Chapter Text
The microphone felt huge, a dark metallic cylinder suddenly thrust directly into Shane’s field of vision. He flinched back instantly, a sharp, involuntary jerk of his head and shoulders.
His breathing hitched, spiking rapidly from a steady inhale to short, ragged gasps. The reporter’s voice was a buzzing in his ears, the words blurring into an incomprehensible wash of sound. He couldn't grasp the question, couldn't form a thought beyond the overwhelming, immediate need to escape the sudden intrusion.
A solid presence materialized beside him. Dykstra smoothly leaned in. "He's here somewhere," Dykstra chuckled. He gave a casual, dismissive wave. "Probably trying to steal a bunch of puppies."
Ilya. That was it. The reporter must have asked Shane where Ilya was.
Shane forced his head into a jerky nod, tugging the corners of his mouth up in a desperate imitation of Dykstra's easy smile. He tried to laugh, but his tongue felt like sandpaper, thick and useless against the roof of his mouth.
The reporter, satisfied, shifted his attention, angling the mic toward the other Centaurs players clustered around him. Shane’s entire body sagged in relief. Dykstra gave him a brotherly clap on the shoulder, a non-verbal message of You're okay, I got it.
Shane took a deep breath and tried to refocus on the event. He was a Centaur now. An Ottawa Centaur. The press interest hadn't just died down since he and Ilya were outed and since they had announced they were married. In fact, it had reached a deafening, relentless frenzy, and the season hadn't even started.
This volunteer day at the Humane Society was Shane’s first community event with his new team. He and Ilya had agreed on a strategy: they would spend some time apart during the summer press and community events. It was meant to give Shane a chance to stand on his own two feet, to prove himself as an individual member of the Centaurs, not just "Ilya's husband."
Shane rubbed his palms on the thighs of his jeans, trying to discreetly wipe away the sudden clamminess. Farah had been giving both him and Ilya coaching on how to handle the media, but Shane hadn’t expected to actually need the coaching. He was normally fine with interviews.
Ilya, on the other hand, treated every press conference like a stand-up routine, turning questions into witty sound bites and outlandish promises, which, of course, the press absolutely loved and ate up with a spoon.
Shane’s nerves surrounding press events had spiked to an almost crippling level lately. He knew how to talk about zones, power plays, rivalries, and his own game. He had a decade of experience answering those questions. But now, it was a constant, invasive barrage of questions about Ilya and their relationship: How's married life? What's it like playing on the same team? Are you going to be roommates on the road?
This wasn't hockey press. He didn't know how to do this. How to put his most private, fiercely protected part of his life on public display. It felt like being asked to strip bare in front of a stadium full of strangers.
Shane knew exactly what Ilya wanted: to show the world how happy they were. And they were happy. Intensely, unequivocally happy. A quiet, fierce joy that anchored Shane every single day. He was so pleased that Ilya was proud of them, proud to share their relationship. Shane was proud too, somewhere deep beneath the layers of anxiety.
But pride didn't quell the sense of being utterly out of control and unsettled.
It was jarring because everything else was going so well. He genuinely liked the Centaurs; the guys were great, and he was adjusting smoothly. Learning their system, clicking with his new line, and even settling into the bizarre, new dynamic of having Ilya as his captain. Things had been excellent on the ice and in the locker room. Shane felt confident about his pre-season performance and his game.
Yet, as the regular season loomed, it wasn't the pressure of a new team that made his stomach clench. It was the inevitable moment the cameras turned on and the microphones were thrust forward. That was what he dreaded the most. It felt like the only place left where he hadn't figured out the rules yet.
Shane slipped away from the cameras and headed towards a low-key-looking donation tent. Troy and Harris were there stacking bags of kibble and blankets.
"Hey, Holly," Troy greeted him with a grin.
"Hey," Shane managed, sliding in beside them. "Mind if I hang out? Need a breather."
Harris pointed toward a stack of cardboard boxes behind the table, already half-filled with various supplies.
"We need this stuff sorted before it can go into the truck," Harris instructed, all business when it came to wrangling hockey players and dogs. "Think you can handle it?"
"Definitely," Shane said, relief washing over him.
