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Ilya notices it first when they are still on the ice: Shane is having a bad day.
Shane is good at hockey. He is levelheaded, intelligent, calculated, quick. Very little gets to him. Chirps roll right off his back, missed shots and intercepted passes are noted, fixed, then forgotten. He is steady and encouraging, a man of few words and he doesn't need them— the hockey speaks for itself.
Sometimes, however, his unshakable demeanor slips, just slightly, and his corrections to his teammates start to bite, his checks are a little bit dirtier, he lets out a frustrated "fuck" after a missed shot on goal, he skips a celly with the team under the guise of retying his skate or brushing ice off his stick.
When Shane ignores a wide open pass available to Haas, stubbornly opting to take it to the goal himself, burying it in the net and then barely even cracking a smile, Ilya notices.
It's imperceptible to most, but Ilya isn't most. He knows his husband like the back of his hand, and his husband is having a bad day. He doesn't know why, and he worries. Of course he worries.
The Centaurs are already up 2-0 after the first period, and the energy is high during intermission. Coach Wiebe gives a short but encouraging speech, makes a few corrective comments, and leaves the team to themselves to hype each other up while the clock ticks down.
Unsurprisingly, the team focuses their attention on praising their youngest player for his game— both on and off the ice.
Recently, the Centaur's sweet sophomore Luca Haas has been seen out with Elliot McCann, a tennis phenom from Los Angeles, a young player with a good chance at a Grand Slam title this year. Luca never officially came out as gay, to the team or to the world, but slowly everyone had picked up on it, and the recent paparazzi photos of the two of them together in LA were confirmation enough. Tonight, Elliot had been in attendence, front row, and before the game, Luca had passed by Elliot's seat, blowing him a kiss and giving him a cheeky wink. Of course, the crowd loved it. Luca is pretty, charming, and good as hell at hockey. He's an easy fan favorite. A bit like Shane in that way.
The team piles on teasing comments about his boy-friend, joking about how they won't expect him at the after party, crude jokes about safe sex. Luca's face is bright red and he's sporting an embarrassed smile as the teasing continues.
"Let's just focus on the game, alright guys?" Shane's voice is commanding, unexpected. There is no humor in it. The chatter dies down, a bit awkwardly.
"Thanks, Hollzy," Luca says sheepishly, glad to be spared any more jokes and not have all the attention on him. Everyone starts to move out of the locker room, energy a bit dulled by Shane's comment, but spirits resilient and high.
"We don't want any distractions." Shane mutters to Luca. He isn't making eye contact, and for a second, Ilya considers stepping in, but doesn't know what he would say.
"For sure, yeah. Absolutely." Luca looks like he's about to apologize, but Ilya makes sure to meet his eyes and give him a quick nod to follow the rest of the team out.
They win, it's not even close, and Ilya and Shane get pulled for post-game press. It's more casual this time, Ottawa's Pride Night being an opportunity to focus on the first (the only) husbands to play on the same team together. Ilya takes the lead, fielding the questions with his typical charm. At the end, Ilya smacks a loud kiss on Shane's cheek, to which Shane playfully pushes him away. Ilya teases with a "You love me," Shane replies by rolling his eyes, saying "yeah, yeah." It's going to make a great clip. He's sure it will already be making the rounds on social media by the time they get out of the locker room.
The second they're away from the cameras, the smile completely drops from Shane's face and he walks quickly, slightly ahead of Ilya. Ilya tries not to take it personally, knows that whatever is going on in Shane's head, it likely (it hopefully) has nothing to do with him. He will let Shane take some time, go through his post-game routine as usual, and when he is ready to talk, they will talk.
The locker room is filled with the usual rambunctious chatter of a winning night. Ilya jokes with the rest of them, loudly praising the good hockey each player showcased this evening. Throughout it, though, he keeps a close watch on Shane out of the corner of his eye.
Shane has shrugged off every clap on the back a teammate has given, mouth pursed and awkward when someone praises his two goals of the game. Not wanting to be touched, not being able to fake a smile. More clues.
Bood is teasing Haas for his little pre-game stunt: "Look, they're already making fan edits of you two!"
The team crowds around Bood to watch something on his phone, giving teasing ooohs to Haas, ruffling his hair.
Ilya watches carefully as Shane takes off his pads, haphazardly throwing them in his bag. He changes into his sweats, not even bothering to take a shower, and Ilya wants to go to him, to take him in his arms and ask him whats wrong, to give him sweet kisses and try to fix everything, but Shane is strict about PDA in the locker rooms, and so he doesn't.
