Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The first thing everyone noticed about the Centaurs’ new power line was how unfair it looked on paper. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, now somehow on the same side of the ice. To analysts, it was history in the making. To critics, a looming threat. To fans, it was meant to be. Inside the Centaurs’ locker room, though, it felt like chaos.

“Stop distracting me,” Shane muttered, even though he was smiling.

“I am not,” Ilya said mildly, which was a lie.

The pregame buzz hummed around them. Music was thumping low from someone’s speaker, the hiss of skate blades on rubber mats, the smell of grip tape and sweat burned into the backs of noses. The Centaurs logo was emblazoned across every stall. It was their first home game of the season, a national broadcast. The kind of night that turned moments into headlines.

Shane was halfway into his gear, shoulder pads strapped and his compression shirt clinging to him. Ilya, already mostly dressed, leaned back against the wooden divider between their stalls like he had nowhere better to be.

Which he didn’t.

They’d chosen adjacent lockers without discussing it. No one had commented. The team had long since adjusted to the fact that the two biggest names in the league operated as a matched set. Where one went, the other was just behind.

“Coach is going to give the pregame talk in five,” Shane said, reaching for his jersey.

“I know.”

“Then why are you still—”

Ilya stepped forward, close enough that Shane’s sentence dissolved somewhere between his throat and his lips. He reached up, slow and deliberate, adjusting the collar of Shane’s undershirt with a gentle tug.

“There,” Ilya said softly. “You were crooked.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but he didn’t step back. He never really did. Years ago, being this close had felt electric and unstable, something they’d both claimed not to want. Now it was effortless. Familiar. Dangerous in a completely different way.

“Focus,” Shane said.

“I am focused.” Ilya’s mouth curved. “On you.”

Shane snorted and pushed lightly at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

That, at least, wasn’t in dispute. Around them, their teammates were too busy lacing skates and arguing about faceoff percentages to pay attention. With a locker room full of vets, the Centaurs had long since stopped reacting. Shane and Ilya being Shane and Ilya stopped being interesting a long time ago.

Still, Shane lowered his voice. “We do have to actually play hockey tonight, you know.”

“We will play, eventually” Ilya promised. “But first—”

He leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate. Just a quick, warm press of lips that felt like muscle memory. Shane’s hand came up automatically, catching in the front of Ilya’s shirt, steadying himself. The moment stayed small. Private.

Shane pulled back first. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“I have been getting you in trouble for fifteen years,” Ilya said. “This is tradition.”

Shane shook his head, but he was laughing now. He grabbed the jersey in front of him, black, Centaurs crest blazing across the front, tugging it over his head in one smooth motion.

Beside him, Ilya did the same.

They were still adjusting elbow pads and gloves when Coach Wiebe called for them. The room shifted instantly from loose to locked-in. Helmets on. Chin straps snapped. Sticks grabbed. In the rush of it, they fell into formation and headed down the tunnel.

The arena roared as they stepped onto the ice.

It hit Shane like it always did: the light, the sound, the sharp cold bite of air in his lungs. He tapped his stick against the ice twice, scanning the stands out of habit. Centaurs jerseys everywhere. Signs with their names already paired together.

Rozanov and Hollander. He still found it surreal that they could have this. That they were allowed.

He lined up for warmups opposite Ilya. They exchanged a look that said the same thing it always had before a game.

Let’s go.

The first few minutes blurred into drills and effortless tape-to-tape passes, the kind that made the game look simple. Shane slid a puck cleanly onto Ilya’s stick, and Ilya buried it top shelf with a snap that pulled a collective gasp from the crowd. Chemistry, that was the word analysts liked to use, as if it could fully explain the instinct behind it. But when they lined up at center ice for the national anthem, the rhythm faltered. Something shifted, subtle but unmistakable. Shane caught the opposing winger across from him narrowing his eyes, studying him a beat too long.

“What?” Shane muttered.

The guy grinned slowly. “Nice name.”

Shane frowned.

Across the red line, Ilya was looking at him with an expression that could only be described as delighted confusion. Shane glanced down automatically, but of course he couldn’t see his own back.

The anthem ended. Helmets came off. The crowd cheered.

As they moved toward the bench for final instructions before puck drop, their rookie defenseman, Mateo, nearly tripped over his own skates.

“Uh,” Mateo said weakly, staring at Shane.

“What?” Shane demanded.

Mateo pointed between Shane and Ilya.

Ilya twisted at the waist, craning around to look at his own shoulders. Then he barked out a laugh so loud it echoed under his visor.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Shane grabbed the back of Ilya’s jersey and hauled him closer so he could see.

