Shane Hollander is one of the best—some might say the best, but that's neither here nor there—hockey players in the world. He has laser focus, incredible coordination, and arguably the softest hands in the league. He's hardworking and passionate and precise, and will not stop at anything until he's happy with his results.
He's going to completely ace this pottery class.
Not that it's a competition, of course. Really, it's just another one of those hybrid team building-turned-social media content things that Harris pioneered and, as a result of their wild success, has now become a mandatory semi-regular activity across most teams in the league. The Common Cens series was truly the blueprint for all the variety shows that NHL teams now churn out in addition to all the other usual media coverage. It has certainly helped boost viewership and ticket sales in the league as a whole, and that's a huge perk that no franchise is willing to miss out on.
As much as Shane hates a media scrum, he enjoys these, honestly. Harris has had them do all sorts of random things over the off-seasons that they would never otherwise do, the chronically busy jocks that they are. The things they've done are fun and generally low-stakes, like making friendship bracelets or learning how to do latte art—that is, apart from a few activities that almost had them completely discarding the "friendly" part of "friendly competition."
(Letting a team of professional hockey players do three rounds of paintball probably sounded harmless in theory, but in practice, equipping twenty extremely competitive and physically fit athletes with paint-loaded guns was probably always going to turn into a full-blown war anyway. They'd put Shane and Ilya on separate teams, of course. Shane had been the one to take Ilya out in the last round, and Ilya bitched about it endlessly, calling him a traitor—until they got home, and then Shane got on his knees to make it up to him.)
Paintball vendettas aside, the Centaurs team culture is probably the most laid-back and actually fun Shane has ever been a part of. Not that he has a wealth of experience—he'd only ever been on one other professional hockey team, after all—but even when he was the captain of the Voyageurs for almost all of his career, he couldn't say he had ever been this comfortable in the room. Even though the lineup inevitably changes every so often, the atmosphere stays light, unburdened in a way that only a team with nothing to lose and everything to gain can be.
That's due in no small part to his husband's role as captain, he's sure, but it's also just the overall difference in management and coaching staff. Montreal has always been a legacy team, Original Six, and the leadership never let them forget it. Ottawa's admittedly spotty history allowed the franchise ample room to breathe and enough time to evolve. Their reputation as the gayest team in hockey simply doesn't happen without the unequivocal support of the bigwigs, and, against all odds, they have that here.
Which means they get the green light and the funding to do silly little bonding activities that the team will then monetize through Youtube ads and social media clout. Which means, on a random Saturday morning in August, Shane gets to learn how to make a ceramic bowl from scratch.
The venue today is a local pottery studio, a quaint little space near the river, appropriately called Mudfish. Ilya drives them there, which means he gets to pick the music. Not that it makes much of a difference, really, because Shane's choice of music is usually no music, which means Ilya will get bored five minutes in and put something on anyway. He's made it a personal project of his over the years to periodically introduce Shane to some of the current hits, so he can "get with the times."
Today, Ilya puts on a playlist of upbeat hip-hop songs, most of which are in Spanish or Korean. They speak three languages between them, and yet Ilya chooses to listen to music they don't understand.
"It's just the feeling, Hollander," Ilya pontificates, when Shane repeats this out loud. "You don't need to understand words to feel what they're saying." He does a little shimmy to the music, nodding at the console. It says the song is by Bad Bunny, a name Shane only recognizes because he's one of Ilya's favorites. "Benito just gets it."
Shane just shakes his head. He still doesn't quite get it, so he just takes Ilya's free hand and tangles their fingers together in solidarity. Music was never really his thing, anyway.
It's a short drive, and they arrive a respectable ten minutes before their call time, because, contrary to popular belief, Ilya is actually a stickler for punctuality, and besides that, Shane has his own reputation to uphold. They take their respective C and A badges very seriously in their household.
Mudfish Pottery Studio is open and airy, a much bigger space than Shane had initially imagined. Upon entering, the wall on the left is made up entirely of shelves, all sorts of drying ceramics lined up and stacked neatly, handwritten labels marking ownership. In the far back, behind a partition of knick knack-laden shelves, are two large tables with colorful mismatched seats. A record player is tucked into the corner, spinning soft jazz that filters through the space naturally. Finally, opposite the wall of shelves, bathed in the natural light from the large storefront windows, are a row of pottery wheels, where Bood, Wyatt, and Luca are already gathered, looking suspiciously ready to wreak some havoc.
Like clockwork, Harris emerges from the back, chatting with a woman who Shane assumes is the owner of the studio. Alexis and Rina, his interns, follow them out, but head over to the wheels where the cameras are already set up.
"Oh, good, you're here!" Harris says when he sees them enter. "Troy is just parking, but we can start as soon as he arrives!"
"You made him get you coffee," Ilya guesses.
Harris clutches imaginary pearls. "Strictly speaking, I didn't make him do anything." He winks at Shane, but they all know Troy would do anything for Harris, whether or not he asks. "Anyway, this is Sera! She owns this studio, and she'll also be your teacher for today." She gestures to the woman with a flourish. "Behave," he says, shooting a pointed look at Ilya as he leaves them, probably to help his interns set up.
Beside Shane, the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs is the picture of innocence. "Always," Ilya promises solemnly, but not without that signature mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
Sera is a tall, willowy woman who looks to be around their age. She has shoulder-length hair, vibrant streaks of teal peeking out from underneath a curtain of black, and large round glasses that frame her soft features. Her deep tan arms are dotted with tattoos of varying sizes, the sleeves of her black denim jumpsuit rolled up to show them off. Shane gets the impression that she is very cool, in a very effortless way that has eluded Shane his whole life. She has the same confidence that Ilya does, striking and self-assured.
"Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov," Sera greets them, her smile turning her eyes into crescents. "My husband is a huge fan. It's such an honor to have you guys here."
"Shane and Ilya, please," Shane says, shaking her outstretched hand. "Thank you for having us."
"Only your husband is a fan?" Ilya quips, which usually goes one of two ways. Shane has learned how to manage either—Ilya loves to fluster, and sometimes, it doesn't land very well—but thankfully, it seems like Sera is not so easily fazed.
