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The victory had been decisive enough that the atmosphere in the arena long after the final horn still felt charged with the echo of it, as though the walls themselves had absorbed the energy of the crowd and were reluctant to let it go. The Ottawa Centaurs had dominated the third period, turning what had been a tense game into something triumphant and almost celebratory by the time the last minutes ticked away, and when the players finally disappeared down the tunnel, helmets under their arms and sweat still cooling on their skin, the sense of accomplishment followed them into the quiet corridors behind the rink.
Shane Hollander had long ago learned that the game did not truly end with the final horn.
There were always the interviews afterward.
The cameras.
The reporters.
The polite dissection of plays and strategies that, in truth, most players barely wanted to think about once the adrenaline of competition had begun to fade.
Still, Shane was good at this part. In fact, he had built a reputation around it over the years—calm, articulate, thoughtful in a way that reporters appreciated and fans admired. When other players gave short answers or impatient shrugs, Shane explained things carefully, choosing his words with the same deliberate control he showed on the ice.
Beside him, however, sat a man who had never cared nearly as much about diplomacy.
Ilya Rozanov leaned back in his chair at the long press table, broad shoulders relaxed but undeniably imposing even in stillness. His suit jacket hung open slightly, revealing the dark shirt beneath, and though he had showered and changed after the game, there remained something unmistakably physical about him—the lingering intensity of a player who had spent the last sixty minutes throwing his entire body into the brutal elegance of professional hockey.
The room was full.
Reporters crowded the rows of chairs, cameras balanced on shoulders or perched on tripods, microphones pointed forward like a forest of mechanical stems reaching toward the two men at the front of the room.
The Ottawa Centaurs’ co-captains.
Once the most famous rivals in the league.
Now husbands.
Even after months of public knowledge, the novelty of it had not entirely worn off.
A few reporters whispered quietly to one another before the interview began, glancing toward the table with the thinly veiled curiosity of people who still found the entire story fascinating.
Then the media coordinator nodded.
The questions began.
“Great game tonight,” one reporter said from the front row, lifting his voice just enough to carry across the room. “Shane, can you walk us through that third-period goal?”
Shane leaned slightly toward the microphone, his hands loosely folded in front of him on the table.
“Well,” he began calmly, “we had been noticing throughout the second period that their defense was collapsing toward the puck carrier a little too aggressively. When Wyatt entered the zone, I saw the defender shift toward him, which meant Dillon had space on the far side.”
Pens scratched across notebooks.
Camera shutters clicked softly.
Shane spoke for another minute, explaining the sequence of movements with the precise clarity of someone who understood the game almost academically.
Beside him, Ilya listened with the patient boredom of a man who preferred playing hockey to explaining it.
Another reporter spoke up.
“Ilya, your line was particularly physical tonight. Was that something the coaching staff emphasized before the game?”
Ilya leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table.
“No,” he said simply. “We just decide we like hitting them.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the room.
Shane’s mouth twitched faintly at the corner.
The interview moved along easily after that, falling into the comfortable rhythm of sports journalism. Questions about teamwork. About the Centaurs’ strong performance this season. About how the dynamic between the two captains had evolved since they had joined the same team.
Shane answered most of them.
Ilya answered the ones that amused him.
For nearly ten minutes the atmosphere remained relaxed, even cheerful.
Until a reporter in the second row raised his hand.
He had been watching Shane with noticeable interest throughout the interview, leaning forward slightly in his chair as though he were studying him rather than simply listening.
He was younger than most of the journalists in the room—mid-twenties, perhaps—and there was something in the easy confidence of his posture that suggested he was accustomed to pushing conversations in directions other reporters might avoid.
“Shane,” he said with a friendly smile.
Shane turned toward him.
“Yes?”
“I’ve covered this league for a few years now,” the reporter began, “and one thing everyone always says about you is that you’re probably the calmest player on the ice.”
Shane shrugged lightly.
“I try to stay focused.”
“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?” the man continued, tilting his head slightly. “You rarely show anger. Even in games where other players might lose their temper.”
Shane gave a small, polite smile.
“I think most players would say the same thing. Losing control doesn’t usually help the situation.”
The reporter nodded thoughtfully.
“But you must get angry sometimes.”
“Sometimes.”
“What does it take?”
Shane paused for a moment, considering the question.
“Usually something unfair,” he said eventually. “Or someone crossing a line.”
Beside him, Ilya shifted slightly in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the reporter with mild curiosity.
The man smiled again.
“I imagine it’s difficult to provoke someone with your level of discipline,” he said.
“Not particularly,” Shane replied.
“Really?”
“Everyone has limits.”
The reporter leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other as though settling more comfortably into the conversation.
