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Game 4, semis. Home game, and the only thing standing between Ottawa and the finals.
Shane's getting a cortisone injection under his left patella during the first intermission.
Next to him, Ilya's got his hockey shorts dropped down just enough for his own shot — vitamin B12 in his glute. Further down the bench, Bood's hitching his shorts back up after getting his dose.
Shane has a quick moment of amusement at how they're all lined up like docile lab animals. Coach Wiebe doesn't like them taking shit they might not need, but he goes along with the B12 shots without complaining.
As for Shane's fucked knee, the cortisone is a necessary evil if he's going to help clinch the semis for the Centaurs. Rest, ice, compress, and elevate is post-playoffs shit. When the Cup is on the line, you grit your teeth and do what needs doing. Plenty of time to lie on a couch with a pillow under his calf in July.
"Here," says Shane, once his own shot is done. Ilya's wincing and rubbing at the place where he got poked. Shane's fingers reach out, dig into the palpable lump under Ilya's skin, rub hard.
"Ow," says Ilya, the big baby, like Shane didn't just have an injection into his own knee joint.
"You were putting weight on this leg," says Shane. "Your muscle was tensed."
"Of course my muscle was tensed," Ilya snarls back, "I was getting stabbed with huge needle."
"We'll put heat on it later," Shane says. He wants to kiss the downward slash of Ilya's mouth until it loses its edge.
He can't do that in the locker room during a playoff game.
"Two minutes!" someone bellows, and everyone gets back in whatever gear they'd thrown off a few minutes earlier, groaning.
"No, no," shouts Ilya in answer. "No complaining! We have twenty minutes left to humiliate New Jersey. I want them to be ashamed to go home tonight. Their wives and girlfriends, they should be disgusted with them. No overtime. Only embarrassment."
"You're really helping him get better at English," says Bood, pulling an impressed face and elbowing Shane. "You guys talk like this at home, huh? Lots of roleplay about humiliation?"
"Fuck you," says Shane, laughing as he stands up from the bench and tests his knee. It feels good, loose and easy as though nothing's wrong with it. Cortisone is the fucking shit.
"Hey, I'm an open-minded guy," says Bood, slapping Shane on the back with his heavy, gloved hand. "If you and Roz getting freaky in the sheets means we take this series, I'm all for it."
They take the series; Shane can't speak to exactly how embarrassed the New Jersey guys are, but he thinks the answer would probably please Ilya.
Ilya's playoff beard is the best it's been: full, dark, shot through with glints of ginger, just a bit curly. Shiny, lustrous.
Shane takes full credit for this. Ilya's diet has (marginally) improved now he's living full-time with Shane; sometimes he even snacks on a piece of fruit or some organic jerky instead of Hawkins Cheezies.
"It's like how Anya's coat was nicer when we switched to the kibble with fish oil," Shane tells him. They're in the shower at home, even though they already showered quickly with everyone after the game.
The heat feels good on Shane's tired muscles; the solitude and quiet of being alone with Ilya feels even better.
Ilya kisses Shane's fingertips as Shane strokes his hand through Ilya's whiskers. They're both too wrung out for sex, but it's nice anyway, just to touch.
"How is the knee?" Ilya asks, looking critically down the bruised landscape of Shane's body.
Shane looks, too; he's skinnier than he's been since the fall. They're too tired to eat as much as they should be, and the muscle is falling away from both of them steadily as they march towards June. They'll have to do a bunch of work over the summer to build everything back.
"Knee's fine," Shane says, though the cortisone has started to wear off and the joint is going stiff with inflammation again. "How's your butt?"
Ilya's teeth are a white sharky flash in the dark of his beard. "Feel for yourself."
Shane rolls his eyes, but still reaches out, finds the sore place from the intramuscular vitamin shot tonight. Rubs again, more gently than earlier, knowing the ache will be deeper now. "I'll get a hot compress on it when we're out of the shower."
"Mm," says Ilya. His eyes are going dark and hungry as Shane keeps massaging his ass. "We have few days off, yes? Since we wrapped the series so quickly?"
"What's your point, Rozanov?" Shane asks, grinning back as Ilya squirms his ass under Shane's touch.
"I think you can take good care of me," says Ilya. "I think you will pamper me. Show appreciation for my leadership as your captain."