Her laugh is bright and loud, clearly delighted by the banter. "I wish I could say otherwise, but—" she spreads her hands, gesturing around them, "I spend more time around dirt than ice, as you can see."
"That's fair," Ilya allows. "But you will be Centaurs fan after this, yes?"
"After five separate sessions with all of you and a lifetime of living in this city?" Sera tilts her head, pretending to consider. "Hmm… I suppose it wouldn't be too much of a hardship to root for the home team."
Ilya grins. "Harris will give you tickets!"
"Oh, he already has. Jared is thrilled we'll get to be at your home opener," Sera assures them.
Just then, the bell by the door jingles and Troy walks in, two cups of coffee in hand, just like Ilya guessed.
"Looks like our last student has just arrived," Sera says, and then she gestures grandly towards the wheels. "Are you guys ready to get down and dirty?"
Ilya turns a wicked grin Shane's way, his eyebrows quirked in question.
Shane chances a look at the wheels, suddenly nervous, and then back at Ilya.
He shoves down the shallow wave of trepidation that washes over him and smiles. "Always," he says, repeating Ilya's promise from earlier, in the hopes that it'll give him a similar amount of confidence.
There are a few things in Shane's life that he was immediately good at. One of them—the best and possibly most rewarding shock of his parents' lives, when they had taken him to a rink at the very early age of three—was that he was a complete natural with a hockey stick.
Shane's used to hearing all about his soft hands. It's one of the things people like to praise about his game, and honestly, one of the things he's most proud of as a player. He knows it's the result of a lot of time and hard work, but also… there's just something that clicks for him, as soon as the cool carbon fiber lands in his palms. It's not something he consciously developed, just something that has always made sense. His stick feels like an extension of him at this point. It belongs safely in the grip of his gloves.
But off the ice, his hands often feel like a foreign appendage that he can't quite get a handle of. He's not uncoordinated, far from it—he works just fine in the kitchen, thank you very much—but there's something about inherently creative tasks that just leave him utterly mystified. His drawing skills haven't developed past Grade 4, probably, and he can never get a paintbrush to work the way he wants it to. Even just putting together an outfit that goes outside of the conventional t-shirt-jeans-sneakers combo seems like a Herculean task sometimes.
He knows it has something to do with his—thing—about perfection. That it might not be his capabilities, per se, that get in the way, but the high, sometimes unrealistic standards to which he tends to hold himself. But he can't help it if he wants to be good at everything. He usually is good at everything. So when he's not good at something, he just avoids it at all costs.
There had been another team workshop, a tapestry weaving one, that had almost convinced Shane that he could be good at being productive with his hands, and not just in terms of goals and assists on the ice. There was a pattern to weaving that Shane appreciated, up-down-up-down, in-out-in-out, and he found that he could let his fingers work with the soft cotton yarn without having to overthink it. It was straightforward and predictable; he could picture the mini tapestry in his mind as he worked, and somehow, with some help, he was able to make it happen.
Granted, his finished piece of contrasting blue and brown threads was much simpler than, say, Ilya's, which was a rainbow of colors with all sorts of tassels and fuzzy yarn and alternating weaves, but he was still proud of the result, and the activity itself gave him very minimal stress.
He quickly finds out that working with clay is not nearly as simple.
He'd done a bit of research a few nights before—though, honestly, a bit was probably an understatement. He had accidentally fallen into a pottery rabbit hole after he discovered this guy on Youtube who has really nicely shot videos and an oddly soothing speaking voice. He just likes to know what he's getting into, is all. And he's coming into this with a creative handicap, so to speak, so he wants to get a head start. Knowing a bit more about the process and the right techniques will help him be better at it more quickly than if he was going into the workshop blind.
The impromptu mini-marathon worked to assuage his apprehension, at least, and the more he watched, the more he was convinced he could actually do it.
But of course, watching video after video on the internet does nothing to prepare him for the first time he sits at the wheel.
First of all, it's… wet. Of course Shane had known this coming into the workshop, but putting his hands on the wet mound of clay was a weird sensation he really couldn't have prepared himself for. It's squishy and slippery and coats his fingers and, okay, it's not all that wrong, really… but it's just not right either.
Then, as Sera explains the next few steps and he straightens up to listen, the clay quickly dries on his hands, and that's—that's definitely not a feeling that he likes. He quickly grabs the sponge from his bowl of water and runs it over his hands, a safety blanket, until they're given the next instructions.
"This next step is called centering the clay," Sera tells them. "This is an important step that will make sure your piece is symmetrical and in the right spot."
She shows them what an uncentered wedge of clay looks like, her hands bouncing erratically around the lump as the wheel spins. She then demonstrates the proper form, leaning forward as she talks them through the correct position, and invites them to follow her example.
"Remember," Sera tells them, her hands now settled and steady over her clay. "You control the clay. The clay doesn't control you."
Okay. Control. Shane likes control.
Following Sera's directions, he wets his hands, forms them into a V shape, leans down, and pushes against the clay. Gently, at first, just to test it, and then with a bit more force. He feels the clay move under the slight pressure, slipping under his skin in a smooth rhythm, and this—this feels kind of nice, actually. Especially as he feels the clay settle. It's still a little weird, the sensation of it, but the spinning wheel helps for some reason.
"Are we all centered?" Sera calls out after a few minutes.
Shane thinks so. The clay feels steady under his palms, even as the wheel moves quickly. The rest of the guys call out their assent, and Sera does a quick lap around them to check their progress.
When she sits back down at her wheel, she has a knowing grin on her face. "I think you guys will like this next step," she says. "I call it pucking."
"Now we're talking!" Bood quips immediately, punctuated by a loud clap.
"No, no need to demonstrate," Ilya says. Shane hears the smirk in his tone and can predict what comes with it, could practically recite the next words out of his mouth. "I am expert at pucking. Both on the ice and off."
The guys (Harris included) predictably snicker, and Sera also laughs. Behind the cameras, the interns are clearly trying to suppress their giggles.
Shane shakes his head. The smile that breaks on his face is probably besotted, despite the obvious joke. He ducks his head down under the guise of surveying his clay just to gain some sort of semblance of composure.
