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Ilya wasn’t nervous, or at least he wouldn’t admit he was nervous to anyone in the room as the last powder was patted onto the side of his nose. For one thing, he knew this was objectively less nerve wracking than being tied against Buffalo in game 7 of the Stanley cup finals, desperately checking defensemen out of the way through bruised ribs to make room for Shane’s backhand. But he still fidgeted his cuffs and skittered his eyes around the room as the last microphone was taped down the back of his spine below his “very boring” button down shirt.
Shane was in his own dressing room, probably reading some boring hockey book and whining that it was too late at night, but Ilya was the star this evening. Somewhere, Yuna and David were watching this air, hopefully both laughing.
“Mr. Rozanov, its time, one minute to air,” said the young woman in the headset who had appeared in his line of vision. He knew her name, Monica, Monique, Michelle, something like that, but he wouldn’t be using it. He nodded silently, unfolded from his chair, and stepped out into the bustling hallway.
“They’re just finishing the cold open now, sounds like its going pretty well so the crowd should be all warmed up for you.” She was making small talk, but Ilya appreciated it. He made some people nervous, but so far the staff had been nothing but polite and accommodating. It made Ilya want to be nicer to them.
“OK, counting you down now, then straight out and down to the tape mark at center stage. You’re going to do a great job.” She glanced at him with a grin and he cracked a smile back.
“It’ll be fun, Ilya!” Yuna had insisted when the offer to host Saturday Night Live had come across her desk. She’d called Ilya and woken him from a mid-afternoon nap at the cottage, apologizing as she barely contained her excitement. Managing Shane Hollander meant she rarely got chances to have him do outrageous, silly appearances. He hated them, and even Yuna could admit, weren’t his strong suit. Ilya, however, opened up a whole new world of chaotic, unhinged public appearances that Yuna privately found very endearing.
“Yuna, nobody wants to see me host SLN. I do not even watch this show, this show is bad, why would I host.” Ilya had taken the call on speaker phone, and Shane had gestured broadly to hear her out. That was Ilya’s first mistake, he wasn’t very good at saying no to Shane when he wanted something.
“But Ilya, it would be such a good opportunity to show that you’re just normal people. Its been years, the Centaurs are two-time Stanley Cup champs, you and Shane are so established, it’s a good time to have a little fun and build your image into more than just ‘Ilyz Rozanov, number 81, asshole on the ice, bafflingly also Shane Hollander’s husband’, my love.”
Shane couldn’t hold back his snort, instantly giving away that Ilya and Yuna are not alone on this call.
“Shane, you have to agree with me, this would be so fun! We could all go down to New York, Ilya would be such a fun SLN host, and we could do some sightseeing! I know you boys only ever see Madison Square Garden and whatever hotel they put you in when you’re in town, we could go to MOMA!” Ilya laughed softly at Shane’s instant regret at being dragged in.
“We also see the Kingfisher with ancient Scott Hunter,” Ilya added unhelpfully. Yuna was undeterred.
“Look, think about it. They’ve sent over a lovely offer, they really want to branch into hockey and have some sketches already lined up that would be so fun for you. Ilya, please just think about it. No answers today, we can decide tomorrow at dinner.”
But it was too late, Shane had already smiled up at Ilya through his lashes, his lips pressed to the center of Ilya’s chest. This decision was Shane’s, Ilya was just the man who’d wear the microphone.
The band was playing a jazzy tune as Ilya danced down the stairs at center stage, nodding to the musicians on either side of him before finally looking out into the crowd. The lights were too bright to see the upper deck, but the crowd seated down by the stage was visible. Ilya smiled broadly at the familiar faces sitting in the third row, ready for their cameo later in the show.
He held up his hands in thanks, bowing a few times before turning slightly to make eye contact with the head of the band behind him. He offered the man an exaggerated wink and a finger gun, and the music gave way to the applause and whistles.
“Thank you, thank you, is very exciting to be here, thank you for having me SNL,” Ilya started, resisting the urge to shade his eyes to look out at more of the crowd. He knew Shane had snuck in somewhere, he wanted to know where for outrageous winking purposes.
