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“Is like golf, yes? Least points win? Haasy, I knew you could do it!” Ilya cheers as he smacks his hand onto Haas’ shoulder. He gets an annoyed nose scrunch back, along with some mumbling about it being the other way around. The screen shows Ilya’s name with a confetti animation and a spinning golden trophy. “Oh, is not? That must mean I am the winner then!”
Everyone groans at that. “I’m pretty sure you cheated,” Troy says with a frown. There is a middlefinger to his face that belongs to Ilya, which he slaps away. They start bickering and pointing at each other. Before it can get any worse, Bood quickly steps in and drags both of them to the side. “He’s just annoyingly good, Troy. And you’re a grown ass man, Roz, stop pestering the kids.” Immediately Troy starts sputtering that he isn’t a kid until Bood looks at him and nods at Haas. He shuts his mouth, turning away to go and find Harris.
They group up at the small arcade right next to the bowling alley. Hayes and Dykstra are laughing whilst Shane shakes his head with a bright grin on his face. “Come on, there is no way you’ll beat it anyway,” Hayes says as he puts a coin into the strength tester they’re standing next to. The clasps holding the ball unlock, letting it fall into place. Right at that moment the other half of the group joins them in surrounding the machine. It is decided that everyone who wants to try gets a chance, but the highest scorer has to pay for the next team dinner. Harris holds his hands up and passes, so do the youngest players.
“Holly’s going last, so who wants first?”
It starts with Troy - who dedicates it to Harris and then nearly falls on the ground by swinging behind the ball. Once he regains his posture, and has taken the laughs in stride, he slams his fist against the ball. The machine stops counting at 790. Everyone cheers, chanting his name. When he sees that Dykstra is up next his smile makes room for a disappointed frown. “Wait, no, that’s not fair,” he protests, gesturing at Dykstra’s huge stature. Harris shushes him with a kiss, allowing a small smile to return again.
“You think he’s gonna break the record?” LaPointe whispers to Young. “Yeah, think so. His biceps are bigger than my head,” Young mumbles back at him. Dykstra balls his hand into a fist, pulls his arm back and punches the ball hard enough to make everyone wince at the deafening sound. He reaches 830, just one point short of the current record. A wave of ‘ooooh!’ is heard when the score stops flickering. “That thing is broken. I totally had that,” Dykstra sighs and dramatically shakes his head. LaPointe, Young and Holmberg all agree loudly with him. “Yeah, dude! That was like- yeah!” Holmberg adds to it and nods with a serious face.
Then it’s Hayes’ turn. “Channeling the strength of Bucky Barnes right now,” he jokes. Nobody really reacts to that, making him frown and stand up straight again. “Seriously? The Winter Soldier? Guy has a metal arm- you know what, fuck you guys.” He punches the bag with enough force to make the machine fall still on 804. Behind him Troy groans and buries his face into Harris’ shoulder, who pats his head whilst trying not to laugh. Another round of cheering makes Hayes smile and has him bowing as if he just performed a classical piano piece. “Thank you, thank you. I hereby demand a marathon of the Captain America movies - you uncultured heathens.”
“I must warn all of you. You are not ready for what is about to happen,” Ilya announces dramatically, taking the spot. He turns around just as Hayes puts another coin into the machine and the ball shoots forwards, hitting him in the face. Whilst Bood worryingly checks if he’s okay, Shane is doubled over from laughing too hard. He tries to stop and help but keeps hiccuping back into wheezing. Seeing his husband that happy makes Ilya grin like he just broke the highscore. “Did I lie?” He asks proudly, reaching for his nose to check if anything feels crooked. He pats the rest of his face too and decides nothing feels out of the ordinary. His brand new front tooth is still in place as well. “Shane, solnyshko, why do you find my pain so funny? I could have died,” he whines and throws his arms around Shane. In return, Shane rolls his eyes but softly pats Ilya’s cheek with a smile. “You play hockey for a living, asshole. You survive way worse every game.”