When Sera invites them to start the wheel again, Shane feels a bit of confidence start to build in his chest. Cupping the small mound of mud with his left hand, his right hand in a fist over the clay and elbows anchored by his hips, he allows himself to feel the possibility that sits under his palms. The power, the control to shape this wet lump of mud into anything he wants.
A puck, for now. He knows what a puck is. He's been handling them since he was three. He can do this.
Maybe. Probably.
They miraculously get through opening up the clay without any inappropriate comments from Ilya, but Shane knows for sure he must be biting his tongue on them because even he is thinking them. Poking your fingers into something and pushing in to create a bigger opening is a very specific experience that both of them are very familiar with, just under very different circumstances. Shane thanks the universe for the small mercy of Ilya Rozanov finally developing a filter, though he still finds it a bit odd that he hadn't cracked even a subtle innuendo.
When he glances over to check on his husband, leaning forward to get a clearer view of him on the other end of the row, Ilya is surprisingly immersed, his brows furrowed and his tongue poked out adorably as he pushes his thumbs into the clay. He sits nearest the window, backlit by the light streaming in from the windows, a glow casted around his golden curls. His bright blue apron is already inexplicably mud-splattered, and his biceps strain against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. There's slip all the way up to his wrists, drying on the hair of his arm.
He looks so handsome in this light. Straight out of a movie, like some kind of romance lead trying to fashion a special gift for his love interest.
The whole thing reminds him of a movie he saw on a plane once. In a different situation, he can easily picture Ilya as Patrick Swayze in that film—and now that he thinks about it, the resemblance is actually uncanny—coming up to envelop him from behind, running his fingers over Shane's work just to get his attention, tangling their fingers together over the slip.
Ilya totally would, too, if they were alone. And if he wasn't so laser-focused on the clay he is currently opening up.
Shane takes the opportunity to admire his husband while his teammates are preoccupied, enjoys the chirp-free view for a few quiet moments. Realizes it's probably for the best they were seated away from each other, or else Shane would just be endlessly distracted. Thinks about how a younger version of himself would never believe any version of this reality was possible, wouldn't even let himself look at Ilya the way he looks at him now. And then he restarts his wheel.
Sera walks them through the next step without incident, and once they've all established that their base is just the right height, she asks them if they already have an idea of what they want to make.
"Something with walls, hopefully," she adds, her brows raising pointedly. "I think plates might be a little too delicate for first timers, so we're not going to attempt that today."
"Walls?" Luca asks.
"Like, a cup, or a bowl. Something that's not just flat," Sera explains.
"You're saying hockey players can't be delicate?" Ilya says. His tone is teasing—Shane can hear the smirk in his voice again, even though he can't really see it.
Sera plays along. "Well, you tell me." She spreads her hands, gesturing to the group at large.
"Shane is very delicate," Ilya says confidently. "Like a flower, you know?"
There it is, the innuendo Shane had been waiting for. At least it's much more subtle than what Shane was expecting.
The boys crack up, and Shane rolls his eyes even as he feels the familiar rush of blood up his neck and face. "Shut up," he mutters. He'll never escape being annoyed and endeared at the same time when it comes to his husband's ribbing.
Beside him, Wyatt pipes up. "You are, though, Holly," he says. "Softest hands in the league."
"Second softest hands in the league," Ilya argues.
That finally gets a laugh from Shane. "Alright. You married these hands," he says with a shrug.
Ilya lets out a long, heavy, put-upon sigh, but the grin on his face betrays him. "I really did."
Troy snorts. The boys start up again, gagging and making wretching noises this time, and Sera giggles with them.
Before she can ask again to get them back on track, Bood volunteers. "Cassie sent me this video of what she wanted," he says. "It's, like, a sippy cup or something? Like a travel mug?"
He scoots forward to show her the video, and Sera nods as it plays, smiling. "Oh, yes, that's definitely doable. What about you, Ilya?"
They go down the line, just like they had earlier when Sera had asked them to introduce themselves, as if it was the first day of school. Ilya wants to make a coffee mug, and Luca and Troy jump on his idea like two coyotes waiting to pounce. Wyatt mentions that his wife was going through a very intense matcha phase and has since indoctrinated him, and Sera brightens at the prospect of helping him shape a matcha bowl.
When they all turn expectantly to Shane, of course he also has an answer ready. "My mom loves soup," he says simply, clutching the wet sponge again because it's been an extended period of time that they haven't touched the wet clay. "I want to make her a bowl. Or something."
What he doesn't say is that his mother is a very sentimental person who is very set in her ways—which means she's kept the same dinnerware in their house since he was a child, refuses to remove the decades-old dishes from the rotation as long as they remain whole, will only begrudgingly replace them with whatever Shane, and later Ilya, will gift her, because why buy anything new when there are perfectly good plates at home?
Except the last time Shane and Ilya were over, he noticed that she only had one bowl left from her favorite set, this ancient collection they've had since before he was even born. They have other bowls, of course, but he'd still made a mental note to replace them.
He hopes this might be a little bit better, though. At least more meaningful than anything he could get at Williams Sonoma. After all, his mother's sentimentality extended itself most generously to Shane and anything Shane-related, the only child that he is. His childhood home is littered with artifacts from his childhood and beyond—Ilya had a field day exploring all the little school art projects his parents still have displayed on a console in the upstairs hallway.
So maybe replacing a sentimental object with another sentimental object cancels out or something. Like algebra.
He doesn't say any of this, but Sera still looks at him like she understands.
"You are delicate, Shane Hollander," she says, sounding somewhat surprised. She makes it sound like the highest complement. "That is so sweet of you."
Shane weathers the embarrassment that washes over him a second time, ducking his head with a nod. "Thanks," he says, once again reaching for his sponge.
He feels eyes on him and turns to see his teammates grinning, looking about ready to chirp him about being a certified mama's boy, but it's all background noise as he makes eye contact with his husband, finally.
Ilya's grin softens into something more private, like he knows exactly what Shane's thought process was, even though they've never really talked about it. Like he already knows the complicated shape of Shane's love for his mom, because he really, actually does.
"Okay! I concede, hockey players can be delicate," Sera says. "But thank you for choosing to make things with walls anyway."
