Chapter Text
The first time they’d switched jerseys, it had been a genuine accident. The second time, it had been deliberate. The third time, it was permanent, but not in the way anyone expected.
They didn’t argue about the last name, that part surprised people. The league office had called twice to confirm. Merchandising had sent three separate mockups. Their agent had asked if they were absolutely sure.
They were. The hyphen wasn’t a compromise, it was a statement. It wasn’t alternating order. It wasn’t one carrying the other’s name. It was simpler than that. Identical.
Two jerseys, two numbers, one name. For both of them.
HOLLANDER-ROZANOV.
—
The wedding had been in the offseason. Private. Intentional. Small enough that the photos felt like something they could keep for themselves.
No dramatic headlines. No spectacle. Just a quiet exchange of vows, Ilya’s hands shaking slightly when he slid the ring onto Shane’s finger.
Just Shane leaning in and whispering, “You’re sure?” because he needed to hear it one last time.
Just Ilya answering, steady and certain, “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
—
The new jerseys were hanging in their stalls on opening night. Shane noticed them immediately. Of course he did. He was halfway through retaping his stick when the equipment manager walked through carrying the final batch, expression carefully neutral.
“Don’t start,” the manager muttered preemptively.
Shane stood, reaching for #24. He paused. The number was his. Clean. Familiar. But the name above it—
HOLLANDER-ROZANOV.
He didn’t say anything at first, just turned slightly to his right, where Ilya was already staring at his own #81. Same stitching, same length, same weight. Ilya blinked once. Then twice. Turning his head slowly, he looked at Shane.
“They’re the same,” he said softly.
“Yeah, they are.”
Ilya walked closer until they were standing shoulder to shoulder between their stalls.
“They actually agreed to this.”
“They ran it through legal twice,” Shane said.
“They said it would confuse people.”
“It will.”
Ilya’s mouth curved.
“I love it.”
They’d talked about this for weeks after the wedding. The hyphen had been the obvious solution. Balanced. Equal. It felt right to them.
“We don’t need to mirror each other, we could keep our names,” Ilya had said one night, sprawled across the couch with Shane’s hand tangled in his hair. “But it would be nice.”
“It would,” Shane had gently agreed.
“So why don’t we just… share it?”
Shane’s lips raised at the edges, the soft smile on his face reserved only for his Ilya.
“Same name.”
“Same name,” Ilya had echoed.
“Different numbers.”
“Obviously.” Ilya scoffed.
Shane had studied him carefully.
“You know that’s going to break commentators.”
Ilya had grinned.
“Good.”
—
Now, in the locker room, the team reaction was immediate and arguably a lot more dramatic than their own.
“Oh no.”
“You guys are evil.”
“This is going to be a disaster.”
“Our broadcast crew is going to riot.”
Ilya pulled his jersey over his head in one smooth motion. When he straightened, the name stretched broad across his shoulders. HOLLANDER-ROZANOV.
Shane followed, tugging #24 into place. The fabric settled against him, heavy but steady. It didn’t feel like a compromise. It didn’t feel like symbolism. It felt… settled. Like this was how his final jersey was destined to be.
“You ready?” Ilya asked quietly.
Shane reached up and adjusted the collar at Ilya’s neck, fingers dusting gently over the warmed skin.
“Always.”
—
The arena noticed immediately. It took exactly one shift for the confusion to begin.
“Rozanov carries the puck up the—” the commentator began confidently.
A pause.
“…Hollander-Rozanov carries the puck up the ice.”
The camera zoomed in on #81.
“And that’s—well—technically both of them.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. The second commentator cleared his throat.
“To clarify for viewers at home, both Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are now skating under the combined name Hollander-Rozanov.”
A graphic popped up on the screen, both of their faces with their new names underneath:
24 — HOLLANDER-ROZANOV
81 — HOLLANDER-ROZANOV
There was a visible hesitation in the booth.
“This is going to be a long season,” one of them muttered, forgetting briefly that his mic was still live.
Shane heard it. Ilya absolutely heard it. Ilya nearly skated straight into the boards laughing.
“Focus,” Shane hissed as they lined up for a faceoff.
“They don’t know who’s who,” Ilya said, delighted.
“They know the numbers.”
