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October 2021
Most everyone in the league assumed that because Shane didn’t fight on the ice that he couldn’t. Most everyone assumed wrong.
Really, no one had ever given Shane a reason to drop his gloves. Whenever Shane had an issue with someone, he just beat them on the ice, clean and simple. No one had ever had an issue with Shane before either. Despite being annoyingly good, Shane was also annoyingly polite, well-mannered, and agreeable to the point that even after creaming your team, he was hard to hate; Ilya would know.
Now, though, everyone knew hockey’s golden boy’s one, big, neon-rainbow-colored “flaw.” After years of being beat by him, they were now humiliated by the fact that the one beating him was a gay man, something many in the league still considered gross, weak, or wrong.
In other words, it was open season for queers on ice.
Most stuck to chirps about him sucking cock or taking it up the ass, but were then shocked into dumb silence when Shane would smile and say, “Maybe, if you were gay, you’d be better at handling a stick,” and then win the face off while the others’ jaws were still slack.
Ilya derived a specific kind of toe-curling pleasure from it.
Some were fine to be fair. Ilya had to remind himself of that on the days where Shane was clearly getting targeted more than others. The days where people wouldn’t shut the fuck up about keeping politics and agendas out of their game.
He especially had to remind himself today when they were facing Shane’s old team. Most of them were pointedly trying to forget the fact that Shane had ever played and won three cups for them at all. Only Montreal’s newest trade made his opinion about them known…
Ilya had a bone deep, undeniable dread, even if he wouldn’t admit it to his husband. He’d seen enough people looking at them with contempt. He’d seen Shane take enough rough and unnecessary checks, many while he didn’t have the puck. He’d seen enough refs look the other way and pretend it wasn’t happening. He didn’t want to know what it would be like when they were facing the team that had reason to hate them the most.
Ever since losing Shane, Montreal had sucked ass—to put it mildly. It wasn’t just that Shane was incredibly talented—he was, obviously—and they were feeling the loss. But it was more than that.
Ilya watched the game footage. Everyone who had been on the team last season could barely look each other in the eye. Their shame palpable in their downcast gazes and heavy shoulders. Even JJ looked depressed. Ilya felt a sense of smug satisfaction from that.
The two rookies seemed confused and lost without a veteran stepping up to guide them. Hayden was trying, but Hayden had four fucking kids. He couldn’t add a fifth and sixth.
Theriault looked pissed. During their game against Anaheim, he snapped his clipboard over his knee after another goal put them down by two.
As far as Ilya was concerned, they all deserved it and could rot for all he cared. What did concern him was all that festering shame and rage being taken out on his husband.
After his pregame hype up speech, he checked in with Shane privately. He had been quiet all morning, despite insisting he was fine—a pet peeve of Ilya’s. The worst part was that Shane fully believed he was convincing when he said it.
Before they finished pulling on their pads, he cornered him in an quiet spot of the locker room.
“Alright, before game starts, time for honesty,” he said.
“Ilya—“
“I am not your beautiful, wonderful, perfect husband right now.” Shane huffed a laugh. “I am your captain telling you that you must tell me how you are feeling, and I will know if you lie, because you are very, very bad at it.”
Shane groaned and collapsed onto a bench. His hands dug into his hair and pulled. Ilya didn’t care for that. No one should pull his husband’s hair but him. Yet, he waited. Shane didn’t need tenderness and sweetness right now. He needed to be loved firmly and without yield. Ilya could provide that.
“It’s weird,” he finally said. “I’ve never felt this way… about…”
Ilya took in his husband. He remained bent over himself, hands buried in his hair, elbows on his knees, rocking slightly in what seemed like an effort to self-soothe. Not good. Definitely not in a fit state to play a game. Damn it.
Ilya started speculating. Maybe he could help his husband with what he couldn’t name. If Shane was feeling a way he never had about hockey, perhaps, he felt bad about trying to win against his old team. After all, Shane loved winning more than most things.
“It is normal,” he said carefully, “to feel like you don’t want to beat them.”
“It’s not that.”
No? Interesting. Then what—?
He swallowed visibly, and Ilya could see guilt racking him as he admitted, “I want to make them regret ever deciding to step on the same ice as us.”
Ilya grinned.
“I want to embarrass them,” he said shakily and looked up. His face had turned hard, not quite the same as his normal game face, slightly colder somehow, like he was becoming the ice itself.
