Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

BREAKING NEWS: Sources within the MLH confirm that recently outed married couple Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have declined a deal from the MLH Commissioner’s office which would have adjusted current salary cap regulations to allow them to join the same team. The Commissioner is said to be “disappointed” at this outcome and reiterated that the offer from his office was “very generous.” A statement from Hollander and Rozanov claims that the terms of the agreement were “unacceptable” to them and that they will be “pursuing [their] own path forward.” 

BREAKING NEWS: Sources within the MLH reveal that the deal offered to Hollander and Rozanov by Commissioner Roger Crowell included a clause requiring them to walk back statements previously made on social media regarding the lack of safety for queer people in professional hockey culture. This news comes as the public response to Hollander and Rozanov’s outing becomes increasingly heated and calls for serious reform of Major League Hockey continue to spread. Crowell is scheduled to join the MLH Board of Governors for an emergency meeting next week. 

BREAKING NEWS: MLH stars Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have waived their protection clauses and will make themselves eligible for the expansion draft. This news comes after a tumultuous few weeks following their involuntary outing by reporter Bryan Manning, who is currently under investigation. The MLH’s response to the Hollander-Rozanov marriage reveal has come under intense public scrutiny as has its broad lack of LGBTQIA+ inclusivity. Speculation is now rife as to what effect, if any, Hollander and Rozanov’s apparent decision to play for the newly formed Quebec City Owls will have on this. 

BREAKING NEWS: Following the announcement that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have made themselves eligible for the expansion draft, record numbers of MLH players have also waived their protection clauses. One of these players, on condition of anonymity, stated, “I’d have to be completely f***ing insane to want to play against those two. Obviously I want to be on their team. Anyone who doesn’t, deserves what they get.” The resulting pool of players represents an unprecedented level of talent for the QC Owls to choose from, leading some to speculate that, unusually for an expansion team, they will be serious contenders for the Cup in the 2018-2019 season. 

BREAKING NEWS: Quebec City Owls select Shane Hollander as their first pick and Ilya Rozanov second in the expansion draft. This is a direct reversal of the 2009 MLH draft, in which Rozanov was the first pick and Hollander the second. 

[Image: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov holding Quebec City jerseys with their names and numbers on the back. Hollander’s smile is pleased bordering on smug while Rozanov’s is exasperated but fond.]

BREAKING NEWS: Quebec City Owls finalise their pre-season roster and announce that they will be introducing a co-captain structure for their team leadership this season. Both Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov will wear the C, with two alternate captains who are yet to be chosen. This unorthodox approach is already drawing criticism from around the MLH. When asked about his decision, Owls head coach Ivan Alombard stated, “Do you want to choose between those two? Because I f***ing don’t. Anyone who thinks they can do better than this, be my f***ing guest.” 

September 2018

When Jace Hawthorne learned he’d been selected by the Quebec City Owls in the expansion draft, he could hardly believe it. Unlike his teammates—unlike practically everyone in the entire league who wasn’t either super loyal to his team or a complete bigoted asshole—Jace hadn’t waived any protection clauses in his contract. Mostly because he hadn’t had any protection clauses to waive. Jace was a third line right winger coming off a solid but not especially remarkable rookie season with Carolina, a good team that had done its best to fit him in but where he’d just never quite found his niche. Which meant he’d have been eligible for the draft no matter what but to actually make the cut? That he had not expected. Out of all the players across the MLH desperate to be part of this new team Hollander and Rozanov were building, he was one who’d been chosen. 

It was a heady fucking rush. 

“Hollander thinks you’ll be good on his wing,” Coach Alombard told him on the second day of training camp, where so far only Jace and the other second or third year players were present, and for a minute Jace just stared at him, uncomprehending. 

“H-Hollander?” he echoed faintly once he’d found his voice. “Wants me? On his wing?” 

“Yeah, kid.” Alombard’s wry grin told Jace the coach understood exactly what was going through his head. “He does. He’s run your numbers and his numbers and some other numbers that I’ll tell you honestly I’d never even heard of before and concluded that of all the players in the MLH you would suit his style of play best, plus have plenty of good years still ahead of you.” 

“I don’t even have any good years behind me.” Jace dug a fingernail into the back of his hand and yep, that hurt like a son of a bitch. This was really happening.

“You will,” said Coach Alombard. 

Alombard was an unexpected selection himself, a coach with over twenty years’ experience, none of which involved professional hockey. Instead he had a haphazard collection of three-to-five year stints with university teams across the United States and Canada. In most MLH head offices his name would never even enter the conversation but Hollander claimed to ‘like his approach’ and so now Ivan Alombard found himself unexpectedly at the helm of a major league hockey team and feeling—to his frank and complete surprise—like he may finally, actually, have found his place in the world. 

“Hollander is going to want to mould you,” he told Jace now, “and you’d be wise to let yourself be moulded. No one knows his shit like Hollzy does. You’ll be a superstar before he’s done with you, mark my words.”   

Jace marked them, memorised them, took them deeply to heart. Lit by a new fire, he worked harder than he ever had in his life during that first week of camp before the veterans arrived. He would not, he thought grimly as he pressed that extra rep, ran that extra drill, watched that extra game tape, he would not fail Shane Fucking Hollander or do anything to make him regret his decision. 

On the first day of the full-roster camp, Jace entered the locker room to find it heaving with men whose faces he recognised, from playing against them, from watching them play against each other when he was growing up. Some had played on rival teams for years and now were teammates. Jace watched them as they watched each other, tentatively, a bit warily at first, like they weren’t quite sure how all of this was going to work out. 

Then Hollander and Rozanov arrived. 

“Look at all of these fucking assholes playing on my team now,” Rozanov crowed as he surveyed the room. “Some of them I really fucking hate.” 

“You’ll get over it,” Hollander said. 

“Somebody will,” Rozanov agreed. “They will also get over hating each other, since they all wanted so fucking badly to be here. They will not hold grudges. There will be no grudge-holding on my team, Hollander.” 

No one seemed quite certain how to respond to that, then a voice from the back of the room piped up. “Rozy, you prick, you plan to say that to our fucking faces or just bitch to your husband behind our backs?” 