“Barely.”
The puck dropped.
—
It took ten minutes before the first full collapse in the broadcast happened. Shane stole the puck clean in the neutral zone and fed it cross-ice.
“Beautiful pass by Hollander-Rozanov to Hollander-Rozanov—”
There was a strained silence.
“—to number 81.”
The arena roared. Ilya took the puck in stride and deked around a defender, slipping it back to Shane at the top of the circle. Shane fired.
Goal.
The goal horn drowned out the commentary, but not before one last desperate attempt:
“Goal scored by Hollander-Rozanov—assisted by Hollander-Rozanov—this is—”
The broadcast cut briefly to a replay. Both of them crashed into each other at center ice, laughing. On the back of both jerseys, names identical. The camera zoomed tighter.
“You realise,” Shane murmured against Ilya’s helmet, “we’ve officially made their jobs impossible.”
“That was the point,” Ilya replied, pressing a firm kiss to the shell of his helmet.
—
By the second period, the commentators had resorted to numbers exclusively.
“81 carries.”
“24 shoots.”
“81 and 24 connect again.”
It didn’t stop them from slipping up. Midway through the period, the commentators were trying their best.
“Rozanov—sorry—Hollander—sorry—Hollander-Rozanov, number 81—”
The crowd was laughing openly now. Ilya skated past the bench, eyes shining mischievously.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
“I am actively trying not to,” Shane said.
“You married into chaos.”
“You are the definition of chaos.”
“Yes. You love it.” Ilya winked at him, whilst Shane just rolled his eyes and turned away. Ilya had smiled at the sight of the names over Shane’s shoulder blades, so fond his heart ached just a little.
Late in the third, the game tied 2–2, Shane circled behind the net, scanning the ice. He could feel where Ilya would be. He always could. He slid the puck up along the boards, it came back to him and he was able to pull a defender wide. He waited, then sent it across the ice where Ilya was able to catch it clean. With one quick adjustment, his wrist shot the puck straight into the net.
The building exploded. This time, when they collided, it was less frantic. More grounded. They held on for half a second longer than usual, because it wasn’t about spectacle anymore, or proving something, it was about recognition.
On the replay, the broadcast team tried one last time.
“Hollander-Rozanov scores off the feed from Hollander-Rozanov—assisted by—well—himself, essentially.”
The second commentator laughed outright.
“I’m filing a complaint.”
—
They won 3–2. Solid. Controlled. In the post-game interview, the first question came immediately.
“Was this a marketing decision?”
“No,” Shane said calmly, glancing sideways at Ilya.
“We wanted it,” he said simply. “So we did it.”
“But doesn’t it make things confusing?” the reporter asked. Shane shrugged slightly.
“They’ll adjust.”
“Eventually,” one of the commentators muttered from across the room.
Back in the locker room, after the noise had faded, they sat side by side on the bench. Still in their jerseys. Still identical. Ilya leaned back and tilted his head to knock it gently against Shane’s.
“Think they’ll ever get used to it?”
“Yes,” Shane said.
“When?”
“By midseason.”
Ilya frowned.
“That’s less dramatic than I hoped.”
Shane nudged his knee. Pressing up against him, from their skulls to the tips of their toes.
“You don’t need it to be dramatic.”
Ilya glanced at his eyes, then down to his lips.
“No?”
Shane reached over and tugged lightly at the stitched name across Ilya’s back. HOLLANDER-ROZANOV. Ours.
“It’s not about confusing them,” Shane said quietly. “It’s about being clear.”
Ilya’s expression softened.
“Clear about what?”
Shane met his eyes.
“That we’re not separate on this ice. Or in life.”
Ilya smiled slowly.
“We never were.”
They peeled the jerseys off eventually, careful with the fabric, respectful of the stitching. Two numbers laid side by side on the bench. 81. 24. Same name. Not a mistake, not a stunt. Just a choice. A statement of we chose each other and will continue to choose each other.
And somewhere in the broadcast booth, two commentators were probably still arguing about which Hollander-Rozanov had scored. Ilya would absolutely be watching that clip later. Shane would pretend he wasn’t.
And next game, when 81 passed to 24 and the announcer stumbled again, they’d both smile.
Because that was the point.