He immediately ducked behind the large, folding table that served as the booth. The tabletop provided a solid, physical barrier between him and the rest of the world.
Sinking onto his knees beside the pile of donated items, Shane began to work. The rhythmic, repetitive motion of handling and separating the items brought an immediate, quiet sense of calm. He wasn't being looked at, he wasn't being asked questions, and he wasn't being analyzed. For a few minutes, he was just a volunteer sorting boxes.
Shane was just setting a box of kitty litter aside when the familiar, commanding sound of Russian cut through the noise.
"Smotri, shchenok," Ilya's voice boomed, rich and theatrical. Look, puppy.
Shane looked up, and the sight immediately drew a fond, weary smile from him. Ilya was standing over the booth, filling the space with his presence. In one of his giant hands, he carefully cradled a ridiculously tiny, squirming puppy.
Ilya lowered his head, making exaggerated, sad eyes at Shane. "Annushka is very lonely, dorogoy," he whispered conspiratorially, nodding toward the puppy. “I got her sister.”
Shane rolled his eyes. "Go put her back from wherever you stole her"
Ilya’s lip stuck out in a spectacular, theatrical pout. "You want me to abandon our daughter?"
"Yes," Shane deadpanned, shaking his head. "Now go."
Ilya sighed dramatically, but the smile never left his eyes. "Fine, fine." He addressed the tiny puppy directly, his voice dropping into a fake, sorrowful tone. "Daddy does not want you."
Shane made a sharp, offended sound and Ilya grinned triumphantly at the reaction.
"I return and help you with... whatever this is," Ilya promised. He leaned over the stack of boxes and planted a quick, soft kiss right on the tip of Shane's nose.
As Ilya swaggered off with the puppy cradled carefully in his hand, Shane couldn't stop the immediate, nervous instinct to scan the area. Did anyone see that?
Ilya returned a few minutes later, having successfully, and probably mournfully, handed the puppy back to a shelter volunteer. Troy and Harris had taken the opportunity to escape the sorting duty and announced they were heading to grab refreshments.
After a few minutes of silent, efficient organizing, Shane asked, "Were you serious about wanting another dog?"
Ilya paused, holding up a mangled stuffed dinosaur. He shrugged easily. "Nyet. Three is lot to handle." He tossed the dinosaur into the toys bin.
Shane frowned in confusion. "Three?"
Ilya grinned. "There is already shchenok Anya and shchenok Shane. Hands are very full with two puppies."
Shane snorted, nudged Ilya’s shoulder with his own, and called him what he was. "Jerk."
"What?" Ilya protested, feigning innocence. He dug deeper into the bag and pulled out a sturdy, leather dog collar, dark brown and buckled. Quick as a wink, he held it up, dangling it directly at Shane’s neck. "You make cute puppy. Shchenok Shane."
Shane glared, his face heating up instantly, and he slapped Ilya's hand away from his neck. "Stop it!"
But even as he pushed Ilya away and pretended to be annoyed, a strange, tight knot formed in Shane's stomach. He didn't understand why the sight of the collar in Ilya’s massive, familiar hand, held close to his neck, had affected him that way.
Ilya advanced closer holding the loop open. His stance was casual, yet dominating. "No, no. I am serious. Consider this gift. From me. It is statement, yes? It says, 'I belong to Ilya Rozanov.'" He paused, his voice dropping to a smooth, teasing purr. "I want another puppy, Shane. You are strong, loyal, and your hair is floofy. Come on. Put it on. Be my good boy.
The suggestion, phrased so crudely and possessively, was pure, unfiltered Ilya. The usual cocky, unbothered attitude that antagonized others, was always a twisted form of flirtation when it was directed at Shane.
Shane forced out a laugh that felt a little breathless. "You're insane. Get that thing away from me before Harris sees us and thinks we've completely lost the plot."
He pushed the collar back towards Ilya, but Ilya didn't drop it; he just let his hand fall, his lazy smile stretching into something that was equal parts amused and expectant.
"Shame," Ilya sighed dramatically. He tossed the expensive collar into the 'new supplies' bin, where it landed with a soft, weighted thump.