Shane grabs his bag, comes over to Ilya to whisper that he'll just wait in the car, no rush.
Luca notices, and stops Shane.
"Hey, sorry about— about everything, I didn't mean to be a distraction, I just—"
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever Haas, go have fun tonight."
It's cold— colder than Shane usually is. He turns quickly, exiting the locker room, leaving behind a confused and slightly hurt Luca. Ilya grabs him on the shoulder, whispers something of an apology for Shane in a gentle voice, tells him to shake it off, go celebrate his win with a cute boy. Luca relaxes at this, says thanks, and Ilya is out the door to follow after his husband.
-
Shane slams the door, hard. He had felt like he was going to fully break down when he finally made it into the car, but he doesn't. He just pulls up his hood, slouches down the passenger seat, and closes his eyes.
It's not long before Ilya joins him. Shane knows that he's picked up on his mood, so he tries to get ahead of it.
"It's nothing. Let's just go home."
Ilya is a saint; he doesn't push, just turns the key and begins driving home.
After a little while, Ilya turns the volume of the radio up, only slightly, switches it to a soft rock FM station. "This okay?"
Shane just nods, lets his head fall against the cold window, and tries not to cry.
When they get home, Shane chucks his bag down in the foyer, throwing his shoes off in a haphazard pile by the door. He's going to be annoyed by that later, but in this moment, he can't find it in himself to care. He walks into the kitchen, almost in a foggy haze. When he gets there, he just stands, unmoving.
"Shane."
Ilya's voice is barely a whisper, and Shane has to bite his lip to keep from screaming, or crying, or worse. He tries to compose himself.
"It's nothing, Ilya." His voice is flat, dismissive.
"Does not sound like nothing."
Shane stays silent, not wanting to confirm that yes, there is something, of course there's something, because if he did then he would have to talk about it, and he does not want to talk about it.
Ilya walks around the kitchen so he is standing in front of him, and Shane still can't seem to move if he tried. He avoids eye contact, gaze darting around the floor. He loves that his husband knows him so well. Right now, he also hates it, and he knows that Ilya is going to stand there silently until Shane moves or speaks, no matter how long it takes. His feet feel cemented to the wood flooring, the house is silent but his head is so, so loud. He takes a deep breath and tries to just get it over with.
"It's stupid." Ilya doesn't answer, lets him continue. "It's Luca."
Ilya cocks his head, brow furrowed in confusion. “Haasy? Did he say something to you?”
Already, he feels like he's explaining himself poorly.
“No, he—” Shane suddenly feels so small, so petty. “He blew a kiss to McCann. And then he winked.”
“Yes,” Ilya says, clearly still confused. “Are you— are you jealous? Of Luca or of—”
“No!” Shane quickly corrects. He knows what he’s saying sounds strange, but he can’t seem to articulate this foggy and unfamiliar feeling brewing inside him. “I just, I guess I just thought that was a bit too much for tonight. Like, he didn’t have to do that.”
That's not what he means, not really, but he doesn't know how else to say it, how else to look this ugly beast in the eye.
“Too much? What do you mean, too much?”
“Like, it’s already Pride Night, don’t you think blowing a kiss to your very male crush in the crowd is like, I don’t know. Making too big of a deal about it?”
Shane is trying to act nonchalant, even though he knows Ilya can read him like a book. He's doing it less for his husband and more for himself.
“I don’t think he was trying to make a big deal out of it,” Ilya says with a shrug.
“Well, like, it's just so obvious, I don't know. We're just there to play hockey and he goes and makes it all about himself."
The words land heavy. He's an asshole. He knows that's what he sounds like. He wishes Ilya would yell at him about it so he can yell back, stupidly doubling down that Luca was being reckless, so that he can be just an asshole and ignore whatever feeling is really there, right under the surface, begging to be acknowledged.
“He flirted with his crush a little, that’s it. No big deal. He is allowed.”
“I know he’s fucking allowed to!”
The volume of Shane’s voice surprises even himself. He steadies himself on the island counter top, suddenly shaking and slightly out of breath. His head spins and his stomach turns and the echo of his words ring loud in his ears. Ilya, in his infinite patience, just waits. Shane adjusts his volume, tries to explain.
“I know he’s allowed to. I want him to be allowed to. I don’t know, Ilya. It’s just—“ He pauses, looks up at his husband, who is looking back with such kindness and worry it nearly brings him to his knees. He tenses his jaw, shifts from one foot to the other. Pulls at his eyelashes, tries to look away. His chest feels heavy with the weight of this stupid, ugly truth.
