Chapter Text
Shane was awake before he meant to be, lying still with Ilya's arm heavy across his chest. The buttery gold of the early June morning filtered through the curtains. He breathed in the scent of their shared life. The crispness of the laundry detergent, the salt of sleep, and the faint spice of Ilya's skin.
He turned his face into the curve of Ilya's neck, offering a kiss to the pulse point there. Ilya made a sound, low and sleepy, not quite awake, and pulled him closer by instinct, There was no rush. No practice, no skate, no flight, no schedule crawling up the back of his neck. Just this - Ilya coming awake in stages, a smile curving his lips. Shane couldn't help but kiss it. Fingers brushed against warm skin, carded through sleep-mussed hair. When the kisses deepened and the air grew thick and purposeful, it wasn't about urgency. It was just another way of saying I'm here and I'm yours.
Afterward, as the adrenaline faded into a cozy, limb-heavy glow, Ilya buried his face against Shane's shoulder.
"I have a plan," Ilya murmured, his voice husky and muffled.
"Mmm. Dangerous."
"We stay in this bed. We don't leave until August. Maybe September. We just live here."
Shane laughed softly. He pressed one more kiss to Ilya's collarbone before reluctantly untangling himself from the warmth of the duvet.
"You're the captain now," Shane teased. "I thought that came with at least a few grown-up responsibilities."
Ilya scoffed. He rolled out of bed, standing completely unselfconscious in his nakedness, the morning light catching the lean muscle of his back. He was a masterpiece, grounded and powerful. "Nothing that cannot wait until August."
He turned, shooting Shane a wicked grin over his shoulder as he headed toward the bathroom. "Plenty of time to fuck my gorgeous fiancé whenever and wherever I want this summer. Captain privileges."
Shane watched him go and then dropped back against the pillows and looked at the ceiling for a while, listening to the shower run. Eight months since Ilya had dropped to one knee at center ice inside a lopsided heart made of hockey pucks. Eight months of road trips and the weight of that C on Ilya's jersey and the season swallowing everything whole. Now it was June, finally, and there was nowhere to be.
By mid-morning, the kitchen was filled with the smell of dark roast coffee and sizzling bacon. Shane was leaning against the counter, still in his pajama pants, watching Ilya flip pancakes wearing Shane's old training shorts and nothing else. His engagement ring caught the light on his left hand with every movement.
They took their breakfast out to the porch. The Mississippi River was a shimmering ribbon of blue-grey, the morning mist still clinging to the banks as the sun climbed higher. Shane drank his coffee and let the quiet sit.
"The florist called back," he said eventually. "About the centerpieces."
Ilya groaned. He leaned back in his chair, propping his bare feet up on the railing. "Still with the flowers. Shane, they sit on the table. People eat near them. How can it be so difficult to pick white flowers?"
"Because white isn't just one color, apparently," Shane replied, hiding a smile behind his mug. "And we still haven't finalized the seating chart. The guys are already arguing about who sits where."
"Tell them they sit on the floor if they complain," Ilya said. He reached out and snagged a piece of bacon from Shane's plate. "Seating charts, color schemes, photographers... It is all fancy bullshit. We could just go to the courthouse. I would still be just as married to you."
Shane looked over at him, ready to offer a retort about how he was the one who wanted the big party for the team, the open bar, the whole production. But Ilya was looking out at the river, his expression uncharacteristically soft. There was a quiet pleasure in his eyes, a stillness that only appeared when they were alone, away from the cameras and the ice.
Despite pretending to complain about the ‘fancy bullshit,' Ilya had been the one to spend two hours looking at catering menus the other night. He was the one who had insisted on a specific photographer because he liked the way they captured the real moments.
"You like the fancy bullshit," Shane accused softly.
Ilya turned back to him, his gaze dropping to the ring on Shane's finger for a second before coming back up. "I like that it means everyone will know you belong to me. Even the florist."
Shane felt his heart do a slow, heavy roll in his chest. He reached across the small table, lacing his fingers through Ilya's. "I think they get the point, Ilya."
"Good," Ilya said, and kissed his knuckles.
