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Shane should’ve known better. The Hollander name wasn’t enough anymore and neither was the Rozanov name and neither was the fact that he was Shane Hollander, three-time Stanley Cup champion and ex-captain of an Original Six. 

How long had it been, Shane wondered absently, since it had been enough?

It wasn’t enough for the Metros, certainly. They still iced him the fuck out, spat on his name, and managed to outdo nearly all of the chirps he’d ever heard thrown at him. And he was their captain, the man who had gone to their weddings and held their babies and drove to bars at three in the morning to take care of drunk rookies and billetted those kids and held his own on the ice when it became clear his team wouldn’t because he still loved them, because he wanted them to win, because—

Because. Because he was Shane Hollander, and he’d given his all to hockey. And for the longest time, hockey meant the Metros. Shane was beginning to suspect that hockey would always mean the Metros, would always mean the frigidity and the isolation and the barely concealed disgust that they leveled his way.

He’d gotten used to it, of course. It was hard not to, when you’d been forcing yourself into a sport not made for you since you could hold a stick. Maybe that was the issue, he mused, letting the chatter of the locker room wash over him as he shed his gear. Maybe he was never meant to be here. Maybe he was never meant to be as fucking good as he was, evey rule and play made to work against him: Asian-Canadian, where the Canadian was never enough; complacent, where all his bravado on the ice dissipated the second he stepped into a locker room; gay, too, apparently, where even his dominance on the ice couldn’t win him respect.

Of course, that was all bullshit. He was Shane fucking Hollander, the best damn player of his generation and the ones after that, too. A champion, a captain, a winner with a trophy room more decorated than anyone could imagine. He was still leading for points, still helping whip the team into shape with sharp looks and nauseating repetition, still dragging them back into the spotlight. He was the best damn asset they had. They knew it, he knew it, and management sure as hell knew it.

Except he wasn’t.

Not off the ice, at least. He didn’t fit in with the “team culture.” Sometimes, when the thought didn’t turn his stomach, he’d marvel at the fact that the Cens had managed to cultivate a locker room that was so… nice. Supportive. Open. They were a scrappy team, underdogs that learned to bite and had only had their fangs sharpened since. Hell, they were downright mean on the ice, all targeted checks and no shame about reopening old wounds.

And despite that, despite all of their violence, they managed to leave it where it belonged: on the ice. When they stepped into the locker room, it was as if they went from coworkers to family. Brothers.

(Shane couldn’t use that word for his— the team anymore. He never thought he’d miss it as much as he did.)

When Hayes said something inane, a non sequitur about a movie or a comic book, the guys would just snort, ribbing him with fond exasperation. When Mitty— Miitka mentioned a new show he was watching, Shane watched Comeau rip into him. The Cens would have a man’s head for pulling that shit. And when Young stubbed his toe, letting out a truly ear piercing shriek, the guys made sure he was okay before devolving into howling laughter. When one of Shane’s rookies—some nameless-faceless kid that he didn’t even remember now, God, what a captain he was—did the same, Andropov had scoffed, telling him to stop being such a pussy and get the fuck up. The kid had ended up spraining his toe, leaving him with a clear limp for the next few games and no teammates to help him out.

All of that to say: The Centaurs were a good team. A good group of guys. Protective, come hell or high water.

And all of that to say: Shane was not a good man.

He was a good player, no shit, and he was the best addition to this team since Ilya, but—

Well. He couldn’t even remember that nameless-faceless-limping kid’s name.

He knew the sort of person he was. Too intense, too cold, too cruel. Antithetical, entirely and unendingly, to who the Centaurs were. So, sure, he got it, the icing out and the cold shoulders and the reluctant passes. He did. He’d lived it, everyday, for ten fucking years. He’d live it for another ten, twenty, thirty if it meant keeping Ilya smiling like that.

It was just that Ilya had promised the Centaurs were nice. Open, welcoming, soft in a way Shane needed after the cruelty of the Metros ground him down to the bone, avulsions and hypothermia and all.

Shane saw what he meant. They hadn’t hazed the rookies, hadn’t said anything about each other’s quirks, hadn’t forced anyone into anything they didn’t want. They just… took it a step further with Shane. They hadn’t done anything with him, to him. A part of him was grateful: he probably didn’t care as much about team bonding as a capt— as he should. He got to stay in, Ilya got to go out, and all was right in the world.

It’s just… Ilya said they were nice. Good people, good men who loved him, who would love Shane.

At least the former was true. The Cens would kill for their captain. Shane was happy that both of Ilya’s teams loved him like he deserved, he really was.

Ilya’s sudden presence next to him shook him out of his thoughts, and he chanced a glance at his husband. Ilya was already smiling down at him, bright and loving and sunny; Shane watched in real time as it dimmed, replaced by creeping concern as his eyes flitted all over whatever stupid fucking expression Shane was making.

“Shane?” he asked quietly, almost a whisper as the locker room quieted down, the adrenaline rush finally abating. “Ty v poryadke?” [Are you okay?]

Shane flexed the muscles in his thighs, the ones that Ilya wasn’t looking at. Once, twice. Hold the tension, let it go. Thrice, four times. Let. It. Go.

He schooled his expression into something he hoped looked convincingly happy, content with the game and them and the team. “Yeah. Ya v poryadke.” [I’m fine.]

Ilya stared at him for a long moment, barely concealed heartbreak in his eyes. Shane ducked his head, slipping his shirt over his head. He couldn’t even do that right. Fuck.

The silence had been immediate in a way that screamed deliberate. This wasn’t just a team adjusting to a new addition, or a group having to shuffle to make room for a new member; this was a concerted effort, designed to keep him quiet and out of the camaraderie. He realized it the moment he stepped into the locker room that first practice, the way Ilya was the only one who looked at him with any excitement. The cross-room chatter had tapered off, and all the guys relegated themselves to smaller groups right next to themselves.

It was Montreal all over again.

He’d shook it off at the time, giving Ilya a small smile back and making his way to his stall. He’d insisted that Ilya and his stalls be separated, lest an, ah, embarrassing mishap occur, but his husband didn’t seem to care all that much, plopping down next to him. Shane shot him a half-amused look, opening his gear bag and methodically taking out his gear. Ilya watched him with the same rapt attention he watched everything Shane did.

“Excited?” he asked, waggling his brows. “We can finally agree on who’s a better captain.”

Shane scoffed, pointedly not acknowledging how Boyle, whose stall was next to his, shot him a dirty look. There really wasn’t any question that it was Ilya, as much as it pained him to admit, but this was an old game. He’d be remiss to not play.

“In your dreams, asshole.”

“Yes, that is—”

“Rozanov.”

Ilya smirked, patting his side and getting up. “Now, now, Hollander. No need to argue with your captain.”

Shane rolled his eyes, shoving Ilya and letting his laughter wash over the old aches, the burns from teams past. Even if the team didn’t like him, he had Ilya, and he knew Ilya would make sure the team acted right on the ice. That was what mattered to them both. Besides, Shane would have his head if he let personal problems dictate on-ice chemistry. He’d been there, done that, and wasn’t looking for a repeat.

And the thing was, Shane was exemplary at leaving things behind when he got on the ice. The only time he remembered his game being off because of something in his life was after Boston, but that had involved Ilya, which didn’t count anyway. Ilya was ice and puck and violence, all the tenets of Shane’s life; there wasn’t a chance his game would be unaffected with what happened between them.

But other than that? A flawless fucking track record. People would be hard pressed to find a correlation between the worst days of life and his picture perfect hockey.

So he knew, he knew he wasn’t to blame for how practice ended up going. It felt like the Centaurs had taken one step forward and a dozen back. They were scattered on the ice, locked into their own cliques. They were reluctant to separate, and even more reluctant to be on the same line as Shane as they practiced new formations. If Shane was any more naive, he’d have blamed it on them being reluctant to change systems that worked. But he’d been involved in this sport since he could hold a stick; he knew damn well what it was.

Still, he said nothing. It didn’t matter. They played good hockey. Not great, certainly, but the Cens had never been great, so it was no real concern.

(Privately and a little vindictively, Shane figured he and Ilya could pull them up to greatness, but they’d never know that with how deadset they were on ignoring him. Fine by him. Their loss.

Still, it did make their losses feel a bit more like his. He could’ve fixed that gap in defense, that hesitation in passing, after all.)

Most importantly, Ilya was ecstatic the entire time, flitting between different groups like a hummingbird doped up on sugar. Shane watched him, smiling slightly as Ilya mussed Holmberg’s hair. He was positively vibrating with energy, enough to excuse them from skating drills. Instead, they scrimmaged.

On Ilya’s team were Barrett and Boodram, while on Shane’s were Haas and Dykstra. The usual arrangement, Ilya had explained one night. Haas played like Shane, apparently, all analysis and calculation. And Dykstra was a tank. He’d been excited to play with them, really; Haas seemed like a quick study, and Dykstra’s laidback attitude reminded him of Hayden, who he missed like a lung.

Of course, Shane had quickly realized that his hopes were misplaced, but that was fine. He still bent over at center ice, tapping his stick against Ilya’s.

“You’re going down, Rozanov,” he muttered. Ilya’s responding smirk sent shivers down his spine.

“Sure,” he responded, faux casual. “On you.”

With a bark of laughter, Shane won the puck and raced down the ice. It was exhilarating, this cat-and-mouse game of theirs. The burn of carbon dioxide in their lungs, the lactic acid in their muscles. He knew the physiology of gameplay by heart, the understanding coming to him as easily as loving Ilya. And this competition was physiological, an innate response to seeing Ilya Rozanov bent over across the ice from him, danger in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. He’d missed it, missed having Ilya as a truly formidable opponent. The Cens had worked magic to make him love hockey again, and Shane would always be grateful for it.