Bood is the second to last to throw a punch at the ball. All of them hold their breaths whilst watching him get ready. “Shut up,” Haas hisses at Young a bit too loud, “I know he’s hot. I told you that in confidence.” Bood looks over his shoulder with a confused but very amused expression. He grins as he rolls his shoulder a few times and then slams the ball as hard as he can. More cheering erupts when the counter flickers a few times before stopping at 826. They shout even louder at Bood running circles around Troy - who is back to looking slightly more miserable than a few minutes earlier.
“Holly’s turn!” Boyle shouts gleefully. The cheering returns once more, making Shane bury his head into his hands. Harris gets his phone out and moves to stand next to the machine. “Give me your phone, baby,” Ilya says quickly and holds onto Shane’s phone handed to him. He takes a step back, grinning at what is about to happen. “Are you ready?” Harris asks after he presses on ‘record’.
Testing out the distance, Shane moves towards the ball and pretends to hit it two times before moving back. He then throws a calculated punch, hitting the ball so hard he has to walk further in order to stay upright. The others laugh and yell encouragingly whilst the counter keeps going up. It passes the highscore of 831 and shows a bigger display with 872 instead. The entire team starts shouting in disbelief, running to Shane like they just won the cup a second time. “Hollzy, you’re a fucking freak!” Troy laughs. Shane’s cheeks turn red but he still goes along with the enthusiasm. They have to pull Ilya away when he tries to sink down onto his knees in front of Shane.
After they leave the arcade and finally make their way to the Pacific Coliseum arena, Harris uploads the video of Shane with consent on his personal Instagram story. He figures it’s a bit too violent to post it on the Centaurs account.
“Hayes, you’re out of a job if we can sign her,” Ilya says as he elbows Hayes and nods to Maschmeyer on the ice. They’re at a WMLH game between the Vancouver Goldeneyes and the Toronto Sceptres to cheer on LaPointe’s sister. In order to not make a scene and provoke unwanted attention, they’re all in a private suite. “She is so much cooler and better than you are,” Ilya adds.
Hayes just nods along. “We’re friends, actually,” he grins proudly. There are multiple gasps at the same time. “Yeah! She borrowed my skates once at Worlds. We wear the same size and hers had gotten lost, so I gave her mine.” He laughs at the ‘bullshit!’ coming from Bood. “Kristy and Eve are friends with her and Lacasse, they live in Vancouver as well. They somehow met them before I did.”
“Next you’re gonna say you personally know Poulin,” Chouinard says. He sees Hayes grin and widens his eyes. Then, when Hayes shakes his head, he chuckles and gives him a small push. “Uh, I do,” Shane tells them from the other side of the room. Both of their heads turn his way immediately, mouths agape. “When the video came out Pou and Stacey both contacted us. We’ve been for dinner at their house a couple times.”
The entirety of the Centaurs now stare at Shane. Ilya waves his hand in the air, looking at the game with a frown. “Yeah yeah, best hockey players had dinner with other best hockey players. LaPointe, you should take notes from your sister. Her passes are way cleaner,” he frowns. “Do you think Nurse would move to Ottawa now we have won the cup?”
Shane crosses the room, takes the empty seat next to Ilya and leans against him. “She just joined Vancouver this summer. Stop window shopping for new trades that aren’t allowed,” he tells him. In return, Ilya narrows his eyes and mumbles something under his breath about it being unfair.
Vancouver beats Toronto with 4-3. The Centaurs cheer along with the home crowd, LaPointe shouting the loudest. Some of the Goldeneyes come to greet them a while later and are welcomed with a new round of applause. After taking photos most of the Centaurs bid their farewells, going back to the hotel so they can get some sleep before their early flight. Shane, Ilya, Hayes and LaPointe go to the family room instead to catch up with everyone and talk about the game.
A few hours later, back at the hotel, Shane joins a sulking Ilya in bed after showering. He wraps his arms around him whilst his eyebrows are furrowed in worry. “What’s the matter?” He asks softly, accepting the weight of Ilya’s body melting against him. Their hands find each other and immediately intertwine their fingers. “I wanted to beat Bood’s score,” Ilya sighs. It takes a second for Shane to understand what it’s about. “At the arcade? Is that why you’re sad?” Hearing the smile in his voice makes Ilya sigh even harder. Shane chuckles at the drama of it all, then he presses a kiss on his husband’s head. “You’re so dumb. We’ll find another machine somewhere and then you can prove yourself, alright?”
