Chapter Text
Sometimes, the way Ilya looks at Shane makes him want to crawl out of his own skin.
Not in a bad way. Not in the way he wanted to back when he was a kid, and he heard the things his teammates would throw around the locker room growing up. When they were cruel in a way that was so exceptionally casual, yet simply written off as “hockey players being hockey players.” When he was “not Canadian enough”—Shane knew what they really meant; everyone knew what they really meant—or too quiet or too anxious.
Or when he was too particular, because even the most superstitious players would watch his careful routines in disbelief. Because it was always too much for them. (Too much seemed to be the tagline of Shane’s life, if he really thought about it.) And he’d always feel something slowly prickle under his skin, until his whole body was buzzing with an energy he couldn’t expel and couldn’t control. For years, Shane had come to expect that feeling whenever he was around people, especially other hockey players, and it was always exhausting. Always suffocating.
And then Ilya Rozanov came barging into his life.
Or, if he was being honest, slowly crept into his life, wave by wave until one day, the water was suddenly above Shane’s head and he came to the realization that he didn’t want to swim out of it. Until he ultimately recognized that he, in fact, would like to drown in all these feelings, in these moments no one knew about but them, in these memories that he had replayed during all the nights they were apart. In Ilya.
But in spite of all of these years with him, Shane still sometimes got that crawl-out-of-my-skin sensation when he felt Ilya’s gaze on him. It made him feel…flayed open. Like Ilya could see past all his routines and strict schedule and control and saw everything he’d spent his life hiding instead. Like he was peeking directly into his brain and saw all his thoughts like they were neon signs flashing across his face. Like he was reading each one slowly and carefully, like he wanted to know every single one, like he wanted to memorize them. Memorize him.
And it wasn’t like Shane couldn’t read Ilya, because he could. Because yes, maybe he wasn’t the best at picking up on things that weren’t outright mentioned to him, but he was getting better. At least when it came to Ilya. But it was different, because out of the two of them, Ilya was somehow the more open one now. And Shane was trying, of course he was—therapy was definitely the right decision—but old habits die hard, especially when his brain kept screaming at him not to give away too much. To be too much.
But what all of this really meant was that a few months after Shane joined the Centaurs, when Harris approached both of them with the idea of a short docuseries to tell their story the way they wanted to, Ilya’s eyes pierced through Shane immediately and he felt the buzz start in the tips of his fingers.
Because Shane was sure that he could clearly read his gut instinct answer: fuck no. After all the chaos and drama of the way they were outed, after the sharp betrayal and hurt still lingering with the way his former team and city reacted, the last thing Shane wanted to do was open their relationship up even more to the public eye.
Keep your head down, play hockey, and win. The sort-of mantra that Shane had held on to fiercely with both hands when he was growing up echoed in his head. It had kept him focused, allowed him to push past the casual racism, the harsh critics, and build his career the way he had always visualized. It was why he was so private when it came to his personal and social lives, and why he hesitated to share anything that extended beyond hockey with his teammates, with reporters, with the fans.
Shane gazed back at Ilya, eyes flitting over the face he knew so well, the face he could draw every curve and edge of in his mind. The messy, light brown curls Shane loved running his hand through and the sharp jaw that had just clenched slightly. He felt his own hands slowly uncurl from the tight fists they’d formed after hearing Harris’s suggestion.
Eyes moving across Ilya’s expression, he saw a quick flash of eagerness settling into acceptance. Because Shane knew that even though he definitely wanted to do the docuseries, Ilya wouldn’t push him if he didn’t want it, not on this. They both had their ups and downs, their good and bad days, but Ilya…Ilya had always been the braver one.
The one to reach out for his hand in public first, the one to look at him with what Hayden donned the Russian’s “fucking heart eyes” when they had their friends over, the one to lean into him on the couch when the night was ending and things were winding down. Shane never pulled away—granted, it had taken him some time to get used to it, to remember that everyone knew now and it wasn’t a secret to hide anymore—and when it was just them, he didn’t hesitate with anything, but more often than not, it was Ilya who was brave enough to do any of it in front of anyone else.
And Shane…Shane loved him. Shane Hollander loved Ilya Rozanov, and everyone knew they were married. They knew, and both of them were still playing hockey, on the same fucking team for the first time (because everyone knew the All Stars game didn’t really count), and the world hadn’t ended. And yeah, there were a lot of negative reactions, but the positive ones seemed to drown them out most days.
And if Ilya could be brave for them, if he could move to a new country and switch to an objectively worse team for him—although it wasn’t anymore, not after Ilya became captain—then Shane could embrace the buzzing under his skin for once. Could embrace it as the way Ilya knew him, understood him. Embrace it as the way Shane loved him: a constant, heady rush he couldn’t always put into words, in any language that he knew. He could show the world a glimpse of the Shane and Ilya that only they got to see, the versions of themselves that had fallen in love quietly, away from prying eyes and nosy journalists.
Shane reached for Ilya’s hand, gently squeezing when their fingers were entangled, and saw Ilya’s brows scrunch just a little in response to whatever he saw on his face. With another squeeze, Shane turned to Harris, who’d been patiently waiting in the way only someone who understood the gravity of this could, with a small smile on his lips.
He could be brave.
“We’ll do it.”
❄︎❄︎❄︎
Ottawa Centaurs ☑️ @OttawaCentaursOfficial
Tune in tomorrow for an exciting announcement! 🏒🏡 #ftc
rozanov’s wife @centaurs81
someone smarter than me pls decode what ftc means quick
Mark Hall @mark_hall1974
The Centaurs have really fallen off in recent years, and they continue to show it with every decision they make.
⤷ kaylie @huntersnum1fan
just say you’re homophobic and leave
hollanov truther @hollanov8124
and when the announcement is hollanov having a kid what then
bradleyy @imamirrorball
watch it be something stupid like a new social media manager
inez swift @bettydeservesbetter
my years of being a swiftie have finally paid off !!
read for an in-depth analysis of every easter egg we’ve gotten from the centaurs in the last two weeks revealing why we’re getting a hollanov doc (1/?):
naomi hollander @iloveshaneh
ftc = first time centaurs i’m calling it rn it’s gonna be a “get to know the centaurs” thing
⤷ hockey1234 @hockey1234
finally someone with a relatively realistic guess
⤷ daddy ilya @ilyaismyhusband
okay but the house emoji??
⤷ naomi hollander @iloveshaneh
they’re getting to know them at their homes there mystery solved 🙄
meet me in paris @ilyshaneilya
this will either be something so dumb or so earth shattering i can’t decide which one
Ottawa Centaurs ☑️ @OttawaCentaursOfficial
The Ottawa Centaurs are honored to present “From the Cottage,” a limited docuseries about Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. Follow along to see their incredible journey from young rookies and rivals to where they are now, in their own words. #ftc 🏒🏡