Chapter Text
The Ottawa Centaurs’ practice rink always smelled faintly of cold air, rubber, and the particular sharp tang of freshly cut ice, but today there was something else layered over it, something louder, brighter, a little too polished for a regular midseason morning skate.
Lights had been set up along the boards, tall and white and intrusive, reflecting in long streaks across the ice like artificial sunlight. A pair of cameras followed the players with patient, curious movements, the operators gliding along the glass while a small cluster of producers whispered to each other behind clipboards.
The team had been told about it weeks ago, of course, some league marketing initiative, some glossy documentary series celebrating the sport’s biggest personalities, but the reality of it felt stranger than anyone had expected.
Hockey players were used to press scrums and interviews, quick flashes of attention before the real work began. This was different. This was cameras lingering. This was microphones picking up casual conversation. This was the quiet awareness that every glance, every joke, every offhand comment might end up immortalized in a streaming special watched by millions of people who had opinions about everything.
Shane Hollander leaned his forearms against the rink boards, his gloves hanging loosely from one hand, watching the crew set up their equipment with the careful neutrality of someone who had long ago learned how to exist around media without letting it actually reach him. He had perfected the expression somewhere around his second season in the league: calm, cooperative, polite enough that nobody could accuse him of being difficult, but distant enough that very little of his real self made it through the barrier. It had served him well for years.
Unfortunately for that strategy, he was married to Ilya Rozanov.
From the corner of his eye Shane saw him skating lazy circles across the ice, the smooth confidence of his stride unmistakable even among professional athletes.
Ilya had always moved like the ice belonged to him, like the entire rink had been constructed solely for the purpose of letting him glide across it with effortless arrogance. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly beneath the edge of his helmet, and his expression carried the faint, amused smirk that Shane knew meant he was enjoying himself far more than he should.
Which, frankly, was suspicious.
Shane sighed softly and pushed himself away from the boards, skating out toward center ice where the captain finally slowed to a stop, one skate angled casually against the other as he rested both gloved hands on the top of his stick.
“You look pleased,” Shane said, raising an eyebrow.
Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying him with that attentiveness that had always made Shane feel a little too visible, like he was being examined in slow motion.
“Of course I am pleased,” Ilya replied in the smooth, faintly accented English that had never entirely lost its Russian edge. “We are about to become television stars.”
Shane snorted under his breath.
“We’re hockey players,” he corrected. “They’re going to show us practicing, doing interviews, and probably arguing about faceoffs. That’s not television stardom.”
Ilya’s smile widened slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting with quiet amusement.
“You say this now,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “But I have seen the trailer they released yesterday. It is very dramatic.”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “You watched the trailer?”
“I am captain,” Ilya replied simply, as if that explained everything. “I must be aware of the narrative being built around my team.”
“Right,” Shane said dryly. “The narrative.”
He didn’t quite miss the way Ilya’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary.
Across the rink, someone from the production crew called out that they were ready for interviews. The players groaned collectively, a ripple of theatrical suffering passing through the team as they drifted toward the benches. Luca Haas skated past Shane with the gleeful energy of someone who thought the entire situation was hilarious.
“Apparently you two are the main event,” Luca informed them cheerfully, jerking his thumb toward the cameras. “Marketing team’s calling it Hockey’s Ultimate Love Story.”
Shane blinked.
“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “They’re calling it what?”
Luca grinned, already backing away.
“You’ll hear it in the interview,” he promised. “They say it with a lot of emotion.”
Then he skated off before Shane could respond, leaving him standing there with a creeping sense of dread.
Beside him, Ilya looked delighted.
“This will be fun,” he murmured.
Shane shot him a look. “This will be humiliating.”
“Same thing,” Ilya said lightly.
The interview setup was absurdly polished for something taking place inside a hockey arena.
Two chairs had been arranged just off the ice, angled slightly toward each other beneath a soft wash of studio lighting. A camera faced them from a few feet away, and another hovered to the side, capturing a wider angle that included the rink stretching out behind them like a backdrop.
Shane sat down first, adjusting slightly in the chair while a production assistant clipped a small microphone to the collar of his Centaurs hoodie. Ilya sat beside him a moment later, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.
The interviewer, a cheerful woman with an expression that suggested she was enjoying this assignment immensely, smiled at them once the cameras started rolling.
“So,” she began, folding her hands neatly in her lap, “thank you both for agreeing to be part of the documentary this season. The league is incredibly excited to highlight not just the Ottawa Centaurs, but also one of the most unique stories in modern hockey.”
Shane felt a prickle of foreboding crawl up the back of his neck.
Ilya looked perfectly relaxed.
“We’re referring to the fact that Captain Rozanov and Shane Hollander are married,” the interviewer continued warmly. “Which, as you both know, has become something of a phenomenon among fans. People love your story. The rivalry, the secrecy, the eventual reveal. It’s almost cinematic.”
Shane rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “It’s been… a journey.”
The interviewer smiled wider. “Some fans are even calling it hockey’s ultimate love story.”
Shane let out a soft laugh of disbelief.
“That seems a little dramatic,” he said.
Next to him, Ilya shrugged.
“I think it is accurate,” he said calmly.
Shane turned his head, staring at him.
“You would,” he muttered.
The interviewer chuckled.
