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Shane gets outed just after they’d planned to go public, which feels like terrible timing.
They’re not together when it happens. Shane’s away celebrating a win against Buffalo, and Ilya’s at home, absentmindedly petting Anya because the Centaurs’ season ended early and there isn’t much else to do.
He’d spent the evening watching Shane’s game with his parents. It’d been nice and simple, and after dinner, Yuna asked with a secretive smile whether he and Shane had something planned.
Ilya didn’t think much of it then. Only later did it click that Shane must’ve given something away.
About their plans.
They knew that, to get married, they first had to make themselves known. The announcement, the lead-up, every detail had been choreographed to feel theirs and theirs alone.
But now… it’s all out. Not on their timing. Not on their rules.
—
The night everything changes, Ilya falls asleep on the couch without meaning to. He wakes to his phone ringing nonstop, Anya whining miserably beside him because, like Shane, who claims his ringtone is unbearable, she hates hearing it for too long.
He reaches for it, still half-asleep, and answers the call. “Yes?”
It’s their agent, Farah. “Ilya,” she says, her voice tight in a way it usually isn’t. “Have you checked your phone? Or talked to Shane at all?”
“No,” Ilya replies, sitting up straighter. “Why?”
Farah goes quiet. When she speaks, the news sounds ripped straight from Shane’s worst nightmares—the kind that leaves him trembling in the dark, needing Ilya to hold him until he can sleep again.
Someone took pictures of him leaving Hayden’s house a few days ago. In one, Shane is seemingly alone, his face clear as day. In the other, he’s pressed close to someone half-hidden by the wall. Ilya.
Except Ilya or his features never make it into the frame. Shane Hollander does, kissing a man.
“Fuck,” he mutters, a cold weight settling in his chest.
Ilya calls Shane maybe twenty times before accepting he’s not going to answer. He texted a couple hours earlier, just before boarding the flight back to Canada, and he’d definitely turned his phone off by now.
He always does, convinced the signal will interfere with the plane and somehow bring it down. It’s stupid. His stupid, lovable boyfriend, outed to the entire world and nowhere near him.
Does he even know? At least one of his teammates has to have seen the news by now. It’s everywhere. Once Farah hung up, Ilya made the mistake of opening social media. He closed it just as fast.
Ilya knew how unforgiving hockey could be for queer players. Seeing it happen with Shane in the middle of it is brutal.
The Voyageurs are playing the Guardians next, but Ilya can’t wait. He needs Shane, now. He could fly to Toronto, get there fast. He doesn’t know which hotel Shane’s staying at, but he can find out.
Meet him. Talk.
Figure out the new plan.
His phone rings again, but it’s not Farah this time. “Shane,” Ilya breathes, hitting accept. There’s a hundred things he wants to say—Are you okay? Where are you? I’m sorry. He doesn’t get a word in, because Shane speaks first.
“Hey,” Shane says. “I’m coming to Ottawa. Now.”
“You are?” Ilya asks, caught off guard. “What about your game?”
“I’m not playing.”
Shane has never skipped a game in his life. “Because you do not want to, yes? Or…?"
“I’m not playing, Ilya.”
“Okay,” Ilya concedes, trying to keep steady. “When are you getting here?”
“In an hour, maybe.” There’s movement on Shane’s side of the line. He’s probably at the airport, surrounded by strangers. Ilya wishes, not for the first time, that he could just be there.
“Okay,” he repeats. “I love you.”
A long pause. Then, almost whispering, “I love you too.”
—
Shane arrives an hour later, exactly as he promised. Ilya paces the house the entire time, unable to sit still. He has no idea how Shane will react, and it’s driving him crazy. Will he be mad?
He didn’t sound mad on the phone, just sad. And why wouldn’t he be? One of his biggest secrets just got dragged into the open, all because a stranger happened to be outside Hayden Pike’s house.
Not a fan, not even a journalist chasing a story. Just a random person holding far too much power over his life.
Ilya’s heart is still pounding when the door finally opens. Shane comes in with his bag, carrying all the weight he’s been hiding. The moment their eyes meet, his whole body stiffens.
Then he crosses the room, collapsing into Ilya’s arms. He doesn’t cry. Not really. His shoulders tremble, but no tears fall. Ilya strokes his back gently, repeating, “Is okay. You are safe. I got you.”
