Chapter Text
It had been three years since Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had shocked the hockey world. What began as one of the NHL's most intense and storied rivalries, the golden Canadian boy-wonder versus the cocky Russian superstar, exploded into something far more extraordinary. First came the bombshell announcement that the two men, long painted as bitter enemies on the ice, were in fact deeply in love.
Then, quietly and intimately, they married in a small backyard ceremony in Ottawa. No media circus, no flashing cameras. Just string lights twinkling overhead, a handful of trusted friends and family, and the two of them exchanging vows in low, steady voices. Shane's hand had trembled slightly as he slid the ring onto Ilya's finger. Ilya had grinned through tears he refused to feel embarrassed about.
The final twist came when Shane, the disciplined captain of Montreal, requested a trade to the Ottawa Centaurs. He wanted to play alongside his husband, to build a life and a legacy together on the same team. Headlines screamed about the end of an era. Fan art and think pieces celebrated it as the greatest love story sports had ever seen. Shane and Ilya simply shrugged it off with matching half-smiles and called it what it was. Love.
Now in their early thirties, they had become the undisputed power couple of the league. Ilya, still the charismatic captain of the Centaurs, wore his trademark smirk like armor and played with effortless brilliance. Shane remained the picture of discipline. A precise, lethal scorer whose every shift felt like a lesson in focus and execution. On the ice, their chemistry was otherworldly. Passes that seemed to defy physics, anticipating each other's movements before the play even developed, leaving opponents scrambling and goalies cursing under their breath.
Off the ice, they lived unapologetically. They showed up hand-in-hand at charity galas supporting mental health initiatives and LGBTQ+ youth programs. Joint interviews became must-watch events, with Ilya relentlessly teasing Shane about everything from his meticulous meal prep to the way he still blushed at compliments. At home in their cozy Ottawa house, they built the kind of quiet, steady life neither had imagined possible during those years of secrecy.
Life felt perfect. Almost too perfect. Until the night it shattered.
The Centaurs were in Chicago for a grueling back-to-back series. Shane and Ilya had separate rooms, an old habit from their secret days, but now it was just for the illusion of professionalism.
After a light practice, Shane pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Ilya: Dinner? That little Italian spot you love on Rush Street?
Ilya's reply came almost instantly: Da. Lobby in 20. Wear the blue button-down. Makes your eyes look pretty. 😘
Shane huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes even as warmth spread through his chest. He changed his shirt.
They met in the hotel lobby, Ilya already waiting with that predatory grin that drove Shane wild. They slipped out into the crisp evening air and walked the few blocks to the restaurant, shoulders brushing, conversation easy. At a secluded table in the back, away from prying eyes, their hands found each other under the table. They talked about everything and nothing.
Over shared tiramisu, Shane set his fork down and admitted quietly, "I miss playing against you sometimes.”
Ilya leaned in, eyes glinting. "No. You like winning with me more. Admit it."
Shane couldn't argue with that.
They left the restaurant around ten, the Chicago streets alive with Friday-night energy. Ilya draped an arm casually over Shane's shoulders as they walked. No hiding, no glancing over their shoulders. The city lights reflected off wet pavement from an earlier rain.
To save a few minutes, they cut through a narrow alley that led to the hotel's discreet side entrance. It was dimly lit, the kind of shortcut they'd taken a hundred times on road trips.
Then a black van screeched around the corner and slammed to a stop, blocking their path.
Everything blurred into chaos.
Three figures in black masks and dark clothing burst out. One raised a taser. Blue-white crackles lit the air as it struck Shane square in the ribs. Pain exploded through his side, muscles seizing, breath stolen.
"Shane!" Ilya's roar cut through the night. He lunged without hesitation, dropping his shoulder in a brutal, instinctive body check that sent one attacker sprawling into the brick wall with a thud. Coaches would have cheered the form.
Shane staggered, fighting to stay upright on legs that felt like jelly. He tried to push forward, to reach Ilya, but a second man grabbed him from behind, an iron grip around his chest. Before Shane could twist free, a sharp prick pierced the side of his neck. Cold fire raced through his veins. A sedative, fast and merciless.
The world tilted. Sounds muffled. Through the haze, he saw Ilya still fighting, fists flying. Another attacker reeled back from a vicious elbow. Ilya's eyes, wild, furious, and terrified, locked onto Shane's.
No. Not him. Shane's mind screamed it even as his body betrayed him. Ilya, run. Get out.
Darkness rushed in, swallowing everything. The last thing he registered was the sound of Ilya's desperate shout echoing off the alley walls.
Then nothing.