Chapter Text
New York Admirals vs. Montreal Voyageurs – Game 1 – Bell Centre
Ilya tried securing a seat to the first game of the Montreal Voyageurs vs. New York Admirals semifinal round through the official channels. He called Jackie, who put him in contact with the Montreal Voyageurs' director of team services, Claudine, who was a lovely older woman with a French accent and a kind tone. Claudine said she would confirm his request and get back to him shortly.
He checked up two days later and then twelve hours after that, which was a full six hours before the semifinals’ starting face-off.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Rozanov.” Claudine sounded apologetic once she answered the phone. "Unfortunately, we cannot accommodate your request at this time. However, I already put in a request for Game 2, and I'll let you know the status of that twenty-four hours before the start of the game."
The request would be denied. Ilya knew it would be denied. He thought about letting it go, but he'd waited almost eleven years to be able to attend one of Shane’s games as his partner. He wasn't going to let the Montreal Voyageurs’ front office deny him the right they afforded every WAG.
He called Yuna.
Sure enough, she put in a request for a ticket and was approved in two hours. Unfortunately, since she couldn't say it was for Shane's HAB and her future son-in-law, it was a single-game ticket – Section 110, Row N, Seat 5. They didn't even put Ilya on an aisle.
It would have been nice to have Wyatt or Bood with him. Hell, maybe Haas would have been up for it. The kid probably would have gotten a kick out of attending a game with his idol and watching Shane Hollander, the second-best center in the league, wipe the ice with the Admirals.
Maybe he'd ask next game.
Ilya went to the Bell Centre incognito - sunglasses, hat, black jacket. He picked up the ticket at Will Call under the name "Lily Rozander" and entered the arena like every other fan.
Of course, none of the Voyageurs’ fans were fucking the franchise player Shane Hollander.
He grabbed a coffee from the arena's Tim Horton's and ignored the whispers from the personnel who definitely recognized him. He walked through the crowded corridor as quickly as possible, but still, quite a few people did double takes.
Even the usher at the top of his section asked, "Are you sure you're in the right place, Mr. Rozanov?"
Don't you have a suite to get to? was the actual question that went unasked.
Ilya shrugged. "This is 110, yes?"
The usher nodded.
"Then I am in the right place."
Warm-ups were set to begin in less than three minutes, and thankfully, no one sat in his row yet. Fans would be coming, and he doubted he would be able to stay the entire game without some sort of security intervention…which probably wouldn't be coming. But with any luck, he would hopefully make it to the end of the first period without getting into a verbal argument with a fan.
The equipment manager dropped pucks onto the ice, and then the Voyageurs exploded out of their tunnel. Most players took a few laps around their half of the ice before taking practice shots. Some skated around, then knelt at center ice to stretch.
Shane circled the ice the first time and almost immediately clocked Ilya. He aborted his first full circle, cut across the top of the crease, and stood at the edge of the ice, at the bottom of Section 110.
Ilya offered him a two-finger salute.
He wanted Shane to know he was loved, that Ilya was there for him, that he wasn't alone in this crazy arena with its rabid fanbase that liked to punch down. Some fans were stupid, taking swings at the second-best center in the league who helped to propel their team into the semifinals.
Shane had asked Yuna and David not to come, not after the “tripping incident.” Shane was on a breakaway and tripped right before the crease. He somehow still managed to get the puck past Hazy, but some fans accused him of almost throwing the game for his fiancé.
It was stupid. No one accidently scored a goal to win a playoff round.
Shane hadn’t asked Ilya to come, but he also hadn’t asked Ilya to stay away, probably because he hadn’t thought Ilya could come to the game. Ilya had been dubbed “the Most Hated Man in Montreal” since his rookie season, and even playing for Ottawa hadn’t softened the city’s hatred for him. Of course, it was a crown Ilya wore proudly, but it also led to him sitting in Section 110, Row N, Seat 5.
Though he couldn't see Shane clearly from so far up, Ilya could tell Shane's face was scrunched, those adorable freckles now up by his visor. Then his fiancé was off. Shane skated briskly toward the bench and disappeared back into the tunnel.
Ilya sighed. He hadn't wanted to cause any issues, especially since Shane's team wasn't as accepting as Ilya's, but Shane wouldn't be deterred once he set his mind to something.
"Hey, are you – geez, you fucking are!"
Ilya glanced to his right to see a large, burly man in a Voyageurs' jersey with a bushy mustache and a terrible glint. He spoke with a hint of an accent. "Why the fuck are you in our arena, huh? You don't belong here."
