Chapter Text
November in Ottawa is the kind of cold that leaks through the seams of a car door no matter how high the heat is turned up. Shane sits in the drive-thru at the McDonald’s on Bank Street counting cars like they’re penalty minutes: ten between him and the speaker, another six to the pickup window. The line barely crawls. It’s late and he’s here for an order that is not his but for the captain of his team—who also happens to be his husband of five months—who also won a stupid bet at practice three days ago.
His phone is wedged under the dash vent on FaceTime with Hayden's face on the screen, who is also in a parked car in but he's in Montreal with the dome light off, like he’s in a witness protection program. The camera is tilted, showing half his face and a car seat in the back. A little voice bleeds through the house door in the background—“Daaaad”—and Hayden clicks the lock.
“I told Jackie I deserve time off...” he whispers, which is funny because he’s clearly hiding in his own driveway. A small fist thumps a window somewhere behind him. “I have three minutes before they find me.”
“Tell me how freedom feels.”
“Illegal,” Hayden says, then squints at Shane’s camera. “Uh…Why are you in a drive-thru at this hour?”
“McFlurry.” Shane says, and waits for it to land.
“You’re kidding.” Hayden blinks but next he’s laughing under his breath.
“Apparently Russians don’t care about sub-zero temperatures when sugar is involved…” Shane says. The car ahead inches forward. He inches with it. “I asked if he wanted tea. He said, ‘No, remember bet. I want ice cream from clown place.’”
Hayden tips the phone toward his face so Shane gets a full view of the smirk. The line lurched a full half-car length. Shane rolled, braked, rolled, braked, and settled back.
He could feel the week sitting in his shoulders. No. He could also feel the past five months on his whole body.
Married in July, signed in Ottawa a week before that, honeymoon in September because they’d both managed to negotiate five days where the world didn’t want anything from them. Spain had been a good idea in theory and chaos in execution. Ilya was the kind of vacationer who could sit on a towel for four hours without moving, face to the sun, eyes barely open. Shane was the kind who needed a plan, a walking route, a museum, then the beach in the second half like a reward. Ilya took one look at a perfectly ordinary, fully clothed beach and pointed at the very naked one fifty meters down.
He knows Ilya Rozanov has a firm opinion about tan lines and modesty, and those two concepts do not overlap in the Rozanov worldview. “You will tan unevenly, husband” he’d said, dropping his shorts like a man who had never believed in law. Shane had lasted nine minutes without a shirt and four minutes without his swim trunks before the awareness of being a public object made him sweat more than the sun, and then Ilya, while walking to the water, waved cheerfully at an elderly couple as if flashing them was also part of the marriage package.
The text Shane sent Hayden that day was still in their thread: I am not amused. He says I am ‘too Canadian’ about my butt. Hayden had replied with a crying emoji and “You married an European; your butt is now a cultural exchange.”
All that said, the last months had been amazing.
Better than he let himself imagine when they were living in different cities and carving out weekends. It’s been good in obvious ways and then good in ways that hit him sideways when he doesn’t expect it. Waking up and not counting down the hours with dread. Cooking and not packing leftovers in a cooler for a drive to Montreal. Walking off the practice ice and seeing the same man in the same locker room, towel on, hair a mess, giving him the same look he gets at home. Sometimes he stands in the kitchen and says “yes” under his breath just to hear it. Yes, not hiding. Yes, same bed. Yes, nobody is leaving on Monday. He does not say that part to Hayden because it sounds sentimental in his head, and he is already in a line for ice cream in winter.
“You know…” he says, feeling his brain slide toward the column of pros versus cons whether he wants it to or not. “I’ve notice some… patterns.”
“Here we go,” Hayden says, happy, because he likes when Shane gets like this. It’s one of things he misses the most of having Shane Hollander as captain of the Montreal Metros. “What kind of patterns?”