Even when his teammates didn’t pass back to him, scoring and losing and scoring on their own. Shane kept up the pretense, circling the puck and the rink and the men who were supposed to be good to him. But when the puck was, for the fifth time, passed to Haas with an unnecessary maneuver, Shane took the fucking hint. He still circled, sure, but now it was to watch his teammates more than anything.

They played like a machine. Not a well-oiled one, that was still him and Ilya alone, but coherent. The Cens clearly had a system, well-organized and successful and closed to the outside. Shane wasn’t needed here, nor was he wanted.

(At least in Montreal, he was needed. What a low fucking bar.)

The scrim concluded, Ilya’s side having won, and the sudden rush of the team towards their captain knocked the air out of his lungs. He followed at a distance, hovering by the edges of the cluster and just watching. They were all cheering, jostling Ilya like he’d brought both sides to victory. Despite himself, despite the tight knot of something in his chest, Shane found himself smiling as Ilya cheered right back, knocking heads and helmets with his team like it was second nature. He was such a good captain. Shane was so lucky.

Not lucky enough to avoid his gaze, though, even though he’d been trying to avoid getting Ilya’s attention on him the entire practice. He knew his husband saw how practice was playing out, the team dynamics fracturing, but God, Shane didn’t want to be the reason for something in Ilya’s life blowing up again. He already took Russia from Ilya, he took Boston from him, he took a year of his life from him— God forbid he take the Cens from him, too.

He smiled back at Ilya, a brittle thing that was too sharp at the edges. It was a testament to how overjoyed Ilya was that he seemed to take it at face value. Still, he caught Ilya pulling Boodram to the side, the two of them glancing at the team every now and then, their gazes lingering just a little too long on Shane. He bit back a sigh, just stripping and heading to the showers. Even his own husband was seeing the chaos Shane brought with him. So much for a good investment.

If he took a bit longer than necessary in the showers, zoning out under the spray and the too-harsh soap, that was between him and the tile walls. He returned to his stall, pulling on a fresh change of clothes as the conversation around him stuttered, paused, restarted at a new frequency. One he couldn’t attune to, no matter how much he tried.

Ilya siddled up to him, freshly washed and dried himself. Shane glanced at him, giving him a smile that immediately softened the last hard lines of captaincy. All of a sudden, he was talking to Ilya, not Rozanov.

“Give them time, moy penal,” he murmured, smoothing a hand down Shane’s shoulder. “Is been some time since we’ve had to adjust for a player like you.”

Shane stiffened involuntarily as Ilya’s hand rested on his elbow, casting a glance around the room. No one would care, of course, that Ilya was touching him. They’d expect it, even. But Shane just— he couldn’t. Not yet. Ilya knew this, like he knew everything about Shane, and dropped his hand with a sad smile. And then Shane caught Hayes’s glare, and everything clicked into place.

“Pencil case,” he whispered back, automatic. Ilya grinned.

At least Shane wasn’t being ignored on the ice anymore. He handled the puck about as much as he used to in Montreal, and Haas and Dykstra, for all of their reluctance to be around him, were good lineys. It probably helped that, with Shane, they’d managed to keep their win streak going and going and going. And really, that should’ve been enough for him; it had been, for a decade.

It’s just that— fuck. Ilya said the Centaurs were nice, and they were.

They were more than happy to let Shane stay back during post-game celebrations and commiserations, whereas the Metros would’ve forced him out, exhaustion and neglect and resentment be damned. The Cens didn’t pretend with him, and, for what it mattered, he appreciated it. He just wished his husband got the message.

“Shane,” Ilya whined, draping himself across Shane’s back as he rubbed cologne on his wrists. “Come out with us! You’ve been here for weeks and you haven’t joined us at all!”

Shane huffed quietly, shaking his head. “I’m tired, Ilya, and the bar isn’t my thing anyway. You go have fun, okay?”

Ilya pouted. Honest to god, in the middle of the guest locker room in New York, pouted. “We win, you stay home. We lose, you stay home. When will you come out, hm? Even Dinosaur Hunter will be out!”

Shane snorted. “High bar, Roz.”

“You’re being more old than Hunter,” Ilya groaned. “Just once, Shane. And then you can stay home next time.”

“Ilya—“

Just then, for the first time in nearly two months, a teammate spoke to him directly. It was Boodram, brow raised and a cold glint in his eyes, even as his posture was relaxed and open.

“Come on, Hollander—“

And that was another thing. Hollander. That’s all he was. Hollander. Even the Metros had a nickname for him. Hollander.

“—don’t leave Cap hanging. It’s the first time he’s offered to go out with us in ages, you know.”

He did know. He was why Ilya used to refuse in the first place. Fuck.

Shane sighed, closing his eyes. “Fine. I’ll probably head back a little early, though.”

Ilya positively beamed, winding Shane with the force of his hug. “Yes! We can come back whenever—“

“No, Ilya, it’s fine,” Shane cut in, eyes flitting away from where Boodram had caught them, a challenge in the cruel twist of his mouth. “You can stay out as long as you want. I will head back early.”

“What, you don’t want to come home with me?” Ilya teased, a stray curl falling into his face. Shane reached up, tucking it back into place. “Finally got sick of me, Hollander?”

Shane dropped his voice to a whisper, private and just for them. “Fucking never, Ilya. I’m never getting sick of you. But Boodram’s—“

“Bood.”

“He’s right. You haven’t gone out properly in ages, and I want you to have fun.” Shane gave him a smile, doing his best to crinkle his face right. “Let’s not forget why you loved Boston. You should stay out if you want to.”

“But you—“

“Me nothing, baby. You wanna go and stay out, we’ll do that.”

Ilya frowned at that, but, at a pleading look from Shane, dropped it. And Shane meant it, he really did. If needed, he’d just sneak out into an alley for a breather, or find a quiet booth to put his head down. No need to spoil Ilya’s fun.

No need to acknowledge the glares boring into his back, either. They’d get Ilya for as long as he wanted tonight. Ilya finally relented, giving him a quick peck on the lips before turning back to the locker room. Instantly, the mood shifted, and the guys were cheering, thumping Ilya on the back and joking about how married life made him boring.

That was… interesting. They never made jokes like that to each other, only to Ilya. Shane would’ve assumed it was homophobia, but Barrett wasn’t getting those jokes either, so that clarified what they meant: married life to Shane made Ilya boring. He would disagree, they both would— married life made Ilya happier, not boring. But he also knew what it looked like from the outside, especially last year, with Ilya sneaking away every last chance he got, all for Shane.

Ilya just grinned, all white teeth and crinkled eyes. “Yes, yes, my boring life with my boring husband.”

Barrett scoffed, eyes flicking to Shane. “Maybe loosen the leash, Hollander. You got him where you want.”

Shane bristled slightly. Who the fuck did Barrett think he was talking to? For all of his “commitment” to becoming better, he sure as hell hadn’t put himself through any sort of hell for it. What did it matter, that he’d “changed,” if he didn’t fucking work for it? If Ilya was there, helping him like the amazing man he was, while Shane… fuck. And now he was talking about “loosening the leash,” like he had any fucking idea—

He inhaled deeply. Looked at Ilya, aglow and elated. He exhaled.

“The leash is as loose as it’s ever been, Barrett,” he replied, tacking on a polite, press-ready smile at the end.

And to be fair, it was. Shane sat in a booth in the way back of the Kingfisher, nursing a ginger ale as Ilya, Barrett, and the rookies tore up the dance floor. Some of the others—the married men, the vets, the ones scouting the scene before siddling up to their pick of the night—were scattered around his booth as well. No one made an effort to talk to him. In fact, Hayes and Boodram kept glancing at their watches, then at him. As if he was fucking blind. Somehow, someway, even the goddamn Metros were better about him going out with them than the Cens. At least they weren’t betting on when he’d go home.

Shane picked at his can, the stuffiness of the bar slowly getting to him. It was past midnight, and Ilya had asked a few times if he wanted to go home; he did, God, he just wanted to cuddle up with his husband in their bed, but then one of the guys muttered something that sounded like “controlling motherfucker,” and Shane just grinned and shook his head. Now his head was hurting and his t-shirt felt too scratchy and his throat was tight, but Ilya looked so happy and good under the lights. So Shane just grinned and bore it.

He even tried to eat some of the fries Ilya bought for him, accompanied with an earnest plea to eat, Shane, I’m worried about you. He hadn’t meant to make Ilya worry, honest, and he thought he was doing better about eating properly, so he just nodded, stuffing a few into his mouth. They were good, like always. And, like always, indulgent; Shane wasn’t much in the mood to indulge. He just sat there, picking at the fries and watching them go soggy. A waste of Ilya’s time and money.

He must have looked really awful if Hayes’s glances were anything to go by, disdain slowly being replaced by concern. He shoved another fry into his mouth, wincing at the oil and the salt and the toomuchtoomuchtoomuch—

“Didn’t think I’d see you around, Hollzy,” a new voice said, sliding into the seat across from him.

Shane’s throat tightened further, something terrible like tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. How long had it been since he’d been called that? With affection, no less? He blinked once, hard, and looked up. Scott Hunter was sitting across from him, a cool bottle of beer sweating onto the table and a teasing grin on his face.

He felt something in his chest break.