He got up, looked Ilya squarely in the eyes, and continued, “I want them to feel like the biggest fucking idiots in the entire world for letting me go.”
Fuck, Ilya loved this man.
“Good,” Ilya said firmly. “We send them home crying, yes?”
The ice cracked into a smiled, and Ilya knew Shane was ready to play.
“Yes.”
Throughout the night, Ilya made it his personal mission to chirp every single Montreal player like that was what he was payed to do instead of scoring goals. To be fair, he scored one, but more importantly, he made three players drop their gloves. Every time, a ref or another Voyager got in the way, which was only mildly disappointing to Ilya. A part of him was itching for a good fight.
It started when he skated up to Pike before the game even started.
“Congratulations!” he cheered.
Pike froze as Ilya wrapped him in a massive hug and smacked a sloppy, wet kiss on his cheek.
“What the fuck, Rozanov?!”
“Is big deal!” Ilya pulled back but did not let go of him. “You are now fourteenth best player on team. Never thought it would happen in your old age.”
“Oh my God, I am going to kill you.”
“Probably should retire now while you are ahead,” he suggested.
Hayden groaned and tried to shove Ilya off of him without any luck.
“Rozanov!” a ref barked. “Let him go, or start the game in the box.”
“Yes, Sir!”
Ilya let go dutifully and put on his most serious face as he saluted the ref. He rolled his eyes and skated away.
Before leaving their side of the ice, Ilya asked, “Still coming to dinner and bringing your better one?”
“The saying is ‘your better half,’ Dummy,” Hayden replied.
“Nooo,” Ilya moaned dramatically, “Jackie is too good to be half you.”
“Jesus wept,” he sighed. “Yes, we are coming to dinner.”
“Hooray!” Ilya cheered, putting on the biggest show he could and making Hayden cringe.
The rest of the team clearly having heard their conversation, sent murderous looks to the assistant captain.
Good, he thought to himself.
As he skated away, he heard a Voyager mutter, “Sleeping with the enemies, Pike?”
Excellent. Even better. Fight each other and stay the fuck away from my husband.
He found it in him to feel a little bad for pitting Hayden against his own team, but he figured it could be an empathy exercise so Pike could better understand what Shane had gone through last season.
Speaking of his husband, he looped around, coming up behind Shane as he stretched his hips. Goddamn, if he wasn’t such a good spouse, he would stop and stare for long, long time. Since he was, he only stared for a little bit.
Shane felt his presence and looked up.
“I don’t know how, but you are definitely an asshole,” Shane said and continued to stretch.
Fuck, Hollander, he thought, as his hips circled.
“I will explain how later when we have chirp practice after normal practice tomorrow,” Ilya said grinning.
Shane rolled his eyes.
“What?” Ilya asked. “Your chirps are very weak. As captain, is my job to fix.”
Ilya skated away and started his own stretches so that Shane didn’t have to think of a chirp back. He could save his brain for handing his old team’s asses to them after they left him out to dry.
Ilya only continued being a menace from there.
During the face off, Ilya told the new center, “The team was thinking of getting you a participation trophy, you know, since is only cup you will get if you stay in Montreal.”
When he slammed another into the boards, he informed them, “Must be so hard to be homophobe.” He stole the puck. “Made you lose only good player.”
They tried to chirp him back. One of the defensemen guarding him asked if he’d rather be sucking his dick, which was a sore attempt at homophobia and sounded more like flirting to Ilya.
He only answered, “No, you are not my type. Too… What is English word? Ugly. Yes that’s it.”
The voyager spat at him and tried to steal the puck unsuccessfully. Ilya just easily passed to Barrett.
“They should make you goalie,” Ilya continued. “Would be public service to cover that fucking face.”
When he dropped his gloves, he got dragged away by JJ while Ilya smiled and waved.
The new center looked so pissed by the second period as he skated up for the face off that Ilya couldn’t resist.
“You look very upset,” he informed him as though he was being helpful. “Is bad for your health. My husband has many yoga and breathing exercises for this. Meet us after we win game.”
By the end, he had to start getting creative as he’d run out of his go-to’s. At one point—he couldn’t be sure because his time on the ice was a blur—he was pretty sure he told someone they looked like they drank milk. Even Ilya didn’t know what that one meant. They were so confused they practically handed him the puck, though, so he supposed it worked.