“Living with him uninterrupted… ” Shane says, and he hears his own voice get flatter in the way it does when he’s lining up a thought, “…has revealed some repeat behaviors I did not fully appreciate at boyfriend level.”
“Repeat behaviors,” Hayden repeats, because he knows to let Shane work through it in his words.Hayden leans in like someone just whispered trade deadline mixed with gossip. “Go on.”
Shane realizes this is the first time he’s said any of this out loud. In his head it’s a spreadsheet and he updates it without thinking: small items, repeated events, trends. He arranges and reorders on the fly.
“Not in a bad way. Just—more. More Ilya.”
“Define more.”
“Forgetful,” Shane says. “But specifically about the same things. He forgets his wallet in a different place every day like it’s an Olympic event. But not his phone. He never leaves his phone— it’s attached to his soul. But the wallet is a wraith. Listen: we’re at a register and he pats his pockets and turns his head and—” Shane slips into the cadence without meaning to, drops his voice, and it comes out perfect: “‘Shane, lyubimiy, give me fifty. No—fifty-nine. Pay this.’ and then tilts his head at the card reader and watches me like I am Apple Pay with legs.”
“Oh my...”Hayden slaps the steering wheel, cackling. “You sound exactly like Rozanov!”
“I hear him all day.” Shane says, a little aggrieved, a little proud. “He also dotes on Anya like she’s his princess. He’ll be like, ‘my little girl, you are perfect’ and here I am, his husband and I don’t even get a thank you.”
Hayden wipes his eyes. “This is so good. Keep going, get it out of your chest.”
“He cycles moods like he’s doing a drill,” Shane says, settling into the rhythm, because the line isn’t moving and talking about it is better than letting his brain go weird. “Cold, then flirty, then sassy but in this dry way… He’ll say something that sounds like a compliment and then you realize you’ve been disassembled. He’s aloof until he’s not and then he’s—” Shane makes a vague gesture at his chest; words are messy here and he hates messy. “He’s a lot. I can handle a lot. I like a lot. He is MY a lot. I just… want to know the rules of the lot.”
Hayden nods solemnly.
“And the driving,” Shane adds, because it connects to the wallet and it’s all part of the pattern cluster. “Somehow I’m driving more. He grabs the passenger seat like it’s calling to him.”
“Buddy.” Hayden is already grinning when he says it, because he knows where this is going. “The sunglasses. The attitude. The ‘pay this’ with the hand flick… get him one of those expensive fur coats. And—”
“Don’t…” Shane warns, which is the surest way to make Hayden do anything.
“—You married a high-maintenance Russian mafia wife.” Hayden says, delighted.
“You can’t call him that to his face.” He groans, going forward to the wheel to hide his grin.
“I would never...” Hayden says with a straight face because he would use it to poke at Ilya, just to laugh at him in his face. “...okay, that’s a lie.”
The line bumps forward two whole car lengths, which feels like winning a playoff round.
“Tell me how you’re saying this to him.” Hayden says, gentle in the way that means he’s not actually going to let Shane dodge it.
“I’m not. That’s the issue.” Shane says, and then winces because honesty is annoying. “I did once. I said, ‘Please say thank you,’ and he just kissed me and then labeled the next e-transfer ‘spasibo’ and sent me one cent.”
“So Rozanov is still an asshole.” Hayden’s laughter explodes and he slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle it. But then coughed a little and sobered up. “How are you, though.”
“I’m…so freaking happy.” Shane sighs, and the little smile is inevitable. “I like waking up and remembering this is my life now. I like that he texts me ‘practice at ten, lyubimiy bring bananas’ and it’s not code, it’s just really… bananas. Because potasium.” He exhales through his nose, thinks about the ledger in his head.
Shane flexes his fingers on the wheel; the heater has finally made them usable. He checks the mirror. The guy behind him is doing a facelift with a hat on, which is interesting but not relevant.
