“Do you feel any added pressure to prove yourself playing against your old team?” A reporter asks, and the rest of them seem to perk up at the question, excitedly awaiting the answer.
Shane forces his face neutral as he shrugs. “This game is just as important as any other. We are going to do our best. Montreal is a strong team, but don’t count us out. I have no doubt in our ability to get this win,” he says amicably.
He hears and feels Ilya let out an unhappy exhale from behind him. He comes to stand by Shane’s side and leans closer to the microphone to say, “Hollander doesn’t need to prove himself to that garbage team. The only reason they won the cup in the past is because of him. It won’t happen again without him.”
“This is my interview,” Shane tells Ilya, but the glare he is attempting to level him with is weak, and there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Ilya harrumphs and bumps his shoulder into Shane’s. “You’re doing it wrong.”
“Asshole,” Shane whispers to him and shakes his head. There is a wide grin on his face, his brown eyes are soft and fond.
“Ilya, is the outcome of this match personal for you?” Another reporter asks, clearly taking advantage of Ilya’s early appearance.
Shane tries to subtly nudge Ilya, wordlessly telling him to behave. He doesn’t know why he bothers.
“I have hated Montreal professionally for more than a decade,” Ilya starts, pausing for a while, gathering his thoughts. It always amazes Shane how Ilya is able to command attention, to keep people engaged even in his silences. Ilya glances at Shane, his eyes roaming over his face, before turning to the reporters once more. “My dislike is more personal now, yes, but outcome is not a question. We will beat them. Today and any other time. I’ll personally make sure of it.”
“Any last words for your competition before the game?”
Ilya puts a hand on the small of Shane’s back and starts steering him away. “Don’t fuck with my husband.”
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