"Play your cards right," Shane says, knowing full well that he's going to spend at least a good portion of their break with his head between Ilya's hips, Ilya's hips between Shane's thighs.
"Mm," says Ilya, and kisses Shane, pulling just a little roughly at the long hair at the nape of his neck.
Shane pulls away, reminded. "Oh, by the way, Bood thinks you like humiliation."
Ilya's eyebrows pop up in surprise, then gather with confusion.
"Or maybe doing the humiliating? He wasn't clear. But the gist is that he thinks we're getting freaky at home. And he thinks it's good for our team."
"Bood is pervert," says Ilya, scoffing — rich, considering Ilya is currently shoving his hips into Shane's, rolling their barely-hard dicks together like they're plump hot dogs or something.
They both look down to watch, half-laughing, half-horny, and then Ilya moves away with a little tired sigh. This isn't going anywhere tonight.
They finish showering. Shane looks at Ilya's ass and thinks about the summer ahead, feeding Ilya and working out with him, getting that round lush butt back to its full glory.
It might even be worth Ilya eating Hawkins Cheezies.
Shane's dead on his feet by the time they're crawling into bed, but he still takes the time to pop a compress into the little microwave they keep on their dresser during the playoffs. He brings it over once it's heated up, signalling to Ilya to pull the covers down, pull his flannel pyjama pants down too.
"Mm," says Ilya, melting into the bed, as Shane puts the compress onto his sore glute. "Feels good."
Shane isn't sure what compels him to say it, except that their bedroom feels cozy, as does their closeness, the quiet space between them. "I used to do this for my mom."
Ilya's lying with his head pillowed on folded arms, but he lifts his chin and looks up at Shane quizzically. "You…" he says, not following.
"The hot compress," Shane says.
It's a very old memory, maybe a memory of a memory at this point, but he can pull the image up in his mind with little effort: his mom lying on the pink couch in their old Ottawa house, the semi-detached brick one, and Shane sitting on the floor in front of her with his hand holding the hot compress in place, a towel sandwiched between it and his little fat preschooler hand. Feels all better? Shane had said, and Yuna had laughed and said yes, you are such a big helper, thank you.
"You know, they wanted more kids," Shane says, trying to figure out how to explain this.
"How could they?" Ilya asks, still frowning. "You are so perfect."
"Shut up," says Shane. "I mean, they tried. For a while. Like, until I was nearly five or six, I think. I remember she had to get these big needles sometimes, must have been a fertility treatment or something. I've never asked her. I don't think she knows I remember. Anyway, she wouldn't let me watch her give herself the needle, but she let me hold the compress, after."
"Your dad," says Ilya. "He did tell me that they wanted more kids. On our wedding day."
"Oh my god," Shane says, dismayed. "They know we can't just like…make grandbabies? Right?" It's been a regular refrain from both his parents, especially anytime they have the opportunity to see Ilya with a teammate's kids. Shane gets it, he does! But it's not exactly the right time to think about all that.
"No, no," says Ilya, laughing softly. "He meant — I am now their other son."
"Oh," says Shane, then relief washes into tenderness. "My dad said that?"
"Mmhm," says Ilya, looking away. Shane gives him a minute, watches his shoulders go tense and then slowly unclench again as the feelings pass.
"That's nice," says Shane, simply.
The thing about the playoffs is that you're exhausted and hungry and sore all the time, and yet sleep, food, and pain management are the three things you can't catch up on, mostly because as soon as you try to fix one thing, another pops up demanding attention. It's like a trick birthday candle.
This is why Shane wakes up in the middle of the night; tired as he is, his knee hurts too badly to let him keep sleeping.
He sighs and tries to get comfortable, wedging a throw pillow under the bad joint, then tossing the pillow and trying to lie on his good-knee side. His old shoulder injury from 2015 starts barking next, and he has to flip onto his other side, and his knee is not fucking having it.
"Get up and take painkillers," says Ilya, low and slurred.
"Sorry," says Shane, guiltily aware of how much he's probably been sighing and punching his pillow.
"Get up and take painkillers," says Ilya again, reaching across the mattress with a sleep-clumsy hand. "Shane. Get up."
"I don't want to be awake enough to take painkillers," says Shane, grousing. He's already that awake, he knows. But it all sounds so horrible: standing, walking, going into the bathroom. Filling a glass of water. Opening the bottle of ibuprofen. He might as well go stare directly into an arena floodlight. He'll never fall asleep again after all that.