After a couple of minutes, Shane shifts just enough to look at him. Ilya traces his freckles with his thumb. “Talk to me, moy lyubovnik,” he murmurs.
Shane sniffs. Anya whimpers at their feet, as if she can feel something is wrong. “This sucks. I didn’t even—” He manages, then breaks off. “Get to choose. We were going to choose. Together.”
“I know,” Ilya says. “I know.”
They move to the couch, Shane dropping his things on the floor like he’s not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. “I didn’t even see it,” he says. “I was on the plane, and Theriault kept giving me this weird look.”
“Theriault is big asshole.”
Shane shakes his head. “Hayden showed me his phone, and then—” He stops again, voice breaking slightly. “I feel like I blinked, and now everyone knows.”
Ilya’s hands find the back of Shane’s neck, fingers threading into his hair. “You did nothing wrong.”
Shane leans in, offering no response. He’s already out to his teammates, a big step. Still, Ilya found it a little weird when Shane said the Voyageurs were okay with him being gay. Not supportive, not understanding, just okay.
He said nothing at the time. Shane’s always uneasy when the topic comes up, and Ilya learned not to press. Later, Shane quietly confided that some of them didn’t love the fact that he’s gay. Whatever that means.
“I wish it was not only you,” Ilya says, breaking the silence.
“What do you mean?”
“In the pictures,” he explains, leaning forward. “I wish they could see me too, so you do not have to face this alone.”
Shane considers it, then exhales.
“I don’t want you dragged into it like this,” he murmurs finally.
Ilya reaches out, brushing a hand over Shane’s knee. “I already am. Even if they do not know.”
—
Over the next few days, things ease a little. Shane takes a break from the ice willingly, though Ilya doubts Montreal or the league would've been thrilled to see him play if he wanted to.
The proximity helps, as it always does.
They make meals together. Trash-talk each other in video games. Watch dumb movies in the living room, only for Shane to huff when Ilya falls asleep halfway through. They fall asleep together, wake up the same way.
Right in the middle of it, their bodies find each other. Shane moans Ilya’s name as he rides him, cock pressing deep, every movement hitting exactly right. Once they’re clean and the sheets are fresh, Ilya can’t help but start thinking again.
“What if I just tell everyone it is me?” he asks. Shane’s head is resting on his chest in a way that suggests he doesn’t want to move, but his eyes still search for Ilya’s.
“In the pictures,” Shane clarifies.
“Yes. The pictures, Hollander,” Ilya confirms. “We will tell everyone anyway. Maybe we just… pull bandaid quickly.” He taps the ring on his necklace for emphasis.
It’s a testament to how shaken Shane still is that he doesn’t correct his broken English. He stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head. “I don’t know, Ilya. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Of course not,” Ilya nods. “It should not have gone like this. But it is already done."
“Right. So how would you even do that?”
He thinks about it. How would he? In the past, when Ilya dreamed about telling the world about Shane, it always seemed like this big, dramatic moment. Almost like a scene from a movie, with him professing his love for Shane Hollander in the rain.
Or maybe it'd happen after a game. The Centaurs would’ve beaten the Voyageurs, and instead of sulking like Shane often does after a loss, he’d skate straight to Ilya, kiss him, and declare, “I love you, Ilya Rozanov. Now, let me properly congratulate you… by getting on my knees here, in front of everyone—”
Ilya can’t help but laugh at the thought. Shane looks at him, confused.
By the time they actually considered going public, the ideas had become more grounded. They’d debated doing a press conference, like they had for the Irina Foundation, but quickly agreed it would feel weird and far too formal.
Anything issued by PR felt impersonal and not really like them at all.
So they chose a simpler path. It still required plenty of preparation, but once they were ready, they’d just... let everyone know. Luckily, they’d been feeling ready for a while now—Ilya especially, who’s been dying to hold Shane in public and show his devotion for so long.
But then everything else happened.
“Ilya,” Shane calls, nudging him slightly to catch his attention.
He looks down. “Yes, moya lyubov?”
“What would you do?” Shane asks again. “Not that I think you should, just to be clear.”
Ilya smiles slowly, tightening his arm around him.
He has some ideas.
—
Those ideas get temporarily shelved, because, as they soon realize, the media isn’t done dissecting and twisting every aspect of their lives. “They think I am homophobic?" Ilya asks, incredulous.
“Well, are you?” Troy jokes, tentatively.