“Is nice to have such a warm welcome here in New York, usually when I am here I am beating up old men like Scott Hunter.” Ilya smiled like a shark and dug in.
“Scott Hunter and I may work together at our camps for the Irina Foundation,” He paused to smile softly and nod thanks at the shouts this garnered from the crowd, touched that so many would know his mother’s name and their shared mission. “But, but but but, I cannot allow people to think we are friends, this is lie, I would never be friends with fossil.” He paused for laughs and to make eye constant with Scott, who was shaking his head at Ilya.
“Scott Hunter used to be decent player, yes, is true!” Ilya raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, “He was very good against USSR team in 1976, playing against my grandfather.”
He gestured now to Scott who had been hit with a spotlight. Scott raised one hand in acknowledgement and the crowd went wild for a moment. Ilya boo’d him through the cheers, hamming it up as Scott stood to thank the crowd around him.
“Enough enough, is past his bedtime he needs to get back to nursing home, thank you Scott, now New York will love me more than you.” Ilya paused, taking a moment to appreciate that this was, as Yuna had promised, actually fun. The week of meeting with sketch writers, costume designers, producers, and staff had been hectic, but joyful. Nobody had said anything rude about his husband or his home country, not one joke had included a punchline that made fun of his beautiful Shane, and Ilya had actually enjoyed the crush of getting a show ready in a week. And now, standing in front of the full house at Rockefeller Plaza, Ilya relaxed into his new public persona. Still the brash, cutting Russian hockey player who had taken the world by storm at Boston, but also the team captain for Ottawa, known for his charity work with children and his adorable, if confusing from the outside, marriage to his formal arch rival. He was fully himself on the stage at 30 Rock, and he felt it.
“Now everyone I’m sure wants me to talk about my very sexy co-captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, Shane Hollander.” He barely got the full sentence out, the cheering started as soon as he said the word sexy, leaning into his Russian accent more than he had in years.
“Yes yes, we all know he is very pretty,” Ilya smiled, knowing somewhere Shane was rolling his eyes, “But he also, and you may not know this, is second best hockey player in the league.”
“I, of course, am best, do not let Shane have microphone, do not want this nice crowd to hear lies about how many goals he scored or how many points he has or how many Stanley cups he has lifted with his very sexy arms.” Here Ilya winked right into the center camera, hoping he’d timed it right with the cuts.
“Shane Hollander puts up with a lot of nonsense, mostly from me, to be fair, but is OK at hockey. This year he helped me lead the best team in the league to our second Stanley cup,” a group in the back in Centaurs jerseys stood now and cheered. “And we celebrated three years of being married.” More cheers here, even from Scott Hunter, who was elbowed by his husband when he pretended to boo.
“Being married to Shane Hollander is such fun, guys, I recommend.” Ilya wandered off his mark to the second piece just over to the right, where a stool had been set out. He perched on it now, his face serious.
“But I must not lie, marriage is not easy when you are co-captains of the best team in men’s pro hockey.” He nodded seriously.
“No, we fight like normal couple, about normal couple things. Shane makes me eat gross vegetables, I leave all dirty laundry just outside of laundry basket as if repelled by magnet. Shane tells me to do yoga so I do not tear MCL again, I tell Shane we need more dogs. Shane tells me to behave myself at awards shows, I tell Shane I am going to lick his neck on live TV and actually do it.” Ilya paused here, someone had shrieked with laughter and Ilya desperately wanted to know if it was Scott.
At the MLH awards ceremony a week before, Ilya had of course been seated next to Shane, waiting to hear which one of them had won MVP (Shane, not a shock to either of them). Ilya bored as usual at these things, had snaked his hand around his husbands knee and leaned in so his lips were nearly touching his husbands ear. Shane didn’t lean away, and Ilya had pressed his advantage
“You look too delicious, is not fair, want to lick you,” he’d murmured under the crowd noise. Shane had shuddered slightly and glanced over at him, eyes dark. Usually, he would hiss something back, shutting him down before he could start, but not that night. Ilya, entirely focused on his husband, had not noticed the camera that had stationed itself near them. He leaned over slowly, smiling when Shane broke eye contact and blew out a hard breath, and licked slowly up Shane Hollander’s neck on live TV. Shane, who had noticed the camera as he was collecting himself, had gone completely red as Ilya’s tongue traced his jugular, and Ilya had been read the riot act in the bathroom on the next commercial break.