“I just… I don’t like when I do three small things and get zero acknowledgment because he’s laughing at the dog.” He adds. “I can ask for a thank you; that’s on me. I know how to say it. I just… haven’t, because I’m trying to not be the… boring guy.”
There’s a sound on the other side of the facetime.
“Oh shit…they found me.” He mutters. Hayden’s camera dips as a small person yanks at his door handle. He locks it with an apologetic wince. “You’re allowed to have rules and have agreements, you know? That doesn’t make you boring. It’s part of marriage, too.”
Shane hums, filing that under actionable. He is good at bits. Bits make new patterns. Patterns settle his brain. He can do bits.
“Maybe I could put a bowl by the door. Keys, phone, wallet.”
“Oh my God,” Hayden says, bright with evil. “Make him say it out loud. Like, repeat it so he doesn’t forget.”
“He will hate that.”
“Well, too bad.” Hayden corrects. “He will pretend to hate that and then he’ll do it. Because you will stare at him until he does.”
The intercom crackles to life like an angel coughing. The silver SUV ahead finally figures out how angles work. Shane is up next. He feels like applauding.
“Progress.”He lets out a sigh of relief. “If they’re out of Oreos I’m going to turn this car into the river.”
“Say you’re picking up for the Captain of the Centaurs” Hayden says. “They’ll find Oreos in a vault.”
Shane snorts. The intercom finally chirped to life.
“Welcome to McDonald’s, what can I get to you?”
Shane lowered the window. The air bit at the wet edge where his glove didn’t cover.
“Hi. Uhm… One Oreo McFlurry with extra Oreos, one spoon, a Sprite.” He paused. “…and a lot of napkins.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that’ll be all. Thanks.” He pulled forward to the first window and fished his card out of his wallet, then paused and made himself notice that he, in fact, had his wallet.
Hayden was with his cellphone clutched tight almost too near his face after the first attempt of breach by one of his kids (maybe Arthur).
“How did you lose the bet, by the way?” Hayden snorts.
Shane exhales through his nose. “End-of-practice bag skate, captain’s choice. We’re already smoked. He sets up this stupid neutral-zone relay—goal line to blue, back, to red, back, to far blue, back, mohawk around the last cone, finish with a puck and hit the far post. Last rep, he looked over like he was bored and said—” Shane dropped into the voice automatically— “‘education day, Hollander.’ in that nice voice he uses when he’s being disrespectful. Then he taps my stick and says, ‘Loser owes McFlurry.’ And I just… said yes.”
Hayden is grinning. “Of course you did.”
“We go on the whistle. Except it wasn’t the whistle because he took a half-step early—don’t argue, he did—and by the time I’m out of my first crossover he’s already at the red turning like a psychopath. I’m clean through the cones, I catch him on the far blue, and then he throws this little shoulder fake like we’re in a game seven breakaway and I stutter-step. Tiny. Half a blade. But it’s enough. He mohawks around the last cone like he invented hips, I clip the cone because I’m thinking about whether our dryer filter is still on the counter—don’t laugh, married brain—and he rips it to the far post ping like he’d practiced the sound effect. Two strides. He beat me by two strides.”
Hayden wheezes.
“The Assistant had the whistle in his teeth trying not to laugh. Then the asshole looks at me and goes, ‘Eleven at night is dessert time, da?’ and I hate that I nodded. Then nodded again.”
Hayden covers his mouth, eyes crinkled. “You nodded twice.”
“I’m aware.” Shane pushes his tongue into his cheek, thinks about the half-step, the cone, the smug tap. “So now I’m here, paying the Spousal-McFlurry-Diplomacy-tax.” He glances at the line. “Is that marriage? Is that normal?”
“Some of it is marriage, yeah.” Hayden nods slowly. “But also, you could use the sentence, you know?”
“Which sentence.”
“Please say thank you and please carry your wallet.’” Hayden states as if it’s the most obvious thing.