She shows them how to build the walls, to pull them up from the mound of clay on the wheel. It looks a lot more intimidating than the previous steps, and it comes with a lot of disclaimers—a lot of beginners usually find this the hardest step, and it's okay if you don't get it on your first try, and most mistakes are fixable, just let me know if you need any help.
Pulling takes patience, Sera tells them.
Shane accepts this, at first. He's not delusional enough to think he would be a natural at this, knowing his track record with anything art-adjacent, so he knows, logically, that his first attempt will probably not be all that good.
That doesn't mean it's any less frustrating when it turns out to be true.
His first pull is fine, he thinks—he's able to keep his hands steady, taking care to move slower than his wheel—until he finally gets to the top. But he must get a little too comfortable, because he ends up releasing his hold a little too quickly, and the rim turns slightly wonky.
He lets out a small grunt of dismay, which Sera notices. "Everything okay, Shane?"
Shane just nods automatically, flashing her a thumbs up, his pride getting the best of him. It looks fixable, anyway, and it's only his first pull. He cups his hands around the cylinder, keeping them steady, and hopes for the best.
I control the clay, he reminds himself. The clay doesn't control me.
"How do you know when you're done?"
It's the first question Shane has asked directly this whole session, the only one he feels like he needs to voice out or else he'll never actually finish. He's not usually one to shy away from asking a question, but there's something about this activity that has been prickling at his pride all morning. The steps are simple and straightforward enough. He even did his research. He should be able to do everything on his own, especially with all the tips and tricks that Sera's shown them.
Everything except stopping, he guesses.
"Well, once you're happy with it, you can stop any time. You don't want to overwork your clay. That looks really good, actually!" Sera gestures towards Shane's work on the wheel. "It's just a feeling, honestly. Only you can decide when you're done."
There it is again—just a feeling. Shane is reminded about what Ilya said in the car earlier, about the music. He's not sure if he feels anything other than impatience, though, and a little frustration. He doesn't know if he trusts his instincts enough to decide, if what he's thrown is good enough or if it will benefit from a few more minutes of spinning.
He's managed to make a bowl, he thinks. Or at least something that looks very close to a bowl. He'd wanted to go for a more classic shape, round at the bottom with a slightly wider rim, and the clay on his wheel more or less resembles what he had in his mind. It looks smooth, feels smooth under his hand. He should probably quit while he's ahead. The longer he tinkers with it, the more room there is for error.
Shane's attention snaps over to Ilya on the other side of the room, as it always does. He sees that he already has a nice tall mug on his ware board, its sides perfectly straight, just waiting for a handle, and there's a fresh slab of clay on his wheel that he has cupped between his hands as he jokes around with Bood. He's grinning widely like he's having the time of his life.
Shane had long since stopped stopping himself from looking at his husband. Not when just one glimpse will instantly ground him and help him breathe more easily. The effect is instant, his shoulders immediately loosening up when he notices Ilya's relaxed posture, Ilya's smile mirrored on his own face without thinking.
Shane had also long since stopped comparing himself to Ilya Rozanov, and the sting of jealousy he had harbored for years has long since faded into just plain admiration. It doesn't hurt him anymore to realize that Ilya is better at some things than him—pottery evidently included. In fact, Ilya is probably better than Shane at most non-hockey activities, and Shane isn't that much of a sore loser (usually, anymore) to admit it.
But that doesn't mean he doesn't still get competitive, especially when he sees Ilya excelling. If Ilya can do it, then so can he.
Shane checks the time and realizes he still has an hour and a half left to make his mom a nice bowl. Given that he's already made one, he decides that's probably enough time to make three more—one for his dad, one for Ilya, and maybe one for himself. One complete set for his family.
He politely raises his hand, and Sera's studio assistant Allie, who had emerged from the back room as their workshop started, kindly helps him move his bowl to the wooden board resting on his table. The bowl survives the transfer mostly intact, but Shane can't help but sigh when he notices it's gone a little lopsided, probably from the clay being a little too wet.
Well. Perfect might not be a luxury he can afford in an hour and half. He thinks maybe, just for today, he can settle for done.
For the next hour and a half, Shane locks in and kind of blacks out, his famous single-minded focus snapped firmly on completing the task he'd set for himself. His hands cooperate, mostly, except sometimes they don't, or the clay doesn't, and that's annoying as hell. One time, in his hurry, he accidentally forgets to center his clay, and another time, he opens it up a little too deep. He doesn't let himself get aggravated, though, because he doesn't have the time to get distracted by feelings.
He spends the remaining time hustling, glancing back at the little cheat sheet of steps they were given at the start of the session and muttering to himself when he keeps pulling off too quickly. Tucks his elbows back into his hips and puts in the work. Gets his hands dirty. Keeps them wet.
It's not as peaceful a process as the weaving, especially not with Wyatt next to him. The singular matcha bowl on his ware board is so clean and structurally perfect that it's actually aggravating, and he's got a second one, probably just an insurance piece, in the works on his wheel. Even the little spout he had made with his finger looks pristine.
Shane forcibly shoves down the agitation in him, the slightest twinge of jealousy and annoyance at himself, that someone else seems to be doing better than him. He doesn't have time for that right now. He set a goal for himself and he's going to meet it.
The next thing he knows is he has three bowls on his board, with one last one on the wheel. He only looks up again when he hears Wyatt let out a low whistle next to him.
"You're so fast, Holly, what the fuck?" Wyatt's eyebrows are up so high they almost reach his hairline. "How do you already have a whole set?"
Hearing the commotion, Luca looks over. "Whoa," he says. "I've only done two!"
"Two is plenty, Luca," Sera reassures him, patting his shoulder.
Luca Haas is widely acknowledged as the most creative person on their team. He inevitably fields a lot of teasing for this, which had initially worried Shane by extension because Ilya had basically adopted Haasy as his rookie, and in other locker rooms, a hobby like drawing was pretty much a lifetime sentence. But so far, the chirping has never been malicious, just some playful ribbing, and a lot of requests. It relieved Shane to realize the chirping came coupled with an underlying respect from the guys on the team, because the kid really is undeniably talented, even with just a pencil and some paper.
