contact without any grace and stuffing his fist in his pocket like that was any more normal. “It’ll be great.”
“That goal you had in the second round against Tampa, your sophomore season? I used to watch that on YouTube before every game when I was a kid.”
Shane felt his cheeks go hot. “Um, thanks.”
“Haasy,” Ilya interrupted, an exaggerated pout on his face. “You are going to make me jealous.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing. Your ego is getting ridiculous, Roz,” a deep voice said over Shane’s shoulder.
Shane didn’t startle because that would be ridiculous, but he did turn a little faster than was normal to see Zane Boodram standing behind him, massive, tattooed arms crossed over his massive chest.
“Hey, Hollzy. Good to see you, man,” Bood added, like they were old friends.
Shane froze, clueless.
He didn’t know what to do with this. Like Haas, they’d played against each other before, of course, but Shane had never spoken to him outside of a few chirps garbled around a mouthguard. Shit, Shane had never seen Bood without a helmet outside of pictures Ilya’d sent him.
Did Shane greet Bood like he’d done Svetlana when they’d met, with a hug and silent acknowledgment of their mutual love for Ilya? Did he clap him on the back the way he’d do at All-Star games with old teammates? Did he shake his hand like Shane would a new member of the Voyageurs?
Of course, Shane did none of those.
“Um, hi,” he managed, his voice breaking like he was a pimply teenager again. It was the wrong thing to say, certainly. Weirdly hesitant yet overly familiar, and Shane hated it, hated everything to do with it.
To some extent, Shane’s utter and complete lack of normalcy made sense. Barring his international appearances, Shane had never played for anyone except Montreal in his adult life. He’d never needed to introduce himself to a whole new locker room as a new player on a new team.
Which was not even to mention the fact that this was Ilya’s team. Despite Shane’s best, failed efforts to write one, there was no manual for such a thing as ridiculous and unheard of as playing on your husband’s team.
And it was Ilya’s team; even in the cacophony of the overfull locker room, the respect Ilya commanded was clear in the way everyone nodded at him and noticed him, even as he was just standing there.
All of which meant Shane stood there, frozen, for several seconds too long.
Ilya saved him, of course.
“Bood!” Ilya cried cheerfully before Shane could embarrass himself any further, shoving past Shane to wrap Bood in a tight hug, one that was enthusiastic enough to have made Shane jealous if he was any less nauseated.
“Hey, Cap,” Bood replied, slapping Ilya on the back.
“How is your baby? Have you decided to change his name to Ilya yet?” Ilya pulled back from the hug, his arm slightly outstretched to Shane like he wanted to hug him too.
Shane wanted to let himself be hugged, to get wrapped up in it, feel Ilya’s warm, steady heartbeat, let himself relax, but Shane held himself stock still. First impressions mattered, and Shane refused to let the Cens’ first real look at him be him hanging off of Ilya like a damsel in distress, terrified of meeting new people, even if that was the truth.
He was Shane fucking Hollander; as bad as he might want to, he didn’t need to use Ilya like a crutch. He wouldn’t embarrass Ottawa hockey as he’d done Montreal.
Thankfully, after a few more seconds, Ilya let his hand drop.
“Milo is great, thank you very much,” Bood said, punching Ilya in the bicep good-naturedly. “We’re thinking about adding the middle name Luca, though.”
It was oddly gratifying for Shane to not be the one blushing for once, as Haas went a violent scarlet next to Shane.
“Actually?” Haas said.
Bood smiled apologetically. “No. I was just trying to fuck with Cap. Sorry, man. Maybe the next one.”
Haas nodded, decidedly serious. “It would be an honor.”
Shane felt a hysterical giggle in the back of his throat. Even with Hayden and JJ, their chirps were never close to this friendly. This . . . well, nice.
“I’d probably have to talk to Cassie, though,” Bood added before turning to one of the women who was somehow juggling a baby and balancing a massive Great Dane leaning on her side. “Babe! Can we name our next baby Luca?”