Really, most of his attention was taken up when he was on the bench and Shane went out. He watched Shane’s every glide and check and pass, hoping that he had done enough—that their ire was focused solely on him. He knew it was impossible, most likely, but a man could try, which he did.
The game was a blowout to put it mildly. 6-0 with Shane scoring a hat trick.
Ilya skated by and smugly kissed his cheek after his third goal. They probably could have stopped playing all together in the third period when they were up by four, but Shane refused.
Wyatt Hayes, their goalie, barely did anything all night. At one point, during the third period, Ilya swore he saw him patting his leg in a way that looked like it had fallen asleep, and he was trying to wake it up.
When the final buzzer cried out, it was a flurry of gloves flying and a slamming of clammy bodies against each other. Pure adrenaline filled bliss that had Ilya’s heart racing and knees trembling.
Ilya had been sure they’d win, but fuck, Shane had been brutal. His eyes never softened once. They were like hard granite instead of his normal warm glow. His jaw stayed wired shut the whole game. Even after his hat trick, his quiet brutality never left.
He hadn’t been kidding. Shane wasn’t just trying to win, wasn’t just trying to get even, he wanted to destroy their spirit.
Ilya would be lying if he said it wasn’t hot, but now, in the tangle of sweat and cheers, all he wanted was to find his tightly wound husband and make sure that all that anger and determination had left his body at the buzzer and wasn’t currently eating him alive. He searched, looking for black hair and freckles. It was hard in the sea of black and red swarming the captain.
Finally, he saw it.
Shane was on the outside of the scrum, but skating in, looking as though he took a lap or two after the buzzer to let it all out before joining the team in the celebration. His eyes were no longer stone, his freckles were squished in that adorable way that came from his smile, and he was gliding freely towards his husband.
They crashed together and let themselves have the shortest, sweetest peck on the cheek ever. Ilya had done it before they ever started officially dating, let alone out to everyone, so they continued to let themselves have it now. It was literally nothing special or graphic. Straight players did it all the time, usually to tease, but still. Shit, he’d done it to Hayden before the game started.
“Fucking Hell, can you all give it a rest for like five minutes? Not everyone wants to see that shit,” a voice sneered. Their heads snapped up to see the person connected to it.
Jesse Montgomery. He was the one from the interviews. Monty, his team called him. One of their new trades, who was beloved by many fans for his fierce defense of “good, old fashioned hockey.” Whatever the fuck that meant. It was clearly purposeful that they drafted him the moment they got rid of Shane.
From Ilya’s view, he could see his jersey with the familiar Voyagers’ logo and the number 24 proudly printed on his shoulder. That too had been purposeful, the fact that he snatched it the second he was traded before amping up his hateful campaign.
He reposted clips from The Top Shelf about how some players couldn’t shut up and just play hockey. He made posts about how he was going to make the Voyagers great again. In interviews, he stressed the importance of traditional values. During pride night, he never said anything about LGBTQ+ issues in post-game interviews, but usually managed to work in a statement about his dedication to protecting women and children between the puck talk.
He was scum.
But scum that was smarter than Dallas Kent it seemed in the sense that his hate was never direct, at least in public where he could get caught.
The closest Montgomery ever got to facing any real consequences was when he was directly asked about if he was concerned about going head to head with both Rozanov and former Voyager, Hollander.
It hadn’t been an official interview. Just a a fan at a bar who saw him and came up for a picture and an autograph. He didn’t know that the fan had the friend filming the whole thing for safe keeping just a few feet away.
Without the need for mask, he scoffed and said he wasn’t concerned about those queers. The video cut off pretty quickly from there, but it had shown Ilya enough of who he was. He didn’t need to see more.
When it broke, the reaction had been insane. There were those who said that they had seen this coming a mile away and that he should be kicked out of the league for such disgusting comments. There were those who said that what the fuck did it matter what Monty’s opinions on their lifestyle were; he was paid to play hockey. Ilya was perhaps most insulted by the diehard fans trying to claim that he hadn’t really said anything wrong. It was just locker room talk, meaningless chirps, not real or dangerous hate.
Of course, Montgomery never addressed it and went on with normal life. Soon, the news cycle spun and hardly anyone even remembered his comments, let alone cared. But Ilya remembered. Ilya fucking cared.
“Fuck off, Montgomery,” Ilya said rolling his eyes.
“No you, Rozanov. You know, you used to be a respectable player before you became a fucking fairy for that one.”
That did it. Ilya was ready to let Slimy Fucker have it, but it seemed his husband beating him to it.
