Chapter Text
Day Seven begins quietly.
The kind of quiet that only exists in the early morning when the whole house still feels half asleep, when pale winter light filters gently through the curtains and the world outside hasn’t quite started moving yet.
Shane wakes slowly.
At first it’s just awareness, the warmth of the blankets, the soft weight pressed against his side, the familiar scent of Ilya’s shampoo lingering somewhere on the pillow between them.
He doesn’t move right away.
Instead he just lies there, blinking slowly into the dim light, letting himself wake naturally the way he rarely gets to during the season.
Beside him, Ilya is still asleep. One arm thrown loosely across Shane’s waist, his face half buried in the pillow, hair a little messy from sleep. His breathing is slow and steady, the deep kind that only happens when he’s completely relaxed.
Shane watches him for a while. Not in a dramatic way. Just… quietly.
There’s something about mornings like this that always makes him pause a little. Maybe it’s the rare stillness. Maybe it’s the strange way the years sometimes catch up with him all at once, the memory of a teenage rivalry that somehow turned into this. Into a house. Into shared mornings. Into Ilya Rozanov sleeping beside him like he’s always belonged there.
Shane reaches out absentmindedly and brushes a stray piece of hair off Ilya’s forehead. Ilya stirs almost immediately. He makes a soft, annoyed sound into the pillow and shifts slightly before his eyes open.
For a second he looks disoriented. Then he blinks at Shane. “…Why you staring.”
Shane smiles faintly. “You snore.”
“That is lie.”
“Little bit.”
Ilya squints at him suspiciously before rubbing a hand over his face. “Time is it.”
“Early.”
Ilya groans softly and pushes himself halfway upright against the headboard. The movement is slower than usual. Shane notices immediately.
“You okay?”
Ilya pauses, pressing his fingers briefly against his temple.
“…Head hurts.”
Shane’s expression shifts.
“Headache?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t say anything last night.”
“It started later.”
Ilya leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, rubbing the back of his neck like something aches.
Shane sits up too. “You feel sick?”
Ilya hesitates just a fraction too long before answering. “…Maybe little.”
Shane frowns. “What does that mean.”
“Could be flu.”
“Flu?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re not going to practice.”
Ilya shakes his head faintly. “I should.”
“No.”
“It is fine.”
“You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“That is dramatic.”
Shane slides out of bed anyway. “Stay there.”
“I am fine, Shane.”
“You’re not fine.”
A minute later he returns from the bathroom with a glass of water and a couple of pills. “Take these.”
Ilya accepts the glass with a quiet sigh. “You are very bossy this morning.”
“You’re sick.”
“I might be sick.”
“That’s enough.”
Ilya swallows the pills and leans back into the pillows again, eyes closing briefly.
Shane studies him. “You’re staying home.”
“Yes, mother.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“You need anything?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
Ilya opens one eye. “Just quiet.”
Shane nods slowly. “Alright.”
He stands up and pulls on sweatpants, still watching him like he’s trying to judge how bad it actually is. Then he leans down and presses a quick kiss against Ilya’s forehead. “Text me if you feel worse.”
“I will.”
“Actually text me.”
“You worry too much.”
“Someone has to.”
Ilya huffs a quiet laugh before closing his eyes again.
“Go to practice, Hollander.”
Shane hesitates one last moment. Then he grabs his bag and heads for the door.
The house falls quiet again once he leaves. Completely quiet. The front door clicks shut. The car starts in the driveway. And a few seconds later the sound fades down the street.
Silence. Then... Ilya opens his eyes.
The headache disappears immediately. He stares at the ceiling for a second. Then exhales slowly and mutters to himself in Russian. “…I hate lying to him.”
But he pushes the blankets back anyway and sits up. Because he has a lot to do.
Practice feels wrong without the captain. Shane notices it the second he walks into the locker room. The stall next to his is empty. Ilya’s gear untouched.
Wyatt Hayes is the first to notice. “Wait.”
Wyatt looks around dramatically. “Where’s Captain Menace?”
Shane drops his bag on the bench. “He’s sick.”
Luca Haas gasps like someone just announced the apocalypse. “Sick?”
“Headache. Maybe flu.”
Wyatt squints. “…Rozanov got the flu?”
“Apparently.”
“That man eats raw protein like a medieval warrior.”
Shane shrugs as he starts pulling on his gear. “Bodies still get sick.”
Luca shakes his head. “This feels illegal.”
“What feels illegal?”
“Practice without the captain.”