“We’re having a girl, and she’s gonna be Cassie Junior,” she called back without even looking up.
“I love that name, baby,” Bood said immediately, his eyes soft.
Shane waited for the Cens to chime in, to make fun of Bood for being whipped, but no one said a word. No one even looked up from whatever they were doing.
God, this really was like the Twilight Zone.
It felt even moreso when the locker room doors burst open and Troy fucking Barrett walked in, hands laced with a big, hairy blonde dude Shane knew was Harris.
Shane knew Ilya liked Barrett, knew that Barrett was out now or whatever, but ice still curled in Shane’s veins, the memory of Barrett calling Shane a pathetic poof in his last playoff series against Toronto still front of mind. It hadn’t even been a good insult – who fucking called people poofs in the 21st century? – but Shane’s hands tightened anticipatorily, anyway.
Barrett didn’t notice, of course, going over to his stall and dropping his bag down without a second look at anyone. That was normal, at least: Barrett was still weird and anti-social. The relief didn’t last long, though, since his famously stony expression melted into a way-too-handsome smile as soon as Harris started talking.
“Hi, everyone!” Harris said brightly. There were numerous rainbow pins on his denim jacket, and no one was saying a word about it. They just shut up and listened. It made Shane’s pulse thrum uncomfortably.
“Hi, Harris!” Ilya called back next to Shane. He was smiling broadly, showing every single one of his teeth, real and fake alike.
“Welcome to media day. Normally Wiebe would welcome you, but his kid’s stupid piano recital was today-”
A chorus of good-natured boos erupted.
“-so you get me. We’re gonna start doing press in, like, twenty minutes, so if non-team members could make their way to the family room, that would be great. There’s breakfast in there-”
A louder, higher-pitched cacophony of cheers sounded. Shane didn’t miss the way Barrett’s eyes were going fucking moony at Harris’s resulting smile, nor the way not a single other person seemed to notice.
“-and team members can start suiting up. There’s schedules pasted in everyone’s stalls. See you soon!”
The WAGs and kids and dogs started to filter out with a few hugs and kisses, leaving Shane alone with his new team. He’d played against them all, of course, but this was different. These weren’t the mostly faceless players who Shane could analyze for a weak backhand or a good speed on the break.
No. Out of uniform, laughing and smiling like some teen movie version of a locker room, were actual people. People Shane had heard about, late at night with Ilya’s head pillowed on his stomach, during Facetimes while Shane was brushing his teeth.
“Roz,” a guy in a camo hat that Shane was pretty sure was Evan Dykstra yelled across the room. “Why are you still here? You’re a WAG now.”
Fuck. Shane hadn’t heard any horror stories of Dykstra, but the dude was wearing a camo hat and had, Shane could see now, a picture of a truck tacked up in his stall. Maybe Ilya hadn’t mentioned him because he didn’t want Shane to worry. Every team had at least one homophobe. Shane should have been prepared. He should have–
But then Ilya was laughing and giving the guy the finger, one of his warm hands planting on the small of Shane’s back. Shane jumped, even as the contact felt nice. Safe, even. Ilya touching him always felt good. Especially now, when Shane’s skin felt so tight around his frame.
“Fuck you, Dykstra,” Ilya said, a wide smile on his face. “Not all WAGs are banned. Harris is still here.”
Dykstra, who Shane now vaguely remembered as the one who dressed like a bee for Ilya’s Halloween party last year, grinned back and shook his head. “Well, Harris has a job. What’re you doing? We have Hollander. Do we really need a slightly worse center?”
Shane’s inhale went sharp with something between terror and anger, but then Ilya fucking cackled like Dykstra just said the funniest thing in the world instead of insulting him.
“Yeah, get a job, man. Go grab some more towels or something,” Bood teased as he walked over to his own stall.
“And take Dillon’s job?” Ilya said. “I would never!”