Ilya sighed but mentally gave the man kudos. He spoke to Ilya in their shared language rather than yelling at him in French.
Shane always skimmed the crowd when skating out of the tunnel. The ritual started years ago, during his youth hockey days, when he would look for his parents in the stands. Now he just did it instinctively.
Usually, he saw the throng of regular fans. He’d nod to some, wave to the kids here and there. Sometimes, if they held a sign or had his jersey, he’d throw a puck over the boards.
Today, however, he skated along the center ice line, turned down the edge of the boards, and looked up to see the familiar cut of a person he knew from countless hours on the ice, in hotel rooms, at his family’s dinner table, and in their bed.
Ilya had come to Montreal to watch him play.
He was in Section 110, approximately Row N, Seat 5. Not a box. Not safely behind security but sitting among the rabid fanbase who absolutely hated him with every fiber of their being and had been doing so for more than a decade.
Now, they hated Ilya for a whole other reason – loving their one-time beloved captain.
How different Ottawa had been. The fans and even the Centaurs had embraced Shane as both a player and their captain’s fiancé. Perhaps because it was his hometown. Perhaps because Ilya had been playing and fighting hard for the city for two years now. Perhaps because of their camps and their donations to the community.
Shane knew one thing, though. There was absolutely no way Ilya bought a single-game ticket for himself and decided to sit in the middle of the Montreal Voyageurs' home crowd.
Shane accepted Ilya’s two-finger salute – I’m here. You’re not alone. I love you. – and skated back into the tunnel.
An older man with gray hair, a thin beard, and resting bastard face stood alert at the end of the tunnel, eyes recognizing Shane's anger as he approached.
Yannick, Head of Security.
"Mr. Hollander, is there an issue?"
"My fiancé is sitting in Section 110. Why isn't he in a suite?"
Yannick shifted, eyes softening a tad. "I was informed he would not be attending. There wasn't room in the team’s allotted suites for this game."
"Bullshit. I could get my parents tickets a few days ago. Claudine asked me if I wanted them."
Claudine. Team Services.
"I do not know the logistics, Mr. Hollander. I just know – "
Shane's hands shook at his sides, but he kept his face cold, emotionless. "My fiancé is known as ‘the Most Hated Man in Montreal,’ and he’s right now in the stands where he could be accosted."
Yannick parroted what he had been told, Shane had no doubt. "If Mr. Rozanov is here, then it was his choice to – "
"– because he – we – were not afforded the same privileges as every other player. If something happens to him – "
Yannick lifted his hands, half to surrender, half to placate. "Mr. Hollander, I take offense. You know our staff here works hard to secure all family members who – "
"Bullshit. Ilya should be – "
"Yannick, get Jeff down here," Hayden demanded, now standing behind Shane and shoulder to should with J.J. Both looked pissed and stood with their helmets and gloves off, sticks missing. "We're not taking the ice until Rozanov is in a suite, so this isn't your problem anymore. It's Jeff's."
Jeff Lapointe. President of Hockey Operations.
Yannick nodded and lifted his phone. In a tense few minutes, he explained the situation to the other person on the line, nodding and adding commentary when prompted. Eventually, he provided a few affirmations and then hung up.
"I have spoken with Mr. Lapointe. He apologized for any misunderstanding and asked me to personally escort Mr. Rozanov to a suite. He will be safe in a few minutes, Mr. Hollander."
Shane held in his sigh and nodded. "Thank you."
"My wife will go with you," Hayden said, hand out to receive Yannick's cell phone. "Let me text her. Jackie and Ilya know each other."
"I would appreciate that, Mr. Pike. Thank you."
Shane turned on his skates to face Hayden and J.J. and mouthed, "Thank you."
Hayden nodded. J.J. clapped him on the shoulder.
It was good to have friends.
The crowd around Ilya’s seat began to grow. He could have taken the original aggressor if he attacked. Ilya fought more than a few enforcers over the years, so it wouldn’t have been hard for him to take down one fan, even if he was formidable. But the fight wouldn’t be worth the ESPN headline, the lawyer bills, or the distraction to Shane.
But there was absolutely no way he could take on a whole group of angered Voyageurs’ fans who had hated him since the moment signed with the Bears all those years ago.
Ilya saw his out, though.
“What’s your name?”
The man looked skeptical, eyes narrowed, face tightening. “Paul.”
“Your jersey signed, Paul?”
The man looked down at the Voyageurs’ insignia on his chest and then back up to Ilya. “No, why?”