So it doesn't surprise Shane to see that the cup Luca made has thick ridges down the side, making it look a little like a stack of donuts, and the bowl next to it has a wavy rim, almost like a flower. His two really is plenty, even compared to what Shane's made.
"Shane is just an overachiever, Haasy, we all knew this," Ilya says. He's looking at Shane as he says it, a corner of his lips quirking. "It's, ah, chromatic."
"Chronic," Shane supplies with a laugh.
"Yes, chronic, that's what I said, Hollander," Ilya agrees.
"Good thing he's on our team, then, eh?" Bood deadpans, eyes never leaving the misshapen cylinder on his wheel. "Now, everyone shut the fuck up, I'm trying to make a masterpiece for my wife."
Troy snorts. "Buddy, Cassie's gonna be drinking out of a fuckin' pasta noodle if you keep that up."
"Macaroni!" Ilya exclaims.
Shane glances over again, peeks over Ilya's station to see what Bood's working on. "Cavatappi," he says.
Ilya looks over with his eyebrows raised in question, looking amused.
"It's like a curly macaroni," Shane explains. "Cassie would be lucky if Boodram can turn that into at least a singular curve in the next fifteen minutes."
"Fuck you, Hollander, this is art!" Bood says. "Shut up before I fine you both for chirp collusion."
Ilya looks utterly delighted by the accusation. "Chirp collusion—"
"Just let him finish, Ilya," Shane interrupts, and Ilya immediately stops, but not without a short, put-upon sigh.
Troy coughs loudly into his fist. "AHEM-dogwalked."
Shane glances over in time to see Wyatt and Luca crack smiles at that.
"Traitors, all of you," Ilya says, shaking his head. "I raised you all and this is the thanks I get? Especially you, Haasy!"
Luca's brows furrow. "I thought you said you and Holly have shared custody."
"He married into the family," Ilya waves the technicality away.
"You guys should start a podcast," Sera pipes up, approaching Harris. "This banter must be a goldmine."
Harris laughs. "Don't worry, this is all going to make it into the final cut. These episodes always end up 40 minutes long, but we get a lot of mileage out of them."
"I can imagine," Sera says with an amused shake of her head. "Okay, we're down to our last period, guys. Let me know if you need any help!"
"I thought you said only your husband likes hockey," Ilya says.
Sera shrugs. "Yeah, well, being married for five years and together for twelve makes you learn a lot of things by osmosis." She lowers her voice into a poor approximation of a hockey bro and says, "Anyway, twenty minutes before I kick you all out! Hustle, hustle!"
As the session wraps up and they're instructed to label their work with the little sticker nametags Sera gave them earlier, Shane takes the opportunity to survey the set of bowls on his ware board.
He has always been a big believer in that practice makes perfect. Looking at the clay that he's thrown, he's forced to come to terms with the fact that none of them have come out exactly as he wanted, but to be fair, at least every bowl looks better than the last.
His mother may not have expensive taste for dinnerware, but she does care about quality. And despite never actually saying it out loud, Shane knows she also has come to expect a certain standard from her son, a standard that he had always worked hard to meet. He'd already talked this over in therapy a few times, that his self-imposed expectation for perfection had come coupled with his parents' unwavering support for him. Like, they believed that he could do it and do it well, whatever it may be, so of course he could. Of course he should.
But after three hours of a beginners' pottery workshop, he has four bowls, all of them slightly different in size. One of them has the cleanest, most even rim, except the base is not as round as the other three for some reason, no matter how long he spent on it. One of them is a little droopy, the first one he made today. The last one was a little rushed and looks it, but it's the closest in shape to the bowls Shane had grown up eating out of.
There's also one that is visibly bigger than the rest. That one is Ilya's, he had automatically thought, as soon as he noticed.
And then he realizes, suddenly—is that a little unfair, a little preferential? Especially knowing these bowls were technically for his mom? But the more he thinks about it, he doesn't actually think his mother would mind. In fact, he hears her voice quite clearly in his head. Of course the biggest bowl is Ilya's. He's the biggest eater in the family.
So none of his bowls are perfect, or even particularly pretty, really. They might not be all that durable either.
But he thinks his mom will probably understand.
Sera told them that it would take a few weeks for them to get their finished ceramics back, so Shane had mostly forgotten about his bowls until after the Irina Foundation hockey school sessions have wrapped up and the Centaurs are about to start with training camp for the upcoming season.
It's technically a day off, a Saturday, but Shane needs to look over some paperwork for the charity and meet with his mom and agent to discuss some upcoming brand deals. He gets up early for his run with Anya and is back before Ilya wakes, managing to press a kiss to his peacefully slumbering face on his way to the shower.
He goes through the motions—shave, get dressed, feed Anya, water the plants. After that, he gets to work on breakfast.
As he starts preparing the food, he hears the telltale signs of Ilya finally regaining consciousness. He knows his husband is due to head back to the pottery studio with Wyatt and Luca and the others this morning. They'd opted for an extra session to paint their creations, along with around half of the team.
Shane was not too jazzed about the prospect of ruining his bowls with a brush, so he was happy to accept Sera's alternative offer of glazing his bowls in the color of his choosing. He had chosen a deep indigo, the closest thing to the color of the pattern on the bowls his mother had.
He wonders what the bowls look like now, after drying. If they're all still intact, or if someone had maybe accidentally mishandled them and they'd gotten dinged. He gets this impulsive urge to clear his morning and accompany Ilya to the studio, just to check, but he decides that would be irresponsible and probably unnecessary. He just needs to accept his bowls' fate, whatever that may be. Or maybe he'll ask Ilya to check on them for him.
It occurs to him then he'd never actually seen what Ilya else had ended up making, which is odd, considering he remembers what the rest of his teammates had on their ware boards at the end of the session. He'd been too preoccupied with his own work, and then he got roped into taking pictures with Wyatt and Luca and their finished pottery as soon as their time was up. He did notice that Ilya had gone into the back with Sera when they had finished, but he was back to making fun of Bood's abomination of a "travel mug" so quickly that Shane had pretty much instantly forgotten about it.
Whatever Ilya finished making, it must've been good. Shane feels a little bad for not paying closer attention, and then feels a little silly for feeling bad at all. He should probably just ask his husband about that, too.