“Hunter,” he said, instead of doing something stupid like breaking down and hugging the man. God, he was excited to see Scott Hunter? He really was hitting new lows this season. “Ilya wanted to go out, and since I hadn’t gone out with the team yet…”

Hunter raised a brow, glancing back at the dancefloor, where Barrett and Ilya now had their hands on each other’s shoulders as they jumped up and down. “Didn’t think you’d care much about ‘team bonding’ and all, now that you’re not captain.”

Shane scoffed, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. For all of his annoying tendencies, Hunter was good company. And he was right, because he knew Shane. Not just Hollander. And, miracle of miracles, he liked Shane well enough, too.

“I’m the captain’s husband,” he retorted, rolling his eyes. “I owe it to him to occasionally go out.”

“Even if it interferes with your bedtime?” Hunter teased, tapping his bottle against Shane’s can.

It was Shane’s turn to raise a brow. “And how much did you pay the nursing home to let you out past eight?”

Hunter laughed, loud and boisterous in a way he only got when he was at the Kingfisher and tipsy. Shane hid a smile behind a sip of his ginger ale. He could feel the eyes on him again, the silent judgement about him enjoying something he’d denied his husband for the past season. It was fair. It didn’t matter that he was tense, wound up in a way that was painful, in a way that he’d nearly forgotten after free agency.

“You still sound like him,” Hunter chuckled. “No wonder you tried to fight me on the ice. It was so obvious, in hindsight.”

At that, Hayes leaned over, brows raised. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, Hollzy’s infamous fight with me a few years ago,” Hunter said, waving his hand dismissively. Shane clenched his jaw hard enough that he felt his teeth grinding; the team would have his fucking head after this. “He tried to chirp me—”

“Tried?” Shane cut in, offended.

“—using one of Rozanov’s favorite lines. I called him out on that, and, well, suddenly we were throwing down gloves. After the game, no less.”

Hayes’s eyes flicked to him, assessing and cold, the previous flicker of concern gone and buried. Shane shrunk into himself, just slightly, just enough that he could blame the ache in his ribs on the way he was sitting. The man hummed, nodding like that made all the sense in the world.

“He’s always been a bit… secretive,” Hayes offered. Hunter snorted, shaking his head.

“Understatement of the fucking century, man. I don’t know how those two did it.”

“Mm. Yeah. I wonder.” Hayes turned away from him, looking at Hunter with an openness that he’d die before offering to Shane. “Rozy’s got a way of making the best of the situation.”

Shane got up, hand curled so tightly around his can that he was denting it. He offered Hunter a smile and a clap on the shoulder. He couldn’t do this. He needed air, and he needed it now. He needed space, goddammit, and he needed, for one fucking second, to not be the object of ridicule. At least Montreal had the decency of calling him a cocksucking fag, rather than whatever bullshit the Cens were pulling.

“It was great seeing you, Hunter. You and Kip should visit next time you’re in Ottawa,” he said, starting to pick his way through the crowd.

Hunter raised a brow, but nodded. “Sure thing. You two leaving?”

The eyes. The fucking eyes, always, voyeuristic and hedonistic and judgemental. “No, I just need some air. Ilya will tell me when he wants to go home.”

With that, Shane excused himself to the alley beside the Kingfisher, wrestling with the tangled knot in his chest and the slick feel of oil on his tongue.

It was getting better. The guys were talking to Shane now. Hockey felt like hockey again, which really meant that hockey felt like Montreal, but it was almost… comforting, in a way. These were dynamics he was familiar with. He knew how to handle the passive-aggressive comments, the unimpressed looks whenever he tried to speak in the locker room, the jokes made at his expense. He just kept his head down, responded with the nicest smiles he could muster, and stuck close to his husband.

He couldn’t even be upset about the remarks because it was so, so much easier to act normal around Ilya. He had stopped asking if he was okay, if he was adjusting fine, once the Cens and Shane settled into that preestablished pattern: Shane did what he had to on the ice and kept his mouth shut off of it. The guys would have nothing to say if he didn’t give it to them; if the guys in Montreal couldn’t come up with anything new on their own, the Cens certainly wouldn’t.

That was how Shane had navigated hockey for a decade, and he thought it was working. He thought they were fine, that they were finally to the point that he could just be Shane Hollander— not one, not the other, but the conglomerate. As with all good things, though, those few weeks of sensibility came to an end. Ilya was stuck in a press scrum, and most of the other guys had already showered and dressed. Shane was in the process of finishing up himself, towelling his hair as he thought about what to make for dinner. Ilya had been on his case about his eating habits again, and, though Shane hated to agree with him, he was right that it was getting bad again.

(But he just— he needed the familiarity of it. It was how he ate in Montreal for the past decade, and it had never hurt him. He’d played some of his best hockey there, eating like that, and he had to bring that here. It was fine. It was good, even.)

As he wandered towards the locker room, the guys’ voices floated out towards him, cruel and callous in a way that meant they were talking about Shane. Fuck. He bit back a sigh, stopping and leaning against a wall to listen. He knew, to some extent, their gripes with him. They hated him for making Ilya miserable last year (he hated himself, too), for being oblivious to his suffering (he hated himself, too), for living his best life while the love of his life was falling apart (he hated himself, too). But he wanted to hear them say it, too, to know that he wasn’t deluding himself into thinking he was a better husband than he was. A better man than he was.

He registered Haas’s words first. “I can’t understand why he told Ilya to not come out. We were good with Troy, and we would’ve been good with him too.”

Shane knew that. He was just, as he so often is, scared. He could recognize it now, his husband having named the feeling of his all-consuming panic and tense muscles. Ilya didn’t have citizenship, and if it went south with management… he shook himself. He didn’t want to think about the alternative. And, after how the Metros reacted— God, he couldn’t have lived with himself if he let Ilya walk into that same hell with his bleed heart. He was just trying to protect him.

A new voice joined in, not one of the players.

“He’s selfish, Luca,” Harris sighed. “Why couldn’t he have moved to Boston, hm? Or even to New York? He made Ilya uproot his whole life just for a few measly hours a week. It’s ridiculous.”

Shane wasn’t sure if he was breathing, to be frank. Selfish. Yes, that was the word. Shane was a selfish, selfish man. He wanted Ilya and hockey and his parents and Rose and the Pikes— he wanted it all. Ilya hadn’t. He had just gone along with what Shane wanted, because all he wanted was community and love. And Shane, blind and selfish and too intense, had denied him something that simple.

He could throw up.

“Isn’t he a pain during social media stuff, too?” another guy asked. Dykstra.

“God, yeah. He can’t give the camera a smile for anything,” Harris sighed. “I mean, that’s fine, I guess. Everyone still loves him because he’s Shane Hollander, but, like, after realizing what he’s like… I don’t know. Mrs. Hollander worked magic for his PR image, that's for sure.”

“It’s all a PR image, honestly,” one of the rookies chimed in. Some nameless-faceless kid, and he was going to read Shane to filth. It was almost enough to offend him, if he hadn’t quashed the feeling right as it started.

He didn’t have the right to get upset. Not about this, not when it hurt Ilya.

“Have you seen how worried Cap always is for him? It’s always Shane seems sad, Shane isn’t doing well, sorry, Shane is tired so I will stay home. Like, fuck, what more does Hollander want?” he snapped. “He’s got the guy, the team, the parents, the sponsorships. Fucking hell.”

Oh. He didn’t mean to do that.

(He’d do better. He had to. He had to. He had to. He had to. He had to.)

Hayes cut in then, the first one to have something more than pure resentment in his voice. “Hey, uh, I don’t mean to dull the mood or anything, but hearing all of that laid out is… kinda concerning, actually.”

Concerning? It was fine. It was normal. It was a return to form.

“Like, are we sure he’s… okay?” he continued. The frown was clear in his voice. “Because if I told Lisa all of that, she’d tell me to tell him to get checked for depression or something similar. And he never eats with us at restaurants, which….”

Shane rubbed a hand over his sternum. Ilya would be finishing up soon. He wouldn’t stress his husband out even more.

“We’re treating him better than Montreal,” the rookie defended. “He’s probably just sad about his fucking legacy or something.”

Hayes hummed, unconvinced. He’d just started speaking again when the door slammed open, Ilya’s excited chirping filling the room. Shane released the breath he was holding, blinking back the tears that had gathered. When did that happen? No matter. He was fine, just bruised and sore and sleepy and whatever else he’d tell Ilya to convince him to go out and have fun. Shane needed some time to think.

“The best Centaur is back!” Ilya crowed, laughing loud and bright at the roaring cheers. Shane smiled slightly. The guys loved their captain so much. “Now, now, settle down! You are all very welcome for me carrying your sorry asses during press. Now—”

Ilya’s voice had become singsong. One of the guys groaned loudly, and, sure, it was a joke but—

“Where’s my Shane?”

The hesitation in the response was slight, not enough to notice unless you were really listening. And Shane knew, he knew Ilya wasn’t, not in the post-game afterglow. He took a deep breath as one of the guys said “showers,” wiping his eyes and dragging a hand down his face. Ilya yelled a thanks to the guy, and then there were footsteps.

His hopes that he looked presentable were dashed almost immediately, the gorgeous smile dropping from Ilya’s face faster than he could blink. Slowly, Ilya raised his hands, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear (and, oh, that was the feeling of heartbreak, got it), and cupped his face. His eyes were wide, impossibly blue under the fluorescent lighting of the showers and brimming with concern. Shane smiled at him, something small and real. His Ilya, always so caring.

(Always so worried).

“S toboy vso v poryadke? Chto sluchilos', solnyshko? Tebe bol'no?” [Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt?] Ilya asked quietly, placing a kiss on Shane’s forehead before pulling back enough to let him respond. 

