Chapter Text
Ilya wakes slowly, heavy with the lazy satisfaction of a nap taken after an eventful post-workout cardio session with his husband.
Out of habit, he rolls to the right side of the bed.
Shane isn’t there.
Only a perfectly made half of the mattress greets him. Sheets pulled smooth. Pillows aligned like a hotel bed. Shane Hollander’s side of the bed never survives long after he wakes up.
Ilya barely cracks an eye open before his senses are assaulted by a smell drifting in from the kitchen.
Garlic.
Butter.
Tomatoes.
Which can only mean one thing.
Shane Hollander is cooking.
And when Shane Hollander cooks, he follows the recipe.
Exactly.
Down to the gram.
Down to the minute.
Down to the last ingredient.
Which is how the problem started.
Ilya drags himself out of bed and wanders toward the kitchen, hair messy, wearing nothing but his Calvin Klein boxers.
Shane is at the stove.
He’s wearing soft grey shorts, an old white shirt, and an apron tied around his waist. His hair is slightly damp from the shower. One hand stirs a pot while the other holds a wooden spoon like he’s conducting an orchestra.
Ilya stops in the doorway.
Ilya is a witness to many beautiful things in the world. Sunsets over the Ottawa river. Stanley Cup victories. His bright orange Porsche under his custom garage lighting. But nothing compares to the sight of Shane Hollander cooking dinner for him.
“Ilya,” Shane says without turning. “Good. You’re up.”
“Hi, Moy lyubimyy.”
Ilya walks over and wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, careful not to interrupt the stirring motion of the spoon. He presses a lazy kiss to the back of Shane’s neck.
Domesticity hits him like a truck.
Sometimes Ilya still can’t believe this is real.
On the other hand, Shane is currently summoning every ounce of discipline he has.
Because his 6’3 husband, who is wearing nothing but Calvin Klein boxers, is pressed against his back.
And the situation in Shane’s lower back region is… noticeable.
Extremely noticeable.
Shane refuses to acknowledge it.
Focus.
Recipe.
Pasta.
Not husband.
Fortunately, it is the same husband who breaks the silence.
“This smells so good. Do you need help, Solnyshko?” Ilya asks as he continuously caresses Shane’s neck.
“Actually, yes,” Shane says finally. “I’m missing something from this recipe.”
He tilts the iPad slightly so Ilya can see the screen.
“We are missing basil.”
Rozanov immediately frowned.
“It’s fine. Recipes are only suggestions.”
Shane blinks. Then slowly turns his head.
“It is not.”
Rozanov sighed dramatically.
“You will not even taste difference.”
Shane shook his head firmly.
“It says fresh basil.”
Rozanov leans back against the counter.
“We have dry basil.”
He gestures toward the rack of perfectly organized herbs and spices, including a very respectable jar of dried basil.
“That is not the same.”
Rozanov squints.
“It is same plant.”
Shane crossed his arms.
“Ilya.”
That tone.
Rozanov sighs.
Because he recognizes that tone. Because he knew his husband well enough to know that if the recipe wasn’t followed exactly as it says on the iPad, Shane would spend the entire dinner thinking about it.
“Fine.”
Shane brightened instantly.
“You just need to go to the grocery store and get fresh basil. The recipe also says it will be better with lemon and grated parmesan. We have some parmesan left, but we don’t have lemons.”
Rozanov chuckles, half amused and half mortified by his husband’s devotion to a recipe.
“Ok, sweetheart. I think they have them at the corner store.”
Shane checked the stove. Then looked back at him.
“You have exactly twenty minutes.”
Rozanov stares.
“…this is impossible mission.”
Shane shrugged.
“I believe in you.”
Ilya races back to their room, looking for a shirt.
He has not worn a shirt since they arrived at the cottage. Why would he? It is summer, and he enjoys seeing Shane get flustered and red, freckles standing out across his cheeks.
But apparently grocery stores have rules.
Maybe it’s because his suitcase is downstairs and he’s on an impossible mission. Maybe he just likes the idea of wearing Shane’s clothes. Either way, he opens Shane’s closet.
He borrows a pair of grey shorts and grabs the first shirt he sees.
Plain. Black. Soft cotton.
Ilya pulls it over his head. It fits. Technically. A little tight across the shoulders. A little shorter than usual.
But perfectly wearable.
He checks himself in the mirror.
“…acceptable.”
Then immediately grabs the car keys.
The grocery run takes about fifteen minutes.