Satisfied with that promise, Ilya cranes his head in order to press a kiss onto Shane’s pec. He follows it up by quickly biting down on his nipple, causing Shane to yelp and shoot up. Someone in the room next to theirs bangs on the shared wall. “What the fuck- seriously? We aren’t even doing anything!” Shane stresses. He mutters something along the lines of ‘this is bullshit’ and lets his head hit the pillow with a groan. Only to then realise that the wall-banging is a consistent sound. “Ilya,” he starts, “who is in the room next to us?”
For a few seconds both of them are quiet. A faint ‘oh god, Troy’ from the other room breaks the silence and sends Ilya into laughter, whilst Shane grabs another pillow to pull over his head.
The locker room is buzzing. Despite it being barely two days since coming home, all of the Centaurs are full of adrenaline and ready to win. “Shut the fuck up and listen!” Ilya calls out, successfully silencing the room. He takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders back to stand tall. “Two fucking things. First thing is who we are playing, yes?” A few of them start booing but are quickly shut down by Ilya shouting ‘hey!’. “Yeah yeah, we hate Minnesota, boohoo. Now shut up. They got rid of Matei, they sent Haller to fuckass minor league. That means they traded for new captain - someone Bood knows.”
“His name is Ellis Cortez,” Bood says with a nod. “I played junior hockey with him. Good guy, does not tolerate any bullshit on his team. Can’t speak for the other players but I know for sure Cortez won’t let them get away with anything.”
All eyes land back on Ilya, who walks to stand in the middle of the room. “You all heard that?” He asks, refusing to go on until he hears a collective ‘yes, cap’. “Unless you are sure it is penalty-worthy, no fucking dirty hits or targeting. We are at home tonight. Our fans are watching, our families are here.” A beat of complete silence hangs between the four walls. “So what does that mean for second thing, Haasy?” he asks with his eyebrows raised.
Haas’ eyes go wide. Before he answers, he attempts to clear his throat. “We- uh, we win?” his voice cracks halfway through. Then, seeing the grin on his captain’s face, he repeats it a bit louder with more confidence. “We win!”
“What the fuck are we going to do out there?!” Ilya shouts at the top of his lungs. “We’re going to fucking win!” This time it’s Shane yelling it, clearly not having planned to do so by the look on his face but firm nonetheless. It gets reaffirmed by multiple voices screaming the same thing. Right at that moment the buzzer sounds and they all storm out of the door. Quickly Ilya bonks his helmet against Shane’s and gets a radiant smile in return.
On the ice everything falls into place immediately. They play smoothly, take risks that pay off and manage to get two goals in the first period. Shane is up for the face-off halfway through the second period. In front of him stands Cortez - nodding at him but not saying a word. In practiced ease Shane wins it, passing the puck to Troy behind him. After a shot on goal he gets called back by Wiebe and takes place on the bench next to Dykstra. “Guess Bood was right,” Shane says in between deep breaths, “I’ve not heard one chirp.” Dykstra laughs and shakes his head. “Maybe they’re just scared of you,” he brings up with a knowing grin. Shane rolls his eyes with amusement. “Yeah, of me, sure. Didn’t you accidentally break someone’s ribs with a hit last year?”
Third period flies by as well, leaving them 4-2 in the lead with three minutes to go. Now it’s Ilya’s turn to stand ready in the face-off. He recognises the player from one of his first games as a Centaur, except he’s in Minnesota colours instead of Columbus. “Well shit, Rozanov, I’m eating my words. Guess you really did know what you were doing,” Pierce laughs, not unkindly. Ilya frowns at him until the laughter dies down. “Why are you eating words?” He asks. It throws Pierce off and makes Ilya win the face-off with a shit-eating grin. He scores a goal in the last few seconds, securing Ottawa’s win with an end score of 5-2.
Back in the locker room, after they all celebrated their win on the ice, Shane elbows Ilya softly. “That was the most fun I’ve had playing a game since winning the cup,” he smiles. “I thought- well, I was nervous about the whole.. y’know, Minnesota thing. But they didn’t say shit to me.”