“Net, net, so mnoy vso v poryadke. Dumayu, ya prosto ustal,” [No, no, I’m fine. I think I’m just tired.] he said, shaking his head. “Mne segodnya vecherom nikuda ne khochetsya idti. Khorosho provedi vremya s rebyatami, ladno?” [I don't feel like going anywhere tonight. Have a good time with the guys, okay?]

Ilya frowned at him, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. Shane leaned into his touch with a little sigh. “Ya ne ostavlyu tebya odnu, kogda ty budesh' vyglyadet' tak, budto vot-vot rasplachesh'sya.” [I won't leave you alone when you look like you're about to cry.]

“I’m not,” Shane huffed, gently nipping at Ilya’s thumb. “You’ve been looking forward to Monk’s all week. I’ll just go home and relax a bit.”

“I can help you relax.”

Shane chuckled lightly, patting Ilya’s arm. His husband didn’t have that proud glint in his eyes that he usually did after making Shane laugh; instead, he just looked even more concerned, hands moving down to brush over his sides and waist. Shane sighed.

“Seriously, Ilya, it’s okay. It’ll be like old times, yeah? I stay in, you go out, we both have fun.”

“Like old times?” Ilya parroted, brows raised. He seemed… disappointed, almost, that Shane was encouraging him to go out and have fun. “I don’t want old times. I want husband times.”

“You’ll get plenty of husband times whenever you want,” Shane assured him, “but you don’t need to change your plans on my account.”

Ilya still didn’t look convinced, a frown tugging at his lips as he began to gently massage Shane’s shoulders. He almost melted into it, but that would cut into Ilya’s time, and that— that was unacceptable. He stiffened again, nearly missing how Ilya’s face fell.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

The apologies were on the tip of his tongue, but Shane Hollander was a terrible man, an awful husband, and he swallowed them back.

Please, he added silently, eyes wide and pleading, Don’t let me hold you back.

Shane saw the moment Ilya relented, gaze still brimming with concern. It should have felt victorious, securing his husband some fun and time with friends. Instead, all he felt was devastated, adrift of the only thing that could anchor him, hold him down. But this wasn’t about him. Enough of their life had been, and letting him go and enjoy himself was the least he could do for Ilya.

“Call me if you need anything, da?” Ilya said, insistent. “Anything at all, Shane. I’ll be home immediately.”

Shane nodded, kissing Ilya softly. His husband sighed contentedly, leaning into him for just a moment, arms circling his waist possessively. “Everything’s fine, baby. You need to relax, okay?”

“Says you,” Ilya grumbled. “Promise me, sweetheart. You’ll call or text if you need anything. Even if is just, I don’t know, apples.”

“I will. Promise.” He leaned back, schooling his face into something playfully judgemental as he looked Ilya up and down. “I need you to change, though. You look like a middle aged man. This isn’t exactly an outfit for a bar.”

Ilya snorted. “Okay, thank you for your input, Mr. Fashionista. I will call your stylist immediately to tell her she is unneeded.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane said, syrupy sweet.

He could live in this moment forever, he thought, his teammates’ words in the back of his mind and Ilya’s smile and kisses at the forefront.

As Ilya watched his team laugh and play and enjoy at Monk’s, Coke in hand, something sour curdled in his stomach. Whatever the fuck the Centaurs were doing to make Shane act like he did with the Metros, Ilya would put a stop to it.

Ilya wasn’t blind. He saw how his team was treating his husband, and it made him want to break something. His father’s instincts, maybe, but he’d do far worse for his husband. He saw how Shane had withdrawn into himself, his smiles dull and empty, picture perfect in a way only he could manage. The last time Shane had smiled like that was in Montreal, where the team hated him and made sure he knew it. He didn’t even smile as brightly as he used to around Ilya. And what a tragedy that was, that his husband was so exhausted that even Ilya couldn’t make him feel better. He saw how Shane started controlling his diet more, his routine more, his exercise more— just. Like. Montreal. It wasn’t affecting his hockey, it never did, but it was affecting him. Hockey could, at that point, suck a fat one, as Cliff had liked to say; hockey was not worth his Shane’s joy.

He just hadn’t said anything because he knew Shane would hate to “cause a problem.” As if icing out someone was ever acceptable, much less the captain’s husband.

It came to a head when Shane was quieter than usual one night, even as Ilya rocked into him with a rhythm he knew Shane liked. He was quiet, eyes hazy with tears that didn’t look like they were from pleasure. That was when Ilya, as he finally managed to get Shane to come hard enough that he cracked a fuck-drunk smile, decided that he’d deal with whatever was happening, team dynamics be damned. They didn’t get to strip Shane of his love for hockey, his love for laughter, and now, damningly, his love for pleasure.

Ilya grabbed his keys.

Shane couldn’t sleep. He’d showered, eaten (something that Ilya would approve of! He was doing so well!), read his book, stretched, everything and anything he could think of to tire himself out. The worst part was, he was tired— just not mentally. Physically, he could feel every creak in his joints, every twinge and ache.

But his mind just wouldn’t quiet down.

He laid in his bed, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, imperceptible in the dark. How had he let it get so far? Why had he let it get so far, that Ilya was now willing to forgo an outing he’d been looking forward to for weeks?

(He knew why. He was selfish.)

He had lied, back then, when he said he wasn’t in the mood to indulge. He was, he always was, this fucking glutton in his soul— it was just that he wanted to indulge in Ilya. He wanted to have him always and forever, unendingly and inseparably. He wanted to keep him safe, tucked away from the world that wanted to hurt him. He wanted to see him smile and laugh, sun-drenched and sleep-warm and sex-drunk. If Shane Hollander could fight the world for Ilya Rozanov, he would.

It hurt, loving him so much, and at some point, that hurt had spilled over to Ilya. Shane’s sharpness had cut him, the pressure on his shoulders had crushed him, the pedestal had isolated him. Shane had done all of those things, and even though Ilya insisted he hadn’t caused his misery last year, he knew better. Ilya loved him too much to say anything else; Shane hated himself just enough to realize that.

If he was any weaker, he might have believed Ilya’s words.

At least now, Shane mused, letting his eyes slip shut even though sleep would not be coming, he knew what he needed to fix. The off-ice silence was working fine. He’d need to figure out a way to not be so sad (read: needy, pathetic) because Ilya didn’t need to be concerned about him, not here; maybe more time in the gym would help with that. He could tire himself out enough that he didn’t even have the energy to be “sad” anymore. It’d help him get it together, at least.

And the selfishness. It was a core tenet of the Hollanders, of Shane specifically. He wanted and wanted and got. He wanted the trophies, and he got them; he wanted the captaincy, and he got it; he wanted the husband, and he got him. Everything he’d done, he’d done for himself, his own benefit. Sure, loving Ilya made him happier than anything in the world, and Ilya seemed better for it, too, but it was still, fundamentally and at its core, a selfish act.

What kind of love would tear a man away from the life he built, the people he loved, to come to the middle of nowhere just for one person, if not a selfish love?

It was certainly too late to backtrack, retry, restart. Ilya loved it here. He loved his team, the quiet bustle of Ottawa, living near Shane’s parents, having endless parks for Anya to play in. Shane would just have to make sure that he had every reason to keep loving it here. It was the least he could do.

Number one of that priority list, then, was making sure Ilya didn’t see how needy he was, how pathetically he wanted him.

Loosen the leash, Barrett had said. Shane hadn’t even realized it was too tight.

Downstairs, the door opened. He heard Ilya’s muffled voice greeting Anya, shushing him, and his heart swelled with love. Oh God, loving this man would be the death of him. He laid still, quiet, as Ilya padded upstairs and into their bathroom. The shower turned on, just a quick in and out; before he knew it, Ilya was curled up behind him, warm and present. His leg was thrown over Shane’s hip, a hand curled over him possessively, resting right on his heart.

Shane snuggled into his warmth, sighing contentedly. “You’re back early,” he murmured, turning his head to kiss Ilya’s shoulder.

“Missed you,” came the reply, soft and careful.

The butterflies in his stomach dropped dead, and, before he could stop himself, Shane blurted out, “Sorry.”

Ilya stiffened for a long moment, before pressing harder into Shane, pulling him closer. It was times like this, where Shane couldn’t tell where he ended and his husband began. He loved it.

Did Ilya?

“What do you mean, ‘sorry’?” Ilya finally said after a tense silence. All the honeyed softness from before was gone. “Sorry that I missed you? Missed my husband? Or sorry for something else?”

Now what? He didn’t want to lie to Ilya. He never did, not after doing so for the better part of a decade. Horrifyingly, he felt tears well in his eyes. He squeezed them shut. No, no, no. He wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t make this about himself. No.

He wracked his brain for an answer, something honest but not too revealing. He eventually settled on: “I don’t know why I said that.”

Ilya grunted discontentedly, pressing a kiss to a knob of his spine. “Shane. Don’t lie.”

Fuck. Damn him, for knowing Shane so well.

“...Would it have been better if I stayed in Montreal?” he asked in lieu of answering. His voice was whisper-quiet, thready and wet in a way that terrified him. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t make Ilya comfort him now! It was late!

Ilya pressed so hard against him that he was sure he’d have a hand-shaped bruise right over his heart. He didn’t hate the idea. It was a claim, a marker of territory, an assurance that Ilya wanted him for at least his body, even if he was frustrated with everything else.

Shane was an athlete. What could he even offer, other than his body?

Ilya exhaled roughly, blunt nails curling into the skin of his pec. “What?”

“I just— never mind. It was stupid.”