Rozanov turned a terrifying, delighted grin on the man who’d spoken. Borgen, Jace thought. Defenseman from Vancouver who bore more than a passing resemblance to the Mountain from Game of Thrones. 

“I would always rather speak to my husband than to your fucking face, Borgy,” Rozanov said. “But since you ask, yes.” He clapped his hands together. “Every asshole in this room listen up. And yes, that is all of you.” The grin was gone, in its place a look that every one of them had seen on Roz’s face before, on the ice right before he fucking demolished them. “This team you play for now will be unlike any you have ever been on, and not just because your captains sleep together.” 

Hollander rolled his eyes but he said nothing. Neither did anyone else. Jace glanced around but none of the other players were reacting to Rozanov’s words in any way.  

The scowl that formed on Rozanov's face encompassed them all. “That was a joke, dickheads,” he said sternly. “First rule of being on this team is you all fucking laugh at my jokes. Will not be hard, they are always very funny.” 

“If it helps you can laugh at him not with him,” Hollander said, and that startled genuine laughs from Jace and most of the rest of the team. Rozanov sighed dramatically, but Jace’s keen eye spotted fond amusement in the glance he shot at Hollander. 

“This team will be different,” Roz took up his speech again, “not because Hollander and I fuck but because we do not fuck around. We are the best and we expect you all to meet our very high standards. We have chosen you specifically for reasons that are very clever and calculated and if you want to know what they are please come to me so I can have the pleasure of explaining what goes on inside Hollander’s head. You will regret you ever asked.” 

A ripple of honest laughter rolled through the room at that, as Roz grinned and even Hollander cracked a smile. 

“We have every confidence in you,” Hollander said. “I wouldn’t have chosen you otherwise.” The slight emphasis on the I had Roz rolling his eyes. “You’ll work your asses off, obviously. So will we. Keep your focus, stay sharp, work hard, and we’ll win. Our goal this year is the Cup. Nothing less.” His smile was gone now, his eyes steely. “Don’t let us down.” 

He would, Jace thought, actually rather die than let Hollander down. A glance around the locker room told him he was not the only one who felt this way. The men who had been eyeing each other warily before now exchanged cordial nods. Some even shook hands. 

“Good.” Rozanov beamed at them approvingly. “Now. You’ve all got your practice assignments, so gear up and get your asses out on our brand new fucking ice!” 

Jace joined the cheer that rose up at this, quickly finished putting on his gear, grabbed his helmet and was about to head out the door when he felt a gloved had land on his shoulder pad. He turned to see Hollander—Shane fucking Hollander, with a hand on his shoulder—smiling a friendly smile. “Hey,” he said, “Hawthorne, right?” 

“Y-yes,” Jace replied. He knew his eyes must be huge but there was nothing he could do to shrink them. “That’s, uh. Me.” 

Hollander’s smile grew wider. “I don’t bite, kid,” he said. “Well, not usually. Only when the moon is full.”

 “Ha.” The laugh burst from Jace like a gunshot. “Is that tonight?” 

“You’re safe for at least a week or so,” Hollander deadpanned. “You got a nickname, Hawthorne?” 

“Yeah, um. It’s Hawk. Or Hawky.” 

“Cool,” Hollander said. “I like that. Think you can live up to it?” 

“Yes, sir,” Jace said automatically, and at this Hollander actually laughed. 

“Hollzy, or Hollz,” he said. “That’s what the people I like call me. If you’re going to be on my wing you can’t be calling me sir.” 

“No, s-um. No. Obviously.” 

Hollander grinned. “Obviously. Well, come on then, Hawky, let’s get out there. Show me what you’ve got.” 

What Jace had, it turned out, was chemistry—actual fucking chemistry on the ice with actual fucking Shane Hollander. Whatever numbers he had run, they were spot fucking on. Hollander meticulously explained his plays to Jace and to Nate Erbe, a left winger formerly of Chicago, then they three ran them together. Complex, precise, clever plays that demanded speed and focus and were so unlike the ones his old centre at Carolina used to run it almost felt like playing a different sport. They clicked in Jace’s brain in a such a pleasing way and executed themselves so smoothly on the ice that he could hardly believe it. The first practice seemed to fly by. 

Afterwards, Jace and his new best buddy Erbs were flat-out exhausted, Hollander quietly smug. “Nice work,” he told them, and Jace could see clearly that he meant it. He glowed at the praise and carried that glow with him into the locker room, basking in it even as he collapsed on the bench and tried to summon sufficient strength to remove his gear. Around him, his new teammates were laughing and joking and ribbing each other. Over in a corner, Hollander and Rozanov were bickering over which of their lines would score more goals this season. The two best hockey players in a generation and they were both on his team now, he marvelled. A team that felt like a team, where he already felt like he had a place. Jace sat quietly for a minute and just soaked it all in. 

Oh yeah, he thought. This was going to be a good fucking year. 

BREAKING NEWS: QC Owls dominate in their first regular season matchup, defeating the defending Cup champion New York Admirals 8-1. Admirals captain Scott Hunter told press after the game, “I don’t know what I was expecting, actually. It wasn’t this but it probably should have been.” In response, Owls co-captain Ilya Rozanov stated, “Hunter definitely should have been expecting this.” 

November 2018

If anyone had asked Jace before the season what he thought playing on a team with married co-captains would be like, he wouldn’t have been able to provide an answer. The concept was so outside the realm of his experience that he couldn’t even imagine it. Had he given the matter any thought, he may have guessed they’d be bickering all the time like his parents did, or maybe over-the-top affectionate with each other like his sister Stella and her boyfriend, though Jace suspected that was more for the benefit of Stella’s Instagram followers than born of genuine affection or a solid relationship. 

At the very least he’d have figured there would be shenanigans of some sort. Like how they’d been at the All-Star game last year, joking around together, kissing on the ice. The reality turned out to be very different. 