The image, Ilya’s tongue on Shane’s neck, Shane staring down the camera in horror, had been instantly viral, and the Centaur’s social media manager had sent them borderline death threats to behave for the rest of the show. David had retweeted it with the caption “Just Ilya being Ilya, love my boys #ProudFather #GetARoom”.
“You all cannot imagine the conversation after that, here I will reenact for you.” Two cast members appeared from the wings, each wearing a Centaurs jersey. They turned slightly so the “Hollander” and “Rozanov” were showing, the crowd cheering before Ilya settled them with a frown.
“So excited to see how I fight with my husband, is almost, what is word…” he trailed off here, gesturing with his hand like he’d lost the word. The crowd had a moment of tension, uncomfortable for him, before a voice rang out from the front row of the upper deck. There, in a crisp button down tucked into equally sharp trousers was Shane Hollander, leaning easily on the railing. His hair was in half a bun, spilling over his shoulders with calculated ease, nothing like the stiff, awkward Shane Hollander during the hockey season.
“Homophobic?” He shouted with a laugh in his voice. Ilya snapped his fingers, pointing up at his husband, trying and failing to not break into a smile. Shane smiled softly down at him, shaking his head. He offered a slight wave to the crowd and waited for them to calm down.
“Don’t joke about that, Rozanov, come on.” Shane took his seat again, applause dying down around him as Ilya fake pouted on the stage, a sharp glint in his eye as cameras refocused on him.
“Oooh, Rozanov, I’m so scared, will have to sleep on couch later.” He winked up at Shane who laughed openly, and gestured back to the cast members on either side of him. He turned them to face each other, one hand on each of their shoulders emphasizing just how massive Ilya was. On the ice, he looked like everyone else, and even in photos with his husband, he didn’t look particularly tall or big, but here at center stage at SNL, it was almost comical how childlike the cast looked on either side of him. Even in his suit, he was visibly muscled, looming like a cheerful giant above the comedians.
“OK so your line is ‘Oh Shane, I love you very much you are so sexy,’” Ilya gave the cast member a moment to repeat this in a terrible, overdone Russian accent.
“Very nice accent, very accurate, Russian government should hire you for train announcement.” The cast member broke, almost spitting out a laugh at the ad lib. Ilya turned to the second cast member in the Hollander Jersey “And now your line is ‘Ilya you are ridiculous but so sexy, I forgive you for being too sexy on TV and making everyone very jealous of us, especially the Centaurs social media manager whose boyfriend is much less attractive and much worse at hockey.” The crowd in the back, obvious Centaurs fans, cheered at the allusion to Troy Barrett while the crowd laughed through the cast member’s rendition of Shane’s line.
“Wow such amazing actors, give them round of applause,” Ilya gestured to the cast members who waved and skirted off to the wings again.
“Many people want to know, they say Ilya, what did you used to say to your husband during games back in the day,” Ilya paused for the crowd to yell back at him. He smiled wolfishly, gesturing to the TV screen that was rolling out to the stage, where old an faceoff video from their Boston/Montreal days were queued up.
“This time, I had faceoff with Shane and asked him how his mother was. I’d had dinner with the lovely Yuna the night before, very nice Italian restaurant, managed to steal check from her, she was very mad at me, but stupid Metros right wing overheard and thought I was hitting on Yuna.” The clip fast forwards to the winger swinging wildly at Ilya, a wide smile on Ilya’s lips as he lays out the other man, winking at Shane Hollander’s scowl before skating himself to the penalty box. Ilya laughs at the clip, pointing to Hollander’s face with a besotted smile. The video cuts and jumps to the next clip from 2018, after their famous All-Star game.