“Yes, it was,” Ilya growled, pausing for a moment to press a series of kisses over Shane’s shoulder and neck. “Montreal made you miserable. Shanya—”

Oh God. He could cry.

“—I have never seen you more miserable than in that last season with the Metros. I hated it, hated feeling like I couldn’t do anything for you. I was watching the man I love fall apart right in front of me, and I was two hours away. I couldn’t do anything for you.”

Funny how the world worked. Shane could say the exact same thing about Ilya and the Centaurs.

“You loved me,” he whispered back. “That was enough. It would still be enough, if you think I should’ve stayed there.”

Ilya was silent for a long moment, just breathing heavily. Shane jumped as something wet landed on his shoulder, a needy, possessive hum coming from Ilya.

“Why are you saying this, Shane?” he finally asked, voice wet and wrecked. Fuck. Shane was such an idiot.

“I— I just…” he trailed off, a lump in his throat. “I didn’t want to mess this up for you. Hockey, the Cens. I know me being here is a complication, but—”

“A ‘complication,’” Ilya scoffed, squeezing Shane’s pec. “Fuck the team, Shanya. I see how they treat you, and I hate it. I want to yell at them every single day, but I know you will feel guilty for ‘disrupting team synergy’ or something stupid. But I am your husband before I am the Centaurs’ captain, moya lyubov. Just say the word, and I’ll talk to them.”

At that, Shane twisted himself around, grabbing Ilya’s face with both hands and staring into his eyes.

“Please don’t,” he begged, sniffling. “Please, just— please. Don’t. I’ll figure it out, I’ll work through it. It’s normal. This is how the Metros were before everything, and it was good. We were winning. You don’t need to do anything, baby.”

Ilya stared right back at him, eyes wide and shiny, his lower lip quivering as he pulled Shane against him, tucking his head under his chin and wrapping his arms around him. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Shane let out a quivering breath and fell apart.

After that night, Ilya did his level best to stay by Shane’s side during practices. Shane couldn’t say he minded, even if Ilya’s hovering was bordering on concerning now— his constant presence was helping with team synergy. The guys were less chilly with him now, Ilya softening their demeanours enough for Shane to finally fall into place on the ice. He wasn’t just an extra variable to account for anymore, a temporary addition; Shane felt, before he saw, how he had finally become an irreplaceable cog in the machine that was the Centaurs.

They were winning more than they were losing, nowadays, and Ilya had managed to raise the Centaurs from a league-wide joke to a team worthy of consideration, and Shane’s addition took them from worthwhile to truly formidable. That, too, must have worked the wonders he saw in the team dynamic over the next few weeks.

Haas could look at him for more than seconds at a time, and the team was finally taking Shane’s critiques more seriously, rather than making Shane pester Ilya into giving individual feedback to everyone. The rookies were—and here is where Hollander showed up, proud and arrogant and right—finally looking at him with the awe he used to inspire in the Metros’ rookies. The older guys were talking to him now; it was only about hockey, straying away from any personal topics, but frankly, Shane preferred that. As captain, he had to care about his teammates’ personal lives; as just another player, he was afforded the luxury of not giving a shit. 

Shane had finally found the rhythm that worked with the Cens: He kept his mouth shut during casual conversation, spoke freely when it came to hockey, and sent Ilya to team events in his stead. He was even seeing what Ilya had meant when he said that the Centaurs were nice; they were. They didn’t give him shit to his face or call him slurs, acted professionally, and took responsibility as a team, rather than loading it all onto his or Ilya’s shoulders. That was the kind of nice that won games, and it was the kind of nice Shane cared about.

He always did his best teamwork when he was winning them games.

Ilya seemed calmer too. The few times Shane managed to take a lap or three alone, he’d pass by Ilya and the guys in intervals, and though Ilya still didn’t seem happy with them, he wasn’t as snappy as he was when Shane was around. That was another easy fix: Shane would just do whatever he was asked. If Ilya didn’t have to defend Shane and the guys had Ilya’s presence to fall back on while Shane was there, it’d all sort itself out. Ilya could go back to having the easy camaraderie he saw in the first month or two, and Shane could just— he could just take his place on the silent pedestal of the team, like he always had.

(Never mind the fact that he was feeling lonely. That was a new feeling, loneliness. It was profound enough that he’d had to take a step back, using his morning run to think about what it was that he was feeling. He thought, distantly, that this is what he felt with Montreal, too, but that was just as well. He was never much of a teammate anyway.

The Centaurs were just kinder about it than the Metros. He couldn’t complain about that. It was soft, like Ilya had promised, sustainable and comfortable in its familiarity).

As with everything in his life, though, the Cens had suddenly decided to make subtle changes to their careful routine. Shane couldn’t even find a trigger point, couldn’t figure out which buttons he’d pushed to make them go from ignoring him to sniping at him in smirks and scoffs. He remembered the first time that had happened, unprompted and to his face.

The team was having a small party at his and Ilya’s place, something for just them and to give their WAGs a break from them. The atmosphere was relaxed, everyone sprawled out in their yard. Haas, Holmberg, Young, and LaPointe were playing cornhole, jeering at each other and laughing. Dykstra was deep in conversation with Dillon, who looked completely unenthused to be on the receiving end of whatever Dykstra was ranting about.

(Shane thought he should know what he was talking about by now. He didn’t.)

Boodram, Hayes, and Ilya were entertaining the rest of the guys on the porch, with them dramatically reenacting some sort of story. Inside, sitting in the sunroom-turned-vestibule, Shane let his gaze linger on Ilya for a bit, heart swelling with so much sudden fondness that he couldn’t breathe. What he wouldn’t do to protect Ilya’s smile. In his lap, Anya snuffled, nosing at his palm. He huffed out a quiet laugh, pressing on her head and dragging his hand down her fur. She sighed contentedly, putting her head on her paws.

“You’d do the same, wouldn’t you, sweet girl?” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching as Anya’s ear flicked in response. “Promise you’ll take care of Ilya even if I can’t.”

The door to the vestibule opened, and Shane’s mouth snapped shut. He glanced up, expecting Ilya or maybe Hayes. He’d been a little nicer to Shane recently, which was weird, but it seemed to make Ilya happy. Instead, though, it was Barrett. Fuck. Shane couldn’t shake his dislike of Barrett even now, even after seeing how much Ilya clearly enjoyed his company. When he looked at the man, all he saw was that cruel twist of his mouth, the sharp glint in his eyes as he spat insult after insult at Shane. It was one thing for Ilya to forgive Barrett, because he was far too good to really hold grudges; Shane, though— Shane would hold the grudges for both of them.

They didn’t say anything for a long moment as Barrett settled into one of the cozy chairs they had set up in the sunroom. Shane bit his tongue to keep himself from chiding him about getting grass on his seating; that would just give Barrett more ammunition.

In his lap, Anya huffed again, and he smiled slightly, scratching behind her ear. He could feel Barrett’s eyes on him, assessing even though he was on his third beer. Finally, after a tense silence, Barrett let out a long breath. Shane heard, more than saw, him shifting, leaning back in the chair.

“Y’know,” he started. Shane immediately got pissed off. “You don’t have to hide anymore. It’d probably be good for you two if you didn’t.”

From anyone else, those words would probably be sweet.

Shane gave him a tight smile. “I’m not hiding. I just needed some air.”

“Inside? I’m sure,” Barrett sniped, brow raised. He took a sip of his beer, gaze drifting over to the porch, where Ilya and Boodram were now getting the grill ready. “At least you’re here. Roz is happier for it.”

Sometimes, Shane wished people would just tell him to fucking kill himself. That’d be easier than this shit. He looked at Barrett, his annoyed smirk and faux casualness. Took a deep breath, let it out with another smile.

“Can I help you with something? More beer?”

Barrett raised a brow, scanning over his face like he’d somehow understand why Shane was the way he was. Why he was so paranoid, so tense, so much— and why Ilya put up with him, why he chose the hardest path with the worst option, why he loved him at all. Shane wished he could help him find the answer, because he sure as hell didn’t know. It wasn’t like Shane had much to be scared of anymore; the worst had happened, and he’d gotten past it.

(He lost the team, sure, and nearly lost himself, but it was fine. It was worth it.

It had to be, because if it wasn’t—

No.)

After a long moment, he shook his head, getting up. “Nah. Keep it up, Hollander.”

From anyone else.

The next time it happened was when Hayes siddled up to him after a Friday evening practice, uncharacteristically… nervous? Shane blinked at him, folding Ilya’s undershirt and tucking it into his husband’s gear bag. It was the first time since the last game that any of the guys had tried to initiate conversation with him. No surprise that it was Hayes; he was the nicest here.

“Hey, uh, are you and Ilya free tomorrow?” Hayes asked, watching him carefully. “Bood’s hosting dinner for the team.”

Shane hummed. Dinner would probably… not go too well, if the party last time was any indication. Plus, he didn’t want to eat anything outside of his diet right now; the thought of anything that wasn’t rice-meat-broccoli just made his stomach turn. That said, Ilya had been wanting to hangout with the guys for a few days, and he just hadn’t found an excuse… Well, that was settled.

“I’ll tell Ilya. He’d love to come,” he said, phone already in hand. “He’s been wanting to spend some time with the team for a while anyways.”

Hayes nodded slowly, still watching him like he was a particularly risky play. “What about you? You’re team too.”

Shane almost laughed. Not meanly, really, but it was just… funny. Here was Wyatt Hayes, inviting him to Boodram’s dinner like that was something they did. Shane knew his place on the team, and it certainly wasn’t at anyone’s dinner table, where they all pretended to like him for Ilya’s sake.

