Archive of Our Own

ONE

The call came in at 10:25 PM, and even though Shane was five minutes from going to bed, he still picked up on the first ring.

He wasn't going to sleep anyway. He was too excited to see Ilya tomorrow, after two weeks of being apart.

Ilya's smiling face filled the screen—his cheek was pressed into his pillow, his curly hair a disaster atop his head. Behind him, Shane could make out the familiar shape of Ilya's bedroom, the blackout curtains Shane had insisted on buying and the pile of laundry on the chair that never seemed to get put away.

"Sweetheart." Ilya's voice was warm and syrupy, the way it only got when they were alone like this. "You are sleeping?"

"Not yet. Soon. How are you?"

"I am too excited to sleep."

Shane smiled at the ceiling. "Yeah?"

"Yes." He rolled onto his back so the phone hovered above his face, his chin doubling slightly from the angle. "I am seeing my sexy boyfriend again, and I get him for two whole days. Is very exciting."

"It is. I miss you so much."

"I miss you too. And there is something else." He sat up suddenly, and the camera swung wildly before landing on a blurry shape sleeping at the foot of the bed. Ilya could never enforce the no-dogs-on-the-bed rule.

"What is it?"

"Anya is coming to the game."

"She is?" Shane said, surprised. "Why?"

When Ilya had first adopted Anya—impulsively—Shane had felt a lot of things. He'd been somewhat worried about the logistics of an athlete who played eighty-two games a year and was frequently out of town, and wondered who would take care of this dog. He'd also, selfishly, thought that he was a cat person and felt a bit disappointed that their first pet would be a dog.

But then he'd met Anya, and all those worries had gone away. She made Ilya so happy and fulfilled, she loved to go on runs with Shane when Ilya didn't want to wake up early, and she was just so fucking cute.

"Harris arranged it. You know Harris—our social media manager? He does this thing every year to promote this shelter in Ottawa." Ilya made a vague sound, waving his free hand. "There is race with player dogs and race with dogs for adoption."

Shane huffed a laugh, imagining a bunch of dogs sliding around on NHL ice. "And you and Anya are doing the player race?"

"Yes. We are going to win."

"Are you?"

"Yes! She has been running so much lately, you know this. She runs with you, she runs with me—she has two athletes as fathers, Shane. Who else can say this? What other dog has this advantage?"

Shane pressed his hand over his mouth. On screen, Ilya looked fully awake now, eyes bright as he gesticulated.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No."

"You are laughing!" Ilya accused. "You don't believe in us?"

"I'm not laughing at you." He gave up, dropping his hand. "Baby. I'm just happy you're happy."

Ilya sobered, his eyebrows and mouth going soft at the edges. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Then—a soft, high-pitched whine, close to the phone. Then another.

Shane's chest squeezed. "Is that —"

"She heard your voice." Ilya's tone was fond and exasperated in equal measure. He tilted the camera down, and there was Anya, no longer curled up but sitting upright, ears swiveled toward the phone, wiggling her whole body. "She was sleeping. Now she wants to talk to you."

"Anya," Shane called softly, directly into the receiver.

The whining intensified. On screen, Anya scrambled forward, paws slipping on the duvet, and shoved her nose directly into the phone's camera. The screen went dark, then blurry, then resolved into an extreme close-up of one brown eye and a nostril.

"She just put her nose on the phone," Ilya said, muffled, like he was holding it away from his face. "She is licking the screen."

"Ugh, gross, Anya! Stop that. Tell her hi."

Ilya's voice took on a high, careening tone he reserved for Anya and babies he saw on the street. "Did you hear that, Anya? Shane says hi!"

Anya barked a response.

"Shane, give her kiss."

"I'm not kissing her through the phone."

"Boring." Ilya pulled the phone back, and Shane could see him again—eyes alight with amusement, Anya now next to him still straining toward the phone. Then Ilya's expression shifted into something sly. "She misses her daddy."

Shane made a disgusted sound. "Ilya, don't call me that."

"Is true. She hears you and she is whining. Like a baby. She misses her daddy." Ilya was grinning now, the kind of smile that made the corners of his eyes crease. "I think she loves you more than me."

"She does not love me more."

"Shane. She is trying to climb into my phone to get to you."

On screen, Anya whined again, and Ilya sighed dramatically and held the phone closer to her. She immediately licked the screen again, and for a moment Shane's view was just a wet blur and the sound of Ilya saying "Anya, боже мой—" before the camera steadied again.

Shane pressed his hand over his eyes, laughing quietly in the dark of his Montreal apartment.

"I always think of you when I look at her," Ilya said, quieter now. He'd settled back against the headboard, the camera propped on his knee, and Anya had given up on the phone and was instead pressing herself against Ilya's side, her spotty muzzle resting on his chest. "The freckles. Every time I see them I think of you. It is stupid."

"It's not stupid."

"Is a little. She is just a dog."

"No, she's our dog," Shane said, appeasing him.

Another silence. Longer this time. On screen, Ilya's hand moved absently to Anya's head, fingers threading through the fur on her ear.

"Our dog," Ilya repeated, like he was admiring the word. Then, because he probably couldn't help himself: "Anyway. She will win the race and you will watch and be proud of her."

"I'm always proud of her."

"And of me?"

"And of you."

"Good. Now go to sleep. You will need your energy for tomorrow when you lose."

"Hey! Fuck off!"

"Goodnight, малыш. I love you."

"Goodnight. I love you too."

Even though Shane wouldn't go so low as to kiss a dog through a screen, he did kiss his fingertips and press them to the glass. Ilya blew one back, giving him a soft, lingering smile, and the screen went dark.

Shane held the phone to his chest for a long time, missing his boyfriend and, yes, his daughter, a lot.

***

The setup, as Harris explained it with manic enthusiasm, was simple.

Once a year, Ottawa hosted what they'd branded Pucks & Paws night. Harris had pitched it three years ago as a "community engagement initiative." What it actually was, was an excuse to put dogs on ice and watch them be cute, and by every metric it was the most successful social media push the organization had ever done and the most effective way of getting eyes on Ottawa's biggest dog shelter.

This year's edition featured sixteen dogs total. Eight belonged to players—one being Anya, which Ilya had described as "an honour" and "an obvious choice" in the same breath—and eight were shelter dogs from a local rescue.

The race was the main event. The dogs would be held by volunteers at one end of the rink, lined up behind a temporary gate. The players would stand at the other end, on the ice, in their full gear, and call their dogs. First dog to reach their owner won.

"Okay!" Harris called out through the microphone, standing in the middle of the ice. "When I blow the whistle, volunteers release. Owners, you can do whatever you need to get your dog's attention, but no treats! First across the line wins. Do not pick up your dog before they cross—that's a disqualification, Hayes, I'm looking at you—"

Shane wasn't playing in the race, obviously, because his dog was his secret boyfriend's dog. He was standing behind the Montreal bench in his full gear, watching the ice with his arms crossed, doing his best to look nonchalant and unbiased, and not scanning the far end of the rink for a Welsh springer spaniel with freckles on her muzzle.

Anya was easy to spot. She was a beautiful dog—compact and athletic, built more for endurance than speed, with soft brown eyes and one ear that flopped forward when she was curious about something. Shane agreed with Ilya's assessment; the freckles across her nose and forelegs were startlingly like the ones scattered across Shane's own shoulders and the bridge of his nose. They'd noticed it the first time Anya met Shane, over a year ago now. She'd been sleeping in a patch of sunlight on the floor, and Shane had bent down to look at her more closely. Ilya had offered to take a picture, and suddenly his eyes had gone teary and all he'd said was "Freckles..."

Right now, both of Anya's ears were up. She was sitting politely next to a volunteer, looking down the length of the ice at the line of players with an expression of deep, thoughtful concentration.

Ilya was at the Ottawa end, crouched in his skates, already making faces at her.

The whistle blew.

Eight dogs exploded forward in a chaos of barking and scrambling paws. A labrador belonging to one of Ottawa's defensemen barreled forward. A husky mix immediately veered left to investigate a crack in the ice. Someone's dachshund shot forward like a bullet and then stopped to bark and growl at its own reflection in the glass.

Anya broke from the line at a clean, easy sprint. She was fast, and for a moment it seemed like Ilya had been right—she was going to win this thing.

She passed the center line and kept going.

She passed the far blue line near Ilya was crouched, arms out, making kissy sounds and cooing noises. "Anya!" Ilya shouted. "Anya, сюда!"

She didn't even flick an ear.

Shane's stomach dropped. 

Anya veered to the left and stopped right in front of the Montreal bench, sitting down right in front of Shane. She looked up at him, yipping happily.

The crowd reacted instantly—a wave of laughter and confusion that rippled outward from the bench. The Jumbotron swung toward them, and suddenly Shane and Anya were on every screen in the building.

Shane didn't move.

He stood with his arms crossed, his face carefully blank, and looked at her. Anya barked again, scrambled onto her hind legs, then put her front paws up on the dasher board, scrabbling for purchase on the rubber, her nails clicking.

Shane stood up. "Anya, no—" he hissed.

Too late. She half-climbed, half-scrambled over the boards, her front half dangling on the ledge of the railing, tail going so hard her whole body wagged, and she made a sound—this desperate, finally sound—and shoved her nose directly into Shane's chest.

Fuck. This looked so bad.

Shane sat there, arms still crossed, jaw tight, feeling the weight of every camera in the arena and the sudden, dangerous tilt of the narrative.

Why does Ilya Rozanov's dog know Shane Hollander?