Wyatt nods seriously. “Yeah, this feels like when the substitute teacher shows up and nobody knows the rules.”
Shane snorts. “You guys are ridiculous.”
Troy Barrett looks up from taping his stick. “He okay though?”
Shane nods. “Yeah. Just told him to rest.”
Wyatt points dramatically. “Husband duties.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying, Day Six champion is taking good care of his captain.”
Shane throws a roll of tape at him. Wyatt catches it, grinning.
Practice starts a few minutes later. And somehow the ice feels different. Ilya’s voice is missing. No sharp Russian commentary during drills. No captain barking instructions during scrimmage.
Even Coach Wiebe looks around once like he expects Ilya to appear out of nowhere and start yelling about positioning.
Wyatt skates up beside Shane during a break. “You miss him.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “He’s been gone for like an hour.”
“Still.”
Shane shrugs, tapping his stick against the ice.
“…Yeah.”
Wyatt grins knowingly. “Cute.”
“Shut up, Hayes.”
But when the next drill starts, Shane still glances once toward the empty spot where the captain usually lines up.
Practice runs longer than usual. Or at least it feels longer to Shane.
Not because the drills are harder, and not because Coach Wiebe is in a bad mood, if anything, things are running pretty normally. Pucks slide across the ice, players cycle through passing drills, the usual shouting and laughter echoing through the rink.
But something is… missing.
It takes Shane a while to realize exactly what it is.
It’s the noise. Ilya is loud on the ice. Not obnoxiously loud, just constant. A running commentary in Russian and English, chirping teammates, calling out plays, correcting positioning like the captain he is. Without that voice the rink feels strangely hollow.
During a scrimmage drill Shane circles back toward the blue line and catches Wyatt skating up beside him again.
Wyatt leans on his stick. “This is weird.”
Shane glances at him. “What is.”
Wyatt gestures broadly at the ice. “Everything.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m serious. Where’s the yelling? Where’s the Russian insults?”
Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “He’s sick, Hayes.”
Wyatt shakes his head. “I don’t like it.”
“You’ll survive.”
Across the ice Luca skates over, sliding to a stop beside them. “I tried chirping Barrett earlier,” Luca announces solemnly.
“And?”
“He ignored me.”
Wyatt gasps. “See? The system is collapsing.”
Shane rolls his eyes.
Luca taps his stick against the ice thoughtfully.
“You think the captain’s actually sick?”
Shane frowns slightly. “What does that mean.”
Wyatt shrugs. “I mean… Rozanov doesn’t strike me as the flu type.”
“That’s not a real category.”
“I’m just saying.”
Shane pushes away from them before the conversation gets any dumber. “Go do the drill.”
Wyatt calls after him. “TELL HIM WE MISS HIM!”
“I’m not doing that!”
Coach’s whistle cuts across the rink then. “ROZANOV!”
Everyone instinctively looks up. Coach pauses. Then sighs. “…Right. Hollander!”
Shane skates over. “Yes, coach.”
Coach gestures toward the players setting up for the next drill. “You’re running the next line.”
Shane blinks. “…Me?”
“Your captain’s out.”
Wyatt shouts from the blue line: “INTERIM CAPTAIN HOLLANDER!”
“Shut up, Wyatt!” Shane snaps without turning around.
Coach just shakes his head. “Go.”
The rest of practice passes quickly after that, but Shane can’t shake the strange feeling lingering in the back of his mind. Not worry exactly. Just… absence.
When they finally head back into the locker room, Wyatt immediately collapses onto the bench like he’s been through something traumatic. “That was horrible.”
Shane pulls his helmet off. “You’re fine.”
“No, I’m not. We need the captain back immediately.”
Luca nods seriously. “This team has structure. Leadership. Chaos control.”
“And today?”
Wyatt gestures wildly. “Anarchy.”
Shane laughs under his breath. “You guys survived one practice.”
Troy finishes tying his skates and glances over. “You heading home?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell Rozanov to feel better,” Troy says. “The room’s weird without him.”
Shane nods. “I will.”
Wyatt perks up immediately. “And tell him if he dies I want his stall.”
“He’s not dying.”
“You don’t know that.”
Shane throws his towel at him. Wyatt ducks, laughing.
By the time Shane leaves the arena the winter afternoon has already started shifting toward evening, the sky pale and cold above the parking lot.
He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car.
For a moment he just sits there. Then he pulls out his phone and types a quick message.
Shane:
Still alive?
The reply comes a minute later.
Ilya:
Barely.
Shane smiles faintly.