Ilya moves like a man on a mission.
Straight to produce.
Grab basil.
Grab lemons.
Grab extra parmesan just in case.
Pay.
Leave.
Back in the car.
Mission accomplished.
When he pulls into the driveway, he checks the dashboard clock.
Five minutes to spare.
“Efficient.”
He steps quietly into the cottage.
The kitchen is warm. Shane is still wearing the apron, checking something in the oven.
Ilya leans against the kitchen island and watches his husband. There is something mesmerizing about Shane cooking. Focused. Precise. Hair falling into his eyes.
“Oh hey, Ilya,” Shane says. “Just about time. I’m waiting for this to finish in the oven and we can eat.”
Ilya unloads the groceries.
“Do you want me to cut basil and lemon? I also bought extra parmesan.”
Shane smirks as Ilya starts rummaging through cabinets for knives and a cutting board.
Then Shane notices the back of the shirt.
The bold letters across Ilya’s shoulders.
HOLLANDER. 24.
Shane freezes.
“Oh my god, Ilya.”
His voice cracks between panic and disbelief.
“Did you wear that outside?”
Ilya turns around, confused.
“Yes. A little small for me, but I look sexy in it, yes?”
He pauses when he sees the horror on Shane’s face.
“Shane… is this not okay? I’m sorry. I won’t use your shirt again.”
For a moment Shane just stares at him.
Completely stunned.
The kind of stunned where the brain stops working while every possible consequence loads at once.
Then Ilya’s phone starts ringing.
Once.
Twice.
Then a flood of notifications he could not ignore.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and saw bunch of notifications. Mostly from one person. Farah.
He opens his email.
Subject: URGENT – PLEASE CALL
Another email.
Subject: Proceed With Contingencies??
CC: Shane Hollander. Yuna Hollander.
Ilya frowns.
Then opens the message.
Then stops.
Oh.
He looks up.
“Oh my god, Shane.”
Shane groans, knowing his husband caught up to the gravity of the situation.
“That is my training jersey.”
He exhales slowly.
“And I assume people saw you wearing it in the grocery store.”
-----
Ilya opens Twitter.
His algorithm immediately brings him to a viral tweet whose engagement is climbing by the second.
It’s a grainy photo of him in the produce section, holding fresh basil.
Caption: “Why is Rozanov grocery shopping in a Hollander jersey?”
People secretly (or very obviously) taking photos of Ilya in public is normal.
So when a few people took pictures of him earlier, he assumed they were hockey fans bragging to their friends.
Twitter reactions are mixed. Some people question if the photo is real. Some want to know why Ilya Rozanov needs basil. Some point out the shirt is clearly one size too small.
One small corner of the internet is celebrating. The Hollanov shippers. For them, this is a field day.
The most viral retweet simply reads:
“DOMESTIC. HOLLANOV.”
(Un)fortunately, that corner of the internet is very small compared to the rest of hockey media.
Most hockey fans assume something else entirely.
Psychological warfare.
Classic rivalry chirp.
A girlfriend made him wear it after losing a bet.
Summer boredom trolling.
-----
Back at the cottage, dinner sits untouched. Fresh basil uncut. Parmesan ungrated.
Shane and Ilya sit across from each other scrolling through Twitter.
“They think this is psychological warfare,” Shane mutters.
Ilya nodded thoughtfully.
“That is good one.”
He scrolls again.
“Oh, this person thinks my girlfriend made me wear it because I lost a bet”.
He chuckles while showing his phone to Shane.
Shane glares.
“You’re enjoying this.”
Rozanov shrugs.
“I didn’t know it was your shirt. It was closest shirt.”
Pause.
“Grocery mission was successful.”
--------
Thirty minutes later, they are on a video call.
Yuna appears first. Calm. Focused. Already tired.
Farah looks like someone who has spent the last thirty minutes on crisis calls.
Yuna speaks first.
“Ilya.”
“Yes.”
“Why were you wearing Shane’s jersey in a grocery store?”
Rozanov blinks.
“It was first shirt in Shane’s closet. He gave me twenty minutes to buy basil before his dish burns.”
Shane groans. Farah pinched the bridge of her nose.
“It has a big HOLLANDER 24 on the back.”
Rozanov nods.
“Yes.”
“It’s my training shirt,” Shane says. “I didn’t notice when he left.”
Rozanov laughs.
“Yes, you were very busy with iPad. Focused on the recipe.”
Shane covers his face. Farah shares her screen.