He opens his mouth, trying to find the right words. When he does, he nearly chokes on them. They come up quiet, weak, shameful. But they come anyway.
“It’s not fair.”
He sounds like a whiny child, and he feels like one, too. Like talking about toys on a playground. Not fair, not fair, not fair.
"It's not fair he gets to do that," he whispers, ashamed of his weakness. He doesn't have to say the second part of this thought, it's implied. And we never did.
“Ah, lyubimyy.” Ilya’s shoulders drop, brow settling in to concern for his husband. Of course Ilya understands.
Shane chews on the inside of his lip, stares into the middle distance, afraid of moving and risking completely falling apart.
Ilya takes a step closer, reaching out a hand but stopping short of touching him. He places one hand lightly on top of Shane’s, still resting on the countertop, silently asking for permission to touch him more. Shane turns his hand over and grabs Ilya’s as a response, and Ilya pulls him into a hug.
They stay like this for a while, Shane nuzzled into Ilya's neck as he takes large, uneven breaths. The pressure of their bodies pressed together begins to slowly unravel the tension in his body, until he's surprised he's still standing at all.
When Ilya speaks again, his voice is soft, grounding. “I want to talk about this, Shane. Please. We can talk now, or later tonight. What do you want?”
“Later.” His voice comes out shaky, barely more than a whisper. Ilya pulls back, looks into his eyes, nods.
“Later, then.” Ilya brushes Shane's hair away from his face. “What do you need right now? We can take a shower or we can put on game tape for a little. Which one?”
Ilya’s care for him nearly knocks the breath out of Shane’s lungs. How could he possibly have gotten so lucky? It also reminds him that he still hasn’t taken a shower, and the thought starts to make him a bit itchy. “Shower, please.”
Ilya just nods his head silently, kisses his hand softly and leads him to the bathroom.
The shower gives Shane time to think. He thinks about the wild noise of the arena that night, the bright colors, the buzzing energy. It is no surprise that the Ottawa Centaurs go all out for their Pride Nights, considering they now have four openly queer players on their team. Shane should feel fortunate to be on such a kind and accepting team, with the fans to match. Tonight, he just felt overwhelmed.
He had worked so hard to divorce his social identity from his hockey. He thinks back to the first couple of years in the NHL, when almost every single interview had some question about him being Asian-Canadian, what that meant for his game, the game in general. He never quite knew what to answer. Sure, he had dealt with racism in the locker rooms, had a vague idea of the insults people would throw around online, but he was just there to play hockey. That’s all he ever wanted to do. Just play hockey.
And then, also, later, he just wanted to be with Ilya, too. The easiest things in the world to him: playing hockey, and loving Ilya Rozanov. No big deal.
To the rest of the world, it was apparently a very big deal for him to do either of them.
For so long, it hadn’t even been a possibility. Shane used to lie awake at night, trying to picture a world in which he could be with Ilya, open and proud, and he couldn’t. He couldn’t even pretend. It wasn’t until Scott Hunter came out that he could see a vague, blurry outline of a life he could maybe have. Even then, it wasn’t clear.
Then tonight, Luca blowing a kiss to his crush in front of a crowd of 18,000 people, winking at him like it was nothing. He didn’t even think twice.
He knows it isn't fair, isn't Luca’s fault he doesn't face the same challenges. Isn't Luca’s fault that Shane and Ilya had to hide their— their something for ten years. Isn't Luca’s fault that Shane still has a hard time talking about his sexuality publicly, still flinches when someone recognizes Shane and Ilya out on a date. Isn't Luca’s fault Shane struggles with public displays of affection of any kind. Isn't Luca’s fault Luca doesn't have to worry about any of that.
Shane should be happy. It was so hard for him, even the ghosts of the fear and loneliness still haunt him. He would break to know that Luca felt the same, would do anything to make sure he doesn't. Still, his mind competes with his heart, with his gut, as sticky, rotten jealousy builds within him. He had gone through so much pain, so much wanting, just to have something that’s now not only accepted, but celebrated.
He lets the water from the showerhead wash over his face as Ilya gently shampoos his hair.
After the shower, he sits on the couch, scrolls Twitter for a bit. People are reposting the video of Luca and Elliot, silly fan edits and memes about the budding romance. It's mostly disgustingly positive, the occasional homophobic comment brutally criticized.