The room burst into giggles, a roll of tape flying through the air and hitting one of the players that Shane remembered as Tanner Dillon. He’d been the one who’d gone go-karting with Ilya in St. Louis, Shane was pretty sure.
“Guys, focus,” Harris scolded, even as he was laughing too, a casual hand on Barrett’s arm. The touch was unnoticed, uncommented on entirely. Twilight Zone, indeed. “Gen needs to get headshots done by ten.”
Everyone groaned, but dutifully turned to their stalls and started tugging out jerseys and pads, fresh for the new season.
Not a single person hesitated in undressing, despite the fact that three men there were also interested in men. In Montreal, after Shane had come out, the guys had changed quickly and almost nervously, like they were worried Shane would be watching their bare ass or something.
Here it was just . . . normal. Like nothing was weird at all.
Shane found his eyes sliding to Ilya, but he was acting completely normal, too, like it was a regular media day. More than that, Ilya seemed relaxed, smiling easily and shoulders slack, the way he never was unless he was alone with Shane.
It was uncanny how anxious Shane was while Ilya was laughing and loose, like they were in entirely different, parallel realities. It kind of reminded Shane of when Ilya had taken an edible before they watched Shrek. They were watching the same movie, but where Shane was laughing and enjoying himself, Ilya was white-knuckling the couch in fear of the sexy dragon.
“We should bring Anya here soon,” Ilya said brightly now, pulling his shirt over his head.
Shane paused clumsily, awkwardly, at the nakedness braced for some new comment about Ilya stripping for his husband or something. But, once again, there was nothing, just people chattering happily as they tugged on new jerseys, laced up their skates for the first time in months.
“What do you think?” Ilya prompted. He was shirtless, and fucking gorgeous as ever, but Shane steadily trained his eyes at Ilya’s face, unwilling to risk anything, any slip.
“What?” Shane asked unhelpfully, swallowing dryly.
“So distracted,” Ilya mused. He lifted one finger to brush along Shane’s cheek, and Shane took a panicked step backwards, bile in his throat.
He could see the hurt in Ilya’s face, and the way Ilya’s expression smoothed over it. God, Shane’s own heart was rabbiting in his fucking teeth.
“Anya would like having a doggy playdate here, yes?” Ilya said, turning back to the neat pile of equipment in his stall like nothing had happened. “I think we should bring her sometime, maybe.”
Shane grabbed his own undershirt from his stall with shaky hands, despite the fact that he was still in his hoodie. It, at least, was unchanged, the same gray CCM he always wore.
“Yeah, maybe,” Shane said, running his hands over the synthetic fabric. He couldn’t have sounded weirder if he tried.
“Harris watches the dogs while he edits,” Ilya commented idly. “Anya could make friends. Find a boyfriend, maybe.”
Shane let out a weird, high-pitched giggle. Ilya was acting like this was so normal. Just his husband on his team, the first couple in the entire fucking league, talking about bringing their dog to practice like it was just nothing, like Shane was the secretary and Ilya the sales representative at some random paper company, and it was no big deal at all that they were dating.
Which was maybe the plot of The Office, but, fuck, Shane didn’t exactly have a lot of points of fucking reference for this.
He just needed to be on autopilot. He’d put on his gear a million times. So what if it was a new locker room? It wasn’t anything complicated.
Yet Ilya was watching him openly, gaze sweeping over Shane’s chest when he shoved off his shirt, lingering on his thighs when he tugged down his jeans.
It wasn’t obvious, nothing like the way Harris was ogling Barrett’s abs across the room, but it made nervous sweat start to collect under Shane’s arms. He didn’t want to say anything, draw more attention to it, but Ilya was looking at him hungrily, like they were alone in their own bedroom instead of at fucking work, surrounded by two dozen men who would probably hate Shane in the next six months if they didn’t already.
And Ilya was still looking, half-naked himself, standing right under a plaque that said Rozanov with a huge C next to it, like the universe was trying to make everything sexy about Ilya happen all at once.