HOLLANDER.

Across the plane of his shoulderblades.

Shane’s stomach dropped.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

Because when Ilya spun him around in return, there it was, bold white lettering across Shane’s back:

ROZANOV.

They stared at each other. Somewhere above them, the broadcast cameras zoomed in.

“You took mine,” Shane hissed.

“You took mine,” Ilya corrected, utterly unbothered.

“In the locker room—”

“You were distracted.” Ilya shrugged. 

“You distracted me!”

Bood then skated over, eyes wide behind his visor. “Guys. You’re aware—”

“Yes,” Shane snapped.

The referee blew his whistle for them to line up.

“Too late to change,” Ilya said cheerfully. “Unless you want to explain to the entire arena why we are undressing at center ice.”

Shane closed his eyes briefly. The Jumbotron flickered to life above them.

There they were. Side by side.

With each other’s names.

The arena went quiet for half a second, then it exploded.

A wave of laughter, cheers, whistles. Someone started chanting, “Switch! Switch! Switch!”

Shane felt heat crawl up his neck. “This is a nightmare.”

“This,” Ilya said, skating into position for the faceoff, “is art.”

The puck dropped.

For the first shift, Shane tried to pretend nothing was different. Hockey was hockey. Edges digging into ice. The sharp crack of sticks. The rhythm of it steady and grounding.

But every time he circled back toward the boards, he could hear it.

“Nice try, Rozanov!” a fan shouted at him.

He nearly whiffed a pass.

Across the ice, Ilya was grinning like he’d just been handed a personal gift from the universe.

Midway through the period, after a particularly pretty give-and-go that ended with Ilya scoring, he skated past Shane and yelled, “Great assist, Rozanov!”

Shane shoved him lightly as they celebrated. “Shut up.”

The camera lingered on them as they lined up again, clearly aware of the comedy gold unfolding. The commentators’ voices boomed faintly from the overhead speakers.

“…and in a bizarre turn of events, Hollander and Rozanov appear to have swapped jerseys…”

“…you have to wonder how that happens…”

Ilya tapped his stick against Shane’s. “They are talking about us.”

“They’re always talking about us.”

“Yes, but now they are confused.”

“That’s not a good thing.”

“It is my favourite thing.”

By the second period, the joke had fully landed. The opposing bench was chirping nonstop.

“Hey Hollander!” someone yelled at Ilya. “When did you learn to shoot like that?”

Ilya skated by and blew them a kiss.

Shane buried his face in his glove for half a second.

When they returned to the bench after another shift, Coach leaned in, trying—and failing—not to smile.

“You two done making headlines for one night?”

“Probably not,” Ilya said.

Shane shot him a look. “We’ll fix it at intermission. We’ll change.”

Coach glanced at the clock. Two minutes left in the period. “Not worth it. Just play.”

Shane exhaled. “Yes, Coach.”

As they waited for the next line change, Ilya nudged him gently with his shoulder.

“You hate this,” Ilya observed.

“I hate that this is happening on live television.”

“It is funny.”

“It is humiliating.”

“It is iconic.”

Shane fought a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“And you are skating very well, living up to Rozanov name.”

Despite himself, Shane laughed.

The rest of the game took on a surreal, electric quality. Every pass between them felt like an inside joke. Every time the announcer tripped over their names, the crowd roared louder.

Late in the third, the game tied 2-2, it was time for the power play. They lined up the way they always did now, Shane at the half wall, Ilya drifting into the left circle.

Shane held the puck, scanning. The penalty killers shifted toward him.

For a split second, everything slowed.

He sent the pass cross-ice.

Ilya caught it clean and fired.

Goal.

The arena detonated. The sound vibrated through the ice and up through their bodies. 

Ilya tore across the ice, arms wide, before circling back to Shane and grabbing him in a fierce hug that nearly knocked them both off balance.

“Beautiful pass, Rozanov!” Ilya shouted into his ear.

Shane laughed helplessly against his shoulder. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Never.”

When the final buzzer sounded, sealing the win, they lined up for handshakes still wearing the wrong names. By the time they reached the tunnel, Shane felt the embarrassment had softened into something else. Something lighter.

In the quiet just off the ice, he grabbed the hem of his jersey. “Okay. Now we fix it.”

Ilya caught his wrist.

“Wait.”

“What?”

Ilya stepped closer, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from exertion and joy. “Just one more minute.”

“For what?”

“For them to take pictures,” Ilya said. “For the headlines. For the story.”

Shane stared at him. “You like this.”