Shane:
Practice was weird without you.
Ilya:
Good.
Shane frowns slightly at the screen.
Shane:
Why good?
Ilya:
So you miss me.
Shane snorts under his breath. Shane shakes his head, sliding the phone into the cup holder before pulling out of the parking lot.
Back at the house, Ilya Rozanov is standing on a chair in the living room. String lights are tangled in one hand.
A ladder sits half open beside the couch.
The kitchen smells like something warm and expensive simmering slowly on the stove.
Candles line the table.
And the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs is currently muttering aggressively in Russian while trying to untangle decorative lights.
“…This was stupid idea.”
But he keeps working anyway.
By the time the front door opens, the house smells incredible. Shane notices it immediately.
He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him with one foot while juggling his bag and jacket, and pauses halfway through the entryway. "What the hell.”
The air is warm, thick with the smell of garlic and butter and something slow cooked that makes his stomach immediately remind him he hasn’t eaten since breakfast.
He drops his bag by the door. “Ilya?”
No answer. Shane frowns slightly and walks farther into the house.
“Rozanov?”
In the kitchen, Ilya freezes. He had calculated the timing perfectly. Or at least he thought he had.
Shane wasn’t supposed to be home for another twenty minutes. The pasta water is boiling. The sauce is simmering. The string lights in the living room are… mostly up. And Ilya himself is currently barefoot, wearing sweatpants and one of Shane’s old training shirts, holding a wooden spoon like he’s been caught committing a crime.
He looks at the clock. "Shit.”
“Ilya?”
“Kitchen.”
Shane walks in a second later. And stops. Because the scene in front of him makes absolutely no sense. Ilya is standing at the stove.
Cooking. Which is already suspicious. The counters are covered in ingredients. There are candles sitting on the kitchen island. And through the doorway Shane can see the living room glowing faintly with soft golden lights.
For a long moment he just stares. Then slowly raises one eyebrow. “…You’re dying, huh.”
Ilya blinks. “I am sick.”
Shane crosses his arms. “Your flu smells like garlic butter.”
“Good for immune system.”
“And why does the living room look like a Pinterest wedding?”
Ilya glances toward the doorway."Decoration.”
“For?”
Ilya turns back to the stove, stirring the sauce like that explains everything. “For dinner.”
Shane walks closer. Slowly. Suspiciously.“Ilya. You faked the flu.”
“No.”
“You absolutely faked the flu.”
“I have mild symptoms.”
Shane snorts. “Your symptom is lying.”
Ilya finally turns toward him. For a moment he looks like he might try to argue. Then he sighs.
“…Maybe little lie.”
Shane stares at him. “Why.”
Ilya shrugs lightly, like it’s obvious. “Day Seven.”
Ilya sets the spoon down and leans back against the counter, folding his arms. Shane looks around again. The candles. The lights. The food simmering quietly on the stove.
And something in his chest softens immediately.
“You did all this today?”
“Yes.”
“You skipped practice.”
“I regret nothing.”
Shane laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
Ilya steps closer now. “Did it work?”
“What.”
“You missing me.”
Shane hesitates. Then exhales. “…Yeah.”
Ilya’s mouth curves slightly.
For a moment neither of them says anything.
The kitchen fills with the quiet bubbling of the sauce and the warm glow of the lights spilling in from the living room.
Then Shane looks at him again. “You know you didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know.”
“So why did you.”
Ilya tilts his head slightly, studying him. When he answers, his voice is softer. “Because challenge was joke.”
Shane frowns faintly. “What do you mean.”
“I never needed challenge to fall in love with you again.”
The words land quietly between them. Shane’s breath catches slightly.
Ilya continues, voice calm but steady. “But I liked excuse to remind you.”
Shane swallows. “Remind me of what.”
Ilya reaches out and hooks a finger through the front of Shane’s hoodie, tugging him a little closer. “That you are still the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Shane lets out a small, helpless laugh. “That’s unfair.”
“What is.”
“You can’t just say things like that when I just walked in the door.”
Ilya shrugs. “You married romantic.”
“You’re not romantic.”
“I cooked.”
“You poisoned pasta.”
“It is excellent pasta.”
Shane steps closer now, close enough that their chests almost touch. “You lied to me.”
“For good reason.”
“You skipped practice.”
“I am captain. I allowed it.”
“That’s not how that works.”
Ilya smiles slightly. Then he lowers his voice.“You going to punish me.”
Shane raises an eyebrow. “Oh, absolutely.”
“How.”
Shane glances toward the stove. “First you finish cooking.”
