Tits up !

You direct a sports documentary about two of the greatest hockey players in the world. And how they were bitter rivals but eventually became friends and even started a charity together. It’s good, juicy, it gets excellent ratings, and is possibly award winning. The future is bright.

ESPN’s publicists keep talking about how you had unprecedented levels of access to these superstars, and meticulously combed through over a decade of footage of them. The only thing viewers grumble about is that they still don’t know why Ilya Rozanov left Boston for Ottawa. It’s the one mystery of their rivalry that you couldn’t unravel. But overall, the reactions are very positive. A professional triumph for you.

And then only a month later, the whole world (including you) is astonished to find out that these heated rivals have been in a serious and secret romantic relationship for years!!! And you missed the whole thing! One (1) month ago.

The documentary would quickly go from jewel in the crown to albatross around the neck of everybody involved in it. Because you did all this research, you had all this access, and yet you didn’t have a clue. They’re together? They’re getting fucking married? Ilya Rozanov moved to Ottawa because he was more in love with Shane Hollander than he was with being on a cup winning team?

Oh my God, ESPN would be contemplating destroying every copy of the documentary they commissioned, and which had great ratings. Everybody involved in making it has to log into LinkedIn and delete it from their professional history.

I HAVE FOUND MY FAVOURITE POST ON THE INTERNET

Shane, as always, was absolutely unshakable as he sat at the table surrounded by his new teammates. Though the cards in his hand were almost as awful as he was with women, he wasn't about to give up hope. Eyes roving around the group, he decided to go in for the kill. "I raise you all two hundred," he said calmly, throwing chips into the center of the table, trying not to smirk as, predictably, the guys began to let out hisses and sighs.

"I fold," Boodram announced, throwing down his cards and shaking his head frustratedly.

"Same. Fuck you, Hollander."

"Menace at hockey and poker, not fair..."

Shane held his stoic expression as everyone gave in, until only one man was left.

Ilya Rozanov glared at Shane as if he was trying to decide if he'd committed an egregious crime. 

Shane held his gaze, blinking calmly, refusing to back down under his husband's pressure. Everyone around the table looked on eagerly, like they were spectating a particularly intense tennis match, heads snapping back and forth between the two men, waiting for someone to speak. 

Then–

"You are lying. I–what is word? I call you, Hollander."

Cursing under his breath, Shane slammed his cards down on the table and grimaced, the table of guys catcalling and laughing. 

"How the fuck do you always know?" Shane muttered, rolling his eyes as Ilya gloatingly grabbed the sizable amount of chips in the middle of the table.

"You have tell, malysh," Ilya murmured back, beaming. His hand moved to trace between Shane's eyebrows. "There is line, here. Shows when you say 'I hate you, Ilya. You are asshole, Ilya.' And, back...before, when you would say, 'I do not like you Ilya.' Shows when you lie, Hollander."

Shane felt himself blush. "When...did you figure that out?" he whispered.

"Around time I figure out I was lying, too."

Oh.

Well.

holy shit

As the front door closed behind Shane with a gentle click, David turned back to the man sitting across from him at the dining table.

Ilya Rozanov.

The Ilya Rozanov.

His son’s long-time rival.

And now… partner?

“I have only been in love with one person.”

“Same here. Only one.”

“I think I’m supposed to give you the shovel talk now,” David said, trying for a smile.

Rozanov frowned. “What is– what is shovel talk?”

“Ah. Right. Sorry. It’s, uh, the talk that dads give when their children start… seeing someone. The whole… don’t hurt my son.” David tried for a more joking tone, shaking his fist in mock-aggression, but Rozanov’s face was drawn, lips pressed tightly together.

“I will not hurt Shane,” he ground out with a quick shake of his head, voice rough.

“You’ll try not to,” David corrected, because it was impossible to say for certain that they would never fight – their whole public relationship proved it – but Ilya firmly shook his head again.

“No. Not try. I do.” Rozanov looked like he had made his mind up, his expression one of single-minded focus that David mostly glimpsed during Boston v. Montreal games. That, David supposed, was rather comforting. He hummed in agreement, and both men took a sip of their drinks.

Rozanov asked after a moment, “Where… where does shovel come in?”

“What…? Oh! I think I’m supposed to threaten you with a shovel…? I don’t actually know,” David admitted with a shrug, wishing he could help more to breach the language barrier.

“You have permission,” Rozanov said, “If I hurt Shane, you can hit me with a shovel.”

David couldn’t help the way he tensed at Rozanov’s flat, serious tone. “It’s a joke, Ro… Ilya. I would never.”

Rozanov– Ilya looked down at his glass, then away to the window. He reached up and tugged on one of his earlobes. His Adam's apple bobbed once, then he sniffed sharply. “Okay.”

The silence that settled over them was thicker, a little more stifling.

There was something about the way he said it, okay, that David instantly recognised. He scoured his memory trying to think– oh. Shane.

David remembered Shane, high as a kite in a hospital bed, saying okay to everything with a silly little grin playing on his bruised and battered face.

O-ke, it sounded like.

Because he was copying Ilya, David realised.

He almost smiled. He’d have to show Ilya the photos and videos he’d snuck of Shane in that giggly state. Maybe he’d even caught an o-ke in there.

But that was something he could probably do later, when the air wasn’t muggy with tension. A tension that David felt guilty about putting there.

He wanted to break the ice (ha), but… what was he supposed to talk about? Hockey, of course, was the obvious, if not shallow choice. To talk about Shane was a little more of a touchy subject, considering that he hadn’t yet come back from his talk with Yuna. David was sure it was going fine – he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Yuna loved their son unconditionally – he just hoped that they were talking about it in a way that wouldn’t hurt each other. He hoped it wasn’t a ‘breaking a bone so it set correctly’ situation.

“Well, I guess you’ll be staying for lunch,” David settled on. “What do you want?”

Ilya just blinked.

“For lunch?” David prompted. “What do you want to eat for lunch?”

“I eat anything,” Ilya said, then added with a shake of his head, “I am not on a stupid bird food diet.” He smirked, but it was soft and undeniably fond.

Something in David’s chest shifted and settled, turning over like a log, left too long in the fireplace, revealing its warm underbelly. He smiled at the kid. “Well, then. Do you like pasta?”

Ilya grinned.