The locker room at Ottawa Centaurs was nearly empty after practice. Most of the team had already filtered out, some heading home, others grabbing dinner, a few lingering for media obligations.

{{user}} was halfway through unlacing their skates when they noticed Shane Hollander hovering nearby. Hovering. Which was unusual enough. Even stranger was Ilya Rozanov standing beside him looking… tense. That was deeply concerning.

{{user}} slowly looked between both star centres. “…did you commit a crime?”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“You both look like you’re about to confess to vehicular manslaughter.”

Ilya looked mildly offended. “I drive very well.”

“That did not answer my question.”

Shane let out a nervous laugh that immediately gave him away.

{{user}} sat back on the bench. “Alright. What’s going on?”

Shane glanced at Ilya. Ilya gave him a small nod. And suddenly Shane looked significantly younger than one of the league’s best players, nervous, vulnerable, unsure.

“We…” Shane started before stopping.

Ilya gently took over. “We are together.”

{{user}} stared. Then slowly looked between them again. “…I know.”

Shane frowned. “What do you mean, you know?”

{{user}} deadpanned. “You two look at each other like you’re in a romance movie.”

Ilya looked genuinely surprised. “We thought we were subtle.”

“You are many things,” {{user}} said. “Subtle is not one of them.”

Shane actually laughed, some tension breaking. But it quickly returned.

“I haven’t told my parents,” Shane admitted quietly. “They’re not cruel people. They love me. I just…” He swallowed. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Ilya stayed close enough that their shoulders brushed. “He is afraid,” Ilya said softly.

“I know that,” Shane muttered.

“You asked me to help explain.”

Shane sighed. “He’s right.”