“Of course not!” Ilya answers. They’re in the locker room, freshly showered and done with practice. He hasn’t been on the internet much lately. Mostly because it’s a mess out there, but also because Shane’s still around and he has far better things to do. Like Shane himself.
The point is, Ilya had no idea people were speculating that, since he and Shane have been rivals for their entire careers, Ilya must have a problem with Shane’s sexuality. And that’s the reason they’ve been at each other’s throats this whole time.
“Don’t worry about it, Roz. Not worth the energy,” Harris tells him. Around him, the rest of the Centaurs are all eyes, each giving him a different kind of look.
Wyatt sits back, observing quietly. Luca looks utterly appalled, like the very idea of Ilya being homophobic is absurd. Ilya realizes he’s never seen the kid look so strongly against something before.
“Is stupid! Makes zero sense,” Ilya shakes his head. “Even if people do not know about us, they know Shane and I run an organization. Would I do that if I had problem with him being gay?”
“Rumors rarely make sense,” Harris says. Ilya huffs, grabbing his phone to see for himself. He searches his own name, and there it is—Is Ilya Rozanov a homophobe? Five times the NHL star acted weird toward rival Shane Hollander.
Ilya’s bisexual, for fuck’s sake. And he’s going to marry Shane Hollander!
“Is it because I am from Russia?” Ilya asks. It wouldn’t be the first time someone assumed the worst about him because of his nationality, especially in America.
“I think people are just projecting,” Troy replies, and there’s a murmur of agreement around the locker room. Ilya scrolls angrily. It’s all screenshots of interviews taken out of context, clips of him chirping Shane on the ice like that hasn’t been the story for a decade.
Finally, he locks his phone and stuffs it into his bag. “I am going home.”
No one argues with him.
—
Hours later, Ilya’s still annoyed. It simmers under his skin, tugging at his hands and feet. He paces the kitchen, opens the fridge without thinking, shuts it again. Anya trails after him, worried.
Shane’s in the shower. He can hear the water running through the wall, and it’s the only thing keeping Ilya from doing something stupid like knocking over the trash can just because.
He’s lived through this kind of scrutiny his whole life, but his relationship with Shane is one of the few things he feels he needs to protect. The bathroom door opens, and there’s Shane, hair wet, casually slipping into one of Ilya’s Boston Bears shirts.
Ilya feels like he should take a photo. Surely that would shut everyone up—Shane Hollander, his rival, wearing his old team’s merch just because it used to be his.
Instead, he closes the distance between them in three steps and pulls Shane into a kiss. Shane melts into it, arms winding around Ilya’s waist, lips soft and familiar. “Mm,” he mumbles, satisfied.
Ilya feels better after they pull apart, so much better that he almost wants to forget the subject entirely. But he doesn’t, because honesty was part of their deal, even when it’s uncomfortable.
“People think I hate you,” he murmurs into Shane’s neck.
“Well… yes.”
“No, listen,” Ilya tells him, pulling back. “Apparently, I bully you for years because of your sexuality. Not because we are rivals. Not because of hockey.”
Shane blinks. Then, absurdly, he lets out a short laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. There are articles. Threads.”
Shane’s amusement fades fast. He rubs a hand over his face, water still dripping from his hair onto the collar of the shirt. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“Is not your fault,” Ilya says, and he means it. His troubles seem small compared to Shane’s. But that night, lying in bed with the lights off, he stays awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling.
He grabs his phone, but doesn’t look up his own name. He looks up Shane’s.
Things have improved a little, yet people are still talking. Ilya’s jaw tightens as he scrolls, stopping at a photo he recognizes immediately, the one that started it all. Shane, unmistakable. The other man nothing but speculation.
They have to do something.
Why haven’t they?
Ilya locks his phone and pulls Shane close, holding him until sleep finally comes.
—
Shane returns to hockey, because of course he does. He could never stay away for too long.
The Voyageurs managed well enough without him, still holding a spot in the playoffs. Ilya watches the game with Shane’s parents, as usual. “He looks good,” David says midway through the first period.
And he does. It’s like he’s turned every piece of criticism, every doubt, every ounce of pressure into something tangible, something he can control. And Ilya can’t help but feel proud knowing he’s played a part in it.
He thinks back to two nights ago, Shane’s voice coming through the FaceTime call. “Farah called again today.” Ilya’s busy making himself dinner but nearly drops his sandwich on the floor.