“You know,” Shane said, rolling his shoulders as he squared up to Montgomery, “it’s okay to be curious.”
“What?” he spat.
“Based on how obsessed with us you are—“
“I’m not obsessed with you!”
“Tell that to your Instagram feed.” He smirked and skated closer. “You know we’ve never shared before, but maybe if you ask nicely—“
The punch to Shane’s jaw was fast and hard. So fast that Ilya hadn’t even had time to ask himself, Who the fuck is this and what the fuck have they done to his awkward husband? before Shane’s head snapped to the side with such speed, Ilya swore that he could hear his neck joints pop. At least hopefully that was the cause of the cracking noise he swore he heard.
His heart stopped and he skated as fast as he could for him. He was going to wrap him up and pull him away, and never let anyone look at him ever again, let alone speak or talk to him.
But Shane—Shane had a shit-eating grin on his face.
That’s when things started making sense to him.
Of course. Of course, his devious, plotting husband knew the words that would get the fucker to punch first.
By hockey regulation, whoever struck first—regardless of words thrown before or punches thrown after—got the consequences. Meaning, his husband had free rein to beat the shit out this man. Based on the delight in his eyes, that was exactly what he planned to do.
He smiled back at his husband and handed him his stick.
“Hold please.”
Somewhat dumbfounded, Ilya took it and looked on as he saw fear—true and genuine fear—seep into the Slimy Fucker’s eyes as one of those queers got ready to unleash himself.
It seemed everyone was as dumbfounded as himself when Shane decided to let him fucking have it because no one intervened, not a player or a ref.
It started with a swift and brutal punch to the nose. Ilya was pretty sure he heard a crunch. With the same fist, he landed two more swift punches to his face.
As Montgomery doubled over, Shane grabbed his shoulders to slam his knee directly into his stomach. When he let go, Montgomery stumbled, but then, recovered, trying to throw another punch of his own. Shane dodged it easily, so easily that Ilya then realized he could have done it the first time.
Before he could pull back, Shane grabbed his wrist and used it as a counter weight as he punched his stomach again. That was going to hurt tomorrow.
He gasped for air as Shane temporarily released him again. He was toying with him. He was a cat with a mouse they already knew would be dead soon, but might as well have some fun with before dinner.
From the sidelines, everyone watched as though they didn’t know what to do, as though they had never seen a hockey fight before. To be fair, Ilya had never seen one like this. This wasn’t a fight. It was a beat down.
Ilya’s heart stopped as Shane got nose to nose with him and grabbed his jersey, yanking it roughly towards him so that his next words couldn’t be missed by Slimy Fucker.
“You listen, and you listen good,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Keep my husband’s name out of your damn mouth.”
With that, Shane released him. For a second, Ilya thought it was done, that Shane was done. Then, with perfect form and devastating accuracy, he delivered a right hook to the Voyager’s face that had Ilya seeing stars from where he was. Right on his jaw. So that every time he opened his mouth for the next few weeks, he would think about Shane’s words.
Fuck, Ilya didn’t know it was possible to be more in love with Shane than he already was, but here he was, falling deeper, and couldn’t be happier about it.
Montgomery stumbled back, like the clown that he was, before tripping on his own skates and collapsing.
Typically, at this point—Hell, before this point even—Shane would have every single Montreal player on him, but not a single one moved.
That did something to Ilya’s chest.
Even though Shane had left, even though he lied to them for years, even though they treated him like shit after he tripped in his last game with them, maybe—just maybe—Shane was still their brother.
Maybe this was their apology for how he left.
Ilya might consider complaining less when Hayden came to their house for dinner tonight.
Shane’s face finally smiled again—Ilya’s favorite smile—and he turned and skated back to his husband, leaving Slimy Fucker moaning on the ice without a single teammate to help him up.
Ilya caught him as he rocketed too fast into his embrace—far too wild and pleased with himself for what he had just done. They both slid back with the force, but stayed up right thanks to their many years on the ice and the fact that Troy and Luca were acting like a wall for them to crash into. Shane, despite being in public and on the fucking ice, grabbed his face and planted a kiss on him.
It was short, and not filled his any heat. If anything, it was giddy and silly and slightly awkward because Shane apparently couldn’t stop smiling, but Ilya knew that Shane was doing it for him. To show just how much he fucking loved him. It made Ilya feel seen, and known, and loved, and kinda needy…
“I love you too,” he said when Shane released his face.