Ilya groans dramatically. “This is cruel.”
“Then we eat.”
“That part I like.”
“And then,” Shane says calmly, “we’ll discuss your crimes.”
Ilya studies him for a moment. Then his eyes darken slightly. “I look forward to discussion.”
Shane laughs and nudges him toward the stove. “Chef, your sauce is burning.”
Ilya turns back just in time to save it. But as he stirs, he glances over his shoulder at Shane standing in the warm kitchen light. And for a moment the smug confidence fades into something softer.
Because tonight isn’t just the last day of the challenge. It’s the night he’s been quietly planning for weeks. And Shane still has absolutely no idea.
The pasta turns out to be excellent.
Shane will never admit that immediately, of course. But the moment he takes the first bite, sitting across from Ilya at the small dining table now set under the soft glow of the string lights, he pauses mid chew and stares at his husband with visible suspicion.
“This is good.”
Ilya leans back in his chair, wine glass in hand, watching him with smug satisfaction. “Of course it is good.”
“You cooked this. You burned toast last week.”
“That was tactical error.”
“You microwaved eggs once.”
“Those were experimental eggs.”
Shane takes another bite, slower this time. The pasta is perfectly cooked, the sauce rich and buttery with garlic and herbs, something warm and slow cooked that feels almost absurdly comforting after practice.
He points his fork at Ilya. “Where did you learn this.”
Ilya shrugs lightly. “Internet.”
“You watched a video.”
“Yes.”
“How many videos?”
“…Seven.”
Shane laughs under his breath and shakes his head, leaning back slightly in his chair. “You skipped practice for seven cooking videos.”
“I skipped practice for you.”
Shane exhales slowly. The lights above them glow warm and golden, reflected faintly in the window beside the table where night has fully settled over Ottawa.
“Okay,” Shane says finally. “That’s annoyingly romantic.”
Ilya lifts his glass slightly. “I am occasionally romantic.”
“You’re a menace.”
“That too.”
They eat quietly for a moment. Not awkward silence. Just comfortable. The kind that only exists when two people have spent years together, when conversation doesn’t have to fill every second.
After a while Shane wipes his mouth with a napkin and studies Ilya across the table. “You know the guys were losing their minds today.”
“Why.”
“You weren’t there.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“That is surprising.”
“Wyatt declared the locker room in a state of anarchy.”
“That sounds like Wyatt.”
“Luca tried chirping Barrett and got ignored.”
Ilya nods solemnly. “Tragic.”
Shane smiles slightly. “Troy asked if you were okay though.”
“That was nice of him.”
“And Coach yelled your name during drills before remembering you weren’t there.”
Ilya smirks. “See. I am essential.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I am captain.”
Shane takes a sip of his wine, studying him again.
“You feel even a little bad?”
“For lying.”
“For skipping practice.”
“For making me think you had the flu.”
Ilya considers that.Then shrugs. “…Little bit.”
“Wow.”
“But mostly I feel proud of pasta.”
They fall quiet again for a moment. Then Ilya tilts his head slightly. “Tell me about practice.”
Shane raises an eyebrow. “You want the full breakdown?”
“Yes.”
“You hate hearing about drills.”
“I like hearing you talk.”
The answer is so casual it almost slips past Shane. But it lands. He clears his throat slightly and gestures with his fork.
“Coach made me run a line because you weren’t there.”
Ilya perks up. “Temporary captain.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“That is exactly what happened.”
“It was one drill.”
“Still counts.”
Ilya studies him carefully. “How is challenge going, Hollander?”
Shane leans back in his chair, considering. “You want my honest answer.”
“Yes.”
Shane taps his fingers lightly against the stem of his wine glass. “…I think you’re winning.”
Ilya’s eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
“You faked an illness.”
“Strategic illness.”
“You cooked dinner.”
“Excellent dinner.”
“You decorated the house.”
“Beautiful decoration.”
Shane gestures around the softly lit room.
“I mean… look at this.”
Ilya smiles faintly. “You like it.”
Shane studies him for a moment longer. “You know what the annoying part is.”
“What.”
“You didn’t have to do any of this.”
“I know.”
“You already won the original argument.”
“What argument.”
“That I’d fall in love with you again.”
Ilya tilts his head slightly. “And?”
Shane exhales slowly. “You’re not making it difficult.”
Ilya’s expression softens in a way that almost never happens in public.
Shane takes another sip of wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. “You’re being suspiciously nice tonight.”
“I am always nice.”