When said husband finally rounds the corner to the kitchen, blessedly shirtless, adorably sleep-rumpled and still groggy, he sniffs the air and lets out a long, happy hum.
"Bacon?" Ilya asks, clearly perked up by the smell.
"Turkey," Shane says.
"Yessss." Ilya still pumps his fist as if he's scored a goal. "Still bacon," he says, stealing a piece off the plate, and a kiss on Shane's cheek for good measure.
They move in comfortable silence, going about their own routines. Shane assembles his avocado toast, topping it off with two eggs, transfers the last batch of bacon to Ilya's plate, and then turns around to make his coffee.
Ilya had recently bought an espresso machine (an impulsive whim, after that one latte art workshop) and Shane had taken it upon himself to use it, because it turns out his husband—surprise, surprise—really couldn't be bothered on most days.
It has since become part of Shane's morning routine. He finds he likes the structure of it. The steps are always the same, the measurements are precise, and the coffee is always good, now that he knows what he's doing.
There is just one thing about the whole espresso situation that annoys Shane. And it's not like he hasn't tried to find a solution to it, it's just that—espresso cups are so dumb.
In general, Shane prefers a thick-walled ceramic espresso cup with a handle. Drinking hot coffee out of what is essentially a shot glass just feels wrong, so he opted for a more classic shape. But since the cups are small, just right to fit one shot of espresso, they also have offensively tiny handles that don't deserve to be called handles at all, considering you can barely handle them. He's gone looking for ones with bigger handles, but naturally, bigger handles mean bigger cups, which means too much space for a single shot, and that's annoying in a different, slightly worse way.
He sighs, watching the last of the coffee dribble onto the offending cup. "Ugh, why don't they make espresso cups with decent handles?" He picks it up carefully, which is only possible by pinching the absurdly small handle between his pointer finger and thumb. "Seriously. Only a kid could get their fingers through this tiny thing."
This is not the first time he's complained about this, and probably won't be the last, but Ilya still humors him. "Want me to get in there and stretch it out for you?" he quips around a mouthful of bacon.
Shane snorts. "Gross."
"That's not what you were saying last night." Ilya wiggles his eyebrows.
It really wasn't what Shane was saying last night, but still. "Fuck off, Rozanov."
Ilya laughs, coming up behind Shane to wrap his arms around his waist. "Is tiny cup, Hollander," he says placatingly. "Would look ridiculous with a big handle." He presses a quick kiss to the nape of Shane's neck.
Now smiling, Shane turns around to kiss him for real, pressing Ilya's Americano (overly sweetened, just the way he likes it) into his hands.
When they part, Ilya has this mischievous smile on his face, like how he gets after he secretly feeds Anya table food. Shane doesn't know what that's about, but he's too afraid to ask this early.
"I don't care how it looks," he says instead. "If the handle is this tiny, it's virtually useless."
The microwave beeps. Ilya squeezes Shane's hip as he goes to fetch his leftovers. "There probably are espresso cups with bigger handles, lyubimyy. Or no handles," he says. "Probably you're not the only one with this problem."
"It's not a problem," Shane says. "It's just a—"
Ilya gives him a knowing look, finally settling down at the counter beside him. "Yes, yes. Just a thing, I know."
It's another two weeks before the Ottawa Centaurs enter the dressing room after practice and are finally greeted by cardboard boxes waiting in each of their stalls.
"Nobody open until the cameras get to you!" Harris shouts as soon as they enter, when inevitably the team bursts into excited commotion. It's a similar level of noise to whenever Chiron visits them. Apparently puppies and handmade pottery inspire the same level of enthusiasm in professional hockey players.
They take turns unboxing, which is nice because Shane gets to see what everyone else made in their own sessions. It's also an unexpected ego boost because it seems that he shared his session with the few who really took the activity seriously and/or were naturally gifted. The rest of the team's creations range from unusably mediocre to extremely unserious, and it makes Shane, inanely, feel a little better and more optimistic about what he managed to make in three hours.
So he wasn't that bad, at least. That's a relief.
When Harris and his small army of cameras reach Ilya, he reveals his work with a flourish.
A couple weeks ago, when Shane had asked him about it, Ilya just laughed. "I said it. You did not listen? I'm hurt, lyubimyy." He laughs again at Shane's immediate distress. "I made a mug."
Shane grabbed his hand, slotting their fingers together in reassurance. "No, I saw the mug, it looked really good! But you finished that pretty quickly, I thought for sure you made other stuff…"
Ilya just shook his head, grinning. "Was too busy shitting on Bood. Besides, I made it perfect on the first try, I did not need to make any more." He shrugged. "What can I say? I'm just that good."
Shane had been so sure he was lying to him, or at least, not telling him the whole truth, but then—well. He had asked after Ilya had stripped him of his shirt and boxers, after a particularly competitive session in their home gym, so he decided to leave it alone for then.
Cut to now, in the dressing room: Ilya pulls out a singular cup, looking entirely too smug for someone who is holding something very breakable.
The mug in his hands is a textbook coffee mug, the same one Shane had seen all those weeks ago, now with a nice, curved handle. He'd painted it black with a huge number 81 in red, and when he turns the cup to show off the other side, Bood guffaws, literally doubling over when he sees. "Is that—"
"A Stanley Cup," Ilya says proudly, holding it up for all to see.
Not just one Stanley Cup, but three of them, painted in crude likeness, to represent the one he'd won with Boston, and the other two with Ottawa.
The rest of the team bursts into applause, whistling and yelling to celebrate their deservedly decorated captain and his—admittedly well-made and cleverly designed—cup.
Bood grabs it out of Ilya's hands to examine, Wyatt and Luca crowding in, too.
"Hey, hey, careful with that! Only I can drink out of it, I'm the only one in this room with three."
"Hollander has five!" Chouie jeers.
"Yes, two too many," Ilya says, winking at Shane.
Shane laughs, shaking his head at his husband's antics. Of course he would make a cup that celebrated his achievements, all while cracking wise.
Honestly, Shane's just a little mad he didn't think of it himself.
"Yes, thank you, thank you, my mug is best, I know," Ilya nods, gesturing for them to quiet down as he slumps down next to him, clearly satisfied with the reaction.