At first, they were strictly, almost ostentatiously professional in the locker room. They never hid or skirted around the reality of their relationship—Roz in particular seemed to really enjoy bringing it up, tossing around the word husband like a gauntlet then watching all of them intently to mark their response. When nobody reacted badly or gave any indication they had a problem with Roz or with Hollzy or with the concept of them itself, a tension Jace hadn’t realised existed until it was gone, vanished from the pair of them. And then, slowly, as the preseason ended and the regular one got underway, Hollander and Rozanov began to let their strictly professional, hockey-only locker room demeanours slip a little, and once they did that startling things fell out. 

"You and Roz have always matched up pretty evenly, right?"  Jace heard Erbs ask Hollander as they were gearing up for their third regular season game, looking, Jace imagined, for some face-off tactics advice.

"No," Hollander replied. “Rozanov has never once beaten me in a face-off.”

Jace looked up sharply at that because, well. It was a flat out lie. They’d all, every last one of them, witnessed Roz beating him at face-offs with their very own eyes. “Not legitimately,” Hollander amended when he noticed the eyes of the whole locker room now were on him. “Not with skill. The only way he can win them is by distracting me with sex. Cheating.” 

Before anyone had a chance to fully digest the implications of that, Roz chimed in. “I cannot believe I married such a hypocrite,” he lamented. “Does Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Championships 2014 mean nothing to you?” 

“Only that I can beat you at your own game,” Hollander shot back. 

“I won that game!”

“You lost the last face-off and we both remember why.” 

Roz leaned closer to him, gaze intent on Hollander’s face, and muttered something in Russian in a low tone. Though not low enough apparently, as Vasilyev choked on air and needed three heavy thumps on his back from Borgy to regain his ability to breathe. 

“I think I need to wash my brain,” he said in a small voice. 

Hollander muttered something back at Roz, all the blood drained from Vasilyev’s face, and that seemed to put an end to the dispute. Except that now Jace was fascinated and started to observe Hollander and Rozanov’s interactions much more closely.

They were, he concluded after several weeks’ close scrutiny, the most obviously together pair of people he had ever seen. 

Though what that meant exactly he had a bit of a struggle to narrow down. They weren’t obvious like Stella, they didn’t grope each other or kiss, but those touches they did share were purposeful. Intimate. During pregame speeches they stood like a unit, shoulder to shoulder, and played off each other when they spoke. They sat side-by-side at their adjoining lockers, just that little bit closer than any two other players sat. Sometimes one would silently hand something to the other and he would take it without looking, like he knew it would be there. There was an ever-present awareness of the other in the way they moved, so that even when they were doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary somehow they were doing it together. As a pair. 

Then there was the thing with their wedding rings. 

They didn’t wear the gold ones during practices or games of course, but swapped them out for flexible silicone. Every time they made the switch, Rozanov would reach out his hand for Hollander’s, always right as Hollz was ready to remove it. He then would take his off as well and tuck both into a little box which he put on the shelf above his cubby. When they swapped back again, Roz would shake both rings out into his palm then hand Hollander his without looking and Hollz would slip it on his finger.

Jace knew Hollander well enough now to be certain that he was accustomed to the exact shape and weight of his particular ring and that even though both were plain gold in what was basically the same size he would know if he had the wrong one and it would bug the fuck out of him. Yet even though the rings appeared identical, to Jace’s eye at least, the one Roz handed to his husband without so much as a glance at it was always the right one. 

How the fuck, Jace marvelled, did Rozanov always know? 

It was absolutely fucking fascinating. 

It wasn’t until the first game they played against the Metros, on Montreal ice, that the team bore witness to anything more than this subtle, casual intimacy between them. Hollzy was visibly tense as they all put on their gear, and while Roz did not actually hover protectively over him he did emit a powerfully compelling ‘touch my man and die’ vibe that pervaded the locker room and had everyone giving them a very wide berth. 

 Just before it was time to head out, they turned to each other and held a silent conversation. Hollander nodded, then Roz stood up. 

“Right, listen up!” He clapped his hands, then waited until all eyes were on him. For the first time all season Hollander did not stand with him, but remained on the bench with his elbows on his knees, looking down. “We all know that this game is going to suck,” Roz said. He paused to allow them all to nod their understanding, their acknowledgement of the history between Hollander and the Metros. None of them had the full details of that history but what they did know was enough to make every last one mad enough to fight. Roz assessed them with his knowing gaze, then the expression on his face turned evil. "This game is going to suck," he said again. “For them.” Hollander’s head shot up and Roz turned to smirk at him. “We are undefeated. They have won nothing, will win nothing without Hollander because they are nothing without him. Nothing to us. Less than fucking nothing.” 

Around the room, mutters of Fuck yeah and Preach, Rozy, and similar were rising. Rozanov’s voice rose to be heard over the growing din. “We know that they will try their best to bait us into fights because that is all they have. They cannot defeat us by playing better hockey and they know it. So they will try to make us defeat ourselves. We will not.” He paused, his expression deadly serious now as his narrowed gaze swept the room. “Do you understand? We. Will. Not. Defeat. Ourselves. We play our game, not theirs. Our game is hockey. That is what we play and we will not be distracted by lame attempts at slurs and ragebait from a team that would not know which end of the stick to hold without Hollander to tell them.” 

“Not even you, Roz?” Metzger chimed in. 

“Especially not me. Not me, not fucking anyone. No reaction when they chirp us. No fighting unless they hit first. We have to be better than them in every way because every eye in the MLH will be on us tonight. Everyone is watching us and we will give them a fucking show. Collins”—his eyes found the goalie—“nothing gets past you, got it?" Collins gave a nod. "Borgy, Rafferty”—the two defensemen sat up straighter—“you keep those fuckers the fuck away from Hollander.” He pointed at his husband, who was watching him with an expression that made Jace's skin feel hot. “Everyone passes at goal to this man right here. Only to him.” Roz turned again and the smile he gave Hollander had more heat leaping low in Jace’s belly. “He will take care of the rest.”

The room fell silent, then Hollander said quietly, “I really want to kick their asses. I want to grind their asses into fucking dust.” He straightened up and looked around, at the team that was poised and ready to go out and throw down for him, at his signal. “Just give me that chance.” 

“Fuck yeah, Hollzy!” cried Erbe, and the rest of the team took up the cheer. 