“He’ll say, ‘I carry you, Hollander.‘’” Shane says automatically, because he can hear it, and then he slips into it without thinking, the voice a little lower, the vowels rounder in that slavic drawl. “‘I carry you. Is better currency.’”
Hayden barks a laugh and smacks the wheel again. “You really sound exactly like him.”
Shane blinks, a little startled that it came out so clean. “He’s in my head.”
“Yeah…” Hayden says. “That’s also marriage.”
The line moves. Three cars to the speaker now. The wind slides in through the cracked window and brings the greasy fry smell with it. Shane’s phone buzzes with a text and Shane looks at the previews in the notifications.
Ilya: Lyubimiy, extra Oreos. Spoon. Napkins. Don’t forget napkins.
A second later:
Ilya: If they have caramel, no. Do not put.
Another beat:
Ilya: Hurry up.
“But man… who would have thought.” Hayden snorts. “You got yourself a high-maintenance Russian mafia wife.”
Shane exhales through his nose and shakes his head, but the joke still makes him huff a laugh. “He is not mafia.”
“He has mafia wife energy,” Hayden says, pleased. “He’ll move money with a look.”
Shane blinked, because that did rang the bell for him. He took some time to see it, but whenever Ilya looked at him with those ‘heart eyes’ he really had for him, it made him feel things. And even do things. And most definitely made him hard even at the most unconvenient times at practice.
“He does move me with a look.” Shane mutters, because honesty is cheaper than therapy between friends.
The car creeps to the second window. He rolls his window down. The teen at the register looks like he could be twelve.
“That’ll be $9.57.” the kid says.
Shane taps his card. The reader beeps. He takes the receipt, looks at the “napkins requested” line, nods like this is serious, which it is. He’s handed over and then a stack of napkins thick enough to stop a bullet.
“Extra Oreos.” the kid says, like he knows what’s at stake here.
“Thanks.” Shane says, and means it.
He sets the McFlurry, the spoon, the Sprite, and the napkins like he was signing for a package, anchors it with the heel of his hand while he pulls away, and gets back onto the street. The tires crunch over packed snow. The city is quiet in that late way where everything feels tucked in. His phone buzzes again; another photo of Anya, this time mid-yawn, eyes squinty, text underneath: We wait.
“Send him a picture of the goods.” Hayden says, voice with mock. “Let the mafia wife know tribute has been secured.”
“Really, stop calling him that… it’s going to stick.” Shane says, but he angles the phone, snaps the shot, and sends it anyway because he knows it’ll light up Ilya’s whole face.
“Never getting over it.” Hayden says, delighted with his own line all over again. “Anyway… I’m about to be overrun by pirates. Good talk. You’re fine, by the way.” Pike says, making a salute towards the camera. “Now go feed your high-maintenance Russian mafia wife.”
Shane snorts at that and then smiles at the camera.
“Makes me feel a little better.” Shane replied with a tired smile. “Thanks.” He added with a nod. “Night, Montreal.”
“Night, Ottawa.”
Shane turned the heat up another notch after dropping his phone to the side, and pulled out of the lot. He merged onto the empty street, headlights catching the frost on the curb.
He took the turn toward their place and watched the time on the dash tick forward, thinking about how to start the conversation, and also thinking about how he knew exactly how many Oreos he’d see on Ilya’s tongue. He parks in their garage and takes a second to balance everything. Phone in jacket pocket, keys in his mouth, tray in both hands. He kicks the door with his foot and calls, “It’s me!” around the keys, because he’s learned the hard way that surprising Anya after midnight is a bad plan.
Anya skids into the kitchen, nails clicking, ears up, and then stops with her whole body vibrating like she’s trying to hold still out of respect for the cups. Her eyes go wide at the domes.
“Not for you, girl.” Shane says, bending to kiss the top of her head anyway because he’s weak.