“Well, that actually leads nicely into my next question,” she said. “You’ve been together for years now. Married, living in Ottawa, playing on the same team. From the outside it looks incredibly stable. Almost… idyllic.”
Shane hummed thoughtfully.
“Idyllic might be pushing it,” he said. “We still argue about whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher.”
“And about pasta brands,” Ilya added helpfully.
Shane pointed at him. “You’re wrong about the pasta.”
“I am correct,” Ilya replied calmly.
The interviewer laughed again.
“But seriously,” she continued, leaning forward slightly, “do you ever worry that after everything you’ve been through, the secrecy, the intensity of those early years, that life might feel… calmer now?”
Shane opened his mouth, then hesitated.
It was meant to be a casual question, he knew that. Something light for the documentary. But the answer sat strangely in his chest.
Because calmer was true. Their life now was good. Solid. Predictable in the best ways.
They had a house. They have Anya, who adored Ilya with traitorous devotion. A shared calendar that Shane updated obsessively and Ilya ignored entirely.
They were happy.
But sometimes happiness looked suspiciously like routine.
Shane glanced sideways at his husband. Ilya was watching him with quiet curiosity, waiting to see what he would say.
Shane exhaled slowly.
“I mean,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “after everything we went through to get here, calm isn’t exactly a bad thing.”
“Of course not,” the interviewer agreed.
“But,” Shane added, his mouth curling slightly, “I guess sometimes people assume that once you’re married the excitement disappears. Like the big romantic part is over.”
Ilya’s eyebrow lifted faintly.
“Oh?” he said.
Shane grinned at him, the idea forming even as he spoke.
“Well,” he said lightly, glancing back at the camera, “if the league wants a good documentary, maybe Ilya’s going to have to make me fall in love with him again on camera.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Ilya turned his head slowly, looking at Shane with an expression that was equal parts amusement and challenge.
“Please,” he said.
Shane blinked. “What?”
Ilya leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other with casual confidence.
“I could make you fall in love with me again in one week,” he said smoothly.
The interviewer’s eyes lit up.
Shane stared at him. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Shane laughed, shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying him with that infuriatingly calm expression.
“Then you should have no problem resisting,” he said.
Shane felt the familiar spark of competitive instinct flare to life in his chest.
“Oh, I can resist,” he said immediately.
Ilya’s smile sharpened.
“Good,” he said. “Then we have challenge.”
Shane blinked. “We have what?”
“A challenge,” Ilya repeated patiently. “Seven days. I make you fall in love with me again.”
Shane leaned forward, incredulous. “That’s not how love works.”
“Watch me.”
The interviewer was staring at them like she had just been handed the greatest storyline in sports documentary history.
Shane glanced at the cameras, then back at Ilya.
“You’re serious,” he said slowly.
Ilya shrugged. “I do not lose competitions.”
Shane huffed out a laugh. “Oh, you’re definitely losing this one.”
“Then prove it.”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “Fine.”
Ilya’s grin widened. “Fine.”
For a moment they simply stared at each other, the familiar tension of rivalry and affection tangling between them like it had a thousand times before.
Then Shane shook his head, laughing softly.
“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered.
Ilya leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough that the microphones would still catch it. “Seven days, Hollander.”
Shane felt a small, dangerous thrill curl through his chest.
He smiled slowly. “Good luck, Rozanov.”
For approximately three seconds after the cameras stopped rolling, neither of them moved.
The interviewer was still smiling like someone who had just witnessed lightning strike exactly where she had been hoping it would, the production assistant was already whispering excitedly into a headset, and somewhere behind the lights a producer made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like oh my god we’re keeping that.
The rink hummed faintly with the distant sound of skates cutting across ice where the rest of the team had resumed warmups, but inside the small bubble of studio lighting Shane and Ilya remained locked in that familiar, stubborn stare that had once defined entire playoff series between them.
Shane felt it then, that old, electric pull. Not the comfortable warmth of the life they’d built together, not the quiet domestic affection that lived in shared mornings and grocery lists and lazy evenings on the couch. This was something sharper. Something familiar in a way that made the back of his neck prickle.
Competition.
It had always started like this between them.
Ilya’s expression was infuriatingly calm, his mouth curved in the faintest hint of a smile that suggested he already believed he had won something that had barely begun. He sat there with his shoulders relaxed, legs stretched slightly forward, as if he had just proposed the most obvious thing in the world instead of announcing to an entire documentary crew that he planned to seduce his own husband on camera.
Shane finally broke the silence with a slow exhale.
“You realize,” he said, rubbing a hand across his mouth while the assistant removed his microphone, “that you just made our entire marriage sound like a reality show.”
Ilya didn’t look remotely bothered.
“If it is reality show,” he replied smoothly, “we will be very entertaining.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
The interviewer leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright with curiosity that she was clearly struggling to keep professional.
“Just to clarify,” she said carefully, “are you two actually turning that into a challenge?”
Shane opened his mouth to say no. Then he glanced sideways at Ilya. The captain was watching him with that maddeningly patient expression, like he already knew exactly what Shane would do. It was the same look he used before faceoffs, before penalty shots, before moments where the entire game balanced on a single choice.
Shane felt the familiar flare of stubbornness ignite in his chest.
He leaned back in the chair.
“…Yes,” he said finally.