“You threatened to body check Wyatt into a locker last week.”
“He deserved it.”
“Probably.”
They both smile faintly. The candles flicker gently on the table between them, the string lights above casting soft shadows across the room.
And for a moment the world feels very small.
Just the two of them.
Then Ilya leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.
“Shane.”
“Yeah?”
“After dinner…”
Shane narrows his eyes. “…That tone is suspicious.”
Ilya smiles slowly. “I have one more thing planned.”
Shane sighs dramatically. “Of course you do.”
“You trust me?”
Shane leans back in his chair again, studying the man across from him. The man who pretended to have the flu. Cooked a full dinner. Decorated the entire house.And somehow still looks completely calm about it. “…That depends,” Shane says slowly.
“On what.”
“Whether this next plan involves me being kidnapped.”
Ilya laughs softly. “No kidnapping. Just you.”
Shane tilts his head.“Just me what.”
Ilya’s eyes glint slightly in the warm light. “You will see.”
Shane groans. “I hate surprises.”
Ilya raises his glass again. “But you love me.”
Shane clinks his glass against it. “Damn right i do.”
Dinner ends slowly.
Not because there’s much food left, the plates are mostly empty, the pasta reduced to a few stray strands of sauce, but because neither of them seems particularly eager to break the moment.
The candles burn lower on the table. The string lights cast soft golden reflections across the window.
Outside the night has settled fully over Ottawa, the quiet kind of winter evening where the world feels still.
Shane leans back in his chair, swirling the last sip of wine in his glass while watching Ilya across the table. “You’re suspiciously calm for someone who claims to have a master plan.”
Ilya wipes his hands with a napkin, unfazed. “I told you. No kidnapping.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“But you still look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You are suspicious.”
“Correct.”
Ilya stands, gathering the plates.
“You cooked,” Shane says automatically, reaching for his own plate. “I’ll clean.”
Ilya pauses. Then shrugs. “Fair.”
They move around the kitchen together in quiet familiarity. Shane rinses dishes while Ilya loads the dishwasher beside him, their shoulders bumping occasionally in the small space. It’s domestic in the easiest way. No urgency. No rush. Just the quiet rhythm of two people who know each other’s movements by heart.
Eventually the last dish clicks into place and Shane dries his hands on a towel.
“So,” he says, turning toward him. “What’s the mysterious final act of your grand seduction plan?”
Ilya doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he gestures toward the living room. “Come.”
Shane sighs. “That’s never a good sign.”
But he follows.
The living room glows softly when they walk in.
The string lights Ilya spent half the afternoon fighting with are now fully lit, draped along the walls and across the shelves in soft golden loops.
Candles flicker on the coffee table. And in the center of the table... There’s a small box.
Shane stops walking. “Okay.”
Ilya stands beside him quietly. Shane gestures toward the box. “What is that.”
“Open it.”
Shane gives him a long look.“You’re very dramatic tonight.”
“Open it.” Ilya says again.
Shane walks closer. Slowly. He sits on the edge of the couch, pulling the small box toward him with two fingers like it might explode.
Then he opens it.
Inside... Two gold wedding rings. Simple. Elegant.
Warm in the soft light of the candles.
For a moment Shane just stares. Then he looks up at Ilya. “Ilya”
Ilya sits beside him on the couch. “You hate the black bands.”
Shane blinks. “What?”
“The ones we wear now,” Ilya says, tapping lightly against the matte black ring on Shane’s finger. “You complain about them every few months.”
“I don’t complain.”
“You do.”
“I make observations.”
“You say they look like gym equipment.”
Shane huffs quietly. “Okay, that was one time.”
Ilya smiles faintly. “I thought maybe… it is time we replace them.”
Shane looks down at the rings again. “They’re beautiful.”
“I hoped you would like them.”
“I do.” But confusion still lingers in his voice. “Why now?”
Ilya is quiet for a moment.
Then he reaches out and takes Shane’s hand gently, turning the black ring on his finger.
“When we got married,” he says slowly, “we didn’t do everything.”
Shane exhales softly. “No,” he agrees.
Their wedding had been beautiful. Small. Private.
Perfect in its own way.
But both of them had been nervous, terrified, really, of standing in front of people and saying the things they weren’t used to saying out loud.
So they hadn’t written vows. They had simply exchanged rings. Signed papers. Danced.
Ilya continues quietly. “We skipped something important.”
Shane’s chest tightens slightly. “The vows.”
“Yes.”
Shane looks at him again. “You said you’d never do vows.”
“I said I was afraid.”
