Honestly, Ilya wasn’t expecting anything too complicated to happen tonight. After three weeks of not touching each other, Ilya would be surprised if they even made it past the living room, or bothered to take their clothes off, before they were both spent and sleepy.
But they did have tomorrow. And the next night.
They hadn’t been able to see each other, before the game. The Centaurs had flown into Montreal in the afternoon, after practicing in Ottawa, and he and Shane had both been busy getting ready for the game. Ilya’s team was flying back to Ottawa directly after this game, but he wouldn’t be flying with them. He’d been nervous when he’d told Coach Wiebe his fabricated story about needing to meet with Shane about their charity tomorrow. He’d never skipped a team flight before, in all of their years of sneaking around, and he was worried it would seem strange now. And obvious.
But Wiebe hadn’t even blinked at it. “It’s a day off tomorrow anyway,” he’d said easily. “Enjoy Montreal.”
Ilya loved his new coach.
“Hollander giving you trouble?” Evan Dykstra, Ottawa’s best defenseman, asked when Ilya returned to the bench.
Ilya’s lips curved up. “Always.”
By the second period, the score was two to one for Montreal, which wasn’t bad, considering. Wyatt had been making incredible saves to keep Ottawa in the game.
After another highlight reel–worthy glove save, Ilya skated over to Wyatt to tap him on the pads.
“Is it supposed to rain tomorrow?” Wyatt asked, as if he wasn’t in the middle of a hockey game and hadn’t just done something amazing. “I was thinking about taking my bike out, hitting a trail.”
Ilya could only smile and shake his head. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll check later. Hey, score a goal, would ya?”
“No problem.”
Three minutes later, Ilya scored a goal, tying the game. He waved to the Montreal crowd as they booed him.
“Stop being an asshole,” Shane grumbled as he skated by him.
Ilya blew him a kiss.
“Knock that shit off,” said a gruff voice beside Ilya. He turned to find one of the refs frowning at him. “I’ll give you an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty if you keep that up.”
Ilya rolled his eyes as he skated to his bench. If the ref only knew how much Ilya actually wanted to kiss Shane.
He enjoyed a brief fantasy as he sat on the bench of pressing Shane against the glass after scoring a goal and kissing him breathless. That would shut this fucking crowd up.
“Man,” Bood said as they skated to the bench, “this town hates you.”
“Nah. They wish I played for them.”
Bood laughed. “Hollander would hate that.”
“My good friend Shane Hollander, you mean?”
“There’s no way he likes you that much.”
“He loves me,” Ilya said plainly. Honestly.
Bood, of course, thought he was kidding. “Now you’re really dreaming.”
Ilya chomped on his mouth guard to avoid smiling.
A few seconds later, Luca Haas took a long pass and was on a breakaway. Most of the Ottawa bench stood up, Ilya included.
“Get it, Haasy!” Bood yelled.
They all watched as the puck sailed past the Montreal goalie’s arm and into the net. His second NHL goal. He jumped up after scoring, arms raised and an enormous grin stretching his boyish face. Then he was engulfed by his linemates.
“The damn kid’s got skills,” Bood said.
“Good. We need them.” Ilya held his hand out for a high five as Haas reached the bench. Haas slapped Ilya’s glove, then was pulled into an awkward embrace by Bood that nearly hauled him over the boards and onto the bench.
“Fucking beauty, kid!” Bood yelled in his ear. “Legendary.”
Less than two minutes later, Shane scored, making the Ottawa celebrations short-lived.
“That was rude,” Ilya said when they bent for the face-off after.
“What? Trying to win?”
“Couldn’t even let poor Haas enjoy that for a couple of minutes?”
“Maybe I’ll explain to you how hockey works later,” Shane said dryly.
“If that’s what you want to do,” Ilya said, “later.”
Ilya won the face-off.
Twenty seconds later, Shane had the puck because Ilya’s linemate, Tanner Dillon, had fucked up a pass. Ilya really needed a better right wing player on his line.
Shane charged into the Ottawa zone but couldn’t get a clean shot, so he went behind the net with the puck. Ilya chased after him, but couldn’t catch him before Shane passed the puck to J.J. at the blue line. Ilya moved to the front of the net, and found himself directly in the line of fire when J.J. unleashed his rocket of a slap shot at the net. The puck caught Ilya on the side of the knee, and he went down, swearing loudly.
Wyatt must have covered the puck because play stopped a second later. The same ref who’d gotten in Ilya’s face earlier skated over to check on him.
“You need the doctor?” he asked gruffly.
Ilya glared up at him. “No. Give me a second.”
He slowly pulled himself up until he was on one knee, the good one planted on the ice. The other one was bent in front of him and felt like a fiery ball of pain.
“That’s my job, y’know,” Wyatt said. “I’ve got these big pads on my legs.” He tapped one with his stick. “So the puck doesn’t directly hit my fucking kneecap.”
“Was not my kneecap,” Ilya said through gritted teeth. “Just the side. Is fine.”
“Ah. Like, where you have no padding at all?”
Ilya stood up with some effort. The crowd clapped for him, but he knew it was half-hearted. The Montreal fans would probably prefer to see a puck go clean through his torso.
Shane approached him as Ilya made his way to the bench. “You okay?”
“Great.” He flexed his knee a few times, testing it, and winced.
“Wyatt probably woulda stopped that without your help.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Shane frowned at him with obvious concern in his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”
Ilya gave him a quick smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Maybe no kneeling for a few days.”
Shane bumped right up against him. “I’ll have to make new plans, then.”