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At seven in the morning, the house no longer looked like the scene of an apocalypse, though it certainly smelled faintly of it. Stale beer soaked into hardwood, extinguished candles, last nights weed clinging stubbornly to the air, and beneath all of it the grounding scent of coffee and butter warming slowly in a pan. Luca Haas stood on the front step of Ilya Rozanov’s house wishing, with the full dramatic intensity of a hungover twenty year-old rookie, that the earth would simply open up and swallow him whole.
He had not meant to come this early. He had not meant to come at all, really. But when he had woken up in his apartment to pale morning light and the sharp, drilling awareness that his phone was not charging on his bedside table, not in his jacket pocket, not face-down somewhere in his kitchen, he had felt the particular cold horror of a modern man abruptly severed from the world. He remembered holding it at the party. He remembered filming a short, blurry clip of Ilya in that gladiator costume and thinking that if hockey ever failed him, Ilya could simply conquer Rome instead. He remembered laughing too hard at something Haysey had said. He remembered going to the guest room at one point because he was too cold and needed his coat. After that, there was only music and smoke and the dizzying rush of being young and included.
So he knocked.
What he was unaware of however, was inside, in the kitchen, Shane Hollander was standing barefoot at the stove in grey sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt that did not belong to him but fit him well enough to make Ilya’s mouth curl every time he glanced up from his coffee.
Shane had driven down late the night before after seeing the Instagram post. Ilya posing in costume with a caption that was equal parts challenge and invitation, and the party had been loud and chaotic and filled with Ottawa Centaurs players who did not know that their captain’s greatest rival, the golden boy of the league, had arrived only after the last guest left and the music died down.
Now the house was quiet. The sunlight was pale and tentative. The night had softened into something almost fragile.
Shane was making eggs.
Ilya was leaning against the counter watching him like he had nowhere else to be.
The doorbell rang.
Shane froze.
The reaction was immediate and total. His shoulders tightened, his breath catching mid-inhale, spatula hovering uselessly over the pan as if he might abandon everything and sprint for the back door.
“Ilya,” he said, voice already thin with alarm.
“Relax,” Ilya replied easily, though his own pulse kicked once because it was early, and early meant teammates, and teammates meant exposure. “It is probably one of the idiots who cannot find their car.”
The bell rang again.
Shane’s jaw clenched. “At seven in the morning?”
Ilya stepped closer, lowering his voice, brushing his fingers briefly over Shane’s wrist in reassurance that was instinctive and un-showy. He checked the doorbell camera on his phone. “Ah, is Luca. Go hide in the guest room, down the hall.”
Shane stared at him. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.” Ilya’s tone sharpened, but not unkindly. “You think I will introduce you to rookie before coffee? Go.”
There was a flicker of something in Shane’s expression . Frustration, fear, the weight of years spent guarding himself. But he nodded, turned off the stove, and moved quickly down the hallway toward the room.
Ilya watched him disappear, feeling that familiar pull in his chest. Fierce, protective and aching, then he smoothed his features back into the cocky composure the league expected from him before heading to the door.
When he opened it, Luca stood there looking like apology in human form.
“Sorry,” Luca said immediately, words tripping over each other. “I know it’s early. I wouldn’t normally just show up. I couldn’t text because I think my phone’s here and it’s dead and I… I’m really sorry.”
Ilya leaned against the frame and looked him over slowly. “You look terrible,” he said. “Like you fought bear and lost.”
“I’m fine,” Luca protested weakly.
“You are hungover.”
“…Maybe.”
Ilya stepped aside. “Come in, baby Centaur. We will find your precious device.”
Luca followed him inside, hyper-aware of everything. The quiet, the clean counters, the faint scent of breakfast, and tried not to think about the fact that this was Ilya Rozanov’s house, that this was the kitchen of the man he had idolised since he was a kid in Zurich, watching highlight reels on YouTube at two in the morning.
They moved into the living room, and Luca began searching with increasing desperation, checking couch cushions and under tables while apologising again for the inconvenience, for existing, for breathing too loudly.
After a moment, he straightened slowly.
“I remember going into the bathroom and the guest room,” he said, half to himself. “Yes, my coat was in the guest room.”
Ilya’s posture shifted, almost imperceptibly.
“No,” he said quickly. “Do not go in there.”
But Luca was already moving, the memory pulling him forward before the warning fully registered.
Behind him, he heard Ilya’s sharper voice. “Luca. Wait. Not in there.”
The handle turned in his hand.
The door opened.
Shane Hollander was sitting on the edge of the bed.
He was not sprawled or casual. He was perched upright, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tight enough that the knuckles were pale. His hair was still sleep-mussed. His expression, the moment their eyes met , shifted from tense vigilance to outright panic.
For a suspended, disorienting second, Luca could not process what he was seeing.
Because this was Shane Hollander. The captain of Montreal. The man who had defined playoff hockey for the better part of a decade. The man whose jersey Luca had begged his parents for when he was fourteen. The man he had once pretended to be on frozen ponds, narrating imaginary games under his breath.