As it was, he could hardly stop his lips from twitching upward. Hayes was looking more and more disconcerted as the conversation went on. Shane knew he wasn’t a great conversationalist or particularly enjoyable to be around, but surely he wasn’t that bad?

“I’m okay, thanks.”

Hayes frowned, leaning forward just slightly. “Are you sure, Hollander? You haven’t come out with us in weeks. It could be good for you two.”

There it was. They were trying to make sure Ilya actually went out and didn’t isolate himself with Shane again. They were late to get the memo, though; Shane had been working on that already. He pushed Ilya to go out with the guys whenever they made plans, making up sudden, boring chores to convince the man to go have fun.

Besides, the Cens were nice. Ilya didn’t need to hide from them for Shane’s sake anymore.

“No, really. I’ll make sure Ilya comes, since he’ll enjoy it, but I have some chores I need to get done.”

LaPointe spoke up then, shouting from across the locker room. “Chores can wait, Hollander! Don’t keep leaving your man alone!”

The others tittered, and Shane did his best to meet the laughter with a smile, a quiet huff of his own. He didn’t mean to leave Ilya alone, but he just… he couldn’t spend another night out with them again, not when they were just counting down the minutes until he forced Ilya to go home.

Loosen the leash, Hollander.

He shook his head. “He’s not going to be alone. He’ll have you guys. Besides, I won’t be much fun with chores on my mind, anyway.”

Hayes nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. Somewhere down the line, he’d stopped looking so resentful of Shane and started seeming a little more… concerned. Shane didn’t like that shift; it felt too much like pity, and if there was one thing Shane Hollander wasn’t, it was pitiable. Either everyone hated him, or they tolerated him. That was the order of operations, and Shane was very comfortable with them.

This concern, coming from anyone that wasn’t Ilya or Rose or Hayden or his parents, was unfamiliar and unwelcome. He didn’t know why Hayes was trying to make any of this out to be more than what it was, but Shane had a feeling it was some covert hazing ritual. He was too fucking experienced for that, though, so the next course of action was to shut that shit down.

He offered Hayes a tight smile. “I appreciate the invitation, Hayes. Ilya’s going to be happy. Let me know if you need me to send anything with him. Drinks or something.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hayes responded, but he seemed distracted, a furrow between his brows. “We can send some food back with Rozy, if you want.”

There was the nausea again, the thought of eating something that wasn’t his. He didn’t know what Boodram would put in the dinner, what it would do to his body, to his performance. He couldn’t afford that, not now, when he’d finally started reestablishing equilibrium with the team. He couldn’t do that to them, not when his joining caused such upheaval and controversy. Not when Ilya committed career suicide for him.

“I appreciate it, but I’m good. I’m on a, uh, diet. For optimization.”

Somehow, Hayes looked even more displeased about that. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, vulnerable in a way that Shane hadn’t heard. Hadn’t wanted to hear. “Hey, Hollander—” 

He was cut off by the locker room door slamming open. Ilya scanned the room, brows furrowing at the quiet chatter before landing on Shane and Hayes. His eyes narrowed.

“Stop bothering my husband,” he laughed, a tightness around his eyes betraying his irritation. “Chto oni skazali? Oni snova zhestoko s toboy obrashchayutsya?” [What did they say? Are they being mean to you again?]

Shane shook his head, smiling at him to try to defuse the tension that suddenly thickened the air in the room. The eyes, the fucking eyes, God, he was always being watched, judged, stay controlled stay poised don’t let them see anything.

“Oni nichego ne skazali, ne volnuytes.” [They didn't say anything, don't worry.] He nodded at Boodram, who was frowning slightly at Shane. “He’s hosting dinner tomorrow. You should go.”

“You won’t?” Ilya asked, irritation clear in his voice. “Shanya, ser'yozno, chto za chertovshchina? Oni chto, tebya ser'yozno ne priglasili?” [Shane, seriously, what the hell? Did they seriously not invite you?]

“Menya priglasili, no ya prosto ne khochu idti!” [I was invited, but I just don't want to go!] he huffed, crossing his arms. “Besides, like I was telling Hayes, I have some chores that are gonna distract me the whole time.”

“Chto imenno? Chto nastol'ko srochno, chto eto nel'zya otlozhit'?” [What exactly? What's so urgent that it can't wait?] Ilya demanded, carefully picking up his and Shane’s gear bags.

Shane slapped his hand away from his bag, giving him a quick peck when he looked all sorts of offended. Ilya was so cute. “Mne nuzhno propylesosit', pogladit' nashi rubashki, postirat' bel'ye, nayti buket dlya godovshchiny svad'by Jackie i Hayden—” [I need to vacuum, iron our shirts, do the laundry, find a bouquet for Jackie and Hayden's anniversary—]

“Fine, fine, okay,” Ilya groaned. “Zachem vy togda otpravlyayete menya v Bood? Ya mogu vam pomoch.” [Why are you sending me to Bood’s, then? I can help you.]

Shane snorted. “Potomu chto vsyu etu nedelyu ty khotel provesti vremya s komandoy.” [Because you wanted to spend time with the team this entire week.] “Ya tvoy muzh prezhde, chem tvoy tovarishch po komande, Ilyusha. [I'm your husband before I'm your teammate, Ilyusha.] And I’m telling you to go as your partner.”

“My own husband, pulling rank,” Ilya grumbled, though the effect was slightly ruined by how soft his voice had gone. Maybe using the diminutive was a dirty play, but all’s fair in love and war.

Shane grinned, the expression making his cheek twinge slightly. “You know it, baby.”

How’s that for a loose leash? he thought, almost vindictive, as he gave Boodram and Hayes a nod.

Ilya was going to kill his team. He really, genuinely was. They seemed to think he was stupid or blind or maybe both. He was none of those things. What he was, was a man whose husband was being broken down, bit by bit, right in front of his eyes. He’d heard a lot of it, the not-insults and passive aggressive comments thrown Shane’s way about how he treated Ilya.

(As if Ilya wasn’t right where he wanted to be, in Shane’s arms and life.)

He’d heard more in what they hadn’t said, though. No one told Caitlin to “loosen the leash.” No one talked to Selena harshly enough to make her sit outside of Monk’s, zoned out and breathing shallowly. No one made fun of Harris for wanting to spend time, alone, with Troy. No one scoffed at Lisa when she spoke up about something that wasn’t her job, shutting her down before she could even believe.

But they did all of that to Shane.

What made them think they had the right to treat Shane like that, he wondered. Was it that Shane was quiet, that he’d take it without a complaint because he valued the game more than himself?

(No, because, despite how the Centaurs had made a liar out of him, he knew they were good men. They wouldn’t exploit him like that.)

Was it because he was another player? The captain’s husband? 

(Maybe, because they had always been protective of Ilya. He wasn’t sure how Shane factored into that, though, since he was the only thing keeping Ilya sane.)

Was it because Montreal had done the same to him for the past decade, numbing him to this sort of treatment? Was it because they didn’t even want to try to make hockey good for the best player in the league?

(Maybe. Probably. Ilya knew how others talked about Shane, the envy and the idea that because he was hockey royalty, he was untouchable. Ilya knew better, even if Shane refused to talk about Montreal outside of ‘it was fine, Ilya. That’s just how hockey is for me.’)

He glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. Shane would’ve been asking to go home an hour ago. Ilya was going to go home in another thirty minutes, empty handed because he couldn’t bring his Shane any food, since he had fallen back into that stupid fucking performance diet that just made him miserable. He was probably awake, too, overthinking and wondering how to do better when he hadn’t done anything wrong. That’s just how his husband was.

How dare his team hate him for it?

Ilya smiled blandly as Dykstra made another incomprehensible joke. It was what he did, as captain. He kept the peace, the jokes, the dynamic. Even when Shane was miserable at home, betrayed by a team that flipped on a dime, becoming the resentful, scrappy version of themselves that they were two seasons ago.

Next to him, Wyatt tapped his arm. Ilya’s gaze flicked towards him, brow raised. Wyatt looked nervous, the same type of nervous he had seemed in the locker room yesterday. So he wanted to talk about Shane, then.

“Can we talk, cap?” he asked, just as Ilya predicted. “I’m just… I’ve noticed some things. And I’m getting a little worried.”

Ilya bit back the mean curl of his mouth, the disbelieving scoff. Shane would kill him for starting a fight with his team because of this. But Wyatt seemed to pick up on it anyway, a sheepish look crossing his expression.

“Deck,” Ilya said simply, getting up. Wyatt nodded.

The night was nice. The fall chill was finally setting in, the skies clearer and the stars studding the sky. Shane would have liked to sit out here for a while, guiding Ilya’s hand as they looked at constellations David taught him as a kid.

He missed his husband.

“This is about Shane, yes?”

Wyatt winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. He just… seems in a bad place.”

Ilya didn’t bother holding back the sharp laugh this time. “No shit, Hazy.”

“Yesterday,” Wyatt continued as if Ilya hadn’t spoken at all, “when I was inviting you two here, he said something like ‘Ilya won’t be alone, he’ll have the team,’ and earlier, Troy heard him saying something to Anya that was like ‘take care of him when I can’t’? Or maybe it was ‘if I can’t.’ I’m not sure."

Ilya stared at him, wide eyed, nausea crawling up his throat and horror seeping into his blood. Shane, his Shane, was thinking— what? What did this mean? Shane wouldn’t. Not after everything. He never gave any indication he was… Ilya would have noticed. He knew he would have. Oh, God, how had he missed it, if it was true? Surely, surely there was some other explanation.