The confession unravels a knot in Ilya. He had seen the jittering of Shane before the game, had tried to distract him with encouraging words. Hearing how genuine the words are said almost makes him feel like he’s on a new kind of high. “Told you, lyubimyy. When you are the second best player, no one can take you down.” Shane snorts at that. “Yeah, you should know,” he says and flashes him a grin before walking out. Ilya’s eyebrows crash down and his mouth falls open. Next to him, Chouinard is trying his hardest not to laugh.
A day later they’re up against the Chicago Kingsnakes. Once again Shane gets called up for the face-off, gripping his stick tightly as he takes position. It is known league-wide that Shane Hollander is not a chirper. Unless he is playing against a friend, but even then he chooses to focus instead. He is, however, used to getting chirped at every single game. So the silence he is met with for the second game in a row causes a pit of suspicion in his stomach. Which is why he decides to take action himself.
“What, too scared to ask for an autograph?” It’s a bad chirp. Shane knows it’s a bad chirp, but he doesn’t really know the player in front of him and he can’t read people that well. But even bad chirps get reactions out of others, he knows that much. Except the silence from the other side stretches on. With a frustrated scoff Shane still wins the face-off and passes the puck to Haas.
In the third period he tries again. This time he has a clean hit on a player, taking the chance there. “Does your coach know you’re out here?” Shane yells as he goes after the puck. A quick look over his shoulder tells him enough - no reaction at all. Not even a scowl or an eyeroll. It tugs at him, the feeling now turning slightly nauseating. Maybe the entirety of the MLH has decided to just disregard him, he thinks, choosing to ignore the absurdity of it.
Their win streak continues with a score of 4-1. Since it’s Saturday and they won by a landslide, Wiebe graces them with the announcement that there won’t be practice tomorrow. “We going to Monk’s or what?!” Troy shouts, grinning at the cheers from everyone.
An hour later Shane and Ilya both arrive at home. “Go celebrate, Ilya. Just text me whenever you want to go home and I’ll come get you, okay?” Shane puts his keys in the bowl by the front door and steps out of his shoes. Two arms pull him back against a warm body. “How am I supposed to celebrate my sexy hat trick without sexy husband?” Ilya mumbles in his ear.
Monk’s is small enough to let Shane actually enjoy going out sometimes. The staff knows him by now, it’s mostly just their team and some regular patrons. But during nights like these, still carrying that odd feeling and being straight up exhausted, Shane prefers to stay at home. He will go inside to talk for a bit when picking up Ilya but will cut it at ten minutes. These nights are reserved for long showers, reading on the sofa and riding Ilya until he can’t remember his own name anymore. The usual stuff.
“We can celebrate together when you get home?” Shane brings up innocently. He laughs at how Ilya freezes, as if it’s something he never even considered. “I’m just not feeling it today. Chicago was.. weird. Minnesota was weird too, actually.”
“Weird?” Ilya asks with confusion in his voice. “They said something to you?” Taking Shane’s hand, he pulls him into the living room where Anya greets them enthusiastically. She jumps up and down, completely ignoring Ilya’s attempts at ‘sit!’, not being able to control her happiness. He gives up and lifts her in his arms with a grunt. She sneezes in his face, then grabs the opportunity to give Shane wet kisses. “Okay, I see how it is. I am not good enough for my husband, now I am not good enough for my daughter. What is next? I am getting kicked out of my own team?” He sighs and puts Anya back down so he can wipe his face with his sleeve.
Shane laughs whilst ushering Anya outside through the sliding doors. “That’s the thing, actually,” he says as he folds his arms. “Nobody said anything. Not a single player from the other teams has said a word to me. I even tried to instigate it.” The frustration is back, though lesser now. “It’s so fucking weird. They’re completely ignoring me. Won’t even look me in the eyes, it’s like I don’t exist.” He tries to go through both games in his head. Then he looks at Ilya in realisation, even more confused. “I haven’t been hit into the boards either? No pushing, no shoulders.”