Ilya’s smile widened just slightly.
The interviewer’s grin became positively radiant.
“Oh this is going to be good,” she said.
Ten minutes later Shane stepped back onto the ice and was immediately met with the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Not by the cameras. By his teammates.
Wyatt Hayes was leaning against the boards with his arms folded across his chest, his expression carrying the calm authority of a man who had already heard the entire story and was currently deciding whether to laugh or start yelling. Troy Barrett stood beside him, trying and failing to hide a smirk behind the collar of his practice jersey. Bood rested both forearms on his stick with the quiet patience of someone waiting for confirmation of a theory. And Luca Haas... Luca looked like Christmas had arrived early.
“Oh my god,” Luca breathed the moment Shane skated close enough. “It’s real.”
Shane slowed to a stop in front of them. “What’s real?”
“The challenge.”
Shane blinked. “How do you know about that already?”
Luca tapped the side of his helmet.
“The documentary crew told the equipment guy,” he said proudly. “The equipment guy told me.”
Wyatt rubbed a hand across his face.
“Of course he did.” Shane groaned softly.“You’re kidding.”
“Absolutely not,” Luca said. “Rozanov has declared war.”
Shane looked past him toward center ice where Ilya had just returned to drills, effortlessly weaving between cones while carrying the puck with lazy precision.
“He didn’t declare war,” Shane muttered.
“He literally said ‘seven days’,” Luca replied. “That’s a deadline.”
Troy finally laughed.
“Please tell me you’re actually doing this,” he said.
Shane shrugged helplessly. “He started it.”
Wyatt’s gaze drifted toward Ilya, who had just executed a sharp turn before sending the puck cleanly into the top corner of the net.
“Of course he did,” Wyatt said.
Bood tilted his head slightly.
“So what’s the objective?” he asked.
Shane hesitated. The words sounded ridiculous even in his own head.
“Ilya thinks he can make me fall in love with him again in one week,” he admitted.
There was a brief silence. Then Luca burst into delighted laughter.
“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “He’s absolutely going to try something insane.”
“He already has,” Shane muttered.
Wyatt’s expression remained thoughtful.
“And you’re resisting,” he said.
Shane nodded firmly. “Obviously.”
Troy raised an eyebrow. “You realize you’re already married to him. So technically you’re already in love with him. Seems like a flawed competition.”
Shane opened his mouth. Then paused. “…That’s not the point.”
Luca leaned forward eagerly.
“No no, I get it,” he said. “This is like psychological warfare.”
Bood nodded once. “Rozanov is good at that.”
Shane pointed at them. “You are not helping.”
Wyatt finally pushed himself away from the boards, skating out onto the ice with slow, deliberate strokes.
“Well,” he said calmly, “if this nonsense starts interfering with practice, I’m stepping in.”
From across the rink, Ilya called out without even turning his head. “You are alternate captain, Hayes. You have no authority here.”
Wyatt stopped skating. “Did you just...”
Ilya finally glanced back over his shoulder, completely unbothered.
“It is friendly competition,” he said. “Relax.”
Shane crossed his arms. “You’re very confident for someone who’s about to lose.”
Ilya skated closer, slowing to a graceful stop directly in front of him.
Up close, Shane could see the faint flush of exertion across his cheekbones, the dark shine of sweat at the edge of his hairline. The familiar scent of cold air and equipment clung to him, mixed with something warmer that Shane had known for years.
Ilya rested both hands on the top of his stick.
“Seven days,” he repeated quietly.
Shane held his gaze. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
“And this is not going to work.”
“We will see.”
Shane leaned slightly closer. “You know the cameras are going to follow everything you do now.”
Ilya smiled. “That’s not intimidating.”
“Why?”
Ilya tilted his head, studying him with quiet focus.
“Because,” he said softly, “I remember exactly how you fell in love with me the first time.”
Something warm and dangerous flickered through Shane’s chest.
He forced himself to scoff. “That was years ago. Things are different now.”
Ilya’s smile didn’t fade. “Not that different.”
Shane rolled his eyes, pushing away from him with a sharp turn of his skates. “You’re delusional.”
Behind him, he heard Ilya laugh quietly.
And somewhere along the boards, Luca Haas announced to the entire team: “I’m starting a betting pool.”
The announcement of the betting pool traveled through the Ottawa Centaurs locker room with the speed and inevitability of a puck sliding across freshly resurfaced ice.
By the time practice ended an hour later, it had become an established fact.
No one had formally approved it. No one had technically organized it. But somehow a whiteboard had appeared next to Luca Haas’s stall, and across the top, written in aggressive black marker, were the words:
THE HOLLANDER–ROZANOV CHALLENGE
Underneath it were two columns.
TEAM ILYA
TEAM SHANE
And below that... odds.
Shane stopped dead in the doorway when he saw it. For a long moment he simply stared.
Then he dragged a hand slowly down his face.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Behind him, someone snorted.
“Technically,” Troy Barrett said from across the room, untying the laces on one skate, “it’s a very well structured betting system.”
Shane looked up again.
Next to Ilya’s name was a number. 3:1
Next to Shane’s name... 6:1
Shane pointed at the board. “Why are my odds worse?”
Luca, who was perched on the bench with the satisfied expression of someone who had just orchestrated the most entertaining thing to happen all week, spread his hands.
