Chapter Text
“One more thing, Shane,” Farah said on Shane’s laptop screen. Ilya stirred restlessly beside him but he noticed his mother, who always sat in on these virtual catchups with their agent, pick up her notepad. “Public Health Canada has reached out to see if you would be willing to be the face of a new sexual health campaign.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Shane asked, wondering if he had heard her right, while Ilya stifled a laugh. Shane saw in the small window that showed their faces that his husband looked like he’d just been told McDonald’s had opened up next to their cottage. Shane kicked him under the dining table that held the laptop.
“STI rates have risen pretty dramatically in Canada over the past decade, especially for men who have sex with men. It’s not just HIV but syphilis and gonorrhoea too. The public health agency is planning a big public awareness campaign to increase safe sex practices.”
Shane waited a moment for someone to burst onto the screen and announce he was being pranked, but when it became apparent that no such revelation would be forthcoming, he asked what he felt was the obvious question.
“But why me?”
“Shane,” Farah began with the tone of a very patient school teacher trying to support her most challenging student. “Maybe it is hard for you to grasp but you are almost certainly one of the highest profile gay celebrities in Canada right now.”
“I’m not a celebrity,” Shane responded immediately. “I am an athlete and I am not doing it.”
“Darling, you should think about it. It is an important cause and a great way to give back to your community,” his mother said. Yuna Hollander had a great respect for government and public institutions after a career in public service than lasted from before Shane was born to when she resigned to run the Irina Foundation. David still worked in the public service. Shane rolled his eyes. Of course his mother would want him to do this.
“Mom, I was outed less than a year ago. I have only played a handful of games for the Cens and half the league is still really weird about the fact that two NHL players are married to each other. I’m not getting on TV to talk about… sex stuff. I just want to play hockey.”
“Farah, tell them we need more time to think about it,” Yuna suggested calmly.
“No, Farah. Tell them it’s a no.”
“Shane’s the client. He says no, so it’s a no,” Farah said, raising her hands towards the camera.
“Why didn’t they ask me? I would do it,” Ilya interjected, sounding a little put out.
“I did raise it as a possibility,” Farah conceded. “You’re still new to Canada, though, and the feeling was that it might not be the best fit, branding-wise.”
“I am very comfortable talking about sex,” Ilya argued, pointedly ignoring the glare Shane shot him.
“I think that’s part of the problem, Ilya,” Farah said frankly. “You’ve been photographed leaving too many nightclubs with too many women to lecturing to anyone about safe sex. Sorry Yuna.” Farah added the last past as an afterthought, as if she had just remembered it was Yuna’s son-in-law she was talking about. Shane saw his mom smile and open her mouth to speak, so he decided to shut this down quickly.
“Well, that’s decided then. No campaign for either of us. Have a nice night and see you at the game on Friday, mom!” He exited the call and slammed the laptop shut with more force than was strictly necessary.
“That was very proportional,” Ilya teased, turning to Shane. Huffing, Shane stood up from the dining table in their Ottawa home and made his way into the lounge. He wasn’t in the mood to be ribbed by his husband.
Flicking through the channels on their television, Shane desperately tried to find something worthy of distracting him from the unpleasant feeling that had taken root inside him. There wasn’t much to choose from but he landed on a renovating program. He tried to focus on the young couple completely blowing their budget on a Toronto loft refit but his mind kept wandering back to the conversation with Farah. A sexual health campaign? Were they serious?
It wasn’t that Shane didn’t think sexual health was important. He and Ilya had always practiced safe sex until they’d committed to monogamy, but that didn’t mean Shane needed to be the one spruiking it to the masses. There was enough attention on his sexuality to begin with. It was a month into Shane’s first regular season as an Ottawa Centaur and he was yet to read an article about a Cens game that did not mention that its captain and second-line centre were newlyweds. Shane understood it was a novelty for the hockey community, but still – it was getting ridiculous.
Worse was the offhanded commentary and social media chatter, making innuendos about how he and Ilya would celebrate after the games they won. When they lost, they instead joked about who would end up sleeping on the couch after a sub-par performance. It was weird and a little creepy, and that was before Shane even considered the outright hostile and homophobic drivel they got from the internet’s deepest cesspools.
Except, sometimes Shane wondered if the internet had it right. Not with their blatant bigotry or rudeness, of course. That would never be okay. However, there was a refrain Shane heard a lot that seemed to echo in his mind lately, especially when he couldn’t sleep.