"Fine, stay here and make sure I also cannot sleep," says Ilya, his grumpiness eclipsing his concern.
Shane sighs heavily and throws the duvet back, getting up. Fuck. Fuck.
At least they have tomorrow — today? — off. Shane grabs his phone off the charger as he stands, seeing that it's 3:36 AM. Way too early to be up for the day, but just fucking close enough to the morning that it's going to suck to find sleep again after all this.
He goes into the bathroom, pees, washes his hands. Takes three ibuprofen, checks the time again. It'll be thirty minutes before they kick in enough to let him fall asleep. His knee feels tight, like an overfilled water balloon.
Shane leans on the counter and taps idly around his phone screen for a bit, even though he knows he shouldn't be looking at the blue light. He deletes seven marketing emails and flags three messages from his mom about sponsorship stuff, foundation stuff. Yuna is a night owl and a workaholic; it's not unusual to hear from her at one or two in the morning.
There's an unread text from Ilya earlier in the night that had come up on Shane's watch, and so hadn't been opened here:
Okay meet u at the car 😘
Shane opens Instagram and goes to reels, checking his volume is low. His algorithm is embarrassingly specific these days: dogs doing funny shit, hockey highlight reels, cooking videos, thirst trap dudes posting their workout routines that Shane pretends he's watching for work reasons.
Shane stares at a beefy guy doing incline bench dumbbell curls, the crawl of ink over skin, the swell of muscle. It reminds him of Ilya's growing tattoo collection, which makes his cock interested, which somehow pivots into a horrible stomach pang of hunger.
No.
If he goes to get a snack now, he's definitely fucked for getting back to sleep.
But now he's thought of food, and his stomach is pissed about it.
"No," Shane says, aloud, and shuts off his phone. 3:48 AM. Another twenty minutes before he could plausibly fall asleep again.
He goes back to bed, trying to be quiet at first, but then Ilya lets out a lengthy snore and an even louder fart. Asleep, then. Lucky bastard.
Shane gets under the covers with less care, knowing that Ilya is a heavy sleeper once he's out, and tries to find a position he can stand for more than a few minutes at a time. Anya stands up in her bed and jingles quietly over to Shane, sniffing curiously at the hand he's letting dangle over the side.
"No," says Shane, whispering. "Go lie down."
She licks his knuckles hopefully.
"Five minutes," says Shane, patting the mattress, caving instantly. "Don't tell Papa."
Anya pops up and curls up into the bend of Shane's side instantly, a warm little cinnamon bun of fur and dog-smell. She sighs while Shane scratches under her collar. The soft in-out of her breath is comforting, and Shane finds his hand getting heavy almost immediately.
He sleeps.
Two days pass in a mix of rest, food, and careful physio on top of regular workouts and practices. Shane's knee isn't getting better, but it's not getting worse, and that's good enough for the Centaurs right now.
Then Ilya develops a sore throat and spends sixteen hours in one of their guest rooms with a humidifier, neti pot, and a dresser-top full of vitamin C tablets, zinc, oil of oregano. He drinks his body weight in some herbal tea Yuna swears by, and emerges on day four of their break with a pink nose and a light cough, nothing worse.
"You better not be contagious," Shane says, but kisses him anyway because he missed the asshole.
"So I should not have used your toothbrush then?" Ilya says, all innocence.
"Gross," says Shane, and kisses him again.
They go to Shane's parents' house for dinner that night. Shane's mostly calmed down on his performance diet but the old habits come surging back whenever they're in the playoffs. David has anticipated this: plain salmon filet for Shane, steamed broccoli, brown rice.
He's also boiled and fried up a big bowl of homemade cheese-stuffed pelmeni for the rest of the table, topped with onions caramelized in butter, dotted with thick sour cream. Ilya fills half his plate with dumplings and does his little happy dance as he demolishes them. He doesn't give a shit that it's just carbs and fat and won't do anything to build back the muscle loss he's undergone since October. Ilya loves David's homemade pelmeni.
"Give me a bite," says Shane, caving.
Ilya spears a dumpling on his fork and offers it to Shane, who wants to take a nibble but instead takes the whole thing in a gulp. Fuck. It's so good.
"I'll skip dessert," says Shane, washing down the dumpling with a few gulps of water.
