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At the center of every epic romance, there is one question: how far are you willing to go for love?
Would you look back for it? Would you die for it? Would you kill for it? Would you renounce immediate comfort, take the long way home? Would you let it change you?
Ilya Rozanov had correct answers to all these questions and a competitive streak a mile wide. He would do anything for Shane Hollander. He'd make an honest man of himself for a smile.
He would even learn to tolerate his greatest foe: Hayden Pike.
It started, like all great things did, with Ilya's team winning a game. The Ottawa Centaurs had successfully gone from the worst to the best team in the league by March of 2022. It was impressive, really, how quickly they'd turned it around.
It wasn't a particularly difficult game, a routine win against the Buffalos, but the team lost their minds like they'd won the cup. Ilya huffed, laughing brightly as Wyatt pulled him into the celebrations, cheering and hooting about how they would've gotten nowhere without him. He ducked his head and raised his hands proudly, and his teammates burst into equal parts chirps and cheers.
Except: when he turned, his beautiful, perfect husband wasn't smiling. He wasn't celebrating or even rolling his eyes at Ilya's antics. He just stood there, for a second too long, looking lost.
Or, well, it really started months ago, before one of the first games of the season, only the second year after Shane’s transfer.
The team had a bit of a buzz to them, chatting and stretching more than they probably absolutely needed to. There was something about stepping onto the ice after weeks of preseason training that never got old, and several of their players were rookies.
Shane was normal, had been normal all day, joking with the team and skating circles around every single one of them the way he always did. Everything was fine.
Ilya could tell the exact moment that changed.
The game was starting, and the team was sliding onto the ice, lightly shoving each other and trailing behind Wyatt the way they always did. Shane stayed behind, going out last the way he always did. For some reason, Ilya had never thought to watch.
Now, he saw it clear as day. The players skating in front of Shane as he watched, slow and anticipatory; the slight raise of his head; the tension in his shoulders. He was waiting for something.
Then, just as the last person skated by, a tilt of his head, instinctive, like he was searching for something. He leaned into the air with dropped shoulders like it was a practiced, fluid motion.
His head fell forward. There was no one there.
Immediately, Shane jolted, straightening and knocking his shoulders back, just slightly too high for true comfort. Now, staying behind until his husband caught up, it was all clear to Ilya; the way he worked his jaw and shook his head before skating forward, like he was forcing himself out of something.
Halfway through his first lap, he schooled himself into a neutral expression, whatever disappointment he was clearly feeling almost gone. Ilya knew him too well, though, and clearly, something was missing.
Noticing it once meant he noticed it always. Every single game, just before starting: the same tilt of his head, the same jolt of disappointment, the same discarding of the feeling as he skated towards the center.
Shane just looked confused every time he asked, though, huffing and telling him to drop it. He was always back to being his usual self within minutes. Ilya tried — very hard — not to think about it.
This game, this celebration, however, stood out, and he could only ignore something for so long when they were literally married. What was it American vows said— your business is my business?
Shane had been acting out of character all day, anyway. He was in some kind of weird funk for the entire game, one that didn't really matter considering who they'd been playing but was catastrophic for Ilya personally because of the frustrated look settled stiffly onto his husband's face when he should have been celebrating.
And it was true, objectively, that his husband had been just slightly sloppier than usual. He'd missed an easy pass, hesitated at his left wing, sacrificed precision for speed on some of his turns. It was like he kept forgetting, in the middle of the ice, to communicate with his teammates.
He'd also scored the winning goal and assisted the first of Ilya's hat trick scores, so it wasn't like the team minded. It was one off-game and he'd basically won it for them, anyway.
And yet, Shane looked like someone had done something heinous, like kicking Anya or burning one of his old hockey paperbacks. This was, by the laws of marriage, unacceptable.
The point was, Ilya was justified in pushing. It was basically his marital duty.
