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“I was thinking maybe next summer,” Shane said, not looking up from his book. His glasses were perched on his nose and his hair was still rumpled with sleep. He sipped his black coffee, trying his best to be nonchalant, even though his heart was thundering against his chest.
Ilya was chewing his breakfast loudly across the table, giggling over a TikTok that sounded like it involved dogs doing silly things. Shane cleared his throat to try to capture his attention. “Huh? Oh, what about next summer?”
Shane was tired of hiding how much he loved Ilya. He dreamt all last night of something happening to Ilya and how he would have to suffer in silence. He figured that the only way he would be able to express his grief would be in press conferences, when he would have to give generic answers when reporters would inevitably ask him about the death of his biggest rival.
“Yeah, it’s awful what happened,” he would be forced to say. “My heart goes out to his family, friends, and the entire Raiders organization. Rozanov was a generational talent, and I’ll miss playing against him.” He would only be able to break down in the bed he shared with Ilya. His mom would rub his back and comfort him. His dad would give him pep talks that obviously wouldn't help, but would be nice to hear. Hayden would try to keep Shane on moving in private, but would only be able to look at him with pity as Shane tried to move through the rest of his life as a ghost of the person he was before.
Shane sighed. “You know…coming out? Maybe? If that’s something you want?”
Ilya clicked his phone off and set it down on the table. He pushed his plate away from himself. “Hollander,” he started, his voice thick with emotion, though Shane could tell he was trying hard to mask it. “Is all I’ve ever wanted. I finally have you and all I want to do is tell the world. Yes, will be scary. But we are brave. I would do tonight if you would let me.”
Shane fought against the smile that was pulling up against the corner of his mouth. “While I appreciate your eagerness, I don’t think tonight is a good night. Telling the world how much I love you would probably distract from the ass beating you’re going to get tonight.”
Ilya snorted. “In your fucking dreams, Hollander.”
***
The Metros and the Raiders were in a vicious battle. Boston was up 3-2 with 4 minutes left in the game. The Raiders were out for blood on the Montreal home ice and the fans were rabid at that point in the evening. Shane, for one, was having some of the most fun playing hockey that he has in….God, he couldn’t even remember how long. Every move he made, Ilya was there to counter him. Every time Ilya took a shot, Shane was in his way. They had gone tit-for-tat all night long and the fans were eating it up. There was something electric in the air. Maybe it was just because this was Shane and Ilya’s first game against each other as married men, but the energy in the arena was palpable and Shane couldn’t get enough. He felt high.
Ilya was a vision tonight, as always. His curls that were starting to get ever so slightly too long were peaking out underneath his helmet and Shane didn’t think he had stopped grinning since the first face off. Every time he moved to the sideline, Raiders players surrounded him, seeming to feed off of his good mood and turning that into some of the best hockey they had played all season.
Marlow sent the puck flying towards Ilya and they raced towards the goal. Shane skated as fast as he could towards where they were when Sellers, a massive Metros rookie from bum-fuck Georgia, came out of nowhere, slamming into Ilya. Everything stopped.
Shane swore he could feel the ring hanging from a chain around his neck burning a circle into his skin. It was a bad hit; so hard that Shane could see the blood splatter out of his mouth and the Oof of all of the air being knocked from Ilya’s lungs before he crumpled to the ice, skidding what had to be at least 20 feet away from the point of impact from sheer force alone. And Shane really desperately hoped his eyes were playing tricks on him, because a human elbow should not be able to bend that way. Shane’s vision went white and his knees went weak, almost as if he were on the receiving end of the collision.
Shane had seen Ilya take hits before. Hell, he himself had even gotten hit so hard a few years back. He wound up in a sling and planted on his couch for the remainder of the season. Hitting and getting hit were hazards of the job. “We all get our bell rung eventually,” he had joked from his hospital bed to a grey faced Ilya that stood over him, brushing the back of his fingers against Shane’s bruised cheekbones. This was before Shane and Ilya had even been willing to admit what they were to each other, and yet, there was no denying that Ilya had been affected.
