Work Text:
Harris is typing an email to Gen with one hand while polishing off a cake pop in the other when a knock comes from the door. “Come in,” he calls. On the couch, Troy and Chiron raise their heads to see.
“Hi.” Shane Hollander pokes his head in. “Is this a good time?” he asks, his shoulders tense and voice stiff.
“Yeah, of course!” Harris says brightly as he gets up and pushes down his nerves. Harris can treat Shane Hollander like any other player. He can. Harris Drover is the most professional social media manager. “I’m Harris Drover, the Cens’ social media manager.”
Behind Shane, Troy muffles his giggles in Chiron’s fluffy neck. Troy might’ve called “a total babe” once or twice, but he has nothing on Harris’s hometown hero worship. Harris was born and raised in Ottawa, and Shane Hollander was a legend around here. Sometimes, when Harris was coming on his third hospital visit in as many months, he dreamed of what it would be like to play with Shane Hollander. They were close to the same age, after all, and Harris wasn’t a bad skater before his parents pulled him because of his heart condition.
Harris glares at his boyfriend as he holds out his hand for Shane to shake.
“Enough of this,” a voice says before Shane is roughly shoved out of the way. “Is Chiron here?”
“Over here, Ilya,” Troy says dryly.
Ilya makes a beeline for Chiron, falling to his knees in front of the couch so he can pay his proper respects to most valuable member of the Centaurs team.
Harris’s gaze pingpongs between Ilya and Shane. He didn’t think Ilya would be the one to show Shane around, knowing their history, but Ilya is the team captain, and welcoming new players technically fell under his purview.
“Anyway,” Harris says, turning his full attention back to Shane, “it’s great to have you! Welcome to the Cens.”
“It’s great to be here,” Shane says sincerely.
“Like I said," Harris continues, "I’m the social media manager, so I create content for and run our Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, and Twitter. All I ask is that you follow us on all platforms and tag us on relevant hockey posts.”
Shane chews his lip. “I don’t post that much.”
“I don’t either,” Troy cuts in before Harris can reply. “That’s fine.”
“Actually, it’s not –” Harris starts.
Ilya interrupts, “Is fine. I post enough for both of you.” He cajoles Chiron off the couch to give him belly rubs on the floor.
Harris sighs. “That is not how social media works.”
Troy rolls his eyes. Shane’s gaze drops to the carpet between his feet. Ilya is wholly focused on the dog.
“But, I can come up with a strategy for you, Shane,” Harris says reassuringly. “I did the same with Troy last year, so it’s not a problem.” He claps his hands together. “First thing is a super easy Q&A. I do this with all new players. Shouldn’t take more than five minutes. Are you down?”
“Sure,” Shane says, sounding like he’d rather suffer a career-ending injury – or three.
“Do not worry, Hollander. Harris is the nicest social media manager around. He even makes Barrett look good.”
“Hey!” Troy flips him off.
“I’m fine on social media,” Shane argues. “Just because I don’t post multiple times a day, unlike some people –”
Ilya says loudly over him, “Because Yuna is too busy to post every day on your accounts.”
Shane’s eyes narrow, and Harris trades a concerned look with Troy, who shrugs.
Shane’s history with Ilya worries Harris. Sure, both Ilya and Shane say they are friends now. They run a charity and do public appearances together. But they had been enemies and rivals for eight years - almost a decade being pitted against each other for wins, for points, for pretty much everything. Could the team dynamics survive? The Cens had such a good run last year, with Ilya as captain.
Harris says none of this as he busies himself setting up the camera and finding the microphones while Shane and Ilya bicker in the background – somehow they’ve moved on to arguing about the best type of socks, which what – until Troy stretches.
Chiron jumps out of Ilya’s arms. “What?” he says, alarmed, as Chiron trots away, tongue lolling happily. “Where is he going?”
Troy jangles Chiron’s leash and Chiron’s tail starts wagging at the speed of a blackhawk helicopter. “On a walk?” Troy says, amused. “Like he does at this time every day?”
“He can’t stay?”
Harris replies, “He’ll get antsy and ruin the content.” He clips the microphone to Shane’s shirt. To Ilya, he says, “You’re welcome to join them, if you want.”
Ilya casts one longing look at Chiron’s furry butt as Troy and the dog disappear out the door. “No, I will stay here. Be good company for Hollander.”
“Make fun of my answers, more like,” Shane mutters darkly under his breath.
Innocently, Ilya says, “I am a good multi-tasker.”
“Don’t,” Harris warns Ilya, silently pleading with him to be good. Not that it ever works.
Ilya throws him a shark-like grin and mimes zipping his lips shut, which Harris doesn’t buy for a second.
They get through nearly all the hockey questions easily (favorite player as a kid, favorite career memory, favorite position to play) but things start to derail at the last one: “Who is your favorite current hockey player?”
Shane tenses. “Sorry, can you please repeat the question?”
“No problem,” Harris says easily, but out of the corner of his eye he watches Ilya jerk to attention Chiron whenever he spots a squirrel. Harris clears his throat. “Ready?” At Shane’s nod, he asks again, “Who is your favorite current player?”
“Uh, my favorite player is Hayden Pike.”
Ilya scoffs loudly out of frame, and Harris can feel his happy go lucky zen drain out of him like grains of sand slipping from his fingers. “Liar,” Ilya accuses.
“Hayden’s a great player!” Shane protests.
“Fifteenth best Voyageurs player.”
“He’s my best friend.”
“Okay friend,” Ilya corrects. “Bad hockey player.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “JJ, then.”
“Still liar,” Ilya sing songs.
Shane goes fiery red. “Fuck off.”
“Ilya,” Harris says, and he really should get more used to taking a firmer stance on things he doesn’t like. It just goes against Harris’s... everything. “Just because you said Shane is your favorite current player does not mean Shane owes you the same courtesy.”
Internally, Harris winces. Honestly, it feels like disciplining a child – a child who is the top scorer in the NHL, weighs nearly 240 pounds, and stands at 6’3. Ilya probably won’t kill him for this. Ilya likes him. He does.
Shane’s mouth falls open. “You really said that?” he breathes.
Ilya shrugs like he did not wax poetic for a full 20 seconds that Harris had to cut down to two. “I may have.”
Harris pulls out his personal phone to play it for Shane. “I posted it last year, but it’s still on the Centaurs’ Insta–”
“No need for that!” Ilya interrupts hurriedly. “Ask Hollander the question again. He will give real answer.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Shane says, but he’s smiling and looking far more relaxed than two minutes ago, to Harris’s surprise. He will definitely be using this take, if only to catch that smile on camera.
“Okay, Shane,” Harris says, now smiling himself. “Who is your favorite current player?”
“Scott Hunter.”