Shane didn’t comment that he hadn’t said it first because the kiss had said enough.
The team was then on them.
“Holy shit, Hollzy!”
“That was fucking amazing!”
“You’re a fucking beast!”
Luca was the only one who hugged Shane tightly and asked, “Are you okay?”
Shane smiled at the kid and nodded, and Luca sighed in relief before hugging him tighter as though Shane might fall apart if he let go.
“He’s okay,” Ilya laughed. “We’re both okay.”
“Good,” Luca said and finally let go. “The team needs both its dads.”
Shane and Ilya chuckled. That was a new one, but Ilya liked it. He needed to skate towards the exit to see his team into the locker room. He gave him another peck, resisted slapping his ass only because they were in public, and made his way to the bench exit for his first bump line.
He smiled at his team and said to each of them, “I love you, I love you, I love you—“ and when Shane skated in “—I love you more than all these other assholes put together.” Shane’s freckles scrunched as he laughed. “I love you, I love you…” he continued.
Back in the locker room, Shane asked, “Do I still have to go to chirp school tomorrow?”
Ilya laughed openly.
“I suppose not,” Ilya said reluctantly. “Is too bad because I was going to get you slutty uniform and everything.”
Shane’s face turned strawberry red, and he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening, still celebrating their insane win, before he leaned in and whispered, “Still get it. I’m sure we’ll think of something to do with it.”
Desire tore through Ilya, but he wasn’t done playing yet.
Ilya sniffed indignantly. “No,” he insisted, “being married has ruined all your boring, Canadian manners. I have nothing left to teach you.”
“Well, maybe not nothing…” Shane trailed off.
Shane looked sheepish as he started removing his pads.
Ilya knew that face. It was the face he had when he told Ilya that he didn’t like jeans because they were too scratchy or didn’t understand the concept of brunch because there were too many foods.
“Shane?” he prompted.
“I might have been practicing that one for a few weeks…”
Laughter tumbled out of him. It was so Shane. Way too Shane. It was the best thing he had ever heard in his entire life.
He pictured him post-shower practicing his chirps in the mirror, making his angry kitten face and trying to figure out the right tone.
It was perfect.
The best part was that it worked.
“You knew that Slimy Fucker was going to say something?” he asked.
“I had a feeling.” He shrugged and started folding his underclothes. His flush remained, and he was avoiding eye contact. “I mean—I don’t go on social media much, but people tell me what he posts, so I kinda figured…”
Ilya then remembered his favorite part of the whole interaction. He wrapped his hands around his husband’s waist as he refolded his shirt for the third time.
“Did you practice telling him to keep your husband’s name out of his mouth too?”
Shane bit his lip to restrain his smile. He shook his head.
“No,” he admitted quietly. “I just really never wanted to hear his voice say your name ever again.”
Ilya groaned at his words, overwhelmed by his desire, but followed him like lost puppy to the showers. His team was lucky that he was incredibly respectful because he would love nothing more than to fuck his perfect husband right here, right now.
That would have to wait, however, because, beyond the obvious reasons, it seemed the reality of what he’d done was hitting Shane. His hands twitched as showered. Ilya was glad they didn’t have bar soap because he was pretty sure Shane would have dropped it, and then Ilya would have lost all resolve to not fuck him right here and now. If he was as mean as people said he was, he would have teased Shane about it, but he knew now was not the time.
Despite being out and being the one who wanted to share their life more, Ilya liked keeping somethings private. That included when his husband fell apart in his arms. That was for him, and no one else was privy to it. He showered and changed quickly as possible.
Ilya understood Shane’s anxiety more when he realized that he kept looking at something—or rather—someone.
Harris seemed to be uncharacteristically quiet and tense. He was tapping away at his phone with a crease between his brow that refused to go away even when Troy came over and kissed it gently.
Finally, he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, “Hollander, I can’t get you out of it.”
Shane tensed. They knew what that meant. Post-game interviews. The press was demanding answers. It was news when hockey’s golden boy lost his fucking mind, beat the shit out of another player—which he had never done before—and no one from the opposing team even tried to look upset about it.
Big fucking news.
They would want to hear it from Shane’s mouth what exactly happened to make him lose his shit. There was no avoiding it.
Shane nodded once and finished folding his athletic shirt.
“Make sense,” he said tightly.