This was more than a bell ringing. And this was Shane’s husband laying on the ice, deathly still.
Hayden caught his eye, his own eyes rounded in shock as coaches and medical staff rushed onto the ice towards Ilya’s crumpled body. Hayden was the only one on either team that knew Shane’s secret: that he was in love with Ilya Rozanov. Much to Ilya’s protest, Hayden was there as their witness in the quiet, discreet elopement 4 months prior, standing on the dock overlooking the lake at Shane’s (now Shane and Ilya’s) cottage. Needless to say, the minister that had signed the NDA regarding the nuptials was shocked when he realized who was reciting their vows that day.
Shane’s parents had been pissed when they found out about the wedding. Well, maybe pissed isn’t the right word. Hurt may be better. Hell, they didn’t even know Shane was gay when he had mistakenly forgotten to take his ring off before meeting them for dinner. Ilya had been out of town on an away game run and had missed the sudden fall out. Shane had refused to tell them who his new husband was until Ilya got back. He didn’t want to break their hearts with two bombshells in one day, he tried to tell himself. In reality, the unexpected coming out had taken so much out of him. He called Ilya when he got home and cried, unable to even articulate what he was crying about.
Ilya, God love him, was on the first plane out of Seattle that night following his game, abandoning the rest of his roadie much to the anger of his teammates and coaches, to be with Shane in Montreal. Ilya held him through his wracking sobs all night, drying his tears and rubbing his back until Shane finally fell asleep.
For the next two days, Shane moved through his home like a ghost. Ilya tried his best to offer his support, but even he started feeling the numbness creep in. The pair were forced out of their ghostly bubble when a knock on their door at 3:00 PM on a Thursday set real life back into motion.
A shirtless Ilya opened the door, a ring matching the one Shane had been wearing on his left ring finger, to the stunned faces of Shane’s parents. They nearly dropped the breakfast casserole that Ilya knew that Shane was unlikely to eat. The next few hours consisted of Shane and Ilya slowly breaking down the details of their relationship: how it started, when it started…
“You guys hate each other,” his mom had stated, looking frantically between the pair, as if the answer to all of her questions would magically appear on one of their foreheads. Ilya was slowly chewing a bite of his breakfast casserole. Shane was looking into his mug of black coffee, his fingers curling around it so tight that Ilya was sure it would shatter. He put his hand on Shane’s knee and he felt the tension ever so slowly relax out of Shane’s body.
“We used to hate each other. Kind of,” Ilya said, glancing at Shane. “We haven’t for a while though.”
Shane spoke for what felt like the first time in days. “I only ever truly hated him on the ice. Even now, I still kind of do.” The corner of Ilya’s mouth pulled up and Shane’s version of a joke. “But…he’s my person.”
Yuna and David shared a look, seemingly having a silent conversation. David cleared his throat. “Well, it seems as though you both have made up your minds. In a, uh, big way. Just take care of our boy, alright?”
Shane groaned. “Dad, I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”
Ilya’s face turned serious. “He’s my husband. I made him a vow: On my life, until my last breath, he will be loved, cherished, and taken care of. You have my word.”
Ilya’s words are the only thing that Shane can hear over the ringing in his ears. The medical staff, trainers, and coaches were surrounding Ilya, and Shane could barely see where he was laid out on the ice. “That’s my husband. That’s my husband. That’s my husband.” He repeated the words to himself and his feet started moving in Ilya’s direction without his knowledge.
“Hollander! Get back to the bench!” Someone, presumably one of his coaches, shouted at him from across the ice.
Hayden grabbed his arm. “Shane, relax, buddy. They’ve got him.” Hayden’s eyes were frantic, searching Shane’s face for some form of understanding. The only confirmation that he got that Shane had heard him was in the form of Shane snatching his arm away and leveling him with a cold glare.
“That’s my husband, Hayden,” he hissed.
Hayden pursed his lips and held up his hands in defeat, nodding slightly, knowing from the determined furrow in Shane’s brown and the flat line of his mouth that there was no reasoning with him. Shane wouldn’t be kept from Ilya.
