Shane has a spreadsheet where he catalogs the name of every player who fouled Ilya, complete with exact date, time stamp, infraction, penalty called yes/no, personal confrontation, risk of repeated offence, and Shane meticulously updates his list after every game. Ilya thinks Shane is noting down hockey stats and Shane doesn't even need to lie when he agrees because, yes, this is the most important hockey stat ever collected.
The thing is, there is protectiveness and there is Shane Hollander's protectiveness over Ilya.
It's not a secret that Shane plays particularly ruthless against opposing players who fouled Ilya, hitting the ice with so far unknown levels of ferocity and dragging the entire team with him to mow down their opponents.
Ilya is flattered, or more precisely in a liminal space between horny and moved to tears, whenever he sees Shane step up to defend his honour, because yes this is his pretty, funny, polite, hyper focused future hall of fame hockey star of a husband, but all canadian manners and professionalism are forgotten the second someone dares to look at Ilya wrong, because first and foremost, Ilya is Shane's baby. That's heady as fuck.
That was until Ilya found the spreadsheet on Shane's phone. Neither of them has any desire to look into the other's phones but they are on share the same toothbrush levels of codependency, so it's a no-brainer that they let each other use their phones if needed.
After a grueling home game, a hard fought win, they basically collapse on their couches, when Ilya suggest ordering food in, the meal prep just doesn't cut it today, and Shane agrees.
Ilya's phone is dead (damned candy crush) and he just makes grabby hands for Shane's phone, "give". Shane more than a litte exhausted is glad that Ilya takes over the decision making on what they should eat, hits a button and tosses the phone over to Ilya and rest his eyes for a moment.
It is pure accident that Shane missed the button to close his notes app, so immediately when Ilya opens the phone the color coded spreadsheet jumps into his view; initially Ilya wants to dismis it quickly but fuck, why does Shane keep a list of names active male hockey players?? Is this a list of guys he finds attractive??
He frowns, carefully scrolling through the rows of names and their demeanours and fuck???? Does Shane fancy bad boys?
He makes a grumbling sound that pulls Shane out of his highly efficient minute nap.
"'s up? That Italian place closed?"
"Is this a fuck list, Solnyshko?" Ilya pouts, more attitude than actual anger, that is simply too good of ammunition to tease Shane with.
"The fuck you're talking about?" Shane is definitely awake now.
"Is this a list of guys you want to fuck you?" Ilya taunts, keep on scrolling through the list.
"I don't have a fuck list!" Confusion and irritation cloud Shane's face.
"O'Neil, Schneider, Fitz... why is Wilson listed twice?"
Ilya looks up, turning the screen around and a grin on his face and Shane's mouth falls open and he turns red - but not the caught-being-a- horny-bastard kind of red.
Shane jumps forward to snatch his phone back but Ilya anticipated that move and hides the phone behind his back and starts wrestling Shane. Ilya barely wins the fight, luckily he knows Shane's ticklish spots so well, and they both start laughing, and Ilya is pinning Shane to the couch by collapsing on top of him and they catch their breaths.
Ilya produces the phone and looks at the document again, with his chin propped on Shane's chest.
"Okey. No fuck list, obviously. You only want to fuck good hockey players."
"And why do I let you hit then?", Shane grumbles, but a playful spark in his eyes.
"Bescause I'm not good, I'm best hockey player", Ilya grins, eliciting an eye roll from Shane that can't diminish his fond smile. "Second best maybe."
Ilya peppers a few kisses on Shane's chest before studying the list again and realisation dawns as he looks at the most recent entries.
"Gustavson, high sticking. Foster, roughing. That is from today."
Shane starts squirming again but Ilya just makes himself heavier on top of Shane to stop him.
"You keep track of people hitting us?"
"Still a bad liar, Hollander."
Shane sighs. "Only you. The guys who played dirty against you."
Ilya has to let that sink in for a while, equal parts touched and confused. "But why?"
"Don't laugh ok?" Shane looks Ilya straight in the eye and the determination in his face sends a pleasent shiver down Ilya's spine. "I know that this is petty, okay. It's unsporting and too personal, like that's not what Hockey is about... but it is personal to me, okay?"
Capitalising on Ilya's momentary weakness, Shane frees one arm and cups Ilya's cheek, his earnest dark brown eyes are hypnotising as he quietly speaks. "I don't like it when you get hurt. And I want to make sure these guys never do it again."
Ilya let's out a stream of consonants and fractured expletives, and fights the urge to bury his face in Shane's chest, losing it ultimately.
He squeezes Shame as tight as he can, his Shane, his sweet, protective, wonderful Shane who never fails to suprise him, and Shane nuzzles his cheek against Ilyas head in answer. A few moments pass, and suddenly Ilya has to giggle, because yes this list is absolutely fucked up and probably one of the most romantic things Shane did, and Ilya loves it. "That's fucking insane", he let's Shane know, smiling brightly.
"Yes. Because I'm fucking insane about you, baby", Shane says quitely and with so much sincerity that Ilya melts again against Shane's chest, listening to his strong heart, beating just for Ilya.
Shane let's Ilya crush him untilhe gets squirmy again in his trapped state and Ilya gives Shane's other arm free and immediately gets rewarded with Shane's fingers playing with his hair.
Ilya sneaks a last glance on the spreadsheet before he actually wants to order them food (Shane's heartbeat can only drown out his grumbling stomach so much), and spots the next column.
"Retilition successful? Seriously Shane?"
"I thought you want to teach them manners not punish them."
"Well, that kinda goes hand in hand, doesn't it."
"But Retiliation?" Ilya grins brightly. "You sound like fucking mafia, Solnyshko."
"Shall I call the bratva for some tips, da?"
"No, please tell me, what is your plan for retiliation, hm?"
"That is not exactly a plan. I just hoped that I could convince Coach to put me on the shifts against these guys for our next games. And then we'll see."
"We'll see? You wanna kneecap them or what? Land yourself in the sin bin?"
"Obviously not. I'd be cleverer than that."
And Ilya doesn't doubt that for one second.
"You're right, we won't need bratva, we got criminal mastermind here with hitlist spreadsheet."
"If it's not a fuck list, it's definitely a hit list, Shane. Maybe we should give you new nickname. Killer, maybe."
"Stop it, I'm not injuring anyone. Not badly anyway. Mostly I want to embaress them on the ice and dress them down But you can't expect me to watch people hunt you and think they can get away with it!"
That shuts Ilya up quite effectively.
Shane pouts up at Ilya, his eyebrows still pinched together decisively. "Too far?"
Ilya immediately shakes his head. "No. Not if it's you."
"But you still think this is crazy."
For a moment Ilya considers that he might be married to a hockey terrorist and he finds that he doesn't mind, quite the contrary. "If it's crazy then we are crazy together." And he kisses the rest of Shane's frown away from his face.
"My knight in shining hockey gear", he grins before finally pressing a hot and greedy kiss on Shane's lips.
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