“I love this,” Ilya corrected. “Do you know how many years we had to pretend? To hide? And now we accidentally wear each other’s names and the world laughs instead of—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

Shane’s chest tightened.

The tunnel cameras were still rolling. Their teammates filtered past them, shaking heads, grinning.

Shane looked down at the name across Ilya’s shoulders. Hollander. At the way he stood, utterly unapologetic. Proud.

“Okay,” Shane said quietly.

Ilya’s smile softened. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

And when they left the arena that night, side by side, the story already spreading across every sports feed in the country, neither of them felt like they’d worn the wrong name at all.

Chapter Text

The first time had been a genuine accident. That was the part people kept getting wrong.

Yes, it had looked suspicious. Yes, it had happened on national television. Yes, the slow-motion replays of Shane Hollander celebrating a goal with ROZANOV stretched across his shoulders had lived on the internet far longer than anyone anticipated.

But it had been chaos. A rush. A scramble. Two players grabbing the wrong jerseys and not realizing until it was far too late.

They had laughed about it later, framed the jerseys. They had absolutely not planned it.

Which was why, six months later, standing in the Centaurs’ locker room before Game Seven of the Western Conference Finals, Shane knew immediately that Ilya was up to something.

Because this time, there was no rush. No scramble. Just Ilya leaning back against his stall, watching Shane with a look that was far too deliberate.

“You’re staring,” Shane said, not looking up from where he was taping his stick.

“I’m admiring.”

“You’re plotting.”

Ilya smirked.

Across the room, the team moved in a low hum of pre-game ritual. Music pulsing. Equipment clinking. The air tight with pressure. Game Seven, a national broadcast, a legacy game. Shane finished taping, set the stick aside and finally looked up.

Ilya was holding something behind his back. Shane closed his eyes briefly, letting out a short huff through his nose.

“No.”

“You don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I know exactly what you’re doing, Ilya.”

Ilya stepped forward and revealed it with theatrical flair.

#24 HOLLANDER. Shane stared at his own jersey in Ilya’s hands.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.”

“That was an accident,” Shane said immediately, glaring. “You remember that, right? You were distracting me. You grabbed mine. I grabbed yours. It was chaos.”

“And it was iconic.”

“It was stressful.”

“It was so hot.”

A couple teammates snorted.

Shane pointed at him. “We did not do it on purpose.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“I want to this time.”

The locker room quieted. Shane blinked.

“You want to… intentionally create a media frenzy before the biggest game of our season.”

“Yes.”

“No, Ilya.”

Ilya’s grin softened just slightly. “Hear me out.”

“I am not hearing you out.”

“You will.”

Shane crossed his arms. Ilya reached back into his stall and pulled out the second jersey.

#81 ROZANOV. He held them up side by side.

“Last time,” Ilya said, voice lower now, “it was chaos. We didn’t choose it. It just… happened.”

“Yes.”

“And it turned into something.”

“It turned into weeks of interviews.”

“It turned into us.”

Shane’s jaw tightened, but not in anger. They’d already been together then. Publicly. Happily. The accidental switch hadn’t been a coming-out moment. It had been something stranger, something symbolic neither of them had been prepared for.

“I don’t need symbolism before puck drop,” Shane said evenly.

“I do,” Ilya replied.

That caught him. Shane studied him more carefully now.

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ilya hesitated. Which, for Ilya, meant this mattered.

“Because this is Game Seven,” he said. “And they’re going to talk about us no matter what. If we win, it’s because we’re unstoppable together. If we lose, it’s because we’re distracted.”

Shane’s expression hardened.

“They’ve stopped saying that.”

“Not all of them.”

A beat.

“I don’t want it to feel like something that happened to us,” Ilya continued. “I want it to feel like something we chose.”

Shane looked at the jerseys.

“You think wearing each other’s names makes that statement.”

“I think it says we’re not scared of it.”

“Of what?”

“Being linked.”

Shane almost laughed.

“We are very obviously linked.”

Ilya stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“I know. But last time? We looked shocked. Like we’d been caught.”

Shane remembered the exact moment the jumbotron zoomed in. The way his stomach had dropped. The way Ilya had broken into delighted laughter while Shane had wanted to disappear.

“And this time?” Shane asked.

“This time,” Ilya said quietly, “we step onto the ice knowing exactly what we’re doing.”

The locker room was pretending not to listen. Shane exhaled slowly.

“You realize if this backfires—”

“You’ll say it was my idea.”

“It is your idea.”

“Yes.”

“You are impossible.”

“You love me.”

Shane’s mouth twitched despite himself.

“That is not a defense.”

