Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov was a liability. He knew it, Shane knew it, the Centaurs knew it – hell, the whole NHL knew it. He had been barely eighteen when he first arrived in the Boston locker room, a callow youth who made up for his lack of language skills by being loud, brash, and intimidating. He had practiced hard with his English since first meeting Shane, of course, embarrassed by how thick and halting his speech was compared to the smooth vowels slipping from the Canadian’s pretty lips. But his study wasn’t enough to keep up with his teammates rowdy chirping, the coach’s rapid-fire instructions, the convoluted questions from journalists, and the general chaos during games. Ilya’s replies had to be given fast, so he relied on a terse, direct way of speaking delivered with flirtatious humour to make it seem deliberate rather than a necessity of survival.
Over the years Ilya’s understanding of the language grew and his accent softened a little, but by then his hard-won persona as the wildest card in the NHL was solidified. He had a garage full of the most obnoxious sports cars money could buy, a huge house full of crazy art, a wardrobe bursting with European designers. Ilya turned heads everywhere he went, his impressive height and Slavic good looks accented by heavy muscle and pure arrogance. Beautiful women came and went with dizzying frequency; Ilya had lost count of them before his twentieth birthday, though he could repeat with accuracy how many days would pass before he would play the Metros again.
No one knew how hard Ilya worked on his chirping skills, writing out insults in Russian and translating them carefully in the quiet of his Boston townhouse, memorising which players had a sore spot for which insults, practicing till he could deliver cutting words carelessly even in the middle of the fastest game. He knew hockey was the one sport where his body would have to back up his mouth; Ilya didn’t need all that muscle to put a puck in a net, but every other player considered him fair game because they had all built grudges over the years. Ilya had learned long ago how words could hurt.
But he was not vicious like that with Shane. Never Shane. He had said stupid things long ago to the other man that he still repented in the privacy of his own mind, even knowing that Shane himself had long since forgotten. He couldn’t bear to see tears shimmering in his pretty boy’s pretty eyes, no matter how much the others chirped him for being whipped.
At thirty Ilya was leading his team in a way he had never done in Boston. The Centaurs line up was hand-picked by him, trained by him, protected by him, and they followed him into battle loyally two to three nights a week for eighty-two games. They had gone all the way to the playoffs every year since Shane joined them. Ilya had worried that Shane would chafe under his leadership, having captained for years himself, but Shane was worn out from his experiences with Montreal. He slipped happily into the role of Assistant Captain, utilising his own hard-won good-boy image and cool demeanour to calm the referees during games and handle the media after games. It was Shane who carefully reviewed stats and delivered feedback in his usual kind, supportive way. It was Shane who convinced the other players to work harder and smarter, pay attention to the coach’s notes, stick to meal plans, and all the other minutia that made up the life of an elite athlete. With Ilya’s fire and Shane’s meticulous planning, the Centaurs had hit the ice ready to take on the world for the first time in their history, and Ilya was so proud of the team he had built. Unfortunately, they hadn’t made it all the way through the playoffs this year and the Stanley cup had gone to New York, Scott once again bringing Kip to the ice to kiss him under the bright lights. Word was that he was finally ready to retire on this high.
Next year would be the Centaurs win, Ilya was sure of it.
He held a start-of-summer party in the beer garden of their favourite local bar, packed with everyone important to their team: all the WAGs and HABs, the coaches, the medics, even the admin staff. The front bar had free drinks too, a little thank you from the Centaurs to their fans. Harris and his team fluttered about, taking enough film and photos to keep the Centaurs socials humming across the long break.
Ilya moved away from chatting up some team sponsors and spotted his husband across the crowd, emotional support ginger ale in hand, chatting with their youngest player. Shane had fretted about the event for days but seemed to be enjoying the party now that it was here. He was smiling prettily, leaning into Luca’s bulky shoulder to hear the other man's soft voice over the din. Ilya decided that was quite enough of Shane not paying attention to him and started heading over. On the way, he was waylaid by a gaggle of young fans who had clearly enjoyed the free-flowing Prosecco. Ilya indulged them for a few minutes, letting them fawn over him and hang from his shoulders, grinning at their boldness. By the time he escaped he had lipstick marks on both cheeks and another button pulled open on his shirt, and he smirked rakishly as he made his way through to the crowd.
He arrived at Shane’s side to find the Centaurs already teasing him. It was still the biggest gossip in the NHL, that notorious playboy Ilva Rozanov was no longer a ladies’ man. He wasn’t anyone’s man except Shane Hollander’s, and anyone who saw them together could see it. Used to his antics, Shane gave Ilya a mock-severe look as he theatrically did up the shirt button and one more for good measure, ignoring the chirping from their team mates to press a smiling kiss to his husband’s mouth. Ilya grinned at Luca. The boy was still somewhat star struck by his burly captain, even a year into playing beside him.
“He must make best of bad situation because I burn marriage certificate,” Ilya joked to Luca, winking at his confusion. “No receipt, no returns,” he added smugly, dropping a possessive kiss to Shane’s hair amidst the laughter. Shane rolled his eyes at the joke he had already heard Ilya tell his parents, but he joined in the laughter and allowed his husband to wrap an arm tightly around his waist. He didn’t bother to wipe the lipstick off Ilya’s face, which Ilya knew meant he would probably pay for it later.