On the ice, Ilya was watching the whole thing and the corner of his mouth doing something very amused he wasn't trying very hard to stop.

Anya whined again, louder, pawing at Shane's chest.

The crowd was chanting now. Something rhythmic and encouraging. Pet the dog. Pet the dog. Pet the dog.

Shane glanced at JJ, who was staring at him with his mouth open.

"I don't know why—" Shane started.

"Capitaine," JJ said. "That dog is climbing you."

Anya had gotten her back legs over the boards now. She was fully on the bench, standing on the padded area between the stalls, and she had shoved her entire body between Shane's legs, looking up at him with those soft, expectant brown eyes.

She barked once more. Almost a question.

Shane couldn't help himself.

He uncrossed his arms. He looked down at her—this innocent animal who didn't know better—and he put one hand on her head.

Just once, he told himself. A single stroke, from the top of her skull to between her ears, to placate her.

Anya's eyes closed. She pressed her head into his palm so hard she nearly unbalanced herself.

The crowd roared.

Shane pulled his hand back immediately, like he'd touched a hot stove. He looked up at the Jumbotron, at himself, at the dog, at the way it looked. Anya looked like a dog that knew him. That had been told the man at the other end of the ice was the one to run to—except she'd chosen differently.

He could see the media reaction being born in real time.

"I don't..." he said again, to no one, to everyone.

But it was no use. Anya sat down on his feet and would not be moved until Ilya came to pick her up.

***

The post-game interview was exactly what Shane had been expecting.

He'd showered. Done the bare minimum of his usual post-game routine while his mind ran at double speed in the background, rehearsing answers, discarding them, rehearsing new ones. By the time one of Montreal's PR staff appeared in the locker room and said Hey, media wants you, Shane had a script.

He sat on the bench in the interview room, still slightly damp at the temples, and the reporter—a woman named Priya with a microphone—sat across from him.

"Shane, thanks for a couple minutes. Obviously the big story tonight, at least on social media, isn't the 4-2 final, it's what happened before the game."

"Yeah." Shane offered a small smile.

"Can you walk us through it from your perspective? You're standing on the bench, and suddenly Rozanov's dog is climbing you."

"I mean—" He shrugged, hoping it looked loose and natural. He'd practiced it. "I have no idea what happened. Dogs are weird. Maybe she smelled something on me, I don't know."

"You seemed pretty calm about it."

"Well, I'm not afraid of her." Shane let a little laugh escape. "She's like forty pounds, and she was very sweet."

"Well, she's Rozanov's dog. That's a bit unexpected, don't you think?"

Shane frowned. It took him a second to follow. "That she's sweet?"

Priya nodded. "Is that not surprising?"

Shane wanted to yell. No, it's not surprising that the sweetest man he knew raised the sweetest, cutest dog he knew. If people knew the real Ilya, no one would find it surprising that Anya was his dog. Shane couldn't say any of that.

"Not really," he said instead.

Priya tilted her head slightly. "Have you met Anya before tonight? Some people are saying she seemed to know you."

Shane had anticipated this question coming. He'd prepared for it. He let a beat pass and then gave the answer he'd been holding in his back pocket.

"Yeah, a couple times," he said, easy. "I've met her when we ran camps for the Irina Foundation."

It was true, technically. It was documented. There were photos—Shane running drills for kids while Anya slept under a tree, campers meeting Anya on their first day, and in one wide crop, Anya visible in the background at Ilya's feet during a press conference.

What the photos didn't show was that on the first day of that camp, Ilya had pressed him against the bathroom door during lunch and kissed him until they were both breathless. What the press conference crop didn't reveal was that twenty minutes after that photo was taken, Shane had been sitting on the floor of Ilya's living room letting a six-month-old Anya chew on his wrist while Ilya made dinner.

Priya nodded, seemingly satisfied. "That makes sense. The Irina Foundation does great work."

"Thank you." Shane shifted in his seat, angling his body slightly toward the exit, the universal hockey player signal for wrapping this up.

"One last question—did you feel bad for him at all? Standing there on the ice while his dog ignored him?"

Shane let his mouth quirk. "Not really. He's used to being beat by me at this point."

Priya laughed. "Shane Hollander, thanks for your time."

"Yep." He stood and walked out of the interview room with his hands in his pockets and his heart beating in his throat, praying that the foundation answer had done its job.

***

The Uber was a black sedan, quiet inside, the driver mercifully uninterested in conversation. Shane sat in the back seat with his backpack on his lap and his phone in his hand and scrolled.

He'd been scrolling for twenty minutes straight.

The first wave of coverage had already landed. A short clip was up. The headline read: ROZANOV'S DOG STEALS THE SHOW AT PUCKS & PAWS NIGHT. The thumbnail was Anya with her paws on the boards, tongue out, Shane visible in front of her looking alarmed.

Fine. That was fine. Funny dog moment.

He kept scrolling.

A tweet from a hockey account with two hundred thousand followers: "that dog did NOT hesitate to run towards shane hollander. ilya rozanov's dog, i understand you religiously." Forty thousand likes. Shane stared at the word religiously.

Another tweet: "ilya rozanov calling his dog and her going 'no thanks' and running straight into the arms of his rival is the funniest thing i've seen all season." Okay. This good. That was the narrative. Funny. Absurd.

He kept scrolling, a small wave of relief washing over him with every post he read.

A fan account had posted a zoomed-in screenshot of the moment he'd touched her. The quality was grainy but readable. The caption said: "i can't decide who's cuter :(((" with a crying emoji.

Shane zoomed in on his own hand. It looked...it looked fine. It looked like a guy greeting a dog. People petted dogs all the time. There was nothing incriminating about the way his fingers were curved, the way his palm sat molded to the crown of her head, the way his wrist had a slight angle to it that suggested he knew exactly where she liked to be touched, that suggested—

He kept scrolling.

Someone on Reddit had posted a thread: "Does anyone else think it was suspicious that dog went straight to Hollander?"

His stomach turned.

The top comment said: "Dogs are just like that dude. My friend's dog runs to me every time I visit and I see her like twice a year."

The second comment: "Hollander mentioned he and the dog have met a few times at charity events. Not that deep."

The third comment: "the dog has freckles lol they're twins"

Shane exhaled. The original post had ten upvotes. The top comment had two hundred. People were dismissing it. People were laughing about it. The thread was tagged "fluff" and no one was digging.

He switched to Instagram. The official NHL account had posted a carousel—shelter dogs looking cute, players laughing, and then, slide seven, Anya sprinting toward the Montreal bench. The comments were a mix of heart emojis and people tagging their friends and one person who wrote "why did she go to hollander tho, u know that man is awkward af with pets 😭" and someone responded, "don't be mean, he was fine with her."

Shane stared at that exchange for a long time.

Why did she go to Hollander, though?

Fair question. He could admit it—he was kind of awkward around people's pets. He didn't like dirty things, didn't know what to say, and usually animals could tell. He was no animal's favourite person, other than Anya.

Why did Anya come to him?

Because she knows me. Because I've walked her at six in the morning in Ottawa when the streets are empty and Ilya is still asleep and it's just me and her. Because I've sat on Ilya's couch and fed her pieces of cheese while Ilya cooked and she put her head in my lap and fell asleep. Because when Ilya is on a road trip and I'm not, I stay at the house to watch her, and I secretly let her sleep on Ilya's side of the bed because I miss him so much and it's his side that'll get dirty and not mine. Because she is our fucking dog and she knows it.

He wished the world could see that. He wished he could have kissed her on the ice and called her baby and held her the way he wanted to hold Ilya after a game, in front of everyone. He wished people knew that the version of Shane Hollander who was "awkward af with pets" wasn't the whole story. That somewhere there was a dog with freckles like his who loved him unconditionally, and a man who loved him the same way, and all three of them were a family that nobody got to see.

He locked the phone. Pressed it flat against his thigh.

It was strange—he'd spent the whole Uber ride bracing for someone to look closer, and now that no one had, it just felt lonely.

***

The house smelled like the soap Ilya's cleaner used and, underneath that, garlic, onions, and the deep, warm smell of tomatoes reducing on a stove.

Ilya was cooking them dinner, Shane thought, smiling to himself.

He had wanted to surprise Ilya and sneak up on him, but his plans were interrupted by the very noticeable sounds of nails on hardwood. A soft, accelerating click-click-click.

Anya appeared around the corner at a full sprint, her collar jingling, her one floppy ear flying, and she hit Shane's legs at the same speed she'd been racing down the ice earlier. The difference was that here, in the dark, in Ilya's house, with no cameras and no one watching, Shane crouched down immediately and caught her.

"Hey, sweet girl," he murmured, and she was whining—that same whine from the FaceTime call, the one that had made his chest cave in—and she was licking his neck and pressing her nose into him and her tail was going so fast it was thumping against his shins.

"I know," he said, sinking to the floor entirely, letting her climb into his lap the way she used to when she was small enough to fit there. She wasn't anymore, but she tried anyway, all forty pounds of her wedging herself against his chest like she could fuse them together. "I know. I missed you too. I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you needed at the rink."

Then Ilya was there, leaning against the doorway with a dish towel over his shoulder, wearing sweatpants and a faded T-shirt that Shane had secretly stolen and returned so many times the collar was stretching. His hair was damp from a shower. He looked tired. He looked soft.

"She heard the car," Ilya said. "She knew."

"What a smart girl," Shane cooed, but his heart wasn't in it. He was still thinking about how the media.

Shane looked up at him, and something in his face must have shown, because a small crease formed between Ilya's brows.