“It’s a fact.”

A long silence stretched between them. Game Seven. Captain’s “C” heavy on his chest. Hundreds of cameras waiting outside for them. Shane took the Hollander jersey from Ilya’s hands, then handed it right back again.

“You wear that,” he said.

Ilya’s eyes flashed.

“And you—”

Shane grabbed #81.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

Ilya’s grin was incandescent.

“Never.”

—

They changed deliberately. No rush or scrambling hands. Shane peeled off #24 and pulled ROZANOV over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric down his chest. It felt strange for half a second. Then grounding.

Across from him, Ilya tugged HOLLANDER into place and straightened the collar with surprising care. The locker room erupted.

“You two are insane.”

“This is either genius or catastrophic.”

“Our PR team is going to faint.”

Their coach walked in mid-chaos and stopped short. He looked at Shane first. Then at Ilya. Then at the names.

A long pause.

“You better win,” he said flatly.

“That’s the plan,” Shane replied.

Ilya nodded and shrugged. “Obviously.”

—

Warmups detonated the arena. The second they stepped onto the ice, it took maybe fifteen seconds for the crowd to notice.

Confusion.

Recognition.

Then a roar that shook the rafters. The jumbotron zoomed in.

#81 ROZANOV.

#24 HOLLANDER.

The commentators didn’t even pretend to be neutral.

“They’ve done it again!”

“But this time, there’s no way that’s accidental.”

Shane skated a steady arc at center ice, jaw set. Ilya skated backward in front of him, eyes dancing.

“You’re not panicking,” Ilya observed.

“I’m focusing.”

“You look good in my name.”

“Play the game.”

Ilya winked and peeled away, glancing back over his shoulder to look back at his Shane.

—

Seattle came out aggressive. Heavy hits. Relentless forecheck. Midway through the first, Shane absorbed a brutal check along the boards. Before the defender could capitalize, Ilya was there, stealing the puck clean and slipping it back to Shane in one fluid motion.

Trust.

Shane fired.

Goal.

The arena exploded. Ilya didn’t hesitate. He skated straight into Shane, grabbing fistfuls of ROZANOV across his shoulders.

“Nice shot, Rozanov!” Ilya shouted, laughing.

“Shut up,” Shane shot back, grinning.

The camera zoomed in as they pressed helmets together. This time, Shane didn’t look surprised. He looked steady.

Certain.

—

The game stayed tight. Back and forth and by the third, it was tied. Shane leaned over the boards at the bench, breathing hard. Ilya slid in beside him.

“Regretting it?” Ilya asked quietly.

Shane shook his head.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not thinking about it anymore.”

Ilya smiled.

“Exactly.”

Overtime came sharp and breathless. Seven minutes in, Shane intercepted a pass at the blue line. He could shoot. Instead, he waited. He drew the defender, slid the puck across and Ilya caught it in stride. 

Breakaway.

The arena held its breath.

Left.

Right.

Backhand.

Goal.

Silence.

Then an eruption of sound.

Ilya turned immediately, searching, Shane was already there skating towards him. They collided hard in the slot, gloves gripping each others swapped jerseys. Under the dogpile, Ilya laughed against Shane’s shoulder.

“This feels better,” he said.

Shane huffed out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It does.”

Because this time, no one was scrambling. No one was embarrassed. No one looked caught off guard.

They’d chosen it.

—

At the podium afterward, the questions were inevitable.

“Was this planned?”

“Yes,” Shane said simply.

“Why?”

Shane glanced at Ilya. Ilya gestured for him to answer.

“Last time was an accident,” Shane said. “This time wasn’t.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

“We wanted it to be ours,” Ilya added.

“Is there symbolism? What made you decide to do this tonight?” a reporter pressed.

Shane didn’t hesitate.

“We trust each other,” he said. “That’s it.”

Ilya leaned toward his mic.

“And if you’re going to be linked forever,” he added lightly, “you might as well look good doing it.”

Laughter broke the tension. Later, back in the quiet of the locker room, they sat shoulder to shoulder. Still wearing the wrong names.

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane murmured.

“You said yes.”

“I did.”

Ilya leaned his head briefly against Shane’s shoulder.

“Worth it?”

Shane thought about the roar of the crowd.

The overtime goal.

The way it had felt, intentional and steady instead of chaotic and accidental.

“Yeah,” he said softly, leaning in to press a fleeting touch of his lips to Ilya’s. 

It wasn’t a mistake this time.

It wasn’t a scramble.

It wasn’t something that had happened to them.

It was something they’d stepped into together.

On purpose.

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.