Roz sat down again, close beside Hollander. “Everyone is with you, solnyshko,” Jace heard him say. He laid a hand on the back of Hollander’s neck and massaged it gently. “The whole team.” 

Jace stared. So, he observed from the corner of his eye, did nearly all the others. This was the first overtly affectionate gesture they had witnessed between their captains. It melted Jace’s heart a bit, he couldn’t lie. 

“Yeah.” Hollzy gave Roz a little smile. “I know.” 

Roz tugged him closer until their foreheads touched. Hollander’s eyes fell shut. He listened to whatever Roz muttered to him—genuinely too low this time for anyone else to hear—and then he smiled. He said something in return that had Roz’s grin blooming. The locker room made an award-winning production of Not Noticing A Single Thing while at the same time watching eagerly as Roz pressed a quick kiss to Hollander’s lips then released him. Suddenly everyone became completely engrossed in the very precise adjustment of their gear. 

“What the fuck are you fuckers staring at?” Roz snapped at them. “Get the fuck out there. We’ve got a fucking game to win.” 

The game was vicious. Or would have been, had they let it. Montreal was out for blood from the first puck drop, Hollander’s blood specifically. 

They never got near him. 

The Owls’ defence was a brick wall, their offence a machine. Jace felt almost like he’d slipped into a species of trance state, executing plays with the smooth efficiency that came from hours of intensive practice and the sort of on-ice chemistry that nothing could buy, force, or replicate. He had assists on Hollander’s first goal, on his second, on his third. After the hat trick he wondered if Alombard might pull Hollzy but one look at his centre’s face made it clear that even if he tried, Hollz wouldn’t go. 

From the bench he watched as in each of Roz's shifts he toyed with Montreal's defenders, skating tauntingly around them, mocking them with his handling of the puck, with the lightning-quick passes he made to his wingers right in front of them, but he took zero shots on goal nor did any of his line. By the beginning of the second period, Jace had realised why.

He was wearing them out. He was forcing them to spend all their energy chasing him, draining their resources for when Hollz was back on the ice fresh as a fucking daisy and ready to grind their asses into dust as promised. 

It was, frankly, fucking beautiful. 

Jace assisted Hollander on his fourth goal, Erbe on his fifth. Each time, Hollzy refused to celebrate. He refused to react when the goalie, Drapeau, shouted some of the most vicious slurs Jace had ever heard at him. He remained cool and stone-faced throughout, though Jace could sense the deep satisfaction he felt every time. The vindication. It spurred them all on. 

By the third period the Metros’ game had fallen spectacularly to pieces. Three fights had broken out among their own players, after Roz had chirped back at them but refused to engage. They had racked up an insane amount of penalty minutes and two of their defensemen had been ejected from the game. Still, Hollander remained cool and coolly un-fucking-touchable. 

When he scored his sixth goal on Jace’s fifth assist with a minute left in the game, only then did he crack a smile. A small, satisfied one that gave Jace and Erbe the excuse they needed to skate over together and envelop him in a three-way hug. “I can’t fucking believe this,” Jace said, and Erbs nodded. 

“Believe it,” Hollzy told them both, in a tone of profound satisfaction. 

Alombard did pull him after that, and Roz too. They all watched from the bench as the fourth line ran down the final seconds of Montreal’s utter humiliation on their home ice. 

The Owls didn’t celebrate when the final buzzer sounded, beyond some patting of backs, a few ‘congratulations,’ and ‘good games’. Of more than that, they simply weren’t capable. They were too deep in awe. 

“So, um, Hollzy man,” ventured Metzger in the locker room after, stepping in where the rest of them feared to tread. “That was fucking incredible.” 

“Yep,” Hollander agreed. 

Metzy laughed, loud and delighted. “Fucking legend,” he said, with an elbow to his linemate Vasilyev’s ribs. “He’s gonna go out there now and tell the press all about how this was a team effort, isn't he. Fuck you, man.” 

“It was a team effort,” Hollander’s voice was intense and utterly serious; it drew all of their attention. “I’m proud of every fucking one of you. I couldn’t have done that with Montreal, or on any other team. You all had my back when I needed you and I will never fucking forget it.” 

Jace was pretty sure that none of them would. 

BREAKING NEWS: QC Owls soar to a thirteenth straight victory to start the season, the best ever start for an expansion team, with their 6-0 shutout of the Montreal Metros. Owls co-captain Shane Hollander scored every goal against his former team, who by contrast, have yet to notch a win this season. Hollander’s six-goal game is the first by any player since 1976 and puts him near the top of a very elite list. 

When asked about his feat after the game, Hollander had this to say: “I couldn’t have done it without my team at my back. They’re an outstanding group of guys. We were fortunate to have so many great players want to join us on this team and the way we clicked right from the start is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Turns out it’s pretty amazing to play on a team where everyone supports each other and carries their own weight. Who knew.”  

Hollander’s co-captain and husband Ilya Rozanov was asked for his take on the victory, but he was laughing too hard to speak. 

BREAKING NEWS: QC Owls off to best season start in history, not just for an expansion team but for any team since play began in 1910. Their success comes as Commissioner Roger Crowell remains under fire from fans and even from other players in the league, some of whom are calling for his resignation. Colorado captain Ben Pearson went on record last week, stating "Hollander, Rozanov, and the entire Quebec City organisation have shown this league that tolerance can mean great hockey. This is a principle that we are working to embrace in our locker room, and it's frankly disheartening to see it not reflected in the leadership of the MLH. I hope Commissioner Crowell considers his next moves with all the care appropriate to such a serious and sensitive issue." 

February, 2019

It was fun playing on a winning team, especially when you were right at the heart of it. By the time the All-Star break rolled around, the Owls were flying high (pun intended) and Jace was having the time of his life. 

The team was his family now. His brothers. Some of them his age, guys he could go out and have fun with. Others were older, there to give advice or guidance, anything the younger ones needed. Erbs and Metzy—Metzger, who played on Rozanov’s right wing—were his closest friends. Sometimes they were joined by Vasilyev, who was still struggling a bit to find his feet in North American culture, even in his third MLH season. He was Roz’s left wing and the two of them spent a lot of time together but Metz was determined to get Vassy out of his shell with the rest of them as well. 