"Come here," Ilya said, stepping forward and extending a hand.

Shane gently moved Anya off his lap and took it. Ilya pulled him up off the floor, and for a moment they were just standing there in the dark hallway, Anya circling at their feet, and Ilya was looking at him with that careful look.

"You are sad?" Ilya said quietly.

"I'm not."

Shane opened his mouth to argue, and Ilya kissed him instead.

It was soft and immediate, one hand on the side of Shane's neck, the other still holding his. Not rushed, not demanding, just solid and warm, like Ilya was trying to say I see you without making him talk about it yet. Shane's hand found the front of Ilya's shirt and gripped the fabric, and he kissed back, and for a few seconds the spiral in his chest went quiet.

When Ilya pulled back, he pressed his lips to Shane's forehead stayed there.

"Sit down," he said. "I made food."

***

The chickpea pasta was perfect and Ilya had cooked exactly the way Shane liked it. He set the plate on the coffee table in front of the couch, along with a glass of ginger ale, and settled next to Shane with his own plate (made with regular pasta). Anya wedged herself between them on the floor, her chin on Ilya's foot.

Shane ate most of it. It was good, but his jaw felt tight and his chest felt hollow, and he knew Ilya could tell because Ilya kept glancing at him between bites.

"You doom scrolled in the car," Ilya said finally.

Shane set his fork down. "I know I shouldn't have."

"Ah." Ilya put his plate on the table. Turned to face him fully, one arm along the back of the couch. "And what did you find?"

"Nothing. That's the thing, I found nothing."

"This sounds like a good thing?"

"It is. I know it is." Shane turned his glass in his hands. "But I saw someone say I'm awkward with pets, and I just—I kept thinking about how no one gets to see that I'm not. With her. That I know exactly how she likes to be touched and when she doesn't feel good and what she looks like when she's really happy."

Ilya was quiet for a moment. Then his hand found the back of Shane's neck, and he pulled him sideways until Shane's head was against his shoulder.

"I feel this too," Ilya said, his mouth against Shane's hair. "But here is what I think—just because they do not see you at home does not mean what we have all together is not real. This is what I keep telling myself, at least. And to Anya, she cannot tell the difference."

Shane closed his eyes. Let himself lean into it. "And one day, everyone will know. And I can love you and her with all of me and we won't need to hide."

"Yes," Ilya agreed, although his voice was sad. His thumb pressed into the knot of muscle at the base of Shane's skull.

"I love you," Shane mumbled, just because he could.

"I love you too. Eat your dinner." A pause. "Also, I did not bring this up because you were upset but I heard what you said in that interview about always beating me. We will argue about that later."

***

Later, after Shane had been thoroughly fucked by his boyfriend and they'd pretended to argue over what he said, Ilya and Anya had made twin puppy dog eyes at him, and well, after what happened today, could Shane really be blamed for letting them both pile on him for bed?

TWO

When Shane was first deciding where to build his cottage, the first thing that caught his eye about this plot in Lanaudière was the way the lake manipulated the light in the evenings. The water was always quiet and still, and reflected soft pinks and pale oranges that illuminated everything in its vicinity in a warm, nostalgic glow.

Shane always watched the sun set when he was at the cottage alone, but there was nothing quite like looking at Ilya in that evening light. After days that were busy and full, Ilya was always softened by the late evening, and it made him sweet and adoring. Shane could never believe he got to see all versions of Ilya like this.

It was on the dock, on a night like that, that Ilya had suggested the whole thing in the first place.

They'd been out there for an hour by then, Ilya on his back with his head in Shane's lap, Anya curled tight against his side, Shane's fingers threading through his curls, neither of them talking much because they had already spent the whole day talking. The water had gone that particular gold. A fish jumped somewhere out past the buoy line.

"малыш?" Ilya said.

"Hm? What's up?"

"You should have everyone out here," Ilya offered, eventually, like it had just occurred to him, though Shane would come to suspect later that Ilya had been working up the courage to ask him that for a while.

Shane paused the stroking of his hair and met Ilya's earnest eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Is nice that coaching staff help out with camps for free," Ilya said.

"Yes," Shane agreed, not sure where this was going. But Ilya was beginning to look nervous, so Shane resumed the gentle massage of his head.

"I was thinking… it would be nice to celebrate The Irina Foundation team. To say thank you for their hard work, and to give them chance to get to know each other this summer before working together."

Shane didn't say anything right away, and he felt Ilya notice the pause, felt him stiffen even further against his thigh.

"Here?" Shane said.

"First week of camp is in Montreal, so I thought here would be…" Ilya trailed off and looked at the darkening sky instead of at Shane. "I love it here, so much. I wish…"

Shane thought about it—about JJ and Hayden, Ryan, Eric, and the Centaurs and all the rest of them walking around his property, sitting on his dock, less than 20 meters from the bed he shared with Ilya every night. Would he and Ilya be able to hide without the pretence of some other role?

"Ilya..."

"I know," Ilya said, quickly, before Shane could get further than that. "I know how it sounds. I just—" He stopped, jaw working, and for a second he looked younger than Shane had seen him look in a while, and much less sure of himself. "I just want, one time, to have people over, to a place that is ours. Everyone knows we are friends now, but at camp we are mostly professional, so nobody sees it really. This is safe group, people we trust. I wish, we could be Ilya and Shane in front of them. Not Rozanov and Hollander the players, not Coach Ilya and Coach Shane. Just us."

Shane wanted it too, wanted it so badly some nights it ached. And Ilya—who has respected Shane's boundaries at every turn of their relationship, who often struggles to ask for things directly—must clearly be aching for this too, if he was bringing this up.

"If you do not want people at the cottage, I understand. I can host in Ottawa if you prefer, after the two weeks is over. But I want to do something like this with you. Will you think about it?"

Shane looked down at Ilya for a long moment—hair a mess from Shane's hands, the last of the light going deep orange across his face, that hopeful look that Shane was pretty sure only he was privy to—and felt whatever resolve he'd been building up dissolve completely.

"Okay," he said.

Ilya's whole face changed. "Okay?"

Anya, sensing the change in her papa's mood, got up and began yipping. Shane patted her head with his free hand to calm her down.

"We can do it here the weekend before camp—" Ilya's eyes were wide open now and he looked downright gleeful. He clutched one of Shane's hands in his and immediately put his other hand on Shane's inner thigh.

"—if you can keep yourself in check."

"I will be good."

"You say that now."

"I say that always," Ilya said, grinning, and readjusted himself up on an elbow so he could kiss him — slow, unhurried, tasting like the beer they'd been sharing.

Anya, unwilling to be left out of anything happening within three meters of either of them, shoved her whole head up between their faces with a grunt, and Ilya broke the kiss laughing, burying his face against her neck instead.

"Attention hog," Shane told her. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth. "You're a troublemaker just like your papa."

***

After those quiet couple of days at the cottage, their camp responsibilities came quickly, which meant splitting up.

Ilya went back to Ottawa to sort out logistics at the camp venue with Yuna, while Shane did the same in Montreal, and for ten days they existed mostly as texts (or sexts) sent between meetings and falling asleep on FaceTime.

By the time the actual weekend arrived, Shane had almost managed to forget what he'd agreed to—until he found himself alone in the cottage the day before everyone was set to arrive, doing a slow, deliberate circuit.

There were traces of Ilya everywhere. Shane first noticed it when he sat down to play Chel and saw Ilya's profile on the TV, listed as "Ilya 8====D." This triggered Shane to go room by room until there wasn't anything left that would give away their relationship.

He took down the photo from the fridge—the two of them on the isolated island near the cottage that they would often canoe to—and put it in a drawer in the bedroom. He gathered the hoodie of Ilya's that had migrated onto the back of the reading chair sometime, the Adidas slides on the shoe rack Shane kept for him, and the Russian snacks in the pantry and put them all in their closet, cringing a bit at the idea of food being in the room but knowing there was no other room he could lock.

By the time he was done, the cottage looked exactly like what it was supposed to look like—a nice place a single, straight guy owned—and Shane hated how good he'd gotten at that kind of act.

***

Lily: 10 mins away 🏎️💨

Lily: i miss you 💔

Lily: i can't believe i am coming to cottage and cannot fuck you right away 😩

Lily: i'm so hard rn it is like pavlovian response driving down this road

Shane: STOP!

Shane: I miss you too.

Lily: ur so bad at sexting it rlly gets me going 🤣

Shane: Remember when you promised you would be good?

Lily: fuckkkkkkk i'll be so good for you 🙏

Shane: NO. Stop that.

Lily: boring. ok fine. 5 mins. see you soon malysh))

Shane: Drive safe! I love you.

Lily: i love you too

***

The evening was, objectively, perfect.

Shane didn't throw that word around much, but there was no other word for it. The sky had gone that deep summer blue, the kind that made everything underneath it look saturated and unreal. The lake was clear and calm. The bugs, miraculously, had not arrived.

JJ had been the first one in the water, cannonballing off the dock before Shane had even finished lighting the grill, and Hayden had followed with a far more graceful dive that JJ immediately called "pompier." Max and Leah had declined to swim at all, choosing instead to sit in the Adirondack chairs with beers and books like they were at a resort, which, Shane supposed, they kind of were.

Wyatt, Troy, and Zane arrived arguing about something that turned out to be a ranking of fast-food French fries that continued for most of the evening, and Eric and Ryan spent their time sitting on the dock, peacefully taking in the views.