Anya stares at it like she hasn’t eaten in a week, probably hoping he does. “And?” Ilya asks, phone wedged between shoulder and ear as he carries the plate to the living room.
“She wanted to know if—” Shane pauses. He’s in a dim hotel room, glasses on. He always looks so good in glasses. “If we’re still planning on saying something. Together.”
His heart gives a slow, heavy thump. Ilya chews carefully, buying himself a moment, then asks, “Okay. What did you say?”
Shane shifts on the other end, adjusting the phone. “I said, if people are going to make things up anyway, it’s better to tell the truth ourselves.”
Ilya pauses. “You said that?”
Shane nods, barely visible through the screen. “We get to decide how it happens, like we always said we would.”
A weight lifts from Ilya’s chest, one he hadn’t known he was carrying. “I like that. Us deciding. Together.”
Shane’s smile is small, perfect. “Me too.”
On the TV, present-day Shane scores. The puck slides past the goalie, and the crowd goes wild in response. Yuna jumps, clapping so hard it almost knocks Ilya off balance. “There! Did you see that?”
“I saw,” Ilya laughs, breathless, eyes glued to Shane as he skates to the bench, a triumphant grin lighting his face. He feels that same swell of happiness and relief twisting in his chest, just like before.
There’s more from that night. When the conversation fades into silence, Shane leans back against the pillows, letting out a long, content sigh. ”Do you remember what you said the other day?” he asks.
“I say many things, Hollander. Be more specific, yes?”
Shane huffs a laugh. “You said you wish people knew it was you in the pictures.”
Oh. That. “Yes, I remember.”
“And you told me you had some ideas.” Shane props his chin in his hand, watching him carefully through the screen.
“Shane.” Ilya says it once, low, deliberate.
The glint in Shane’s eyes is a promise. Montreal wins the game, and somehow the victory feels like theirs.
—
“Can you believe,” Ilya begins, tugging at Shane’s waistband and pressing his lips firmly against the heated skin below. “People still think I am homophobic?”
Shane’s breath catches, fingers threading into Ilya’s hair. “I thought you weren’t reading that stuff anymore,” he manages.
Ilya hums, sliding a hand fully inside, cupping Shane’s cock and guiding it to his mouth. “Cannot stop,” he murmurs. “Need to prove them wrong.”
“Ilya,” Shane pants, barely holding it together. “Stop talking and just—fuck.”
Ilya teases the tip before finally taking him deeper, savoring the feel, the weight of it on his tongue. When Shane rolls his hips against him, demanding more, Ilya lets him, matching every movement with his own.
It’s built on years of trust, of knowing each other deeper than anyone else ever has. When Shane goes still a short while later, Ilya sits back, lips glistening, and chuckles. “See?” he teases.
Shane groans, exasperated but mostly pleased. “Yeah, yeah, you proved it.”
They lie there for a long while, the room quiet except for their breathing. The rest of the morning is decidedly less exciting, but when noon comes around, Shane’s parents arrive for lunch.
The Voyageurs are playing at home, which means Ilya had already made the two-hour drive the night before. The team’s been doing well lately—maybe well enough for Shane to win the Stanley Cup again.
But the game isn’t the only reason Ilya or Shane’s parents are sitting in the living room. They’re here because, finally, a new decision’s been made about how to make their relationship public.
"You boys are actually doing this?” Yuna asks.
Shane nods beside him. His mother looks a little surprised, like she didn’t think he’d actually go through with it. Even Ilya is, if he’s being honest.
They were engaged. They’d talked endlessly about going public and made plans. Somehow, it all felt theoretical, like something they'd deal with later.
Now later is here. At last.
“Is fun, yes?” Ilya asks, smiling.
“Everyone’s going to be talking about it, that’s for sure,” David says. The idea was Ilya’s, but Shane perfected it. That kind of careful planning is just like him, the same attention to detail he’d shown when he pushed him to sign with the Centaurs.
When they told Farah, she warned them about the risks, about what it could mean for their careers and how the league might respond. But she also told them to listen to their hearts.
And Ilya’s heart has known for years that the world should know Shane Hollander is his.
He reaches for Shane’s hand without looking, their fingers fitting together easily. Yuna studies them for a moment longer before smiling. “Well,” she says, “I guess it’s about time.”