Stick to hockey.
If only those fuckers online knew just how much Shane really did just want to play hockey and be left alone. It was one of the reasons Shane had insisted on hiding his relationship with Ilya for so long. He didn’t want to be a spokesperson or a symbol. He just wanted to be the best fucking player in the league and win cups.
Stick to hockey. Stick to hockey.
He was trying, except the media and the fans and now apparently even his own agent and mother wouldn’t let him. He already had to show up on the ice and face chirps from opposing team fans about whether he or Ilya took it in the ass. He couldn’t imagine fronting up for a face-off that after he’d shot a PSA on keeping it wrapped. It would practically be an invitation for things to get a hundred times worse.
Shane glowered as he watched the couple on TV fight over whether to take out another loan to continue their renovations. He was glad Ilya had taken the cue about his mood and left him alone, but he was starting to miss him. Even though they lived together full time now in addition to working together, Shane considered their evenings on the couch to be sacred.
“Ilya,” he called. His husband appeared moments later, Anya padding behind him.
“You are ready to talk like a normal person instead of being grumpy now?” There was only a hint of bemusement in his voice. He mostly sounded kind and patient, which made Shane feel worse.
“I’m not grumpy,” Shane lied.
“Of course not.” Ilya took a seat on the couch beside Shane and patted his lap, encouraging Anya to jump up too. Shane sighed. He had given up trying to keep Anya off the sofa at some point during the summer.
“I’m sorry, Ilya, and I’ll text mom and Farah to apologise as well. I shouldn’t have hung up like that. I’m just pissed.”
“Why?” Ilya asked in a tone that held no judgement or pre-conception, just genuine interest.
“It’s stupid, okay? I don’t know how to explain.”
“Try, for me. Please.” Ilya looked so soft and kind and he was wearing Shane’s hoodie on their couch. Shane could never deny this man, so he spoke.
“When I was drafted into the NHL, I got asked a lot about being Asian-Canadian and I fucking hated it. Now I’m older, I can see that it was probably all well-meaning and asked by reporters genuinely excited that the league was beginning to be more diverse, but at the time it just made me feel… separate, and not in a good way. I just wanted to be the best hockey player in the league and instead I had to rehearse canned answers on how it felt to be the only Asian player on the ice.” Shane sucked in a shaky breath. Ilya rested his hand on Shane’s thigh but didn’t speak, sensing correctly that Shane had more to get off his chest.
“And now, I feel like we fought so fucking hard to make this thing between us work between us. We were outed, which sucked, and got married, which was the best, but now I really just want to play hockey with you by my side. Fuck everything else. Everyone already knows we’re gay and presumably have gay sex. I just don’t know why I need to talk about it on CBC.”
“Is okay,” Ilya said after a thoughtful pause. “Changing teams, being outed, being married. It is all big things yes? Maybe now is not the time. Maybe later.” He patted Shane’s leg and leaned in to kiss him. Shane accepted the gentle peck and ran his hands through Anyas soft ears. She was a comforting presence, as was his husband.
“Thank you for understanding. I just don’t want to make a big splash right now. Maybe ever.”
“It would be big splash,” Ilya agreed then grinned. “But would also be… iconic, yes?” Ugh, Shane needed Ilya to spend less time with Harris. Of course Ilya loved the idea of him doing the campaign, even as he seemed to be making an effort to understand why Shane was saying no.
“I don’t want to be a gay icon,” Shane protested.
“I think that ship sailed when you did the photoshoot for Speedo with your nipple piercings out. Little gay boys all over Canada will have that on their walls for the next decade. In other countries too, probably.” Shane hit Ilya with a pillow for that.
“At least the Canadian government didn’t imply I was too slutty to front a sexual health campaign.”
“Ah, this is their loss,” Ilya said flippantly. “I would be great ambassador. I am example of how you can be slutty but still safe, by always using protection. Why do you think there have been no women showing up saying they are Ilya Rozanov’s baby mama?”
“C’mon, you safe sex legend,” Shane said, slapping Ilya’s thigh playfully even as his voiced sounded tired to his own ears. “We have time for Anya’s walk before dinner.”
