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Ilya was finally on a plane home.
Meanwhile, Shane was sat in Ilya’s house, checking for updates like a man possessed. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
After the near crash, he could barely imagine how terrified Ilya must be getting back on a plane.
Shane’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding since Ilya took off. Every few minutes he told himself to calm down, and every time, he didn’t.
Then, in a fit of what he decided was a rational irrational decision, Shane had done something reckless: he’d bought a ring.
Because all they really needed was to talk, right? That would fix everything. But deep down, Shane didn’t want things to just go back. He wanted more. And he wanted to give Ilya more, because Ilya had already given him everything.
Now the ring sat nestled in its little velvet box among the couch cushions, surrounded by dozens of flickering electric candles. Ilya had once told him, years ago, that he’d wanted to set up candles on the dock back home.
So Shane had done the same for him, but in ilyas house rather than the cottage.
Except… he’d finished early. Too early. The plane wasn’t even landing for another hour.
He checked his phone. One minute had passed. ONE.
He groaned and rubbed his hands down his face.
Maps said forty-five minutes from the airfield to home. That meant he’d be waiting at least two hours.
He couldn’t sit here like a lonely golden retriever staring out the window.
He had all Ottawa news accounts and team pages on push notifications, just in case anything happened. But still. The silence was eating him alive.
Before takeoff, they’d called. Ilya’s voice had been small, his English shaky, the same way it always was when he was scared. So Shane talked for both of them, flipping between English and Russian, telling dumb stories about practice and the Montreals' latest drama. By the end, Ilya had laughed.
Then the last few texts before takeoff:
Ilya: See you soon.
Shane: I can’t wait. I’ve missed you.
Ilya: Me too. We are about to take off.
Shane: Okay.
Shane: I love you.
Ilya: I love you too, moya lyubov.
Now, sitting in Ilya’s kitchen, Shane wanted nothing more than to hold him.
Unless…
Couldn’t he just go to the airfield? Families were probably there. It was normal.
He could go.
…Could he?
No.
He absolutely could not. To everyone else, he and Ilya weren’t even friends. If he showed up, they’d all assume he’d lost his mind.
But God, he didn’t want to wait another second.
He stood up suddenly. “Fuck it.”
He grabbed the keys to their Mercedes and headed out.
He told himself he was just being practical, Ilya would be too tired to drive, so Shane was doing him a favour. That was it. Totally normal, logical, heterosexual sportsman like behaviour.
By the time he reached the airfield, his heart was in his throat. He parked beside Ilya’s car, grabbed Ilya’s cap off the passenger seat, found his coat in the back, and threw them both on.
Perfect disguise. Totally inconspicuous.
Then he realised he had no clue where to go.
“Shane Hollander?”
He turned. A woman with a baby strapped to her chest was walking toward him.
“Hi!” she called, offering a hand. “Cassie. Zane’s wife.”
“Oh, uh, hi,” Shane stammered.
“You here for Ilya?” she asked, eyebrows raising slightly. She definitely clocked the outfit, Ilya’s hat, coat, and hoodie.
“Yeah,” Shane said quickly. “He’ll be tired. Figured I’d give him a lift, you know? After everything.”
“That’s sweet of you,” Cassie smiled. “I like that you guys can try to murder each other on the ice and still be decent off it.”
Shane gave a shaky laugh. “Yeah, that’s… us.”
“Come on, I’ll show you where the families wait.”
They walked and chatted about her baby, Milo, who cooed sleepily against her.
“This is way past his bedtime,” she said, “but after what happened with the Centaurs’ flight, there was no way I could stay home.”
“Yeah,” Shane murmured. “I get that.”
When they reached the fence, Cassie smiled at the guard, who opened the gate for them.
Shane stopped dead.
There were so many people. Dozens of families, partners, kids, laughing, chatting. Ottawa Centaurs, their loved ones. Real hockey families.
“Ottawa’s a close bunch,” Cassie said kindly, noticing his expression. “Don’t worry, you’re fine.”
He was absolutely not fine.
The plane landed as they reached the crowd. A collective sigh of relief swept through everyone.
Shane’s heart nearly stopped.
One by one, players filed out. Then — there. Ilya appeared at the top of the stairs.
Shane felt his chest crack open.
He was really here.
Ilya turned back into the plane to shout something, ushering a few more rookies down before stepping out himself. Typical Ilya, last one off, making sure everyone else was safe.
Then he looked up.
And froze.
No. No, that wasn’t possible. That wasn’t...
Shane Hollander? Standing there, in his coat, his hat, his hoodie, with that stupid, beautiful grin?
Impossible.
Ilya was so distracted staring that he missed the last step and went flying.
There was a collective gasp. A couple of teammates sprinted over.
“You okay, Roz?” Wyatt Hayes called.
“I fine!” Ilya waved them off, getting to his feet. “Blame Hollander.”
Everyone turned.
There was a ripple of confusion, then silence as several players blinked at Shane like he’d been teleported there by accident.
Cassie’s baby gurgled.
Wyatt whispered, “Is that the Hollander?”
Evan Dystrake muttered, “Why's hollander here?”
Shane wanted the ground to open up and eat him alive.
Ilya, completely unbothered, brushed off his pants and started walking toward him.
Shane’s legs moved on autopilot. They met halfway.
“That was your fault,” Ilya said.
“That was your fault,” Shane argued weakly, trying to look calm. He failed miserably.
They hugged, tight and wordless.
“Your freckles distracting, sweetheart,” Ilya murmured into his ear.
Shane’s entire body went hot.
“What are you doing here?” Ilya asked softly.
“Wanted to see you. That not okay?”
“Of course it fine,” Ilya smiled, tightening the hug.