“Because you are wearing 24, and I’m engaged to him. If you want your jersey signed, I can get it signed.”
The man’s eyes immediately softened. Ilya would even say they danced. “Seriously? You’d do that?”
Ilya hitched a shoulder. “Sure. After the game, hang out where the players exit. I will make sure Shane stops.”
It wouldn’t be easy. Ilya knew his fiancé didn’t stop because it was uncomfortable and awkward to be in his Range Rover with fans crowding all around for an autograph or picture. Shane would much rather sign jerseys and memorabilia at a Tim Horton’s when getting coffee or at Loblaw’s when picking up groceries. That was somehow more manageable, less overwhelming.
But Ilya would ask and Shane would make an exception. And then he’d reward Shane however his fiancé saw fit.
“Can I get mine signed, too?” a girl, two rows down, asked.
Another shoulder hitch. Then another person asked. And another. And another. Oh, Shane was going to hate him.
One boy came up to Ilya – all of twelve, brash but smiling – and held out his Hollander jersey. “Hey, Mr. Rose-in-ov. Can you sign my jersey, too?”
Ilya’s heart swelled. He placed his coffee down. “Got a marker?”
He made sure to sign at the top of the 4, leaving the two for Shane. He also knew Shane couldn’t sign higher than Ilya on the jersey, and for some reason, that made Ilya happy.
Small victories.
The boy asked for a picture, too, and Ilya took his sunglasses off to smile. He was shaking the mother’s hand when a familiar voice called, “Ilya!”
An instinctive smile crossed Ilya’s lips. Jackie Pike bounded down the stairs, weaving between the fans and stopping at his row. She was wearing a blue designer leather jacket, specifically made for the WAGs, with “Pike” across the back and the number 35 on the sleeve. Patches for the NHL, maple leaves, and fleurs-de-lis covered the biceps. Though Jackie wore her jacket open, Ilya could see the words “Montreal Voyageurs” embroiled across the front.
Lining the stairs up to the concourse were no less than ten security guards, including an older man Ilya had met before – Yannick, the Voyageurs’ head of security.
Jackie excused herself, and Paul moved to allow Jackie access to the row. “Hey, Rozy, we got a place for you in the team suite. C’mon.”
“But I was just making friends.” He motioned to the crowd that somehow had gotten even bigger. More than one person now held a marker and their Hollander jersey out for him to sign.
“Do you want to give a Shane panic attack? If their captain and star center can’t play because you are too busy making a scene, I feel these ‘new friends’ might turn on you.”
Jackie did have a point. Ilya stood with a dramatic sigh and raised his hands as if speaking to a crowd of devout followers. “I have been summoned, but I will be with Shane later. In the back. Come, and we will sign anything you have.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Paul grumbled as Ilya passed.
Ilya clasped him on the shoulder and smiled. He would give Paul not just his fiancé’s signature but also a story to tell the office tomorrow.
“Mr. Rozanov,” Yannick greeted at the top of the stairs. “I have been instructed to apologize for our oversight. Please follow me. We have room in a suite on the third level.”
“Thank you.”
Ilya was surprised by the pomp and circumstance the team finally rolled out. As they moved through the corridors, Ilya was protected from all sides – Yannick in front, security guards surrounding him, Jackie at his side.
Shane must have thrown his weight around – all 200 pounds of it.
Fans sent them bewildered glances and moved to the corridor edges before gasping and pointing. He heard more than one whisper, “Hey, isn’t that Ilya Rozanov?”
He also heard more than one shouted obscenity, which – fair. Though he and Shane didn’t talk about it much, Ilya had knocked the Voyageurs out in the Eastern Conference Finals on his way to his first – and currently only – Stanley Cup. Their teams met twice more when Ilya played for the Bears, and they split the series. And of course, the Voyageurs beat the Centaurs last series, which, if Ilya was being honest, still stung.
Security led Ilya to a private elevator, which took him to the third floor and an elegant hallway with a gray patterned floor and soft, overhead lighting. About halfway down, the group stopped in front of a door with the Voyageurs’ logo on a golden panel.
Yannick left Ilya with Jackie and a card with his number. “If you need anything, please just let me know.”
Despite the hassle for the tickets, the fans, the corridor – nothing prepared Ilya for when he walked inside the suite and was greeted with more than a dozen woman in blue WAG jackets, all glowering at him like he was the enemy.
Which, up onto a few days ago, he was.
