Archive of Our Own

"Ilya, did you see about the All Stars game?"

"What bullshit this time?" Ilya answered, not really listening because he was busy trying to follow a recipe that David had given him. He kept having to look up words and it was giving him a headache but it would be worth it if the fish turned out like it had at his in-laws house.

"It's not an All Stars game," Shane said, coming into the kitchen to lean against the island across from Ilya. They're replacing it with 'Four Nations'."

Ilya stopped cooking. The sauce couldn't burn that quickly.

"Which-"

"U.S.A., Canada, Finland, and Sweden."

"Sweden?" Ilya scoffed at the thought. "They have what? Holmberg and Wennberg. Only bergs."

"Ullman," Shane reminded him of their own alternative goaltender.

Ilya shrugged. "Will still lose."

He went back to stirring his sauce. It was too thin but he didn't want to look like he'd messed it up in front of Shane. Maybe stirring it more would help.

"It'll be because of the Olympics," Shane said in a way that was both casual and not.

That was still over a year away and Ilya did not want to start thinking about it yet.

"Is stupid. People get injured, or are injured. Rookies have not played whole season yet. Not fair to them. Stupid idea. They are just bored of us winning."

"Ilyusha," Shane said and now it was fucking serious because the diminutive only really came out when Shane was saying 'I know you. All your fears are my fears. I love every part of you and you can't hide from me. I love it all.'

Ilya grunted and kept looking down at the sauce.

"You can play for Canada, you know."

Could he?

It was no secret that Ilya was Russian. Even if you had no idea who he was, no idea what his name was, it was obvious the second he opened his mouth and that clunky heavy accent escaped. Sure, he could step onto the ice in red and white but would the Canadians really want to see him out there instead of one of their own?

In the NHL, maybe. Hockey fans were already used to cheering for foreigners in their local team and Ottawa had a soft spot for him for the way he turned the team standings around in his first year as captain. But regular Canadians? Only 25 men got sent to the Olympics and there was no guaranteeing that all 25 would even play. If Ilya fucked it up like his last Olympics...

"Rosanov!"

Ilya startled back to the present. Shane was looking at him with concern and a sharp determination Ilya usually faced on the ice. Whatever he saw in Ilya's eyes was bad enough for him to drop the subject.

"What are you cooking?" Shane asked, leaving his phone and rounding the island to hip-check Ilya away from the stove. "Soy sauce?"

"Is more than soy sauce," Ilya said irritatedly, hip checking Shane back with more force until his husband stumbled in front of the recipe book. "Read me next instruction. I put soy sauce in. Now what?"

"Simmer on- Gently boil it," Shane translated without being asked. He was so fucking sexy Ilya wanted to kiss him.

He could.

So he did.

"You're in the All Star game," Coach Weibe told Ilya the next week.

"It's not All Stars."

"I don't need your shit," he was told.

Liar. He needed Ilya's shit every week. Several times a week. Because not only was Ilya fucking incredible at playing hockey, he made everyone else play worse by getting under their nerves. Ilya's shit had monetary value.

He told Coach Weibe as much and got to watch with great satisfaction as his nostrils flared. Credit where credit's due though, the coach neither cursed him out again nor punched him.

"The Four Nations match, you're on with Hollander. He's captain, so fight it out among yourselves if you play on the same line or not."

"Congratulations, Mr Hollander," Ilya purred when he made it back to the ice. Shane had been pulled out before him so it was fair to assume he already knew.

Shane blushed and tested the edges of his perfected sharpened blades. He probably felt guilty that he and Ilya hadnt been able to compete for the Captain position equally.

"Yeah, well... Marketing, right?"

"Mmm, yes. You are most Canadian Canadian. Shit at hockey but always saying sorry, always drinking Canada Dry. Speak English and French and Wolf Bird."

"Hey, you can make the loon call too!"

"Yes, that is why I was picked, I think," Ilya continued satirically. "Almost enough that I am fucking best at hockey and fucking best Canadian, but bird call is essential for Centre so they have to pick me over real Canadians."

Shane grabbed his shirt and pulled him in until their skates knocked together. He gave Ilya a loving headbutt to recalibrate his mindset and then kissed his cheek and pushed him away again.

"You deserve the spot, Rosanov," he said firmly as Ilya slid out of earshot. "Don't get injured before then!

Ilya hadn't meant to but he did get injured- a fractured wrist mid-January that he could have kept playing with if his husband wasn't such a narc.

When he was younger, and his thing with Shane was just a thing that happened every couple of months and agony for every breath in between, he would have kept playing. Playing meant meeting Shane and beating Shane and fucking Shane and the younger Ilya would have put all that above the risk of permanent injury. Now though, he still had Shane even off the ice so the longevity of his career took precedent.

If they made it to play-offs (they would), then Ilya would probably be back in action for the final games but he was sitting out of the Four Nations. It was the game he was least frustrated to miss, though seeing Shane decked out in white and red made his chest tight.

Strangely, it had nothing to do with the last time Shane had been in national kit (and Ilya had been both a family and national disappointment) and everything to do with how much pride Ilya knew his husband had to be representing Canada. His husband, the best fucking hockey player Canada had ever produced, was gay and Asian and still the fucking best and there was nothing anybody could do about it.

"Fuck 'em up, Hollander," Ilya whispered from the stands as he watched Shane take the first face-off of the competition.

Shane placed his stick on the ice, the puck dropped.

He won the face-off.

"Do you want to play?" Shane asked.

"Play what?" Ilya replied snarkily, crossing his arms over his chest.

He knew, because he knew Shane Hollander, that the question could only be about hockey, and he knew, because he knew Shane Hollander, that the tone he said it in was about Ilya's complicated relationship with his home country. Still, he would not be Ilya Rosanov if he wasn't pissing someone off, even just a little bit.

"Play tag? Hide and seek? Play video game where I destroy you in ten minutes with one hand only?"