The living room is dim. The TV’s on mute, showing some home improvement show where the wall gets knocked down and everyone applauds. Ilya is on the couch exactly how Shane pictured him: sockless, sweatpants, T-shirt stretched across his chest, one arm thrown over his eyes like he lost at napping, Anya’s spare blanket hiked up to his waist. There’s an empty glass on the coffee table that smells faintly like vodka and orange juice. The room is warm and smells like their house—laundry, dog, whatever candle Shane forgot to blow out in the kitchen that now smells like vanilla.
Shane sets the tray down. The napkins go next to it like an offering. He takes the spoon out of its wrapper and holds it up because he knows what’s coming.
“Lyubimiy…” Ilya says into his forearm, voice rough with sleep. Sweetheart.
He drops the arm and blinks at the ceiling first, then turns his head and sees the cups and sits up on his elbows in one clean move like the word McFlurry is a defibrillator. He looks at Shane, then at the spoons, then at Shane again. No thank you. Not yet. Just a small pleased noise that is basically a thank you in Rozanov.
“Extra Oreos,” Shane says, handing him the cup. “And napkins.”
“Good husband,” Ilya says, and takes a big bite. He closes his eyes and chews like this is a religious experience. Anya, who knows timing, puts her chin on Shane’s knee and does her personal best impression of a starving orphan.
“No,” Shane tells her, and then points the spoon at Ilya. “Say it.”
“Say what?” Ilya’s already going back in for another spoonful.
“Thank you.”
Ilya pauses, spoon hovering in mid-air. For a second he looks like he’s going to argue for sport. Then he shifts over on the couch, taps the cushion beside him with the back of his hand, and when Shane drops down, Ilya leans in and kisses him, slow, cold Oreo sweet. He pulls back half an inch.
“That’s not the same as a—” Shane starts, then stops, because Ilya kisses him again in a way that does in fact qualify.
There’s quiet for a bit. The TV flips to a montage of goals and interviews with too-bright smiles. The heating kicks on, a soft rattle in the vent. Anya does a full patrol—kitchen, hallway, window—then returns to the couch, turns twice, and flops against both their shins with a dramatic dog groan like she’s clocking out of a shift. Ilya has the McFlurry cup braced in one palm and works the spoon through it like he’s mining ore, scraping the walls with steady pressure. He eats like he skates—no wasted motion, no mercy. The plastic spoon bends and squeaks. Oreo dust is on his lip. He doesn’t notice.
“So,” Ilya says eventually, without looking away from the TV. “Pike hide from children in car.”
“Yep.”
“Tell him to be stronger,” Ilya says, dry. “Children smell fear.”
“I’ll pass that on.” Shane nudges Anya’s paw with his sock and gets three sleepy toe-flexes for his trouble. “He said hi, by the way.”
“Privet, Pike.” Ilya shrugged as he said ‘Hi’ in Russian, then grinned maliciously. “If he wants peace, I send him drills for penalty kill. Works on rookies and small children.” Ilya tips the spoon at the TV like a toast that has nothing to do with the TV.
Shane huffs, because of course it does. He could leave it there, but the line Hayden dropped has been rattling around his skull since the parking lot and he knows himself—if he doesn’t say it now, he’ll say it at a worse time when they’re at mid practice, or when they’re playing Monopoli with Shane’s parents. He could let it go. He could just sit here and—
“He says you’re a high-maintenance Russian mafia wife.” Shane blurts.
To be fair, the words are out before the prudence part of his brain can throw the flag. He wants to see the reaction. That’s a bad reason, but it’s honest.
He really just wants to see what happens to Ilya’s face. It’s worth it, because Ilya pauses mid-bite and parks the spoon. There’s a .5-second audit behind them—he turns his head very slowly. His eyes narrow like he’s lining up a shot.
“Not mafia, Hollander…” he says, mouth puckered, eyes narrowed further as if he’s checking for hidden cameras. “...high-performance luxury Russian husband.”