Still, because Shane hated attention, he kept his mouth shut and waved the team off when they asked about celebratory drinks with a cocky grin and half-baked excuse about the win being too easy for Ilya to waste his time getting drunk with the idiots. Everyone booed and, because they were no better than him, went back home to their wives while the rookies partied.
“There is something wrong,” he announced the second they stepped into their house. Shane still had his hand on the doorknob. “Tell me what it is.”
“Ilya,” he sighed.
“Tell me what it is. Or I will die of sadness.”
Was Ilya being unfair? Sure. Was it for the greater good? Probably.
It worked.
Shane shot him a long, withering look, and, completely at odds with the stiff set of his shoulders, relented immediately.
“It’s stupid,” he huffed. “I just miss Hayden.”
“It’s like you want to torture me,” Ilya whined, shaping his face into an exaggerated pout.
“Don’t be dramatic,· Shane snorted. “We just had this little pre-game thing we’ve been doing since rookie year, and not doing it threw me off more than usual today. I keep forgetting the guys here can’t just read my mind.”
Then, after a short pause, he shook his head and smiled softly at him. “It’s okay. Really.”
And this. This was where it really, technically started. The exact moment Ilya steeled himself, bit his lip, and remembered that he was willing to go very, very far for love. And he loved his husband very, very much.
By May of that year, he had his phone shoved between his ear and his shoulder, the line droning with an outgoing call to his archnemesis, who picked up with a chipper hey, Roz, like this was normal behavior for them, which it was, and it pissed him off.
“Pike,” he answered, skipping any kind of formal greeting like he always did. “You are moving to Ottawa.”
To his credit, Hayden only paused for about three seconds before making the long, tired noise he usually reserved for the twins. “I’m doing what?”
“Mm. It is urgent: Centaurs need new bench warmer.”
On the other end of the line, Hayden snorted, and Ilya grinned, continuing his dramatic bullshit retelling.
“Is true. Coach asked,” he nodded solemnly, “and I said, 'Do not worry, I know fifteenth best player on worst Canadian team.’”
“Fuck you, I’m in the top ten in the league by stats, asshole.”
“Good enough for Centaurs bench,” he agreed easily. “So you will come?”
“I have a wife and kids,” Hayden sputtered. “I can’t just uproot them.”
“Jackie wants to move further from her parents,” Ilya countered immediately. “She is smart, beautiful pharmacist; she will find job easy.”
“The twins—”
“Have mean teachers and wanted to switch schools, anyway. They have ADHD now, is no good according to Miss Smith,” he spat, only a bit angrier than was strictly necessary. “You know this. You are still too young to go senile, yes?”
“I just—”
“Amber is still tiny, small baby girl. She starts school next year, and Arthur does not like his classmates. You don't even like Montreal.”
Unfortunately for Hayden, Ilya knew his family better than anyone, and it was all true. The timing made as much sense as halting your entire family’s life and changing cities realistically could.
His job wasn't even a factor. Hayden was their only scorer nowadays, and maybe it was the fact he wasn't next to Shane Hollander anymore, but other teams were circling him already. It wasn't like he would be opposed to leaving, either.
Hayden couldn't stand the Montreal Voyagers; he'd never been exceptionally close with them before Shane came out, and he’d started hating them after. A contract offer, for him, was more a minor miracle than a sacrifice. A saving grace, on days Comeau was being particularly pissy.
He didn't say it, of course. Not often, and not to Ilya or Shane — that was reserved for late nights with Jackie after bad games and worse practices — but wives got worried and wine drunk with their best friend (in his accursed case: Ilya), so it wasn't a secret either.
Ilya could even admit, if he was a few vodka shots in, that he'd thought about a trade far before Shane admitted he was upset about the distance.
Hayden stayed quiet for a few seconds. Ilya could hear him shifting from the other end of the line, followed by a short little puff of breath.
“I’ll talk to them about it,” he conceded. “But this isn’t exactly a trade offer, Roz.”
He laughed. “You underestimate me, Pike.”