“Because Ilya Rozanov is extremely persuasive.”
From the far end of the locker room came Ilya’s voice. “I am flattered by your confidence.”
Shane turned.
Ilya had just stepped out of the showers, his hair still damp, a towel draped loosely around his neck as he pulled on a clean Centaurs t-shirt.
The casual domestic familiarity of the sight hit Shane in the chest in a way he refused to acknowledge.
They had been married long enough that moments like this, shared locker rooms, quiet post practice routines, had become normal.
Which was exactly the problem.
Because Ilya was looking at him now with that same calm, self assured expression he had worn during the interview, like the entire world had just shifted into a game he was fully prepared to win.
Shane narrowed his eyes. “You bribed them.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Ilya shrugged lightly, sitting down at his stall.
“Perhaps they simply believe in my abilities.”
Bood spoke up from two lockers away without looking up from his phone. “You bought coffee.”
Ilya didn’t even blink. “It was good coffee.”
Wyatt Hayes sighed deeply from where he was removing his gear.
“This is already a disaster,” he muttered.
Luca hopped down from the bench, marker still in hand.
“Okay but here’s the thing,” he said enthusiastically. “We need clear victory conditions.”
Shane stared at him. “This is not an official sporting event.”
“It kind of is,” Luca argued.
Troy leaned back against his locker, arms folded.
“Technically it’s a seven day seduction strategy.”
Shane closed his eyes briefly. “I regret everything that happened today.”
Across the room, Ilya chuckled softly. “Too late now.”
Shane pointed at him. “You are enjoying this entirely too much.”
“Of course.”
“That’s not a good sign.”
Ilya leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.
“Relax, Hollander,” he said calmly. “You said yourself it would not work.”
Shane folded his arms. “It won’t.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the tension between them humming quietly under the surface.
Then Luca clapped his hands. “Right! So we need examples of successful romantic gestures.”
Shane groaned. “No.”
Wyatt raised a hand. “Please don’t encourage this.”
Luca ignored him completely.
“Flowers,” he said, writing on the whiteboard.
Troy nodded thoughtfully. “Classic.”
“Too obvious,” Shane said immediately.
Ilya tilted his head. “Good to know.”
Shane froze. “Oh no.”
Luca added another item. “Cooking.”
Ilya made a thoughtful sound.
Shane pointed at the board. “You’re giving him ideas!”
Luca shrugged. “Ilya already has ideas.”
Bood finally looked up. “Many ideas.”
Shane turned slowly back toward Ilya. “…How many ideas.”
Ilya smiled. “You will see.”
Shane pressed both hands against his face. “This was a mistake.”
Wyatt stood up, grabbing his bag.
“It’s been a mistake since the moment the cameras showed up,” he said dryly.
As the players began filtering out of the locker room, the noise and laughter slowly faded into the hallway, leaving Shane and Ilya lingering behind almost by accident.
The room grew quieter. Lockers half empty.
Equipment scattered. The hum of distant arena ventilation filling the silence.
Shane sat down heavily on the bench in front of his stall. “You realize this is going to get completely out of control.”
Ilya didn’t look particularly worried. “That is the point of competition.”
Shane rubbed his temples. “You’re the captain. You’re supposed to set an example.”
“I am.”
Shane stared at him. “What example is this?”
Ilya leaned back against his locker, folding his arms.
“That marriage should remain exciting,” he said.
The answer came so simply that Shane almost missed the weight behind it.
For a moment he just looked at him. And something shifted quietly in his chest. Because beneath the smug confidence, beneath the teasing challenge, there was something else there too. Something genuine.
Shane exhaled slowly. “You know we’re already happy, right?”
Ilya’s expression softened just slightly. “I know.”
“So this whole thing is unnecessary.”
“Maybe.”
Shane tilted his head. “Then why are you doing it?”
Ilya didn’t answer immediately. He studied Shane for a long moment, the noise of the empty locker room wrapping around them like a quiet cocoon.
Finally he spoke.
“Because,” he said quietly, “I remember how you looked the first time i told you i loved you, back at the cottage.”
Shane blinked.
Ilya’s voice stayed calm, but there was something thoughtful in it now.
“You looked surprised,” he continued. “Like it scared you a little.”
“That’s not accurate.”
“It is.”
Shane scoffed softly. “You’re romanticizing it.”
Then Ilya smiled faintly. “I would like to see that face again.”
Shane stared at him. Something warm spread slowly through his chest, the kind of feeling that made him suspicious of his own reactions.
Ilya stood, grabbing his bag. He slung it over his shoulder and headed toward the door.
Halfway there he stopped and glanced back.
“Seven days, Hollander.”
Shane leaned back against the locker behind him. “You’re going to lose.”
Ilya’s smile returned, sharp and confident. “We will see.”
Then he walked out.
Leaving Shane alone in the quiet locker room with the lingering realization that the challenge had officially begun.
And if the look in Ilya Rozanov’s eyes meant anything... He had already started planning his first move.
Eventually Shane stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stepped out into the hallway.
The arena corridors were mostly empty now, the harsh overhead lights casting long shadows across the polished concrete floor. The distant hum of the Zamboni echoed faintly from somewhere behind the rink doors, and the air carried the familiar mixture of ice, equipment, and lingering sweat.
And leaning casually against the wall near the players’ exit was his husband."
