Chapter 36: The Long Game: Chapter 36

“The king is back!” Bood yelled as soon as Ilya entered the Centaurs locker room.

Everyone in the room clapped and whooped in excitement. Ilya felt himself blushing a bit.

“Thank you,” he said, meaning it. Shane had told him a bit about his own team’s reception of him earlier that morning, and it had been a lot more wary and awkward than this, which made the warm welcome back even more touching.

It felt so fucking good to be on the ice again. Sometimes he thought he was getting tired of this game, but being kept away from it for a week had made him realize how much he still loved it. Needed it.

“All right,” Coach yelled after he’d given everyone time to warm up. “Gather ’round.”

Everyone grouped around him at center ice, most taking a knee. Ilya stood at the back with Wyatt and Bood.

“What’s happening next week, Dykstra?” Coach asked.

Evan smiled. “Playoffs, Coach!”

“That’s right. Who here has been to the Stanley Cup playoffs before?”

An alarmingly small number of the guys raised their hands, including Ilya and Wyatt.

“To be honest,” Wyatt said, “I was mostly the playoffs, in Toronto.”

Coach waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter that we don’t have the playoff experience that most teams have. Some people will say that experience is the most important thing, but I think it’s heart. I think it has more to do with working together than it does with following a few leaders. I believe in this group. These past few months we’ve shown everyone how well this team works together.”

There were stick taps and murmurs of agreement.

“Bood,” Coach said, “what was the attendance at our last home game?”

Bood grinned. “Full house, Coach.”

“Who was the player of the week last week?”

“Wyatt fucking Hayes,” said Dykstra.

“Because we’ve got the best goalie in the league,” Coach confirmed.

“Aw, thanks,” said Wyatt.

“We’re going to be playing Montreal in the first round, and that’s going to be tough, no question. They’re the defending champions, and the number one ranked team in the league at the moment.”

Ilya added in his head, “We’ve beaten them before, and we can do it again,” Coach said. “Roz, you’re back on the line with Bood and Barrett. Let’s get to work.”

The coaches worked them hard all practice, and the whole team was exhausted by the time they were allowed to return to the locker room.

As he was getting undressed, Ilya decided to clear the air. There’d be enough going on over the next few weeks without having an elephant in the room to deal with.

“I want to say something,” he announced.

The room was dead silent.

“You read the post, probably, about me and Shane.” He glanced around the room, and saw a few nods. “So. Yes. We are together.”

There was a long, weird silence, and the Bood broke it by saying, “Figures.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows at him and waited.

Bood smiled. “You stealing the fucking spotlight. Barrett comes out, announces his relationship with Harris, and then Roz says ‘hold my beer.’”

“Yeah, Ilya,” Troy said with a grin. “What the fuck?”

The room erupted with laughter, and Ilya’s heart swelled. He loved this team.

After more playful ribbing, everyone got back to the business of getting changed and showered. As Ilya was pulling on his sweatshirt, Wyatt approached him.

“Is that what the ring’s about, then?” He pointed at Ilya’s chest.

“You noticed?”

“I’m a goalie.” Wyatt pointed to his own eyes. “I notice everything.”

“You are perceptive,” Ilya said, trying out a word he’d recently learned.

“It’s my superpower. I didn’t want to ask, but now it seems kind of obvious that it’s from Hollander.”

“It is. We are engaged.” Ilya was still getting used to saying those words aloud. To believing them.

“Then Shane Hollander is a lucky man.”

Ilya was in danger of crying, so he wrapped Wyatt in a hug to hide his face. “Thank you,” he said.

“No problem.” Wyatt patted him on the back. “Just try not to make your wedding day the same as Harris and Troy’s, okay? I don’t want to have to do a lot of running around that day.”

Ilya laughed, and then sniffed. “Okay, Hazy.”

Shane couldn’t ever remember being so nervous at the start of the playoffs before. Not even as a rookie. He shuffled his skates anxiously as the national anthem was sung, trying not to stare directly at the back of Ilya’s jersey, fifty feet in front of him.

Holy shit. This was happening.

The Montreal crowd was deafening but couldn’t drown out the blood pounding in Shane’s ears. He needed to pull himself together because, yes, it felt weird standing on the ice with Ilya when everyone . And, yes, most of his teammates had been less than friendly since Shane had returned from his suspension, but the team had silently made a pact , which should have been a relief but actually made Shane feel awful.

Ilya’s team had accepted him back with open arms. They’d talked about his relationship with Shane—joked about it, even. Shane felt like he was playing an unending version of that board game, Operation, and the slightest mistake—anything less than perfection—would get him zapped. It was exhausting, and it was pressure he didn’t need on top of the usual playoffs expectations of the Montreal fans.

