Chapter Text
Six months later, the ice is loud in a way Shane has never been afraid of.
The Stanley Cup Final ends with the sound of inevitability. The final horn blaring long and triumphant, cutting through the air as the scoreboard locks the truth into place.
Ottawa Centaurs: Champions.
For half a second, Shane just stands there.
The noise crashes over him. The roar of the crowd, the sharp echo of sticks hitting ice, the wild joy of bodies colliding, but his brain lags behind his heart. It feels unreal, like he’s stepped sideways into someone else’s life.
Then Troy slams into him from the left, yelling something incoherent. Bood barrels into them both. Gloves hit the ice. Someone is laughing so hard they’re crying. After a beat, he realizes it’s coming from Bood.
Shane laughs too.
It tears out of him, raw and breathless, as the reality finally lands.
They did it.
Confetti starts to fall from the rafters, red, black, silver. It’s catching in his hair, sticking to sweat-slick skin. The jumbotron flashes STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS in massive, unapologetic letters.
Shane’s chest feels too full. Like something has finally expanded to fill all the space pain once occupied.
He turns instinctively.
Finds Ilya.
Ilya is down on one knee near the blue line, not hurt, just overwhelmed. One glove braced on the ice, the other pressed briefly to his face like he’s trying to hold the moment inside his body before it spills everywhere.
The C on his chest is crooked, tugged sideways from the celebration.
Captain.
Shane skates to him without thinking.
They collide hard enough to knock the air out of both of them, arms locking tight, helmets bumping together. Ilya laughs into Shane’s shoulder, wet and unguarded, the sound of someone who carried the weight of this year, on and off the ice, and finally set it down.
“We did it,” Ilya breathes.
Shane nods, forehead pressed to his. “You did.”
Ilya pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes bright and disbelieving. “We,” he corrects firmly.
The ceremony begins in its familiar, reverent chaos. The league officials step onto the ice. The Cup is carried out, gleaming impossibly under the lights.
Shane hangs back as the Centaurs line up instinctively. They are all sweat-streaked, bruised, grinning like fools, a team forged the hard way.
When the Cup is finally handed over, it goes where it always goes first.
To the captain.
Ilya takes it with both hands.
For a moment, he just stands there, breathing hard, eyes bright and disbelieving, the Cup heavy and real in his grip. Then he lifts it, and the arena erupts.
The sound crashes over them, cheers pounding off the glass, off the rafters, off everything they’ve dragged themselves through to get here. Chants rise and blur together, his name, Ilya’s, the team’s, the noise of a season that tried to break them and failed.
Ilya skates.
Not fast. Not careful. Just free.
He takes his lap around the rink, the Cup raised high, sweat darkening his hair, jersey clinging to him, lights catching on the curve of metal and the sharp lines of his smile. He looks unreal, all that weight, all that fear, all that history finally allowed to exist as something other than pain.
Shane watches, chest tight.
He thinks of dark bars. Of bloody streets corners. Of nights where breathing felt like work. Of every time they chose to stay when it would’ve been easier to disappear.
And here Ilya is. Still here. Still standing. Still shining.
The crowd roars louder as he passes the bench again, and for a heartbeat, Ilya’s eyes find Shane’s through the chaos.
It isn’t just a win.
It’s proof.
Shane looks at the C on his chest. The weight of what that letter meant this season. The fights chosen carefully. The statements made quietly. The way Ilya stood in front of microphones and cameras and rooms full of suits and said this is my team, this is my home without hesitation.
Ilya lifts the Cup overhead, arms shaking just slightly as the crowd erupts again.
His face is open. Radiant. Unapologous joy written into every line of him.
Then, without following the expected order, Ilya skates straight to Shane.
He doesn’t say anything. Just presses the Cup into Shane’s hands.
“For you,” he says simply.
Shane’s fingers close around the gleaming metal. The chill bite of it in his hands solid, grounding, real.
This is when it settles.
Not as an idea. Not as a someday whispered into the void.
Now.
Shane doesn’t take his lap.
Shane hands the Cup off to the next player automatically, heart hammering, mind suddenly sharp and impossibly calm all at once.
It has been in his bag for weeks.