“Ah, I understand now. They are not ignoring you, sweetheart,” Ilya tells him. Two pokebowls that David had brought by in the morning are pulled out of the fridge. Ilya grabs two sets of chopsticks and nudges Shane towards the sofa. “They finally got my e-mail about not touching Shane Hollander so I can mark-“
Wordlessly Shane takes a set of chopsticks, picks up a big piece of salmon and sticks it into Ilya’s mouth. “Anyway,” he says, “I still need to call Rose tonight. So you’re going to Monk’s because I know you want to go. Then, when you get back, we’ll do anything you want to celebrate your hat trick. Deal?”
Throwing his head back, Ilya groans as if Shane just told him the hottest thing he has ever heard.
Playing against Montreal is still nerve wracking for Shane. Even after winning the cup with the Centaurs and beating them early into the play-offs, the Voyageurs’ biggest grudge is not the team he’s playing for. It’s their old captain. He smiles at Hayes checking in on him right before they leave the locker room. “I’m good,” Shane says earnestly. “Honestly, I’m glad that weird silence thing stops here. It started to freak me out.” Hayes snorts at that and shakes his head. “Well, at least you can count on Montreal for something. You got this, though.”
Shane walks out to an arena filled with both Ottawa as Montreal jerseys. He scans the audience and is surprised to see at least half of the Montreal jerseys still have his number on them. At home games there are always some scattered throughout the crowd, but this is on another level. His nerves calm down with one deep breath. When he meets Ilya’s eyes, he mirrors his beaming smile. They both mouth ‘let’s go’ at the same time.
“Hollander, you’re up,” Wiebe calls out with a firm nod. Readying himself for the chance of hearing quite literally anything, Shane takes position in the middle of the ice with a stoic face. Comeau looks at him, opens his mouth and then closes it. It throws Shane off so much he loses the face-off.
He skates towards the puck and holds his breath - waiting for one of the Voyageurs to shove him against the boards. It doesn’t happen. As soon as he comes close to a Voyageur that doesn’t hold a puck, they’ll dive away and skate to a safe distance. Wiebe signs for a switch.
“Tell me I’m not going fucking crazy,” Shane hisses at Ilya on the bench. Ilya shakes his head at him before he gets onto the ice, letting him know he noticed it as well. “Ask Pike!” Ilya yells out whilst making his way to the puck. Thirty seconds later the buzzer rings for the first goal being made, followed up by the Centaurs goal song.
It stays like that throughout the rest of the first and second period. Nobody of the Voyageurs acknowledges Shane when he isn’t carrying the puck. The chirps and hits that are normal for them have vanished. Eventually, going into the third period, Shane skates towards Hayden and grabs his jersey. “What the fuck is going on?” He asks him.
“Dude,” Hayden whispers with wide-blown eyes and leans towards him. “They’re fucking scared to end up injured. Don’t want to be out for the rest of the season.”
“But they have fought with Ilya before? Last time we played you guys he got a black eye.”
It had happened a few weeks ago when they were in Montreal. The game was brutal and dirty from both sides. At the end of the second period someone had hooked his stick under Shane’s skates, causing him to fall down hard. Ilya had dropped his gloves before the ref could say anything. It started a bigger fight between the two teams in which even Hayes participated. By the time it had been broken up, nearly all of the Centaurs and Voyageurs were crammed into the penalty box.
That makes Hayden bark out a disbelieving laugh. “Not because of Ilya. Shane, they’re scared as fuck of you. Have you not seen the replies to that video? Bro, I have never seen you like that.”
Suddenly it all seems to click for Shane. Minnesota and Chicago didn’t ignore his teammates but Montreal does. They are known to indirectly target him through nearly terrorizing his team. If they chirp at anyone of the Centaurs, Shane will assume it’s to get to him. So they don’t. “Wait, what video? The bar fight one?” His thoughts come to a halt there. “You’re kidding, right? That’s ages ago.”
Hayden gets called back but makes sure to shove Shane lightly with a breathy laugh. “Fuck no! The arcade one!” He shouts as he skates towards the bench. Shane pushes those words away in his head for later, focussing back on the game. The puck flies past him and he follows it in a hurry. Fifteen seconds later he scores the last goal with an assist from Bood.