He looked completely at ease, one ankle crossed over the other, his jacket slung loosely over one shoulder while he scrolled through something on his phone. The posture was effortless, the kind of quiet confidence that made people glance twice when they walked past him without quite knowing why.
Shane slowed as he approached. “You didn’t have to wait.”
Ilya glanced up. “Of course I did.”
“You could have gone ahead.”
Ilya slipped the phone into his pocket. “We drove together.”
Shane opened his mouth. Then closed it again.
Right. They had driven together.
That was the normal routine now, something so automatic neither of them had thought about it earlier. The Centaurs practice facility sat about fifteen minutes outside downtown Ottawa, and their house was close enough that it made no sense to take separate cars most days.
Shane shifted his bag slightly on his shoulder.
“Fair enough.”
They walked toward the parking lot side by side, the heavy arena doors swinging open to reveal the cold bite of late afternoon air. Winter in Ottawa had settled into that gray, stubborn phase where snow clung stubbornly to sidewalks and the sky seemed permanently overcast.
Shane pulled his jacket a little tighter as they stepped outside.
The parking lot was mostly empty now, only a few cars scattered near the entrance. Ilya’s SUV sat near the front, dusted lightly with frost.
They reached it in comfortable silence. For a moment neither of them moved. Then Shane sighed quietly.
“You know,” he said, unlocking the passenger door and tossing his bag into the back seat, “this challenge thing is going to make everything weird.”
Ilya opened the driver’s side door. “It will make things interesting.”
“That’s the same thing as weird.”
Ilya slid into the seat, starting the engine as the heater hummed to life.
Shane climbed in beside him.
The familiar interior of the car wrapped around them, faint smell of leather, a lingering trace of the coffee Ilya had spilled two days earlier, the small dog toy that had somehow migrated from their house to the backseat and stayed there ever since.
For a moment the only sound was the quiet rumble of the engine. Then Shane turned slightly toward him.
“So what exactly counts as winning?”
Ilya adjusted the mirrors with deliberate calm.
“You tell me.”
“That’s not how competitions work.”
“Why not?”
“Because you need rules.”
Ilya finally looked at him. His expression was thoughtful now, not smug or teasing like before.
“What would convince you?” he asked.
Shane hesitated. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Because technically nothing could. He was already in love with Ilya. Had been for years.
The entire challenge was built on a premise that made no logical sense.
And yet… Shane crossed his arms.
“If I’m still completely unimpressed after seven days,” he said carefully, “you lose.”
Ilya considered that. “And if you are impressed?”
“That doesn’t mean I lose.”
“Then what does it mean?”
Shane frowned slightly. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Finally he shrugged.
“I’ll know.”
Ilya smiled faintly.
“Very scientific.”
Shane pointed at him. “And you’re not allowed to repeat anything you did the first time around.”
Ilya’s eyebrow lifted. “Why?”
“Because that’s cheating.”
“That is strategy.”
“No, it’s nostalgia.”
Ilya seemed to think about that as he pulled the car out of the parking space. Snow crunched softly beneath the tires as they drove toward the road.
“So,” he said after a moment, “no repeating old moves.”
“Correct.”
“No assistance from teammates?”
Shane immediately shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
From the back seat, the abandoned dog toy bounced lightly as the car hit a small bump.
Ilya glanced at it briefly, then back at the road.
“You realize Luca will interfere anyway.”
“Luca interferes with everything.”
“That is true.”
Shane settled back into the seat, watching the gray winter streets slide past outside the window.
For a few minutes neither of them spoke. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that had grown naturally over years of living together. Once upon a time silence between them had been tense, charged with rivalry and things left unsaid.
Now it simply existed.
But beneath it, Shane could feel something else too. The quiet awareness of the challenge. Of the way Ilya had looked at him earlier. Of the fact that seven days suddenly felt like a very long amount of time.
“You know,” Shane said eventually, “if you try something stupid like showing up with flowers, it’s not going to work.”
Ilya didn’t look at him. “Good to know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I believe you.”
Shane narrowed his eyes slightly. “That sounded suspicious.”
“I am simply gathering information.”
“That’s called reconnaissance. This is not a military operation.”
Ilya finally glanced sideways at him. “Everything is military operation if you are determined enough.”
Shane laughed under his breath. “You’re unbelievable.”
Ilya’s smile softened just a little. “You married me.”
Shane looked out the window again, watching snow drift lazily across the road in the fading afternoon light.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
Then Ilya spoke again, his tone lighter. “By the way.”
Shane glanced back at him.
“What.”
“The challenge started the moment you agreed.”
Shane frowned. “That was like two hours ago…You’re counting from then?”
“Of course.”
Shane shook his head. “That’s ridiculous.”
Ilya turned the car onto their street. “Day one is already underway.”
Shane sighed dramatically. “This is going to be exhausting.”
But despite himself, he felt a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Because as their house came into view at the
end of the block he realized something quietly unsettling.
The spark of competition sitting in his chest felt suspiciously familiar.
And if Ilya noticed that too... He didn’t say a word.
The house sat at the end of the quiet Ottawa street with the comfortable, lived in warmth that had slowly become their version of normal. Snow had gathered along the edges of the driveway in uneven mounds, pushed there by weeks of lazy shoveling and the occasional determined effort from Shane whenever he had decided the accumulation had officially crossed into unacceptable levels.