“Buddy,” he sighed in the same cooing voice he usually reserved for his kids, “we’ve talked about this. You really have to stop making it sound like you’re in the Russian mafia.”
It turned into a trade offer within a month, and Hayden took it willingly after calling him specifically to say a cordial fuck you.
The first practice with the Centaurs happened in August, and Shane looked at Hayden like he was a mirage in the desert. It was disgusting, and Ilya wanted to kick him off the team for that alone. He didn’t. But he could have.
The first game after that was kind of hell, and afterward Ilya found himself nursing a bottle of vodka he didn’t actually want to get drunk on and thinking: yes, I would walk through Dante’s Inferno for love. He called Svetlana to tell her as much, and she cussed him out in Russian, laughing so hard she could barely get through her words.
Just like every other game, Shane had stayed last in the lineup, and Ilya waited for him, just a few feet away, always watching. It was routine on game days. There was the same anticipatory hunch to his shoulders, the same careful look, the same tilt to his head.
Except, this time, the last person who skated past him was Hayden fucking Pike, and when Shane leaned forward, he was met with Hayden’s helmet in a soft, horribly affectionate little clink. It was disgusting, and Harris would love it— good marketing. Ilya wanted to blow Pike up with his mind.
Now, once the two of them skated past him, Shane was basically racing, no tension to his face, loose shoulders, face always scrunched up like he was in the middle of a laugh. Ilya, for his part, was always right behind, wondering how the hell he’d gotten so lucky.
They worked well on the ice, too, and there were less words or cues and more… astral energy. Some Canadian golden boy bullshit he did not understand. Weird looks that would be suspiciously homosexually charged if they weren’t both married.
Their chemistry was (almost) unparalleled, and suddenly, every little pass that seemed too fast, too unpredictable, too hard made perfect sense. Wherever Shane angled his stick, Hayden was there. Whenever Shane had an opening, even from the other side of the ice, Pike had already found a way to get the puck to him.
It was, unfortunately, very good hockey.
Ilya sulked about it as soon as they won the game.
“This is like affair,” he scoffed, hugging Shane as close as he could through their gear. “You replace me. You play sexually charged hockey with another man, you have good on-ice chemistry with him, you point your big puppy eyes at him.”
“You mean I look in his general direction,” Shane had laughed, shaking his head. With his cheeks flushed, all of his freckles stood out. Later, in the privacy of their home, he’d count them again. One kiss for each until they were dizzy with it.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Those beautiful eyes will make him want to initiate torrid love affair.”
“Oh my God,” Shane had laughed, “please stop reading the New Yorker.”
“I’m right here,” Hayden had groaned from a few feet away, celebrating with Wyatt.
Ilya ignored him.
“I will never stop. David sends me articles.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you,” he murmured, finally pressing a gentle kiss against Shane’s lips, “are the most beautiful man in the world. You cannot blame Pike for being in love with you.”
Preening with pride, Shane’s self-satisfied grin made him look boyish. Ilya wanted to eat him.
He kissed him again. It was the next best thing.
“Man, we’re not even trying to deny it anymore?” Hayden whined, though judging by their teammates' laughter around them, it wasn’t serious.
Ilya glanced up, sticking out his tongue. “No. You are seething with jealousy. My husband is perfect.”
“Are we ignoring the fact you basically strong-armed me into joining this team, then?” He snorted.
Shane pulled away from Ilya’s embrace to blink up at him. “Huh?”
Ilya seriously considered exploding Hayden Pike and his dumb big mouth with his mind.
In the end, though, he considered his trudging steps through Hell and the Pike children's wide eyes as he inevitably had to explain how their father had accidentally stepped in front of the Zamboni, oh no, and he found himself shrugging, “You looked sad.”
“Okay,” Shane agreed, like that was that, and then he was gripping Ilya’s wrist and dragging him away urgently, nodding all the way to the locker room and back to their car. It was, admittedly, kind of hot. “I need to fuck you now.”