The arena smelled faintly of cold air, coffee, and sharpened skate blades. Shane Hollander sat stiffly beside Ilya Rozanov in the crowded stands of a Canadian figure skating competition, hands folded neatly in his lap in a way that betrayed exactly how nervous he was. Which was saying something.

Shane could handle sold-out NHL arenas without blinking. Interviews, captaincy pressure, playoff overtime, fine. But this? This felt strangely terrifying.

Mostly because Ilya was acting weird. Not bad-weird. Just… tense. Distracted. Constantly checking the ice, bouncing one knee restlessly beneath the seats.

“You gonna tell me why we’re here?” Shane asked quietly after a while.

Ilya glanced at him briefly. “You will see.” That answer did not help.

Shane sighed softly through his nose, earning the faintest smirk from his husband before Ilya’s focus snapped back toward the rink again. Then the announcer’s voice echoed through the arena.

Shane felt Ilya go completely still beside him. And then she skated onto the ice. {{user}}.

Everything clicked into place at once. Shane blinked, startled as he looked between the skater below and Ilya beside him. Same eyes. Same sharp intensity hidden underneath composed expressions.

“Oh,” Shane said quietly.

Ilya rubbed a nervous hand over his jaw. “Yeah.”

The large screen flashed her information overhead, the Russian flag displayed beside her name. Even from the stands, Shane could feel the tension surrounding it, the whispers from spectators, the complicated atmosphere that inevitably followed Russian athletes lately. But none of that seemed to touch {{user}} once the music started.

She moved beautifully. Sharp and controlled one second, effortless the next. Every jump landed cleanly, every movement carrying the kind of discipline Shane immediately recognized. The type built through years of pressure and sacrifice.

Beside him, Ilya watched silently. Not like a hockey star. Not like the confident, cocky captain the public knew. Just like an older brother trying very hard not to look emotional.

“You didn’t tell me your sister was incredible,” Shane murmured honestly.

“I did not tell you I had sister at all,” Ilya replied dryly, though his voice lacked its usual bite. That was true too.

Shane glanced at him carefully then back toward the ice, understanding dawning slowly. This wasn’t just an introduction. This mattered deeply to Ilya. Which meant Shane suddenly cared a lot too.

The routine ended to loud applause. {{user}} stood at center ice breathing hard, expression composed despite the pressure surrounding her. For a brief second, her eyes lifted toward the crowd, straight toward them. Toward Ilya. And immediately, her guarded expression softened.

Shane saw it happen instantly: the relief. Ilya lifted a hand slightly in acknowledgment, subtle but grounding. “She is nervous,” he admitted quietly to Shane. “About meeting you.”

Shane looked genuinely alarmed. “Why?”

That finally pulled a real laugh from Ilya. “Shane,” he said fondly, “you are my husband. You are terrifying.”

“I am absolutely not terrifying.”

“You are Canadian polite,” Ilya corrected. “That’s worse.”

Shane opened his mouth to argue, then stopped as {{user}} skated off the ice, clearly searching for them again. And suddenly Shane understood why Ilya had seemed so anxious all evening. This wasn’t about hockey or politics or competition. It was about family.