“It’s tricky for him just being on this team,” he said to Jace and Erbs one night. “With Russia, you know. Roz is persona non grata there apparently and for Vass to play with him means it he might not be able to go back. But I think—” here Metzy paused, considering. “Not to assume anything, you know. But I think maybe Vassy doesn’t want to go back. For maybe the same reason Roz can’t.” 

“Whoa.” Jace and Erbs took a minute to consider this. “That’s heavy,” Erbs said. 

“Yeah. It really fucking is,” Metzy agreed. “So you’re with me, right guys? We give Vass a safe space to tell us whatever, when he’s ready?” 

The other two nodded in eager agreement. They had recently learned about safe spaces and allyship, and they were keen to put their studies into practice. 

And so the season rolled along. First their group of three officially became a group of four, then Vassy quietly came out to them. Then even more quietly he acquired a boyfriend, a music theory student at the Université Laval whose English was as shaky as Vassy’s, yet somehow they understood each other. 

"I learn French for him, no problem," Vassy told them with a shrug. "Is no stupider language than English." 

This seemed sensible, romantic even. But Erbs didn't think it was necessary. 

“They speak the language of love,” he declared, without the slightest intention of being funny. Jace and Metz exchanged a look, then Metz shrugged. 

“Who’s to say they don’t?” he said. 

Metzy himself was a bit of a player, a tall blond from northern Minnesota with a square jaw and blue eyes to whom women flocked wherever he went. They did not, however, flock back a second time and Metzy, who had an inconvenient crush on a woman who worked in a bookstore in Vieux Québec, could not figure out why.

“It’s like, these girls have a problem with something I do but they won’t tell me what the problem is, so I can’t fix it,” he lamented in the locker room after practice one day. “What am I supposed to do when I don’t know what I’m doing wrong?” 

“You tried talking to these women?” Borgy asked him. 

“Of course,” Metzy scoffed. “I’m not an asshole. But they all say everything’s fine in the moment, you know, then ghost me after. So everything is clearly not fine. But I don’t know why.” He sighed. “Hollzy, what do you think I’m doing wrong?” 

Everyone looked at him in surprise except for Rozanov, who appeared affronted. “Why are you asking him?” Roz demanded. “Hollander knows nothing about women.” 

“Untrue,” Hollzy shot back. “For your information, Rose told me that straight guys tend to check in during sex like it’s something they have to mark off their to-do list before getting to the main event. So if there is a problem the women don’t feel comfortable saying so because the guys aren't really listening to the answer and have already moved on to the next thing. So maybe make sure when you check in you give her a real chance to tell you if everything’s okay or not, Metzy, and if she seems uncomfortable be sure to find out why. Really listen, to her words and her body language, and let her know you care about how she feels.”

“Rose,” Metzy echoed, wide-eyed. “Rose… Landry? Said that?” 

“Yep,” said Hollander blithely, like the entire team wasn’t staring at him, slack-jawed. Including his own husband. “She also told me that a pussy is like a theatre, and most guys are too quick to try to go backstage. The action is at the front, she said. Between the curtains. That’s where you need to spend most of your time.” 

“Ooookay.” Metzy had his phone out and was typing frantically. “O-fucking-kay. Holy shit. I am taking notes.” 

Roz was glaring at Hollander now. “You and Rose talk about sex?” he demanded.

“Sometimes.” 

“Do you tell her about us?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Shane.” Roz was so indignant he forgot their careful use of last names only. “What the fuck?” 

“Oh come on, I’d’ve thought you’d be pleased. I always make you sound really good.” 

“Sound?!” Roz echoed, voice cracking on the word. “You make me sound good?”  

“Yeah.” Hollander’s little smirk said that he had chosen that word with deliberate intent. “So good that sometimes she doesn’t even believe me.” 

“You do not tell her about—” Roz raised his eyebrows and Hollander’s smirk fell away as his cheeks flushed a deep red. 

“No. Not that.” 

Not what? Jace mouthed to Erbs, who shrugged. His eyes were bugging out of his head. 

“Well at least some things are still sacred in this heathen world,” said Roz grimly. “Metzy, if you have real questions about women you come to me.” 

“No offence, Roz, but you’ve been married for like, a hundred years.” Metz’s attention was still on his phone. “To a dude.” 

Roz gestured emphatically at Hollander. “So has he! The same fucking marriage!” 

Metzy finally looked up from his screen. “Yeah but he’s like. Wise. And stuff.” 

“Wise!” Roz's tone was now one of profound insult, as Hollander leaned back on the bench, laughing his ass off. “You think I am not wise?” 

“Do you know how Rose Landry likes to fuck?” 

Roz began to sputter as Hollander’s smirk returned. “He’s got you there, babe.” 

“This is outrageous,” Roz declared. “I am—I have—he’s never—I—” 

“Did I break him?” Metzy whispered, eyes now wide in alarm.

“Maybe cracked him a little,” said Hollander. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” 

The next morning, Hollzy arrived at practice looking very relaxed, Roz smugly self-satisfied. Hollz gave Metzy a reassuring grin. “Taken care of,” he said. 

Jace, Metzy, Erbs, and Vassy all stared at him in awe. 

“There is literally nothing that man can’t do,” Metzy said, and the other three nodded their agreement. “Fucking legend.” 

BREAKING NEWS: QC Owls finish 2019 with the best regular season record and highest points total in MLH history. Watch our interview with head coach Ivan Alombard about the rewards and challenges of leading such a talented team, what to expect from the Owls in the playoffs, and the influence of co-captains and “first husbands of hockey” Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. 

[Shot: Head Coach Ivan Alombard, dressed in an Owls hoodie with his hands stuffed in the pockets. Next to him is a reporter, a young woman in a jacket and scarf, holding a large microphone. Behind them is the rink at the Centre Frédéric Broussard.]

Interviewer: Coach Alombard, your team has finished with the best record and points total in MLH history. You are the top seed in the playoffs, highly favoured to win the Cup. And this is your first season in operation. 

Alombard: Yep to all of that. Is there a question? 