Finally, it was time for the puck to drop. Shane was clinging to the hope that he’d start to feel normal once the actual game started. Except, of course, the opening face-off was between him and Ilya.

They both bent at the waist over the face-off spot, and for a moment, their gazes locked.

“Good luck,” Shane said. It was all he dared to say right now, with everyone watching.

Ilya’s lips quirked up in his usual crooked, cocky smile, and then the puck dropped.

Ilya won the face-off.

Fucking hell, playoff games were intense. Ilya had almost forgotten.

The game was going…okay. Troy Barrett had opened the scoring early for Ottawa, which had been exciting, but Montreal had answered quickly. And then added a second goal.

But 2–1 was a respectable start to the third period. Better, Ilya thought, than anyone had expected Ottawa to fare against Montreal.

During a break in play, Ilya checked in with his goalie. “You good, Hazy?” he called out over the screeching vocals of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck.”

“Yep,” Hazy said cheerfully. “Hey, do you like this song?”

Ilya’s brow furrowed. Was this seriously what Wyatt was thinking about right now? “Is okay.”

“I always thought it had all this buildup and then falls kind of flat, but I dunno. Anyway, score a goal, okay?”

Neither Ilya nor Shane had scored yet. Ilya had noticed that Shane had been a bit off the whole game. Not handling the puck as cleanly as he usually did, not getting the scoring chances he was known for.

Ilya wanted to ask Shane how he was doing. He wanted to hold him, but they’d agreed not to see each other off the ice during this playoff series. Because, despite everything else between them, they were two NHL stars who both wanted to win the Stanley Cup, and neither was about to let their fiancé stand in the way. Ilya wasn’t sure it was a sound strategy. After a week of being apart from Shane, he wanted to tear his own skin off.

So there was more than one incentive to end this series quickly, even though that meant one of them would lose.

As they bent for the face-off at the beginning of the third, Ilya noticed a glint of gold, on Shane’s neck.

“You have a chain now?” Ilya asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “And a ring.”

Ilya smiled, and totally lost the face-off.

Ilya stared at the photo of Shane’s ring, nestled between his muscular, shower-damp pecs, for nearly the entire bus ride from the arena to the hotel. Shane had sent it from the locker room, presumably, which was bold and also super hot. It took some of the sting of losing 2–1 away.

He waited until he was safely in his hotel room before he texted Shane back: Can I see that ring again?

A couple of minutes later, a FaceTime request from Shane appeared on his phone.

“Hey,” Shane said. He was shirtless, the ring on full display. His hair was tied back and he was wearing his glasses, a lethal combination. “Sorry about the game.”

Ilya huffed. “No you are not. When did you start wearing the ring?”

“This morning.”

His heart flopped over. “Did anyone say anything?”

“No. I don’t think anyone wants to talk about it.” Shane sighed. “Tonight was the first time I hated playing against you. I may have even hated playing hockey altogether.”

“Was weird,” Ilya conceded, “but you love hockey.”

“You guys played a great game.”

“Not as great as your team.”

“It’s only the first game. We’re not cocky.” Shane grimaced. “Well, some of the guys are cocky.”

“Good,” Ilya said. “We like to be underestimated.”

“Big word,” Shane said with a cute little smile.

“Hockey word. One of the first ones I learned in Boston.”

“Montreal and Boston were both terrible teams when we joined them. I forget that, sometimes.”

Ilya smiled. “Do I need to fuck you in your trophy room again until you remember?”

Shane’s cheeks darkened. “I wish.”

“Do not forget,” Ilya said seriously, “what that team owes you.”

Shane chewed his lip and nodded. Ilya knew what the expression on his face meant. “Do you need help to relax before bed?”

Shane nodded again. “Please.”

Ilya rummaged through his suitcase with one hand until he found his folding tripod. “Get started. I will join you in a minute.”

Ottawa shut the Montreal crowd up by winning the second game, then both teams headed to Ottawa for games three and four. Ottawa made their home crowd roar by winning game three, then Montreal won the fourth game, tying the series at two wins apiece. They went back to Montreal, and the Voyageurs absolutely trounced the Centaurs 6–1 and put them on the ropes. Ottawa had to win the next game, back home in Ottawa, or they were out.

The Ottawa arena was packed for game six. It had been sold out for most of the past three months, but that night Ilya thought the noise rivaled the crowd back in Montreal. The Centaurs charged out onto the ice to an earsplitting roar from their hometown fans.

“Does the noise scare you?” Shane asked as they got ready for the puck drop. “I know you’re not used to it.”

Ilya snorted. “This is nothing. Wait until I score.”

“Oh yeah? When’s that happening?”

Ilya bent over the circle. “Right now.”

He won the face-off, knocking the puck back to Dykstra and immediately getting himself in formation with Troy and Bood like they’d practiced. He watched as Troy dodged Hayden and took the pass from Dykstra. Ilya made sure he was exactly where he needed to be when Troy sent the puck over to him, and as soon as it hit his blade, Ilya took off.