“In this one, I told Shane I was going to do unspeakable things to him after the game if he scored hat trick,” someone in the crowd shrieked again, and Ilya again flashed his eyes to Scott Hunter optimistically, who frowned in response. No fun.
“Shane wasn’t very happy with me, but still got the hat trick, was very nice to me after.” The video cuts to three Hollander goals, each of which Rozanov is visible in the background suppressing smiles.
“Was very bad at being sneaky by the end, luckily now we do not need to hide and I can still chirp my husband for fun.”
The video cuts to a Centaurs practice where Hollander and Rozanov are facing off. One or both of them has to be mic’ed up, because their voices are entirely audible as they wait for the puck to drop.
“No chance you score off this, Rozanov.” Shane says softly.
“Funny, no chance you score is not what you said last night.” Rozanov’s face isn’t visible on the screen, but he stands watching the screen with the crowd with a wide, unembarrassed smile.
“We are at work, you can’t do that,” Hollander responds.
“Oooh Shane, such a good boy, always following rules,” Rozanov taunts.
“They’re my rules, asshole, if we get caught again I think Harris might actually murder you which would be so sad, nobody for me to beat in points.” Its hard to tell if Hollander is serious, but Rozanov’s shit-eating grin on stage suggests he must be.
“Yes, so sad, nobody to lose to in points, nobody to win you another Stanley Cup, nobody to take you home and f—” The video cuts off and Rozanov mocks shock, hitting the side of the TV.
“Was just getting good!” He shouts at the TV, laughing at himself. “We have a great show for you tonight, Mumford and Sons is here, be right back!” He bows and, after a few moments of making eyes at his husband in the balcony, runs off the stage.
Ilya is rushed into a new costume, a wig slapped on his head and whisked down a hallway back to the main stage during the commercial break. He knew it would be fast and is laser focused on getting himself sorted out in the wings, moments before the red light comes back on and they’re live. The rush flows through his veins, not unlike the moments before the puck drops. He zeros in on the cue cards, reminding himself to slow down and not panic as he translates his lines. And then, he’s back out to the stage.
“Okay Okay settle down fellas,” Ilya says in a fake American accent, gesturing to the gaggle of SNL actors who are dressed in full hockey gear. Ilya adjusts his coaches outfit and fiddles with his whistle as the studio quiets down.
“The big game starts in just a few minutes, so we need to address the most pressing piece of our game here.” The players nod, hyper serious.
“You’re all taking the kiss cam too seriously. You’re really selling it, boys, and we can’t have that.” The group in front of Ilya clamors, and he points to the veteran cast member to speak first.
“But coach, we’ve been practicing all week, I’ve just figured out tongue,” the group agrees with him, explaining they’ve all been working so hard at practices. Ilya smiles under his fake mustache.
“Fellas, we need to focus on the hockey. Ibrahimovich, you’ve barely touched the puck in weeks, talk to your teammates man, what’s going on?” Ilya shifts back to over the edge of the set piece, grabbing a water bottle slyly from the crew.
“I don’t know coach,” the cast member drops his head into his hands, bonking his head on his stick by accident on the way down. It unclear if this was part of the sketch. “I just keep thinking about the kiss cam, I’m just no good at it coach!”
Ilya sprays water from the water bottle at the cast member, who reacts in overblown shock. Ilya just barely doesn’t laugh as they sputter.
“No negative self talk, if you’re nervous, we get you comfortable. Simple as that. Myers, you’re in.” Ilya points to a cast member who is seated next to the man, who nods seriously and then absolutely launches herself at the other actor, helmets skittering off their heads as they passionately and hilariously kiss. Ilya almost laughs again, they’re doing some of the worst fake-kissing he’s ever seen, basically just licking the other persons face. He sprays them with water again and they break apart.
“OK OK I see problem-,” He pauses, knowing he dropped an article, “I see the problem, you need expert demonstration, give me one minute,” And he hustles off stage.
On the stage, the cast tells a few more jokes, killing time before Ilya comes back on stage, shirtless and oiled up like a Greek god. One cast member audibly gasps and the crowd goes insane. Ilya barely holds back a grin that would knock off his fake mustache and adjusts the waistband of his coaching trousers.