No one argues. No one hesitates. They’re not doing anything wrong, but Ilya knows Shane sometimes needs a little reminder. “What do you think of this one?” Ilya asks, opening a picture from the folder he keeps just for them.
It’s from that fateful day, right before they went to Hayden’s house. They’re in the car, Ilya stretching his arm so they both fit in the frame. Shane squints at it and shakes his head. “I don’t know. What if they think I’m a reckless driver?”
Yuna chuckles softly from across the room. “Why would anyone think that, honey?”
“Because I’m looking at the camera and driving.”
“You are looking at me,” Ilya points out, tilting the phone toward him. “Not the camera.”
Shane just shoots him a look. “Fine, not this one,” Ilya says, scrolling on. Eventually, he finds one that feels right. Pike’s wife, Jackie, had taken it, and when Shane sent it to him, Ilya couldn’t bring himself to delete it.
They’re in the backyard, both a little flushed from a football game with the kids. Shane’s caught mid-kick, sending the ball toward one of the girls, while Ilya stands nearby, laughing.
It’s an adorable shot. Anyone paying too much attention to their lives will notice they’re in the same clothes as the leaked photos. “Just a tease,” Shane said when he came up with the idea.
A perfect setup, by his own account.
“This one’s alright,” Shane says, though the smile on his lips makes it sound like a massive understatement as he peeks over Ilya’s shoulder.
“Then this one it is,” Ilya responds. He turns around to face Shane properly, then asks, “Want to post it now?”
Shane hesitates for a moment, chewing on his lip, then nods. Ilya’s heart pounds as he presses the publish button. The photo goes live.
“...So.”
“Now what?”
They share a nervous, bubbly laugh. Yuna shakes her head fondly. “And when is the real announcement coming again?” she asks.
“After the game, mom,” Shane explains. Ilya’s hoping Shane will win, though he already trusts he will. David and Yuna, their eyes meeting briefly, seem to hold the same quiet certainty.
A thought strikes Ilya. “What if I come?” he asks. “To the arena?”
Shane opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it, like he’s never considered the possibility before. Both have seen the other play more times than they can count, on opposing teams or on TV, but never quite like this.
“That would be great,” Shane finally says, smiling. Ilya can already see it in his mind—jumping and shouting every time the puck hits the net, waiting until their eyes lock across the arena.
No way he’s ever wearing Montreal merch, but he might write Shane’s number on a sign.
Ilya grins, the kind that makes his whole face light up. Maybe they won’t even need to make the official announcement later. Maybe anyone who sees him in the arena will understand.
—
Breaking News: Shane Hollander Sparks Rumors About Ilya Rozanov
Fans notice the NHL star’s latest post mirrors weeks-old leaked photos.
Is It OK to Ship Your Favorite Athletes?
Some see it as harmless fun, while others warn it crosses personal boundaries.
Social Media Thinks Rozanov May Have Had Issues With Hollander Being Gay
Years of on-ice rivalry are being misread as personal intolerance, despite no evidence.
“This is total nonsense,” Shane says, tossing his phone onto the mattress.
Ilya nudges him. “Maybe we start our own headlines. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov: Actually Just in Love.”
—
Watching Shane from the stands isn’t like seeing him on TV, and it’s nothing like facing him on the ice. From here, he can pick up on nearly everything—the way Shane’s fingers tighten on his stick, the subtle curve of a smile when a play goes right.
In the end, he does make a sign. Shane doesn’t know about it, but it’s currently resting in Ilya’s lap, and he’s certain hundreds of pictures have already been taken. Not that he minds.
They know all eyes will be on them tonight.
Even with that knowledge, Ilya’s still nervous, and there’s no use pretending otherwise. Shane is too, and it shows in the way he keeps looking for Ilya in the crowd, in every text he’s sent over the last five hours.
They start the second he leaves for the arena. Coach is in a mood. I swear everyone is staring. Shane complains about the state of the locker room and his teammates. As the hours pass, they drift from the game toward wanting Ilya. Done with warm-ups. Is it time yet? Hope you’re coming.
Boos aimed squarely at Ilya rise from the Montreal section then, snapping him back to the game. That much is familiar. At least it’s not because they believe he’s a bigot.
The goal comes later, Shane caught up in the celebration, clapping backs and shoulders before his gaze lifts from the ice to the stands again. They find each other’s eyes, and like it’s already decided, Ilya lifts the damn sign.