Ilya walks up behind him, bending down and wrapping his arms around his chest, peering over his shoulder. Shane tilts the phone slightly so he can get a better view of an edited video of the kiss over a popular love song. It loops a couple times before Shane speaks, so softly that Ilya leans in just slightly.
“I wish I could have done that.”
Ilya hums in response, kisses him softly on the ear. "You wish to blow a kiss to cute star tennis player?"
It's a joke, but Shane doesn't laugh.
"I wish I could have blown a kiss to you. When we were their age."
"Ah."
They sit with this for a moment, then Ilya moves around the couch to sit down next to Shane, pulling up one leg and turning so his body is facing his. Shane locks his phone and sets it down next to him, not turning, still staring straight ahead. Ilya gently takes his hand, turns it over and begins gently passing his fingers over the inside of Shane's forearm, up and down and back up again.
"Talk to me, sweetheart."
Shane takes a deep breath. He already feels so open, so raw. He forces himself to be honest. If there is anyone who could understand, it's Ilya.
"I wanted to go to your games." His voice is quiet and hoarse. "I wanted you to come to mine. I wanted to talk about you in the locker rooms and get teased about it. I wanted to thank you in my Hart acceptance speech. I wanted to flirt with you in the crowd." He rolls the hem of his t-shirt in his fingers. " Fuck, Ilya. I wanted all of it."
Ilya is silent, still running sweet touches along his forearm, fingers of his other hand running through the hair at the base of Shane's neck.
"One night, years ago, we weren't even dating yet, I got drunk with the team. When I got home, I was watching highlights of your game, and I don't know what I was thinking, but the next morning when I woke up, I opened my laptop and found an online shopping cart with your jersey in it."
Ilya gives him a small chuckle, lets him continue.
"I couldn't bring myself to delete it. It sat there for months until finally my computer had to restart and it just…disappeared." Ilya lifts himself up slightly to shift closer to Shane, kissing him on the shoulder and then keeping his mouth there, looking up at him through his eyelashes.
"For months, I fantasized about wearing your jersey to a game, and everyone would know that I was yours. It was always 'Hollander and Rozanov,' you know? It always felt so close to the truth, like it was some kind of sick mockery. I loved our rivalry, I loved competing against you, I didn't want any of that to change, but I just— I wanted people to be rooting for us. I—"
He pauses in thought, then turns his head to kiss the top of Ilya's, rests it there, speaking muffled in his hair.
"We did this all alone, Ilya. We have such a great support system now, but, I don't know." He feels a sting in his throat, all too familiar. "For so long. We were all alone."
His voice cracks as he says this, betraying his emotion, and Ilya pulls back to look at him. Shane is thankful he still isn't saying anything, is just letting him speak. It boldens him, slightly, makes him feel like he has the space to continue, to peel back the layers of this ugly onion. Shane turns slightly towards his husband, begins to speak louder, more animatedly.
"Every time I saw you, I was thinking about how it could be the last time. I would try and memorize every touch just in case. And now we're married, and we live together, and I know you love me, everybody knows, but sometimes it's like I'm completely incapable of forgetting that feeling. Like— god, it's so fucking stupid— you'll leave for the grocery store or something, and I'll feel a pang of worry, like you won't come back to me, or—fuck."
He slumps forward in frustration, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.
"It really fucked me up, Ilya."
Shane feels Ilya shift slightly closer to him, grabbing his waist, his knee.
"Sometimes— and god, this is awful, but— sometimes I just wish it could be just us again, so I could protect it better. I feel so open and vulnerable all the time and I didn't ask for this. And there are times when I just feel so, so angry about it all. And I feel like it's making me mean. Like, I was mean to Luca tonight."
Ilya drops to his knees at this admission, ducking underneath Shane's slumped over body, grasping his knees to force Shane to look into his eyes.
"No, Shane, no, you were not mean. You were hurt, you were frustrated and—"
"Yeah, and it made me mean." His voice is soft, weak, as his own words from earlier echo in his head. We don't want any distractions. Whatever, Haas.
"Hm. Yes." Ilya agrees gently. "Maybe it did."
Shane is thankful Ilya doesn't try to disagree further. He lets out a deep breath, and Ilya continues.
"Tonight, maybe you were not so kind. But Shane, there are so many times you are gentle and you do not need to be. I know this, Luca knows this, the team knows this. You have been so forgiving of a world that has not been so forgiving of you."
