Chapter Text
Morning skate started normally, which should have been the first red flag.
The locker room buzzed with the usual pre-practice noise: sticks clattering, velcro ripping as the team put on their pads, tape unraveling as sticks got wrapped. It was a normal morning.
Shane sat in his stall, taping his stick with precise measurements, wrapping the blade, ensuring every crease of the tape fell perfectly. Across the room, Ilya was mid-story, moving his hands dramatically while complaining to Zane Boodram and Wyatt Hayes.
“They are designed for people with no legs,” Ilya declared, and added, “or maybe tiny raccoons, but I do not fit in those tiny seats,” crossing his arms with his brow furrowed.
Bood snorted, “You fit fine.”
“I am long, do you not see?” Ilya stuck his leg out and motioned towards it with his hands.
From his stall, Shane didn’t look up, “I measured,” he said flatly. “You’re average.”
The surrounding banter hushed for a moment, and then Hayes wheezed. Bood choked on the coffee he was momentarily sipping on.
Ilya turned slowly, shoulders tense.
“...You measured me,” he said.
Shane finished smoothing the tape and glanced up, completely unbothered, offering Ilya a shrug.
“You asked me to.”
“I was joking!”
“You weren’t specific. I thought you were serious,” Shane replied.
The locker room dissolved into laughter as Coach Wiebe walked into the open room, shaking his head with an amused smile.
The Centaurs were used to their banter, their antics, and their jabs, but what they were not used to were mornings like this. Because Ilya was off this morning. Not in an overtly noticeable way, or in a way that was noticeable at all, but Shane noticed immediately. Of course he did.
Ilya’s laugh was a fraction too loud, his shoulders a smidge too tight, as he kept rolling his neck like something was bothering him.
Shane began taking inventory of his small, silent tells. He finished lacing his skates and stood, crossing the room with three efficient but casual strides, stepping just inside Ilya’s space.
Just in earshot, Shane spoke. “You didn't sleep well,” stating it more as a fact than a question.
Ilya blinked at him, “I slept.”
Shane tilted his head slightly, “You were awake at 3:12.”
Hayes and Bood abruptly stopped their conversation and glanced up at them.
Ilya cocked his eyebrow.
“...Why do you know that?”
“You got out of bed and didn’t come back until seventeen minutes later.” Shane had a calm tone to his voice.
Wyatt spoke lowly, horrified but impressed, “Dude.”
Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose, a faint smile creeping up the side of his mouth.
“You are very creepy husband,” he muttered.
Shane’s eyes stayed on his husband, inching closer this time.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
A silent shift changed in the air as Ilya hesitated, staring into his stall. Then, as quickly as the hesitation appeared, it quickly dissipated as he shrugged his shoulders.
“Neck is tight,” he admitted.
Shane’s eye narrowed slightly at him.
“From the hit last night?”
“...Maybe?”
Shane’s jaw tightened. Without missing a beat, he said, “Trainer.”
Ilya groaned. “I am fine.”
“You said that last time, and then you tried to fight a vending machine,” Shane replied.
“I was provoked.”
“You kicked it.”
“It knew what it did.”
Coach Weibe cleared his throat, disrupting the conversation, “Rozanov. Training room, now.”
Ilya looked personally betrayed as he begrudgingly made his way towards the door, “Tattle tale,” he muttered.
“You married me.”
The training room cleared Ilya pretty quickly – minor muscle strain, nothing structural, but still Shane hovered. Not obvious, but in a way that made his presence known as Ilya wrapped up with the trainer.
By the time they hit the ice for drills, the energy had evened out again.
Mostly.
The Centaurs ran a fast transition drill: the puck moved clean through the neutral zone, tape-to-tape, then quickly over to Shane.
He didn’t need to look before sending it across the ice because, of course, Ilya was already there.
Snapshot, bar down. Coach blew the whistle, “Run it again!”
Troy skated past Shane.
“You guys are disgusting,” shoving Ilya slightly, who beamed.
“Thank you, Barrett.”
…
The shift happened instantaneously and almost out of nowhere. The team was running the rest of their drills when Troy leaned against the boards and muttered to Wyatt, “You feel that?”
Wyatt squinted at the ice, “Feel what?”
“That thing,” Troy said vaguely. “Where Hollander and Rozanov are being normal, but it's the wrong normal.”
Over time, the Centaurs started to become good at noticing when the vibes were off, not immediately or dramatically, but eventually, they always noticed.
Wyatt watched for a few seconds longer.
Shane took a pass at center. Without looking, he fed it clean across the ice, tape-to-tape. Ilya buried it top shelf like physics personally offended him.
Coach blew the whistle.
“Again.”
