Chapter Text
Shane Hollander knows superstitions.
Like any hockey player he has an order in which he has to get dressed and geared up, certain rounds of tape he has to put on his stick. Hell, even a certain knock on his helmet he has to sync up to the locker room music or else he’ll feel queasy after.
And so he knows he shouldn’t even think it, because the last thing he needs is to jinx it, but it really does not get better than this.
He’s on the ice, completing his last rounds of warming up before the game while his husband is skating laps around him with that glint in his eyes, the one that says he’s going to play hard, fast and generally have a wonderful time getting a rise of every player that’s not in Ottawa’s black and red.
He can feel his own blood singing, the way it does when he’s going to win. Another thing he really shouldn’t jinx by even thinking about it, but he knows. He’s never been in better shape, physically and psychologically, and the team has finally, finally, started clicking. They are elbows deep into a fucking awesome season, every one of them simmering with the desire to hold the Cup over their head while being sprayed with champagne, their name chanted all over the country.
And Shane is never going to say it out loud, when someone other than Ilya can hear it, but there is no one that can push him quite like Ottawa’s new captain. Nobody that can give him that rush, that high, that indescribable feeling he gets when Ilya is right where he needs him to and he hits the puck at the perfect angle, the crowd going almost silent with their breaths tight in their throat.
So when the starting buzzer rings loud and the Ottawa home crowd roars louder, he lets himself think it: it does not get better than this.
.
.
.
He is, of course, wrong.
They crush the Florida Gators on a 4-0 game that Coach Wiebe calls “A masterclass in winning, boys” and Shane has to admit he really likes the man. He has a coaching style that gels well with him, pushing the team not to their limits, but to their bests, praising their victories and guiding them through their mistakes. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Wiebe get angry and dreads the day he’ll do.
Ilya is still talking to the press when Wyatt launches himself (and Shane with him) in the locker room with a howl that could rival a plane taking off.
They’re already making plans for celebratory drinks, which rapidly turns into a milder “Let’s just order a couple beers” because they’re all either driving or exhausted or waiting to tuck themselves into bed with their wives and kids.
Shane has none of these very standard hockey player qualms, but he’s buzzing with post win adrenaline, has the number five hottest man in the NHL for a husband (“Number one next year, Hollander”) and he really, really wants everybody to just get out of there so he can kiss him like he’s been wanting to all game.
The moment Ilya, hair plastered on his forehead and eyes still shining, enters the room it’s like they won all over again.
It's much later when it hit him, with Ilya fighting for his life to stay away on the passenger seat of their very sensible jeep. His husband’s hand is on Shane's thigh, a sluggish attempt at a massage that will lead to lazy handjobs and lazier showers once at home, Shane already knows.
And later still, when Shane is making his nightly round to check how many lights his husband has left on and Ilya is face down on the mattress, waving a hand with his eyes closed.
“Shane,” he moans, “Come give your husband a kiss and go to sleep.”
Shane flicks off the last light, their bathroom sink's, making a mental note to wipe the mirror clean of his handprints in the morning, and goes to sit next to Ilya on the bed. When his hand goes to smooth Ilya’s hair from his forehead, his gorgeous curls and even more striking, sleepy face, the realization comes in like a sucker punch.
He loves him. That’s not been news for a long while, but really, he loves him.
It’s something he still struggles to comprehend and even more so vocalize, because his life has always been hockey and hockey is easy. He pushes and prods and polishes until his brain goes quiet and that all-consuming happiness mounts in him like a wave. The anesthetic chill of the rink, the sharp sound of metal on ice that has always been his answer to his problems.
And then came in this 6'3'', Russian with a smile that made Shane rethink everything.
Ilya brought something to his life that makes him want to say “thank you” every time their eyes lock. Thank you for choosing him, for sticking with him even when times were so tough Shane felt his heart dying at the sheer force of his despair.
He remembers very clearly the moment where the choice was presented to him: take the hard road, fight everyday for what you effortlessly had before, but be happy, or be miserable and safe and alone. Shane had taken Ilya's hand and never turned back. There's no wondering what would've become of him if he hadn't had: he would've survived, maybe played some good hockey and every day he would've come home knowing his soul was dead. His love for the sport and himself, withered.
“Moya sipukha, you are thinking too hard,” Ilya sighs, face still engulfed by the pillows, and Shane finally joins him under the covers.
As he curls into Ilya’s arms he makes another mental note: kiss his husband extra hard tomorrow morning. Cook him those disgusting cheesecake waffles he loves so much and take a long walk with Anya before practice.
Also, google what the fuck a sipukha is.