“That too.”
Ilya reaches for the small box and lifts one of the rings from it. The gold catches the candlelight softly.
“This time,” he says, his voice steady now, “I want to do it properly.”
Shane’s breath catches. “Properly.”
Ilya nods.
“This time I say the things I didn’t say before.”
Shane stares at him. “Ilya”
“I know you didn’t plan this,” Ilya says gently. “You don’t have to say anything tonight. I just want you to listen.”
The room feels very quiet suddenly. The candles flicker softly. The string lights hum faintly above them.
And Shane realizes something slowly. “All so you could… what. Re-propose?”
Ilya smiles slightly. “Something like that.”
Shane lets out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
“You could’ve warned me.”
“That ruins surprise.”
Shane looks down at the ring in Ilya’s hand.
“You wrote vows.”
“Yes.”
“You. Ilya Rozanov. Wrote vows.”
“I did.”
Shane presses his fingers against his mouth briefly. “Holy shit.”
Ilya laughs softly. “Your reaction to love confessions has not improved.”
Shane drops his hand and looks at him again, eyes shining a little now. “Shut up.”
“Still romantic.”
“Ilya.”
Ilya grows quiet again.
Then he shifts slightly, turning toward Shane fully. The ring rests between his fingers. And for the first time that evening, the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs actually looks nervous.
Not terrified. But vulnerable in a way Shane has only seen a handful of times in their entire relationship.
Ilya exhales slowly. “Can I start.”
Shane nods immediately.“Yeah.”His voice is softer now. “Yeah, you can start.”
Ilya squeezes his hand gently. And begins.
He exhales through his nose. “Okay.”
Shane watches him carefully. Not teasing now.
Not sarcastic. Just… present. Waiting.
Ilya glances down at their joined hands, his thumb tracing slowly along Shane’s knuckles like he’s grounding himself there. When he finally starts speaking, his voice is quieter than usual.
Still steady. But softer.
“You know,” he says slowly, “when we talked about this challenge… I thought it was ridiculous. I know we said we should try to make each other fall in love again. Like it is something you win. Like a competition.”
He glances up at Shane then, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth. “But that was the problem. I never stopped.”
.
Ilya looks back down at the ring again. “When we were young,” he continues, “everything between us felt… impossible. You remember? You were my rival,” Ilya says. “My enemy. The person I was supposed to beat every time we stepped on the ice. And still… every time I saw you, I looked for you first. I told myself it was because I hated you. I spent years pretending I did not care. Pretending you were just another player, just another problem. But you were never just that.”
The room feels warmer suddenly. Shane doesn’t move. Ilya continues slowly, thoughtfully, like he’s walking through years of memory while he speaks.
“You were the first person who made me feel… seen. Not as the captain. Not as the Russian superstar. Not as the guy everyone expected to win. You saw the worst parts of me. The angry parts. The stupid parts. The scared parts. And you stayed. You know the funny thing? I spent so many years being afraid to say I loved you. As if the words were the dangerous part.”
His thumb brushes lightly across Shane’s wedding band. “But the truth is… loving you was the easiest thing I have ever done. When we got married,” he continues gently, “we didn’t say vows because we were both terrified. I thought if I tried to say everything I felt, I would ruin it. And this week,” he says quietly, “everyone kept asking if I could make you fall in love with me again. But that was never the challenge. No.”
He lifts their joined hands slightly between them.
“Because the truth is… I fall in love with you every day already. I fall in love with you when you steal the blankets and pretend you did not. I fall in love with you when you argue with the grocery store about pasta brands like it is international diplomacy. I fall in love with you when you skate,” Ilya continues, his voice warming. “When you focus so hard on the ice that the rest of the world disappears.”
His thumb brushes gently against Shane’s wrist.
“And I fall in love with you when you look at me the way you are looking right now. You are my favorite person in the world, Shane Hollander. You are my home,” Ilya says softly. “You are the place my life finally makes sense. I have won championships. I have captained teams. I have heard arenas chant my name. But none of that ever mattered as much as the moment you looked at me one night and said you loved me back. You changed everything,” he says."You changed what I believed my life could be.”
The ring glints softly in his fingers as he lifts it slightly.
“So tonight… I want to say the vows I should have said then. I promise that I will keep choosing you. Not just on easy days,” Ilya continues. “Not just when things are good. I promise that when life is hard, when hockey is cruel, when the world is loud and exhausting and unfair… I will still come home to you and remember what matters. I promise that I will keep fighting for us. And I promise that no matter how many years pass, no matter how old we get, no matter how many times we argue about pasta… I will never stop trying to make you fall in love with me.”