Shane rolled his eyes, well used to these insults and deflections.

"Ilya. The Olympics."

There had just been an advert on TV for some drink that was an 'official sponsor' so maybe Shane hadn't needed to say it out loud but Ilya had been pretty successfully avoiding the subject so far.

"Pff."

He knew Shane hated it when he did that, the 'fart' sound he made whenever Shane said something particularly boring. It would definitely rile him up to hear it used on The Olympics.

"Ilya! Be serious! Don't-"

"Russia is not competing."

Unsurprisingly, the ruling used in the summer games was upheld for the winter games. Russians could compete as individual independent athletes, but not in teams. Hockey was one of the sports they were banned from, not competing for the first time since 1956.

"Canada is," Shane replied calmly. "And I know your passport is blue, not red. If you don't want to play, that's ok, but you know you can. And it's in Italy this time."

'You don't have to go back to Russia,' he didnt say.

"I will go to Italy," Ilya said and hoped that would be the end of the conversation.

Shane looked at him with so much compassion and understanding that Ilya would have lashed out if it was anyone else. Instead he just turned his head away.

"Ilyusha," Shane whispered, turning Ilya's head back to face him. "Hockey is a team sport. You proved with the Cens that one person can make a huge difference but the result of a game is never the fault of one person. Personally,"

Shane paused to capture Ilya in a kiss, soft and sweet,

"I would love to win Olympic gold with you. And I'm sure an awful lot of Canadians want our best team to keep the U.S. off that top spot. You are our best team, Ilyusha. Whatever you do, you are wanted on that team."

And people said Ilya gave the best pre-game talks.

When Ilya lunged forward to kiss him, he mean for it to be gentle. A thank you for Shane's unwavering trust in him and his ability to see the words Ilya would never say out loud.

However.

They were both intensely competitive hockey players. It got heated quickly. There might have been teeth involved.

"Rosanov!" Shane called up the stairs.

Ilya snorted to himself and rolled out of bed, his back crunching in a satisfying way as he did so.

"Hollander," he answered through a smile. This was going to be a hockey conversation, he could already tell.

"Hey," Shane said when he came into sight and tipped back his head for a kiss before getting back to business. He pointed at what looked like a lot of maths on his laptop screen. "Do you think we need to practice on an Olympic-sized rink?"

Ilya slipped into the seat next to him and leaned in to try and make sense of the diagram. Was it even that different from an NHL rink, or was this a Hollander Special?

"You," he corrected while he looked at the numbers. "Even if I'm playing, I don't give a fuck what size it is. What are these numbers?"

"Oh, it's being measured in metres," Shane explained. "That's the conversion."

Ilya stood up, decision made. "Good. Metres is better. You will not like shorter rink though. We build one here?"

"A whole rink?" Shane asked but he looked delighted.

They had 'ice' at the cottage, good enough for stick practice. No real ice since that would require a zamboni and this was technically just their summer house. Their off-season home.

But what was the point of being multi-millionaires with no dependants if you didn't blow money on high-end hobbies?

"Work expense," Ilya added out loud. "Is tax free."

They did have to cut down some trees and knock down the garage, which should have upset Ilya more than it did. Unstead he became an old man, staring with his hands on his hips as a small army of undocumented immigrants assembled the rink in record time.

He'd insisted they find immigrants. Firstly, because they worked far more efficiently than Canadians- that was a fact. Secondly, because he knew how difficult it was to get a visa, even as a highly sought after world-class athlete. And third, because Shane's source for the rink dimensions was his mother and it was not public knowledge. These guys wouldn't ask any questions. Ilya would tip them enough to be sure of it.

"Concrete finished today, Mr Rosanov," the foreman told him. "Good weather it."

Ilya squinted up at the bright blue sky.

"Da. Good weather for ice cream also. Do you want some?"

They put the rink in a corrugated shell, mostly to keep the leaves off the ice and to have some cover to store the zamboni. For any longevity, it should have been better insulated to keep the ice ice without such noisy conditioning units but for now they just needed it built so Shane would relax about the number of steps from the centerline to the goal.

Ilya won first zamboni privileges (why the fuck had they never bought one before, it was great fun) so he let Shane step onto the fresh ice first.

Shane spun around as soon as he got his second foot on the ice, a grin splitting his face.

Good ice then.

Ilya joined him and he floated like butter in a hot pan. His smile started to rival Shane's and when they got enough together they started hitting each other in raw excitement.

"Best investment ever," Shane exclaimed.

"How could you say that, Mr Real Estate," Ilya replied, putting his hand on his chest like his heart was breaking. "What about our Montreal love shack? You made so much money after renovations."

"But this will get us an Olympic Gold Medal." Shane had that look in his eyes that Ilya used to see all the time at face-offs- a viciousness that sent a shiver up Ilya's spine.

He skated around Shane in a slow circle so those eyes wouldn't be on him any more. They really should do some actual skating before he bent him over the boards.

"You have an Olympic gold medal, my little zamboni," Ilya replied, making good use of Russian's ability to make any noun a diminutive.

Shane tilted his head like a puppy as he parsed the new word for familar sounds. "Zamboni?"

"Mm. Going to wipe the floor with you," Ilya retorted before slapping a puck from the stack on the boards onto the ice and taking off down towards the far goal.

"I don't like it," Shane announced, skidding to a stop before the end boards.

"I know," Ilya replied. Shane had had a deep frown of concentration on his face ever since they started playing. "But you've played on a rink this size before, da, 12 years ago, and you won. You can relearn the difference."

"All the rinks you played on as a kid were these dimensions," Shane said. It wasn't really a question. If anybody knew hockey facts, it was Shane Hollander.

"And it did not kill me," Ilya replied. "Actually, I remember winning a trophy... Was it Rookie of the Year? Yes, I won that the year I switched rink sizes. Do you remember how good-"

Shane put his hand over Ilya's jaw and pushed him away. Ilya let him.