By four o'clock the cottage was full. It was the kind of thing Shane had always wanted but never quite let himself have, before. Noise in rooms that were usually quiet. Laughter coming from the kitchen while the smell of smoke and sunscreen drifted in from outside.

Ilya and Zane had appointed themselves as grill masters, which meant Shane had been firmly displaced, and now stood leaning against the porch railing with a beer, watching his boyfriend intimidate a row of hot dogs, steaks, and patties with a pair of tongs.

"You're overcooking them," Shane said.

"Searing," Ilya corrected.

"Incinerating," Shane offered, causing Zane to huff a laugh.

"The rivalry doesn't stop, even off the ice, right boys?" Zane said, moving Ilya out of the way so he could properly rotate the sausages.

"Nope," Shane said, quite honestly.

Ilya didn't look up from the grill, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and swim trunks and his hair was still damp from his own earlier swim, curling at the nape of his neck in a way that Shane was not going to think about with this many people around.

While JJ yelled something about a race from the lake and Hayden yelled back that he'd already won, Ilya glanced over his shoulder at Shane. Just a glance—quick, sideways, the kind that looked like he was looking around. But his eyes held for a beat too long, and his mouth formed a small curve, and Shane knew it meant I can't believe we're doing this. I can't believe they're here and we're here and it's real.

Shane looked away first, feeling himself flush.

From the dock, Eric turned a page.

"She's such a good dog," Leah said, approaching onto the porch step beside Shane with her plate. She nodded toward Anya, who was lying at the edge of the dock watching the swimmers with her ears up. "She's so friendly and curious."

"She is an angel," Ilya said from the grill, and Shane had to busy his hands helping Leah plate side dishes for her and Max, because the fondness in Ilya's voice was the kind that could kill a man.

Wyatt appeared with his own plate and dropped into the chair next to Leah, and within thirty seconds they were deep in a conversation about some goalie methodology that Shane didn't follow well.

When Ilya came around with the tray of meat later, and when he handed Shane his specially-made vegan bean burger, their fingers touched at the edges of the bun. Ilya's thumb pressed, just for a second, into the side of Shane's index finger. Then he moved on to the other guests like nothing had happened.

After dinner—the meat was fine, Shane would never tell him—some of them took the canoes out. Hayden and Shane took one, Max and JJ took the other, and Ilya and Troy paddled a third with the kind of competitive taunting that immediately turned into a race.

Anya had looked a bit hesitant, but with a bit of coaxing, was convinced by Ilya to wear a life jacket and sit neatly in the canoe between Ilya and Troy.

Wyatt and Zane had stayed on the porch with their fries argument, which had somehow expanded to include onion rings and had gotten heated enough that Ryan had encouraged them to take it to the water.

The lake was wide and quiet, and the cottages on the far shore were far enough away to look like a painting. Shane let Hayden steer while he trailed his hand in the water, and across the way Ilya was laughing at something Max said, his paddle idle.

At one point, their canoes drifted close enough that Shane could have reached out and touched Ilya's. They didn't—their friends were right there—but Ilya looked at him across the two meters of water between them and said, very casually, "You canoe as slow as you skate."

"Hey! Fuck off!" And then finally Shane had an excuse to reach over and shake their boat.

Ilya grinned, and began paddling away while Troy held in a laugh.

This is what he wanted, Shane thought. This is what he asked for on the dock that night. This exact thing.

It was good. It was so good it almost hurt.

They paddled to the little island—not the one Shane and Ilya went to, the other one, the one that was safe for groups because the two of them had never fucked there—and hung out on the rocks for an hour, skipping stones and sharing drinks that had been stuffed into a cooler bag. Anya ran around, exploring the different rocks and plants.

There was a moment, near the end, when everyone had spread out along the shore and Shane found himself standing next to Ilya at the water's edge, close enough that their shoulders touched when either of them breathed.

Ilya didn't look at him. He looked at the water. But he said, quietly, barely moving his lips, "Thank you. For this."

Shane didn't look at him either. He skipped a stone. "You don't have to thank me."

"I do." A pause. "I know it is not easy for you. Having people here."

Shane skipped another stone. It skipped four times. "It's easier than I thought it would be."

"Good." Ilya's hand brushed against his quickly, knuckle to knuckle. "That is good. I am proud of you"

Then JJ yelled something about another race back, and the moment broke, and they were wading back to the canoes, and that was that.

By the time they paddled back, the light was already starting to shift. Some of the team—Eric, Ryan, Max, and Leah—had already retreated to their guest bedrooms, while the others lingered outside.

Shane built a fire in the fire pit while Ilya set out blankets and pillows on the chairs. At one point, Shane crouched by the woodpile and Ilya walked past him to grab another blanket from inside, and on his way back Shane's hand caught the back of his calf—just for a second, a quick brush, the kind of touch that could have been an accident if anyone had seen it. No one did. Ilya kept walking, and Shane's palm was warm in a way that had nothing to do with the fire he was stoking.

For a while they all sat out there in the dark, passing around a bag of marshmallows and sharing stories from the season.

Anya lay in a pile of blankets Ilya had set out on the ground (Shane would scold him for that later), belly up, getting intermittent scratches from whoever's hand was closest. The fire crackled. The lake reflected the stars. Ilya's knee was a warm line against Shane's, hidden under a shared blanket.

At one point, while Wyatt was mid-sentence about the time he played a game and attended a movie premiere in the same night, Ilya shifted beside Shane, stretched, and his arm landed behind Shane's head. It was a bold gesture, but Shane had seen the way Ilya was tactile with everyone there—including Hayden, who he claimed to hate—and figured it would be weirder if he removed it, so he left it there. Ilya's arm stayed behind him, heavy and warm through the fabric, while he nodded along to Wyatt's story and provided interjections at the right moment.

Around nine thirty, Troy excused himself to call Harris and Hayden to call Jackie, which left Shane and Ilya sharing the couch, JJ, Zane, and Wyatt. Wyatt was on the floor leaning back against the couch with the last marshmallow, his fingers absent-mindedly stroking a sleeping Anya.

Then, somewhere over the far side of the cottage, there was a flash.

Shane noticed it peripherally—a sudden brightness at the edge of his vision, like someone had taken a photo. He looked up. The sky to the northwest had gone a bruised purple.

"Was that lightning?" Wyatt asked, sitting up.

Nobody answered. They all just looked at the sky.

The thunder came ten seconds later—a low, rolling growling thing. Distant, but not distant enough.

"Tabarnak," JJ said. "I didn't know there was supposed to be a storm."

"Me neither," Shane admitted, continuing to look upwards. The purple was spreading, flattening, eating the stars. "Let's get inside. Just in case."

He said it casually, because there was no reason to alarm anyone. Summer storms came through here all the time. Usually they were fast and loud and over in an hour. No big deal.

But when he looked down at Anya, she was already standing. All four feet planted wide, her whole body rigid, her ears pinned flat against her skull. She was staring at the sky with wide eyes, and her tail was tucked so tight under her body it was practically invisible.

"Anya," Ilya said, from beside the fire. "Anya, hey."

She didn't respond. She was trembling.

Then the sky split open.

The lightning was closer this time—close enough that the thunder was almost simultaneous, a sharp, enormous crack that seemed to come from directly overhead, and the rain didn't start so much as arrive, all at once, like someone had turned a hose on the sky.

Anya screamed.

It was the only word for it. Not a bark, not a whine—a high, panicked, guttural sound that Shane had never heard her make before, and it cut through the rain and the thunder clearly.

She bolted.

Just—ran, in a blind, directionless panic, slipping on the wet grass, and Shane's heart slammed into his throat because the dock ended and the lake was right there and she was going to—

"Anya!" Shane shouted, and he was moving before he'd finished saying it, chasing after her, and he caught her just as she reached the edge, grabbing her by the harness, pulling her back with a force that sent them both sprawling onto the wet dock.

She was shaking so hard he could feel her ribs vibrating through his arms. Her eyes were wild. She was panting in short, ragged bursts, and she kept trying to scramble up, kept trying to run, and Shane held on.

"I've got you, baby," he said, loud enough to cut through the rain. "I've got you, I've got you."

"Inside!" Ilya yelled, and Shane looked up to see him ushering the others off the dock, Zane with his arms over his head, Wyatt holding a pillow over his like it would help. "Everyone inside, now!"

Shane stood, lifting Anya—all forty pounds of her, trembling and rigid—and carried her off the dock. The rain was coming down so hard it stung. By the time they made it through the cottage door, they were all soaked through.

"Okay, okay," Shane said, setting Anya down on the mat inside the door. She immediately tried to bolt again, skidding on the tile, and he grabbed her harness again and held on, putting both his legs around her trembling frame. "It's okay. You're okay. Sit."

"Here—" Ilya appeared beside him with a towel, his hair plastered to his forehead, his white T-shirt now see-through and clinging to him. "Let me—"

He reached for Anya, and she whimpered and pressed herself harder against Shane's legs, making that sound again — low, desperate, caught in her throat.

Ilya put a gentle hand on her head. "Hey," he said, crouching down, voice gentle. "Is okay. Papa's here. You're safe here."

Anya pressed her face into Ilya's knees, leaning into his touch, and shook. When Shane tried to lift his legs so she could have more space, she cried out, and he ended up staying there with her wet body cool against his bare shins while Ilya continued to whisper reassurances and pat her head.

The others were standing in the living room, dripping on the hardwood, looking uncomfortable. JJ was wringing out his shirt. Zane was looking at his phone, probably checking the radar.

"Why don't you guys get dry?" Shane said, keeping his voice calm, steady. "There are towels in the bathroom, and I'll get the fire going."

