mashed pumpkin

Shane was determined. Montreal had made a grave error, getting caught in a penalty and giving Ottawa a rare power play. Moments like these were the reason why Shane played hockey. The thrumming in his veins, the determination pumping throughout his body, the feeling of his husband only meters away from him on the ice, just as hungry as he was to kick the asses of the team that’d betrayed him. 

As soon as the puck was dropped, he shot off like a rocket. 

It was magic. 

He and Ilya together on the ice, on the same team, always was. Moving seamlessly, communicating without words or even the need to look each other’s way, the puck flew between the two of them before the other team could react. And within seconds, the goal buzzer sounded, and Ottawa was in the lead by two.

Beaming, Shane slammed into Ilya in celebration, shouting with happiness as his husband placed a sloppy kiss on his helmet and yelled, “Fuck yes, sweetheart!” before skating off again.

But as he moved to face off against Monreal’s new star center again, he saw the rage boiling under the other man’s skin.

“Sweetheart?” the player muttered, so low the ref couldn’t hear. “So fucking gross. What’ll it be next? Honey bear? Sweet pea?” He scoffed, face twisted in disgust. “Jesus Chirst, sweetheart, can’t fucking wait for the day the league gets it’s shit together and kicks you both off the ice, god knows how many of us might get some terrible disease just being near you f–”

But the whistle blew and the puck dropped, and Shane skated away with it, allowing the man to chase after him just long enough to turn and slam him into the boards. 

Nishimoto Ryota