It’s simple to the point of embarrassment, Shane’s number tucked into a badly drawn heart. But Shane catches sight of it and laughs, really laughs, ducking his head as a gloved hand comes up to his face.
Worth it, Ilya thinks. Absolutely, without a doubt, worth it.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, the Voyageurs have secured yet another win. Ilya feels pulled in two directions, wanting to run to Shane and wanting Shane to run to him. Neither happens, of course, and he watches as the Montreal section goes wild.
It also occurs to him that Ilya hasn’t felt a crowd this alive in a long, long time. He pushes the thought aside.
As people start pouring out of the arena, he’s guided down a hallway by an employee who keeps glancing at him nervously, unsure if this is allowed but unwilling to be the one to stop Ilya from reaching Shane.
And there he is. Shane, still in his gear, helmet off. The moment Ilya steps closer, the cameras follow. “Congratulations on the game,” he says, looping an arm around Shane’s waist in a way he’s never dared to in public before.
Shane doesn’t shy away.
Instead he grins, tilting his head. “Are you not jealous?”
Ilya makes a show of scoffing.
“Jealous? Please, Hollander. Next season, we demolish you.”
—
Once all is said and done, they walk out of the arena together. Through the main entrance, into Shane’s SUV. It all feels a little surreal.
It doesn’t really hit him until they’re pulling out of the parking lot, the lights shrinking behind them and the noise fading into something distant. “You made a sign,” Shane says, eyes on the road.
“A very good sign.”
“It was awful.”
“I put my heart into it,” Ilya protests.
“You put crayons into it,” Shane teases. Then, softer, “I liked it.”
Ilya smiles, his fingers brushing against Shane’s thigh before settling there, grounding himself in the moment. Back home, the keys barely touch the counter and they’re already kissing.
Shane pulls back first. “We should… you know.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, not moving an inch.
Shane lets out a breath that turns into a small laugh, his forehead dropping to Ilya’s shoulder. “Okay,” he says, like he’s convincing himself as much as anyone else. “Okay.”
Nothing is rushed after that. When the moment comes, they sit down and set up the announcement side by side. The pictures they choose tell the story plainly—Shane tucked into Ilya’s side, then a shot of them with Anya, all three looking at the camera.
The final image is the one that seals it.
A kiss, the kind you only post when there’s nothing left to hide.
Ilya nudges Shane with his shoulder. “Are you going to chicken out?”
“No,” Shane huffs.
“Good. Because if you do not post it, I will,” Ilya says, a teasing lilt in his voice.
Shane leans back, eyebrows raised. “You would?”
“Of course,” Ilya confirms. “Everyone thinks I am homophobic. I need this.”
“So you’re only using me to make yourself look good,” Shane says, shaking his head, “and all this time I thought we were in love.”
“We are. But a little selfish interest is no problem, yes?”
“Self-interest,” Shane corrects, chuckling. A couple of taps later, the post is finally out.
Almost immediately their phones start buzzing with notifications. So many notifications, and they keep coming, one after another, impossible to keep up with.
“Do you want to look?” Shane asks.
“No,” Ilya replies, shutting the screen and threading his fingers through Shane’s. “Later.”
Shane seems grateful. He releases a slow breath and leans into Ilya, head settling against his shoulder. For a while, they sit like that, letting the world wrestle with the truth while they hold onto it quietly between them.
Ilya can barely wrap his head around the fact that it’s finally out. All of it. He’ll get to take Anya for a walk and hold Shane’s hand with the other, simple as that. They’ll bicker in the grocery store about milk prices and whether they really need more coffee.
Then, further down the line, he’ll marry Shane. And the wedding night? The best sex of their lives. Guaranteed.
“Do you think people will just accept it?” Shane asks after a long silence.
Ilya shrugs. “Some will, some will not.”
“It feels weird, doesn't it?”
It does, but not in a bad way. When Ilya checks his phone later, the reaction is more or less what he expected. A flood of hearts in the comments. Old, pixelated pictures of him and Shane from past games, fans captioning them with we knew and finally.
People, for some reason, mash their names together. Hollanov sounds weird in Ilya’s opinion, but fine.
But not all of it is kind. There’s ignorance. Straight-up hate. Think pieces questioning if their relationship undermines the integrity of the game.
Like Shane would ever go easy on him. Like Ilya would ever want that.
For a moment, Ilya wants to fight it—to dive into the replies and push back until there’s nothing left to argue. But he doesn’t.