"Should we help with the dog?" Wyatt asked.

"She's fine," Shane and Ilya said simultaneously, and then they looked at each other, because why would Shane Hollander know that about Ilya Rozanov's dog?

"She does not like storms," Ilya added. "She will calm down."

My dog doesn't like storms. A normal thing a normal dog owner who knows their dog well would say and then comfort their dog over. Except the dog didn't just want the dog owner. The dog wanted Shane, and everyone in this room could see that, and Shane could feel the explanation he'd given on the ice months ago—I've met her a few times—starting to strain.

Shane led Anya to the living room, one hand on her back, and sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace. She climbed into his lap immediately—all of her, desperate and clumsy, her claws digging into his thighs through his wet shorts—and pressed her face into his chest and continued to tremble.

"I know," he murmured into her ear, low enough that it was just for her. "I know, sweet girl. I've got you. You're safe."

He could hear Ilya behind him, getting the fire going instead. He wondered if it was weird to people that Ilya knew how to do that, but it was just a remote, so he figured it would be fine. He could hear Wyatt, Troy, and JJ moving around, finding towels, settling onto the couch. The TV clicked on and the sound of a Metros v Nomads game replay filled the room.

As another clap of thunder shook the house, Anya began crying these tiny, hiccuping breaths.

Shane had known, abstractly, that she'd been found as a puppy during a storm—Ilya had told him the story as soon as he adopted her and Shane had reacted mostly in variations of "What??" After he'd heard the story, Shane empathized immediately: a three-month-old spaniel mix tied to a fence post in a thunderstorm, soaked and shivering, found by Harris and his family.

Shane had never seen her like this, though, hadn't been with her on the night of a storm before.

Ilya appeared beside him, crouching down, a towel in his hands. He started gently drying Anya's fur, working the towel over her back and her sides cafeully. Anya didn't pull away from the towel this time—she knew Ilya, trusted Ilya, loved Ilya—but she didn't move toward him either. She stayed pressed into Shane's chest, her face hidden, her body a tight coil.

"Anya," Ilya said quietly. "Look at me."

She lifted her head, just barely, one eye visible, wet and terrified. Ilya held her gaze and murmured something in Russian, low and steady, the way he talked to Shane when he was feeling anxious. His hand moved over her back in long, slow strokes.

She listened. Shane could feel her trembling ease, just slightly, under Ilya's voice and Ilya's hands. But the moment Ilya stopped talking—the moment there was a gap, and the thunder filled it—she tucked her face back into Shane's chest.

Even though Shane had never seen her in a storm, he had seen her in other moments of anxiety and sadness. She hated Shane's vaccum and had beef with the hair dryer Ilya used for his curls. And this was consistent for her—she wanted Shane to calm her down.

Ilya often joked that he was the fun dad — he was her person, her reliable, everyday partner who fed her too many treats, let her on the bed when she shouldn't be there, and indulged her in long walks even when he was busy. But when she was truly frightened, when the world became too loud and too much, she wanted someone boring and steady.

She went to Shane.

And Shane held her, one arm around her body, the other hand cupped over her head, fingers buried in her wet fur.

"Is she okay?" JJ asked from the couch. He was wrapped in a towel, his hair sticking up in six directions, and he was looking at them with an expression that was hard to read.

"She gets like this sometimes," Ilya explained, without missing a beat. He was still crouched beside Shane, still working the towel over Anya's back. "She was abandoned in a storm."

"She really went straight for Hollander, though," Zane observed from his spot on the other end of the couch.

Shane felt Ilya go still beside him.

"Hollander is nice to her," Ilya said, with a shrug that looked effortless and probably wasn't. "She has always liked him."

"Huh," Zane said. And then, to Shane's immense relief, he turned back to the TV.

Wyatt was still looking at them. But then he yawned—enormous and theatrical—and said, "I'm gonna crash. Storm should pass by morning, right?"

"It should," Shane said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Wyatt clapped him on the shoulder on his way past, squeezed once  and then he was gone, down to the basement, and the moment passed, and Anya's trembling slowly began to ease.

Around ten, Zane and JJ had also both gone to bed, so Ilya and Shane migrated to the couch, convinced Anya with treats to sit between them, and talked. This was something Shane was also hesitant about, but Ilya suggested spreading out some papers so it looked like they were planning for the start of camp tomorrow, and Shane had missed him so desperately and loved the happy look on his face so much that he agreed. It's not like they could share a room tonight, so this is what they would get.

Ilya took the opportunity to lean over. His mouth was close to Shane's ear, not quite touching, and his voice was so low it was nearly lost under the sound of the rain and the TV.

"You were so good with her," he murmured. "So good with us."

"She was terrified."

"I know. But you always know what to do." Ilya paused, searching for a word. "My competent boy."

"It's been a really good day," Shane murmured, tipping his head back against the couch. The rain had softened to a steady patter, and the fire crackled, and Anya was a warm weight between them, her breathing finally even.

Ilya was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You know what I thought about today? On the island, when you were skipping stones."

"What?"

"Anya." Ilya's voice was soft, unhurried, the way it got when they were truly alone, even when they weren't. "She was running around and at one point she stopped and looked back at us. Both of us. To make sure we were still there."

Shane opened his eyes. Looked down at Anya, asleep between them, her little chin resting on Ilya's thigh.

"She does that on walks too," Shane said.

"Yes." Ilya's hand began moving over her back. "And I thought—she does not know. She does not know that she is supposed to hide. She does not know that what we are is something people cannot see. She just loves us, in front of everyone."

Shane's throat tightened.

"I wish people could be like her," Ilya said quietly. "She doesn't even know what it means for us."

Ilya's hand traveled down Anya's back again, and this time his pinky extended, just slightly, past the edge of her fur and onto the fabric of Shane's thigh. A small, deliberate stroke. Then his hand went back up to her ears, and came down again, and the pinky extended again, barely there, a whisper of contact against Shane's skin.

He kept doing it. Each downstroke— over her head, down her neck, along her spine—and then that tiny extension at the bottom, his finger grazing the outside of Shane's thigh like it was part of the same motion. Like petting the dog and touching Shane were the same gesture.

Shane's breath caught every time he did it.

The rain filled the silence between them. Anya's paw twitched in her sleep.

And Shane thought about something too—not Anya exactly, but himself. He thought about how he'd never been very good at people. He'd always been too literal, too quick to misunderstand a tone, too slow to catch a joke that wasn't about hockey. He'd spent his whole life feeling like he was arriving at conversations five minutes after they'd started, saying the wrong thing or nothing at all, watching other people connect with each other in ways that seemed effortless.

But tonight, when Anya had screamed and bolted, he'd known exactly what to do. Because he knew her, just like he knew her papa, and her papa knew him.

Through her own blind terror, she'd come to him, because somewhere in her small body she'd decided that he was the place to go when the world got too loud. She hadn't needed him to say the right thing. She hadn't needed him to be charming or quick or socially adept. She'd just needed him to be solid and not leave, and that, he could do.

And, he mused, her papa was similar. Ilya had also grown up in the worst of circumstances. He was slow to warm and didn't trust many people. But he trusted Shane and turned to him for comfort.

If both Anya and Ilya could trust him in this way, maybe he wasn't doing too badly.

He couldn't hold Ilya's hand at a restaurant or kiss him goodbye in a parking lot. He couldn't introduce him to people as what he actually was, or stand next to him in a photo and let himself lean the way he wanted to lean. He couldn't do any of the normal, visible things that people did to show the people they loved that they loved them.

But by proxy, he could hold Anya and be gentle to her. He could be the boring, steady, unremarkable thing that made her feel comfortable.

It wasn't much, but for now, it was enough.

"She's pretty smart," Shane said, his voice rough. "Maybe she does know exactly what she's doing."

Ilya's hand came down again. His pinky curved, just slightly, around the edge of Shane's knee, and stayed there.

"Maybe," Ilya said.

Anya sighed in her sleep, deep and content, and pressed closer into the warmth between them.

THREE

Zane Boodram (Centaurs): Hey Shane, hope you're doing well. We're putting together a surprise birthday thing for Roz this Saturday at my place. It'll be a couple of days before his birthday so it's not suspicious. We wanted to invite you since I know you're good friends. No pressure at all if you don't want to, totally understand if it feels weird showing up to a Centaurs thing, but I know Roz would love to have you there. Let me know!

Shane read the text three times, remembering the time Ilya invited him to the Centaurs boxing day party, which had caused a massive argument between them. Shane hadn't ended up going after all, and now he had a chance to choose again, and Ilya wouldn't have known he was invited either way.

Ilya's entire team and all their partners, in one place, and Shane would be the only person there who wasn't a Centaur, but also not a known partner. He wouldn't have the crutch of some other reason bringing him there, other than truly caring for Ilya, and he worried that would be so fucking clear once they saw him.

And yet.

He thought about the cottage. About Ilya's face when he'd said I wish we could be Ilya and Shane in front of them. About how good it had felt—not easy, not at all, but good—to exist in that space with those people and not have to pretend to hate each other. 

People actually bought it. Zane was texting him like he was a normal friend of Ilya's, not an evil secret boyfriend trying to infiltrate a rival team's birthday party.

He picked up his phone.

Shane: Hey Zane, that sounds great. I'd love to come. Do you need me to bring anything?

Zane Boodram (Centaurs): Just yourself! Starts around 4. See you Saturday 👍

Shane put the phone down and went back to his breakfast and his game tape and tried not to think about the fact that he was going to spend the next four days overthinking every possible scenario of what could go wrong.