“Okay, yeah,” he said. “That’s unsettling.”
The problem wasn’t that their chemistry was bad; it was better. Too clean. Too sharp. Like something was wound too tight. Of course, Ilya and Shane had great chemistry, but something about the way they passed and moved through their plays silently felt off.
The first crack showed up three days later during film review. The small room felt too warm, with all the bodies packed close together. Shane could feel it immediately, the low hum of discomfort that crawled on his skin, as the overhead lights buzzed a little too sharply for his comfort.
He adjusted automatically, making a note to keep his shoulders down, his brain steady, and his focus on the screen. But beside him, Ilya was restless. Not fidgety or in a way that anyone could notice, but Shane noticed.
Ilya’s knee bounced once every seven seconds, his jaw flexed every time a clip was rewound. On screen, the play looped again, displaying the late third period from their last game.
“Rozanov,” Coach spoke.
Ilya’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.
“You left the lane early here,” Weibe said, pointing to where Ilya was on the screen.
The room stayed quiet as Shane felt the shift beside him. Peering through his peripherals, he could see the small, sharp crane of his neck as his jaw tensed.
“Thought I saw an opening.”
Coach nodded slowly and said, “Trust the system first.”
There was nothing out of the ordinary with Coach Weibe’s critique. It was mild and routine. Just typical hockey feedback, but Shane noticed how Ilya’s finger curled briefly against his thighs.
After the meeting broke, players filtered out in loose clusters. Zane Boodram fell into step beside Ilya immediately.
“Roz, you good man?” he asked casually.
Ilya flashed a grin that was a half-shade too sharp, with piercing eyes. “Always.”
Zane’s eyes flicked to Shane, then back to Ilya. He didn’t push but he didn’t look convinced either.
The second crack was worse. Practice two days later.
They were doing high-intensity drills, and coach was running them hard. Shane was in his element; he looked structured, precise, and locked in. Ilya…was pushing. He moved too fast and too aggressively on his edges.
Shane noticed halfway through the second drill, and by the third, Hayes noticed it too. Shane skated close to the crease.
“Your husband’s about to try and outskate his own hamstrings,” Hayes muttered.
Shane’s jaw tightened.
Across the ice, Ilya cut hard through the neutral zone again, reckless speed with no pacing.
“I see it.”
“Yeah,” Hayes spoke, “Thought you might.”
Ilya’s skating wasn’t like him; it wasn’t sustainable. Not smart. Shane pushed off and intercepted him mid-loop.
“You’re overstriding,” he said quietly.
Ilya didn’t slow.
“I’m fine.”
Shane’s chest tightened.
“You’re overcompensating, Ilya.”
That got a reaction out of him.
“Play your game,” he said sharply. His tone wasn’t to be missed. It was small, but wrong. Shane stiffened as the words reached him.
Across the ice, Wyatt visibly perked up like a man spotting live television drama. There it was, the hairline fracture.
The third crack came from outside, because of course it did. It was bad timing as always, but media day was inevitable.
A new, unfamiliar reporter leaned forward during the scrum.
“Rozanov, you’ve been logging heavier minutes lately. Any concern about burnout given your history earlier this season?”
The room went tight.
Ilyas’s smile slipped into place. “Nyet,” he spoke smoothly. “I am the best, I do not get tired.”
Laughter ensued from the media, but Shane felt something settle low in his stomach. His eyes slowly moved to Ilya’s left hand that was shaking slightly against the podium. Tiny, almost invisible movements unless you knew what to look for. Which Shane did.
That night back at the apartment, a quiet fell, stretching through them.
Ilya stood at the edge of their bed while he slowly removed his clothes from his gear bag. Too slowly, Shane noted as he leaned from the doorway, watching.
Finally, he spoke.
“You’re pushing too hard.”
Ilya’s shoulders went stiff.
“Coach is pushing hard.”
“And you are pushing harder than him.”
Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose.
“I am fine.”
There it was again. Fine. The simple phrase that Shane learned to distrust immediately.
His chest tightened.
“Ilya-”
“I said I am fine.”
The edge was back, the words spoken with a slight bite to them. Shane instinctively went still. This was familiar territory. The avoidance, the deflection, he could feel the pressure building under the surface.
Somewhere in the apartment, the air felt like it had shifted, not a blowout yet, not even close. But they were inching dangerously close to the fault line.
Across town, a Centaur's group chat lit up.
Hollanov fan club
Troy: okay so are we all pretending we don’t feel the tension?
Wyatt: oh we feel it.
Zane: It’s a bit concerning…
Troy: I give it two weeks.
Luca: no definitely less.
And for the first time in their marriage, something between Shane and Ilya didn’t feel invincible. It felt…fragile.