Not because he planned this, not like this at least. Shane bought it quietly, on an off day no one tracked, and tucked it away for a future he pictured in pieces. His cottage up north, light streaming through the wide windows, flashing off the lake outside. Mornings slow and unobserved. Just the two of them, barefoot, the world finally far enough away to be harmless.
But tonight mattered.
Tonight it had felt like something he might need to hold onto.
So he brought it with him. He’d slipped it into the small zip pocket on the front of his gear bag like a talisman. He needed it like it was proof that this season wasn’t only bruises, and shouts and suffering. A promise he thought he wasn’t ready to make out loud yet, just ready to keep close.
He skates to the bench, unclips his helmet, reaches into his bag with hands that don’t shake.
When he steps back onto the ice, the jumbotron catches him.
The camera lingers.
The crowd’s energy shifts curious now, rippling with anticipation.
Shane pulls Ilya away from the team, the commissioner, the fanfare and skates to center ice.
He stops.
Takes a breath.
Then he drops to one knee.
The arena explodes.
Ilya freezes mid-stride.
His mouth falls open. His eyes go wide and bright, shock written so plainly across his face it almost hurts to look at.
“Shane—” he breathes, laughter breaking through disbelief.
Shane pulls off Ilya’s glove.
Six months ago, he thinks, the world decided it had the right to take something from me.
Now, the world can watch him choose.
“I didn’t plan to come out like that,” Shane says, voice carrying across the ice, steady despite the thunder around them. “I didn’t plan the violence. Or the fear. Or the way everything cracked open.”
The arena quiets, slowly, instinctively.
“But you stood in front of me,” Shane continues, eyes shining wet and open, never leaving Ilya’s. “Every time. As my captain. As my partner. As the person who made it possible for me to keep going.”
Ilya’s hands are shaking openly now.
“I don’t want a life where we hide,” Shane says softly. “And I don’t want one where I’m brave alone. I want the messy, public, beautiful version. I want the one where we keep choosing each other.”
He opens the box.
The ring glints under the lights. It’s a simple gold band, strong, made to last.
“Ilya Rosanov,” Shane says, voice finally breaking just a little, “will you marry me?”
For one long, breathless second, Ilya can’t speak.
The noise of the arena fades to a dull roar, like he’s underwater. He stares at Shane. It’s the steadiness in his hands, the way his shoulders are squared not with bravado but certainty. It steals the air from his lungs.
For a long time, Ilya has carried a fear he never says out loud, that loving him is work. It was too hard for his mother to stay, for his father to try, for his brother to care. That Shane’s life, the one he fought so hard to build, would be quieter, or safer, or easier without a loud, blunt Russian who never learned how to say the right thing at the right time.
That one day Shane would wake up and realize how much simpler it all could be.
Sometimes, in his darker moments, Ilya mistakes Shane’s moderation as distance. His quiet for doubt. He tells himself it’s only a matter of time before Shane decides that he’s finally too much.
But Shane is kneeling.
Not because he needs saving. Not because he owes anyone anything. Not because the world pushed him here.
He’s kneeling because he wants this.
Because he chooses Ilya with the same ferocity Ilya has always chosen him.
He releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. This isn’t imbalance. This isn’t sacrifice in one direction.
This is love meeting him where he stands.
It hits Ilya all at once, sharp and humbling.
He protects me too.
Not with fists or fury, not with the kind of violence Ilya learned early on. Shane protects him with consistency. With patience. With the quiet, stubborn refusal to take more than he’s given. He taught Ilya slowly, carefully that love doesn’t have to demand payment. That it doesn’t take pieces of you and call it devotion or duty. That you don’t have to bleed to deserve it.
With Shane, there are no tests. No debts. No conditions waiting to be revealed.
Just hands that stay. A voice that doesn’t raise. A love that doesn’t ask him to be smaller or harder or less.
Ilya thinks of the boy he was at seventeen, crossing an ocean alone, braced for isolation and cruelty and of proving he was worth keeping. He thinks of every version of himself that learned to endure instead of hope.
And here is Shane, offering him a future that doesn’t ask him for anything but honesty.
His chest tightens. His vision blurs. He nods, joyous and frantic.
“Yes,” Ilya says, the word breaking free like a vow he’s been waiting his whole life to make. “Yes. Of Course.”