“Hey, Ladies!” Jackie called, her voice carrying over the start of the game’s opening show. “This is Ilya Rozanov, Shane’s HAB. Let’s all make him feel welcome, okay?”
Silence. On the ice, in an away arena, it was Ilya’s favorite sound. In a room full of women whose lives usually revolved around the men he battled on the ice – terrifying.
Ilya raised one hand to wave. “Hi.”
A woman with large hoop earrings, blonde highlights, and dark hair slipped off one of the yellow bar stools and asked bluntly, “How long have you actually been with Shane? We have a bet going on. I say since your rookie season, but some ladies think it hasn’t been that long.”
Ilya let out the smallest of sighs. “Summer before our rookie season, actually. Though we really have only been committed since 2017. Just…situationship before that.”
The woman howled across the suite, “Pay up, Jordan!”
“No way, Sonja!” a woman with red curly hair and the number 12 on her arm yelled. “Situationship doesn’t count.”
“They were together.”
“But not together-together.”
Jacket 23 – dark hair, block glasses – approached and put out a hand to shake. “Raphaelle Drapeau. Do you prefer Ilya, or can we call you Rozy?”
Ilya smiled, a true, relieved grin, and accepted her hand. “Either is fine.”
She then looked him up and down, and he felt uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze, like he was being eyed at a club to see if he was worthy of a one-night stand. “I’d say you’re about 190 – 191 cm?”
“…yes.”
“Good. I’ll get your jacket made and delivered to you before the next game.” Raphaelle’s smile shifted into something kind and easy. Friendly. “It’s going to say ‘Hollander’ and ‘24,’ okay? I don’t think the guys will appreciate if I put your name and number on the back since… well, y’know…”
“I’m the most hated man in Montreal?” Ilya laughed.
“Let’s retire that title, shall we?” Jackie winked and took out her phone.
Ilya’s heart soared.
Shane wasn't surprised to be "summoned" by the Voyageurs’ president of hockey operations. He had planned to see Jeff anyway, so this worked out for all parties involved.
He grabbed Hayden on the way out of the locker room, since an ambush was expected, and Shane wasn’t disappointed. Inside the office was Jeff, along with Enrick, the director of player personnel; and Chantal, the president of hockey communications.
"Shane, we were just talking about you," Jeff began as Shane took a seat in front of the large, intimidating desk. Hayden unbuttoned his jacket and sat down, too.
"I requested Hayden be here as my NHLPA representative."
He was threatening a formal complaint, and they all knew it.
Jeff shared a quick glance toward the other executives before sitting forward in his chair. "Shane, what happened today cannot happen again."
"I agree. I deserve the same treatment as any other player, and my fiancé deserves the same rights as any WAG."
"Your HAB is Ilya Rozanov."
Shane would have laughed at the flat, annoyed tone if he wasn’t so pissed.
Hayden took over. "I'm going to stop you right there before we get into, 'Anyone but him.’”
"I'm not sure I follow."
"There's always a catch with these things, right?” Hayden said with an exaggerated grimace. “‘We don't care if a woman is the prime minister as long as it’s not that woman. We don't care that Shane Hollander – the best fucking player in the NHL – is gay as long as his HAB isn't Ilya Rozanov. Well, guess what? You don't get to choose who Shane loves, and you don't get to discriminate against his HAB just because you don't like the guy."
"He's the most hated man in Montreal!" Enrick, the director of player personnel, yelled, arms out.
"Yeah, but he's hated in like thirty out of the thirty-two NHL cities." Hayden looked at Shane. "They seem to still like him in Tampa. I don't get it."
"Some of the old fans don't remember he's not playing for Boston anymore.”
"Oh, that makes sense." Hayden took a deep breath. “Look, guys, I don't like Rozanov that much, either."
Shane’s jaw clenched. "Thanks, Hayd."
"But Shane and Ilya deserve the same privileges afforded to other players and their partners." Hayden reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "He's even making videos with the WAGs. Chantal, you'll want to see this. It was shared by the NHL’s official account, Fox Sports, ESPN, and TSN."
Hayden hit on the video and placed his phone on the desk to show the executives.
Inside the WAG suite, Jackie stood next to Ilya, who had taken off his glasses, hat, and jacket. He simply stood in his cozy crewneck sweater with his curls a riot.
Shane’s cheeks warmed, and his stomach flipped. God, his fiancé was absolutely stunning. Seriously, how did he even manage to attract the attention of Ilya Rozanov?