“That’s worse.” Shane replies, trying not to grin and failing a little.
“Better.” Ilya corrects, unbothered. “Comes with heated seats, remote start when thinking of Shane Hollander’s ass, loud horn. Works with premium fuel only—sex, compliments and kisses. Manual comes in Russian but if not know, then learn by touch.” Ilya taps the empty McFlurry lid with his spoon like he’s stamping paperwork. “Warranty void once married.”
“Wow.” Shane snorts, with irony. “Romance is alive.”
“Da. Very alive. They show your backcheck today—very sexy. Turnover, two steps, hips open, I feel things.” He wags the spoon. “We do video review later. In bedroom.”
“That’s not how analytics works.”
“Why not? Imagine: Eye test,” Ilya says, completely serious. “Also mouth test.”
Shane laughs despite himself. Ilya does a little dramatic shrug at Shane as if saying ‘see?’. He reaches for the Sprite like a podium finish came with product placement, takes a sip, and sets it back down exactly on the coaster.
“I am expensive luxury, you boring analytics.” Ilya angles the spoon at him. “Perfect match.”
“Do I get dealer support when something rattles?” Shane asks. “Because lately the glove compartment keeps forgetting its wallet.”
Ilya tips his head, fake-offended. “This model is not rattling. This model is finely tuned but needs daily oil change with hands.” A beat. “Yours.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
Shane lets his head tip back against the couch cushion and, without meaning to, breathes like he’s got room in his chest again. The TV volume is low enough that the rink noise sounds like ocean. Anya sighs and presses more weight into their legs, pinning them together. The apartment smells like laundry and cold air and sugar.
“We’re up at seven-thirty,” he says, eyes on the ceiling. “Group skate is at nine.”
“Seven, Hollander.” Ilya doesn’t miss a beat. You can’t remove captain from captain.
“Seven-thirty.” Shane turns his head.
They do the stare a second. Ilya’s expression moves through stubborn, to amused, to something fond he won’t label. But then shrugs nonchalantly, which in Rozanov that’s a white flag.
“Seven-twenty.” Ilya adds, splitting the difference.
Even bedtimes and wake-ups live in the same system as puck battles—keep score, chip away, claim the middle ice. It works for them. It’s stupid and domestic and somehow not small.
Even wake-ups are a game they both know how to play. Shane sighs, taps his phone dark, pockets it. He reaches for the stack of napkins and tears one free; the cheap paper fuzzes at the edge. He passes it over. Ilya takes it and wipes the spoon with ridiculous care, like he’s in a clean room, then tucks the spoon back into the cup exactly straight. Shane watches him be meticulous about something stupid and feels the knot in his chest loosen one notch. It’s dumb, but it’s real: if Ilya can be careful with a spoon, the world is not on fire.
“Hey…” Shane says, softer, done playing the role of the boring husband for the night but still unable to stop himself. “Remember to program the coffee machine before going to bed.”
Ilya squints like he’s weighing the request against his current desire to walk away from all appliances. Then he nods once, filing it under things that are not hard.
“Da…” he hums, thoughtful. He tilts his head, finds Shane’s face, and eyes glinting. “Will you give me thank you kiss if I bring coffee in bed?”
“You bringing me coffee in the morning would be a Christmas miracle,” Shane says, almost rolling his eyes because if he doesn’t, he’ll smile too big.
“I can bring coffee and suck my husband’s dick in morning,” Ilya says with a small, smug smirk. “Early Christmas miracle.”
Shane laughs, warm, and presses his knee into Ilya’s. The bump gets returned with interest. Ilya picks the spoon back up, satisfied he’s won whatever this was.
Okay, he thinks, watching his ridiculous, infuriating, stupidly dear husband chase the last stripe of Oreo like it’s overtime. Maybe having a high-maintenance Russian mafia wife—fine, a high-performance luxury Russian husband—wasn’t so bad after all.