J.J. was in front of him, which was definitely a challenge, but Ilya was ready for him. He passed the puck back to Bood, moved quickly to the side of the net, and waited for Bood’s shot. Ilya was there for the deflection, and directed the puck over Drapeau’s outstretched pad, making it 1–0 Ottawa less than thirty seconds into the game.

Troy slammed into Ilya against the glass, his mouth stretched in a wide smile. “Let’s fucking go! Hell yes.”

Ilya hugged him as Bood pressed up against both of them. “Now this is fucking fun,” Bood yelled.

Ilya grinned at the crowd, a sea of red Centaurs jerseys. “Let’s keep going.”

Montreal didn’t make it easy for them, but Ottawa ended up winning the game 4–3, and Ottawa, in their first playoffs appearance in over a decade, had taken the series all the way to game seven. Against the number one team in the league and the defending Stanley Cup champions.

“Eat shit, everyone!” Bood yelled in the locker room after the game. “Easy sweep for Montreal my ass. We just fucked up everybody’s playoff pools.”

Everyone in the room was in a great mood, Ilya included, but playing a game seven against his boyfriend was going to be intense, to say the least.

Game fucking seven.

Shane usually lived for this, but tonight he was a mess as he waited in the locker room for the game to start. Coach was barking at them, and Shane was barely listening. He was deep in his own head, trying to settle his nerves.

He quickly shoved that thought away. It wasn’t useful right now.

One of them was about to win, and the other was about to lose. Shane knew their relationship would withstand it; they’d been rivals their entire careers, there was no reason to start being petty now. But even so, this series felt bigger than anything they had faced each other in previously.

The Montreal crowd went wild, as always, as their team entered the arena. The starting lineups were announced, and Shane took his place on the blue line for the anthem. He focused on the three most recent Stanley Cup banners hanging from the rafters, and not on Ilya’s number 81 jersey across from him.

“We got this, baby,” J.J. said as they waited for the anthem to start.

Shane steeled his expression, nodded, and said, “Let’s get it.”

The game was a battle, and then it went to fucking overtime. Because of course it did. Everyone on both teams was exhausted, but desperate to win. And now there was less than five minutes left of the first overtime period and Shane was dreading a second one. He bent to take the face-off against Ilya in the Ottawa zone.

“This is fun,” Ilya said conversationally. “I forgot how it feels, to have such high stakes.”

“It will be less fun when I score in a few seconds.”

Ilya smiled around his mouth guard, then won the face-off.

Shane didn’t let Ottawa keep the puck for long. He stole it from Zane Boodram, then glanced around quickly for someone to give it to before he got rocked by Troy Barrett. He spotted J.J. and sent the puck back to him to give Montreal some breathing space.

Shane managed to dodge Troy’s hit at the same moment he watched Ilya intercept his pass to J.J.

Ilya took off, and Shane darted after him. Within seconds they were over the center line, completely alone, and Shane was in a good position to cleanly poke the puck away from him. He was just about to do that, when instead he stumbled forward and went crashing to the ice in a frustrated heap.

He was helpless to do anything but watch Ilya carry the puck to the net, and bury it between Drapeau’s pads.

Shane couldn’t believe it. Montreal’s hopes for a repeat Stanley Cup win—their hopes for eliminating fucking —had just been crushed. Because Shane had .

He’d be lucky if he wasn’t tarred and feathered right here in the arena.

He watched miserably, on one knee, as the Ottawa bench spilled onto the ice and piled on top of Ilya in celebration. Eventually he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he knew without looking that it was Hayden.

“It’s over, buddy,” Hayden said. “Come line up for the handshakes.”

Shane forced himself to his feet, and skated over to where his teammates had gathered in a devastated cluster, waiting for Ottawa to stop celebrating. It could be a long wait.

“Good game,” Shane said to Drapeau, who looked stunned behind his mask. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Drapeau fixed his intense goalie eyes on Shane’s face and said, coldly, “I know.”

He skated away, leaving Shane feeling confused and upset. Obviously Shane could have stopped Ilya if he hadn’t fucking tripped, but it was unlike Drapeau to be a fucking ass about it.

They lined up for the handshakes. Shane’s brain was still whirling with shame and confusion and disappointment and anger. He shook the hands of several Centaurs in a blur, then realized that each of them were saying nice things to him.

He first noticed it with Troy Barrett. The other man gripped Shane’s hand firmly, then pulled him in for a quick, brotherly hug. “I’ll see you at the camps this summer, okay?”

“You will?” This was the first Shane had heard of it.

“Yeah.” Troy pulled back and smiled, his vivid blue eyes twinkling with the thrill of victory. “Bood too, I think. We’re excited about it.” He released Shane’s hand. “I hope we can be friends, y’know?”