Twitter. Articles. Threads. Memes.
“Right now,” Farah says, “there are three main theories.”
“One, psychological warfare.”
“Two, you lost a bet to your girlfriend.”
“Three, you are trolling.”
“You forgot shippers,” Ilya says. “They think Shane domesticated me.”
He looks at Shane fondly.
“Which is true.”
Shane tries to glare at him. His heart eyes betray him.
Yuna raises a hand.
“Yes. Or,” she says calmly, “you could tell the truth.”
Shane panics.
“What?”
“We could activate contingencies,” Yuna continues. “Or, as Farah said, we could spin this any direction you want. The world knows nothing. They have theories, and Ilya can walk away from it because he’s a menace to half the league.”
“Da. Thank you, Yuna.” Ilya grins.
“The point is,” Yuna continues, “we have the power to control the narrative.”
Shane sighs.
“Thank you, Mom. I just didn’t think this would happen because I asked him to buy some fresh basil.”
“Oh, honey,” Yuna says gently. “This isn’t your fault. There’s only so much you can control. When you keep a secret this big, eventually something slips. That’s why we have contingencies.”
“Da,” Ilya adds. “It was important ingredient. Also… maybe little my fault. I wanted to wear your shirt. I just did not see your name on the back.”
He says it half to tease Shane and half to reassure him. Then, Ilya looks directly into the laptop camera.
“I’m tired of hiding.”
He glances at Shane.
“I’m ready to tell the truth if Shane is.”
Shane hesitates.
Years of pretending.
Years of rivalry.
Years of hiding the best thing that ever happened to him.
“…yeah.”
He exhales.
“I think I’m ready too.”
Yuna leans slightly closer to the camera, her voice calm and steady.
“Alright. We have a statement prepared to send to your teams. We also have a draft for a joint social media post.”
Farah nods, jotting something down.
“Both management teams already reached out to me. I just need direction on what to tell them.”
Rozanov frowns.
“No.”
Everyone looks at him.
“I mean yes. Tell management first. But I want to post statement myself on Instagram. People saw me. People want statement from me. Not my team. Not Shane’s team.”
“Ilya,” Shane groans again.
“That actually makes sense,” Yuna says thoughtfully.
Farah nods.
“Okay. I’ll send the prepared statement to your teams now. Then we draft what Ilya posts on Instagram.”
Yuna folds her hands.
“Alright.”
Her tone shifts slightly. Full momager now.
“Before we post, let’s walk through every possible issue. I want to make sure you’re both ready.”
She looks directly at Ilya.
“Ilya.”
He nods.
“Yes.”
“If this becomes public, Russia will know immediately.”
Farah adds quietly.
“And not just fans. Media. Federation officials. Government observers.”
Ilya remains calm.
“Yes.”
Yuna gives him a steady look.
“You’re living in Canada full-time. You pay taxes here. You have permanent residency. From a safety standpoint, you should be fine. But you understand Russia may not react well. You might not be able to go back.”
“I do not plan to return,” Ilya says, almost defensively.
“If Russia retaliates—”
Rozanov interrupts calmly.
“They already hate me.”
He pauses.
“I choose this.”
Shane reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.
Yuna notices the shift in Ilya’s expression and decides not to press further.
“Alright. Next issue. The NHL.”
Farah picks up the thread.
“As far as legal concerns go, this shouldn’t affect your contracts. The NHL won’t punish you. Publicly, they’ll have to support inclusivity.”
“Yes,” Yuna adds. “The league will stand behind two of its biggest stars. But there will be noise. Some older executives will panic. Legally, though, there’s nothing preventing this.”
Rozanov looks confused.
“Preventing marriage?”
Farah shrugs.
“Hockey has survived stranger scandals,” Shane interjects. “They could live with this,”
Yuna raises a finger.
“One thing that does matter. Endorsements.”
Shane groans.
“Mom.”
“What? They matter,” Yuna says. “Some brands may leave. Some will stay. Some will try to profit from it.”
“And some brands will suddenly become very supportive,” Farah adds.
Rozanov grins.
“They like hockey husbands.”
Farah laughs. Yuna nods.
“They like publicity. As your manager, I can handle that.”
She pauses.
“But what I can’t control is how people will react. Your teammates.”
“Oh, God.” Shane groans. “They’re going to be upset I didn’t tell them.”
Ilya looks at him.
“Da. they will lose their minds. But it’s not personal, Shane. They know that. You are their captain. You have three Stanley Cups. You’re Shane Hollander.”
