“It is. We are engaged.” Ilya was still getting used to saying those words aloud. To believing them.
“Then Shane Hollander is a lucky man.”
Ilya was in danger of crying, so he wrapped Wyatt in a hug to hide his face. “Thank you,” he said.
“No problem.” Wyatt patted him on the back. “Just try not to make your wedding day the same as Harris and Troy’s, okay? I don’t want to have to do a lot of running around that day.”
Ilya laughed, and then sniffed. “Okay, Hazy.”
Shane couldn’t ever remember being so nervous at the start of the playoffs before. Not even as a rookie. He shuffled his skates anxiously as the national anthem was sung, trying not to stare directly at the back of Ilya’s jersey, fifty feet in front of him.
Holy shit. This was happening.
The Montreal crowd was deafening but couldn’t drown out the blood pounding in Shane’s ears. He needed to pull himself together because, yes, it felt weird standing on the ice with Ilya when everyone knew. And, yes, most of his teammates had been less than friendly since Shane had returned from his suspension, but the team had silently made a pact not to talk about it, which should have been a relief but actually made Shane feel awful.
Ilya’s team had accepted him back with open arms. They’d talked about his relationship with Shane—joked about it, even. Shane felt like he was playing an unending version of that board game, Operation, and the slightest mistake—anything less than perfection—would get him zapped. It was exhausting, and it was pressure he didn’t need on top of the usual playoffs expectations of the Montreal fans.
Finally, it was time for the puck to drop. Shane was clinging to the hope that he’d start to feel normal once the actual game started. Except, of course, the opening face-off was between him and Ilya.
They both bent at the waist over the face-off spot, and for a moment, their gazes locked.
“Good luck,” Shane said. It was all he dared to say right now, with everyone watching.
Ilya’s lips quirked up in his usual crooked, cocky smile, and then the puck dropped.
Ilya won the face-off.
Fucking hell, playoff games were intense. Ilya had almost forgotten.
The game was going…okay. Troy Barrett had opened the scoring early for Ottawa, which had been exciting, but Montreal had answered quickly. And then added a second goal.
But 2–1 was a respectable start to the third period. Better, Ilya thought, than anyone had expected Ottawa to fare against Montreal.
During a break in play, Ilya checked in with his goalie. “You good, Hazy?” he called out over the screeching vocals of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck.”
“Yep,” Hazy said cheerfully. “Hey, do you like this song?”
Ilya’s brow furrowed. Was this seriously what Wyatt was thinking about right now? “Is okay.”
“I always thought it had all this buildup and then falls kind of flat, but I dunno. Anyway, score a goal, okay?”
Neither Ilya nor Shane had scored yet. Ilya had noticed that Shane had been a bit off the whole game. Not handling the puck as cleanly as he usually did, not getting the scoring chances he was known for.
Ilya wanted to ask Shane how he was doing. He wanted to hold him, but they’d agreed not to see each other off the ice during this playoff series. Because, despite everything else between them, they were two NHL stars who both wanted to win the Stanley Cup, and neither was about to let their fiancé stand in the way. Ilya wasn’t sure it was a sound strategy. After a week of being apart from Shane, he wanted to tear his own skin off.
So there was more than one incentive to end this series quickly, even though that meant one of them would lose.
As they bent for the face-off at the beginning of the third, Ilya noticed a glint of gold, on Shane’s neck.
“You have a chain now?” Ilya asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Shane said. “And a ring.”
Ilya smiled, and totally lost the face-off.
Ilya stared at the photo of Shane’s ring, nestled between his muscular, shower-damp pecs, for nearly the entire bus ride from the arena to the hotel. Shane had sent it from the locker room, presumably, which was bold and also super hot. It took some of the sting of losing 2–1 away.
He waited until he was safely in his hotel room before he texted Shane back: Can I see that ring again?
A couple of minutes later, a FaceTime request from Shane appeared on his phone.
“Hey,” Shane said. He was shirtless, the ring on full display. His hair was tied back and he was wearing his glasses, a lethal combination. “Sorry about the game.”
Ilya huffed. “No you are not. When did you start wearing the ring?”
“This morning.”
His heart flopped over. “Did anyone say anything?”
“No. I don’t think anyone wants to talk about it.” Shane sighed. “Tonight was the first time I hated playing against you. I may have even hated playing hockey altogether.”
“Was weird,” Ilya conceded, “but you love hockey.”
“You guys played a great game.”
“Not as great as your team.”
“It’s only the first game. We’re not cocky.” Shane grimaced. “Well, some of the guys are cocky.”
“Good,” Ilya said. “We like to be underestimated.”
“Big word,” Shane said with a cute little smile.
“Hockey word. One of the first ones I learned in Boston.”
“Montreal and Boston were both terrible teams when we joined them. I forget that, sometimes.”
Ilya smiled. “Do I need to fuck you in your trophy room again until you remember?”
Shane’s cheeks darkened. “I wish.”
“Do not forget,” Ilya said seriously, “what that team owes you.”
Shane chewed his lip and nodded. Ilya knew what the expression on his face meant. “Do you need help to relax before bed?”
Shane nodded again. “Please.”
Ilya rummaged through his suitcase with one hand until he found his folding tripod. “Get started. I will join you in a minute.”
Ottawa shut the Montreal crowd up by winning the second game, then both teams headed to Ottawa for games three and four. Ottawa made their home crowd roar by winning game three, then Montreal won the fourth game, tying the series at two wins apiece. They went back to Montreal, and the Voyageurs absolutely trounced the Centaurs 6–1 and put them on the ropes. Ottawa had to win the next game, back home in Ottawa, or they were out.
The Ottawa arena was packed for game six. It had been sold out for most of the past three months, but that night Ilya thought the noise rivaled the crowd back in Montreal. The Centaurs charged out onto the ice to an earsplitting roar from their hometown fans.
“Does the noise scare you?” Shane asked as they got ready for the puck drop. “I know you’re not used to it.”
Ilya snorted. “This is nothing. Wait until I score.”
“Oh yeah? When’s that happening?”
Ilya bent over the circle. “Right now.”
He won the face-off, knocking the puck back to Dykstra and immediately getting himself in formation with Troy and Bood like they’d practiced. He watched as Troy dodged Hayden and took the pass from Dykstra. Ilya made sure he was exactly where he needed to be when Troy sent the puck over to him, and as soon as it hit his blade, Ilya took off.