Jackie spoke into a tiny microphone, "Hey, Voyageurs fans! I'm here with Ilya Rozanov, the Montreal Voyageurs' resident HAB. Welcome to the suite, Rozy!"
"Thank you, Jackie. And bonjour, Voyageurs' fans."
Shane let out a soft laugh at Ilya's attempt at pronunciation.
"Tell us, Rozy, how are you liking the game so far?"
Ilya nodded and glanced behind him toward the ice. His tongue slid across his bottom lip, which meant he wanted to be a little shit. "Could be better. Could be better. Zero-zero is a boring score."
He winked at the camera. Shane's cheeks burned.
"Any advice for the team?"
"No, no. Team has coaches for that. Analysts. Shane was up this morning watching videos, so they don't need to hear from me." He paused and then flashed his sassy, crooked smirk. "Of course, I will not say no to Shane and Hunter going at it again. Jerseys optional. Mud appreciated."
"Okay, right there. That's what I'm talking about." Enrick interjected, furious. "He can't be saying shit like that."
"Jackie posts my workout videos all the time.” Hayden reclaimed his phone and hit off the video. “Whistles, wolf-howls, comments."
"But you're not Shane Hollander."
"Ouch."
Shane glanced over at the paused video on Hayden’s phone. "It has a million likes. Chantal, when was the last time any of the team’s official videos got a million likes?"
"Uh..." She tugged at her jacket sleeve. "Well, uh, actually we haven't reached that milestone yet."
Jeff's chair creaked as he looked back at Chantal. "You can’t be serious."
She shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "The most we've made is, uh, about 500k."
Jeff shared a knowing glance with her before turning to Enrick, who shrugged. His expression was one of acquiesce. Jeff was silent for a moment, probably running the pros and cons in his head and the potential revenue numbers, too.
Eventually, he leaned forward in his chair. “Do you think Rozanov would be willing to do an official interview with the social media team for Game 2?”
Ilya waited in the private corridors of Bell Centre’s lower level, not uncomfortable in a place he'd visited since he was nineteen. This time, he was restricted to the non-player areas and stood behind an imaginary line, where no significant other could cross.
He chatted with Jackie and Raphaelle, who was pregnant with her and Patrice’s first child. They decided not to know the gender and painted the nursey in a palate of blue, red, and white because of course they did. They even brought all the Voyageurs' gear for the little one because –
"They are going to grow up on skates, no matter what gender," Raphaelle laughed.
Ilya nodded and smiled at Raphaelle’s pictures of the stuffed animals and nursery decorations. He even bounced Amber on his hip to give Jackie’s arms a break.
Eventually, Shane appeared down the corridor, and Ilya’s heart skipped a beat. Shane in Prada was what wet dreams were made of.
The navy single-breasted suit hugged Shane’s muscular torso and showcased his thick shoulders, while his dark topcoat cut at his thighs, highlighting his long legs. Since their teams only met a few times during the season, Ilya rarely got to see Shane in his formal wear, and that was a damn shame.
His fiancé walked in a strong, deliberate stride, propelling himself forward like he needed to put distance between himself and whatever he left behind. Something had happened, Ilya could tell. Shane was tense, perhaps even angry, and he channeled his frustration into his measured stride.
Photographers, journalists, arena employees – they lifted their cameras and phones, all ready to catch a glimpse of the famed Voyageurs’ captain and his one-time paramour. Shane ignored them and walked right up to Ilya. He placed a hand upon his fiancé’s chest and pushed him – not unkindly – against the nearest wall.
"Is this okay?" he whispered, lips so close to Ilya’s, Ilya could feel their heat.
"Is more than okay," Ilya replied with an indulgent grin.
Shane devoured Ilya's lips. The kiss was hungry, desperate, and demanding – one that was usually reserved for elevators and Ilya’s foyer after weeks apart. Shane leaned his entire body against Ilya’s, fingers digging into his fiancé’s curls, knee thrust between Ilya’s thighs, tongue exploring the inside of Ilya’s mouth.
It was filthy. It was heated. It was exhibitory.
And Ilya enjoyed every moment of it.
Cameras flashed. Cell phones recorded. Jackie and Raphaelle cheered.
When they finally broke, panting and spent, Shane leaned his forehead against Ilya's. Ilya kept Shane close, hands resting on his fiancé’s hips. He knew better than to cup Shane’s ass right now, despite how much he wanted to.
"Who are we pissing off tonight?” Ilya asked just for Shane to hear. “Your coach? An annoying man named Jeff? Some old dinosaur in New York?"
"Probably all of the above and then some."