Ilya kneads the muscle of Shane's knee as he talks, looking up so sweetly at him. Shane starts to feel the emotion rise in his throat, taking deep, steady breaths as he lets his husband's words wash over him.
"Yes, we were all alone. It is hard to let people in, yes? When we hid it for so long." Shane nods, grateful in spades for his understanding husband. "It is confusing, to see that there is maybe another way for Luca."
Shane sniffles, rubs his eyes roughly, tries to look anywhere but at Ilya directly.
"But we are here now. And I will always come back to you, Shane. Always."
"And if I run away?" It's a childish question, fishing for affirmation, but he doesn't care.
"You could not run from me forever."
"I could." Stubborn. Challenging.
"No. I would find you. We could be seventy years old and I would find you and I would marry you."
Shane laughs softly at this, wet and breathless.
"And Shane— Shane, look at me."
Shane looks down at his husband, on his knees in front of him, beautiful and glowing and kind. Just the sight of it and tears are threatening to spill over, his vision blurry and warped.
"You're right." Ilya whispers, nodding his head, then shaking it. "It isn't fair."
Shane shuts his eyes tight, face crumpling.
"It isn't," Ilya repeats softly. "It's not fair. It was hard and it shouldn't have been."
Shane doesn't fight it anymore, lets out a sob and lets it continue, grasps at Ilya's neck, his hair, pressing his face into his shoulder and letting his tears soak Ilya's t-shirt. He thinks Ilya is whispering in his ear, but he's not sure what he's saying, head heavy with emotion. He feels Ilya's hands run up and down his body, grabbing at him, soothing him. It might have been minutes and it might have been hours when his breathing finally starts to even out and his hands stop shaking. Ilya holds him the entire time.
Shane pulls back pressing wet kisses to his husband's neck, cheek, forehead.
“Wait right here, sweetheart,” Ilya says softly, wiping Shane’s tears with his thumbs before disappearing.
Shane doesn’t think he could move if he tried. His head falls back and he closes his eyes until he feels the couch dip slightly from Ilya’s weight next to him.
“Here, kotenok. Drink.”
Ilya hands him a small bottle of Gatorade, orange, his favorite flavor, and Shane takes smalls sips, staring straight ahead at nothing.
"I will make us dinner?"
Shane nods, thankful to not have to make any decisions.
"I will put on game tape for you to watch while I cook."
Shane hums his approval at this decision, curls into the couch more.
"Look at you," Ilya says, casting the video onto the large TV. "Game tape and gatorade, it's like hot chocolate and cartoons for you. You are like a child."
Shane grumbles and rolls his eyes, hits Ilya's leg playfully. He stares up at his husband, eyes still fuzzy from his crying.
"Thank you." It comes out more like an exhale of breath than anything else.
Ilya looks down at him softly, then leans over to kiss the top of his head.
"Dinner will be ready soon."
They eat in the kitchen, Shane at the counter, Ilya still standing on the other side of the island. The emotion of the day has left Shane exhausted.
"Did you put mango in this because you knew I'd be too tired to argue?"
Ilya had made salmon rice bowls, adding sweet, juicy mango to the mix. Normally, Shane doesn't like to eat fruit after four pm, but right now he lets the flavor of it dance on his tongue, holding it in his mouth a little bit longer than usual, letting himself enjoy it.
"I put mango in because I know you like it."
"Mm," Shane murmurs as an agreement, feeling the fruit melt on his tongue. Leave it to Ilya to know exactly what he needs, always.
They continue eating in silence. Shane watches his husband eat, scooping up rice, each forkful somehow never making it entirely in his mouth. It's so endearing. Everything Ilya does is so endearing to him.
"I don't regret this, Ilya. Any of it. I need you to know that."
"Regret what?"
"This. Us. How it happened." He stares into his bowl, plays with his food. "I would do it all again, given the chance."
"I know, solnyshko."
"Good." And it was. It was good.
Shane washes the dishes as a thank you. Ilya hangs off of him, crowding him into the sink and kissing the back of Shane's neck.
"Do you know what I have been thinking about today?" he says softly into his ear.
"What have you been thinking about?" Shane replies, shoving him off a bit to grab the dish towel.
"When you first introduced yourself to me," he says, following Shane like a puppy accross the small kitchen aisle, and then back. "I thought, wow, what a beautiful, brave boy, coming to flirt with me."
"What? I wasn't flirting."
"Yes, you were."
"I literally wasn't," Shane grumbles, soaps up a sponge.