"You were never going to have dessert," scoffs Ilya.
Shane pulls a face and then glances over to see Yuna and David giving them the kind of soppy look he's slowly gotten used to seeing from his parents. "You guys sure you're okay watching Anya next week?" Shane asks, hoping to change the subject away from food.
"Of course," says David. "We love our grand-dog."
"Don't call her that," Shane says, though it won't make a difference. David has been a goner for Anya since the day he met her.
"Grand-dog-ter," says Ilya, nodding, still stuffing his face. "Is proper term."
"And I'm her grand-paw," says David proudly, waving his hand like a dog's foot. He and Ilya have bonded over this: one-upping each other with increasingly terrible dad jokes. Ilya says it improves his English to learn puns, but the truth is that he and David both enjoy how much it upsets Shane.
"Yes, and I am Paw-Paw," Ilya says, dignified, his own hands curled like begging dog feet.
"I'm divorcing you," Shane says.
Ilya clutches his chest, pretending to be wounded. "This is un-fur-tunate news."
"Fuck. Off," says Shane, but he's smiling in spite of himself. That was a good one.
"Howl-arious," says David.
"Oh my god," says Shane while Ilya nods appreciatively.
"Help me clear the dishes," says Yuna, rising from the table. "You're just encouraging them."
"Is true," says Ilya. "We are sick puppies."
Shane scowls and ruffles Ilya's curls as he stands, shoving him playfully when Ilya tries to nuzzle in for affection. He gathers plates and follows Yuna into the kitchen, leaving Ilya and David to their next round of dog-related puns.
"How's that knee," Yuna says, already at the dishwasher, watching Shane with her usual eagle eye as he comes in.
"You know," says Shane. "Playoffs. I'll get another cortisone shot after physio tomorrow."
"The things they put you guys through," says Yuna, though it's hardly news to her after this many seasons.
"We put ourselves through it," Shane says, scraping plates. "Anything for hockey."
"Anything for the Cup," Yuna says. This makes sense to her as it's always made sense to Shane, and he's never been sorry to have a mom who doesn't fuss over his suffering for sport the way Jackie fusses over Hayden sometimes. He has always taken it for granted, maybe: that hockey comes first. That everything in the world should bend to the breaking point if it serves hockey.
Shane's never before thought about Yuna applying that iron will to anything else, but suddenly he's four years old again, putting a hot compress to his mom's body, wanting to make it all better. "Hey," he says, impulsively. "When did you guys decide to give up? I mean. On having more kids."
Yuna fumbles the cutlery in her hand, a loud clatter. When she straightens up, her smile is tense. "Oh," she says. "I don't remember. You were seven? Eight?"
"Really?" Shane says, because he didn't know it had been so late. "Like, you were still doing the pills and needles then?"
Yuna's smile falters. "You remember those?" she says. "Wow."
"Just a bit," says Shane. "Like, I didn't really get what they were for back then. But I put it together when I was older. You guys said a few things, I figured it out."
She nods, going back to the dishwasher. "So the fertility clinic stuff was earlier. Like, I think we did our last embryo transfer when you were in kindergarten. But we were on the adoption waitlist a little longer. Then we went on hold because the hockey stuff was getting busier and we were like, ugh, how would we actually juggle a newborn and Shane's schedule? And we were pretty firm on wanting a placement with a baby that had some Asian heritage, and those didn't come up too much, so eventually we just decided it wasn't meant to be, I guess." She stands up again and holds out her hand for the plates in Shane's grip.
"I didn't know you were that far into adopting," says Shane, startled. "Like, I thought you just talked about it."
"No, we, uh. We were with an agency for a while. We did a home study, interviews, the whole nine yards," Yuna says, busy with the dishes, avoiding Shane's gaze. It reminds him of how Ilya looks away when he's upset, which is when Shane suddenly realizes this is triggering something for his mom.
"Sorry if it sucks to talk about it," Shane said. "Never mind. I just — I was remembering the shots and stuff. Because of all the needles we've been getting for hockey."
Yuna looks over at him, startled. "Sweetheart," she says, softly. "No. It's so long ago. And you know your dad and I don't regret our decision at all."
"I know," says Shane, because his parents have always been clear about this point. "Sometimes you can't make something happen, no matter how bad you want it. I know that."
"You're going to win the Cup," says Yuna, all steel and grit.