"Fine, yes. It'll be fine," Shane admitted. "No harm in practicing on it though."

In June, Shane was announced as one of the six initial lineup for Canada. Nobody was surprised but Ilya still enjoyed really all the fan comments, particularly those from Canadians that did not support Ottowa but had to admit that Shane was the best they had. And not just the best player but a calm, respected individual that had would treat all players equally and lead Canada to victory again.

His husband. Captain of the Olympic Team.

"My love?" Ilya called out, suddenly too overwhelmed to be apart from Shane a second longer. "SHANE!"

The bastard was out on the grass doing yoga and it really said how far their relationship has come that Ilya could look away from that occasionally to read the news.

Shane came out of downwards dog and turned to glare through the glass at him.

"What!?"

"COME!" That should have gone without saying. "GIMME KISS!"

Shane huffed out a laughed now he knew it wasn't life-threatening and shook his head as he walked up to the patio door.

"Seriously? I was busy."

Ilya held out his arm. "I miss you."

Shane dutifully crawled up the couch until he was lying fully over Ilya and gave him a peck before slumping into his arms and getting comfortable.

"What sparked this?"

"Sparked?" The things that came off fire?

"Started," Shane mumbled, his body, lose from yoga, melting until Ilya's. "What made you need a kiss?"

Ah yes. Hockey. Ilya had almost forgotten.

"Proud of you," he said. "Mr Olympic Captain."

"Ah, it hit the news?" Shane asked. "You know... I could be your Olympic Captain if you wanted."

"I am not Canadian."

"You are also not gay but you sure suck a lot of cock," Shane replied.

For a moment all Ilya could do was blink. Then he remembered to breathe, and everything came rushing back at once.

He slapped Shane's perfect ass so hard he felt the vibrations of it in his own thighs.

"Shane Hollander, why do you not chirp this well on ice? You would win far more face-offs."

"Am I winning this one?" Shane grinned up at him, far too proud of himself for one decent chirp, against his husband no less.

"I will think about it," Ilya conceded, leaning over to reward Shane with a kiss. "But is not just my decision."

Of course, Shane took that to mean 'harrass the Canadian Olympic Committee'.

"My potato..." Ilya called through the open plan of their cottage when he returned from walking Anya. He was a creative man and so his pet name repertoire included every noun in the Russian language. He got a kick out of using vegetables this season and now Shane's horrific diet was finally eased up for the summer, 'potato' seemed apt. "My potato, where are you?"

"Here," Shane grunted. He was tucked away in the hidden corner of the couch, frowning at his laptop but he shut the lid guiltily when Ilya leaned down to slot himself beside him.

"Were you looking at houses again?" Ilya asked. "We do not need any more houses."

"No."

"Plane tracker?" Ilya guessed. Shane mostly did that when someone they knew was flying but he'd recently learnt how to track the private jets of their colleagues and he was a nosy bitch when he wanted to be. "Where is Scott Hunter now? Bajamas? Fiji?"

Shane wrinkles his nose in delight and then turned to press a kiss to Ilya's shoulder. "Bahamas, babe. But I don't know. I wasn't tracking him."

"What then? I do not want to play Twenty Answers."

Shane sighed. "Don't be mad."

Ilya wasn't, and knew he wouldn't be, solely becuase Shane was boneless against his side and if Shane was even slightly worried about Ilya reacting the wrong way he would be rigid as steel and putting two feet between them in preparation.

"Da. I will not be mad."

"I was emailing Ron Armstrong," Shane mumbled. "I was going to ask you before I sent it, I just wanted to get my thoughts down first."

"Email saying 'please, Sir, can my husband play with me? I promise he is not Russian sleeper agent to make Canada lose gold medal'?" Ilya asked, doing his best to imitate Shane's accent to little success.

"Where did you learn 'sleeper agent'?" Shane asked fondly. He freed his arm from being trapped between them and lifted it over Ilya's head so he could run his fingers through his curls.

"Chirps," Ilya yawned and turned his nose into Shane's armpit. "You didn't get them?"

Shane's silence said he did.

The first Ilya had had was "Not the kind of sleeper agent I thought you'd be, ey Rosanov?" after they were first outed.

He'd had to look up the term after that.

Honestly it was milder and far more creative that the raw homophobia they got more frequently.

Nearly.

He'd heard "The KGB didn't specify for you to settle down with a woman?" from players across multiple teams. They must have a group chat.

"So what were you emailing?" Ilya asked.

Shane's email was an invite to all the confirmed Olympic Team players to come for a practice session on their new rink.

Ilya didn't really want to share, the rink or the cottage, but he recognised the offer for the Yuna-tier strategy it was. Yeah, the team would be there to play but it was Ilya's house, he had every right to be there to. And it would be insane to have Ilya Rosanov just watching when he could be playing.

Still, he didn't put on his skates when everyone laced up, joining the Dan Armstrong by the boards instead.

Only 12 men had made it, what with it being the middle of the off-season, but they were a talented, and mostly experienced, bunch. Unlike Russia's 2014 team, they wouldn't take much coaching to form a cohesive team. Also unlike Russia's 2014 team, they were actually practicing together and many of them were straight out of the Four Nations winning roster.

"Strong team," he commented as the men started stretching, no outside discipline needed.

Armstrong turned to look at him with a frown.

"What the fuck are you doing, Rozanov? Get dressed."

For the record- Ilya was dressed, just in a Centuars t-shirt and gym shorts. It was a little cold with all the air conditioning, made his nipples hard.

"To play, sir?" he asked because despite his on-ice persona, Ilya did care what some people thought of him.

"That's why we're here," Armstrong replied, losing patience by the second. "And we've not got all day."

They did have all day but it was a lot drive back to Ottawa for most of them so Armstrong kind of had a point. Ilya decided it was best not to argue any further and quickly slipped out of the door to jog back to the house for his gear.

When he had his skates hastily laced and stepped onto the ice the men were already getting into formation with Shane calling the shots.

