clap - hollanov - @hollanovmicrofic - word count: 344 - click here for my hollanov microfic archive on ao3
"It's going to be you," Shane muttered under his breath, heart hammering in his chest as the announcement began. "Stupid perfect Captain."
"It will be you, solnyshko. Fuck you and your last-minute goal," Ilya murmured back, sending him a smirk.
They'd been competing for it all season–not just the Cup, but the season's MVP award. As Ottawa had finally won the finals, it was very likely that it would be one of them getting that award as well. And since Shane and Ilya both got to bring home the Cup this year, together, for the first time...well...someone had to be the winner, somehow. Because even on the same team, they were always competing. They both loved it, though, the dynamic between them. It made them stronger players.
Of course, a bet had been placed and the chirping had gotten intense as the playoffs had progressed, but both of them had been thrilled to see the other succeed, and they'd agreed together: they would be happy, no matter what happened.
(Shane would be happier if he won, of course, and he was sure Ilya felt the same about himself, but that was another story.)
"...and the MVP of this year goes to..." the announcer said loudly, drawing both Shane and Ilya's attention.
They gripped each others' hands under the table, waiting. Shane held his breath, willing his name to be called.
His mouth fell open and he looked to his husband in shock.
"WHAT?" Ilya demanded, looking completely taken aback. Shane shook his head, not knowing what to say.
"Clap, you idiots," Harris hissed at them across the table.
Robotically, Shane complied, still trying to figure out what the hell had happened.
Then, Scott Hunter leaned over to them from the next table. "Now you know how it feels, huh? To be the old guys? Before you know it, some asshole rookie's going to start calling you a dinosaur. What then, Rozanov?"
Ilya's face turned bright red as he swore loudly and stood up, storming away; Shane laughing from his seat.
