“Ready?” Ilya doesn’t look at the door when he says it. He looks at Shane.

He reaches for Shane’s hand, calloused fingers closing around his, giving one firm squeeze—steady, grounding. Months of talking in circles. Of planning, overthinking, backing out, circling back. Of late-night conversations in the dark of their bedroom in Ottawa, voices low, cautious, honest.

This is what all of that led to.

Shane exhales slowly. “Yeah. I think so.”

He squeezes back, but his knee won’t stop bouncing. It’s subtle—unless you know him. Ilya knows him. The nervous energy. The way his jaw tightens when he’s trying to be brave.

Ilya’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Hey.” He shifts closer, forcing Shane to look at him. “This stays between us and these walls. We say stop, it stops. Doesn’t matter why.” His thumb brushes over Shane’s knuckles. “Talk to me.”

Shane huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “I know. I just—” He shakes his head. “This is insane.”

“A little,” Ilya agrees easily.

A threesome.

That’s what it is, no matter how Shane tried to rebrand it into something more clinical and less “gross,” as he’d put it. Ilya would’ve called it what it was and moved on. But Shane wanted precautions. Layers. Safeguards.

They are still under the radar. Still careful. Still not something the league—or the media—gets to dissect.

The trade to Ottawa had been a big change. Two players who built careers on being the best, on competing at the highest level, suddenly choosing something else. Choosing each other.

Cheesy. Sure.

Worth it? Completely.

Playing on the same team changed everything. More time together. More privacy. More opportunity to explore without airports and road trips constantly pulling them apart. And somewhere between lazy mornings and stolen afternoons, curiosity had crept in.

What if?

Not because something was missing. Not because they weren’t enough.

Just because they could.

So they talked. Set rules. Agreed it would be a one-night thing. On their terms. With someone who understood discretion wasn’t optional—it was mandatory. The NDA had been Shane’s idea. The near-interview before agreeing to meet? Also Shane.

It had been awkward. Necessary, but awkward.

There had been a few near-misses. Conversations that fizzled. People who didn’t quite understand the boundaries. Until you.

You’d been easy to talk to from the start. Smart. Quick. Funny without trying too hard. You listened. You asked the right questions. You understood what this was—and what it wasn’t.

When they met you in person the first time, just for coffee, it had felt… right.

No pressure. No weird energy.

They’d both known.

As the day approached, they prepared like they were hosting a sponsor dinner. The house spotless. Everything stocked. Debated hotel versus home for days, but in the end, comfort won. This was already outside their comfort zone. They’d take whatever stability they could get.

The NDA was signed. The rules were clear.

Now—

The doorbell rings.

Shane practically launches off the couch.

Ilya pratically rolls his eyes but follows at a slower pace, hands tucked into his pockets, posture loose in that deliberate way he gets when he’s pretending he isn’t feeling something.

Shane wipes his palms on his pants before opening the door.

You’re standing there.

And for a split second, Shane forgets every carefully rehearsed sentence. You look incredible.

“Hi,” he manages, offering his hand—then hesitating halfway through the motion as he questions whether a handshake makes any sense given the circumstances. Too late to pull it back now.

You take his hand.

Relief flickers across his face, small but obvious to anyone who knows him well.

“I’m Shane,” he says, a little breathless.

There’s a presence at his shoulder. Solid. Familiar.

“And Ilya,” Ilya adds smoothly, stepping forward just enough to meet your eyes, his voice calm, assessing—but not unkind.

His hand comes to rest lightly at the small of Shane’s back.

Not possessive.

Just certain. And reassuring.