The SUV rolled to a stop in the driveway, tires crunching lightly against the frozen gravel, and for a moment neither of them moved. The heater hummed quietly.
Outside, a thin wind stirred loose flakes of snow across the yard.
Inside the car, the silence felt… domestic. Not awkward. Not tense. Just the quiet pause that sometimes came at the end of long days when the world slowed down and the two of them finally landed back in the same space again.
Shane unbuckled his seatbelt first.
“You realize,” he said as he reached for his bag in the back seat, “that if the documentary crew somehow shows up at our house tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”
Ilya switched off the engine. “They will show up.”
Shane froze halfway through opening the door.
“…What.”
Ilya stepped out of the car like he had just mentioned the weather. “It is documentary.”
Shane followed him slowly, the cold air biting at his cheeks. “They’re not filming inside the house.”
“They asked.”
“And you said no.”
Ilya paused halfway up the driveway. Shane stared at his back.
“You said no.”
Ilya turned slightly, his expression thoughtful. “I said maybe.”
Shane’s jaw dropped. “Ilya.”
“They want authenticity.”
“They want footage of us living our lives!” Shane ran a hand through his hair, already exasperated.
“I can’t believe you.”
“You agreed to documentary.”
“I agreed to interviews!”
“You also agreed to challenge.”
Shane pointed at him. “That is completely unrelated.”
Ilya opened the front door.
Inside, warmth spilled out immediately, along with the unmistakable sound of excited claws scrambling across hardwood floors.
A blur of golden fur launched itself into the hallway.
Anya skidded to a halt in front of Ilya and immediately began wagging her entire body with uncontrollable joy.
“Traitor,” Shane muttered automatically.
Anya ignored him entirely, stretching up on her hind legs to press her paws against Ilya’s chest while whining happily.
Ilya laughed softly, crouching to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Hello, Anya.”
The dog’s tail wagged harder.
Shane stepped inside, kicking off his shoes and dropping his bag beside the stairs.
“You know,” he said dryly, watching the reunion, “I feed her more often than you do.”
Anya didn’t even glance at him. Ilya rubbed the dog’s neck affectionately.
“He has good instincts.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “Sure.”
The house smelled faintly like the candles Shane had lit that morning before leaving for practice, something warm and citrusy that lingered in the air along with the comforting quiet of a place that belonged entirely to them.
Their living room stretched out beyond the hallway, blankets thrown across the couch, a half finished puzzle sitting on the coffee table where Ilya had abandoned it three days earlier. The kitchen lights were still on from that morning, illuminating the familiar clutter of daily life: coffee mugs in the sink, a grocery list stuck to the fridge, Ilya’s protein shaker sitting exactly where he had forgotten it earlier.
It was peaceful. Comfortable. Predictable.
Shane walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, scanning the contents automatically.
“What do you want for dinner?”
From the hallway, Ilya’s voice carried easily. “You are cooking?”
Shane looked up sharply. “I cook all the time.”
“Yes,” Ilya said, stepping into the room with Anya trailing behind him. “But today you sound resigned.”
“I’m tired.”
“You are always tired.”
“That’s because I play professional hockey.”
Ilya leaned casually against the counter. “I also play professional hockey.”
“Yes, but you enjoy chaos.”
Ilya smiled. “That is true.”
Shane grabbed a container of leftover pasta and set it on the counter. “We’re having this.”
Ilya glanced at it. “You bought wrong brand. It is inferior pasta.”
“It’s pasta.”
“There are differences.”
“You can’t taste them.”
“I absolutely can.”
Shane shoved the container toward the microwave with more force than necessary.
“Then you should have gone grocery shopping.”
“I offered.”
“You complained.”
“It is same thing." Ilya only looked amused.
Shane shook his head and leaned back against the counter while the microwave hummed to life.
For a moment the kitchen filled with quiet domestic noise, the soft whirr of the appliance, Anya padding across the floor, the distant wind rattling faintly against the windows.
Then Shane crossed his arms. “So.”
Ilya tilted his head. “So?”
“Have you started yet?”
Ilya blinked. “Started what.”
Shane gestured vaguely. “The challenge.”
Ilya considered him for a moment. Then, very calmly, he said: “Yes.”
Shane frowned. “…When?”
Ilya pushed away from the counter, stepping closer. “Earlier.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not.”
“Because nothing happened.”
Ilya stopped in front of him, close enough that Shane could see the faint line of a scar near his jaw that he’d gotten years ago in a game they had both been playing.
“Are you sure?” Ilya asked quietly.
Shane hesitated. Something about the tone made his stomach flip in a way he didn’t entirely trust.
“You sat in a car,” Shane said carefully.
“We talked.”
“That’s not seduction.”
Ilya’s mouth curved slightly. “I disagree.”
Shane opened his mouth to argue.
Then the microwave beeped loudly. The moment broke.
Shane exhaled and grabbed the container, turning away to split the pasta between two bowls.
“Day one,” he muttered. Shane handed him a bowl. “This isn’t going to work.”
Ilya took it easily. “We will see.”
Shane picked up his own fork. “You’re very confident.”
“I usually win.”
Shane snorted. “You’re not winning this.”
Ilya twirled a bite of pasta slowly.