Somehow Shane had completely forgotten that Troy was gay, despite his very public coming-out a few weeks ago, and the fact that Ilya had talked endlessly about what a great couple he and Harris were. “Definitely,” Shane said.

Troy patted his arm one more time, then moved on. Shane shook a few more hands and received more nice words. Then he was face-to-face with Ilya.

Shane didn’t know what to do. He wanted to wrap his arms around Ilya and breathe him in. Tell him he was proud of him. He was also so angry he could barely look at Ilya’s gleeful face right now.

Except Ilya didn’t look gleeful; he looked concerned, and maybe just as unsure of what to do as Shane was.

Shane knew there were about a million photos being taken of them right now. Professional photographers on the ice, thousands of fans taking photos with their phones, and people at home making gifs that would live on the internet forever. He knew, but all he saw in that moment was Ilya’s wary expression.

Finally, Shane stuck out his hand, and Ilya shook it. It wasn’t nearly enough.

“You guys earned it,” Shane said. “That was a fucking incredible series. I’m excited for you.” He wasn’t lying. Mostly he was disappointed that he couldn’t be a part of it.

“I thought you had me,” Ilya said.

“I did. Must have caught an edge or something. Fucking embarrassing.” Shane sighed. “Are you flying back tonight?”

“Yes. And to New York tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Shane was about to suggest that he drive to Ottawa tonight and meet Ilya at home later.

Ilya must have seen it in his eyes. “Get some rest tonight.”

Shane wanted to argue that he needed Ilya more than he needed sleep. Or food. Or oxygen. But in truth he knew he’d crash hard in about half an hour, completely drained after this emotional series.

He nodded and said, “Kick Scott Hunter’s ass, okay?”

Ilya smiled, cocky and sexy. “I can’t wait.”

The handshake line ended with Wyatt, who pulled Shane in for a hug. “Always a pleasure watching you play, Hollander. I’ll see you in July.”

“You too, Wyatt. Good luck in New York.”

“Oh shit, we’ve gotta win another one of these?”

Shane laughed and patted Wyatt’s massive chest protector. “I’ll be rooting for you.”

It wasn’t until Shane was back in the locker room that he started to notice that it wasn’t just Drapeau who seemed upset with him.

“I can’t believe I fucking tripped,” Shane said to J.J. as they were tossing their jerseys in the laundry bin.

“Did you?”

Shane tensed. “What’s that mean?”

J.J. stared at him for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I don’t know, Hollander. Just…

, tell me it was a mistake.”

Shane couldn’t fucking believe this. “You think I fell on purpose? That I Ilya score?”

Comeau stood from where he’d been slumped in his stall. “I know what I saw. What everyone saw. It didn’t look like an accident.”

“Well, it . What the fuck?” Everyone in the room was staring at him now. Shane turned to face as many of his teammates as he could. “You guys don’t actually think I fell on purpose, do you?”

There was mostly silence, with some muttering in both French and English. Finally, J.J. blew out a breath and said, “No, I don’t think that.”

Suddenly, Hayden was at Shane’s side. “Of course we don’t fucking think that. Come on, guys. Shane would never betray his team.”

But Hayden and J.J. seemed to be the only ones who were sure of that.

“Fuck this,” Shane muttered, and began to angrily remove the rest of his gear. These were the guys who were supposed to have his back. They’d won a cup together last year and fought like hell all season for another one. Some of these men had played with Shane for over ten seasons. It made him sick that they were so quick to believe him to be a traitor.

Shane’s parents were waiting for him outside the locker room by the time he’d gotten showered and changed. He didn’t even bother saying goodbye to his teammates. If any of them wanted to apologize, they had his number.

“If you want to stay longer,” Mom said, “we can head to the house without you.”

“No. I want to get out of here. Now.” He walked quickly down the hall toward the underground parking, leaving his parents scrambling to catch up. He was being rude, he knew, but he felt like he wouldn’t be able to breathe until he was out of the fucking arena.

When he got to his car, he leaned back against it and stared up at the ugly ceiling of the garage. His eyes burned with furious tears. “They think I fell on purpose,” he said.

Mom said. “Who said that? I want names.”

Shane shook his head. “I’ve given this team everything and…” His face crumpled.

Dad wrapped his arms around him. “I’m sorry, Shane. It’s been a rough couple of weeks for you.”

Shane sniffed. “It can only get better, right?” He glanced over Dad’s shoulder to see Mom frowning at her phone. “Oh god. What now?”

Mom forced her lips into the least convincing smile Shane had ever seen. “Nothing important. Let’s go home.”

“You were checking Twitter, weren’t you? What’s everyone saying?”

Mom slipped her phone into her pocket. “Like I said. Nothing important.”