"Shall we do it one more time? Just in case someone didn't get our good side?"
Shane leaned forward to steal a chaste peck from Ilya’s redden and swollen lips. "The social media director is either going to love us or hate us."
"Harris loves us. He’s been reposting videos of us all evening."
"Your team is awesome."
"They really are."
Shane pulled back now but laced his fingers with Ilya’s to lead him toward the players’ valet area. They both said their good-byes to Jackie and Raphaelle before Shane wrapped an arm about Ilya’s waist to bring him closer.
If these displays of public affection were going to become common, Ilya would have no complaints.
“I have a favor to ask,” Shane said before Ilya could.
“Yes. Me, too.”
They stopped at the valet stand, and the arena employee ran for Shane’s Range Rover. Shane steeled himself, then revealed, “Chantal wants you to do an interview for Game 2. In the arena’s corridor. About us and your relationship with the city and team. She promises adequate security, but she liked the reaction Jackie’s video got from the hockey community.”
Ilya would never get tired of talking about his relationship with Shane. “Okay.”
Shane blinked. “That’s it?”
“That is it. You ask. I say yes.” Ilya shrugged. “It’s not like it would be my first interview.”
Reporters interviewed him after every game. He’d been interviewed by TV shows and magazines, even a handful of podcasters. What was it to Ilya to give an interview to the Voyageurs’ social media team about the one person he had wanted to talk about for years?
“I need you to stop and sign autographs tonight.”
“WHAT!?” Shane practically shrieked.
“Angry Voyageurs fans did not attack your very handsome, very charming fiancé because I offered them your autograph. Don’t you like my face the way it is?”
“Of course, but…” Shane’s hand shook in Ilya’s hold. “You know I’m not good at the whole fan interaction thing.”
Ilya cupped Shane’s cheek and brushed his thumb across Shane’s freckles. “I will be with you. It will be fine.”
It was. When Shane’s Range Rover arrived and he drove up the parking garage’s ramp, fans lined the road just outside the gates. Shane slowed as he approached, then rolled down his window per Ilya’s instructions. Before he could even ask if anyone needed something signed, his window was mobbed by the fans.
“Ask one of them if you can keep their marker for the moment,” Ilya encouraged.
Shane did as he was told, and he signed jerseys, pucks, rally towels, even a few arms. Some fans took selfies, but any time someone was obnoxious or Shane became flustered, Ilya leaned over and helped ease the situation with a well-timed joke or his signature crooked grin.
Within the first few minutes, the wire-tight tension in Shane’s shoulders melted, and he took over the conversation. By Shane’s tiny smiles and quiet chatter, Ilya would even go insofar as to say his fiancé enjoyed himself.
A soft knock came at his window, and Ilya rolled it down to greet Paul, who held his now signed jersey in a delicate grip.
“You kept your promise, Mr. Rozanov.”
“Ilya. And Shane likes my face the way it is.”
Paul smiled, hesitant, before offering the back of the jersey to Ilya. “Would you sign my jersey, too?”
Ilya turned to Shane, who was looking back at him with a soft, private smile. He nodded.
Ilya mirrored the smile and put a hand out to Paul. “Got a marker?”
A line then formed at Ilya’s window, too. Eventually, the crowd was satiated, and Shane bid the fans good-night – both in English and French – before pulling out onto Rue Saint-Antoine Quest.
“That was…”
“Good? Easy? Fun?”
“Yeah.” Shane reached out a hand to Ilya, who took it. “You make everything easier.”
That was one of the best complaints Shane ever paid him.
“Even tonight?” Ilya asked.
Shane’s tiny smile was full of relief. “Especially tonight. Thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure how today was going to go, and last series, you were there with me. So when I skated around and saw you – I was mad at the team for not giving you the privileges you deserve as my partner, but I was so, so happy to see you.”
Ilya’s heart felt like it had melted in his chest, and he lifted Shane’s hand to kiss the back of it. “I’ll be anywhere you need me to be. All you have to do is ask, moy lyubimyy.”
Shane blushed. “Same. Always same.”
Despite the hoops the team made him jump through and the irate fans who wanted to rearrange his face, Ilya couldn’t deny the absolute joy he felt being able to sit in the stands and watch his fiancé play the game they loved.
He couldn’t wait to do it again in two days.
“So…that video with Jackie,” Shane began as they hit the Champlain Bridge. “You want another fight between Scott and me?”
“I said mud was appreciated but not necessary.”
“Ilya!”
“What? It would be hot.”
To Be Continued…