***

He arrived at Zane's at quarter to four and was immediately greeted by Luca Haas.

"Hi," Luca said, standing in the front doorway like he'd been waiting. "You're Shane Hollander."

"I am."

"I'm Luca Haas. I'm, um, not sure if you know who I am? I'm the Centaurs' new rookie?"

Everything was punctuated with a question mark. Shane tried hard not to laugh. He really saw himself in this kid. "Hey Luca. It's nice to meet you. I've seen you play, you're very talented."

"Wow. Oh wow, thanks. You're really really good too. I mean, obviously. You're like the best player."

"Oh, thanks."

Luca stared at him. Shane stared back. It was a lot of staring.

"Cassie said to tell you everyone's in the backyard and Captain's about ten minutes out," Luca said, all in one breath. "Do you want a drink? I can get you a drink. I've been putting them in the cooler all afternoon."

"That'd be great, thanks."

Luca nodded once, sharply, and disappeared into the house. Shane could hear him walking into something and swearing quietly, and then the sound of a cooler opening.

By the time Shane made it out to the backyard, most of the team was there—Zane and Wyatt by the grill, Troy and Harris setting up a folding table, Evan talking to Nick near the fire pit. The partners had carved out their own territory on the patio: Cassie Boodram was arranging plates with the kind of authority that immediately identified her as the other owner of this house, Lisa Hayes was in a lawn chair with a glass of wine, Selena Chouinard was chasing her toddler around the yard while Nick watched with a helpless expression, and Caitlin Dykstra had their one-year-old, Susie, on her hip and was showing something on her phone to Lisa.

A banner hung between two trees: HAPPY BIRTHDAY ILYA, in someone's neat handwriting, with a smaller section in what looked like a man's all-caps scrawl that said (SURPRISE).

"Shane!" Cassie called over, spotting him. "Good, you're here. Zane said you'd come early. Drink?"

"Luca's getting me one, I think."

"Luca's been nervous about you being here for forty-eight hours," she said, amused. "He really looks up to you. Did you know that?"

"Yeah, um, he told me."

"He told literally everyone. He has a poster of you on his bedroom wall. Or, had, I guess. At least, that's what he claims."

Shane didn't know what to do with that information, so he took the plate Cassie handed him and went to stand near the grill.

"You came," Zane said, nodding at him. "Roz is going to be so happy. He talks about you all the time."

Fuck. "Really?" Shane hoped that sounded normal, and not too eager and not too freaked out.

"Yeah man. I mean, don't get me wrong. The rivalry is still going strong and he is talking mad shit before our games with Montreal. But otherwise, he speaks really highly of you."

Shane smiled. He felt relieved, but also...a bit smug to be bragged about, however indirectly, by someone who is usually so full of chips. "I'm happy to be here. Can I help with anything?"

***

Twenty minutes later, a car pulled into the driveway. Nick, who had been stationed by the front window like a lookout, hissed "He's here" and the whole backyard went into motion—people ducking behind the grill, behind the folding table, behind the patio furniture.

Ilya came through the back gate with Anya on her leash, looking confused and slightly annoyed.

"Zane, what is this emergency, you said—"

"SURPRISE!"

Ilya stopped. Anya's ears went straight up. For one full second, Ilya just stood there, blinking, and then his face broke into the widest smile Shane had ever seen on him—wide and so genuinely surprised that Shane's heart ached with the weight of his love.

"What the—" Ilya started, and then Zane was there clapping him on the back, and Troy was handing him a beer, and Cassie was hugging him and saying happy birthday, and Wyatt was pointing at the banner, and Ilya was laughing and saying "What the fuck, what the fuck" in that delighted way he did when he was caught off guard.

He made his way through the group—Wyatt, then Nick, then Evan, then Selena, then Lisa, then Caitlin, then Harris, then a very red-faced Luca who stammered "happy birthday"—and then he got to Shane.

Ilya stopped.

"Hollander," he said, and his voice went quiet and soft. "You are here."

"Told Bood I'd come for the free food," Shane joked, trying to diffuse the disbelieving glint in Ilya's eyes.

Ilya pulled him in. The hug was the same as all the others—one-armed, brief, the kind of thing guys did at parties. Except his hand lingered on the back of Shane's neck for a half-second too long, and when they pulled apart Ilya was looking at him like he was the only person in the yard.

Shane smiled back. He couldn't help it.

Anya, who had been sitting politely during the hugging sequence, suddenly registered that Shane was there. Her whole body went rigid with attention, and then she was straining against her leash, whining, tail going so hard her entire back half swayed.

Ilya let go of the leash. Anya shot across the yard and hit Shane's legs at full speed, jumping up, paws on his thighs, tongue going everywhere.

"Hi," Shane said, crouching down to catch her face in his hands. She licked his chin, his nose, the corner of his mouth. Her tail was a blur.

"She's never like that with us," Nick scoffed, from his position against the house. He sounded almost offended.

"Anya only likes the best hockey players," Ilya said.

"Of course," Nick responded.

***

They migrated to the backyard proper after that. Zane fired up the grill and the yard settled into the particular rhythm of a summer party.

Shane was led over to the patio by Lisa, where the partners had set up camp. It felt a little weird, to be in this circle— because while he knew it was because they just wanted to make him feel welcome as a non-Centaurs-player guest, a small part of him wondered if they wanted him to be "one of the girls" because they knew he was gay, or something. He felt weirdly drawn to the clusters of Centaurs players, where they were mostly discussing past games and their future having secured the number two draft pick this year, but obviously he wasn't a Centaurs player… He then wondered if it looked suspicious for him to be hanging out with the partners, when he wasn't supposed to be thought of as a partner. Fuck, should he just go stand alone or something?

Selena pulled him out of his thoughts by asking about his off-season training. Caitlyn asked if he'd seen this new TV show she was watching.

Later, Cassie handed him a plate of food without asking if he wanted one, which he appreciated but couldn't eat anything off of. Ilya came by and while the girls were busy, subtly stole the stuff Shane couldn't stomach and dumped a pile of quinoa salad and grilled tofu onto his plate. Shane fucking loved that man.

Shane was in the middle of a conversation with Lisa about the Metros' weird team doctor when a commotion erupted on the other side of the yard.

Anya had the zoomies.

The full, nuclear-powered version. She was tearing across the yard in wide, looping circles, tongue out, moving so fast she was almost a blur. She'd already knocked over a cup, sent a napkin flying, and was currently barrelling toward the garden bed that Cassie had clearly spent a lot of time on.

"Anya— Anya, no—" Ilya was up from his chair, but Anya was already in the dirt bed, tearing through it. Dirt flew. A plant went sideways.

"ILYA," Cassie said, with the deceiving calm of a woman who was very angry. Shane would know. His mom did that often.

"She never does this—" Ilya lunged for Anya's leash, which was trailing behind her, but she dodged him, shot out of the garden bed, and made a beeline for the food table, where she grabbed a burger off someone's plate in one seamless motion and kept running.

"Did she just..." Evan started.

"ANYA. Нет. DROP IT."

Anya ignored him and swallowed it while running. Then she circled back toward the garden, clearly looking for round two.

"Shit," Ilya said, and went after her again, but Anya was in full play mode. She'd veer one direction, then another, seemingly at random, and every time Ilya got close she'd duck away with this gleeful energy that made it very clear she was having the time of her life.

Luca tried to cut her off near the fence and she simply ran between his legs, nearly taking him out. Zane stepped in front of the garden bed and she turned around. Wyatt threw a piece of cheese as a diversion and she ate it and kept going.

"Anya," Ilya said, out of breath now, hands on his knees. "Пожалуйста."

Anya ignored him. She was heading back toward the flowers, tail swinging, ready to finish what she'd started.

"Anya," Shane called, using his captain's voice.

Anya perked up and stopped mid-stride, one front paw still raised.

"Come."

She came. Walked right past Ilya—who was still bent over, hands on knees—and stood directly in front of Shane, slightly dirt-covered, tail going in slow, tentative sweeps, looking up at him like a kid who knew they'd done something wrong.

Shane looked at her for a moment. Didn't touch her, not wanting to reinforce this behaviour.

"That is not playing nicely," Shane said. "Down."

She lay down. Put her chin on her paws.

The yard went quiet. Then Selena said, "...How did you do that?"

"Um," Shane said, like the astute person he was.

"Captain Shane Hollander," Wyatt joked, offering him a lifeline.

"She's got a lot of energy," Harris said. "You didn't walk her today?"

Ilya lifted his arms to the sky. "Bood told me it was a fucking emergency! He said to come right away! I did not have time to—"

Shane looked at him, begging him to stop cursing around the children.

"I will go take out some of her toys," Ilya offered. "This will make her calmer."

"After you help Cassie fix her garden, maybe?" Shane said.

Ilya looked at Cassie. Cassie looked at Ilya. She raised one perfect eyebrow.

"Of course," Ilya said, and went to find a trowel.

***

After the garden was patched and Anya had been walked by Harris and dinner was finished, Shane was sitting in a lawn chair with a clean plate of fruit when Luca appeared beside him.

"Hey," Luca said. He was holding a beer he clearly wasn't drinking, more using it as a prop to look older than he was. "Can I sit?"

"Of course."

"Right. Cool." Luca sat. Took a sip of his beer. Well, didn't sip it, really, just touched it to his lips and put it back down. "So. Good party."

"Yeah."

