Work Text:
October 2021
Even though they’d been playing in games together for almost a month; had gone through training together and had been on the same team together since the start of the season, it was still an odd feeling for Shane to enter the locker room with Ilya.
Part of him had been a little concerned about this change in dynamics. Would playing with each other instead of against each other cause arguments? Would it be difficult to find a way to work together? Or, worse, would the loss of his on-ice rival steal some of Shane’s edge? Would both he and Ilya become painfully, terrifyingly average without each other to compete against?
Of course, he shouldn’t have been worried.
Somehow, they pushed each other more, when they were together. The chirps and heated glances that had fueled Shane the most during his games against Ilya only propelled him more when they were in constant supply, now supplemented by the way they hungrily took each other apart after nearly every practice and game.
But still, he felt giddy every time he walked into the locker room, mind fixed on his detailed ritual of putting his pads on exactly the same way, only to look to the left of his stall and see Ilya there, grinning at him like a madman.
Today, however, Ilya wasn’t grinning when they walked into the locker room. He looked almost…nervous? Both hesitant and playful, as he allowed Shane to walk towards the cubbies first, hanging back to have a conversation with one of the other Centaurs.
So Shane was alone when he got to his things only to find a large bouquet of flowers sitting innocently there.
Immediately, he froze, shocked and a bit terrified. He had to talk himself down from wanting to hide–his natural instinct was still to protect this precious thing they had together, especially in hockey settings. But after a few moments of panic, he took a deep breath and exhaled, walking the rest of the way towards the sunflowers and fighting back a stupid grin. “The fuck is this, Rozanov?” he yelled towards his husband, trying to keep up some of the tough persona he fought to employ in front of his team, even though Ilya was adept at stripping it away in seconds. “Trying to distract me before our game?” The Centaurs had a game planned during practice today–Team Ilya versus Team Shane, the players split in half.
Ilya, who was chatting with Troy, turned around and gave him a shit-eating grin. “Is flowers, Hollander,” he replied, ignoring some of the guys’ teasing coos. “You have seen them before, yes? Or are you living in the rink so much you have never seen nature?”
Shane fought a blush at both the team’s attention and the chirp. “Yes, you asshole, I’ve seen them. But why are they in my stuff?”
Now Ilya was beaming, his eyes glittering mischievously and his smile so big it made Shane want to melt in it. “Is wedding anniversary, Hollander. You think I won’t give my husband a gift on anniversary?”
For a moment, Shane panicked. Fuck! How could he have forgotten? Had he gotten so obsessive with the hockey schedule that he hadn’t checked his phone? Normally, he was meticulous about putting every important date in his calendar–birthdays, anniversaries, appointments, everything. How could he not have remembered–?
Wait.
“Ilya, we just got married three months ago!” he exclaimed frustratedly as Ilya burst out laughing, a bunch of the guys laughing, too. “Our anniversary is in July! You’re fucking with me!”
But after the taller man finished chuckling, he walked up to Shane, placing a loving hand on his cheek. Extremely conscious of the team’s eyes on them, Shane blushed scarlet, looking down, frowning, and crossing his arms. But, a true testament to his progress, he did not push Ilya’s affection away.
“Is not that anniversary, kotenok,” Ilya replied, smirking. “Different. More important.”
Now Shane was a bit annoyed. He hated not knowing things, hated not understanding even more. And now he felt embarrassed; he was being teased by his husband in front of his entire new team. For what, a leg up in the game? Sure, that was their thing, but he still hated being the butt of the joke. Glowering, he began to argue, only to be cut off by coach Wiebe’s call to order.
He was off the entire practice. Missing easy passes and getting distracted by things he normally would have easily been able to ignore on a normal day. But Shane was like a man possessed. He needed to know what those damn flowers were for, and why Ilya had seemed so amused by the entire thing. Even though he was clearly teasing, Shane also had a feeling there was some truth behind his words. What anniversary was he talking about? What had happened last October that was worth celebrating?
It was only after he looked out into the stands, eyes resting on some kids who had visited on a school field trip, that he remembered:
Babysitting. Hayden’s kids. Plastic heart-rings and vows that had felt so incredibly real.
“Fuck,” he swore under his breath, just as the coach blew his whistle, signaling to both men to come to the center for a face-off.
He found himself facing his husband across the red line, Weibe holding the puck between them. Ilya crouched at the ready, casting Shane a knowing look, like he was just waiting for him to remember. And fuck, that sinful smile, like he was thinking about what he was going to Shane when he got him alone, when Shane finally got his shit together and remembered.
Shane nearly called an end to the game, dragged his husband off the ice and abandoned this stupid façade altogether. “It is our wedding anniversary,” he said softly, a stupid grin on his face. “I remember now.”
“It is,” Ilya nodded, sending him a challenging smile as he leaned in close, eyebrows narrowed. “I cannot believe you would forget. You looked so handsome that day.”
“Your nail polish was fantastic,” Shane replied dazedly, feeling like he was floating. Their sticks slammed against each other a few times, almost flirtatiously.
“We will celebrate later, yes?” Ilya asked with a raised eyebrow, biting his lip and lowering his voice suggestively.
Heat dripped down Shane’s spine, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes. Please.”
“Good. And I will celebrate now. By beating you in practice game.”
“You won’t–!”
The puck dropped.
Of course, Ilya won the face-off. The asshole.