His hand flew to his mother’s cross, the edges of it cutting into his skin as he squeezed, relaxed, squeezed again. A heartbeat found in the constant prick-and-pain, because he wasn’t sure his heart was currently beating. Shane couldn’t. Ilya didn’t think he’d survive it, if Shane did.

“Whoa, Rozy—” Wyatt started, putting his hands on Ilya’s shoulders to steady him. “Hey, hey, deep breaths, man. I don’t think Shane’s actually—”

“Keep his name,” he wheezed, jabbing an accusing finger into Wyatt’s chest, “out of. Your. Mouth.”

Wyatt blanched, but nodded. “Sorry, sorry. I just— I don’t think Hollander’s going to do anything, but I wanted to bring it to your attention. Just in case.”

Ilya felt near hysterical. The cause of his husband’s misery was now concerned about him. It was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, how anyone could even think to hurt Shane, much less act like they weren’t doing anything wrong. Wyatt was guiding him down to the floor now, squeezing his shoulders. It was grounding, but it also made the rage in his chest burn brighter.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, baring his teeth. “How fucking dare you all?”

Wyatt blinked. “Cap—”

“I don’t think you understand, Wyatt. I have been watching the love of my life push himself away from me because of the bullshit you guys are saying. He doesn’t smile anymore. Even during sex, he is in his own head.” Ilya pushed Wyatt away, watching coldly as he stumbled, righting himself. “The one thing I can do for him no longer works. I need to— I’m going home.”

“I—”

“I’m leaving.”

Wyatt frowned, nodding. “Okay. Drive safe, Rozy.”

Ilya just huffed, stalking towards the house, ignoring the calls and questions. He grabbed his keys.

This ended tonight.

Shane looked up from his book with a frown, listening to the front door being opened rather… aggressively. He glanced at the bedside clock, brows rising; it was barely ten, and Ilya wasn’t supposed to be home for another half hour. Stranger still, he only spent a minute or two greeting Anya, when his normal was at least five minutes.

Carefully, as Ilya’s steps got louder and louder, Shane tucked a bookmark into his book and set it aside. He was not going to panic or nag or worry— not unless Ilya needed him to. He would not ruin his good mood after hanging out with his friends. He took a deep breath, schooling his face into a smile—rather than the scrunch-frown he did when he was worried—as Ilya let himself into their bedroom.

“Hi, baby— mmph!“

He’d barely gotten the words out, before Ilya slammed into him with a kiss. It was a little heated, a little desperate, and a lot possessive. It tasted like fear.

His first instinct was to pull back, force Ilya to tell him what was bothering him; that’s what he had done for months now, something he realized made Ilya feel better. But maybe, Shane considered, if he greeted him with a kiss like this, he needed something else first? If even the guys could see how bad he was at reading Ilya despite everything, how could he even know what Ilya needed? How could he take care of him?

After a second, during which Ilya had pulled himself into Shane’s lap, jeans and all, Shane kissed him back with equal fervor. He snaked a hand into his soft curls, trailing the other down his stomach in a question. Ilya paused then, pulling away just enough to speak.

“Not tonight,” he murmured. “Tonight, I want to talk.”

Shane raised his brows. Ilya never refused sex (unless they really had to wait, but then he complained the entire time), and he definitely didn’t choose pillow talk over sex.

He must have seen the thought process play out in Shane’s eyes, because he shook his head. “No, not like that either. I want to talk about the team. And something Hazy told me today.”

Of course. Even when he removed himself from the equation, it wasn’t good enough. Though, Shane mused, as Ilya quickly stripped and crawled into bed next to him, since when had he been good enough for anything but actually playing the sport? He’d blown up his mom’s plans for his future, thrown the Metros into disarray, forced Ilya to stay silent about something he clearly wanted to share with the world— hell, he’d even managed to deprive Hayden and Jackie of their free babysitters. Somehow, someway, he’d ruined everything except the actual gameplay. He couldn’t even fix most of it; the least he could do was keep bettering himself for Ilya and the team.

“Is everything okay?”

Ilya took a deep breath, silent for a long moment, as Shane tugged him into himself. Ilya immediately rolled on top of him, cradling him like he wanted the world around them to disappear. He hadn’t done that since they were long distance. Shane waited, gently running his nails up and down Ilya’s bare back in the way he knew he liked. He was shivering slightly, a fine tremor that extended all the way to where his fingertips were curled into Shane’s shirt. He glanced down at Ilya, frowning.

“Ilya?”

Another shivering breath. Then: “I am sorry.”

“What?”

Ilya looked at him then, really looked, eyes rimmed red and furious. “I am sorry that my team is treating you so terribly. I am sorry I did not realize. I am sorry you did not say anything. Shanya, Hazy said that you said that I won’t be alone, I’ll have my team. He said that you told Anya to take care of me when you couldn’t.”

He stopped then, cutting himself off with a sharp inhale. Shane blinked, tilting his head as he parsed through Ilya’s words, brows furrowed. None of that sounded like anything he needed to apologize for; it was on Shane, in the end. The team was just doing what everyone did, and Shane didn’t really mind, not when Ilya was so happy with how everything turned out. He thought Ilya knew that, knew that he was fine. He was used to this rhythm, this playbook he’d been reading since he was in peewee. It was just the last thing that Ilya rambled out that didn’t make sense to him.

“It’s fine, Ilya. I don’t mind it,” he hedged, bringing a hand up to gently tug at Ilya’s curls. That usually calmed him down. “And, I mean, what I said was true. You have your team, Anya— you’re not alone.”

That only served to make Ilya look even worse, tears beading on his lashline as he pushed himself up, straddling Shane. He only had a moment to mourn the loss of warmth before Ilya was gripping his face between both hands, face twisted in between something like agony and desperation.

“Shane. How long have you felt like this? Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, voice cracking. “What can I do for you, malysh? You can’t— I don’t— Shane.”

“Whoa, whoa, hey, it’s okay,” he said frantically, cupping Ilya’s face. “I feel fine, baby, promise. You don’t need to do anything, you’re perfect.”

Ilya laughed bitterly, the death grip he had on Shane’s jaw loosening just a fraction. “I didn’t even realize how sad you are, and you call me perfect? Ya tebya ne zasluzhivayu.” [I don’t deserve you.]

Shane’s chest squeezed painfully. He hated hearing Ilya talk about himself like that, and he hated even more that he was the cause of it. One day, he would learn to stop fucking up with his husband, but clearly today was not that day.

(Maybe staying in Montreal would have been better. They could’ve been out, and Ilya wouldn’t have been so desperate to meet with him whenever possible. He could’ve gone out with the team without having to come back home to the mess that was Shane.

It wasn’t like Shane’s experience was any different in Ottawa. The Cens were just nicer.)

“Ne govori glupostey. Ty zasluzhivayesh' samogo luchshego,” [Don't talk nonsense. You deserve the best.] he snapped, brushing his thumb under Ilya’s eye to catch the few tears that spilled over. “And I’m not sad, Ilya, I promise. I’m so… it’s better here. I’m good with this. And I’m happy that you’re happy.”

Now Ilya was glaring at him. Fuck. Shane took a deep breath, doing his best to keep it the fuck together. It was bad enough that Ilya was in such a state, so worked up that he was angry at Shane. He was never angry at him, not anymore. He thought he’d been doing better.

(Better, better, but never good enough. He’d try again tomorrow.)

“Then what was all of that, hm? I won’t be alone, Anya will take care of me— none of that matters if you are not there, Shane. You could give me the world, and I would give it back for another day with you.”

Even while he was upset, Ilya had such a way with words. Shane gave him a watery smile and a kiss that tasted like salt and mint, quiet as he parsed through Ilya’s words. The realization hit him like a truck. He pulled away roughly, leaving Ilya grumbling and chasing his lips, eyes wide and jaw slack.

“Oh my god, Ilya, no. I’d never do that to you. No, no, I didn’t mean it like that at all. I just meant that even if I didn’t go to, like, outings or anything, you’d have your team for company. And Anya for— for, like, support. No, baby, I’m never leaving you,” he rambled, crushing Ilya to his chest. His husband let out a slow, shaky breath, arms coming around to squeeze him. “Never, Ilya, I’m never going to do that to you. Fuck. I’m sorry I—”

“Stop,” Ilya begged, voice ruined. Shane stilled for a second, staring down at the crown of his husband’s head. Ilya didn’t beg, not like this. “Stop saying sorry. I am sorry, that I did not— Shane. I did not realize what they were doing.”

He swallowed. “The team? They’re not doing anything, baby.”

“They ignore you. They do not invite you without insulting you. They— they’re so fucking… they talk like they are being nice, but they are not.”

“Passive aggressive?” Shane supplied quietly.

“Yes. That.” Ilya inhaled deeply, pushing off of Shane again. “They cannot do this. To anyone, but especially not to you. Fuck, Shane, they don’t see that you’re the best thing to happen to this team in years. You’re the best thing to happen to me, ever, and they cannot treat you like you are not. I will talk to them.”

“What? No! Ilya, there’s no need, seriously,” he cut in, shaking his head emphatically. “I told you, this is normal. I’ve always played hockey like this, with the same style of locker room dynamics. It’s never been an issue before, and it’s not an issue now. And I’m serious about them being better than Montreal. No slurs, no real insults, they don’t force me to participate in gross conversations— I really can’t ask for much more. They’re nice, like you said.”

Ilya’s jaw dropped, and he gaped at him with equal parts disbelief and revulsion. “Shane. Shane, when will you learn to respect yourself?”