It was ridiculous. They were coworkers. Yeah, they were married, but right now, Ilya was his teammate, his captain. Shane knew from personal experience that the coaches would be asking Ilya about him behind his back, that his teammates would be talking shit to Ilya if Shane was weird, or bad, or . . . staring at Ilya’s stupid, huge chest with its stupid, huge bear tattoo.
It wasn’t on purpose.
It was habit, really. Shane always watched Ilya’s naked chest, always clocked the curve of his generous fucking pecs, even when he had zero intention of doing anything more than going to dinner with Ilya after. But he couldn’t do that here.
Shane had gotten so fucking good in Montreal, especially after coming out, about keeping his gaze trained on the ceiling while the team was changing, his eyeline focused, chin carefully up so all he saw were eyes and heads and maybe a flash of collarbones.
Yet here Shane was, day one, and he was slipping up.
Certainly someone could see it, and, even if they weren’t judging, it would be a distraction. Once again, Shane would be a distraction, and he would ruin this team. And there was no soft place to land once Shane fucked this up, no Ilya-run team where players could be openly gay and no one panicked over it. Shane’s entire career would be fucking over.
The Cens were a perfectly nice group of guys. Ilya loved them. They hadn’t breathed a fucking word to Ilya about Shane other than to welcome him and express their sympathy that they’d been outed.
But it couldn’t last forever. Someone would say something, and Ilya was their captain, and Shane would be cut from the team, and no one would want him, and he couldn’t even play in Russia or wherever because he was gay, he was in love with Ilya Rozanov, he’d be a cancer to the locker room. Even if they did take him, Shane couldn’t live on a whole separate continent from Ilya. He would die. His heart would break and he would die, and then who would make sure Ilya didn’t feed Anya too much human food? Then she’d get sick, and Ilya would be alone, and–
“I’m gonna, um . . .” Shane stammered through a cotton-filled mouth. “Bathroom.”
Shane stumbled oafishly out of the locker room and into a hallway. Which, shit, Shane had no fucking clue where the bathrooms even were here. He’d only ever been to the visiting locker room.
It was like a nightmare, with Shane literally in his underwear, wandering around a series of hallways that all looked the fucking same, waiting for someone to tell him to get the hell out of here.
Shane knew he should be doing breathing exercises or something, but he couldn’t make himself. His air was coming in jagged gasps, and his stomach was twisting violently, and he was shaking. His bare feet flew under him as he passed a seemingly endless series of doors before finally finding a men’s room, thank fuck, and locking himself in it. He pressed his forehead to the sink, but the cool porcelain just slipped against his sweaty forehead, not calming at all.
Hardly ten seconds passed before there was a quiet knock at the door.
“Shane?” Ilya’s voice carried in quietly. “You are okay?”
“Uh-huh,” Shane said thinly.
He could practically see Ilya’s expression, the dry swallow, the quirk of his lips. “Can I come in?”
“I’m, uh-” Shane was what? Shitting? Ilya wouldn’t care. It wasn’t an excuse.
“You might want to be alone, but I do not think so,” Ilya said, his voice so warm and gentle that Shane felt himself actually able to take a full breath.
Almost without thought, he unlocked the door.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Ilya said immediately, stepping into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, and wrapping Shane in a tight hug. He was fully kitted up, everything except his helmet and skates on. It should have been sexy, since Shane was a fucking sucker for Ilya in uniform, but it just felt like comfort as Shane all but collapsed onto Ilya, smelling the slightly sour stench of new polyester, banding his arms around Ilya’s waist and tucking his head into the crook of Ilya’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” Shane distantly realized he was saying, the words swallowed by Ilya’s skin. “I don’t know what’s going on..”
“Shh,” Ilya murmured, long fingers petting Shane’s hair. “Is okay. Is a lot all at once, I know.”
Shane was horrified to feel his eyes burning. It was media day, not even a full fucking practice, and Shane was losing it in some bathroom.
“I don’t know why I’m panicking,” Shane reiterated miserably.