"I'm not talking about the Cup," Shane complains, grinning. "Jesus, Mom. One-track mind!"
"Good," says Yuna, picking up a knife from the counter and pointing it at him, probably not realizing how menacing she looks. "No quitter talk before you even start the finals, Shane."
"Fuck," says Shane, holding his hands up in surrender. "Don't stab me about it."
"Go sit down and rest that knee," says Yuna, smiling easily now. "I got this."
It's one in the morning, and they're awake, but thankfully it's for sex reasons and not pain or hunger reasons. They'd had to do it face to face because of Shane's knee, Ilya on top, but Shane wasn't exactly mad about it: Ilya over him, making a cage of his huge arms on either side of Shane's shoulders, curling down to lick at Shane's mouth, fucking into him in little sexy hip circles. Sweat dripping from the tip of Ilya's nose onto Shane's chest. Ilya's beard, soft and lush, dragging pink up to the surface of Shane's skin wherever he nuzzled close to kiss.
"Is okay?" Ilya asked, when he pressed Shane's thighs up and hooked Shane's calves over Ilya's broad shoulders.
"It's a good stretch," Shane promised, because he'd done something really similar but a lot less sexy with the team physio that morning. "Mm, there. Fuck. Ilya."
And Ilya went faster, and Shane went boneless. When he came, it was better than a hot compress and ten hours of sleep and a dozen pelmeni laced with dilaudid. He was loose and liquid and drowsy.
"Here," says Ilya now, coming back into the bedroom with a warm damp washcloth. "You have come on your neck."
"Mm," says Shane, wiping lazily at himself. "Not just there." He rubs his thighs together and smiles to himself at the slick feeling of lube and come on his ass cheeks, his upper thighs. In a minute, it'll disgust him, but right now, it's fucking great.
"Okay," says Ilya, flopping down on the bed in his naked glory. "I opened Anichka's crate now we're done fucking."
"Freedom," Shane half-sings, still fuck-drunk. "Freedom for puppies!"
"So if you want to sneak her onto the bed again, you can," Ilya finishes.
"Ha," says Shane, too happy to deny it. He finishes with the washcloth and overhands it across the room into the hamper. "Three points."
"Bravo," says Ilya. He's already on his phone, but he's hooking his arm around Shane's head and planting a fond kiss to his temple, too.
Shane grabs his own phone and scrolls through the notifications. There are several emails from his mom, working late as usual, and one text.
"Oh my god," says Shane.
"What," says Ilya, sleepy.
"Yuna sent me the link to the adoption agency they used."
"What do you mean?" says Ilya, confused. "Are they getting a dog, too?"
"The human adoption agency," Shane clarifies, and quickly fills Ilya in on the conversation with his mom from the other night. "Fuuuck, she must think we've been talking about that."
He taps on the message from Yuna, reacts with a couple of exclamation points, then responds:
We're not adopting a baby
Not anytime soon
Just to be clear
Yuna's typing dots appear, then she sends another link.
This is the fertility clinic we used. They have a section on their site about same-sex couples and donor eggs and surrogacy.
"Oh great," says Shane, already responding.
We're not doing that either
Mom
Stop
Ilya notches his bearded chin into the side of Shane's neck and reads over his shoulder. "Tell her Anya is jealous. Why is fur baby not good enough for Yuna?"
"I'm not saying that," Shane huffs. "Oh fuck, she's looking at surrogacy agencies in Mexico now. Mom! Stop!"
"Save links anyway," Ilya suggests, and grins when Shane glares at him sidelong. "For later."
"Stop it," says Shane. "She'll, like. Sense your interest."
Ilya laughs, low and sexy, and reaches up to take the phone of out Shane's hands. "Is nice she understands, at least. That it will be work for us, to have a family. We can't just, like, look at each other and get pregnant like Pike keeps doing to his wife."
"He really did have a vasectomy," says Shane, picking up the old argument. "It just didn't — take." Baby number five is due in October.
"Jackie should probably get them to cut his balls off completely next time," Ilya says. "Be safer."
"Hilarious," says Shane, settling down into the pillows, pulling the covers up. "We should sleep. Practice in the morning."
Ilya sighs and grunts softly, shifting away to his side of the bed. He's silent long enough that Shane is ready to switch off the light, go to sleep. But then, he speaks, low: "I think I was — accident."