Shane barely has time to stand before Ilya is there. His arms crushing him close, kissing him fiercely and deeply and unashamed as the crowd roars like they’ve been waiting for this too.
Someone throws a glove in the air. Someone else is crying openly. Luca he thinks.
Shane’s hands are shaking when he reaches for the ring, adrenaline leaking out of him. The crowd has faded into something distant and unreal, sound swelling and collapsing around them like waves. He takes Ilya’s left hand, thumb brushing over familiar calluses, grounding himself, and slides the ring down his finger.
It stops halfway.
Shane lets out a small, startled laugh. “Oh.”
Ilya blinks, then snorts, wiping at his eyes. “No problem,” he teases. “Swollen hands.”
Heat rushes to Shane’s face, mortified and laughing all at once. “I swear I checked—”
“I know,” Ilya interrupts gently, already turning his hands, fingers finding the chain at his throat. He slips it over his head, the cross worn smooth with years of touch and reverence, and threads the ring onto the chain with practiced care.
It settles against his chest, warm and certain.
“There,” Ilya murmurs. “Perfect.”
Shane’s chest tightens at the sight. The ring resting over Ilya’s heart, carried the way he carries everything that matters. Memory. Dedication. Love.
Ilya pulls Shane back in, presses their foreheads together, laughing through tears.
“You know,” he murmurs, breath warm between them, “this is going to be everywhere.”
Shane smiles calm, sure, unafraid.
“Let them watch.”
Because this time, nothing is being taken.
This time, Shane chose.
And the world can either celebrate
Or get out of the way.
@NHL_On_Ice
🚨 HISTORY IN THE MAKING 🚨
Stanley Cup win AND an on-ice proposal from Shane Hollander to Centaurs captain Ilya Rosanov.
Hockey. Is. For. Everyone. 🏆💍
@CentaursOfficial
WE WON THE CUP.
OUR CAPTAIN SAID YES.
WE ARE NOT OK. 💀❤️🏒
@HockeyNightLive
Shane Hollander proposing to Ilya Rosanov on the ice after a Stanley Cup win is one of the most powerful moments this league has seen. Full stop.
@Tape2TapePod
Ilya Rosanov captained his team to a Cup AND got engaged in front of 20,000 people???
That’s a Disney ending if I’ve ever seen one.
@NeutralZoneChaos
not to be dramatic but i just watched hockey heal itself on live television
@LeftWingLesbians
THE WAY ILYA HANDED HIM THE CUP FIRST
THE WAY SHANE DROPPED TO ONE KNEE
THE WAY I AM SOBBING ON MY COUCH
@PuckBunnyProblems
me, a casual fan: “oh cool hockey”
me now: emotionally attached to shane hollander and ilya rosanov forever
@OldSchoolHockey
I’ve watched this game for 40 years.
That moment meant something.
Congrats to them both.
@GoalHornGirlie
THE PROPOSAL HAPPENED AT CENTER ICE
AT THE STANLEY CUP FINAL
ON PRIDE NIGHT COLORS ON THE JUMBOTRON
I WILL NEVER KNOW PEACE AGAIN
@RinksideAnalytics
Worth noting: Rosanov took the Cup as captain and immediately gave it to Hollander. That’s not accidental. That’s leadership and love.
@FourthLineFerals
Dallas Kent is somewhere punching the air rn
@QueerSportsWatch
From public outing and targeted violence to a Stanley Cup proposal in six months.
This is why representation matters. This is why visibility matters. 🌈🏒
@StickTapRespect
Every single teammate dogpiling them after the kiss???
This team knew. This team supported. This team deserved the Cup.
@HockeyHistoryNerd
First known on-ice proposal between two active NHL players after a Cup win.
Write it down.
@IlyaRosanovDefenseSquad
CAPTAIN.
CHAMPION.
FIANCÉ.
ICON.
@ShaneHollanderStan
he looked so calm. like the world already tried to break him and failed. i’m so proud i could scream.
@PenaltyBoxParade
Refs swallowed the whistles all season but let LOVE WIN TONIGHT
@CryingInTheCrease
my dad watched this with me and said “good for them” and i think that healed something in my soul actually
@HockeyMemesDaily
📸 Shane Hollander on one knee
📸 Ilya Rosanov crying
📸 Stanley Cup in the background
yeah that’s going in the Louvre