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Shane is hot. Shane is sweaty. Shane isn't sure where his husband is. They were together, earlier, on a float, waving to the crowds, but now the parade is over and they're part of the crowd. The flood of people have swept Ilya away. Shane's not sure he's seen this much skin at the beach. Everyone is wearing bright colors and covered in glitter. There are at least three different pop songs blasting from different sides of the street. It's amazing and it's way, way more than Shane can handle right now.
"Hollander!"
He looks around, not sure who called his name. Bellowed his name, really. Something about the cadence and the tone of it scratches an itch in his brain.
"HOLLANDER!" A strong hand grabs his arm and pulls at him. For a second he resists, but the press of the crowd around him pushes him toward whoever is hauling him closer, so he goes. Suddenly, he's in the clear, or at least, in a less packed area of the crowd, inside a barrier. There's a table full of women in tank tops and shorts grinning up at him, half-sprawled in their chairs.
"Oh, thank god," Shane says involuntarily. It's what looks like two-thirds of the Canadian women's national hockey team. He doesn't know all of them well, but he knows everyone at least a little. He's not that surprised to see them here. He thinks maybe they were on another one of the floats.
"Listen up, motherfuckers," the woman who's holding his arm says. Emily St. Louis, captain of the women's side. "This is Canada's own Shane Hollander. What do we say to that?"
All of them yell at once and Shane can't make out anything except, "Have a beer with us, Hollzy!"
"Oooh, sorry," says Claire Boucher, pretending to pull away the chair someone else pushes toward Shane. "This table is for gold medal winners only." She pretends to eye his neck. "I don't see any hardware."
"Fuck off," Shane says amiably, sitting down before she can really move it away. Butch is a goaltender, taller than he is, with long legs. Maybe her nickname doesn't entirely make sense phonetically, but he's sure she's earned it. She nudges the chair with her toe and it rocks, because that's how strong she is, but she smiles.
"Four Cups is pretty good. But they're still silver." She grins wide.
"Leave him alone, Butch," Emily says. "It's Pride. Hey, somebody get this man a beer."
"You should feel honored," Priya Singh tells him. "We don't usually invite the men."
"Ah, he's one of us," Julie Chen says, slapping Shane on the shoulder. "Let him stay."
"A...professional athlete?" Shane says.
Butch rolls her eyes. "Gay, Hollzy. We're gay."
"Oh," Shane says. "Yeah. Of course."
Chen jerks her thumb at one of the women sitting at the end of the table. "Not Jonesy over there, allegedly, but we keep her around because she's funny."
Jonesy lifts her beer. Shane's not sure he's ever seen a more deadpan expression. Somebody puts a beer in front of him and he takes a long swallow. The beer tastes fucking amazing: it's perfect weather for it, and perfect company. He feels more at ease with these women than in the crowd. He's definitely gotten more comfortable being around queer people over the past few years, after the GLAAD Awards and a couple of other Pride celebrations, but hockey lesbians in sports bras and baggy shorts are more his speed than leather daddies or twinks wearing Speedos and feather boas, especially right now when he's already kind of overstimulated. It's like he's in an open-air locker room where he can drink.
"So, Hollzy, are we gonna see the Centaurs get another Cup next season?" Charlotte Foisy leans on the table. She has beads threaded onto her braids, colors that Shane is pretty sure are the stripes of the lesbian flag.
"Hell yeah," Shane says.
Jonesy clicks her tongue.
"Ohhh," Butch says. "Jonesy says no. And she's never wrong, except about not being attracted to women." She winks at Jonesy, whose mouth twitches in what might possibly be some version of a smile. "She says you're still working on Haasy on that second line and that your penalty kill units aren't tight."
"Wow, she said all that?" Shane teases. He's feeling loose and happy. "She's quite the analyst."
"Hey," Foisy says, "Butch told you. Jonesy is never wrong."
"Except..." Butch says.
Foisy rolls her eyes. "Except about whether or not she's attracted to women." She takes a sip of her beer. "Allegedly."
"You talk a lot of shit for a person who spent half the third period face down on the ice," Shane says, just to watch Butch's eyes spark.