Shane actually looks relieved for a moment.
“Oh my god.”
Shane realizes something.
“Hayden.”
“He is fifteenth best player in Montreal. He has million kids to worry about.”
Ilya grins.
“He will manage.”
Shane glares at Ilya again.
“I hope so.”
Farah continues.
“The story will dominate sports media for weeks. People will say the rivalry was fake. They’ll say the marriage is a PR stunt. Or psychological warfare. Or some elaborate hockey mind game.”
Rozanov smiles.
“That is funny.”
Shane glares again.
“You encouraged that theory.”
Rozanov shrugs. Farah cuts in before the argument can escalate.
“Once this is public, media will want everything. Where you live. When you got married. Why. Who knew. How long. Every detail. They will push hard, so we need clear boundaries.”
Yuna nods.
“We do a press conference. We set the tone. We give them what we’re comfortable sharing and control the rest.”
Shane looks relieved.
“Yes.”
Rozanov agrees.
“Yes.”
Yuna continues.
“You confirm the marriage. You decide what remains private. Your relationship timeline. Your home. Your personal life.”
“Who is bottom,” Ilya says helpfully.
Shane elbows him.
Hard.
Farah, being a professional, redirects smoothly.
“Yes, Ilya. Thank you. Intimate details remain private. Not even your agent needs to know.”
She pauses.
“Or your mother-in-law.”
Yuna laughs. Then, she looks back at the screen.
“The internet will explode the moment you hit post”.
Her eyes move between them.
“Are you prepared?”
Silence fills the cottage kitchen.
Shane looks at Ilya.
Ilya looks back.
A quiet decision passes between them.
“Yes,” Shane says finally. “We’re ready.”
Yuna studies them for a moment. Then smiles.
“Good.”
She glances at Farah.
“Farah, let us choose the pictures and draft the caption.”
Then, she looks back at them.
“Because I definitely don’t trust Ilya to write it.”
“Thank you, Yuna,” Ilya mutters.
“Da. I also do not trust me.”
-----
Five minutes later, Yuna sends the draft.
They read it, add three sentences, and press post.
Photo 1
A candid photo of Shane and Ilya sitting on the dock behind the Ottawa cottage. Lake in front of them. Rozanov leaning into Shane’s shoulder against the sunset.
Photo 2
A photo taken on the small synthetic rink behind the cottage. Shane and Ilya face each other across a puck at center ice, mimicking a faceoff. Both of them smiling like it’s a joke they’ve told a hundred times.
Photo 3
A backyard wedding. Quiet. Small. Summer evening. Shane in a blue suit. Iya in maroon. David Hollander smiles in the background. Yuna stands beside them. A simple ring exchange captured mid-laugh.
Photo 4
A recent photo. In the kitchen. Shane cooking. Ilya behind him with his arms wrapped around his waist.
Caption
For the past two years, I, Ilya Hollander-Rozanov, have been married to Shane Hollander-Rozanov.
This marriage is something we chose to keep private while continuing to focus on our teams, our careers, and the responsibilities that come with playing professional hockey.
Privacy and shame are not the same thing.
Our decision to keep this part of our lives out of the public eye was never about hiding who we are, but about protecting something personal in a world that often demands more access than it deserves.
We also recognize that for many queer people, the decision of when and how to share their lives is shaped by considerations of safety and security.
Like many others, we chose to do so on our own terms and at a time when we felt prepared for the attention that would follow.
We understand that there will be curiosity, and we respectfully ask for privacy regarding the details of our personal lives.
Nothing about our commitment to the game changes. We remain dedicated to our teams, our teammates, and the sport that gave us both our careers.
On the ice, we are hockey players first.
But I also want to be clear about something.
Nothing about our hockey changes because nothing about us has changed.
There has never been a version of Ilya Rozanov stepping onto the NHL ice that was not in love with Shane Hollander.
Thank you for the support.
-----
At the cottage, Ilya reheats their dinner.
“Solnyshko,” he says gently.
“We have to eat.”
Shane exhales.
“I sent you to the store for fresh basil.”
“Da.”
“And now we’re apparently coming out to the entire world.”
“Da.”
“And you think I can eat?”
Ilya thinks.
“Maybe after dinner, I could fuck you and make you forget all of this.”
Shane blinks.
“…okay.”
They eat dinner.
Pasta. With fresh basil. A squeeze of lemon. Freshly grated parmesan.
And for the first time in over a decade, they feel free.