They spent the rest of the morning in a state of lazy productivity. They did a load of laundry together, a task that took twice as long as it should have because it kept getting interrupted by roaming hands and kisses against the dryer. They walked along the river trails until the humidity got mean and then retreated back inside to the air-conditioned sanctuary of their home.
By the time they settled on the sectional, the light had gone golden and long across the floors. They pulled up the draft footage. It felt strange, watching it from this side. Not strange-bad. Just the particular strangeness of time passing.
"Look at them," Ilya said. The prospects were in the stands in their expensive suits, sitting stiff and scrubbed clean. "They look like babies. Did we look that young?"
"You did," Shane said, leaning his head on Ilya's shoulder. "But you somehow still walked around like the entire league belonged to you."
Shane smiled, closing his eyes for a second. He remembered that draft day in Los Angeles vividly. The nervous energy in the air and the roar of the crowd when the Nomads took Ilya at first overall. Then the strange scramble at the draft table and the way his own heart had nearly leaped out of his chest when they called his name at number two.
The media had spent months painting them as oil and water, the two generational talents destined to spend their careers trying to outshine one another. Instead, they had stood on that stage in Los Angeles together, two kids in matching jerseys, staring at a future neither of them had expected.
He remembered the hotel suite they'd shared that first summer and preseason. The awkwardness that had slowly bled into a strange, fierce friendship. They had been two teenagers alone in a new city, hiding from the hype and the pressure behind a heavy hotel door. He remembered the way those walls had eventually started to feel like a sanctuary.
They had fallen in love in the cracks of their rookie year. In the quiet spaces between morning skates and late-night bus rides. It happened in the hushed conversations in their suite when the rest of the world was asleep, and in the way they'd learned to read each other's movements on the ice until they functioned as one soul in two jerseys. By the time they decided to trade the hotel life for a house of their own, Shane already knew he was never going to let him go.
I'm so glad we were drafted together. He didn't say it out loud this time. He just shifted closer, and Ilya's arm came around him without discussion.
The Nomads' pick came in the back half of the first round.
"With the eighteenth overall pick," the GM announced into the microphone, "the Minnesota Nomads select, from the University of Michigan… Logan Kane."
Shane reached for his iPad. "Right wing. Led the NCAA in goals. High release, good IQ, and the scouting reports are absolutely glowing about his character. Standard first-in, last-out rink rat. Leadership qualities. Highly mature."
On the screen, a kid with bright blue eyes and a wide, boyish smile stood up. He hugged his mother with a picture-perfect, cinematic warmth before shaking his father's hand, walking toward the stage with an effortless, easy grace. He didn't look nervous, but he didn't look arrogant either. He looked incredibly humble, waving politely to the cameras. It was like he had rehearsed.
"Reminds me of a certain star center I know," Ilya teased, nudging Shane's ribs.
Shane chuckled. "I wasn't that bad, was I?"
Ilya's hand found the back of Shane's neck, thumb tracing the sensitive skin behind his ear. "Little bit," he laughed.
Ilya's thumb kept moving. Shane felt the shift of the room going quieter around them, the broadcast becoming wallpaper. The iPad slid from Shane's lap onto the cushions as Ilya leaned in, his breath warm against Shane's lips.
"I thought we were scouting," Shane whispered, though he was already turning into Ilya's touch, his hands finding their way under Ilya's shirt.
"Enough hockey talk for today," Ilya said, his hands beginning to wander with a slow, possessive intent. "I have my favorite player right here. I don't care about rookies. I care about this." They ended up tangling together on the couch, the draft forgotten, as Ilya showed him exactly what those captain privileges entailed.
The sun was down by the time the draft coverage moved into highlights and recaps. Shane was lying across Ilya's chest, and Ilya's hand was moving, absent and slow, in his hair.
Shane wasn't thinking about rookies or the pressure of the next season. He was thinking about the way the light hit the engagement ring on his hand and the way Ilya's skin felt against his own. He was thinking about lazy mornings, stolen bacon, and flower arrangements. He was thinking about how it felt being so thoroughly loved, and the joy of giving that love back with everything he had.