I: I think the question we all have is, How? 

A: [Laughs]. The question I hear most often is How the f***?

I: Well, yes. That. What was your strategy going into the season? 

A: I honestly wish I could tell you I had some genius game plan from the beginning but the fact is I didn’t need one. With this team it’d be harder not to win. I’ve never seen anything like the way they came together, from the very first full-roster practice and all the way to the last seconds of the season. It’s been extraordinary. 

I: How much of that do you attribute to your unorthodox co-captain, alternating first-line structure, and to those captains themselves?

A: Most of it. At the start of the season a lot of people had opinions about how our team should function, most of that based on how other teams do things. I’d say the best decision I made as head coach was to ignore all of those opinions and let our team function the way it needs to. Between Hollander and Rozanov, obviously that’s an embarrassment of riches. No way to choose between them for who should be captain, who should be first line centre. So we did both. We had the luxury of doing both and it worked for them and for the rest of the team. Kept everyone on their toes and playing hard. Not that they wouldn’t have anyway. I’ve never seen a more motivated group of guys. 

I: You’ve had some challenges on the ice and in the media though, due to Hollander and Rozanov’s relationship and the league’s response. Other teams, players on the ice, have been, let’s say, vocal in their disapproval of having a married couple on a hockey team. You are on record several times saying that the Hollander-Rozanov marriage is a feature of your success, not a bug. Could you elaborate on that?

A: I’d love to. It’s an open secret that Hollzy and Roz were actively involved in the draft selections the Owls made and by extension in the building of this team. The one directive we all had from the beginning was, no as****es. Meaning, no homophobes, no misogynists, no racists. Zero tolerance for that or any related bu*****t on this team. Every one of our guys was made aware of that going in, and also that we were unique in the league to make it front and centre of our team culture. We knew we were going to run into resistance during games so we made our draft picks with that in mind then made sure our guys were prepared for how to deal with it. We did multiple training sessions on how to respond to toxic language and how to de-escalate situations. Our guys are all solid, to a man, but it was that preparation that made it possible for us to keep our focus even when opposing teams were trying to derail us and make the game not about hockey. Hockey first, that’s another pillar of our culture and one Hollander in particular is firm about. We’re not a queer-led team, we’re a team with a queer couple at its centre. That’s a small distinction but an essential one. Hollander and Rozanov’s sexualities, their marriage, are important because it’s part of who they are and who they are is important to how they play hockey and how they lead our team. But they’re not activists. We all respect the f*** out of activists and people who do the hard work of making the world a better place for queer folks and all of us, but that’s not what this team is here for. We’re here to play hockey with two of the greatest ever to lay blades on ice. I believe that just by providing a space for Hollander and Rozanov to be themselves, openly and without judgment, is what made it possible for them to realise their full potential. 

I: You think they weren’t realising their full potential before? 

A: [Chuckles]. They’re so good that their eighty percent is better than anyone else’s hundred. But yeah, I think we’ve seen this season what they’ve always been capable of but the stress of hiding and existing in hostile spaces took its toll on them. Also, honestly, the strain of being apart from each other. 

I: That’s sweet. 

A: Sweet’s not my department. It’s good for our team. 

I: You are now the winningest coach in MLH history by percentage. Last year you were coaching at Minnesota State. How does that feel?

A: Listen, I loved coaching college hockey. Those kids play hard and they work hard too, for their future even if that future isn’t in sports. I would have happily retired as a college hockey coach but since that’s not in the cards anymore I’m more than happy to stay with the Owls for as long as they’ll have me. It’s a uniquely rewarding job with a team like this. Feels f***ing great.  

I: What’s been the hardest adjustment for you?

A: There’s a lot of egos on this team. I say that with respect; these guys have earned the right to be proud of themselves and what they’ve accomplished already in their careers. But bringing all that pride, and especially from guys who may have been the stars of their teams before the draft, into one locker room was like bringing a powder keg right up next to a lit match. I have to credit Rozanov with keeping most of the hotheads under control but there were times when my experiences dealing with the egos of college juniors wasn’t quite sufficient and I had to step it up a bit. That didn’t last long though, honestly. By the time we started playing games the team had clicked. 

I: One final question, Coach. How do you rate your chances for the Cup?

A: The same as I did before the season even started. We’re winning it. 

I: Okay, folks, you heard it here first. Owls for the Cup. Coach Alombard, thank you. 

A: My pleasure. 

BREAKING NEWS: QC Owls complete first-round sweep of the Boston Raiders, 4-0, 5-2, 3-1, 4-1. Owls co-captain Ilya Rozanov on taking his former team out of the playoffs: “Beating people at hockey is my love language and I love the Raiders very much.” 

His co-captain and husband Shane Hollander: “We beat the Metros in every game this season. Do you love them too?” 

Rozanov: “Beating people at hockey is also my hate language.” 

After losing Rozanov to the expansion draft then losing to him in the playoffs, Raiders captain Cliff Marleau had this to say about his team’s 2018-2019 season: “Even getting to the playoffs after losing Rozy is a major achievement, let’s be real. I’m proud of all my guys. Honestly my dudes, I’m just proud we showed up.” 

April 2019

“ROZYYYYYYY!!!” 

Marleau’s voice bellowed over the general din of the bar. Ilya followed the sound until spotted the man himself, half a head taller than the rest of the crowd and waving them over to a corner booth. “My man!” Marly cried as they approached, arms lowered now but still spread wide. With a grin, Ilya walked into them and let Marly envelop him in a bone-crunching hug. 

“Good to see you, Marly,” he said. 

“‘Good to see you’, he says, after humiliating me on the ice tonight. Can you believe that shit?” 

It was a rhetorical question perhaps, as the only other person nearby to answer it was Shane, who said, “Humiliating is a strong word. You put up a decent showing.” 

“‘Decent showing’,” Marly echoed again, as he reached out to pull Shane into the hug. “From you, Hollz, I’ll take it. How the fuck are you both? No, don’t answer that, let me get you drinks first. Hollzy, you on the sauce tonight?” 

“One beer,” Shane said. 

“All riiiight,” said Marleau. “Have a seat, boys, I’ll be right back.” 