“I suppose living with Ilya has helped you develop patience.”
A few reporters chuckled quietly.
Shane glanced sideways at his husband.
“I think we both have plenty of patience,” he said.
The reporter’s smile widened.
“I’m sure you do.”
His eyes lingered on Shane a little longer than necessary.
“And I have to say,” he continued casually, “you’re even better looking in person than you are on television.”
The room went just a little quieter.
Shane blinked once.
“Thank you,” he said politely, clearly attempting to steer the conversation back toward safer ground.
But the reporter didn’t stop.
“I mean, fans talk about it all the time online,” he added with an amused shrug. “The league’s most handsome captain.”
Someone in the back row snorted.
Shane cleared his throat.
“I’m not sure that has much to do with hockey.”
“Oh, I disagree,” the reporter said lightly. “Charisma is part of leadership.”
Shane nodded slowly.
“I suppose.”
“And honestly,” the man continued, leaning forward slightly now, “if I were playing in this league, I’d probably be distracted by you too.”
The silence in the room became noticeable.
Several reporters exchanged glances.
Shane opened his mouth to respond diplomatically.
The reporter spoke again before he could.
“I mean,” he added with an easy grin, “it must be difficult for other players to focus when the captain looks like that.”
A few people laughed awkwardly.
But Shane never got the chance to answer.
Because the chair beside him suddenly scraped sharply against the floor.
The sound was loud enough to cut through the entire room.
Ilya stood.
He did not stand quickly.
That would have suggested impulsiveness.
Instead, he rose slowly, deliberately, unfolding his considerable height until he towered over the table, his broad frame casting a shadow across the microphones in front of him.
And when Ilya Rozanov looked down at the reporter, the entire press room remembered at once that this was a man who had once made a career out of being very, very dangerous.
“You flirting with my husband,” Ilya said.
It was not phrased as a question.
The reporter blinked.
“I—what? No—”
“You talk about how he looks,” Ilya continued, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge.
“Well—”
“You say other players distracted.”
“I was joking—”
“You say you would be distracted.”
The reporter laughed nervously.
“It’s just banter.”
Ilya stared at him.
For several long seconds.
Then he placed both hands flat on the table and leaned forward slightly, bringing his face just a little closer to the reporter’s line of sight.
“You flirting,” he repeated.
“No—”
“Because if you flirting,” Ilya said slowly, “we have problem.”
Someone in the back row coughed in an attempt to hide laughter.
The reporter shifted in his chair.
“I’m not trying to cause a problem.”
Ilya tilted his head.
“You look at him entire interview.”
The reporter blinked again.
“I’m interviewing him.”
“You smile too much.”
More muffled laughter spread through the room.
Shane sat very still beside him.
His expression remained composed.
But inside, something warm and distinctly inappropriate was beginning to curl pleasantly in his chest.
Because Ilya looked furious.
Not loud, explosive fury.
Something colder.
Possessive.
Protective.
The reporter raised his hands slightly.
“Okay, look, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Ilya straightened slowly, towering over the table once more.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because,” Ilya continued calmly, “if you trying to flirt with my husband while I sitting right here, that is very stupid decision.”
The reporter flushed bright red.
“I wasn’t flirting.”
Ilya considered this.
Then he leaned down slightly once more.
“You call him handsome again,” he said softly, “I break your nose.”
The room erupted into poorly suppressed laughter.
Cameras shook slightly as operators struggled to remain steady.
The reporter swallowed.
“Okay,” he said quickly. “Noted.”
Ilya studied him for another moment.
Then, apparently satisfied that the message had been delivered clearly enough, he sat back down.
The chair creaked beneath his weight.
For several seconds no one spoke.
Finally another reporter cleared her throat.
“Um… hockey question?”
Shane nodded immediately.
“Yes, please.”
The interview limped forward after that, though the atmosphere had changed irreversibly.
No one flirted again.
When the media session finally ended, reporters gathered their equipment with remarkable efficiency.
The overly bold reporter disappeared faster than anyone else.
As the room emptied, Shane turned toward Ilya.
“You threatened a journalist,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“You told him you’d break his nose.”
“Yes.”
Shane watched him for a moment.
Then he reached over and gently adjusted Ilya’s tie where it had twisted during the confrontation.
“You know,” Shane said thoughtfully, “that might be the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen.”
Ilya blinked.
“…What?”
Shane smiled slowly.
“I’m serious.”
Ilya stared at him for several seconds.
Then a slow grin spread across his face, bright with unmistakable satisfaction.
“Good,” he said.
And as they walked out of the press room together, Ilya slipped an arm casually around Shane’s shoulders, glaring once more toward the door where the reporter had fled—just in case the man needed one final reminder.