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Ilya skated to the center, winking when his husband joined. The separate locker rooms prevented Ilya from enjoying Shane’s resignation when the staff made the announcement—these All-Star games were going to have every player mic’d. Shane avoided being mic’d up supposedly because he’d rather focus on hockey. The truth, of course, was Shane didn’t want the world to know how boring his was.
He tapped Shane’s stick, swiping his stick back to prevent Shane from tapping back. A small eye roll cracked Shane’s focused mask.
“I have given it thought,” Ilya said. The ref skated towards them and players fanned on either side. Everyone was more relaxed during All-Star games except for Shane, who transformed into a monster when he stepped into a rink. Ilya, naturally, was more normal in his intensity to beat Shane. “Five.”
Shane’s brow scrunched, but kept his eyes on the puck making its way over. He engaged reluctantly. “Five what?”
“Five minutes.”
Shane shot Ilya a look. Success. “We’re not staying five minutes.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.” Shane, his introverted husband, seemed annoyed to be the one forcing them to mingle longer at tonight’s celebratory gathering, especially after musing last night how soon they could leave after making an appearance. Ilya mostly hummed, more interested in dragging Shane’s pants off.
“You are married to best player in the league,” Ilya said. “You can get away with much now.”
“Fuck off, Rozanov. Who has more Stanley Cups?”
How arrogant and unsporting to lord his victories over an opponent. Ilya grinned. “My trophy husband.”
This was also enough to get Shane to scowl and look away from the puck for a precious second. Shane was his favorite to rile up.
“You know that’s not what that phrase means,” Shane said.
“English is complicated,” Ilya said. “Many things get jumbled, gryaznyy nosok.”
“Fuck off with your Russian,” Shane said. They bent as the ref raised the puck.
“Unsupportive medlennyy voditel.”
Shane won the faceoff.
A perk of this year’s lineup was being reunited with his old Boston teammate, Cliff Marlow. The downside was his other winger was Dallas Kent so it didn’t take a genius to know who Ilya favored passing to. It just made it that much sweeter each time he and Marly passed around Shane.
Ilya circled behind the goal to avoid Boiziau and grunted when Shane slammed him against the boards, sweeping the puck away. Instead of immediately following the puck, Shane lingered a second to wink. Then he shot across the ice, Ilya on his heels. Ilya grinned. Shane allowed himself to relax a little this year. Not too much. Shane wouldn’t be Shane Hollander if he didn’t push everyone to be their best by proximity. Playing against Shane never got old.
Though playing against Shane got irritating when he intercepted another pass from Marly.
“Marly, get your shit together. Much rides on which team wins.”
“Don’t get me involved with your sex shit, Roz.”
Ilya shrugged because fair enough.
They approached for another faceoff. Shane’s goal was sharp, faking out the All-Star goalie like it was nothing. His team was already trained, keeping the dog piling to a minimum and sticking with fist bumps and whoops. The Centaurs learned to only pile on after Ilya got to Shane first and shielded him from the worst of it. Not so secretly, Ilya loved he remained the exception, Shane never wanting him anything but close.
“Hello, second best player,” Shane said. “You going to show up tonight or are you busy gossiping with Marly?”
Ilya was so endeared when he chirped. “I’ll always show up for the second draft pick.”
“It’s been almost a decade since our draft,” Shane said. “You need new shit.”
They bent for the faceoff.
“It is fact.” And still rankled Shane even if both were satisfied with how their careers turned out. It was the principle of the thing. “Don’t worry, trophy husband, I’ll take care of you just how you like.”
Ilya won the faceoff.
Predictably, the almost fight was initiated by Kent. Fights rarely happened at All-Star games because no one cared enough about temporary teams and playoffs were around the corner. However, it didn’t stop dick measuring contests. Kent spat at the Los Angeles defenseman on Shane’s team. It was all performative, refs in the middle, and both players had yet to do anything except yell.
Though he might as well take advantage. Ilya skated to Shane, who stood on the other side of the rink next to Boiziau. He collided into Shane, practically a love tap, and clung. Shane grunted but made no move to untangle from his husband. Momentum carried them away from Boiziau, which was also the goal.
“Why?” Shane tapped his helmet against Ilya’s, belaying his exasperated tone. Kent wasn’t the only one being performative.
“Pairing off,” Ilya said. “Is for safety during fights.”
Kent and the defenseman remained separated by refs while the rest of the players on ice chatted, unbothered. Shane remained pliant in Ilya’s arms. Worlds different from how he tensed at anything close to public affection in the months following their outing.
“Did you call me a dirty sock earlier?”