Across the kitchen, Anya watched them both with patient interest, clearly hoping one of them might drop something edible.
“You already smiled twice,” Ilya said casually.
Shane froze. “That doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
“It does not.”
Ilya shrugged lightly. “We are keeping score.”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “You’re making up rules. That’s cheating.”
“That is strategy.”
Shane stared at him for a long moment.
Then he shook his head and laughed quietly despite himself. And the moment he did... Ilya’s smile widened.
Shane pointed his fork at him immediately. “That does not count either.”
Ilya only looked more pleased.
Dinner lasted longer than it should have for two bowls of reheated pasta.
Partly because they kept talking, circling the same argument about pasta brands like it was a long standing philosophical debate. Partly because Anya had stationed herself strategically between them with the hopeful intensity of a creature who believed persistence would eventually be rewarded.
But mostly it lasted longer because neither of them seemed particularly interested in ending the moment.
Shane sat on the kitchen stool with one elbow propped on the counter, absentmindedly twirling pasta around his fork while scrolling through something on his phone with his free hand. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower at the rink, curling faintly at the edges, and he had changed into one of the old Centaurs hoodies he’d stolen from Ilya years ago and never given back.
Ilya noticed these things automatically. He always had.
From across the counter he watched Shane’s expressions shift subtly as he read something on the screen, brows tightening, mouth tilting, the faint crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating. It was familiar in the way that only years of quiet observation could make a person.
And yet tonight there was something different layered over the familiarity. Awareness.
Ilya rested his forearms against the counter, idly dragging the tines of his fork through the remaining pasta while he studied his husband with quiet interest.
The challenge had begun almost as a joke. A small spark of competition in the middle of a documentary interview.
But now that they were here, alone in their kitchen, the house warm and quiet around them, Anya curled lazily near Shane’s feet, it no longer felt like a joke. It felt like strategy.
Not because Ilya doubted Shane loved him. That part had never been uncertain. But the question was something more delicate than that.
How do you make someone fall again when they never truly stopped?
Ilya leaned back slightly against the counter.
Shane looked up from his phone. “What.”
“You are thinking very hard,” Ilya said.
Shane narrowed his eyes immediately. “That’s suspicious.”
“Why.”
“Because you only look that thoughtful when you’re planning something.”
Ilya smiled faintly. “Maybe I am.”
Shane pointed his fork at him. “If you’re about to do something dramatic, I’m warning you now... it’s not going to work.”
“Is that so.”
Shane set his phone down on the counter, leaning forward slightly. “I’m completely immune to your nonsense.”
Ilya hummed softly. “You believe this.”
“I know this.”
“You are very confident tonight.”
Shane gestured lazily around the kitchen. “We’re standing in our house eating leftover pasta. You’re not exactly creating a romantic atmosphere.”
Ilya tilted his head slightly, considering that.
The kitchen lights cast a soft glow across the room, reflecting faintly in the window above the sink where snow drifted quietly outside. The house smelled faintly of citrus and warm food, and somewhere in the living room the quiet hum of the thermostat clicked on. Comfortable. Familiar.
Shane watched him expectantly.
“Well?” he asked.
Ilya set his fork down. “Maybe romance does not require atmosphere.”
Shane snorted. “It definitely does.”
“Are you sure.”
“Yes.”
Ilya pushed away from the counter. Shane immediately straightened slightly.
“What are you doing.”
“Testing theory.”
Shane blinked. “Wait...”
But Ilya was already moving. Not quickly. Never rushed.
He stepped around the counter with slow confidence, stopping only when he stood directly in front of Shane’s stool. The height difference placed Shane slightly above him, but Ilya rested one hand casually against the edge of the counter on either side of Shane, effectively boxing him in without touching him yet.
Shane’s eyebrows lifted. “This feels like intimidation.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re not going to win by cornering me in the kitchen.”
“I disagree.”
Shane folded his arms. “You’re very smug for someone who’s about to fail.”
Ilya studied his face for a long moment. And beneath the playful resistance, beneath the teasing confidence, he saw the small flicker of anticipation in Shane’s eyes.
That familiar spark. The same one that used to appear across the ice before faceoffs.
Ilya leaned a little closer. “Tell me something, kotik.”
The Russian word slipped out softly, warm and familiar. Shane’s breath caught for just a second.
Ilya noticed.
“Are you really immune?” he asked quietly.
Shane cleared his throat. “Yes. Completely.”
“Interesting.”
Shane frowned. “Why.”
“Because,” Ilya murmured, “your heart is beating faster.”
Shane froze. “That’s not...”
But the protest never quite finished. Because Ilya closed the distance. The kiss was sudden and hungry in the way that only years of familiarity could allow, no hesitation, no uncertainty, just the confident certainty of knowing exactly how Shane would respond.
And Shane did respond.
His hands grabbed instinctively at the front of Ilya’s shirt, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened almost immediately, the playful argument dissolving into something warmer and far more instinctive.
Ilya felt the shift like a spark catching.
God, he had missed this. Not the kissing itself, they kissed all the time, casual and affectionate and familiar.
But this version of it. The heat. The edge of competition still humming under the surface.
His hands slid to Shane’s waist, steadying him on the stool while he kissed him again, slower this time but no less intent, brushing his mouth along the corner of Shane’s jaw before pressing another lingering kiss just below his ear.