"It's your fuckin' funeral, bud," Chen says, leaning back in her chair. She signals the server. "We're gonna need another round."
By the time Ilya stumbles into the beer garden, Shane is surrounded by bar coasters with diagrams sketched on them in a pen he took from a server. He and Butch are trying to use the coasters to make their points, but the coasters keep disintegrating mid-explanation and having to be redrawn.
"Ilya!" Shane says, and pulls his husband onto his lap, wrapping his arms around Ilya's hips. "Baby, where were you?"
"Where were you?" Ilya asks. He looks sunburned. He's smeared with glitter and body paint, random streaks of it over his shoulder, his collarbone, his thighs where his shorts are riding up. His sunglasses are tucked into the neck of his tanktop. He smells like sweat and sunscreen and beer and a whiff of weed and Shane wants to lick him all over. He settles for just a taste, where his face is tucked into Ilya's neck.
"I've been here," Shane says, lifting his head and looking around. "You know. Celebrating."
Ilya picks up one of the ragged wet pieces of coaster. At one point, it had a diagram on it that clearly indicated why Haasy is doing fine, actually, and how he's improved as part of Ilya's line. "Ah yes. Celebrating."
"Listen," Shane says, "we all have our own ways. To celebrate."
Ilya studies Shane. His eyes are so sparkly. They're like the lake at the cottage. "You are drunk."
"I'm allowed," Shane says with dignity. "It's a special day."
"Yes," Ilya agrees. "It's a very special day." He looks at the table full of hockey players. "Thank you for taking care of my husband. May I have him back, please?"
"Only 'cause you asked so nice," St. Louis says.
"Also because Butch might bite him in half if he gives her any more goaltending tips," Foisy jokes.
"Hey," Shane says. "Those were helpful. They really helped our camp kids last summer."
"You're so full of shit your eyes are brown," Butch says. Chen pushes a glass of water at her. She picks it up and scowls at it.
"Recovery time," Chen says. "So we can rally for tonight."
"But if we keep drinking, we don't have to recover," Butch says.
"Water," Jonesy says, and Butch drinks. Ilya watches this with a sexy little smirk, like he knows something. He looks so hot, both temperature-wise and because he's attractive. Shane is going to cool him off. No. Shane is going to heat him up more. That sounds more right. A stray thought floats by and catches Shane's attention like a kite in a tree.
"My eyes are brown," Shane says slowly.
"Okay, yes, I am taking him now," Ilya says. He peels himself off Shane's lap. Shane pouts. Ilya uses the pen to write his number on one of the less-wet coasters. He pushes it across the table. "Let us know where you are going tonight, if you find a good party."
"You seem like a good time," Singh says.
Ilya winks at her. "Yes. Call me."
"They don't want to fuck you," Shane mumbles, and everybody laughs.
"That's okay with me," Ilya says. He puts his mouth close to Shane's ear. "As long as you still want to fuck me."
"Yeah," Shane breathes. "But. You know."
"Yes, yes, I know," Ilya says, his lips still so close that Shane can almost feel them. Ears are kind of weird, when he thinks about it. They're all different shapes and textures, and they're so sensitive. He wants to rub his ears against Ilya's face. Ilya is probably stubbly by now.
Ilya's hand is in Shane's pocket, reaching for Shane's wallet. He pulls out a couple of fifties and pushes them at St. Louis.
"You know, I'd say we got this, but I know how much you make," she says. "So yeah, I'll let you pay for your drinks."
"Call us later and all the drinks are on me," Ilya promises.
"Well then," St. Louis says. "We might be seeing you."
"Bye bye," Shane says as Ilya steers him away.
"Oh, Hollander," Ilya says, pretending to sigh. "I can't take you anywhere."
"You could take me somewhere," Shane says in his most suggestive voice. "Like bed, maybe."
Ilya laughs. "First I am taking you to the hotel pool. I need to cool off and you need to stop thinking about hockey for five minutes. Then maybe bed. Then dinner. Then parties. Then, if you are very lucky, bed again."
It all sounds perfect to Shane.