“I don’t know. Only memory is of husband cursing my native language. No respect. Only hurt.” He tapped their helmets again and Shane rolled his eyes at his grin. “I offer you sexy Russian teacher and you ignore me. My English teachers were all old and wrinkly. You are lucky.”
“Svetlana is a good teacher,” Shane said.
Ilya scoffed. “What has Sveta taught you?”
“Mudak.”
Russian sounded so good from Shane’s tongue, even when he called Ilya an asshole. Probably especially when he called him an asshole. “What about Ty mne nuzhen, pozhaluysta, or boleye? Those are more important for your vocabulary. I am a practical teacher.”
Watching Shane translate the words in real time and the pink spreading under his freckles was delicious. “Shut up. They’re going to translate this.”
Ilya wondered how fair his blush would spread. It was a thin line how much Shane truly enjoyed the thrill of flirting or more, when Ilya was lucky, in public. A thinner line too when hockey was involved, but riling up Shane until he’s shoving Ilya to their bedroom was too tempting. Ironically, being forcibly outed and dealing with the brutal fallout helped Shane’s anxiety of public perception. Life was too short to care about people who hated just to hate.
“You are right,” Ilya said. Shane’s distrustful look was a thing of beauty. He wanted to frame it and was appeased he could get a screenshot later from the video. “They may mistranslate. I was saying you need to know ‘I need you,’ which is romantic, no? And ‘please’ is good manners. ‘More’ is useful during meals so—”
“Fuck off,” Shane said. He skated out of Ilya’s grip. Kent and the Los Angeles player were on separate sides of the rink and most eyes trained on Shane and Ilya. Ah, they may have been delaying the game.
Ilya skated to the faceoff circle, beating Shane. “I also called you slow driver earlier. Should have said slow skater.”
Shane ignored him as the ref skated up.
“Or weak backhand.”
Shane only had eyes for the puck.
“Or pretty boy.”
Ilya won the face off.
Ilya checked Boiziau against the boards, the Montreal player shooting the puck off to Shane.
“Montreal keeps losing to Centaurs,” Ilya said. “Are you throwing games? Only possible answer, da?”
Boiziau swore in French, the only words Ilya recognized was his name and bastard. Shane would be pleased his French lessons paid off. Ilya chased down the puck, leaving Shane’s friend behind. Shane forgave Boiziau pretty much instantly, but the occasional reminder to Boiziau that he was a piece of shit when Shane needed him never went amiss.
Shane’s taste in friends left a lot to be desired. He couldn’t believe Shane made him rank Pike high in something, even if was just by default.
“Where is your necklace?”
Scott Hunter, center of the second line because obviously Shane earned first, was annoyingly the line shift on the ice when it was time for the next faceoff. Fucking Kent shooting a puck high and hitting the net ruined everything.
“Shut up, Rozanov,” Scott said, old and cranky as usual.
“Life Alert is important,” Ilya said. “Don’t worry Kip.”
“I don’t know how Hollander puts up with you,” Scott said.
“We are same age and have more in common,” Ilya said. “Cradle robbing made you forget other couples have that, I think.”
“Fuck you.”
Ilya won the faceoff.
Being invited to the All-Stars weekend was insane alone. Being captained by Ilya Rozanov made him giddy. Of course, Parsons forgot one vital thing—being on Rozanov’s team meant he was against Shane Hollander.
He swallowed. He was facing off with Shane Hollander, Canadian Golden Boy, one of the most decorated hockey players, the captain who led Voyageurs from obscurity to repeat Cup winners. He was a hockey god. Parsons joined Tampa’s team last year and had yet to win anything but an online poll for hottest rookie.
He felt faint. “I had your poster on my wall.”
Oops, didn’t mean to say that. Hollander didn’t visibly react, face cold concentration. He was so fucking cool.
“I can sign it later, if you want,” Hollander said.
Ok, scratch that. Now he felt faint.
Hollander won the faceoff.
“I was fucking open!” This was not the first time Kent shouted that, but it was the first time he got in Ilya’s face. He tainted Ilya’s backhand goal. He planned to blow a kiss at Shane and now he had to deal with this parasite. Refs darted in much faster than they did for Kent’s shouting match with the LA defenseman. “You’ve been icing me out the entire game.”
“I am Russian. Marly is better. You are a piece of shit,” Ilya said. “Is fun to list facts.”
Kent surged against a ref’s grip. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“What do you think my fucking problem is?”
Years of smelling blood in the water, especially when Ilya’s smile dropped, sent Marly over. More refs intervened.