Ilya didn't want to distract him but even him just skating to centre ice pulled Shane's gaze. He quickly went back to his discussion though and Ilya skated behind the huddle, tapping Shane on the back on his way past to stand out of the way.

Two more defenders skated off to either side of the forming teams and Shane finally looked back to Ilya.

"Left wing?" he said hesitantly, gesturing to the opposite team.

The men gathered were some of Canada's best but they were only half of the complete 25-strong team and the positions filled so far were not even. They had all three goaltenders and more defense than offense. And only one left wing apparently.

"Yeah, no problem," he said softly.

This practice session wasn't about Ilya. It was a rare chance for these men to work together in the rink set-up they needed to win on. Ilya would ref if that was what was needed but it already looked like one of the spare defenders was taking that role, his jersey stripped off.

"Hollander!" Armstrong called from the boards as Ilya went to shake the hand of his new centre. "Same line!"

Shane looked a little bewildered when Ilya turned to face him and Ilya himself stayed frozen, not wanting to interpret that instruction the wrong way.

Shane's right forward moved for them, coming to slap Shane on the arm before heading for Ilya.

"Don't go easy on me, Rozanov," he said, stopping with a sharp turn.

He was young, this year's rookie or last's, and he was looking at Ilya with blatant admiration rivaling Luca Haas. Ilya liked it, not because he was an arrogant bastard, but because he liked it when he could make a difference.

It made hockey more than winning. And at Ilya's tender age of 35, he really needed hockey to be about more than winning.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked, holding out his hand for a handshake.

"Kyle Mackie," the boy replied enthusiastically. "L.A. second line right forward."

"I apologise in advance for stealing the puck from you," Ilya said with a smirk and then quickly crossed to take up position behind Shane's right shoulder.

"No heavy contact, please," Shane called out. "These boards will not support a normal collision and the nearest hospital is an hour away."

"And it's not a good hospital," Ilya added with a grimace. "They will only use superglue to stick you back together."

"Stitches wouldn't have work on your foot- Anyway," Shane said, taking a deep breath and facing centre ice again. "I want you all to focus on your ice position and optimal passes. If the other team gets the puck, please try and get it back with skill and not checking... Ilya."

That got a laugh out of several people despite being an entirely inaccurate depiction of Ilya's skating.

"Good to go?" their temporary ref asked and Shane nodded before putting his head to meet the opposing centre for the puck down.

Shane won the face-off.

They stopped for a barbeque lunch that a teammate thankfully took control of the grill from Shane for.

"Are you playing for Canada?" Mackie asked Ilya at the drinks table.

Ilya shrugged. "Not my decision."

"But you play so well with Hollander. Like, I think I missed every pass between you."

That was because Ilya didn't need to look up to know where Shane Hollander was on the ice anymore. And also because he was fucking amazing at hockey.

"Everyone plays well with Hollander," Ilya lied. "You should play his line this afternoon."

Mackie's eyes widened as if Ilya had just told him he should suck Shane's dick.

"What? It might happen at Olympics. It would be good to practice. Hollander!" he called over the crowd before Mackie could sink any further into hero worship.

Shane found him quickly and Ilya stole a kiss before explaining why he'd called him.

"Mackie is right forward. You should play with him this afternoon."

"Aw, yeah. Crazy year you've been having," Shane said, lighting up as he got to use his hockey IQ. "That goal in New York was insane, even I thought you were going left."

Mackie blushed and choked a little on his coke. "I was gonna. I tripped so.."

"Great recovery then!" Shane said and it was so sweet and genuine that Ilya had to bury his smile in Shane's hair.

Afternoon practice went even better than the morning had been- passes slicker, play faster, and everyone was more comfortable battling around the back of the goal. Maybe Shane was right that the 4 feet of lost ice was significant. It was all the same to Ilya.

He played left wing, which was marginally worse than right wing but still not centre, and then reffed, giving a defender a shot at offence in his place. Refereeing was definitely more fun because he got to argue with everyone and his opinion was always right.

He was serious about his calls but not the way he made them.

"It's not penalty," he said after he got everyone's attention with the whistle, "but Jacobs are you seeing ghosts? Is that why you are passing to fucking empty ice? Sim is behind you with no mark. You drop the puck, Sim sends it right and you race to collect the pass behind goal line from Bells, if he gives it to you. Ok? Face-off from here."

"High sticking! What the fuck was that? Is this a golf course now? You will not get the puck from Hollander like that. Go swap out with someone and think about what sport you are playing."

"Hollander!" Ilya called in glee. He hadn't even blown his whistle and the game was still in play around them.

"It fucking was not, Rosanov."

Ilya put a hand on his chest. "Hollander, do you speak to all your refs like that?"

"It was not holding, I was stopping us both from going over the boards."

"It w- HEY! 32 GET OUT OF THE CREASE! YOU ARE NOT A FUCKING GOALIE RIGHT NOW!"

"Ah, thank fuck that is over," Ilya said when the last vehicle disappeared down the road.

He pulled Shane back inside, pausing only long enough to take off their shoes before dragging his husband to the couch to pull him on top of him like a delightful weighted blanket.

"Aww, your accent is back," Shane cooed. "Were you feeling shy today?"

"No."

"You normally let it slip when we're playing," Shane continued as if he hadn't heard him. "But even when you were reffing I heard 'the puck' several times."

"I can speak your stupid language," Ilya said defensively. "Is not hard."

"Is not hard," Shane echoed, mimicking the way Ilya had relaxed his tongue now they were alone.

"Fuck off, Hollander."

"No." Shane wrapped his arms around the back of Ilya's shoulders so he couldn't be shoved off either and pillowed his head on Ilya's chest. "Sorry for mocking you. I know it's tiring."

Ilya sighed heavily. Being loved by Shane was the best thing in the world but it unfortunately came with the burden of being known.