Ilya makes a noise like Shane just shot him. “No!”
Shane snickers. “I’m kidding. While I greatly admire Scott for all he’s contributed to hockey, my favorite player is Ilya Rozanov.” His gaze flicks to Ilya and then back to the camera. “Rozanov pushes everyone on the ice to be better, whether they’re playing with him or against him. It’s one of the best things about joining the Centaurs and what I’m looking forward to most this season.”
Cut.
Trust Shane Hollander to end on a perfect media-ready answer that hypes future games.
“Is that usable?” Shane asks nervously.
“It’s perfect,” Harris says, dumbfounded.
“I knew you loved me and not Scott Hunter, bah,” Ilya says as he violently yanks Shane closer and presses an offensively loud kiss to the side of his head.
“What the fuck? Get off me,” Shane grunts as he shoves Ilya, cackling like a hyena, away.
Harris clears his throat. “Ilya, please at least wait until the season opener to harass our new players. Ready for the next set of questions, Shane?”
“Uh, yeah, go for it,” Shane says with a warning look at Ilya.
“Are you a dog person or a cat person?”
Shane’s forehead scrunches as he thinks. “I used to think I was more of a cat person–”
“What the fuck, Hollander?”
“But,” Shane continues like Ilya did not interrupt at all, “One of my best friends recently got a dog, and I think I might actually be a dog person.”
“That’s what I thought,” Ilya says smugly. “Every person is an Anya person.”
“Oh my god,” Shane rounds on him, “do you have to have an opinion on everything?”
Ilya cocks his head. “Is like you have never met me before.”
Shane makes an incomprehensible growling noise, which Harris will certainly cut later. “Anyway,” Harris says loudly, “Shane, do you have any hobbies?”
Shane goes completely blank. 404 error, not processing. After an excruciatingly long silence, he asks, “Hockey doesn’t count?”
“Um, no.”
“So boring, Hollander.”
Shane groans. “I don’t know. I read books–”
Ilya cuts in, “Hockey books.”
“I work out?”
“To stay fit for hockey,” Ilya points out.
“I do yoga!” Shane says triumphantly with a challenging look at Ilya, who holds up his hands in a gesture of defeat.
Harris does not facepalm in front of his hockey idol, but it’s a close damn call. A quarter of this will be usable–if he’s lucky. “Okay,” he says as Shane all but sticks his tongue out at Ilya and taunts, “na na, na-na, nah.” Harris checks the camera to see if it’s still recording. He can do this. He is a professional. He increased the Centaurs’ followers by 10k last season, and increased their engagement by 37%. “What is your favorite ice cream flavor?”
“I don’t really have a favorite ice cream flavor because I don’t eat ice cream,” Shane says awkwardly.
“Your mom always has cookie and cream in the freezer,” Ilya chimes in.
“How do you–” is all Harris can get out before Shane says, exasperated, “That’s her favorite, dumbass.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “How am I supposed to know this?”
“You know I don’t eat ice cream.”
“Your diet is stupid,” Ilya says.
“Your face is stupid.”
Ilya smirks. “Oh so many people disagree with you, Hollander–”
“Not if they knew you only have seven real teeth left.”
“Is way more than seven!”
“Like what, ten?” Shane taunts.
“Guys,” Harris says loudly before they can, what, get in a slap fight? He doesn’t think Ilya and Shane will escalate to actually punching each other out over ice cream, but he’s seen how heated they can get in the rink. He simply didn’t think it would also translate to inconsequential social media interviews.
“Sorry, Harris,” Ilya apologizes.
“Sorry,” Shane says a split second later.
Harris sighs. He inhales a deep breath and forces a smile on his face. “Next question: since you’re on a diet, Shane, what is your favorite cheat food?”
Shane’s brow furrows. “I don’t cheat.”
For once, nothing from Ilya. He nods in agreement, his face serious.
Harris follows up, “Wow, that’s incredible! So what’s your favorite food that’s in your diet?”
“I don’t know,” Shane hedges over a telltale jangling from outside the office. “I guess my favorite food in my diet is salmon?”
Oh, shi–
“No way!” Troy says as he and Chiron come in. “I love salmon. It’s my favorite too. Hot, cold, you can’t go wrong.”
Harris throws up his hands. “Yeah, sure, let’s make this a group Q&A. Why not.”
“Really, Barrett?” Ilya groans as he waves at Chiron, who immediately jumps on him, licking him chin to forehead. “Are you secretly boring too?”
“What do you have against salmon?” Troy demands as, next to him, Shane grins at the backup.
Ilya’s eyes gleam. “Where do I fucking start?”
Harris gives up. He can finish Shane’s Q&A tomorrow - or never.
* * *
“New season, new playlist!” Evan crows as he presses play. “Let’s fucking go!”
At the first twang over the gym speakers, half the weight room groans. The other half sprints for the cardio machines, jamming earbuds in their ears.
“Way to start us off strong, Dykstra,” Bood says sarcastically to an encouraging round of jeers before he climbs on the farthest stationary bike from the speakers.
“Fuck off, you haters,” Evan says loudly as stretches out his perpetually tight hamstrings next to Rozy. “This album is great.”
“I think my ears are bleeding,” Pointy moans from the bench press where Bergy is spotting him.
“Who is this?” Hollander asks from the rowing machine, positioned closest to the mats. He looks intrigued.
Evan beams. Suck it Rozy, Shane Hollander is the best hockey player in the league. Who cares if his backhand is weak, and if he is short. Rozy is completely batshit. Hollander’s backhand is still loads better than Evan’s, and he’s an inch taller than Evan, anyway. Plus, he’s Shane Hollander.
The name Ilya Rozanov also used to carry that scary, intimidating weight, but Evan quickly lost almost all fear of his captain the time Rozy got emotional over Barrett’s plate of salmon. Rozy was drunk, they’d lost their fourth game in a row, and he was fighting with his then-girlfriend, Jane. Apparently salmon was her go-to restaurant order, and that was the last straw for Ilya Rozanov, Russian hardass and notorious asshole.
Hard to be afraid of a guy when he’s nearly sobbing over a plate of smelly, cooked fish. It wasn’t even good salmon too, definitely frozen and not fresh caught. Evan would know the difference from a mile away.
Privately, Evan had thought Jane must’ve been a total freak in the sheets to get Rozanov’s attention before the salmon incident. After the salmon incident, though, Evan seriously reevaluated his mental picture. Nobody who goes wild about salmon also goes wild in the bedroom.
Caitlin groaned when Evan tried to gossip about the team with her (like she was always asking for!), and told him he was an idiot. But that just goes to show he knows nothing about women, and Caitlin is a goddess for agreeing to marry him.
“Hollander!” Rozy shouts, “Don’t encourage Dykstra.”