In the line for handshakes there is some murmuring. Despite not looking at him, most of them quickly shake Shane’s hand and then go on. At the end of the row stands Drapeau. He pushes past Shane, ignoring him and starting with Young instead. Shane rolls his eyes at the overly articulated word Drapeau mutters behind him. “There it is,” he chuckles. Right as he sets off and skates to the exit, a hand brushes his jersey like it was going to grab him. He doesn’t look back.
“Look at what dad sent,” Ilya coos over the photo on his phone. He turns the screen to Shane, which shows a photo of Anya sleeping in Yuna’s lap. “We need to frame it, yes? Is perfect for at the cottage.”
They walk through the parking lot to Shane’s car. As per usual after playing against Montreal, they’ll drive to Yuna and David for a late dinner. Last year, when Shane had faced his old team for the first time, he had no idea what to do with himself. The Voyageurs had made sure to spit out every demeaning word they knew and shoved him into the boards a dozen times. On their way back, Shane had told Ilya he didn’t know whether he felt safe enough to go home. None of the Voyageurs other than Hayden knew where they lived but that didn’t matter. Ilya had taken immediate action and drove to the place he himself felt safest instead - which was at Yuna and David’s.
When they asked, Ilya had told them that exact reason as to why he chose their house. Yuna’s face had crumbled and David held Ilya in a tight hug whilst silently letting his tears fall. It was the same evening he had called David ‘dad’ for the first time. Right when that happened, Shane had almost bit through his lip in an attempt to stop his tears. It might have been one of the worst days of his life, but it was also one of the best.
“We still need to put those polaroids on the fridge as well. Jackie gave me magnetic frames for them,” Shane says with the end of his sentence slowing down slightly. He catches a figure walking towards them in the corner of his eye. The closer they get, more of their features are revealed by the bright lights of the arena behind the parking lot. “Are you fucking for real,” Shane mumbles under his breath. Next to him Ilya comes to a stop as well, looking at who is meeting them.
“The fuck do you want, Drapeau? Coming to cry some more over your shitty game?” Ilya calls out. He pushes Shane a bit behind him, who is not having that at all and joins him back at his side.
Drapeau’s face goes from smug to almost livid within a second. He looks at Ilya and then at Shane. “What, are we brave enough to stop hiding behind him now?” It’s asked in a snarl, spitting out ‘him’ as if it’s a swear word. “Are you allowed to speak or does he do that for you too?”
“Only when he’s busy sucking my-“ Shane elbows Ilya, cutting his sentence off with a glare. He then looks back and tilts his chin up a bit. “Just tell me what kind of bullshit you’re on about and leave me alone.”
“Jesus fuck, you’re pissy. Thought you might be interested in what Theriault had to say. Something about trading you back to Montreal, bitching about ’a mistake’.”
All three of them are quiet for just a second, until Ilya’s wheezing laughter echoes throughout the entire parking lot. Drapeau’s face twists into a sour expression, which makes him laugh even harder. Shane has to look away in order not to join Ilya. He knows exactly what Drapeau is trying to do.
“I am so sorry, I did not realise before!” Ilya laughs in the voice he uses when he’s about to piss someone off. “You are blind! Of course, it all makes sense now. You obviously did not see us win the cup. Or see the puck today, seven times. That is why those were easiest goals of my life.”
Sneering at them, Drapeau walks up to Ilya and grabs his jacket. Ilya just lets him - his crooked grin growing bigger upon realising what is about to happen. What pushes it over the edge is Ilya pressing his lips into a pout and making kissing noises in Drapeau’s face. He gets a solid hit to his face for that.
Shane wastes no time in crashing his fist into Drapeau’s cheek. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers the crack of his own nose as he gets headbutted. Grabbing Drapeau’s neck in a headlock, Shane lands a hard kick to his knees and forces him down. He keeps him there by slamming his knee into his face. A nauseating crack rings in his ears.
“I’ve had enough of your bullshit,” Shane breathes out in a hoarse voice. “I’m done, you fucking hear me? Done. You can say the most vile shit to my face and I still won’t care. Do your worst. But that is between you and me, not my fucking husband. Am I clear?” The painful whine he gets as an answer is acceptable enough. He spits the blood out of his mouth right next to Drapeau and turns away.