"It was ok. I just don't like sounding Russian when..." Whenever he was doing something that reminded him he was lucky to be Canadian now. The least he could do with that privilege was assimilate.

"I love it when you sound Russian," Shane said, as he was always keen to remind Ilya. "It's sexy."

"Russian is not sexy," Ilya argued but he couldn't deny the repeated evidence that it turned Shane Hollander on. Thankfully, Ilya had been the first Russian he was brave enough to talk to. "Italian is sexy."

Shane sat up, frowning. "Who do you know that's Italian?"

"The favourite to win the men's figure skating is called Ilia," Shane said before Ilya was even fully awake one morning.

"I figure skate?" Ilya asked blearily.

He knew Shane wanted him at the Olympics but this was going a bit far. Speed skating would be a better match for his skills.

"No, not you," Shane said, crawling back into bed with wet hair and fresh lounge clothes. "I-L-I-A Ilia. Malinin. American. Has won nearly every gold medal in the sport the last three years."

"So I'm not figure skating?" Ilya confirmed.

"No, baby," Shane said with a laugh. He sank further into Ilya's side so he could info-dump more facts at him in comfort. "They call him the Quad God because he is the only one that can land a quad axel- that's the hardest one. An extra half rotation because its entered forwards."

"I know what an axel is," Ilya rumbled.

He'd been in hockey for a long time but they shared rinks with figure skaters often and Ilya had fucked a figure skater or two over the years.

"Cool, though." Shane smiled at his phone. "Another Ilya at the top of the game. He's Uzbek descent though."

"Good for him," Ilya replied, not really sure what this had to do with him.

"There's a Torgashev and a Naumov up in their runnings too. And a Martynov."

"Are you trying to tell me its ok to 'defect'?" Ilya asked dryly. "By telling me about bouncy American children with Soviet ancestry."

"Ancestry?" Shaned echoed with a proud smirk.

Ilya ignored it. It was not impressive vocabulary, not anymore.

"Is not the same. Last Olympics I was Captain of Russian team."

"And since then you have come out as bi and married a Canadian man and played hockey for a Canadian team for a decade. Most Canadians don't even commit that hard."

"Oh I committed," Ilya growled, flipping over to press Shane deep into the mattress. He ground his hips down. "Hard."

Truthfully, Ilya didn't know if he wanted to compete for Canada and he wished people would stop asking. He wanted to just be told- "Rosanov, you're on the team" or "Rosanov, you're not playing".

If he played he'd give it his all and either they'd win and Shane would be ecstatic or they'd lose and it would be the worst day of Shane's life. Either way, playing or not, Ilya would be there for him because he'd experienced both.

For him, the most important win was that first Stanley Cup. He'd become the star his mother knew he would be and proved everything his father said wrong all at once. In a way, Canada's win at that last Olympics had proved his father wrong too. Ilya might not have won but the talent of the NHL did and that was the league Ilya fucking won with his team that practiced and practiced and practiced until they were fucking unstoppable. It wasn't Ilya's fault the Russian team was all fucking egos that wouldn't pass the puck to each other.

He told all this to Galina, unable to keep it inside any longer.

"You're telling me you don't care about playing in the Olympics but it sounds like you care very much," Galina observed calmly.

"I don't care," Ilya said quickly.

"You care, not for yourself, but about what other people think about you. It would be safer not to play. Is that right?"

Safer.

Yes it would be safer. He couldn't let Canada down if he wasn't playing.

"I won't let Canada if I don't play," he said because he'd been in therapy for years and worked much better if he said the scary stuff.

Galina nodded. "Canada is your home now. It means a lot to you to be accepted here."

Exactly.

"And I imagine there are specific Canadians you feel you might let down too."

Shane.

Shane and Yuna and his team and his neighbours and even fucking Hayden Pike.

David wouldn't mind. But everyone else would.

How could he face any of them if he lost them an Olympic medal?

"Shall we pick a person?" Galina asked as if she didn't fucking know Ilya orbited around one man.

"Shane."

"And if say, you missed an easy goal that lost you the game- how do you think Shane would feel about you?"

How....

All Ilya could think about was how much it would crush him. He felt tears willing in his eyes just thinking about it.

"Ok. Let's try to narrow it down," Galina said. "Happy, sad, angry, scared?"

"Angry," Ilya answered but the word 'scared' latched onto his train of thoughts, quickly smothering it. "Scared."

"What action do you think you might do that would make Shane angry? If you did your best as you said you would."

"If-" It sounded so stupid even in his head. "If I am just a worse player, I'm not worth... I'm no use to him. He'll be angry that he picked someone that can't perform."

"Did you feel like that when he tripped in your seventh game of the playoffs his last year at Montreal?" Galina asked.

When everyone was saying Shane let him score on purpose because they were together. God, that had been awful.

"No, it was an accident. Skaters trip all the time."

"Do players miss goals all the time? Do you?"

"I miss more than Shane," Ilya admitted easily. "A lot of it is bluffing and double bluffing the goaltender. And you only have a split second to decide what you're going to do. Sometimes you have no choice but to fire it where the goaltender expects it and hope he misses."

"So its as much about the goaltender saving as the man scoring," Galina said and then dropped that conversation before Ilya could dig any further into the mechanics of it. "Why would Shane be scared."

"Because I'm scared," Ilya said. "What if I lose and I can't- What if I don't want to exist anymore?"

Galina was silent for a moment and then she set down her pen.

"I think you have a lot more to live for than hockey."

Ilya gets the call while he's in bed. At 4pm.

He's been napping nearly every day lately and he knows he shouldn't but he just can't keep his eyes open, he's exhausted. Even after a full night's sleep.

And yes, being tired mid-season in his thirties was bound to happen, but he also isn't interested in eating unless Shane puts something tasty right in front of him and Ilya's not an idiot. He knows what that means.

So does Shane, and he stoickly keeps feeding Ilya and waking him up on a regular cycle so Ilya doesn't slip too far.