That night they showered together, not because they needed to – they’d showered after morning practice – but because they wanted to. They often found themselves under the hot, streaming water on days that had been difficult, like when Ilya’s sadness became overwhelming or Shane was overstimulated to the point of shutting down. Washing each other was not consistently sexual but was always sensual. It felt like they were cleansing themselves of the bullshit the outside world and their own minds liked to throw at them, so they could be clean and open together. Shane shivered even under the warm water as Ilya massaged sandalwood-scented suds into his wet skin. Ilya’s touch just had that effect on him. As Ilya’s hands ran over Shane’s pierced nipples, Shane let out a low moan and felt his cock begin to thicken between his legs. An hour earlier, he’d have said arousal was the furthest thing from his mind, but that was just the magic of Ilya Rozanov.
Shane reached behind himself and used soapy fingers to start prepping his hole. He turned his ass into the spray of the shower so the warm water could help him feel clean and noticed his husband looking at him with raised eyebrows.
“Are you sure? Tonight?” Ilya checked, because he always checked. He asked like he wasn’t sure sex was the best idea with Shane so prickly, like sex wasn’t often the only thing that could get Shane out of his head when he was like this.
“Yes,” Shane insisted. “Need you.”
Ilya joined in his efforts to get him clean and open, their fingers working in tandem inside him, until their skin began to get wrinkly from the water. They stumbled into the bedroom, dripping with water and gasping into each other’s mouths. Shane was so happy. It was impossible to feel anything other than blissful with Ilya’s body all over his. Ilya took him slowly, even when Shane begged for it harder.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he crooned, gripping Shane’s hip as he took him on his side. “You take what I give you and you fucking enjoy it.”
When Shane came, it seemed like it lasted forever and his mind went deliciously blank. Ilya fucked him through it and then kept going, giving him the pace he had craved but driving him to the point of oversensitivity. He felt Ilya spill inside him, his Russian and English words of adoration blending together as he filled him.
Shane felt himself drifting off as Ilya wiped his belly with a warm, damp cloth. This was all that mattered – Ilya and him. The two of them. Fuck everyone else, he thought as he melted against Ilya chest to sleep.
-
The following day found Shane heading for a morning workout. He knew he really should be using the gym attached to the Centaurs’ practice rink. It would be a good opportunity to ingratiate himself further into the team and make small talk with whichever other players chose to work out at the same time. However, despite their recent run of good form and making the play offs last year, the Cens had training facilities which told the story of decades of disappointing performances and a lack of sponsor dollars to match. The gym was fine, Shane supposed. There wasn’t anything objectively wrong with it but the brand of equipment was not what Shane was used to and there were a couple of machines Shane favoured that they simply did not have. He’d have been able to make do, but he’d changed so much lately. He hated the idea of changing his workouts too. Exercise was one of the few things he could control, and control felt more important than ever with a new team, a new coach and new role on the ice.
Montreal’s training facility had been like a palace, flush with every amenity imaginable thanks to being one of the oldest and most successful franchises in the game. Sponsorship cash seemed to have rained down everywhere. Shane had to remind himself sometimes, when he woke in Ilya’s arms in their home it Ottawa, that he wasn’t going to be training in Brossard any longer. That was over now.
He’d settled on the next best thing, a luxury gym and wellness facility in an affluent area about halfway between his home with Ilya and the Cens’ practice rink. It had been a place he’d found to keep in shape when he’d been visiting his parents in the summers and now it had become home to his thrice-weekly strength training sessions to complement his on-ice practice, and also where he planned to do his daily cardio once the temperature dropped too low to run outside. If Ilya had been a little offended at Shane turning his nose up at the gym he’d built in the basement of the Ottawa house before Shane had moved in full time, it had all melted away when Shane explained his reasoning.
“I don’t want to work out in our home, Ilya. I don’t want to be an athlete here. I just want to be your husband from the moment I walk through the front door,” he had explained during pre-season. Ilya had looked at him with passionate devotion after he’d said those words and then dragged Shane upstairs for a type of physical activity Shane would always be down for at home. Shane had come three times that night, each time with Ilya’s name on his lips.
“Good morning Mr Hollander,” the young man working behind the desk said as Shane swiped his access pass for the gym. The ground floor of the facility looked more like a spa than a traditional gym and the high monthly membership fee kept the place from ever becoming crowded. The clientele seemed to be mostly senior government officials and diplomats who anxiously checked their phones between sets in their early morning workouts, or serious fitness enthusiasts. No one bothered Shane here, which he appreciated
After greeting the receptionist and picking up a neatly rolled towel from the towel service station, Shane made his way up to the gym floor. He checked the app on his phone that held his trainer-approved plan and set about getting his reps and sets in. It felt good to move his body, to push it hard and see improvements overtime. It was one of his favourite things about lifting weights – how he could measure his progress through progressive overload. He never wore headphones when he worked out and the gym only played the softest background music. He preferred it that way, to lose himself in the physical exertion and leave his other senses alone. This gym made it easy, with its serene atmosphere and neutral tones. It allowed Shane to enter an almost zen-like state, something which felt impossible anywhere in the vicinity of the raucous Cens locker room.