"I just—I wanted to say, you really inspire me. I saw you for the first time on TV and you had this one shift where you held the puck for like forty seconds and nobody could take it from you, and I was like, that's what I want to do. So, yeah. It's really cool to be here with you."

Shane set his fork down. "That's really nice of you to say, Luca. Thank you."

"Yeah, of course. I just—"

"Oh, Hollander," Ilya's voice cut across the yard, delighted and absolutely loaded with mischief. Shane closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Haasy. Luca, come here. Come here, I need to tell Hollander something about you."

Luca went pale. "Nothing. He doesn't need to tell you anything. There's nothing to tell."

"Luca," Ilya said, arriving in front of them with a plate of dessert and a mega-watt grin. "Did you tell Hollander about the drawings?"

Luca's face went from pale to crimson so fast it was almost impressive. "There's no—"

"He had a sketchbook and he loved to draw hockey players—" Ilya said, to Shane, gleeful. "He told me about it at training—"

Luca looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. He was stammering something incoherent and his beer trembled slightly in his hand.

"Rozanov," Shane said. He didn't yell it. He just said it and sent a withering look his boyfriend's way, prompting him to stop terrorizing this poor kid.

Ilya stopped, mouth still open from whatever he'd been about to say next.

"I mean," Ilya said, immediately. "Luca is a big fan of you, Hollander."

Luca blinked. Looked at Shane. Looked at Ilya. Looked back at Shane.

"Sorry about that," Shane punctuated.

"It's fine," Luca managed, though his voice was approximately two octaves higher than normal. "I'm gonna go...over there."

He went over to the garden. Which was very far away.

Evan, who had been sitting close enough to overhear the whole thing, leaned over to Shane with an expression of genuine awe.

"Damn," he said. "What a superpower."

"I don't have a superpower."

"You just shut down Ilya Rozanov with one word and a look. That man has been a menace to everyone in this yard for over a year and nothing has ever stopped him. You said his name and he just stood down."

Ilya laughed at this. "Hollander is very scary when he wants to be. Also, he is only one here who can slam me into the boards so better to be on his good side."

Shane took a sip of his drink, trying to look un affected. "Yep. That's the reason."

"Sure," Evan said, disbelieving. He clapped Shane on the shoulder and wandered off to check on Caitlin and Susie, and Shane sat in his lawn chair and released a breath.

***

The party wound down around ten. People started leaving in clusters—the partners with kids first, then the couples. Troy and Harris stayed to help Zane clean up, waving off Ilya's offers to help with retorts that he would be very unhelpful and oh, also, it was his birthday.

Ilya loaded Anya into his car—she was exhausted from the zoomies and the general chaos of the evening, and she curled up on the passenger seat without protest—and said his goodbyes. Shane said his too, shaking Zane's hand and thanking Cassie for hosting, and then he was in his own car, pulling out of the driveway and through Ottawa's familiar quiet streets.

He told them he would be driving back to Montreal, gently declining their offers to stay overnight, and instead went to Ilya's house.

The front light was on. The door was unlocked. Shane let himself in and had barely kicked off his shoes when Ilya was there, coming from the bedroom with his shirt already off, any pretence of waiting it abandoned entirely.

"Hi—"

Ilya kissed him firmly, one hand on the side of Shane's face and the other fisting the front of his shirt, pulling him into the dark hallway like he'd been waiting hours to do this and could not wait one more second. Shane made a sound against his mouth and grabbed his hips, and they stumbled back against the wall, Ilya's body warm and solid against his.

"Hi yourself," Shane managed, between kisses.

"I have been—" Ilya kissed him again, harder, then broke away just enough to speak against his lips. "—thinking about this all day."

"Mm," was all Shane could say in response.

Ilya kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then the spot below his ear that made Shane's eyes close. "I could not help it. You were there. It made me so fucking happy."

"I was there," Shane agreed, because it was hard to form more complex sentences when Ilya was now palming him through his pants.

"And it was so funny—" Ilya pulled back, looking at him with wide, bright eyes. "Anya listened to you. And the team said I listen you too, like a dog."

"Seriously??" That was not funny.

"Yes. They were very impressed. I think they are scared of you now."

"Oh." Well, he supposed being perceived as scary was better than them suspecting that Ilya listened to Shane because they were in a gay relationship with each other. "Good."

Ilya laughed, and then he was kissing Shane again, slower this time, like the urgency had been let out and now he could take his time. One hand moved from Shane's shirt to his shoulders, sliding down his arms, pulling him closer. Shane let himself be pulled, let his back arch off the wall, let his hands find the warm skin of Ilya's bare back.

"Thank you," Ilya said, between kisses, mumbling the words into the space below Shane's mouth. "For coming. For being there. For handling Anya when she was insane. For talking to everyone—" Another kiss. "—everything. For all of it."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I want to." Ilya kissed him again, soft and deliberate. "I want to thank you every day. I love you."

Shane's chest ached. He cupped the back of Ilya's neck and drove his tongue into his mouth—the kind of kiss that said everything he couldn't say out loud. Ilya made a small sound and pressed into it, and for a long moment they just stood in the dark hallway, making out, neither of them in a hurry to move.

When they finally broke apart, Ilya's forehead dropped against Shane's, and they stayed there, breathing the same air.

"Come to bed. Anya is already asleep." He waggled his eyebrows.

"Perv."

He took Shane's hand and led him to the bedroom. The door closed behind them, and it was just the two of them.

Ilya turned to him in the dark and didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked at him with that loving gaze.

"Come," Ilya said, and pulled him in by the front of his shirt, kissing him again. Shane went easily, his hands finding Ilya's bare back, his body already loosening.

"You were so sexy today," Ilya murmured against his mouth, walking him backward toward the door. "You are so—" He kissed the corner of Shane's jaw. "God, is so hot when you tell Anya what to do. And when you tell me what to do."

Shane's breath hitched. "Ilya—"

"I wish I could show you off," Ilya said, and his voice was flush with something that sounded almost like grief. "I wish everyone could see what I see. I wish I could tell them—look at this powerful man, this is who he is, this is mine. Only he gets to tell me what to do."

Shane kissed him instead of answering, because words were hard and Ilya's mouth was right there and it was easier to pour everything into a kiss.

Ilya pulled back and ran his thumb along Shane's jaw, gentle, like he was handling something precious.

"Out there, I listen to you."

Shane hummed his agreement.

"But in here, you listen to me. Is that right, sweetheart?"

Shane nodded eagerly.

"Will you get on your knees for me?" Ilya said.

Shane went, his knees on the soft rug, and looked up at Ilya, who was standing over him in the dark with his chest heaving, clearly affected and believing the words he was saying.

"Unbelievable," Ilya grunted, taking his cock out of his pants. "So good for me."

He cupped Shane's face with both hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, and Shane leaned into it without thinking, eyes half-closing. Ilya traced his thumb across Shane's lower lip, and Shane opened his mouth for him.

"Like that," Ilya murmured, and guided himself forward.

Shane's hands found Ilya's hips and held on, and everything else fell away. There was just this: Ilya's voice above him, Ilya's hands in his hair, the quiet sounds he made. Shane let himself sink into it, let himself be exactly who he was in this room and nowhere else—someone who didn't have to be the leader, didn't have to make decisions, didn't have to hold anything.

Afterward, Shane lay on his back with Ilya's head on his chest, tracing idle patterns on his shoulder while Ilya's breathing slowed. The room smelled like sweat and Ilya's shampoo, and Shane's body felt loose-limbed and heavy in the way it only did after letting go completely.

He thought about the two chaos demons who had dominated his afternoon. Ilya, who had been an unstoppable force of loud opinions and mischief—who no one on his own team could rein in. And Anya, who had torn through Cassie's garden, who had stolen someones food, who had run between Luca's legs and almost tipped in over. Two wild, untameable things that answered to no one, and yet the moment Shane had said their names, they'd both just stopped. Not out of fear, not because he'd been louder or more dominant, they'd listened to him and chosen to yield.

It was one of the reasons he'd always loved hockey—the ice was the one place where he knew exactly what to do, where holding the puck meant holding the room. He'd loved that control since he was a kid. But this was different. Ilya and Anya hadn't stopped because Shane was captain or because he was skilled at something. They'd stopped because they knew him  and trusted him enough to listen. He felt fucking good about that.

He didn't want that dynamic everywhere, though. He certainly didn't want it in here, in this bed, where everything between him and Ilya fit perfectly. Where Shane could let go completely—could submit, could be undone, could be the one on his knees with Ilya's hands in his hair—because Ilya gave that back to him outside these walls. Ilya yielding to him at the party and Shane yielding to him now. Equals.

Shane was sure there could never be anything better and more perfect and this compatible for him, than this life he had built with Ilya and Anya.

"Happy early birthday," Shane murmured. "I fucking love you so much."

"Я тебя люблю." Ilya pressed a kiss to his chest. "Best one yet."

PLUS ONE

Shane Hollander-Rozanov.

He'd been saying it to himself all day, rolling it around in his head. In the car on the way to the cottage, while his dad drove and mom complained about chairs and Shane stared out the window at the Lanaudière countryside rolling past.

Shane Hollander-Rozanov.

It was the name thing that got him, somehow. Not the ceremony, not the rings, not the legal piece of paper that had arrived in the mail three weeks ago and that Ilya had framed immediately. The name. The hyphen. The fact that when he signed his new contract with the Centaurs next week, it would say Rozanov next to Hollander, and now, everyone knew.

He was going to play for Ilya's team. Live in Ilya's city. Wake up next to Ilya every morning and not have to pretend he wanted anything else. Go to team dinners and sit next to Ilya. Bring Anya places and not have to explain why she knew him.

