#tiny spoiler

A nonchalant shrug. “Rozanov uses too much gel. It’s his own fault.”

“Nuh-uh. He’s not shutting up about it. They’re going to check the replay.”

Sure enough, Ilya was standing in the penalty box, shouting at the top of his lungs how his helmet couldn’t have come off on its own. Either “Shane Hollander” took it off or the ghost of Milt Schmidt did. And of course, since they were in Boston, the referees listened to him and were getting Toronto to review the tape.

As if Shane Hollander, whose only fight was against Scott Hunter after a game ended, who had a grand total of eight penalty minutes last year, four for interference and four for holding, could have ripped off Ilya Rozanov’s helmet because the opposing center was going to beat him to the puck in the corner of the offensive zone.

And since a player who lost his helmet was required to put it back on immediately or head back to the bench, Ilya should have gone back to Boston’s bench and essentially given Montreal a ten-second power play.

Enough time to score.

Unfortunately, Ilya stayed in the corner and fought Shane for possession of the puck, resulting in an interference call. Then, he refused to shut up about Shane pulling off his helmet, which was just crazy.

But Ilya was now cheering in the penalty box as the lineman skated toward the Montreal bench.

“Montreal Number 24, two minutes, roughing,” the referee announced to the arena.

“Roughing?” Shane shot to his feet. “Are you serious?”

“Let’s go, Hollander,” the lineman called.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Shane protested, even as he lifted his legs over the boards. This was bullshit. “If his hair wasn’t so greasy, it wouldn’t have come off.”

“You like my curls, Hollander?” Ilya called from his box as Shane neared. “Just couldn’t wait to run your fingers through them, hm?”

“You shouldn’t use so much gel!” Shane yelled back as he stepped into the penalty box. “Then your helmet wouldn’t just fall off.”

“Oh, you are not so innocent. You are a bad boy. We all know it.” He motioned toward the Boston fans who responded with loud, hostile jeers in Shane’s direction.

Shane took a seat and shook his head. “Not all of us have to break the rules to win, Rozanov.”

“Except I was going to beat you to the puck. Because I am so distracting, Hollander. We all know this.”

“Fuck off,” Shane spat and covered his smile with his glove.

The penalties eventually ran out without any goals, and Shane and Ilya were released back onto the ice. Shane immediately accepted the puck from Hayden and raced down the ice toward the Boston net.

Ilya was right there, a hair faster, and then they were both sliding across the ice and slamming into the boards.

When Shane got up with his hands raised – There was no penalty? Really? – Ilya snorted and muttered as he skated past, “You didn’t try to undress me this time.”

“It was your helmet! Keep your pants on.” 

Ilya winked. “For now.”

Shane let out a tiny laugh, hoped people thought his blush came from the game, and chased Ilya down the ice. 

Almost two hours later, Ilya met Shane at his front door, his curls dry but untamed by any product. His eyes were dancing, his crooked smirk softer than usual. “If you like my hair without the gel, you should have just said. I’ll try pomade.”

Shane couldn’t help himself, and even before the door was shut, he buried his fingers in Ilya’s hair. He pulled Ilya close, their lips brushing. “I really like your curls.”

“I know. You couldn’t wait to see them.”

“I would have beaten you to the puck.”

“Hm. No, you wouldn’t have,” Ilya whispered back, “but it is cute that you think so.”

There wasn’t much more to say between them. Later, Shane would murmur how he missed Ilya and Ilya would say it back. They’d cuddle in bed, their legs entangled, their shared warmth a comfort Shane would take back to Montreal with him. (He couldn’t call Montreal “home” anymore. Home was wherever Ilya was.)

Eventually, they’d probably watch Sportscenter and eat tuna melts and just enjoy being in each other’s space for the little time they had that night.

But for now, Shane simply pulled Ilya close for a tender but heated embrace, his fingers trailing through his boyfriend’s curls. Ilya reciprocated, tugging on the longer strands of Shane’s hair.

Huh.

Maybe Shane would grow his out, see if Ilya liked that.

And oh, he did.

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A/N: Happy Birthday, Shane!

Also, this story is based on a recent Sidney Crosby penalty.

Shaneweek Prompts:

The real outcome confuses me.