The crowd was noticeably silent as Shane continued his slow movements towards Ilya. Whether the crowd was actually stunned into silence or if he just couldn’t hear them over the ringing in his ears, Shane wasn’t completely sure. He crept forward, not trusting his legs to fall out from under him. As if the replay of the hit over and over being displayed on the giant screens above the rink wasn’t enough, Shane saw the hit in his head. He couldn’t shake it. He was sure this would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.
“That’s my husband. That’s my husband,” Shane continued to whisper as he continued to put one foot in front of the other towards the commotion surrounding Ilya. He was growing frustrated. He needed to be at his side, and yet his limbs wouldn’t move fast enough. It seemed that the honey in his brain that was slowing his thoughts, had also started slowing his movements.
“Hollander! 2 minute penalty!” One of the refs barked at him. “Get back to your bench while we get reset!”
“That’s my husband.” At this point, Shane wasn’t even sure anything was coming out of his mouth. He felt his lips moving around the syllables, but all he could focus on was the mop of curls that were finally free from the constraints of the helmet.
“Christ, Hollander!” One of the Raiders players screamed at him. “Fuck off!”
“Yeah!” yelled another. “Don’t act like you give a shit!”
Unfortunately for them, Shane very much did give a shit. And he was very much tired of having to pretend like he didn’t give a shit. Eight years - eight fucking years - they had spent dancing around each other, avoiding their feelings and hiding them from even themselves, before they finally had the nerve to be men and have a goddamn conversation. And no one in those entire eight years knew. Now, ten years after their first meeting, they were married and still, there were only three people on the face of planet earth that knew that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov loved each other.
Shane was done.
“That’s my husband,” Shane said a bit louder, growing angry. The players close to him furrowed their brows underneath their helmets, seemingly having heard what Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Metros and Ilya Rozanov’s biggest rival, had said about their captain.
Suddenly, someone came up and put a hand on his chest. JJ was frantic. “Hollzy, what the fuck has gotten into you?” He growled. “Coach is screaming over there, talking about how he’s going to bench you for the rest of the game if you don’t get off the ice.”
A blood curdling scream filled the arena from the direction of where the medics were getting ready to haul Ilya off the ice. Every head in the arena snapped in that direction. JJ turned around towards where the medics were working on Ilya, and against his better judgement, Shane looked too.
Shane had heard Ilya scream many times. Ilya screamed when he watched other teams play hockey on TV (“Jesus fucking Christ, Shane! They’re drafting anyone these days! I could’ve made that fucking shot with my hands tied behind my back! Should have learned their lesson with Hayden fucking Pike.”). Ilya screamed when they watched scary movies (“I just think jumpscares cheapen the scary factor, Shane! Is easy to make someone jump and scream when they make music scary.”). Ilya sometimes screamed when he got sad, shoving his head into the pillow, his entire body wracking with sobs, when the hard days got too difficult to keep inside. Shane hated those screams most of all. But, Ilya also has fun screams. Like the ones Shane was able to pull out of him after too much time apart and a relentless pace being set by Shane bouncing on top of him.
This, though. This was unlike any scream Shane had ever heard come from Ilya. He would pray every night to any god, deity, higher power, force of nature, and anyone else that might be listening that he never had to hear something like it again. It took everything in him not to bend over and vomit all over the ice.
“Fuck, poor Roz,” JJ mumbled with a wince. “Was hoping he would’ve just stayed knocked out until they got him to the hospital at least.”
Shane was filled with a new level of anger. He grabbed his friend’s hand, still on his chest and flung it away from him. He looked his friend dead in the eye, something Shane has always struggled with, and said the words he didn’t even know he was capable of saying.
“He can bench me,” he spat, “for the rest of the game. He can bench me for the rest of the season if he wants. I don’t care. That-” he pointed at Ilya thrashing and screaming against the belts being buckled around him to hold him against the back board. “That is my husband.”