When it gets to be Shane's turn, everyone notices what he had been curious about since he arrived at his stall, but hadn't been allowed to examine yet.
"Wait, why does Hollywood have two boxes?" Dykstra asks, three stalls down from him.
Shane purses his lips in what Ilya likes to call his 'I don't know' pout. "Is it because I made four bowls?" He lifts one box up to examine, but it seemed big (and heavy) enough to fit all four bowls.
"You made four bowls?" Bernie yells from across the room. "What the fuck?"
"Dude, you should've seen him," Bood says. "Man was practically a pottery machine."
Wyatt pipes up, nodding solemnly. "He had that Game 7 look on his face. You all know the one."
The room lets out a chorus of oohs. They know from experience that Game 7 Shane Hollander means business.
Luca shakes his head. "Terrifying."
"Sexy," Ilya counters, and the boys all groan.
Harris claps his hands, gesturing to Shane. "Okay, well, there's only one way to find out," he prompts. "O-pen!"
The chant starts up naturally, O-PEN, O-PEN, as he finally rips through the bright blue sticker on the front.
It turns out that one box can actually fit all four bowls that he made, because that's precisely what he finds.
It would be an exaggeration to say that Shane was dreading seeing how his bowls had turned out, but he'd read all kinds of stories about how they always end up smaller than you wanted, with some bumps and dents that you don't remember. No, dread was really not the right word for it. He wouldn't say he was anxious about it, either, but despite himself, he did just—really care about them coming out good. He had hoped that nothing crazy had happened, like one of them exploding in the kiln, but honestly, more than that, he just hoped that he wouldn't be disappointed by his own work. Because if he's disappointed, then the bowls can never see the light of day, much less his mom's tableware cupboard.
He supposed he should have known that he'd have to unbox his bowls in front of an audience, since at the end of the day, this whole thing, existential crises notwithstanding, was for team content, but it feels oddly vulnerable to be revealing his pottery in front of all his teammates, and the entire world, eventually, when this video gets released.
Shane carefully removes the bubble wrap, one strip of scotch tape at a time, trying to keep his hands steady, and—
His bowls are—fine.
They are, in fact, smaller than Shane thought they would be, and they're just a little bit wonky, probably from being transported around the studio. None of them are even remotely close to perfect.
But they are bowls, and they don't have any visible cracks. The colored glaze turned out really pretty, a deep royal blue with specks in it, so vibrant and actually better than what Shane had imagined. They're mostly symmetrical, despite a few finger dents, but definitely functional, and his mom is going to love them, probably, and never retire them until the end of time.
Shane waits for the familiar wash of dismay to hit, that wave of disappointment he had eventually learned to ride through the years, and it…doesn't come.
Looking at his definitely passable bowls, all he feels is a sense of relief. A few weeks ago, these were just four lumps of mud. Now they have a purpose. Shane made them with his bare hands.
"Holy shit, are those stackable?" Troy says. He approaches Shane and peeks over his shoulder to see the bowls in his hands.
Shane shakes his head incredulously, finally cracking a smile. "Dude. I fucking wish."
"The color turned out so nice!" Wyatt comments. In his hands is the matcha bowl he made, the one Shane had been jealous of, painted in a splotchy yellow and purple checkerboard pattern.
"Thanks, man," Shane says, nodding towards Wyatt's bowl. "Yours looks really good, too. Lisa's gonna love it."
Ilya, next to him, lets out a cute little gasp. He picks up the biggest one from the box in his lap, the objectively alright bowl cupped in his hands. "This one is mine," he claims excitedly, looking up at Shane.
"That one is yours, yes." Shane breathes out with a smile, nodding. "Automatic seconds."
"Fuck yes." Ilya tucks the bowl back into its bubble wrap, carefully placing it back into the box. "Mom's gonna love them," he says.
"Wait, Holly, you said four bowls," Chouie, who has now come closer to inspect, points out. "You're already holding four bowls, so what's in that other box?"
Ilya's grin inexplicably widens. "Yeah, Holly. What's in the other box?"
The question is asked far too slyly to be innocent. Shane immediately narrows his eyes. "I fucking knew you made more than one thing!"
Ilya shrugs innocently, merely gesturing towards the second box. "Just open it already."
This sneaky motherfucker. His husband.
Shane eyes him warily as he pulls at the corner of the tape on the box. "You're just trying to steal my thunder."
"I'm trying to give you a gift! How can you accuse me of stealing?" Ilya says, tutting.
The dressing room lets out one loud, collective groan.
"I'm so sick of their fucking foreplay, man," Shane hears Bood mutter.
"Shh, I think it's sweet," Wyatt says.
Ignoring the commentary, Shane levels his husband with a serious look, schooling the smile that tugs at the edges of his lips. "Ilya."
"Shane." Ilya's expression gives nothing away, other than being extremely pleased that he's managed to surprise him.
Shane sighs, deciding he might as well get it over with. The suspense is actually killing him, too.
He opens the second box without any more fanfare, and its contents are—tiny.
Tiny, with big handles. Hilariously disproportionate, but elegant, somehow, and definitely large enough to fit at least two of his fingers.
And listen—Shane's been told perfection isn't real, has been forced to come to terms with this reality many, many times in his life. But Ilya gets so damn close every single time.
He can't help the incredulous laugh that sputters out of him. "What the fuck," he says, bypassing the scotch tape to slip the ceramic out from the side so he gets to it faster. "You are so—"
The two espresso cups he holds in his hands are a warm white, with thick walls just like the ones he has at home. The big difference is the handles of these, round and even, extend outwards almost the same width of the cup itself. Shane runs his fingers over the join of the handles to the body, feels the smoothness, the intention there, and then looks back up at his husband.
God, this cheeky bastard. His husband. Whom he loves very much.
Ilya smirks, shrugging. "I wanted to paint them bright pink, you know. But I know you love boring, so Sera just glazed them plain."
"Ilya." Shane feels his chest get a little tight with emotion, his eyes already stinging, which is dumb and annoying, but he can't help it. This is just how Ilya always makes him feel.