They'd been through this before and kindness and patience (from himself as well as Shane) was sometimes all it took for the weight holding him down to disappear. Sometimes there was something he had to get through or open up about first. Like the Olympics...

"Hello, Ilya Rosanov speaking," Ilya answered, cringing as his voice came out more Russian and deeper than he'd intended.

"Rosanov, it's Ron Armstrong," came the reply, calm and measured as if they spoke every day. "I'm calling about the Olympic Team. I'd like you on it. I'll be honest, Canada has a lot of great centres in the league so it wasn't an easy choice but we're going with experience over potential since you men won't get to practice as a team until Italy.

"I can't say yet who will be on your line but you'll have played with at least some of them and with your career history I don't doubt you'll have them working like a well-oiled machine before the first game. Oh, and you'll be on the power play with Hollander. I'd be mad not to do that after seeing the pair of you in person in the summer. Something else, truly."

"Thank you, Sir," Ilya said, unsure even himself if he was thanking him for the complement or the opportunity.

"You're not injured, are you?" Armstrong asked when Ilya paused for too long. "Or Hollander?"

"No, no, we're both healthy," Ilya assured him and then before he could take another breath or psych himself out of it, he signed his fate. "I'd be honoured to represent Canada, Sir."

"Good man," Armstrong said, pleased. "Well, I'll leave you for now- I've got plenty more phone calls to make -and you'll get the paperwork through shortly. Great to have you on the team, Rozanov. Merry Christmas. Bye now."

The call went dead and Ilya dropped his phone onto the bed from shaking bloodless fingers.

Fuuuuuck.

That was one way to wake up from a depression nap.

"You ...good?" Shane asked when Ilya came downstairs of his own volition earlier than normal and stomped straight into the kitchen.

Ilya didn't answer and Shane got up to follow him as Ilya went immediately to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a shot of vodka in a tumbler. Ilya threw it back with a grimace and poured himself another one.

Shane's hand shot out to stop him.

"Woah!"

"I will not shot this one," Ilya promised, putting the bottle down. "Is good vodka, should be tasted."

"Then...?"

"I'm on the Olympic team," Ilya explained and then used Shane's shock to sneak past him to the couch.

"I'm making you a sandwich!" Shane called after him. "You are not dealing with this with only four fingers of straight vodka in you."

Ilya smiled to himself at wide open goal of opportunity that sentence gave him. It was even sweeter that Shane was so concerned about him that he hadn't noticed the available innuendo. Ilya loved it when Shane lost his filter around him.

He decided such an easy goal wouldn't be as satisfying.

"I could also smoke a cigarette?" he offered.

"No!"

"No?" Ilya whispered to Anya, who had leapt out of her bed to come and sit next to Ilya, tail thumping on the cushion as he scratched her under the chin. "He says 'no', Anya. I can't even have a self-destructive meltdown in peace in this house."

Anya licked his chin.

"Yeah, I love you too. I wouldn't do that, I promise."

"Don't let her lick you, Ilya, that's gross," Shane said, handing over the sandwich with a grimace.

"I let you lick me," Ilya replied. He lifted the top slice of wholemeal bread and found chicken mayo with tomatoes and lettuce. "No cheese?"

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. "What kind of cheese?"

"Not Canadian," Ilya replied just because he could. "Whatever European sliced cheese there is."

"The world does not need this many types of cheese," Shane said but he dutifully went to collect it.

Anya scrambled to run after him because she'd heard the word 'cheese' four times in a minute and she knew what that meant.

"Oh, and now you want cheese too?!" Shane exclaimed as she bounced around his feet.

Anya barked in excitement.

"You don't even know what good cheese tastes like, Goblin," Ilya heard Shane tell her in the kitchen but there was a sharp clack of her jaws so he must have given her some anyway. Good. She deserved it.

"So, tell me," Shane said when Ilya's sandwich was gone and he was back to nursing his vodka.

Ilya shrugged. "I'm on the team. Centre. Power play with you."

"God, it's like 2013 all over again," Shane said, not satisfied with that answer. "How do you feel about that? You were given a choice, right? It wasn't 'Rozanov, you're playing for Canada'?"

"No, yes, I had a choice," Ilya said, scrubbing his eyes until all he could see was blinding flashes of light. "I said I would be honoured. I feel..." He lifted his glass. "Nothing soon, hopefully."

"If I knew that was enough to get you drunk, I'd be annoyed," Shane said, clearly annoyed all the same.

"Good thing you made me eat entire sandwich then," Ilya said and poured the rest of his drink down his throat. It went smoothly, because it was good Russian vodka.

Shane sighed and pulled Ilya's head down onto his shoulder so he could play with his curls.

It was good, but not enough.

Ilya reached forward to set his glass on the coffee table and then curled up to put his head in Shane's lap. The petting continued.

"I don't know how to help you," Shane said quietly, almost as if he expected Ilya to already be falling back asleep again.

"You do," Ilya replied, closing his heavy eyes. "You're helping right now."

Ilya would have loved to forget about the Olympics until February but there was a press release the team a few days after the phone call. He got to enjoy his Christmas and New Year but as soon as the Centaurs started playing again the press were like piranhas.

"Rozanov! You're playing for Canada the Olympics. Why do you think you deserve that place more than a Canadian?"

"Hey!" Shane cut in, leaning in to the mic so his fury boomed through the room. "This is press for the game that we just won. If you don't have questions about that, get out."

Someone else put up a hand.

"He played for Russia last time the NHL allowed it. Who's to say he won't throw the game?"

Shane looked ready to climb over the table and strangle him. Ilya put a hand on his arm.

"For who?" he answered. "For Russia? A country that is not competing and would put me in jail or worse if I ever went back, just for telling the world I love a man? You think I would deliberately lose a game for the country I live in, for the people I love, for the team I play for? For what? For fucking what? I have nothing to gain by doing anything but my best out on that ice and I have everything to lose.