The freedom of it was almost incomprehensible. He'd spent so long building the architecture of hiding—the careful distances, the alibis, the scripted answers, the separate cars and the locked rooms and the version of himself that existed only behind closed doors—that standing in the open felt like being basked in the sun after a cold winter.

He could breathe. He could just be.

Ilya was already at the cottage when Shane arrived, standing by the dock in his suit adjusting his bow-tie and Anya sitting at his feet in a little matching bow-tie. When Shane stepped out of the car and saw them—Ilya in the golden evening light, the lake behind him—he had to stop for a second and just look.

"Go say hi," his mom said. "To your future husband."

"Husband," Shane repeated back, dazed.

His mom went inside, laughing, and Shane walked down to the dock on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.

Ilya saw him coming and his whole face changed—went so open and wanting that Shane had to look down at his feet for a second to keep it himself from crying.

"Hi," Ilya said.

"Hi."

"You look—" Ilya stopped. Swallowed. "You look incredible."

His eyes did a slow drag down him, unhurried, the kind of look he usually saved for the bedroom. "I am trying very hard right now to be a gentleman."

"You're doing a great job so far."

"I know. Is very difficult." He shook his head, actually pained. "You in this suit. Later, I am ruining it."

"Ilya."

"What? I am just saying."

Shane gazed at him—the dark jacket, the curly hair tamed, the bow tie that matched Anya's—and thought: this is my husband. I get to have this for ever.

"You don't look so bad yourself, Mr. Ilya Hollander-Rozanov," Shane said, his voice rough.

Ilya grinned. It was the real one, the one that crinkled his eyes, and Shane had never loved him more.

***

The ceremony was quick. That had been the plan from the start—neither of them wanted to stand in front of people and talk about their feelings for twenty minutes; they were hockey players, and they had been together for ten years. If they did their vows in front of their guests, it would genuinely take hours.

The rings went on. The "I do"s were said. The justice of the peace pronounced them married, and Ilya pulled Shane in by the tie and kissed him, right there in front of everyone, and their guests cheered, and Anya barked an approving "woof."

"Hi, husband," Ilya murmured against his mouth.

"Hi, husband," Shane murmured back.

And that was it. They were married.

***

The reception started almost immediately—their friends and Shane's parents had organized the whole thing rather quickly, and within fifteen minutes the backyard was full of food and music and people, and the place where they'd just gotten married was already being repurposed by Wyatt and Hayden, who were testing whether you could skip stones off it. (You could.)

Ilya kept appearing at Shane's side with things—a plate of food, a drink, a napkin for something Shane hadn't noticed on his shirt.

"You don't have to keep feeding me," Shane said, when Ilya appeared with a second plate.

"You forget to eat when you are trying to be social."

"I'm not that bad," Shane lied.

Ilya put the plate in his hands and kissed his cheek. "Eat." Then, quieter, mouth close to his ear: "You will need the energy later. I am not exaggerating this time."

"You're insufferable."

"Mm. My English, is not very good, but I do not think this means 'I love you, my sexy husband.'"

"I love you," Shane laughed.

Later, Shane was talking to Scott and Kip when he felt Ilya's hand settle on the small of his back and stay there. Like Ilya just needed to be touching him to know he was real.

"Are you okay?" Shane murmured, tilting his head toward Ilya without leaving the conversation.

"I am perfect. I just like touching you." Ilya leaned into his right ear. "In every way."

"You can't just say things like that when I'm trying to have a normal conversation."

"Why not?"

"Because then I can't be normal." Shane was whispering, but he was pretty sure Scott and Kip knew exactly what they were talking about, given the way Kip was eyeing them over his glass.

Ilya's hand pressed a little firmer. "You are very cute when you are flustered. I want to see that blush later."

"Oh my God."

Ilya stayed right there for the rest of their conversation, a warm weight against Shane's back, occasionally leaning in to add something or just to press his forehead to Shane's shoulder.

***

At some point, Shane found Ilya standing alone near the edge of the yard, looking out at the lake, the way he had when Shane had first arrived. The sun had fully set now, and the water was dark, and the fairy lights were reflecting off the surface in small, broken pieces.

"What are you doing out here baby?" Shane said, coming up beside him.

"Just thinking."

"Good or bad thinking?"

"Good. How could it be bad?" Ilya turned to look at him with a smile. "I keep thinking about how many times I have been here and wished for this. The party, the people, you, all the the same time. And now is happening and I do not have to wish anymore."

Shane didn't say anything for a moment. Then he reached over and took Ilya's hand and laced their fingers together—his ring on his left and Ilya's on his right, now touching—and said, very quietly, "I wished too. Every time. Even when I was pretending I wasn't wishing."

Ilya stepped in closer, until there was barely any lake left in Shane's field of vision at all, just him—the line of his nose, the smell of his cologne warmed by the day, his mouth close enough that Shane could feel his breath when he spoke.

"I love you," Ilya murmured, punctuating with a peck of his lips.

"I love you more," Shane whispered back.

"Not possible."

"Watch me spend the rest of my life proving it."

Ilya groaned against his temple. "How are you competitive even about this?"

***

Someone had pushed all of furniture to the edges and turned the space near the fire pit into a make-shift dance floor. A speaker was playing an old song that Harris chose. The air smelled sweet.

Shane and Ilya danced for their first dance, which Shane didn't think they would actually have to do. And they were properly dancing—Ilya's hands on Shane's waist, Shane's arms around his neck, neither of them moving much, just swaying. Ilya's thumb was doing the circle thing against Shane's waist, and his eyes were half-closed, and he looked completely at peace.

"I keep thinking this is a dream," Shane whispered.

"Is not."

"I know. But I keep thinking it anyway." Ilya's thumb pressed a little firmer against Shane's back. "I keep waiting for someone to tell me we have to stop. Go back to hiding."

"No one's going to tell us that."

"I know. But my brain doesn't believe it yet."

His brain had been doing this thing all day—flinching at nothing, reaching for the careful mask that was no longer necessary, then remembering and feeling the relief hit him all over again. Like a phantom limb pain.

"You know what my brain is thinking about right now?" Ilya said.

"What?"

His hand slid slowly from Shane's hips to the curve of his ass, his thumb pressing into the fabric there.

"You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen, and I am the luckiest man alive." His voice dropped, rough at the edges. "And I am going to fuck you so fucking good later, you will not remember your own name."

"Oh my God, Ilya—" Shane began, scandalized, heat crawling up his neck.

"What? We need to consummate our marriage."

"Consummate," Shane echoed. "This marriage has probably been consummated hundreds of times over."

"Does not count. Tonight we are virgins."

Shane couldn't help but laugh at that.

"Come on. I know you feel it too." Ilya's hips had found the smallest, most deniable rhythm against Shane's.

And felt it he did.

Shane pulled back just enough to look at him. Ilya's hair was falling out of whatever product Shane's dad had put in it for the ceremony. His bow-tie was gone. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone. He looked rumpled and happy and so unbearably handsome that Shane had to kiss him, right there in the middle of the dance floor, in front of everyone, because he could.

So he did.

Ilya smiled against his mouth, and Shane felt it—the unmoored, reckless joy of it, the giddy feeling of doing something you've never been allowed to do and finding out it was never bad, never wrong. The cheering that went up from somewhere was proof of this, just the sound of their friends being happy for them and not a single one of them looking away.

When Shane pulled back, he felt a nudge against his leg.

He looked down. Anya was there, having abandoned her post under the dessert table, standing between them with her tail swishing, looking up at both of them like she knew it was time to join.

"Hey angel," Shane said, and crouched down, and she immediately shoved her nose into his tie, tail wagging so hard her whole body curved. He scooped her up, adjusted her bow-tie—it was slightly askew—and stood with her in his arms, her front paws resting on his shoulder, her face next to his.

"Look at you two," Ilya said softly, looking at her, then at Shane, then at both of them together. "Всё, что я люблю."

Ilya stepped in close. One arm went around Shane's waist. The other came up to rest on Anya's back, his hand spreading over her fur.

Shane started bouncing her. Just gently, just a little, the way he always did when he was holding her for fun, and Anya's tail started going again, thumping against Shane's side, and she let out a small, contented huff against his neck.

Ilya was laughing. His arm tightened around Shane's waist, pulling them both closer, his forehead tucking over Anya's head to rest against Shane's. The three of them swayed together, a knot of arms and bodies and tail, and Anya's eyes were closing and her ears were soft and she looked like the most content creature on earth. Shane felt similarly.

Shane bounced her again. "You're such a baby," Shane murmured to her, but his voice was thick.

"Look who is talking," Ilya said, and Shane elbowed him in the ribs without letting go of Anya, and Ilya's laugh vibrated through all three of them.

Around the edge of the dance floor, a quiet ripple of understanding moved through the crowd—the same people who'd watched Anya run to Shane on the ice, watched her cry in his lap during the storm, watched her stop mid-zoomie at the sound of his voice—all of them seeing the obviousness of it now.

In the center, Shane didn't care about any of that. Wanting to hide his love for Ilya and Anya seemed far away, like a distant memory.

Ilya's hand was spread wide across his back, and Ilya's mouth was against his temple saying things too quiet for anyone else to hear—I love you, I love you, I love you. The music was slow and the lights were soft and everyone they cared about was around them. For the first time in his life, Shane didn't have to hide any of his happiness.

Just this—his husband and his dog and his people and the lake that turned gold in the evenings, all of it in the open, all of it his, forever.