The ring rests lightly against Shane’s finger now.
Ilya’s expression softens into something deeply, quietly certain.
“Because the truth is,” he says gently, “I fall in love with you again every single day. And if I get the rest of my life with you, that still won’t be enough time.”
The room goes completely still. The candles flicker. And Ilya finishes quietly. “So these are my vows.”
His voice softens into something almost reverent.
“I choose you. Always.”
Then, very softly: “Will you marry me again, Shane Hollander?”
For a moment after Ilya finishes speaking, the room is completely silent.
The candles flicker softly along the coffee table, their light dancing against the gold ring in Ilya’s hand. The string lights glow warmly around the room, turning the living room into something almost unreal, soft and golden and impossibly intimate.
But Shane doesn’t move. He’s staring at Ilya like he’s trying to understand how the man sitting in front of him just did that. Just… opened himself like that.
The words are still hanging in the air between them.
I choose you. Always.
Ilya waits. He tries to look calm about it.
But his fingers tighten slightly around the ring, betraying the nervousness underneath.
“…Shane.”
Shane blinks slowly. His mouth opens, then closes again. He runs a hand through his hair and exhales a breath that sounds almost like a laugh.
“…Fuck.”
Ilya tilts his head. “That is not answer.”
Shane looks at him again. And something in his expression softens completely. It takes him another few seconds before he speaks.
Not because he doesn’t know what to say.
But because he’s trying to steady the wave of emotion that just hit him.
When he finally does answer, his voice is quiet.
“You don’t have to ask me that.”
Ilya stills. Shane’s eyes hold his. “You never did.”
The words settle between them gently. Shane shifts a little closer on the couch, their knees brushing now.
“You could ask me that a thousand times,” he says softly, “and the answer would still be the same.” A small breath escapes him. “Yes.”
Ilya’s shoulders loosen slightly, relief flickering across his face. “Yes?” he repeats quietly.
Shane nods, his voice stronger now. “Yes, Ilya. Of course I’ll marry you again.”
For a second Ilya just looks at him. He lifts Shane’s hand gently. The new ring catches the candlelight as he slides it onto Shane’s finger.
It fits perfectly. The gold gleams softly against Shane’s skin. Shane turns his hand slightly, staring at it like he’s trying to memorize the moment.
“You like it,” Ilya says.
Shane looks up again. “I love it.”
Then he exhales slowly. “I want to say something too. You said the things you didn’t say at the wedding. So I want to say mine.”
Something gentle settles in Ilya’s expression. “You don’t have to tonight.”
“I know. But I want to.”
He shifts on the couch, turning toward Ilya fully now. For a second he looks almost shy. Then he takes Ilya’s hand. And begins.
“When we first met,” Shane says quietly, “I was pretty sure you were the most annoying person I had ever encountered in my life. You were arrogant,” Shane continues. “You were smug. You walked around like the entire world was your personal stage. And somehow… I couldn’t stop looking at you. You drove me insane,” Shane admits. “But you also made everything feel… brighter. You made hockey feel bigger,” he says. “You made competition feel electric. You made every game feel like it mattered.”
Ilya listens quietly now, his thumb brushing slowly across Shane’s knuckles. Shane’s voice softens.
“And somewhere in the middle of all that… I fell in love with you. I didn’t want to admit it,” he says. “I fought it for years. But loving you was never the mistake. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re the bravest person I know,” he says quietly. “You walked through things that would’ve broken a lot of people, and you still came out the other side with that ridiculous confidence and that stupid smile. And you still look at me like I’m the most important person in the room.”
A quiet moment passes.“You are.”
Shane’s voice grows softer. “You’re the person I want to come home to,” he says. “The person I want beside me after every game, every road trip, every terrible loss and every incredible win. You’re the person who made me believe that loving someone this much isn’t something to be afraid of. So if we’re doing vows now…I promise I’ll keep choosing you. I promise that no matter how chaotic our lives get… I’ll still come back to this. To us. I promise that I’ll keep fighting for you. For this life we built together. And I promise that no matter how many years pass… I will never stop falling in love with you.”
The room feels impossibly warm. The candles flicker softly. Shane’s voice lowers to something almost reverent.
“You’re my home, Ilya.” His forehead leans gently against Ilya’s. “You always were.”
“I choose you too. Always.” Ilya says quietly
The moment lingers a little longer after Shane finishes speaking. Neither of them rushes it.