"What, did you not think I was hot? Did you not think I was the most beautiful, sexy, competent hockey player you had ever seen?"
"No, I— It's not— I was confused, okay? I just came to say hi. Besides, you kinda brushed me off anyway. If I was flirting, I didn't really do a great job at it."
Ilya follows Shane around the island as he wipes down the counter.
"No, you are wrong. You did too good of a job and now we are married. You linger for just a little too long and now you cannot get rid of me. I am stuck!"
"Ilya, can you maybe give me a little bit of space?" Ilya is now completely pressed up against him as he tries to finish cleaning. Ilya acts like he doesn't hear.
"I think to myself, beautiful, brave boy has me wrapped around his little finger, if only we could be together, but no, it is too hard."
Ilya really knows how to put on the dramatics. Shane rolls his eyes, even if his lips are turning up in a small smile.
"But you talk to me, and you let me into your hotel room, and you text me when I bother you, and you forgive me more than I deserve, and you are there for me always, always—"
"Ilya," Shane draws out the name in mock annoyance, he is laughing now, turning away from Ilya with an elbow.
"Shane— Shane," Ilya grabs at his husband. "Listen to me, I am trying to tell you something."
He pulls Shane in by the waist, leans in to meet his eye, suddenly looking very serious.
"I am trying to say, yes, it was hard. It was half, maybe less, than what it should have been. But we did it anyway."
Shane nods, looking away, overwhelmed by the sudden itimacy. Ilya softly guides his face so he can look in his eyes as he continues.
"It was worth doing anyway."
Shane looks up at the ceiling, blinking away tears, lips pressed together in an attempt not to cry. Ilya just holds him, doesn't take his eyes away.
"Yes," Shane whispers, nods. "It was."
Ilya smiles, pulls at the back of Shane's neck and gives a firm but tender kiss to his lips before pulling him into a hug. Then, after a moment,
"Okay, kotenok, finish cleaning up. You are getting sponge water on my shirt."
Later that night, they are scrolling the neverending list of movies available on one of their streaming services, bickering about whether to watch one of the Ocean's movies or When Harry Met Sally. They are in almost-matching pajamas, nice cotton shorts sent to Shane by a brand he worked with, and old Centaurs shirts. The sound of the dryer hums from the laundry room.
Shane is halfway through a half-baked argument against the watching of another rom-com when he is suddenly hit by the stupid, lovely domesticity of the night. It catches him so off-guard, he actually laughs.
"What?" Ilya asks, scowling and nudging at Shane's leg with his foot, just causing him to giggle more.
"What would us as teenagers think? If they could see us now?"
Shane grins at Ilya, thinking about the two of them younger, so worried about the world, so desperate to prove themselves, so unsure. What those kids in the arena parking lot would think if they could look this many years into the future.
Ilya hums, taking this question very seriously.
"I think they would be very proud."
Shane smiles.
"Yeah?"
"Yes. And excited. Maybe not so scared, if they knew how it ended."
-
Luca Haas feels so goddamn lucky, all the time. He feels lucky to play in the NHL, to have started his rookie contract on a team with the Ilya Rozanov. He feels lucky to have been there when Ilya came out to the team, his team, and then lucky to have been there when they all learned he was getting married to Shane fucking Hollander. He feels lucky to have been invited to the Hollander-Rozanov wedding, to see that unexpected, radiant love on display. He feels lucky that Shane also came to Ottawa, and that he found a strong, steady mentor in him. He feels lucky when the first people he calls when he and Elliot make it official, his first ever actual boyfriend, are his two childhood idols. He feels lucky when the Hollander-Rozanovs gift Luca his own jersey for Elliot to wear, watches them giggle as he takes it out of the bag, a bit confused at first. He feels lucky when they let him stay over at their house for a week when he and Elliot break-up over some stupid argument, trying to comfort him with mountains of food and stories of worse mistakes from their early twenties. He feels lucky when he leaves the Centaurs, and they still text him after every one of his games, still have him over whenever he wants.
Just stupid, stupid luck.
He even feels lucky when, years later, playing for Seattle, he takes the face-off against Shane, who, in all his gathered confidence and charm, winks at Luca before winning the drop, immediately scoring and earning Ottawa the game. He tries to hold back a smile as he watches Shane celebrate by blowing a kiss to his husband in the crowd, who had retired a year earlier. It really is lucky, to know them like this. To be known by them like this.
It's maybe not good team loyalty, to be so happy for Shane in that moment, but how could he not be? Any win for Shane Hollander is a win for him.