“But it has a good beat,” Hollander huffs.
“You know nothing about music,” Rozy says derisively. “Stick to hockey. Work on that backhand. Leave beats to rest of us. Not including Dykstra.” He turns to Evan. “You also need to work on your backhand.”
“You, shut it,” Evan says to his captain. “Hollander, do you like country music?”
Before Hollander can respond, Rozy says, “No, he does not!”
“I was asking Hollander,” Evan says, glaring.
“Kind of?” Hollander says. “I don’t really listen to music. Mostly podcasts, if I’m training by myself.”
“So boring!”
Hollander ignores the interruption. “But, this song – the last song,” he amends as the playlist moves on, “had a tempo that matched my pace perfectly.” He smiles over at Evan. “Do you have any other songs like that one?”
Evan’s jaw falls open in horror. “That’s why you liked it?” he says, trying and mostly failing to keep the offense out of his voice.
Rozy lets out a vindicated, “Ha!”
Hollander frowns.
“Wait,” Rozy says into the relative silence. His joking smile drops off his face, replaced by pure concentration. “This singer, is he singing about his male lover?”
Hollander’s frown deepens.
Evan cocks his head, listening to the very male voice sing, “I miss the way he used to wake me up, always making me feel loved,” trying to place it.
“Yeah,” Evan says proudly as he recognizes the song. “Caitlin loves country music, but she doesn’t like what some of the popular guys say about women, so I keep them off. And I figured Troy wouldn’t want to listen to homophobes either – similar boat, you know – so I swapped them for a few gay artists! They’ve got good stuff too.”
Hollander’s face goes slack with surprise.
Oh shit. Didn’t Hollander come out a few months ago? Evan hurries to add to Rozy, “Listen, you’ll like the next line – quiet!”
“Now, don’t get me wrong; I don’t miss you at all. I miss the dog.”
Rozy breaks out into delighted peals of laughter. “I am loving this song.”
Even Hollander smiles, and Evan exhales in relief. “If Troy and Harris ever break up, this has to be on their break up playlist.” He is a firm believer in a playlist for every occasion.
“What the fuck?” Troy pops his earbuds out as he slams his hand down on the treadmill console. “If who breaks up?” he demands.
Evan flushes. Whoops. “Nothing.”
“Dykstra is implying that if you and Harris broke up, you would miss Chiron more than Harris,” Rozy helpfully fills in because he is a shit stirrer.
“Uh, no,” Troy says seriously. “If Harris and I split, which is a pretty fucking big if, I would definitely miss Harris more. Chiron is great, but he’s a dog.”
Rozy gasps like the world’s supply of vodka dried up all at once. “You are lying.”
Troy rolls his eyes and pops his earbuds back in.
“Who is this now?” Hollander asks as the song changes to one of Caitlin’s favorites.
All three of them turn to stare at him. Troy takes his earbuds back out. “Really, Shane?” he asks after a beat.
Hollander flushes.
“For the record, I don’t like country music,” Troy says slowly, “But even I can recognize Taylor Swift.”
“Oh! I have heard of her,” Hollander says, but he sounds unsure.
“Oh-kay,” Evan says slowly, “this calls for an intervention. I’m making you a playlist.”
“No, not another playlist!” Bergy groans as Pointy helps him up from the bench press. “Have some mercy, Dykstra.”
“Fuck off! It’s not for you!” Evan calls to their backs as they take off towards the free weights.
Hollander tells him, “That’s really not necessary.”
“It is!” Evan says eagerly. “I’ll put more Chris Housman on there. Adam Mac too. Maybe some Sturgill Simpson, Luke Combs, and, of course, Cowboy Carter.” He grins. “How about old school country, like George Strait or Tim McGraw? And you can’t go wrong with Dolly, obviously.”
Hollander, looking overwhelmed, glances at Rozy, who grimaces. “He’ll listen to whatever you put on this disaster playlist, Dykstra. He is too nice and too Canadian to not play one time, at least.”
“Hell yeah,” Evan says with a wide grin. It might be a pity listen, but he’ll take it! They’re good songs, dammit.
“Hollander, spot me,” Rozy demands as he pops up from the mats like a spring.
“You forgot to say please,” Hollander snarks, but he still slows on the rowing machine.
Rozy rolls his eyes. “Hollander, spot me, please, so big weight does not fall on me and bench the best hockey player in the league.”
“As if,” Hollander says as he climbs to his feet, “I know what you lift. It would just bruise your nose, probably.” He reaches for his water bottle and takes a long pull.
“Aw, you’d miss my pretty face.”
“Like I’d miss a migraine,” Hollander shoots back. “And you’re not the best hockey player in the league. Don’t fool yourself.”
“I am top point scorer,” Rozy points out.
Hollander’s eyes narrow as they move to the newly vacated bench press. “I have more career goals.”
“I have a harder shot,” Rozy says without missing a beat.
“I have better aim.”
“I have more breakaways.”
Smirking, Hollander loads on the 50lb weights on either side before picking up the lighter weights. “I’m faster, and I’m a better stick handler than –”
“Liar,” Rozy cuts him off. “I taught you stick handling. Do you not remember?”
Hollander flounders, his mouth opening and closing. Eventually, he says, bemused, “You did not.”
“Mm hm,” Rozy hums as he sits on the bench and wriggles under the bar. “Advanced stick handling class. After that CCM photoshoot, da.”
Hollander blushes fiercely. “You –!”
Rozy just laughs.
“Weird, right?” Bood says out of nowhere.
Evan jumps. He hadn’t even noticed Bood approaching on the mats.
“It’s like they literally cannot turn the rivalry off, even though they’re friends now,” Bood continues.
“Rozy certainly can’t,” Evan agrees.
“And from what I’ve heard, Holly will never let him have the last word,” Bood says with a chuckle.
Rozy’s raised voice reaches them, chirping something about Hollander’s mother.
“Hey,” Bood calls. “Do I need to split you two up? I’m not afraid to play the A card.”
Rozy lifts his head from the bench. “I’m your captain,” he says indignantly.
Bood flicks his gaze up to Hollander for confirmation, who shakes his head, saying, “We’re fine, thanks.”
“If you say so,” Bood says doubtfully. “Keep it civil, guys. We haven’t even played our first game yet.” He takes off for the other end of the mat where there’s enough room to stretch out fully.
“Civil?” Rozy repeats. “I am always civil!”
Hollander bursts out laughing. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am always civil with my team,” Rozy amends. “On the ice, though, that is another thing.”
Hollander nods once. “I’ll accept that.”
“So glad I have your acceptance now, Hollander,” Rozy says sarcastically as he sits up. “Is your turn.”
Hollander shoots him a dirty look as he slides under the bar.