Instead, Ilya fucks Shane like he has something to prove that night, one hand keeping him down, the other anchoring him close, like the world outside doesn’t get to question what this is.
When they’re both teetering on the edge, Ilya flips them around so he can see Shane’s face. There’s lust there. Hunger. Need. And threaded through it, love.
"Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya gasps, stroking Shane in time with his thrusts.
Shane doesn’t respond. He’s too far gone to manage words.
“I love you,” Ilya tries again. Puts pressure on the base of Shane's cock.
All he gets is a breathy, wrecked moan in response.
But just before Shane falls apart completely, he manages, quietly, “I love you too.”
And to hell with the noise.
—
“Ilya!” Shane’s voice rings out from upstairs, followed by fast, unmistakably irritated footsteps.
By the time Shane reaches the kitchen, Ilya has already shut off the tap, bracing for the coming storm. Anya races after him, blissfully unaware that this is not playtime.
“What is this?” Shane demands, waving his phone in his face.
Ilya leans in to see, and the image that greets him feels almost nostalgic now. Him and Shane, kissing in Hayden Pike’s house. He’d posted it on Instagram that morning after remembering how dramatic it all felt back then and deciding, finally, that it was hilarious.
Ilya clicks his tongue. “This, Hollander, is called a story. Disappears in twenty-four hours—”
“I know what an Instagram story is!”
“You asked,” Ilya shrugs.
Shane rolls his eyes. “What I mean is, you couldn’t have picked a different song?”
He presses play then, and on cue, a familiar melody spills out into the room. Ilya tries to hold it together, lips pressed tight, but the first line breaks him.
“How can I be homophobic? My bitch is gay. Hit man in the top, try see a man topless, even the stick is gay.”
Ilya starts laughing, and Shane lasts maybe two or three seconds before he joins in. Soon they’re both doubled over, clinging to the furniture like it’s the only thing keeping them upright.
When they finally calm down, Shane brushes a tear away. “No, seriously. Why did you post it?”
“I told you,” Ilya says. “Had put rumors to rest once and for all.”
Shane pulls the ring out from where it hangs on a chain beneath his shirt. “Is this not enough evidence?” he asks, smiling.
“People might think I married you for the visa.”
“I literally play for your team.”
“Our team,” Ilya corrects. "And… how to say… keep your friends close and enemies closer.”
They both laugh again.
“This is the dumbest thing you've ever done.” Shane steps closer he says it, which makes the accusation feel suspiciously warm.
Ilya finds his waist with his hand, pulling him in. “You love it.”
Shane doesn’t argue, only tilts his head with a small smile. Anya chooses that moment to jump, pawing at both their legs energetically. “Anya, down,” Ilya says.
It takes a moment, but she obeys.
“Good girl,” Ilya praises, watching her sprint off with her toy.
Shane gives him a look, one that is fond and perhaps a little horny. Ilya arches an eyebrow. “What? You want to be a good boy too—”
“Shut up,” Shane groans, pressing lightly against him and hiding his face in the crook of Ilya’s shoulder. “Delete that stupid post.”
“What? No.”
“Delete it,” Shane insists, voice muffled.
“I will not.”
“It's embarrassing.”
“Is genius,” Ilya says. His free hand drifts up to Shane’s hair, brushing through the soft strands. “Troy showed me the song at practice. Said it is ridiculous, so perfect for us."
“Of course he did,” Shane sighs, resigned.
It had taken time, and the road had been messy, but they got there in the end. They have their house, their dog, wedding photos hanging on the walls, and Ilya’s charger never leaving the bedroom outlet despite Shane’s constant grumbling.
They have their team, too. The Centaurs had accepted Shane fully, even if the circumstances were far from ideal.
Maybe, in time, they’ll raise a Cup together.
And one day, when it’s all behind them, children. Of their own.
“Don’t think I’m letting you forget this,” Shane warns, voice low.
“Good. Keep reminding me,” Ilya says, smiling.
—
A week later, they sit down for an interview. A reporter points a microphone at Ilya.
“Rozanov, you posted something provocative recently.”
Ilya glances at Shane, who’s already groaning in his chair, and grins. “Yes.”
"Do you have anything you’d like to say to those who believed you weren’t supportive of LGBT people?”
Shane throws his head back. “God, not this again.”
Ilya nods toward Shane, as if that settles the matter. “Next question.”