Shane and Ilya slid into the booth and Ilya took the opportunity to get the measure of the bar Marly had chosen. It wasn’t a hockey one, for obvious reasons, and no one seemed to be taking much notice of them. No spare Raiders fans knocking around, drowning their sorrows. Just a smattering of Red Sox caps and a baseball game on the TV above the bar to keep them entertained. 

“Good choice of place,” he said, and Shane agreed. 

“It’s not bad. You know. For Boston.” 

Ilya gave him a sharp elbow jab to the ribs and he laughed, just as Marleau returned with three beers and an order of onion rings. These he very deliberately placed in front of himself. “For me,” he said, “since you two still have games to play this season.” He grabbed the biggest ring and crunched it loudly. “You plan to lose any?” 

“Losing is never the plan,” Ilya said. “Especially on this team.” 

“Carolina will be a challenge,” Shane added. “They’ve played us hard all season.” 

“You don’t sound worried, man.” 

“I’m not.” Shane grinned as he sipped his beer and Marleau crowed in delight. 

“Course you’re not,” he said, “why would you be?” He regarded the pair of them with warmth and fondness and the slightest hint of envy. “You two fuckers are unstoppable.” 

“How are you, Marly?” Ilya asked him. “Is Samara still putting up with you?” 

“She is, dude, she is. Hard as that is to believe. I think I’ve pinched myself every day since Rose introduced us.” 

“Wasn’t that over a year ago?” Shane said. 

“Yeah, man, I’m starting to bruise.” Marleau laughed. “Still don’t know what she sees in me but I’m glad she sees it.” He crunched on another onion ring while giving Ilya and Shane a critical once-over. “You two look good,” he said. “Really fuckin’ happy. Quebec City’s still treating you well, then? Not just the team but like”—he waved his hand—“all of it.”  

Ilya glanced at Shane, who smiled. “It is,” Ilya said. He draped an arm around Shane’s shoulders as Shane snuggled into his side. “All of it. It’s home now.”  

“That’s awesome, guys. I’m really glad.” Marly’s gaze flitted between their faces, then he started to blink hard. “Fuck. I can’t with you two. Fucking—” He waved his hand in front of his face. “Tell me something unsexy. Distract me from your stupid perfect love. Carolina. Tell me your strategy for Carolina. And don’t just say ‘beat them’ Hollzy, I know you’ve got a fucking strategy. Tell me.” 

“Obviously I have a strategy but it’s a pretty fucking sexy one.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “The sexiest. Marly, I’m not sure you can handle it.” 

“Fuck you, Roz," Marleau sniffed. "Only you freaks think hockey strategy is sexy. Tell me, then you two can go fuck about it and I’ll call Samara for some nice, non-hockey-based phone sex.” 

Ilya and Shane exchanged another look. “If that is what you want,” Ilya said. 

“To each their own, I guess,” said Shane. 

Marleau rolled his eyes but when Shane outlined their strategy he listened very carefully. 

June 2019

The first sight that met Shane’s eyes when he opened them that morning was his husband’s face. Ilya lay on his back with the sheet pooled around his hips and one leg sprawled out from beneath it, taking up far more than his share of the bed. His curls were flattened on one side of his head—the consequence of falling asleep with them wet—and his mouth was open, a thin line of drool trailing down his chin. 

Shane smiled. He was so fucking beautiful. No matter that they lived together all the time now, in the house that both of them had chosen; no matter that this was the sight he saw every morning, he doubted that seeing it would ever not make him feel happy. 

He was confident about that. He knew what baseline happy felt like, now.  

He lay there watching Ilya sleep for several minutes, until an enterprising shaft of sunlight inveigled its way through a tiny gap in their blackout curtains to shine right into Ilya's eyes and drag him, scowling and muttering, into consciousness. He wiped the back of his hand across his chin and grumbled, “Quebec City sunshine in fucking June, menace.” 

“Moscow is further north by almost ten degrees of latitude,” Shane pointed out. 

“Shaaaane,” Ilya groaned, flinging a dramatic arm across his eyes. “Is too early for degrees of latitude.” 

“I’m just saying that the sun rose earlier in June for your entire childhood,” Shane said. “You should be used to it.” 

“Moscow sunshine knows its place,” retorted Ilya. “It does not come indoors where not wanted to wake me up—” he glanced at the clock “—ten minutes before my fucking alarm.” 

Shane slid closer and nuzzled at the tender skin beneath Ilya’s jaw. Ilya’s arms came around him at once, held him close as Shane trailed kisses down his neck. 

“On the other hand,” observed Ilya, philosophical now, “ten minutes…” 

They were naked already, from falling into bed last night immediately after their shower. An early night after their travel day yesterday, when they’d arrived home in the early hours then spent the afternoon at practice. And now today was the day. The Day. Game five of the MLH Cup championships, on their ice. They could bring it home today. 

They would. 

Shane shifted so that Ilya’s thigh was between his legs, his own thigh pressed to Ilya’s hardening cock. Ilya hummed and tightened his legs around Shane’s, gripped Shane’s ass to hold him close as they began to rock against each other, as they found their pace. Shane closed his eyes on a sigh. The pressure on his cock felt so fucking good, the heat and friction even better, deeply intimate but less intense than penetration. Just right for ten minutes on a game day morning. 

He gasped as Ilya gripped his hair and tugged, arched his neck in response and instantly Ilya’s mouth was there, pressing soft, sucking kisses from his jaw to his collarbone where he nipped hard enough to leave a mark. 

Shane didn’t care. It would hardly be the first one their teammates had seen on him. 

He curled his own fingers into Ilya’s hair, stroked nails across his scalp in the way Shane knew he loved. Ilya moaned in response and moved his mouth to Shane’s other collarbone then up the other side of his neck. 

“Mmm,” Shane hummed as their rhythm picked up speed. Ilya’s tongue stroked the sensitive spot beneath his ear just as his fingers found Shane’s asshole and teased around its rim. Shane’s fist clenched in Ilya’s hair as he pressed his thigh down hard on Ilya’s cock and then, with sharp gasps and a shared moan, they came together. 