And he was here.
In Ilya Rozanov’s guest room.
At seven in the morning.
“Oh,” Luca breathed.
Shane stood abruptly, as if the movement might erase the situation.
“This isn’t…” Shane started, and his voice cracked in a way that did not belong to interviews or press conferences. “It’s not what it looks like. We just… it’s not… please don’t tell anyone. I can explain.”
His breathing quickened visibly. His hand dragged through his hair, then dropped uselessly to his side. “You can’t tell anyone. I mean… you can’t. It would…”
Ilya appeared behind Luca, taking in the scene in a single glance, and crossed the room without hesitation.
“Shane,” he said quietly.
But Shane was spiralling now, words tangling together.
“We weren’t… I just came down late. After the party. We’re not… this isn’t…” His chest rose too fast. “If this gets out…”
Ilya reached him and placed both hands firmly on his shoulders, grounding him.
“Breathe,” Ilya murmured, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touched. “My love. Look at me.”
Shane’s eyes flicked up, frantic.
“You are okay,” Ilya said, voice steady and low. “Luca is family. Luca will not tell anyone.”
Luca felt those words land in his own chest like a dropped weight.
My love.
Family.
He stood frozen, phone forgotten, heart hammering in his ears, watching the intimacy unfold in front of him not as something scandalous but as something achingly human. Shane leaned forward almost unconsciously, letting his forehead press briefly against Ilya’s shoulder, and Ilya’s hand slid to the back of his neck in a gesture so natural, so protective, that Luca felt like he had walked in on something sacred.
“I’m family?” Luca heard himself say faintly.
Ilya glanced at him, one arm still wrapped securely around Shane. “Of course.”
The simplicity of it undid him.
“I don’t care,” Luca said quickly, panic shifting into earnestness. “I mean… I care. I just… I don’t care what this is. I just wanted my phone.”
He swallowed hard, looking at Shane again.
“Wow. Shane Hollander. I’ve idolised you since I was a kid,” he added, because honesty felt easier than silence. “I mean… Both of you. I had your jerseys. I watched every playoff game. I used to argue with my friends about who was better.”
Ilya’s mouth curved faintly. “Ah. And now?”
Luca flushed. “Now I think you’re ridiculous, captain.”
Shane let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
Ilya squeezed him gently. “See? Family.”
Gradually, Shane’s breathing slowed under Ilya’s steady touch, the tightness in his shoulders easing as the immediate threat dissolved into something less catastrophic. He glanced at Luca again, wary but no longer frantic.
“You’re not… angry?” Shane asked quietly.
“Why would I be angry?” Luca replied, bewildered. “I don’t know why you’re here but it’s pretty clear. You’re in love. That’s not illegal.”
The word lingered between them.
In love.
Shane didn’t deny it.
Ilya didn’t either.
Eventually, Luca’s knees felt weak enough that he muttered, “I think I need to sit down,” and retreated down the hall to the couch, lowering himself carefully as though the morning might still collapse under him.
A few moments later, they joined him.
They sat close but not overtly touching now, the space between them charged but contained.
“We have known each other long time,” Ilya said slowly. “Since juniors. Since before draft. It is not new.”
“It’s complicated,” Shane added, quieter but steadier now. “It always has been.”
Luca nodded, absorbing every word.
“It’s private,” Ilya continued. “Not because we are ashamed. Because hockey world is loud. And stupid sometimes.”
Shane glanced at him with a small, fond exasperation.
“We’ve built our careers in opposition to each other,” Shane said. “If this became public, it wouldn’t just be about us.”
“It would be circus,” Ilya said.
Luca considered that, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. It would.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“But you’re still you,” he said carefully. “You’re still my captain. And you’re still…” He looked at Shane. “Shane Hollander.”
A deep laugh left Ilyas throat.
There was something steady in Luca’s voice now, something that surprised even him.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said again. “Not because I’m scared. Just because it’s yours.”
Shane’s expression softened in a way Luca had only ever seen in post-game interviews after wins.
“Thank you,” Shane said quietly.
Luca gave a small, lopsided smile. “I just want you both to be happy.”
Ilya’s gaze flicked between them, something proud and thoughtful there.
“You are good kid,” he said at last.
Luca shrugged, suddenly shy again. “Can I grab my phone before I pass out from adrenaline?”
Ilya laughed softly. “Yes. Go. Drink water. Be less dramatic.”
Luca retrieved his phone from the guest room dresser , exactly where he must have abandoned it, and headed toward the door, pausing only once to look back at them standing in the hallway, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
He felt strangely honoured.
Not because he had uncovered a secret.
But because he had been trusted with it.
As the door closed behind him and the cold Ottawa morning hit his face, Luca let out a long breath and shook his head, a grin creeping in.
His captain was in love.
And somehow, impossibly, he had been invited into that truth like family.