"I'm married to the fucking Captain. I will not lose again. I will not do that to him."

When Ilya leaned back again, Shane shot him a look so full of pain and sympathy  that Ilya wanted to drag him into an empty cupboard and kiss him and take it all back.

"For the record," Shane added, his words like daggers. "Both Team Canada and I have complete faith in Ilya to deliver a great result for us regardless of his personal life, as he has shown consistent dedication to the sport and his teams throughout a very illustrious career.

"Now, any questions about the game we just played?"

Come round for dinner, the text read. Shane held it in front of Ilya's face for him to read without saying anything.

"We are in trouble," Ilya concluded. "There is no kisses."

"She's going to make us do that perfume ad," Shane groaned, slouching to type out a deniably bratty response.

"I hope it's pasta."



Ilya got a glare worse than the reporters had experienced for enjoying his dinner. It was Bolognese and it was delicious and it was going to get cold if he waited for the full Shane v. Yuna formal debate to conclude.

He'd gotten a big hug the second he walked through the door and told he was loved so Ilya didn't really care about the rest of the 'optics' involved.

"There's more mince on the stove," David told him with a wink under the empassioned argument to the right of them.

Ilya scrunched his nose in thanks, mouth to full to reply.

"-And what about you, Ilya?" Yuna asked, turning to pull him into the madness.

Ilya looked to Shane for help but he was getting none of it now.

"Uh, what Shane said?" he answered hopefully.

Yuna frowned and now Ilya felt bad. He liked being her favourite son.

"Or not what Shane said?" he tried.

Yuna waved away his attempts at currying favour with a fond smile. "Eat your pasta, we'll talk after."



Yuna's original suggestion for this outcome had been to disfuse it when the news broke to avoid exactly this situation but given it had already happened, she had new plans.

An ad for some intensely Canadian brand, quoting some of Ilya's more family friends lines in that interview, was her first choice.

"Uhh, no," Ilya said as politely as he could.

"If you'd listened earlier-" Shane started under his breath.

Ilya put his hand over his and squeezed. Message received. Ilya would lead the charge now and then when they got home, he would make it up to Shane.

"Yuna, I really can't take anymore right now," he said. The honesty was so easy with the Hollanders, all of them. He could tell them things he barely even admitted to himself. "It's one of those things."

Shane with his diets and panic attacks and Ilya with his... depression. Just one of those things that crept up on you and slowly made just getting through the day a herculean effort.

"They'll be fine," David said as he brought over tea for everyone in personal mugs.

Ilya's had a big handle and a picture of two loons on a misty mountain lake. Shane's was his own design, age 14, themed around his Junior League team in blue and yellow. He was scratching the marker design off it now with the edge of his thumbnail and Ilya nudged him to stop.

"We'll be fine," Ilya echoed. "We'll win gold and then none of it will matter."

"And there's a stick on the ground! Rosanov's stick shattered and he'll surely lose that tackle now. What bad news for their power play. Hollander is taking over, not giving an inch and he sends the puck flying for a dump and chase but there's no-one-"

"Rosanov is after the puck! WHERE did he get that stick from? They've caught the defense off-guard. Mackie picks up the puck, steaming up that left side. Cross to Rosanov, and a FANTASTIC slapshot from Rosanov scores Canada another goal!"



"He- Was that Hollander's stick he scored with? Looks like he's giving it back."

"Do we have a replay? What HAPPENED there?"

"So it looks like Hollander made that punt while facing his defence and rather than turn to chase it, he's just thrown his stick to Rosanov who was helping impede the defender. No hesitation from Rosanov, not even on that shot at goal but WHAT a decision from Hollander to give up his stick."

"They are married, Tim."

"But a man's stick, Foz."

"You could say these men have been handling each others' sticks for nearly two decades now."

"This is a family show, Foz. Come on."



"A pause in play now while that moment is reviewed and down on Canada's bench it looks like Hollander and Rozanov are having a domestic over stick taping."

"Roz seems to be saying that Hollander's tape doesn't give enough grip and Hollander has something to say about Rozanov's knob as well."

"A perfectly reasonable knob in my eyes, Fozzy, but Hollander's always been a minimalist guy. Can't fault his stick handling for it, though. An artist with the blade, that man."

"And we're getting a look at their blades as the  arguement continues. Both Alpha LX3's by the looks of things but no doubt the flex will be different and Rosanov's stick is a little longer. He uses a less-favoured toe-cap tape which fits well with that snappy goal he scored earlier."

"I wonder if the puck went where he intended it with Hollander's stick or if there was some luck in there? They're pointing to different points on the blade and it looks like Rozanov is getting a lesson in puck control here from his Captain. Oh-"

"We have a penalty and that's Rozanov back in play to take the face-off. Saved by the bell."

The relief Ilya felt when that final buzzer sounded was like a knife sliced through his hamstrings. He would have collapsed right there in the ice if the team hadn't poured over the board and and pressed him into a huddle too tight to breath in, let alone move.

They hoisted Mackie, their final goal-scoring rookie into the air and suddenly it wasn't so jarring because they'd just win the Olympics and that was a huge fucking deal no matter how decorated an athlete you were.

Eventually, they let Mack go and Shane made it around the pack to collide with Ilya.

"Olympic gold, baby!" he crowed and Ilya smiled to himself because he had to be about the fourth man his husband had called 'baby' that night.

"Good game, Hollander," he replied and kissed Shane's cheek even though they'd promised not to do PDA on the ice.

Maybe he'd go kiss some of their teammates too to make it even. They certainly deserved it.



Theirs was the last event of the games so after the medal ceremony they were being hustled straight to the closing ceremony and then there was everything to celebrate.

Canada got an overall silver behind Norway and it seemed like the entire contingent was in the downtown bar they ended up commandeering when Ilya put his credit card on file for the tab.

Not his tab.

Not his and Shane's tab.

Not even the hockey team's tab.