It was Shane’s turn to stare at him, a white hot anger blooming behind his ribcage. He pushed Ilya off of him, glaring at him as he settled next to him anyway, glowering right back. How fucking dare he?

“The fuck does that mean, Rozanov?” he spat. “If I didn’t respect myself, I’d have stayed with the Metros, forced a rebuild, and kept my fucking legacy. But I do respect myself, so I fucking left! They didn’t treat me well, so I left! Is that not self-respect?”

“Are you fucking crazy? No, Shane, they forced your goddamn hand!” Ilya snapped back, waving his hands wildly. “I know damn well you would have just fucking taken it if they were even slightly less terrible—”

“You don’t know anything about what it was like, Ilya,” he cut in coldly, crossing his arms. “They were manageable. The bigger issue was that my presence was affecting team dynamics. We wouldn’t win if I was there, so I left. I wanted to keep winning.”

“Shut the fuck up about team dynamics for a second, Shanya! This isn’t about that! This is about the fact that you let everyone walk all over you because— because what? You care about the game more than you care about yourself?” Ilya groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You keep saying they ‘weren’t that bad,’ but everything you say about them—”

Shane scoffed, getting off of the bed with a huff. Ilya watched him go, brows drawn low and something like worry pooling in his beautiful blue eyes. “Seriously? This is why I don’t tell you about them! About what it was like! Because all of a sudden, it’s my fault that I left, that I stayed, that I did anything at all! Staying wasn’t self-respect, leaving wasn't self respect— so what is? What do you want me to do, Ilya?”

“I didn’t say that it was your fault, goddammit! It’s— The blame is on fucking Montreal and your shitty teammates and your stupid coach! Don’t put words in my mouth, Shane,” Ilya growled, dragging a hand down his face. “I just— fuck. I want you to make the best decisions for yourself. Because you fucking don’t. You let the team treat you however they want, and I don’t understand why. You are Shane fucking Hollander, but they barely treat you like—”

“They treat me like a teammate,” he interrupted, beginning to pace. His limbs felt staticky, tense, and he needed to loosen them. It felt like his bones were going to break, everything pulled so terribly tight. “I don’t get special privileges just for being your husband.”

Ilya scoffed, muttering something about him not accepting—something—anyway. Shane ignored that, both for his sanity and the point of the argument. Ilya needed to understand, he needed to, that this was fine. The team could treat him however they wanted (which wasn’t that bad anyway) as long as they were winning. Shane could take a hike, for all he cared, as long as Hollander kept showing up. But Ilya, sweet, darling Ilya, wanted to share Shane with the world. And the world hated ‘Shane.’

He let them hate it. Ilya would understand it one day.

“They don’t even treat you like a teammate, Hollander,” Ilya finally said, chest heaving. “They treat you like a machine, like something to score them goals.”

Wasn’t that all he was, anyway? He was an athlete. His body was for the game, his mind for the team.

Shane sighed, rubbing his eyes. “That’s pretty much how all teams treat me, Ilya. They don’t need to think about me outside of hockey.”

Ilya opened his mouth, as if to argue, before snapping it shut again. He visibly bit his tongue, glowering at Shane, his eyes tracking his every move. By now, Shane could figure out when Ilya was mad at him, and when he was mad about something else. But right now, right here in their bedroom and on their marital bed, Shane couldn’t tell the difference.

“Fine. But even in hockey, they barely treat you right. They don’t respect your skills. They don’t value your advice, even though you are a better player than everyone on the team.”

Shane raised a brow, grinning slowly, and Ilya’s lips twitched up into a reluctant smirk.

“Except me, obviously. I’m still better.”

“Sure, baby.”

“It’s why I have the C.”

Huh. That stung. Shane paused, blinking into the middle distance. He hadn’t had very strong feelings about losing captaincy in the months that followed. It felt better, honestly, not having to worry about bonding with the team and caring about their personal lives and going out with them all the time. There were no expectations tied with his place in the team anymore, and it was—

It was strange. Shane did not know how to live without expectations.

Ilya was a fantastic captain. He loved his team. He deserved the letter on his jersey, right over his heart. Shane really, truly, did not want the C back. He just wanted to play hockey. But he wanted the authority back, the rulebook backing his expertise. He wanted the codified respect because he was one of the best players of the generation. He deserved it. He knew he did, and it was one of the few good things he felt he deserved.

Ilya, like always, seemed to pick up on this to some extent, because the anger in his eyes softened just a bit. “You don’t need the C to ‘earn’ the team’s love. They should love you like they love each other, and I hate that they do not.”

“They love you because you have the C,” Shane said slowly, thoughtfully. “At least initially. You earn the team’s respect, then you earn their love. Without that C— I mean, the Cens respect me. I know they do. But they don’t have to love me, because I’m not captain.”

“You think they love me because I am their captain? Because they respect me?” Ilya clarified, brows rising. “That is not true. Not here, and not in Boston either.”

He was happy for Ilya. He really was. He’d quash down the anger coursing through his veins for Ilya, even though he didn’t seem to understand. “That’s how it worked in Montreal.”

Ilya swore, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fucking hell, Shane. What the fuck did they do?”

He shrugged. “They respected me, so they loved me as captain. Then they lost their respect for me, and they hated me. It’s simple.”

“It’s terrible! Awful! We’ll destroy them when we play them!”

“We’d do that anyway,” Shane pointed out, “and it’s normal. The team deserves a hierarchy they love.”

Him not fitting into that hierarchy went unsaid. Ilya picked up on it anyway.

“Fine. Okay. Let’s say you have not made it to step two—only because the guys are idiot morons who do not know what is good for them—, so you have their respect without their love,” Ilya said, wincing at his own words. Shane wanted to hold him tight and never let him go. “And you think respect is… what?”

He shrugged again. “Not telling me to retire or kill myself—”

Ilya sucked in a harsh breath, hand shooting up to hold Irina’s cross.

“—calling me slurs, listening to me if I correct them. Not flat out ignoring me or insulting you. The usual things. They treat me like a teammate, Ilya. Just not a friend, and that’s fine. I don’t need to make friends on the team.”

He thought, briefly, of the time he had. He’d kept Hayden and JJ from back then, of course, but making ‘friends’ on the team just ended up being a headache and a half, and the fallout of everything was worse for it.

“But… they’re my friends. Boston were—are—my friends,” Ilya said slowly, watching him with the fresh sheen of tears in his eyes.

Shane sighed, throwing his hands up. “Good for you, Ilya! My teams never were, and that’s fine! We’re coworkers! As long as we can get along on the ice, it’s all okay.”

“Because that’s how it was in Montreal.”

“Yes.”

Ilya was silent for a few minutes, gaze fixed on the floor as he chewed his lip. It gave Shane enough time to get his breathing under control, to get his skin feeling less restrictive. He slowly walked over to Ilya, kneeling in front of him and tugging his lip out from between his teeth. Ilya glanced up at him, eyes narrowed.

“So. When you were on that terrible diet—”

“Ilya—”

“—and overworking yourself. That’s how it was in Montreal, too.”

Shane furrowed his brows. “Yes. Obviously. They were a lot more demanding than Ottawa is. You know this.”

Ilya hummed. “And when you were in your head all the time, hardly smiling unless I was there. That was Montreal, too.”

“What the hell are you getting at?” he sighed. “Montreal sucked. We established this before I came to Ottawa. Why are you bringing all of this up again?”

“You’re dieting again. Not as much, but enough that you keep getting headaches. And you’re the first to arrive, last to leave. Always in the gym, too.”

Shane bristled. “I’m just dedicated. It’s not like Montreal.”

“Mm. I’m worried about you.”

“Sorry. You don’t have to be. I’m fine. The team’s fine, too.”

“Yes, I know.” Ilya had gone quiet, still in that way of his that meant he’d figured something out that he didn’t like. And, given this conversation, he wouldn’t be telling Shane. “You don’t want me to talk to the team.”

That wasn’t a question. Shane still nodded, leaning up to plant a small kiss on his lips.

“No, I don’t. It’s fine. I’ll tell you if something’s bothering me, okay?”

“Hm.” Ilya patted the bed, and Shane pushed himself up to sit next to him. “Why shouldn’t I? What if I’m worried about team synchrony?”

“Synergy.” Shane paused, grabbing Ilya’s right hand to toy with his wedding band. It had become something of a habit over the past few months, a small act of comfort. Ilya did the same thing, and Shane loved him all the more for it. “And you can obviously talk to the team about whatever. Just don’t make me the focal point, because I’m not. I shouldn’t be.”

“You’re Shane fucking Hollander,” Ilya pointed out, squeezing his hand hard. “The trophy room will prove it.”

Shane scoffed lightly, heat crawling up his neck. “Not right now, dipshit.”

But Ilya was right. He was Shane fucking Hollander, and he kept stealing the limelight. The only person who could keep up was Ilya, and the rest of the team was simply… left behind. It was the least he could do to let them have something, even if it was just off the ice and at his expense. He would give up anything and everything for Ilya, and if keeping the team happy meant staying away from them, that was fine. He could be the superstar on the ice, and the random teammate off of it, captain’s husband or not.

And, if that kept the team happy with Ilya’s impartiality, then that was just an added bonus.

He slumped into Ilya, nuzzling his neck and breathing him in. He smelled like warm spices and sharp cologne, the distinct smell of just him underlining it all. Ilya let out a soft breath, turning to kiss the crown of Shane’s head.

“Can we just go to bed?” he whispered against Ilya’s neck. “I’m so tired.”

“Yes, moy pomidor,” Ilya said after a long moment. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you too.”