Then, in that same calm, teasing tone: “Are you… very happy to see me?”
“What?”
Ilya smirked. “You are hard.”
Shane’s brain short-circuited. “I— what— no— that’s— oh my god—”
His hand brushed his pocket, felt the ring box, and time stopped.
He was suddenly, painfully aware that they were surrounded by Ilya’s entire team. Families. Kids. The coach. Everyone.
He can’t do it here, his brain screamed. Not here, not like this, they’ll think you’ve lost your mind.
But then he looked at Ilya. Hair tousled from the flight. Eyes tired but soft. Smiling at him like he hung the moon.
And suddenly, the noise and the crowd didn’t matter.
Fuck it.
“Actually,” Shane said, voice trembling, “it’s not— I mean, it is, but—”
He pulled the box from his pocket.
And dropped to one knee.
Gasps. Shocked murmurs. Absolute silence.
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Because, oh god, they were together? is this a prank? whats going on?
Shane’s heart was hammering out of his chest. He could hear his own blood in his ears.
“Ilya,” he said shakily. “We’ve spent so much of our lives pretending. Wasting time. I don’t have a plan, but I know what I want. I choose you. Always.”
“Shane—”
“Don’t interrupt me,” Shane said, voice cracking through a nervous laugh. “For once.”
Ilya grinned, watery-eyed.
“Ilya Rozanov,” Shane said, taking a breath, “will you marry me?”
There was a long, awkward, painfully long silence.
Then:
“Ilya?”
“Yes,” Ilya said suddenly, beaming. “Of course I marry you, Hollander.”
lya had pulled him up and kissed him full on the mouth.
The silence shattered.
A roar of cheers, claps, whistles.
“Holy shit!”
“NO WAY!”
“ROZ YOU LEGEND!”
“GET IT, CAP!”
“THEY WERE TOGETHER THIS WHOLE TIME?!”
“damn who knew hollander could make roz fall this hard” Wyatt smirked
The laughter was loud and genuine.
Shane, beet red, fumbled the ring onto Ilya’s finger, and it stopped halfway.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered.
“Hollander,” Ilya teased, “how you not know my finger size since—”
Shane slapped a hand over his mouth, scandalised. “Do NOT finish that sentence!”
More laughter.
Ilya unclasped his chain and slid the ring onto it beside his mother’s cross.
“I love you,” Shane whispered.
“I know,” Ilya said smugly, throwing an arm around him. "I love you too" he kissed Shane on the top of his head
“Alright!” Ilya called, turning to the team. “Good dinner, good sleep, see you in two days!”
“Roz, we have practice tomorrow,” the coach called back.
“Unfortunately, I am very ill tomorrow,” Ilya said solemnly.
The coach rolled his eyes. “Fine. Only because I’m happy for you. Congratulations, both of you.”
As the crowd thinned, Wyatt gave them a wink. “Congrats, Roz. And Hollander, welcome to the chaos.”
Evan smirked. “You sure you can handle the Centaurs’ drama?”
Shane laughed weakly. “I think I already am.”
Finally, when everyone else had gone, Troy wandered over, hands in his pockets, grinning.
“I fucking knew it,” he said.
Shane froze. “Knew what?”
“That you two were together,” Troy said easily. “Roz likes to think he is perseptive one.”
Ilya just shrugged. “I subtle.”
“No, you’re not,” Troy said, laughing. “Congrats, seriously. About time.” He clapped Shane on the shoulder. “You did good, Hollander.”
“Thanks,” Shane said, dazed. “I think I blacked out for half of that.”
Troy grinned. “You’ll get used to it, fiancé.”
Shane’s brain short-circuited again.
They walked toward the car, the Ottawa night quiet now, ring glinting against Ilya’s chest, the chaos behind them and everything else finally ahead.
***
The house was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the slow, even rhythm of rain against the windows. Shane was stretched out on his back, one arm behind his head, the other tracing lazy patterns across Ilya’s stomach. The post-proposal glow hadn’t worn off yet, it probably wouldn’t for a while.
Ilya’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He groaned.
“If that’s anyone not important, tell them we’re busy,” Shane muttered, eyes closed.
“It’s Harris,” Ilya said, squinting at the screen. “You know, team’s social media guy.”
Shane cracked one eye open. He nodded
Ilya smiled as he opened the message. “‘Congrats, boys. Got this on film, don’t worry, it’ll stay private unless you want it out there. Can delete if you’d rather. Thought you might want a copy.’”
Attached was a video.
Shane sat up instantly. “He filmed it? Like, the whole thing?”
“Guess so,” Ilya said, hitting play.
The screen lit up with the grainy footage of Shane’s proposal—complete with Ilya’s dramatic fall, Hollander’s horrified face, the stunned silence, and then the explosion of cheering. They watched it twice. The second time, they laughed so hard Shane had to bury his face in Ilya’s shoulder to breathe.
When the laughter died down, Shane looked at him softly. “Send it to my parents?”
Ilya nodded. “Already on it.”
A few minutes later, Yuna and David replied—first with a flood of emojis (hearts, champagne, at least three crying faces), then a proper message:
Yuna: We are so proud of you both. Shane, Ilya, you’ve made us the happiest parents in the world.
David: I knew you were good for him, kid. Welcome to the family (officially this time).
Shane set his phone aside and pulled Ilya closer. “You know,” he murmured, “if Harris ever posts that, there would be uproar.”
“Good thing he’s more professional than you,” Ilya teased.
Shane rolled his eyes. “You tripped over air, so act all tough asshole.”
“And you cried in front of half the Ottawa Centaurs,” Ilya shot back.
“Worth it.”
He kissed him again, slow and content. The rain kept falling. The phones finally went dark.
And for the first time in weeks, everything felt exactly right.