“Calm down, guys,” a ref said. “Back off. You’re on the same team and there’s only twelve minutes of the game left.”
If they weren’t mic’d, the hate in Kent’s eyes would spew out his mouth. The mics also prevented Ilya from saying what he wanted to. Crowell barely tolerated him and Shane. Ilya, frustratingly, had to bite his tongue. Antagonizing Kent with an accurate label would be satisfying in the moment, but Crowell proved he could make life difficult.
A familiar hand wrapped around his arm and Shane tugged him back.
“Good?” Shane asked, once they were far enough to have the illusion of privacy.
Kent scowled, skating to the bench.
Ilya released a breath. “Da.” Shane’s concern was palpable. Ilya knocked their sticks together. “Want backhand tips? Sexy goal, no?”
Shane tapped their sticks. “Fuck you.”
“After game, Hollander. Be professional.”
Shane’s next goal was a backhand. His smug grin was biteable as always.
Parsons sat on the bench next to Ilya Rozanov, the Russian superstar, the captain who led Boston from obscurity to Cup winners and was about to do the same for Ottawa, the number one draft pick, and the only player who could match Shane Hollander. Another hockey god. He had Rozanov’s poster on his wall too.
“You are intimidated by Hollander,” Rozanov said. “That is why you lost the faceoff.”
Most people were intimidated by Hollander. Parsons tried not to act like too much of a wide-eyed rookie. The year under his belt wasn’t nothing. Then he looked at Rozanov, gulped, and nodded meekly.
“I will help. Hollander is a hockey nerd. No reason to be scared,” Rozanov said. “He follows stats and reads hockey books for fun.”
Of course he did. Fuck, Hollander was so dedicated. Too much reverence must be on his face because Rozanov snorted.
“He stresses when I don’t put dirty clothes away. I sometimes hide socks just to see his frown. I’m experimenting on how many I can leave out before he snaps. So far it is three. Used to be five but,” Rozanov shrugged, “did it too close together. My fault. Made him suspicious. He is also lightweight. Is cute. I will get him to do shots tonight so you will see.”
Parsons wanted nothing so desperately as he did drinking with his idols. “That’d be cool.” His voice cracked. Damn. He cleared his throat, but Rozanov’s smirk didn’t seem cruel.
“He cried during Terminator 2. You cannot take him seriously,” Rozanov said.
“Man, I cried at that ending,” Groll, a Vegas player, said. “Terminator’s sacrifice gets me every time.”
“See? You cannot take Groll seriously either. Not that that was a problem,” Rozanov said.
“Fuck you, Roz.”
“Hollander does yoga, which is not nerdy, but hot so bad example. Especially when he does yoga after long workout because his freckles—”
“Don’t scar the bench, Roz,” Cliff Marlow, another Boston legend, said. “We get it. Hollzy could sneeze and you’d fall deeper in love.”
“No, Shane is loud sneezer like a grandpa,” Rozanov said. “Is a fault I must accept.”
Marlow leaned around Rozanov. “If you want something real good, me and some Boston guys think Roz’s Montreal girl, who had him whipped for years, was Hollzy and they texted since his—”
“Ok, ok, time for our line, da?” Roz interrupted.
Marlow smirked.
Ilya and Shane met for what should be the last faceoff. Shane’s team was ahead, but that didn’t mean Ilya couldn’t score two goals for a tie to send them into overtime. Fans would love the drama.
“So,” Ilya said, “if you don’t want to be my trophy husband, will you be my sugar daddy?”
Shane snorted and his freckles crinkled. Playing with Shane was his favorite, but he wasn’t prepared for how satisfying it’d be for the tension to leave Shane’s hockey games until only his husband’s joy remained. Ilya didn’t realize how much Montreal tainted Shane’s love for hockey until he left.
“Yesli ty khoroshiy,” Shane said, only stumbling slightly. It was difficult to tell if the stumble was due to the Russian or the recorded conversation.
Either way, Ilya couldn’t restrain his grin. If you are good.
They bent.
Ilya won the faceoff.
Shane shoved Ilya against their hotel wall, gripping the neck of the Hollander jersey branding Ilya since they stepped into the night’s festivities. They ended up staying for forty minutes, Parsons still starstruck after doing shots. Ilya couldn’t blame the kid too much. They were Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, after all.
Shane kissed Ilya like he was starving. Desperate was a good look. Ilya fiddled with the hem of his jersey just so Shane grabbed his wrists.
“Don’t even think about it,” Shane said into his mouth. Hands forced Ilya’s head to the side and teeth scraped down his neck. Shane bit, sucking hard enough to leave no illusion to what they did. Ilya groaned.