“I can make it lighter if you need,” Rozy says innocently.
“Shut up,” Hollander hisses as his arms strain with his first rep. “I can lift it.”
“Eh, if the great Shane Hollander says so–”
“Fuck off,” Hollander pants as he pushes the bar up again.
“If you do seven reps,” Rozy says solemnly. “I will tell no one. Will be our secret.”
“Gonna do nine,” Hollander forces out. “One more than you.”
Rozy shakes his head sadly. “So competitive. What is that stupid English saying? There is no ‘I’ in team?”
“Stop talking.”
“Make me,” Rozy says, his eyes gleaming with a challenge.
“I can think of one way,” Shane grunts, his voice strained with the effort to keep the bar over his head.
“In front of the whole team?” Rozy says loudly with a theatrical gasp. “I did not think you had it in you, Hollander! What would Yuna say?”
Hollander’s grip on the weight falters, and Evan lunges over just in time to help Rozy catch the bar before it drops the rest of the way. “Jesus,” Evan says as he lowers it on the floor behind the bench, “Roz, I love you, man, but you can’t distract a guy with innuendos when you’re supposed to be spotting him. That’s how you’re gonna get punched one of these days.”
Entirely unrepentant, Rozy shrugs. “Have been punched many times before. Never made any difference.”
Hollander sits up. “That’s what I was talking about. To get you to shut you up,” he says, red-faced, “Not whatever you were thinking.”
“Sure, you were saying this,” Rozy says with a leer.
“I was!”
Evan glances between the two of them. “Okay, I’m gonna head to the treadmill. Don’t kill each other.”
“No promises,” Hollander says darkly.
Rozy grins and pulls Hollander into a one-armed hug. “We love each other. Do not worry.”
Hollander flinches at the contact, but he doesn’t throw off Rozy’s sweaty arm or deny it. He rolls his eyes instead.
Evan shrugs. Good enough for him.
Two days later, Evan texts Shane Hollander for the first time.
Shane Hollander 3:14
https://open.spotify.com
/playlist/2sCNN6LC4
VRySNh2aBJqQD
All songs are 72
beats per minute
Hope you like!
Had to branch out of
country music to find
enough songs but I
promise theyre all
good!
Oh wow
Thank you so much!
This is so nice of you.
No problem man
So glad to have you
with the Cens!
Dont let Rozy get
under your skin
None of us take him
seriously anymore
Don’t sweat it.
I never do!
Evan’s phone vibrates with a new message less than a minute later.
Rozy (Captain) 3:16
Hollander just told me
what you said
What the fuck
Hope you and rest of team
like bag skates 😈
What the fuck??
Evan stares down at his phone, baffled. Apparently he can add Rozy and Hollander’s friendship to the list of things he doesn’t understand, along with women, country music haters, and that one kid who bit Susie at daycare last week.
* * *
Bergy tugs Young and Pointy closer. “I love you guys,” he says loudly as he throws his arms around them. First he gets drafted on Ilya Rozanov’s team, then he gets to play with the best class of rookies in the league? And now, in their second year, Shane Hollander joined up? How did Bergy ever get so lucky?
Young laughs. “Jesus, Bergy, how the fuck are you such a lightweight? You’re almost as big as Bood.”
They all glance over to Bood, at a larger table with Cap, Hollzy, Hazy, and Barrett. Cap is regaling them with some over the top story, if his larger than life gestures are anything to go by.
Bergy makes a face. “We’re on a five game streak, and tomorrow we’re heading to 80 degree weather in November,” he argues. “Why aren’t you celebrating?”
Young shrugs bashfully. “I might have plans with a girl later.”
Bergy grins. “That’s right, you haven’t gotten any all season. Better not risk whiskey dick, and fuck it all up.”
Young scowls and punches Bergy, hard, in the arm.
“Hell yeah!” Pointy shoots a pair of finger guns at Young. “Get it!”
“Shh!” Bergy flaps his hands in Pointy’s face. “Don’t be so loud. Or you know who will come.”
Pointy frowns. “Voldemort?”
“The fuck?” Bergy grimaces. “Not fucking Voldemort, you moron. Cap.”
“What about Cap?” Pointy asks.
Bergy groans. “He thinks he’s some sort of sex god ’cause he fucked around so much with the Bears.”
Pointy just looks lost, and not entirely due to his two and a half glasses of cider.
Bergy heaves a massive sigh. “Back in LA, Cap caught me looking at a girl across the bar,” he says, “and next thing I know, he’s busting out, like, a whole roll of condoms right there and talking about safe sex and consent and the importance of reciprocation.” He takes a long pull from his beer, nearly draining it.
“Funniest shit I have ever seen,” Young says with a grin as he steals the last dregs of Bergy’s glass. “So, one of the, like, ten thousand condoms catches her eye, and next thing we know, she’s walking over.”
“And I think, holy shit, this is really happening,” Bergy adds, “’cause she’s like a total smokeshow. And, sure I’m hot too, but Ottawa hot, so that means, like, nothing in Los Angeles.”
“Anyway,” Young picks up the story, “she comes up to us, and Cap grins, claps Bergy on the back, tells him to be safe, and leaves. And get this, the girl follows him.”
Pointy nearly snorts his next sip of cider through his nose.
Bergy continues, “But I don’t think he fucked her since he got the next round for the whole team. Unless part of his game is coming in under five minutes.”
“Unlikely,” Young scoffs, “if you actually listened to everything he was telling you to do.”
Bergy nods. “He did the same to Haas back after our first game against New York, so it must be a thing for him.”
Pointy flags down their server for another round. “He really takes this mentoring thing seriously.”
“Too seriously,” Bergy agrees.
“But,” Pointy says, with a small frown, “if he’s all about consent and shit, why is he always up on Hollzy?”
Young opens his mouth and closes it again. Bergy’s brow furrows.
“I didn’t want to say anything,” Pointy says, lowering his voice, “since he’s Cap, and I figure Shane fucking Hollander could flatten him if he wanted to. But – you’ve seen it, right?”
Young bites his lip. Bergy slowly shakes his head in denial even though he has seen Hollzy and Cap interacting in the locker room a few times in a way that made his gut squirm.
It’s just – Hollzy reminds him so much of his little sister. Amy is way into lacrosse, not ice hockey, but she has the same intensity, that same head for lacrosse stats of all her favorite players and past tournaments. Highest lacrosse IQ in the province, Dad says proudly.
Amy also hates to be touched by anybody but family members and sometimes needs to be reminded to make contact for important conversations.
Amy got diagnosed when she was seven, and Bergy’s whole family got an autism crash course over the course of the next year. He only consciously registered that he’d been treating Hollzy the same way he treats Amy when, after their first win, Bergy went in for a light pat on Hollzy’s back when everyone else got a giant bear hug.