Shane made a quiet sound that was half protest, half something else entirely.
“Ilya...”
“That was fast,” Ilya murmured.
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not.”
“Because...”
Ilya kissed him again, cutting off the argument completely.
This time Shane laughed against his mouth, breathless and a little helpless, his fingers tightening briefly in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.
Across the kitchen, Anya lifted her head from the floor and watched them with mild interest. After a moment she sighed and went back to sleep.
Eventually Shane pushed lightly against Ilya’s shoulder, breaking the kiss just long enough to glare at him.
“That was completely unfair.”
Ilya rested his forehead briefly against Shane’s.
“You did not resist.”
“That’s because you surprised me.”
“Still counts.”
“It absolutely does not.”
Ilya smiled slowly.
Shane’s hair was slightly messy now, his cheeks faintly flushed, his breathing just a little uneven.
He looked exactly like Ilya remembered. Exactly like the first time he had realized he was losing something far more dangerous than a hockey game.
Ilya didn’t kiss him sweetly. He devoured. Mouth crashing down, tongue shoving past Shane’s lips like he was claiming territory. Teeth clacked, then settled into biting, Shane’s lower lip caught and tugged until it swelled red. Ilya sucked it hard, tasting copper, then plunged back in, wet and filthy, spit sliding between their mouths.
Shane’s hands were already under Ilya’s shirt, clawing at the hard planes of his back, nails raking down to leave angry red lines. Ilya growled into the kiss, hips snapping forward so Shane could feel every thick inch of him grinding against his own leaking cock through thin layers of fabric.
“Been half hard since i called the challenge,” Ilya rasped against Shane’s mouth, accent so thick it sounded like gravel.
Shane laughed, breathless, wrecked, and rocked up into him, grinding shamelessly. “Then stop talking and take what you want.”
Ilya spun him fast. Shane’s chest slammed to the counter, palms slapping down for balance. Ilya kicked his legs wider, yanked Shane’s pants and boxers to his thighs in one brutal tug. Cool air hit Shane’s bare ass; then Ilya’s big hands were there, spreading him open, thumbs pulling his cheeks apart so he could see everything.
“Already wet for me,” Ilya muttered, voice low and filthy. He dragged a thumb over Shane’s hole, then pushed it inside without warning.
Shane jolted, a choked moan punching out. Ilya added a second finger immediately, scissoring rough, curling hard against his prostate until Shane’s knees buckled and precome dripped steadily onto the floor.
“Quiet,” Ilya ordered, free hand clamping over Shane’s mouth. “Or I stop and make you beg louder.”
Shane bit down on Ilya’s palm, hard. Ilya hissed, but his cock throbbed against Shane’s ass in response.
He pulled his fingers free, spat straight onto Shane’s hole, twice, messy, then shoved his own sweatpants down. Cock sprang out heavy and thick, head flushed dark purple, slit already weeping. Ilya lined up and thrust, no slow entry, no gentle stretch. One brutal push and he was halfway in, Shane’s body fighting the sudden burn before yielding with a wet, obscene sound.
Shane’s shout was muffled against Ilya’s hand.
Ilya didn’t pause, kept going, sinking balls deep in one long, relentless slide until his hips slapped Shane’s ass and they both groaned.
“Fuck... so tight,” Ilya growled, forehead dropping to Shane’s shoulder. “Even after I wrecked you last night.”
He started fucking, hard, deep, punishing. The counter rattled with every slam. Shane’s cock dragged against the cold granite, smearing precome in sticky streaks. Ilya’s hand left Shane’s mouth only to fist in his hair, yanking his head back so he could bite and suck the side of his neck.
Shane pushed back to meet every thrust, ass clenching greedily around Ilya’s cock. “Harder... fuck... give it to me.”
Ilya obliged. Pace turned feral, short, brutal snaps that punched the air out of Shane’s lungs.
The wet slap of balls against ass filled the kitchen, loud and obscene. Ilya reached around, wrapped a rough fist around Shane’s dripping cock, and jerked him fast, tight, twisting strokes that made Shane’s thighs shake.
“Come,” Ilya commanded against his ear. “Come on the fucking counter while I fill you up.”
Shane broke, back bowing, hole spasming hard, come shooting in thick ropes across the granite and dripping down the cabinets. The clench dragged Ilya over the edge; he slammed in one last time, grinding deep, and unloaded, hot, pulsing spurts flooding Shane’s insides until it leaked out around his cock with every aftershock thrust.
They stayed locked together, panting. Ilya’s weight pressed Shane into the counter. Come dripped slow down Shane’s thighs, pooling on the tile. Ilya’s softening cock still twitched inside him.
After a long minute, Ilya pulled out with a wet suck, watching his own release leak from Shane’s puffy, red hole. He turned Shane around, kissed him slow and deep, tasting sweat and salt and them, then rested their foreheads together.
“Bedroom,” Ilya said quietly, thumb brushing over the fresh bite on Shane’s neck. “I’m not done. Want you spread out. Want to eat my come out of you before I fuck you again.”
Shane’s spent cock gave a weak, interested twitch.
He let Ilya tug him toward the stairs, shorts still tangled around his ankles, come drying sticky on skin, kitchen a crime scene behind them.
They didn’t bother cleaning up.