JJ stilled, mouth agape at Shane’s confession. A look of confusion and hurt flashed across his face. “Shane, wha-”
Shane had started to skate away, towards where Ilya was finally being carried off the ice, when he was, once again, interrupted. “What the fuck did you just say, Hollander?” One of the Raiders players (Johannsen, Shane thought) growled, shoulder checking Shane, hard. A ballsy move. He must have overheard the conversation from where he was still milling about on the ice. He roughly pushed back against Shane’s chest, further keeping Shane from Ilya and further pissing him the fuck off. “I know I didn’t just hear you accuse my fucking captain of being a-”
Shane jumped him, throwing punches left and right, not caring what body parts they connected with. The crowd started screaming and jeering, once again acting like this was just another normal hockey game, as if Ilya wasn’t facing a potentially career ending injury on the ice below. As long as they got to see guys beat the shit out of each other on the ice, what did it matter to them?
It took two refs, JJ, and Hayden to pull Shane off of Johannsen. Shane came up, being held back by 4 different sets of hands, mouth bloody from the well timed hit Johannsen managed to get.
“Let me fucking go!” Shane screamed, fighting against everyone that was holding him back. Shane could see that Ilya was being transferred to a stretcher, which meant that he had only moments left before he would be wheeled out. He needed to get to him and these assholes were making it extremely difficult. “I need to be with him! That’s my husband! That’s my fucking husband!”
The world around Shane went silent. An eerie hush fell over the fans in the stands. The players on the benches and the ones still lingering on the ice had abruptly ended their conversations and their attentions were all now focused on him. Even the medics had turned their heads away from Ilya and were looking at Shane like he had just grown a second head.
The only thing Shane could still hear was Ilya’s now strangled cries and his own heartbeat thudding in his skull. The hands that were holding him back dropped. Shane met the eyes of each person surrounding him, and took in the emotion on each of their faces - from the pity plastered across Hayden’s face, to the confusion that JJ wore, the shock of the refs, and the disgust of his coach and the bloodied up Raiders player.
Shane held his head high, despite the dread dropping low in his gut, and skated towards where the medics were finally about to wheel Ilya outside to the ambulance. When Shane finally approached him, he had to swallow the bile that was rising in his throat.
Ilya’s screams had quieted into broken cries thanks to the medication that had been pushed into the IV stuck in his good hand. His forehead was sweaty and his skin was pale, the blood that had since dried around his mouth standing out in stark contrast. And his arm…Shane was doing his best not to look at it. Shane’s heart broke a little more seeing where Ilya’s jersey had been cut off so that the pads could be removed in an attempt to stabilize his elbow. Shane sent up another silent prayer that this would not how Ilya Rozanov’s hockey career would end.
The medics had paused working on him only briefly to make way at his side, refusing to make any sort of eye contact with him. “Hi, moya lyubov,” Shane said, trying to push a smile into his voice. Ilya used the Russian endearment on him so much that Shane hoped he had done the pronunciation justice.
“Shane?” Ilya whimpered. Whimpered. Shane had never heard this man whimper in the decade that he had known him. Laying on a stretcher in the middle of a packed arena, Ilya had never looked so tiny. “Shane, I’m scared.” His voice broke at that.
Shane hushed him and pressed a kiss to his forehead, running his fingers lightly through his curls. “Where are you taking him?” He asked the medics, not bothering to take his eyes off his husband as they started walking down the hallway towards the open door, where Shane could see an ambulance waiting with flashing lights.
It was the short, mousy medic with auburn hair that guided the stretcher at Ilya’s feet that responded. “Montreal General, Mr. Hollander,” she all but squeaked.
Shane nodded at her and squeezed Ilya’s hand. “I’ll be right behind you.”
***
Shane lifted his head slightly when the incessant beeping of Ilya’s heart monitor quickened. Ilya was finally waking up after a grueling 3 hour surgery to piece his snapped elbow back together. On top of the snapped elbow, he also had a nasty concussion and some bruised ribs. The surgeon had told him that Ilya’s recovery process would be absolutely grueling with extensive physical therapy. His season was over before it got the chance to really begin, but his doctor believed he would be able to play again by the start of next season. Shane knew Ilya’s coaching staff and trainers would eventually be by to check the prognosis, but, for now, Shane was content to sit in the aftermath of the day with the only person that mattered.