What can he say, Bergy has always been a very touchy-feely dude.
“I’ve seen it,” Bergy says quietly as he takes an enormous gulp of his new beer. “Must be different with girls, with Cap,” he says because it makes sense even though it’s not right.
Cap is also a touchy-feely dude. On their last epic winning streak last season, before Hollzy joined up, Cap kissed them all on the cheek after their final game against Boston. Cap always slings his arms around their shoulders, getting in close. They all smelled it when Cap quit smoking at the start of the season.
Pointy glances over. “D’you think it’s part of their… rivalry?”
Bergy’s booze-filled brain can’t follow that leap. “What?”
“Like, we all know Cap likes to mess with other teams,” Pointy says, lowering his voice. “D’you think he’s still messing with Hollzy? Like, he doesn’t see him as a real Centaur since Cap was here first?”
Young asks doubtfully, “What, you think Cap is pulling a ‘this rink isn’t big enough for the both of us’?” He snorts. “That’s not very captainly of him.”
“I don’t know!” Pointy cries.
“Whatever it is,” Bergy says, “I don’t like it.”
Pointy tosses back about half his beer.
Young grabs it before the glass touches the table and chugs the rest. “Should we say something?”
Pointy grumbles, “Do you want to accuse our captain of harassment, and – what the fuck is it,” he snaps his fingers, searching for the term, “workplace bullying?”
Young narrows his eyes. “That’s not a thing.”
“Yeah, it is,” Pointy retorts. “My mom works in HR. This shit is real.”
“Cap?” Young says, his brow furrowing like he’s doing advanced calculus, “A bully?”
“No way,” Bergy says with a forceful shake of his head. “That’s hockey. We had, like, four guys on my junior team who messed with other players like that. It’s just how it is.”
“No, it’s not,” Pointy says. He jerks his head back towards the other table. “Barrett was telling me, the Cens are different. Toronto was like that, and Hazy backed him up. Barrett and Hazy know the difference, and apparently the Cens are better.” He shrugs.
“Are we?” Young says in an undertone. “If Cap is, um, bullying Hollzy in front of everyone?”
Pointy rakes a desperate hand through his hair. “What are we gonna do?”
“Nothing?” Young proposes. Judging from his grimace, he doesn’t like that idea any more than Pointy or Bergy.
“Kids!” Cap’s voice booms over them, and Bergy jumps, along with Pointy and Young.
“Cap?” Bergy twists around in his seat to see Cap looming over them with Hollzy behind him. “We are leaving,” he announces. “Do you all have rides back home?” At their mumbled assents, Cap straightens his shoulders. “Because I do not care if you drive tipsy. Is way more fun that way, and more cool –”
“Oh my god, Rozanov,” Hollzy mutters, rolling his eyes. “What is wrong with you?”
“But Hollander is not cool,” Cap says loudly over Hollzy’s aside, “and he cares very deeply if you drink and drive. So do not do this, da?” He glares at each of them in turn. “You do not want to disappoint Shane Hollander.” He tugs Hollzy closer and squishes his cheeks between his hands, making Hollzy scowl and wriggle back, but Cap doesn’t let him have an inch. “Look at this face. You do not want to see this face when you are hungover and skating like shit.”
In a squashed and muffled voice, Hollzy forces out, “I think they get the point.”
Bergy exchanges a frantic look with Pointy and Young before turning back to Cap, nodding quickly, “No pissing off Hollzy. Got it.”
Thank god Cap lets Hollzy go after that.
“You’re such an asshole,” Hollzy mutters, rubbing his now-red cheeks.
After a long pause, Young mutters, “We’ll call Ubers.”
“Good boys.” Cap claps Young and Bergy on the shoulder, the two closest to him. “Enjoy rest of the night. Do not do anything I would not do,” he says with a laugh.
“That’s really not saying much,” Hollzy says disapprovingly.
Cap says, “They are young and stupid. You do not know this because you have always been boring, but it is very fun to be young and stupid. Come.” He throws an arm around Hollzy’s shoulders, ignoring Hollzy’s automatic twitch at the touch. “I think Barrett has finished blowing Harris in the washroom. We can leave now.”
Hollzy turns maroon. “Why do you always say things like this?” he hisses. “They’re settling the bill, for fuck’s sake.”
Cap cackles. “To see your little face!” Before Hollzy can reply, he quickly ushers him towards the exit where Barrett and Harris are already waiting.
“Okay, we have to do something,” Bergy says. “We all saw that, right?”
Young sighs. Pointy nods.
Bergy glances around to see who also might’ve seen, and his gaze lands on Bood, sitting alone at the table, texting someone on his phone. Probably his wife, Cassie.
“Bood!” Bergy says.
As Bood’s head jerks up, Bergy blurts, “fuck!” before quickly turning back to Young and Pointy. He really didn’t mean to be that loud.
“What?” Young asks, suspicious.
“We tell Bood,” Bergy says as Bood gets up and starts heading for their table. “He has the A. He’ll know what to do.”
* * *
Wyatt rings the doorbell.
By his side, Lisa gives him an encouraging smile, saying, “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
Wyatt sighs. “I know. Bood would have said something after practice if it was urgent.”
The door swings open. “Wyatt!” Bood greets with his usual enthusiasm. “Thanks for coming!”
“Like we wouldn’t miss the last BBQ of the year,” Wyatt says as Bood pulls him into an enormous hug.
“Hey, Lis,” Bood greets as he embraces Lisa too. “Great to see you. Cassie’s just putting Milo down for his nap.”
Lisa hands over the bottle of wine they brought. “I’ll head upstairs, then. Hope everything’s okay with the boys.” She kisses Hazy on the cheek and takes off with a little wave.
Wyatt lets Bood lead him out to the patio. The firepit is already blazing. The heat lamps are turned up to full capacity. His enormous grill is gleaming. Bood hands him a beer and gestures for him to sit as Bood gets started on the veggies skewers.
“Alright,” Wyatt says as he settles in. “You want to tell me why you asked me to come over twenty minutes early?”
Bood heaves a mighty sigh. He pushes a bell pepper onto a skewer with a little too much force, and it slides right off and falls to the floor.
Wyatt lunges for it and pops it, raw, into his mouth. “Five second rule,” he says between crunches.
“You’re lucky I power washed this thing on Wednesday,” Bood says wryly. “Your wife’s a doctor. You have to know the five second rule is bullshit.”
“And you have a kid, so you must have a ton of made up rules already,” Wyatt throws back easily. “C’mon, Bood. How bad can it be?”
“Bad,” Bood says grimly.