"Ilya," says Shane, not sure if he's being funny.
"No, really," says Ilya, rolling onto his side to look at Shane. "I think my father was not happy when my mother told him. I know my brother was not. Then I was another son, which was better than a daughter at least, and it turned out I could play hockey, and then my brother was really not happy. But my father got over it, at least a bit."
"And Irina?" Shane asks, turning over onto his good side to face Ilya.
"Ah," Ilya says, his mouth curling sleepily. "I was crying once, went and told her: Lyosha says I was a mistake, and she said — no, Ilyusha, you were a surprise. A happy, wonderful surprise."
Shane laughs in spite of himself, in spite of the sadness he can see gathered around Ilya's tentative smile. It's just so — fucking true.
Ilya has always been a big fucking surprise to Shane, a long series of shocks to his system. The unexpected complication in every one of Shane's plans from age nineteen onwards.
The Russian kid who was giving Shane a run for his money at world juniors — his pretty mouth, his curls, the way he threw his cool assessing gaze over Shane.
The player meant to be Shane's rival in their rookie year, snorting and grinning when they were trying to play out a snarling face-off for the cameras.
From fumbling first time to long-time hook-up, to — surprise: he's your husband now, and he's never loved anyone the way he loves you.
"Yeah," says Shane. "I can see that. For such a big guy, you do have a way of kind of. Sneaking up on people."
"Ты милаяYou are sweet," says Ilya, leaning into the space between them to kiss Shane on the tip of his nose.
"Спокойной ночиGoodnight," Shane says, and turns off his light.
Game 1 of the finals, up against Edmonton in their shiny new arena, the hometown crowd completely feral at the prospect of winning the Cup — and, this being Alberta, taking extra glee in the notion of winning the Cup against Ottawa.
The Centaurs are down two goals. The cold that Ilya mostly shrugged off hasn't been so kind to their goalie Wyatt, and he's not playing well tonight. Shane and Ilya are doing their best to make up every goal Wyatt gives up to Edmonton, but it's like trying to keep water in a sieve at a certain point.
Edmonton gets a too-many-men penalty on a messy shift change, and Wiebe sends Shane and Ilya out together on the powerplay for Ottawa. Shane's fresh off another cortisone shot during the second intermission and pushing hard; Ilya's right there next to him, as always.
They're way out ahead of Edmonton's defense, sailing towards their net, shooting the puck back and forth, a moving target for the guys lagging behind them and struggling to catch up. Shane's finally gotten used to this, playing alongside someone who's maybe his equal on the ice; powerplays are his favourite for a reason. He gets the puck onto the blade of his stick, makes straight for the goal, and then shoots it backhand to Ilya at the last second, just when it looks like Ilya's about to circle back behind the net.
Ping.
The crowd groans, the horn sounds, and the other Centaurs catch up with them a second after he and Ilya collide in an embrace.
Second intermission, everyone heading back to the locker room, sweaty but ecstatic about the narrowing gap in the score.
"Two more goals," says Dykstra, clapping Shane and Ilya on the shoulders. "Let's go, boys."
"Three more," says Ilya, jutting his chin out. "Fuck oil country. Polar ice caps are melting. No more oil."
Shane is too busy trying to hold still for his cortisone shot to join his teammates as they stomp and holler about this.
There's still so much ahead of them, and so many places they could miss a turn in the road leading to a fourth victory. Shane's knee is going to give him more trouble as the week goes on, and Bood or Barrett might be the next one to catch the cold that has Wyatt sneezing into his goalie mask tonight. Ilya still gets too aggressive when they play away games in towns that hate him, racking up penalties they don't need. And Edmonton's strong, a young hungry team, and they've got serious depth on their forward line, maybe enough to match the Centaurs.
Shane knows they'll throw everything they have at this, put their whole selves into it. It might be enough. He fucking hopes it will be.
But if it's not — well.
Shane looks up with surprise as Ilya's hand grips his shoulder, realizing that Ilya's using Shane to balance on one leg while he gets his B12 shot on the other side. "Relax," says Shane, grinning up at him. "It'll be over in a second."
"Give kiss to your brave husband," says Ilya, as soon as the shot is finished, and Shane knows he's fucking around. They're in the locker room during a playoff game, it's serious fucking business, there's no time for bullshit, but —
Shane kisses him anyway.