“Is your first day, solnyshko.” Ilya pet the back of Shane’s neck with his thumb, and Shane felt goosebumps prickle from his ears to his knees. “New rhythms to learn. New people. You don’t like these things.”
It was true, and the easy way Ilya said it, like he had some sort of instruction manual for Shane balanced in whatever hand wasn’t touching Shane’s neck, forced some of the tension in Shane’s body to abate.
“I haven’t been new in a really long time,” Shane said into the thin, warm skin of Ilya’s neck.
“I know,” Ilya was saying, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “It was strange for me, too, coming from Boston.”
Shane felt a hot, embarrassed tear leak out of his eye and wet the collar of Ilya’s jersey. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” Ilya confirmed in that low, soothing voice.
“Oh,” Shane said stupidly. “I didn’t know.”
“I did not want you to.”
Ilya hadn’t talked much about his first weeks with the Centaurs, and Shane had been loath to press him at the time in case it was awful and Ilya thought it was all Shane’s fault. But Shane should have. A good husband would have probably just taken whatever pain Ilya was in. A good husband wouldn’t be panicking in a bathroom over soft words in the locker room.
As if he could feel the hot shame rolling off of Shane’s body, Ilya kissed Shane’s temple and rubbed soft hands over his bare spine. He’d done such a thing a million times in hotel rooms, in the nocturnal quiet of their bedroom.
It wasn’t perfect, but it soothed Shane marginally. Made his skin feel looser around his bones, at least.
“You remember how much I called you?” Ilya murmured sweetly.
Shane exhaled into Ilya’s skin. Ilya’d called him probably thirty times his first two days with the Cens, about anything but hockey. He’d talked about Ottawa weather, a stray cat he’d met, even the snacks in the vending machine of the arena. Shane had thought he had just been shooting the shit, but maybe not.
“I needed to hear my Shane’s pretty voice,” Ilya continued. “And I’m here to do the same for you.”
“Oh,” Shane mumbled stupidly, throat horribly thick.
“Is okay to have first-day nerves,” Ilya added.
“First day nerves,” Shane repeated, as if that explained even half of the panic Shane was barely biting back.
Ilya held him for a bit longer, until the fabric of his jersey was starting to stick to Shane’s skin and make him itch.
“We should go,” Shane managed.
“No,” Ilya said into Shane’s hair. “Is no rush. Just media day.”
Shane heaved a long sigh. “I don’t want to hold anyone up.”
“Is not holding people up to be taking care of yourself,” Ilya insisted stubbornly.
“I know, but-” Shane allowed himself a long, slow moment to just feel Ilya’s strong arms wound around him, the slow rise and fall of his chest. “I want this to go smoothly. I don’t want to be the reason we’re off schedule.”
“You want people to like you,” Ilya rephrased without subtlety.
“I– Yeah. I do.”
“Is impossible not to. Have they seen your freckles, Hollander? Impossible not to love.”
Shane rolled his eyes, marginally calmer. “C’mon, weirdo.”
“Weirdo?” Ilya said, still not letting Shane move at all. “So mean. You want people to like you, yet you bully me?”
“Ilya,” Shane complained plaintively.
“Okay, okay,” Ilya finally relented. “I understand. You would not be you unless you were Mr. Perfect.”
For some reason, that stung, but Shane shrugged it off. He could worry about it a different time, when there was less noise in his head.
“Fuck you,” Shane said instead of letting himself think about it. He pushed ineffectually at Ilya’s torso, but Ilya just kept holding him.
“Later, zaychik, later. For now, Harris wants me to practice French with marshmallows in my mouth. You want to watch?”
Shane very much did want to watch. But– “Will it be weird? If I watch?”
“Is it weird for Harris to watch Barrett?”
Shane’s mouth twisted. “But that’s his job.”
“Okay. Your job is to be part of the team. They will be watching. You can, too.”
“I guess.”
“Is going to be fine. Now, let’s come get you dressed, yes?”