“Oh.” Wyatt sits up straighter, his face falling into a more serious expression. “Is someone getting traded? Going to rehab? Some family thing? I didn’t notice anyone acting too off, but you never know.”
Bood turns the skewer over in his hands. “It’s Roz.”
“Ilya?” Wyatt says, more confused than anything. But it figures that Bood would want backup on any Ilya issue. Bood is more than capable of handling literally everyone else on the team, but Ilya can be a lot.
Bood nods. “The kids, they said they noticed some concerning behavior from him. And I’ve been watching – and seeing it too.”
“What kind of behavior?” Wyatt flicks through all his interactions with Ilya over the past few weeks. He seemed normal, ragging Dykstra over his workout playlist, giving extra ice time during practice to the rookies, posting his usual thirst traps to Instagram. Hell, on Monday, Ilya even stopped by Lisa’s unit in the hospital with Shane, Troy, and Bood to celebrate a diehard Cens fan’s discharge from peds oncology.
Bood sets the first veggie skewer on a plate. “The kids claim that he’s making Holly uncomfortable.”
Wyatt tips back his beer. “Uncomfortable how?”
Bood focuses intently on prepping the next skewer. “Touching him a lot. Making stupid comments. Not obviously homophobic, but close enough.” He coughs. “Suggestive, you know.”
Wyatt sighs. “If it helps, he seems like the least homophobic Russian in the NHL.”
“That does not help, man,” Bood says with a small chuckle.
“Either way, I don’t think Shane cares much.”
“No?”
Wyatt shakes his head. “He’s a little more reserved here, but at Game Changers over the summer, Shane’s way more chill. And Ilya is even less restrained without coaches and management breathing down his neck.” Wyatt shrugs. “I never thought for a second Shane was uncomfortable. Sure, he blushes a lot and tells Ilya to fuck off every five minutes, but he used to be a captain of his own team. The guy isn’t a pushover.”
Bood picks up a new skewer.
Wyatt concludes, “I’d be very surprised if Shane wasn’t exactly where he wanted to be.”
Bood wraps up prepping the veggies in silence. “I’ll still have to talk to Roz, if just to tell him to cool it around the kids since it’s making them uncomfortable.”
“Oh yeah,” Wyatt says. “I’m pretty sure Ilya will think it’s hilarious.”
“Probably,” Bood agrees, relaxing slightly as he opens his giant grill.
“You haven’t heard him say anything weird around Troy, right?”
Bood turns, surprised. “No, have you?”
Wyatt picks at the label on his beer bottle, thinking out loud, “Odd, if Ilya is only singling out Shane with weird comments and touching.”
Bood hunches over to set the dials below the grill, saying, “Well, they were famously rivals for years.”
Wyatt sits back in his chair, trying to relax. “Do you think he likes him?”
“Holly started a charity with the guy,” Bood says without looking up. “I think he knew what he was signing up for with that.”
“No, I meant Ilya. Do you think he likes Shane?”
Bood straightens so fast, Wyatt hopes he doesn’t get whiplash. “What’re you saying?”
Wyatt turns his bottle slowly around in his hands. “When I see Ilya and Shane together, lately, I don’t see a schoolyard bully. I see a schoolyard crush.”
Bood blinks. “Huh.”
Wyatt tips back his beer. “He’s basically pulling Shane’s metaphorical pigtails every time they’re in a room together.”
“Shit.”
Wyatt looks up.
Bood groans. “I really don’t want to tell Roz that, dude, he’s just not that into you.”
Wyatt grins. “Best of luck, Bood.”
“Oh, fuck that,” Bood says, shaking his head. “No ribs for you. Only for Lisa.”
“Hey!”
* * *
Zane has put off the conversation for as long as humanly possible. Both batches of chicken, BBQ and jerk, are half-gone, and the burgers only need a final flip. He’s already replaced the peas and rice once since Selena is carb loading while marathon training. The slaw has mostly disappeared, along with the calloo.
Everyone has had at least one round of drinks, if not two.
As the patties shimmer in the heat of the grill, Bood lowers the hood and turns to survey the patio. The WAGs are, as usual, holding court by one of the standing heating lamps. Dykstra, Boyle, and Chouinard appear to be in a heated debate about the best car seats for toddlers. Harris, Luca, and Wyatt are huddled together by the drinks table, and Holly, Roz, and Troy surround two sides of the firepit.
For once, the younger players ended their Mario Kart early and are playing some sort of drinking game outside. Holmberg, LaPointe, and Young are clustered together and shooting concerned looks at Holly and Roz.
Bood sighs.
Roz, apparently oblivious to the attention, is way up in Holly’s personal space. He doesn’t have an arm slung over Holly’s shoulder, but it looks like it’s only a matter of time.
Bood frankly doesn’t get it. The Cens used to go through captains like Milo goes through diapers. That was the hazard of being on a perpetually losing team. But Roz has had the C for two years now, the max of any captain in Bood’s seven seasons with the Cens, and it doesn’t look like anyone wants to change it anytime soon, thank god.
Bood had his doubts when the news broke that Shane Hollander was getting traded, but Holly seemed content to let Roz and Bood keep their positions. After their first official practice, Holly pulled Bood aside at Monk’s. “After Montreal,” Holly told him, “I could use a goddamn break. Rozanov is a good captain, and you both are good together.”
Bood had his doubts as to how long that “break” would last, but he kept them himself and just enjoyed the best season the Cens have ever had with Roz and Holly leading their first two lines.
Roz is, hands down, the best captain Bood has ever had. Sure, Roz had a rough start, but everybody did with the Cens, and Roz course corrected in record time. The guy is scary perceptive. Always listening. Always making adjustments. Roz isn’t afraid to give ten individual pep talks before a big game if ten players need it. And he always knows who needs it most.
So, this shit with Holly is truly the most baffling thing in the world to Bood. Ilya Rozanov can read every single room except one with Shane Hollander? Make it make sense.
Bood lifts the grill hood and plates the burgers at a glacial pace to delay the inevitable. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the kids beckoning Troy over to talk. Bood swears under his breath. This can’t be good. Troy is a good guy, despite all his history, and Roz’s best friend on the team.
Okay, after a quick chat with the kids and Troy, Bood will speak to Roz.
Across the patio, Cassie gives him an encouraging smile. “You’ve got this, baby,” she mouths.
God, Bood loves her. He straightens his spine and heads over to the kids.
“Hey,” he says once he gets in earshot. “Just wanted to let you know, I’ll be speaking to Roz in a few.”
Bergy and Pointy nod as Young drags a nervous hand down his face.
Troy throws him a curious look. “Speaking to him about… what?” he asks cautiously.
Bood sighs. Apparently they hadn’t gotten around to telling Troy anything yet. “Some of the guys,” Bood starts slowly, deliberately not looking at anyone in particular, “are worried that Roz has been crossing some lines with Holly.”