Ilya squeezed Shane’s hand lightly. “Shane? Wha- What’s going on?”
“Shh, shh, it’s okay, baby,” Shane hushed him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “You’re in the hospital. Do you remember what happened?”
“Mmm, feels like I got hit by truck.”
Shane chuckled. “You could say that, I guess.” He recounted the events of the evening, explaining the hit, the injury, and the status of his season. Ilya grew progressively paler with each new revelation.
“Congratulations, Hollander. It sounds like you may finally have a stronger backhand than me,” Ilya grumbled, attempting a joke, but Shane could tell how much this new information was eating at him.
“Shut up, asshole. You scared me to death, you know.”
“Mmm, is payback from few years ago.” Ilya shifted, becoming more aware of his immobilized arm and grimacing.
“I’ll let the nurse know you’re awake. I’m sure you’re ready for some more pain meds,” Shane said, trying to stand up but Ilya grabbed onto his wrist before he could leave.
“Wait,” he started. “They know you’re here.” Ilya was starting to put pieces together and Shane realized he was going to have to bring Ilya up to speed on the other aspect of the evening.
Shane had spent most of the night trying to figure out how to break the news that the world knew that they were married without his knowledge. Shane hadn’t even fully allowed himself to process. He had made it a point to turn his phone off once he got to the hospital. He had started getting flooded with messages from his parents, his coaches, Rose. ESPN and CNN and DailyMail and every other gossip site had started posting stories - footage of Ilya’s hit and Shane screaming his confession before slipping off the ice and not returning for the rest of the game.
“Yeah, uh. They know,” Shane mumbled, not meeting Ilya’s eyes.
“Oh, good, Mr. Rozanov, you’re awake! I’m Doctor Malloy,” Ilya’s doctor walked in. Ilya tried to pull his hand away then, but Shane tangled his fingers around his and refused to let go. Ilya looked at him, a confused furrow in his brow. “You took a nasty hit. I’m sure your husband here has been filling you in.”
Ilya’s eyes blew wide and his mouth fell open. “Hollander?” he laughed nervously. “He’s not my husband. In fact, I don’t even know why he’s-”
“Ilya,” Shane interrupted. “They know. Everyone knows.”
The doctor’s eyes shot back and forth between them, almost as if he was watching a tennis match. “Ah, it seems like you both have some things to talk about. Let me just check some things out on you and your nurse will give you some more meds, then we’ll get out of your hair.”
The doctor made quick work of checking Ilya’s vitals, blood flow to his hand, and nerve function. Ilya grimaced in discomfort through the whole thing, before leaving the room with a promise to check back in later in the day. Finally the nurse, a petite lady with blonde hair and pink scrubs, pushed a syringe of medications into Ilya’s IV.
“Alright, Mr. Rozanov. This should ease some of that discomfort but it might make you sleepy. Mr. Hollander, let us know if you both need anything.” She turned to leave but stopped abruptly in the doorway and turned around. She looked between the two of them and smiled softly. “I know this is none of my business. But I’m really happy for you guys. I’m glad you have each other.” Shane nodded at her and she left the room.
“Shane,” Ilya whispered. “What do you mean everyone knows?”
Shane turned his phone on but quickly turned on Do Not Disturb to continue avoiding the outside world, at least for now. He pulled up a video of the events of the night, skipping the part where Ilya actually got hit and handed the phone to Ilya. “That’s my fucking husband!” rang out in the quiet hospital room, the beeping on Ilya’s heart monitor speeding up as he watched the clip over and over.
Ilya’s eyes were filled with tears when he finally looked at Shane. “Moya lyubov, what have you done?”
Shane grinned at him and squeezed his hand three times. I love you. He pulled Ilya’s ring out of his pocket and slid it onto his finger. “I told the world that I am in love with you. And, yes, the next little bit will be scary. But, we are so fucking brave.”