The whole bar's tab.



"You're insane," Shane told him as he helped Ilya down from the table after he announced it. The floor itself was shaking from the thunder of Canadians celebrating harder than they had in the Games and the bar was instantly overwhelmed.

"Canada has been good to me," Ilya replied simply.

"They'll drink the bar dry," Shane warned.

Ilya scoffed. "The beer taps, maybe. They are not Russians."



The Canadian team did start to move out when the beer ran out, though a few of them had hung back to help wash all the glasses that had piled up.

"Sorry," Ilya said to the bartenders, closing the tab after buying everyone in the building one last drink. "I hope it was not too difficult a night for you."

"Canada can come back any time!" one of them laughed. "You tip well and clean up after yourselves."

She pointed through the back where Ilya could see two of his own teammates laser-focused on the dishes.

"Good." Ilya held up his card. "Is the good vodka still available?"

"It's on the house."



"Are we in generational debt?" Shane grinned when Ilya led them out into the cool night air. "Do we have to sell the house in Montreal?"

"You Canadians really are too polite," Ilya replied, baffled by it still. "They started sneakily paying off tab almost immediately- I don't even have to sell a car."

"So there's enough to buy a hotel room for the night?" Shane leared up at him dopily.

"Always for you, my Captain," Ilya growled and sealed the deal with a kiss.




In the morning he woke before Shane, one thing still on his mind. He was going to break Shane's heart.

"M'Ilya?" Shane said sleepily when he finally swam up to consciousness. "Relax?"

He poked at the bicep he was using as a pillow which was now rock hard underneath his head.

Ilya took a deep breath and let out all the tension in his muscles and he breathed out.

"Sorry, my beloved."

Shane squinted at him, too close to be in focus without his glasses.

"What's wrong?"

"You will not like it," Ilya said to prepare him. "I want to retire."

Shane was show to process the words but then he scrambled upright and reached blindly for his glasses on the nightstand.

Ilya tried to stay serious as Shane turned back to him but he did look very sexy in glasses.

Shane frowned and slapped his chest as a smile bloomed on Ilya's face.

"Stop it. Focus, Rosanov. You want to retire? Stop playing hockey?"

Ilya said nothing but Shane could read him like an open book (when he had his glasses on).

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," Shane said in answer to the question Ilya hadn't asked with words. "If you want to stop playing, then stop playing- At the end of the season though, right?" he added sharply, his hockey-focused brain already calculating new odds.

"End of season," Ilya assured him. His hand had tangled with Shane's and he now brought it to his lips for a kiss. "You will make a good captain. And buy best draft pick to replace me."

Shane's face crumbled, the first he had looked anything but supportive since Ilya told him.

"No."

"Yes," Ilya said. He sat up against the headboard and pulled Shane into his lap. "You cannot be down a centre player, my egg. I will make Luca new captain if you cannot see this."

"I'm not an egg," Shane grumbled but he shed his glasses and buried his face in Ilya's neck, wrapping his arms tightly around Ilya's waist. "I'll miss you."

"I will miss only you," Ilya replied, doing his best not to start crying at the thought of Shane being sad on the ice without him. "You have been the best part of hockey for me since the day we met, playing against and with you. I never would have lasted this long without you."

Shane sniffled and his wet eyelashes fluttered against Ilya's skin.

"You need to get a job with the Cens. I'm not going on roadies without you."

Ilya grinned into Shane's hair. There was his man- a planner.

"You do not know meaning of word 'retire' I think."

Shane sat up to glare at him with those big wet brown eyes. "You're 35. You're not staying unemployed."

"I will be WAG," Ilya grinned. "Trophy husband."

Shane shuddered at the thought.

"Absolutely not. You need a job." Shane's eyes suddenly lit up and he grabbed Ilya by the shoulders. "Ilya, ref. It's perfect."

Chirping where his opinion would always be right? Still in the game without the pressure to be on form? Shane was right, it was perfect. Except..

"No way in hell I am allowed to ref Centaurs game."

"You can be unbiased," Shane said optimistically and Ilya laughed.

"No. I cannot." He pulled Shane in for a kiss. "Ottawa 24 has done nothing wrong in his life ever."

"I punched Scott Hunter once," Shane reminded him, smiling softly now instead of crying.

"Yes. Nothing wrong in life ever," Ilya repeated and pulled Shane further up his thighs. "Perfect man."

Eight months later, Ilya is a fully qualified linesman for the women's league (only games near where Shane happens to be) and a living legend to  the budding youth of Ottawa that delight in recieving a personalised chirp from Ilya Rosanov himself.

They were in The Kingfisher for the night, carching up with old friends and Scott Hunter after Shane's away game against the Islanders. Ilya was considering fetting one last drink when his phone buzzed.

"Oh, I don't like that face," Scott said, watching Ilya read his message with trepidation. "Especially when Hollander is right there."

"What? Is nothing," Ilya grinned.

Shane turned at thr mention of his name and Ilya tilted his screen so he could read it.

"Oh fuck," Shane said succinctly. "I'm texting Weibe. Not going to practice tomorrow."

"What, why?" Kip asked. Shane never missed practice. "Is there a hurricane?"

"He's coming to my game!" Ilya announced.

"You're retired, Roz," Scott said flatly.

"He's reffing," Shane said distractly, his fingers flying over his phone keybaord. "Admirals v Metros."

"Oh, congrats!" Kip said but Scott's face went pale.

"That's legal?"

"As long as Cens aren't playing," Ilya grinned. He latched onto his husband's arm. "Shane, my beloved, you need to teach me about the new rookies. Have they been behaving?"

"You know you're not allowed to fight anyone as a ref, right?" Scott asked.

Ilya shrugged. "I'm allowed to chirp. And there's rule 39- physical abuse of an official is automatic suspension."

Scott put his head in his hands.

"Montreal's not going to have 5 men to put on the ice next week."

Ilya smirked. "Up to them."