From the bedside tables both their phone alarms began to shrill. 

“Ten minutes well spent,” remarked Ilya to the curve of Shane’s shoulder and Shane curled into him as they laughed. 

A quick rinse-off later and they were in the kitchen making breakfast: two smoothies, one pink one green, alongside a spinach frittata with wholegrain toast. They chatted lightly as they ate, about summer plans and things they’d seen online, and whether they should get a dog. 

“We can look,” Shane conceded finally. “As long as you promise it’ll be taken care of when we’re on the road. We can look for one.” 

“I have already made a list of dog-sitters in QC,” said Ilya, “and of shelters.” His smile was so happy it hurt Shane’s heart a little. “I will send them both to you.” 

As soon as the Cup is ours, he didn’t say. He didn’t have to. Some things between them would never need words. 

BREAKING NEWS: Record attendance at the Centre Frédéric Broussard for the fifth and possibly final game of the MLH Cup finals. The Quebec City Owls have played before a packed house in every home game this season and throughout the playoffs, and with their record-setting year they have won over the province. Said one attendee: “I thought I was a Metros fan for life but the way they treated Shane Hollander is a f***ing disgrace. I burned my Montreal gear and started watching QC and I haven’t looked back.” 

This sentiment is echoed far and wide throughout Québec and beyond. Fans in the Owls’ distinctive kingfisher-blue and burgundy jerseys were present in numbers at their games all across the continent. “Listen, I’m die-hard for Colorado and I always will be,” said one woman, who is attending the game with her cousin. “But I support Hollander and Rozanov and the entire queer community. I couldn’t be prouder that my team has stood in support of them from the beginning and yeah, I hope they win it all.” 

The energy in a locker room before a decisive Cup final matchup was familiar to both of them, of course. They had two Cups each, two more than most players ever got, and all had been hard-earned. It felt different this time, though, they both agreed on their way to the rink. This team was special. 

“I remember thinking it felt inevitable,” Shane said as they drove through the still-quiet streets. “That first Cup, you remember?” 

“Yes,” said Ilya. “You asked if it was the same for me.” 

“You said it wasn’t.” 

“No. Not the whole season. Just at the end when everything felt like it was going right.” He looked over at Shane who was concentrating as always on the road. “What did you mean, when you said it?” 

“That’s a good question." Shane thought for a bit. "I think it was because that team was so good, skilled, you know? But looking back on it now, I can see how much even then I had to carry all on my own. It wasn’t anything like this.” 

“No,” Ilya agreed. The Raiders hadn’t been either but to be fair nothing else could be. The partnership between himself and Shane, the drive of all their teammates, the way every single one respected all the others and how that translated on the ice—this team was fucking special. 

“I always sort of felt like in Montreal they respected me as a player but not so much as a person,” Shane said now. An observation Ilya had made years ago but he knew there were things Shane arrived at in his own good time. “But here—” 

“Here everyone loves all of you, as they fucking should.” 

“Yeah,” Shane said quietly. “I can really feel the difference.” 

The difference was in Ilya as well, and in the locker room, and on the ice when they ran practice. It was there still when they returned that evening for the game. It was there in the crowd, a sea of blue and burgundy, it was there on the bench. It was there in Alombard’s empathy and intelligence and it was there on the power play late in the third period with the game tied 2-2, which brought Shane and Ilya out on the ice together. 

Shane took the puck in the face-off but San Jose closed in on him the second he had possession. Their strategy seemed to be ‘block Hollander from the goal at any cost.’ Unwise of them, Ilya thought, as that left him wide open and Shane always, always knew exactly where he was. 

Ilya knew Shane's pass was coming before it came; he caught the puck then whipped it immediately to Vassy, who sent it to Metz who sent it straight back to Ilya again, where he had evaded the defenders and now had a clear shot to goal. Or he would have had, but San Jose’s defence was on him before he could take it and so with a deft twist of his body he passed the puck behind him, to where Shane, unguarded, was coming up on his left flank. Ilya couldn’t see him of course but he knew he was there, the only place it was possible for him to be. 

He sensed when Shane took his pass and managed to turn just in time to witness his beautiful husband execute an immaculate shot, lightning-quick and deadly accurate. The puck hit the back of the net and the crowd lost its entire mind. 

“Mother of fuck,” Ilya heard one of San Jose's defenseman say. “Why is he like that?” 

“Like what, Norenberg?” Ilya rounded on the man. “Perfect? The best fucking hockey player in the world?” 

“I was going to say a fucking nightmare, but sure, dude. I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.” 

“Oh, ‘perspective’,” Ilya taunted him. “Big word for you. Here is a smaller one: loser.” 

“Fuck you, Rozanov.” 

“Mmm, no. That is what my husband is for.” Ilya blew Norenberg a kiss and skated off to the bench to watch Shane’s line take over for the final twenty seconds of play. 

Twenty seconds later Shane’s second goal of the night hit the net just as the final buzzer sounded. The Owls had won the game, 4-2. They had won the Cup. 

Ilya tore his helmet off and leapt over the boards. Shane was surrounded by their teammates already, right at the centre of one enormous bear hug, but Ilya fought his way past them and pulled Shane in close. 

“We did it,” he said. 

“Fuck yeah, we did.” Shane was grinning wide, his eyes lit with happiness. Ilya’s heart clenched when he realised he’d only seen this exact look on Shane twice before, each time with a television screen and many, many kilometres between them. Not this time, he thought triumphantly. Not anymore. 

“I love you,” he said. “I really fucking want to kiss you.”

Shane shook his head. 

“Save it for the Cup.” 

BREAKING NEWS: The Owls take it all in five! Quebec City defeated San Jose last night to cap their historic, record-shattering season with an MLH Cup. Team co-captains Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov celebrated with an on-ice kiss, the second in MLH history between two men and the first between a married couple. Congratulations boys, you’ve earned it!

[Image: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, holding the Cup over their heads with one hand each while they share a notably passionate kiss. Behind them their team is gathered, cheering wildly.]

shane hollander’s far left freckle @elliebethjackson

LOVE WINS ❤️ 🏳️‍🌈 💕