Shane was so in the zone of his workout that he failed to notice the woman using the cable machine beside him until he’d had to leave his station to get more water. She had dark skin, long braids and was familiar in a way Shane couldn’t quite place. He ran through the possibilities in his head as he refilled his bottle with cool water. She wasn’t from his high school or from the Cens organisation, as far as he could tell. Was she a WAG to one of the players Shane didn’t know so well yet? Or maybe she’d been on one of the brand shoots he’d done? Shane chanced a quick look over his shoulder. He didn’t want to be caught staring like some creep, but he definitely knew her. She was doing serious numbers on the machine and her form was impeccable. Shane was impressed. She was an athlete then, or at least she trained like one, and had the physique to match.
“Nice spinal alignment,” he said as she finished her set. She turned at him, looking confused.
“Sorry?” she said, pulling out a sports earbud from her ear. Shit. Shane sucked at this and now he was going to come across as a weirdo who interrupted someone’s workout.
“Your spinal alignment. It’s really good. Your form is fantastic,” he rambled, feeling foolish.
“Thanks, Shane,” she said, smiling with one side of her mouth. “Nice goal against Detroit the other night.”
Fuck. She was not speaking to him like a stranger. He was definitely was supposed to know who she was. If only Ilya were here, he thought. Ilya knew and remembered everyone. His blankness must have given him away because the woman took out her other earbud and sighed.
“It’s Madison, from the Strikers,” she said, like she thought he was stupid.
Fuck, of course. Shane felt like kicking himself. Madison Jones was the star centre of Ottawa’s PWHL team and the owner of one of the most accurate wrist shots in the game.
“Yes, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly. “It took a second to recognise you out of your gear.”
“Oh because Shane Hollander watches so much women’s hockey,” Madison said sceptically.
“I do! I watch highlights all the time and full games when I can,” Shane protested. It was only a slight exaggeration. He been following the PWHL with interest since its inception, especially as Leah who did camps for the Irina Foundation played in it. He consumed as much hockey as he could and the PWHL was absolutely part of his media diet. However, if he was being entirely honest, if an NHL game and PWHL game were on at the same time, he would choose the NHL game every time. As this uncomfortable truth dawned on him, he told himself that it was just because he was watching to research teams he’d actually have to play against. It wasn’t that he thought the women’s game was lesser, was it? Either way, that didn’t feel like something he should tell Madison, who was already looking at him like she was unimpressed.
“Never seen you at a game though.”
“Err, no. We should absolutely do that soon.”
“Oh yes, we,” Madison repeated and she did actually smile for real. “I suppose congratulations are in order for the wedding, as well as commiserations for being outed. That sucked.”
“Err, yes. Thank you and it did.” Shane felt like he’d been whiplashed by this conversation and was absolutely certain that he was making a mess of this whole interaction.
“Although, for us women’s hockey players, falling in love with your rival isn’t a scandal. It’s just a Tuesday.” With those words and wink, Madison popped her earbuds back in and started her next set.
Feeling like child who had just been told off, Shane resumed his own workout. Try as he might, he couldn’t lose himself in the exercise as he had before. He kept replaying the conversation with Madison over and over again, wondering what exactly he had done wrong or what social cue he was misreading. He hit a personal best on his Romanian deadlifts but it felt hollow.
Shane’s phone buzzed. It was a link, sent by his mother without further comment. When Shane tapped it, he was greeted by an article explaining how culturally and linguistically diverse communities often experienced higher rates of sexual health issues due to cultural stigma and language barriers. Fucking hell. Shane almost threw his phone down on the bench beside him. His mother was relentless and had the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Frowning, Shane swiped the message away and pulled up his chat with Ilya.
Shane: Love you. Hit PB on RDLs.
Ilya: i love you too, kotik. so strong. so sexy.
Shane: I am taking you on a date next Friday
Ilya: me? is surprise trip to paris? or sex club dr lisa told us about?
Shane: No
Shane: PWHL game