“Lines,” Troy echoes flatly.
“Comments, touching,” Bood explains, now deeply uncomfortable at the defensive look in Troy’s eye, “you know.”
“No,” Troy says, crossing his arms over his chest, “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” Bood says, “You’re his friend. You have to see that he’s treating Holly differently than the other guys.”
“Yeah, but –” Troy breaks off, his mouth twisting. “That’s just how they are.”
“Even if it is,” Bood says reasonably, “it’s making some people uncomfortable.”
“Hollzy goes all red,” Pointy pipes up.
“He never looks that worked up off the ice,” Bergy adds.
“What they said,” Young chimes in.
“Oh my god,” Troy groans. “You guys don’t know anything.”
Bood purses his lips, barely holding in his tsk of disapproval that drives Cassie up the wall. Instead, he says, “I would have thought you’d be the expert in workplace harassment.”
Troy chokes, going a little red himself. After a beat, he says stiltedly, “Un-fucking-called for, man.”
Bood shoves down the flickers of guilt. That was a low blow.
As if by magic, Harris appears by Troy’s side. “Hey,” he says brightly in a futile effort to diffuse the tension. “How’s everyone doing? Great BBQ as always, Bood!”
Troy looks like he’d rather be transferred back to Toronto tomorrow than be at this great BBQ.
“Thanks,” Bood says to Harris as Hazy wanders over too, probably to finish his conversation with Harris.
“What’s going on?” Hazy asks, looking from Troy’s stony face, Bood’s guilty one, Harris’s forced smile, and the kids who look various levels of constipated.
“Roz,” Bood replies.
“Oh,” Hazy says, his expression falling a fraction. “Have you talked to him about his little crush?”
“Crush?” Troy repeats in a strangled sort of voice.
Harris blinks. “I wasn’t aware this was common knowledge,” he says slowly.
“It’s not,” Troy says curtly.
“It’s obvious, though?” Hazy says, glancing over at Holly and Roz, who are now talking to Cassie and Caitlin. Holly is batting Roz’s hands away from where he’s trying to tame some flyaway hairs. Hazy continues, “The guy can barely keep his hands to himself.” He pauses. “Literally.”
“Thank you,” Harris says with an explosive sigh. “I told him he wasn’t being subtle, and Shane agreed, obviously.”
That’s unexpected. Bood asks, “Shane knows?”
Harris blinks. “Shane knows what?”
“That Roz likes him.”
Harris opens his mouth to respond, but Troy puts a hand on Harris’s chest, and Harris closes his mouth with a curious look at his boyfriend. “Let me get this straight,” Troy says slowly. “You’re saying that Ilya is all up in Shane’s business because he likes him, and Shane does not like him back?”
“Well, yeah,” Hazy says awkwardly. “At least, I thought so? Evan’s on board too.”
Inwardly, Bood groans. Who else got roped into this? Does everyone on the team have their own little pet theories?
Bergy adds, “We thought Cap was just, you know, keeping the rivalry with Hollzy alive.”
Hazy turns to the rooks, his expression incredulous. “By constantly touching him?”
“I dunno,” Bergy says as he throws a helpless look to Pointy and Young. “You know how Cap always figures out what makes players tick. It’s not insane to think he’s doing it to Hollzy!”
Hazy’s eyes narrow. “But it’s far more likely that Ilya –”
Bood clears his throat, and everyone turns to him. He sets his untouched plate down. “Okay, whatever the story is, I’m going to tell Roz to knock it off. Enough’s enough, guys.”
* * *
Troy makes a noise of pure exasperation. “Okay,” he says loudly, trying to channel his inner Ilya. “Everyone listen the fuck up!”
Everybody on the patio swivels around to him, and more than a few jaws hang open. Troy gets it; he’s not usually one or for speeches or announcements. He’d rather leave it to Ilya, or Shane, or Bood, or Wyatt, or Harris, or literally any-fucking-body else. At least Bood pauses on his way to Shane and Ilya.
Troy strides to the middle of the patio. “I know a lot of you have,” he grimaces, “concerns about Ilya’s so-called workplace harassment –”
“What?” Ilya shouts, outraged.
“Or his so-called unrequited crush on Shane –”
Shane chokes on his own spit.
“But,” Troy says, “as someone who is Ilya’s friend and, more importantly, someone who knows Shane pretty well – better than the rest of you, that’s for fucking sure – he is more than okay with his relationship with Ilya.” He inhales a deep breath. “So you guys need to shut up about it and leave them alone.”
Ilya looks like steam could come out of his ears, eyes hard and face set. “What are you talking about, Barrett?”
“Some people think that you make Shane uncomfortable,” Troy says, grimacing. “With the touching, and the innuendos, and whatever else you do to rile him up.”
Shane flushes a deep red. “You guys noticed?” he asks in a small voice.
“Sure,” Dykstra says awkwardly after a long silence. “We got your back, Hollander.”
“What about my back?” Ilya demands. “I’m your captain!”
Bood sighs. “And I know that you know being captain gives you a slight power imbalance against the other guys.”
“Power balance,” Ilya repeats darkly. “I’ll fucking show you –”
“Ilya,” Shane holds up a hand, and they all turn to stare at him. Even Troy; it’s the first time he has heard Shane call Ilya by his first name in front of any of the Centaurs. Shane says, “It’s fine.”
“No, is not fine!” Ilya says forcefully. “They, what, think you cannot tell me to fuck off?”
A loud laugh bursts out of Shane before he can smother it. “Sorry,” he says, “I mean, I do tell you to fuck off. A lot, actually.”
Ilya crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes, but I know you do not mean it.”
“Yeah, of course.” Shane shakes his head, a fond smile playing on his lips, and Troy is surrounded by idiots. A bunch of blind idiots masquerading as elite hockey players.
Bergy raises his hand in class like he’s nine and not nineteen. “I’m confused.”
“Me too,” Pointy chimes in in an undertone.
“Uh, same?” Young adds.
“Fucking hell,” Ilya says with feeling. He bites his lip, fingers tapping against his arm as he shares a long look with Shane. “They clearly like you,” He scowls. “More than me, which is fucking annoying. Whatever you were afraid of, moya lyubov, is not going to happen.”
Shane musters a real smile. “It’s not a competition.”
Ilya glares. “Everything is a competition with you.”
Shane shrugs with one shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“That will take all the fun out of it,” Ilya murmurs in a tone that still is clearly audible since nobody else is fucking talking.
Troy clears his throat. “So, are you two gonna need a room or…?” he asks.
Shane splutters as Ilya laughs, loud and carefree. “Is fine. Do you want to tell them, Shane?”