As Shane turned back to his sorting, he was no longer thinking about cameras or microphones, or donations. He was thinking about the smooth, expensive leather and the weight of the brass. He was thinking about the way Ilya had invaded his space, the frank look in his hazel eyes, and the purred command: Be my good boy.
It was a joke. A stupid, typical Ilya joke. Yet, a strange, nervous energy was buzzing deep in Shane’s belly. He hated that the utterly ridiculous, purely hypothetical idea of being Ilya's "good boy" had sent a ridiculous, purely inconvenient flip through his stomach. He was drawn to the danger of Ilya’s lack of care, his willingness to say and do anything.
Shane gripped a bag of kibble tighter, his knuckles white, and deliberately didn't look at Ilya. He hated that for a split second, he had almost wanted to say, Okay.
Get a grip, he told himself fiercely, hauling the bag toward the back of the truck. It’s a dog collar. It’s a joke. It means nothing. Don't be weird.
But as he walked, he could still feel the phantom weight of that dark, heavy leather on his neck, and the playful, demanding pull of Ilya’s gaze, which he knew, without looking, was still fixed on him.
Shane sat on the bench, his gym bag resting between his skates. He was meticulous, as always, carefully coiling his tape and making sure his gear was neatly tucked away. But the usual soothing rhythm of his routine was ruined by a relentlessly looping image: the dark, glossy leather of the collar, studded with brass, and Ilya’s lazy, knowing smile.
He had tried everything to dislodge the image, reciting all the stats of every Centaur, mentally calculating his caloric intake for the past twenty-four hours, and even running through drills in his head. Nothing worked. Every mental pathway seemed to curve back to that collar.
I want another puppy, Shane. You are strong, loyal, and your hair is floofy. Come on. Put it on. Be my good boy.
Shane ran a hand over his neck . The exact spot where the collar would have rested. It was stupid. It was ridiculous. He felt his cheeks grow hot.
What does this mean? Shane thought, gripping the laces of his skates so hard his fingers ached. It means I'm a creep who gets off on dog collars. It means I'm seriously messed up.
The rest of the Centaurs had already left for the day, but Shane was stuck waiting for Ilya to finish his ridiculously long shower. Shane could practically picture him in there, the messy hair plastered wet to his head, the strong jaw, and the arrogant tilt of his chin.
He was joking, Shane argued with himself. It was chirping. He was trying to get a rise out of me.
But the look in Ilya’s eyes hadn't been entirely dismissive. There was a genuine, intense focus there, like a challenge. Shane stood up abruptly, needing movement. He walked to the water fountain and took a long, cold drink.
When he looked up, Ilya was leaning against the shower doorway, a towel slung low around his waist. He was clean, fragrant, and his expression was that typical, lazy mix of boredom and amusement.
"I hear you think from showers," Ilya drawled, stepping easily into the room. "Practice is over. You stop now."
Shane's chest felt tight. He forced himself to meet Ilya's gaze, trying to project total, serene indifference. "I was just thinking about the power play strategy. It needs work."
Ilya just shrugged, picking up a jar of hair mousse. "Always work, always serious with you. Relax, yes?"
He paused, running the mousse through his damp, curly hair, his eyes connecting with Shane's in the reflection of the locker mirror.
"Or maybe," Ilya continued, his voice dropping slightly, "you are thinking about collar." He didn't smile, not the full, cocky grin. Just a small, knowing upturn of his lips. "Was nice, no? You looked very interested for someone who is not interested."
Shane felt the blush creep from his neck all the way to his hairline.
"I wasn’t," Shane snapped.
Ilya just chuckled as he dressed, not pressing the issue further, his purpose seemingly accomplished.
"Relax, Hollander," Ilya said, exaggerating the Russian pronunciation of his surname, a mix of affection and slight derision. "Was a joke. But if you want to think about it all night, who am I to stop you?" He winked, grabbed his car keys and bag, and sauntered toward the locker room door. Just as he reached the threshold, he stopped, turned his head slightly, and his voice dropped to a low, commanding register, a voice meant only for Shane.
"Ko mnye." Come.
Shane's body instantly responded. His spine straightened, and he took a sharp, involuntary step forward, his feet moving before his brain registered it. He stopped himself only by planting his heels hard on the floor, freezing him mid-stride.