They stay there on the couch with their foreheads pressed together, breathing the same quiet air, the candles slowly burning lower on the coffee table while the string lights glow softly around the room.
Eventually Shane pulls back just enough to look at Ilya again. His eyes are still bright, but now there’s a small, crooked smile there too. “You know something.”
“What.”
“You didn’t actually get a ring yet.”
Ilya blinks. “What.”
Shane lifts his hand slightly, the gold band catching the warm light.
“You put one on me. But I didn’t put one on you.”
Ilya looks down at the open box on the couch between them. Inside, the second ring waits quietly. Shane reaches for it. The metal is warm from the room when he picks it up. For a moment he just holds it there between his fingers, studying Ilya’s hand before taking it gently.
“Give me your hand.”
Ilya obeys without hesitation. There’s something quietly symbolic about the moment that makes them both a little more careful, a little more aware of what they’re doing.
Shane slides the old black band from Ilya’s finger first. He pauses a second, looking at it. “We should probably keep these.”
Ilya nods. “Yes. Memory.”
“Exactly.”
Shane sets the black band beside the box.
Then he lifts the new ring. The gold gleams softly in the candlelight.
“Ready?” Shane murmurs.
Ilya’s mouth curves slightly. “I already said vows.”
“Yeah, but this is the official ring part.”
Ilya holds out his hand. “Then yes.”
Shane slides the ring slowly onto his finger. It fits just as perfectly. For a second they both just stare at their hands. Two matching gold bands.
Quiet. Simple. Permanent. Ilya turns his hand slightly, watching the light catch on the metal.
“I like it.”
Shane nods. “Me too.”
A small silence follows. Then Shane leans back against the couch again.“So.”
“So.”
“You realize something.”
“What.”
Shane gestures lazily between them. “We technically just got married again.”
Ilya considers that. “Yes.”
“Are we telling anyone?”
Ilya thinks about that for a second. Then he shakes his head. “No. This is ours.”
Shane looks down at their hands again. The rings. The quiet moment they just shared.
Then he nods slowly. "Because some things don’t need an audience.”
That makes Ilya smile. “Exactly.”
Shane points a finger at him. “But we do need a cover story.”
“For what.”
“For the challenge.”
They sit there for a moment, thinking. Then Shane snorts. “Oh my god.”
“What.”
“We’re just going to tell them we both won.”
Ilya tilts his head. “That is technically correct.”
“We both fell in love again.”
Ilya squeezes his hand lightly. “Never stopped.”
Shane nods. “Exactly.”
Ilya leans over and kisses his temple. “Good plan, husband.”
They stay up a while longer that night. Talking.
Laughing. Kissing every now and then in the quiet glow of the lights. Eventually the candles burn low and the house grows darker, the evening settling comfortably around them.
And when they finally go to bed, their hands stay intertwined. Two gold rings catching the faintest trace of light in the dark.
The next morning the locker room is loud. Louder than usual.
Wyatt Hayes is already halfway through a story when Shane and Ilya walk in together, both carrying their gear bags.
Wyatt immediately points at them. “THERE THEY ARE.”
Shane groans. “Oh no.”
Luca spins around on the bench. “Day Seven champions!”
Troy looks up from taping his stick. “So,” he says calmly, “who won?”
Shane and Ilya glance at each other. Just for a second. A tiny, private look.
Then Shane shrugs. “Both.”
Wyatt squints. “That’s not how competitions work.”
Ilya drops his bag beside his stall. “In this one it does.”
Luca leans forward eagerly. “What happened?”
Shane starts pulling on his gear. “We both tried. And we both succeeded.”
Wyatt looks deeply suspicious. “That sounds fake.”
Troy chuckles quietly. “I think that means neither of them wants to admit they lost.”
“Exactly!” Wyatt points. “Cowards.”
At that moment the documentary crew enters the locker room too, cameras already rolling.
The interviewer smiles brightly. “So! Final verdict!”
Shane glances up. “Both.”
The interviewer blinks. “Both?”
Ilya nods calmly. “We both fell in love again.”
Shane smirks slightly. “And never stopped.”
Wyatt groans loudly. “That is the most disgustingly romantic non answer I’ve ever heard.”
Luca sighs dreamily. “I love them.”
Troy just shakes his head, smiling faintly.
Across the room Shane bumps his shoulder lightly against Ilya’s as they finish getting dressed. Quiet. Subtle. And hidden from everyone else. Their hands brush for half a second. Two gold rings catching the locker room lights.
Their secret. And theirs alone.