To anyone else, he probably seemed level-headed and collected. Only Ilya knew that it was a mask that covered a raging storm of anxiety inside him. He saw the way Shane’s fingers twitched, his jaw tightened, his shoulders locked. He hated it.
“I will come too,” Ilya said.
“No,” Harris said as calm as he seemingly could muster. “Hollander can fight his own battles. Clearly.”
Ilya had to remind himself briefly that he liked Harris so that he did not do something he regretted. As if he didn’t know how fucking capable his husband was. The point of being married, though, was that he didn’t have to be, not on his own at least. The point was that they were in this together.
Before he could start to explain, Shane interrupted, “I can.”
Ilya’s heart sank. He wanted to show up for his husband the way that Shane had for Ilya earlier.
“But,” he continued, “I want him there.”
The admission was stark, and earnest, and so fucking Shane.
Harris sighed and stared at the ceiling for quite some time. Ilya could practically see a web of consequences and consideration in his head.
Finally, he shook his head and said, “Okay, I guess, but just… try to keep the focus on the game. I know that it’s unfair…”
His words seemed carefully chosen.
“You deserve to be able to say, ‘Fuck him. I punched him because he’s a homophobe,’ but you can’t. When it comes up—“
Ilya noticed that he didn’t say if.
“—focus on the fact that he punched first, you punched back, and then leave it at that. He was pissed about he game. Nothing else.”
Shane nodded diligently. Ilya knew he would follow orders and perform perfectly, despite how freaked out he was.
“Rozanov,” Harris instructed, turning his attention to him, “you are there as his captain, not his husband, understand?”
Ilya rolled his eyes, but nodded.
“They will start making it personal and ask why you didn’t stop him—“
“I had front row seat to world’s best show. Shane doesn’t need—“
“I know!” Harris exclaimed, finally raising his voice and showing his true frustration. “I know… It’s ridiculous, and stupid, and unfair that everything you do will be questioned. I know, and I am sorry. But you need to know that it is going to happen, and I am trying to protect you from further consequences.”
The team had sobered from their absolutely astonishing win now and was staring at them. Most looked sad for them. Troy looked pissed. Luca looked like he was ready to throw up. Bood looked ready to cry. Ilya had to look away so that he could remain strong. It really wasn’t fair.
“You’re right,” Shane said, and added, “thank you, Harris.”
Ilya nodded to affirm what his husband said. Shane then took his hand and pulled him toward the media room. When they turned the corner, though, before they entered, Shane pulled him out of view of everyone. Confused, but willing to go anywhere Shane took him, he followed.
He followed straight into Shane’s lips. They were soft and pliable. This wasn’t a hot, needy make out. Just love and devotion. He felt hands digging underneath his collar.
“Hollander,” he said reluctantly. “We don’t have time.”
“That’s not my full name anymore, and I know,” he replied.
Ilya was confused for a brief moment until felt the chain around his neck shift. Shane had gone digging for his necklace, which had not only his mother’s cross, but still had his ring. He had it resized so that off the ice he normally wore it on his finger, but switched it over to his chain for games. He guessed he forgot to put it back. He reached up put it back in his finger, but Shane held on to hands.
“Leave it,” he said and moved his hand over his crucifix, ring, and heart all at once. “Right there, where everyone can see.”
If Ilya wasn’t Russian, he would blush or maybe cry. He nodded along to Shane’s words.
“Because you’re both,” Shane said softly.
Ilya cocked his head in question.
“Harris said that you’re only my captain…” Shane admitted shyly.
Oh, Ilya understood now, and agreed emphatically. He nodded and leaned in to kiss his husband again. His lips tasted like salt and life itself. He wouldn’t ever get enough. He kissed his lips again, then his cheek, then his favorite freckle, the one of the tip of his nose.
It was his turn to dig through his husband’s collar. It was harder because his husband had a tie to go with his post-game suit, but he managed to get his ring out. It stood out more on him because it laid over his tie, clearly not an intentional accessory. For some reason, that made Ilya love it even more.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” Shane admitted, leaning his forehead against Ilya’s, “but with you…”
He nodded. His eyes bored into Ilya’s, and Ilya didn’t need him to finish the sentence to understand.
If he had more time, he would reflect on how different it was from the raging, unstoppable beast he had been on the ice, defending his husband’s honor, not more than 30 minutes ago. How this Shane was his and his alone. How much he loved every part and version of Shane.
He didn’t have time, though, so he took his hand, and they headed in together.