Ilya notices, because of course he does. "Everyday you whine about espresso cup handles," he explains, his expression softening as he lowers his voice, just slightly. "I think, if Hollander shuts up about his stupid espresso cups, it's a win for me, too."
The room laughs at his expense, but Shane doesn't mind at all.
"I was searching for months," Ilya continues, moaning dramatically. "But nothing was exactly right. My FBI agent probably thinks I'm an insane person, searching 'espresso cup big handle' so many times."
Shane frowns. "We're Canadian."
Ilya waves away the objection with an eye roll. "I knew you wouldn't get that joke." He shakes his head with all the fondness in the world. "I think maybe you are the only person in the world with a problem with espresso cup handles, Hollander."
Shane lets out a little whine against his will. "It's not a problem—"
"Sorry, yes—you're the only one with a thing about espresso cup handles," Ilya corrects himself. He says this like it's the best thing ever, like it's his greatest pleasure in life to witness. His grin is stupidly wide, sweet in its unbridled joy. He's so obviously proud of his work. "But, sweetheart—"
Somewhere across the room, somebody shouts, "FINE!"
Ilya pointedly ignores them. "You are always too busy thinking of others to fix it for yourself," he continues. "But that's okay. I am always thinking of you."
And Shane is no stranger to how much Ilya loves him—he's had over a decade of experience in letting Ilya love him. But the magic of it all is that Ilya never stops surprising him with new ways of loving him, and it will always, always catch Shane off-guard.
It's the magnitude of it, and the manner. Just the little ways Ilya will make room for Shane, no matter where they are or what they're doing, and the huge, enormous feelings they inevitably erupt in Shane's chest.
He goes with it, gives into all his feelings for fucking once, even though they're surrounded by their entire team—he crashes into Ilya, grabbing his shoulder to pull him closer and kiss him soundly.
"Yo, MEGA FINE!"
"Haasy, go fetch the sin bin!"
Ilya flips them off when they part, which makes the whole room boo loudly, but lovingly.
"You are ridiculous," Shane whispers to Ilya, amidst the chaos that's erupted. "I love you so fucking much."
Ilya smiles at him like they just won a Game 7. And then Shane has to kiss him again.
"How much is that, now?"
"They've gotta be up to like two grand, just today. At least."
"PAY UP, BOYS!"
This time, it's Shane who flips them all off, and he doesn't stop kissing Ilya to do it.
Fuck the fines. They're both more than good for it.
Later, on their drive home, Shane has questions.
He's driving, but the console had automatically connected to Ilya's phone, and this time it plays a mid-tempo rap song. It starts out in English, something about love, and Shane is only a little surprised when it abruptly transitions into another language.
But that's the least of his concerns right now, honestly.
"How did they come out so perfect? What the fuck? Did you practice?" Shane finally asks, still disbelieving even as he exits the practice facility's parking lot. "When did you even do the handles?"
Ilya snorts a laugh. "That is too many questions."
"Fine. Tell me about the handles," Shane decides.
Ilya shrugs. "Sera helped," he says. When Shane's eyebrows only raise further, he relents, shoulders slumping. "Okay, fine, she did them for me. I told her I wanted big handles, she said we didn't have time, so she offered to just add them for me. I had to draw them on paper so that she would understand what I wanted." He tilts his head. "Well. What you wanted."
"That's cheating!" Shane argues, but his heart's not in it at all. He can still picture how he cradled the little cups earlier, admiring the even surface and every little imperfection that revealed how they were carefully made by hand.
Ilya shakes his head. "It's not a competition, babe."
Shane glances over at him then, sees the extremely sexy tilt of his smug grin, and suddenly it doesn't feel so hard to admit it: "You definitely win, though."
Ilya's eyes widen, slowly, comically, as a smile stretches across his face. "Hm, what was that? Say it again, I didn't hear it."
There are a few things in his life that Shane was immediately good at. Hockey, of course, is the prime example. He was also always naturally good with numbers, something he never really understood but would also never question—this was helpful in school, definitely, but also when it came to remembering stats, and for understanding what corsi was without ever needing an extended explanation.
Loving Ilya Rozanov was also one of those things. It had come naturally to him, like breathing. He fought it for a while, unwilling for this to be something he could ever perfect, because falling in love with your rival in an incredibly conservative sport was possibly the worst thing he could ever decide to do. Being good at it was not an excuse for letting it ruin his life.
But it was inevitable, and pushing against it quickly became futile, because despite some things coming to Shane like second nature, nothing had ever felt as right as falling into Ilya's waiting arms.
And it turns out he was wrong—he should have never fought it at all, because loving Ilya was never a mistake. It will always be the best thing he's ever done in his life. More than hockey, more than math, more than stupid pottery.
Maybe he'll let Ilya have this one thing, being better at pottery than him, because Ilya is the only person he would never actually mind losing to. Because Ilya is the best, and Ilya is his.
"Over my dead body," Shane says, instead.
Ilya smirks as if he repeated it anyway.
When they arrive home, the car keys have barely landed in the bowl they usually live in when Ilya hip-checks Shane into the wall of their foyer.
"What does the winner get?" he says, right up against Shane's ear.
Shane is instantly breathless, familiar heat already pooling in belly. "Huh?"
Ilya nibbles on an earlobe, his voice dropping another octave. "You said I won. What do I win?"
Shane sputters a laugh. "I'll do this week's laundry." Laundry was usually Ilya's thing, not by choice, but by process of elimination. It was Shane's least favorite chore, but Ilya hated all the chores equally, so naturally, he gets the laundry by default.
Ilya actually pauses, considering. "Not what I was going for, but okay—"
"And I'll let you eat my ass 'til I cry or the timer goes off, whichever comes first."
The intended response is immediate. Ilya's gaze darkens as he growls, "You will come first."
Shane smirks. "Is that a threat or a promise?"
Instead of answering directly, Ilya pulls him in for a bruising kiss.
Shane gifts the bowls to his mom for her birthday, which blessedly falls the week before the Common Cens episode is meant to drop. Yuna cries when she opens the box that Shane had carefully stuffed with shredded paper, and immediately puts them on display in one of her open cupboards. She loves them dearly, but only ever brings them out to use when her two sons are home. Says they're way too precious and can never be replaced, but she'll never retire them until the end of time.