Instead of sliding into the driver’s seat of his car, Shane gives Ilya the keys and climbs into the passenger’s seat. “Please let me suck your cock right now,” Ilya begs him once the car doors are closed. “Right here. Nobody sees, I swear. That was so hot, Shane, I am so fucking hard.”
“Ohmygod,” Shane takes a heap of air, “I can’t believe I did that. I’m gonna throw up. Ilya, I’m gonna puke. You have to drive right now or I’m actually going to throw up.” He opens the window once Ilya steps onto the gas. “Holy shit, okay. Is it hot in here? The air feels thin. I think I’m having a panic attack.” A hand catches his shaking leg with a firm grab on his thigh. With some effort put into it he gets his breathing back to relatively normal. “We have to turn back, right? What if he isn’t okay?”
“Shane,” Ilya says, keeping his voice calm. “You need to breathe, solnyshko. You are fine, yes? Drapeau is okay. Gets enough pucks to his dumb face, he is used to it probably.” That gets a snicker out of Shane. Ilya smiles gently at him, then looks back at the road whilst keeping his hand on Shane’s thigh. “Nobody saw it either. Well, I did, it was very hot. But if you had not punched him, I would have and we would be in same situation now.” Both of them know that’s the truth. Ilya isn’t a violent person outside of the ice, but doesn’t shy away from it either. “So we are going home now to clean up first, then I am going to suck you off. Or maybe switch those two. And after that we will tell mom and dad what happened, so we can eat in peace and have Wiebe deal with the force that is angry Yuna Hollander.”
Slowly Shane lets some tension out of his body. He nods and closes his eye for a while. “What has Wiebe ever done to you?” He asks, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. In response Ilya just snorts and gives his thigh a squeeze.
Monday morning, after practice has ended, Shane gets dressed and goes straight to Wiebe’s office. Ilya is already waiting in a chair, stretching out his arms and making grabby hands. “You look like Amber,” Shane says dryly. With a deep sigh Ilya lets his arms fall back down. He looks at Wiebe, who is used to this and just ignores him.
“Glad you both could join me,” Wiebe says when Shane sits down. “I’m sure you’re both aware of the call I got on Saturday night. Especially since I could hear Ilya screaming in the background.”
Looking at his husband and then his coach, Ilya holds his hands up in innocence. “Had to defend my honour in scrabble. Hollanders are very passionate.”
Wiebe presses his lips together for a moment in a small smile. “I’ve been in contact with Montreal’s spokesperson about my concerns regarding one of their players. They asked about details, which I unfortunately could not give to them. You see, there was a small power outage that night, so we have lost the CCTV footage.” His eyes go from an elated Ilya to an embarrassed Shane. “However, I did tell them about what happened on the ice after the game had ended. They were also reminded of the MLH rules surrounding sportsmanship and targeted harassment. We came to an agreement which is, to be completely honest, utter bullshit. They’re going to keep an eye out on said player and have a talk with him. But at least there now is a base for a formal complaint that we can build on, should this keep happening,” Wiebe tells them as he leans back in his chair.
“That’s good. I’m pretty sure Drapeau is just gonna keep it up on the ice, but that’s fine. As long as he doesn’t bother anyone outside of the rink,” Shane says softly. It’s clear that none of them really believe that, knowing it’s just a matter of time. Ilya puts his hand over Shane’s and taps against his wedding ring as if to tell him he’ll have his back.
“On to the other thing I wanted to talk about.” This was new for the two. They watch as Wiebe pulls out a form and pushes it towards Shane. “This is nothing official yet, but I do have to tell you about it as a sort of warning. Take it with a grain of salt. If something like this happens again within the next three months, the company is forcing me to sign you up for these.”
Looking at the form, Shane’s smile falls. His cheeks flush red in a record time. Not paying attention to Ilya absolutely losing it next to him, he sighs and buries his face in his hands. In front of him Wiebe is trying his hardest to stay professional and not let a smile break through.
“No I think he should sign up now. Maybe he will finally calm down,” Ilya says in an almost giggle. “How will the world survive if Shane Hollander does not take anger management classes?”