Crowell’s eyebrows shot up in obvious surprise, but he quickly composed himself. “That,” he said coldly, “is not happening. Not if you want to remain in this league.”
“Really?” Ilya asked. He wanted to flip the fucking table. “You are going to kick us out?”
“We’ll sue the shit out of the league,” Shane said, which honestly shocked Ilya.
For a long moment, Crowell said nothing. Then he said, “You’re right. You could sue. But do you think any team would sign you after that? Either way, you’d be done.”
Shane sucked in a breath. Ilya trembled with rage. They’d both given this league—this game—so much.
“We release the statement,” Crowell said. “Most hockey fans will believe it because they’ll want to believe it. There’s no scandal, you boys get to keep playing for as long as you want, and we all move on. And, obviously, you don’t get fucking married this summer.”
Ilya’s jaw was clenched so hard his teeth hurt. He was close to quitting the NHL on the spot. Instead he breathed through his nose and tried to figure out his next words.
Shane came up with some first. “Fuck this. Here’s a plan: we do whatever we want this summer and then we come back and have all-star seasons again next year. We’re not a couple of naïve rookies you can intimidate. You think we don’t know what we’re worth to this league?”
“What you were worth,” Crowell said. “You’re destroying your own brands with this shit.”
“No,” Ilya said. “We are making them stronger.”
Crowell leaned over the table, fury flashing dangerously in his eyes. “I am offering the only option that will save both of your careers and the reputation of this league. If you post your own statement and start flaunting your...relationship...then you will obliterate your legacies. You’ll be jokes. Choose carefully.”
For a long, tense moment, there was only the sound of three men breathing angrily.
Then Shane stood and said, “I choose him. Come on, Ilya.”
They both grabbed their coats from the backs of their chairs and left. Crowell was yelling something after them as they left the room, but Ilya didn’t care. He put on his coat, took Shane’s hand, and walked purposely toward the elevators. He was so full of love and adrenaline that he felt like he might explode. Once the elevator doors closed behind them, Shane said, “Sorry if I steamrolled that—”
Ilya didn’t let him finish his sentence. He crowded Shane against the mirrored wall and kissed him ferociously. He sank his fingers into Shane’s stupid hair and just devoured him, putting everything he felt into it. Because there was choosing Ilya over hockey, and then there was looking Crowell dead in the eye and basically telling him to go fuck himself. He never would have asked that of Shane, but Shane had done it anyway. Hadn’t even hesitated.
The elevator dinged, ending their kiss. Ilya stepped back and admired how wrecked Shane looked, with his hair and coat disheveled and his lips swollen and pink. Those lips curved into a smile as the elevator doors opened.
“So,” Shane said as they walked across the lobby to the exit, “you’re not mad, then?”
“Not at you. I’m fucking furious at Crowell.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “Well. I recorded the meeting. So.”
Ilya’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit, Hollander. Good job.”
“It was Mom’s idea. Just in case we need it. But I think we’re both going to be playing soon.” They walked out into the chilly late-morning sunshine. It was late March, and Montreal was finally starting to thaw, but it would be a while before winter could be declared over.
They walked one block toward where they’d parked, then Shane stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.
“What?” Ilya asked.
“You know what? There’s a place nearby that makes the best chicken parmesan. I’ve always wanted to take you.”
Ilya’s heart bounced happily at how fearless Shane was being. How sure he was about him. About them. He smiled and said, “If Hayden does not mind watching Anya for a bit longer.”
Shane smiled back. “I’ll check to make sure, but he was pretty excited about doing us a favor, so we should probably take advantage of that while we can.”
They both started walking toward the restaurant. “Hayden is a good guy,” Ilya said.
Shane nudged him. “Are you gonna tell him that?”
“Maybe. Someday.” He reached for Shane’s hand and they walked, fingers tangled together, down a busy street in downtown Montreal with their heads held high.
* * *
“What about this one?” Ilya asked, and showed his phone screen to Shane.
Shane wrinkled his nose at it. “I look weird in that one.”
“Yes. But I look very good.”
Shane lightly punched his chest, which was easy to do because his head was resting on it. They were both naked, tangled up in bed together, and trying to find the perfect set of photos to pair with the statement for their mutual Instagram post. Shane was being, Ilya thought, overly fussy about it.
“This one,” Shane suggested, and showed Ilya his phone. It showed a photo Yuna had taken of them together in their coach tracksuits on the first day of their first charity camp.
“Good. Okay,” Ilya agreed. “Very respectable.”
“Maybe that’s enough,” Shane mused. “We have four.”
“One more,” Ilya said, and stretched his hand holding the phone out above them.
“No way,” Shane said, squirming away.
Ilya pulled him closer with an arm around Shane’s shoulders. “In case people still don’t believe we are together.”
“No!” Shane squawked.
“For me, then,” Ilya said, and kissed the top of Shane’s head.
Shane relaxed against him. “Fine.”
Ilya snapped a few quick photos, then lowered his phone to look at them.
“Oh,” Shane said quietly. “Look at us.”
They both looked so fucking in love it was disgusting. “I am keeping these ones,” Ilya said firmly.
“I guess we don’t have to delete those kinds of photos anymore,” Shane said. “Within reason, I mean. I don’t want anything graphic getting out there.”
“Good thing I didn’t take a photo ten minutes ago, then.”
Shane’s cheeks turned as pink as Ilya had hoped they would. “I think your hands were busy.”