Shane makes a noise that can charitably be called a squeak. He throws Ilya a panicked look, and, in the blink of an eye, Ilya seizes his hand in a white-knuckled grip.
Troy could really punch them both. Affectionately.
“Shane is madly in love with me,” Ilya declares. “Is a little embarrassing, actually, how obsessed he is.”
“Oh my god,” Shane groans softly. “Shut up.”
“Do not deny this,” Ilya says seriously. “You are a terrible liar.”
“Fine.” Shane squares his shoulders and surveys the team – their team. “Ilya and I have been in a relationship – a romantic relationship – for years. It has never affected our game on the ice, just made us better players.”
“But…” Luca drifts off. “You always look so uncomfortable around Ilya.”
Shane blushes. “I’m, ah, working on that.”
Wyatt cocks his head, studying them both. “What does that mean?”
“It means Shane does not like PDA,” Ilya interjects before Shane can respond, “because he is boring and likes to pretend he has never had sex before.”
“What the hell?” Shane exclaims. “I’m not pretending to be a fucking virgin, Rozanov. I just don’t like talking about my personal life at work.”
“This is not work,” Ilya points out. “This is party.”
“With all our work friends!” Shane argues.
Ilya heaves a gusty sigh. “At least you admit they are your friends too.” He leans in to press a kiss to his cheek.
But Shane turns his head at the last second, so Ilya catches him squarely on the mouth instead. Apparently that’s all the encouragement Ilya needs, since he deepens the kiss instantly, one hand reaching up to wrap around the back of Shane’s neck, pulling him closer, keeping him anchored.
Troy shares an eye roll with Harris as the kiss drags on because once Shane and Ilya get going they really have zero shame. Harris just smiles, the big sap. He loves shit like this.
At the first wolf whistle from Dykstra, Shane and Ilya break apart.
“Happy now?” Shane asks, pink-faced and exasperated, as he turns to face everybody else.
“Still confused, mostly,” Wyatt says, “but we are happy for you, right guys?”
There’s a general chorus of agreement from the assembled crowd.
“Well, I think this is the cutest thing I have ever seen,” Cassie announces.
“I hope you boys are ready for the WAG-HABs,” Caitlin says wickedly.
“Wagabs?” Ilya repeats with a searching glance at Shane.
“That’s not English as far as I know,” Shane says, his brow furrowing. “Or French.”
Harris clears his throat. “It stands for ‘wives and girlfriends, husbands and boyfriends’.”
Ilya whips around to stare at Troy, who jumps at the sudden attention. “Husbands?” Ilya demands. “Are you trying to steal my spotlight, Barrett?”
“A preemptive naming move,” Harris cuts in smoothly before Troy can say a word. “No husbands yet.”
“Well, maybe sooner than later,” Shane says, so quietly Troy barely hears him.
Ilya sure does, though. His mouth drops open. “You really want to tell them?”
Shane shrugs, smiling. “In for a penny.”
Ilya purses his lips. “What does this mean?”
“It means we’ve done things halfway for so long; I’m fucking sick of it. Let’s go all in.” Shane grins.
Ilya grins back, and Troy’s stomach swoops with premonition-like dread right before Shane says in a carrying voice, “We’re actually engaged. Getting married next summer.”
Oh shit. Troy stares at the pair in shock. Ilya had told him that things were serious with Shane when the trade went through, but he hadn’t put any labels on it, not like this. And he had only given Troy permission to tell Harris about them a month ago.
Harris breaks the ice with the first whoop, followed by Bood, and then Wyatt and Cassie.
“So, it should be WAG-FAB?” Caitlin says in the first lull of cheers. “Fiances and Boyfriends?”
“WAG-FAB!” Selena shouts.
“WAG-FAB!” Lisa joins in.
“WAG-FAB!”
Troy shakes his head and walks back to Harris, smiling broadly at the whole scene. Harris wordlessly hands him his half empty bottle, and Troy tips it back.
“Good for them,” Harris says.
Troy just glowers into his cider.
“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?” Harris asks gently.
“Nothing.”
“Now I know that’s not true.”
Troy exhales a slow breath. “Ilya’s going to be a nightmare.”
“Like that’s news.”
Troy seizes Harris’s wrist. “He once told me, he can’t wait to go on double dates with Shane because they will win against every other couple.”
Harris snorts. “Did you tell him that double dates are not the same as doubles tennis? There’s no winner.”
“No, there is,” Troy insists. “So we need to start planning now, Harris. Right now. I’m not losing to Ilya.”
Harris slings an arm around Troy’s waist. “Come on. Let them enjoy this.”
The words wash over Troy without sinking in at all. “I can’t even propose to you to win because they’re already engaged,” Troy mutters, aggrieved.
“You’re thinking of proposing?” Harris asks, his tone carefully calm.
Troy throws him a look, his cheeks heating uncomfortably. “Like you aren’t thinking the same thing, Mr. WAG-HAB.”
Harris holds up his hands. “I admit nothing.”
Smiling, Troy turns back to the happy couple, currently in the midst of a gaggle of WAGs. His eyes widen as Bood steps onto the patio, two bottles of champagne in hand. “Oh, he’s going to hate that,” Troy murmurs as one of the corks go flying and Bood stoppers the champagne with his thumb just far enough to douse Ilya and Shane head to toe.
Shane lets out a very manly yelp and jumps behind Ilya, who opens his mouth wide and tries to catch the champagne while shielding Shane with his body.
“That’s our captain,” Troy says dryly. “The best player in the NHL. Top scorer and consistent All-Star since 2009.”
Ilya looks like Chiron being sprayed with the garden hose.
Harris kisses Troy’s cheek. “Look at it another way, at least now we can turn our Ilya wrangling duties over to Shane.”
“If you think it won’t take all three of us to wrangle a completely un-closeted Ilya Rozanov, you’re not the man I am probably going to marry,” Troy drawls.
“Hm,” Harris hums as he plucks the empty cider out of Troy’s hand. “You might have a point. We should strategize now, I think.”
“Huh?”
Harris smiles as he starts to lead Troy towards Bood’s garden shed off the far side of the patio. “Come on, sweetheart. Nobody is paying attention to us.” He nods to where Ilya is licking champagne off of a scowling Shane as Wyatt sheepishly dabs at his other cheek with a paper towel. Bood is firing up the grill again, and Cassie is frantically shouting potential cookie flavors at Ilya and Shane, since a real cake would take too long to make.
“If you come with me right now,” Harris says, leaning in close, “I will suck you off and make Shane and Ilya do a joint Q&A for TikTok. Twice the questions. Streamed live.” He playfully bites the shell of Troy’s ear. “They will crash the internet, and we will win our double date, I promise you.”
Troy grins. With an incentive like that, how can he possibly say no?