Ilya gave a knowing smirk at Shane’s reaction, and then disappeared through the door, leaving behind a thick cloud of expensive cologne and the overwhelming, lingering feeling of unsettled desire.
Shane slid into the passenger seat of the Lamborghini Urus, a visible thundercloud on his face. It was the most sensible car he’d been able to talk Ilya into buying, yet even the sight of this "practical" SUV sent a flare of annoyance through Shane’s. He clipped his seatbelt with a sharp clack and crossed his arms, his scowl firmly in place.
"A normal person would have bought a Land Rover,” Shane huffed as he glared through the windshield. “But no. God forbid we go to the grocery store without the aerodynamics of a plane.”
Ilya didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t even look offended. Instead, he reached out and increased the heat on Shane's seat warmer.
“It has four doors,” Ilya said smoothly, his tone infuriatingly reasonable.
“It’s loud and it’s pretentious,” Shane hissed, turning in his seat to find a target for all the jagged energy vibrating under his skin. “It’s a miracle we haven't been carjacked for the rims alone. It’s a ridiculous purchase, Ilya. Even for you.”
Ilya glanced over then, but there was no defensive comeback. Instead, Ilya’s lips were hitched in a faint, incredulous smile.
“You love the heated seats,” Ilya noted, his voice humming with suppressed amusement. He didn't rise to the bait; he didn't even nibble at it. He just kept his hands relaxed on the steering wheel, his eyes dancing with a knowing light. “And you are currently shouting at a car because you don't want to shout at me about whatever else is bothering you.”
Shane didn't reply.
Ilya pulled to a stop at a red light and finally turned his head fully, his expression soft, but smug.
“That’s strange,” Ilya murmured, his voice laced with a teasing, melodic edge. “I thought puppies like going for rides in the car. Why the growling, Shchenocheck?” Little puppy.
Shane’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek and he snapped his gaze away, staring fixedly out the window.
Ilya reached across the console, laying his large, warm hand over Shane's rigid, crossed arms. "I am sorry," Ilya murmured. His voice was laced with genuine regret now, though a hint of residual amusement still lingered in his eyes. "I tease too much today." He paused, squeezing Shane's arm gently, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the fabric of Shane's jacket. "I make it up to you when we get home. Dinner, good movie, sex, massage, whatever you want."
Shane didn't move at first. He kept his shoulders bunched, his eyes still fixed on the window as he fought the urge to lean into the touch. He wanted to stay mad; it felt safer than admitting Ilya had read him so easily. But the heat from the seat was seeping into his lower back, and the pressure of Ilya’s hand made his anger feel increasingly exhausting to maintain.
Slowly, the rigid line of his shoulders began to drop. He let out a sharp exhale.
"You're an asshole," Shane muttered.
He finally uncrossed his arms, the movement slow and heavy, and laid his hand flat on Ilya's thigh, just above the knee. Ilya immediately shifted his hand to cover Shane’s, their fingers interlocking.
Shane leaned his head back against the rest, letting out one more long, slow breath that seemed to carry the last of his stress with it. This was the good stuff. Playing hockey with his husband. Driving home in a ridiculous car with his husband. No matter how much of an arrogant, teasing asshole Ilya could be sometimes... he was Shane's asshole.
“How are you really feeling about the team?" Ilya asked after a few quiet moments. He kept his hand resting lightly over Shane’s on his thigh, a continuous point of connection.
"Good, actually. Really good. Things with Troy and Luca are clicking well."
Shane liked their dynamic. It was straightforward, physical, and smart.
"I see it," Ilya confirmed, pride coloring his tone. "You look fast out there. You and Troy. You read each other well." A slight, possessive frown touched his face. "I am sad we cannot be on the same line, though."
Shane squeezed Ilya’s hand and snorted softly. "Please. There is enough ego with you already. There wouldn't be any room for me."
Ilya laughed, the sound deep and genuine. After a moment he added, "You like it here?" He glanced over, his dark eyes serious and searching. "Things are good, yes? Happy?"
Shane’s heart warmed. He smiled fondly at his husband and gave a shy, genuine nod.
"Yes," Shane confirmed. "Very happy.