“Step one of kiss cam is to set the mood, you must believe the kiss cam is on your side, must believe that the kiss cam operator would want to kiss you if they weren’t hard at work.” He gestures to the SNL camera, which has pressed in so close that the operator is in the shot. Ilya gives the man a nod and a wink, which is returned by a single serious nod.
“Step two is to be very sexy, this is easy for most hockey players who don’t play for Montreal,” The crowd cracks up at his serious-not-serious insult, and Ilya barrels on.
“And step three, the most important step,” He pauses, trying very hard not to glance into the wings. “You must have a very serious crush on the person you’re going to get kiss cammed with.” He turns to the prop door and opens it, and already the crowd has guessed what’s about to happen.
Shane Hollander, soft-spoken, well-behaved golden boy from Canada’s capitol, is standing shirtless and oiled up in the doorway with half a smile on his face. The TV can’t see what Ilya can, which is how he’s trying not to fidget in discomfort or shift back out of the bright stage lights.
And Ilya takes a moment to appreciate his husband, sue him, he is but a man. Shane is golden and glowing under the lights, the tone of his chest and abs perfect and his hair back in a slick ponytail, helmet propped against his cocked hip like a challenge. Ilya sucks in a deep breath, knowing clips of his reaction will be all over the internet before he gets off stage tonight.
“Ugh, not this one, too boring,” and Ilya slams the door shut with flourish. The crowd and the cast on stage go nuts. The cast throws out their lines with reckless abandon, and Ilya resists the urge to scratch under the mustache, waiting for the cue to reopen the door.
Scott Hunter had slipped out of his chair during the monologue, pulled off his shirt and tried not to think too much about what he was about to do. Ilya had called him a few nights earlier and asked if he wanted to be very funny and break the internet, and Kip had said yes on Scott’s behalf. Scott, not one to upset his husband, thought it was an insane, typically Rozanov idea, but hadn’t stopped him. Now, having baby oil rubbed on his chest by a very professional, harried production assistant, he was thinking he should have said no. But it was probably too late.
The door reopened and the crowd went insane. Scott stepped through and went to his spot next to Rozanov, making sure to flex a bit for the cameras. In for a penny, in for a pound he figured. Ilya nodded at him seriously, taking this acting job more intensely than many professional hockey games he’d played. Scott nodded back, the picture of a business relationship.
“This is Scott Hunter.” Ilya gestured to him, waiting for the second round of laughter to fade. It was hard to find someone in New York City who didn’t recognize Scott, but always good to clarify. “Hunter is very good at kiss cams, really elevated the game, he will show how it is done.”
Ilya had been pitched this idea four days earlier, and had used those four days to try to ignore what he was about to do. Yes, it would be insane and camp and hilarious, but it also was nauseating. Scott Hunter of all people.
Scott turned to him, and unknown to Scott and Ilya, the broadcast shows a split screen, with a corner showing a live feed from a back hallway of SNL where Shane Hollander was wiping baby oil off of his pecs and watching the scene unfolding on the screen with a wide smile. Unlike his usual media persona, this version of Hollander is absolutely mischievous and watches with rapt attention.
Ilya nodded at Scott, for just one flash looking nervous before smiling widely as Hunter walked toward him. In the back, Shane started laughing, a shocked expression on his face.
With the grace and power of a professional athlete, Ilya was dipped by Scott Hunter at center stage on SNL, dramatically smooched on the forehead by the New York Admirals Captain, and righted. They shook hands professionally, both trying desperately not to laugh. Shane was doubled over in the back, his abs visibly flexing as he teared up watching Ilya’s face. So rarely did Ilya get embarrassed. Shane gestured to his own face and pointed up at Ilya’s blush on the screen, the picture of a husband who would be bringing this up as often as possible.
“Rozanov,” Hunter said into the handshake, visibly biting the inside of his lip to keep from laughing.
“Hunter, thanks for your help,” Rozanov responds, his voice cracking just slightly as he tries not to laugh aloud. Hunter had surprised him and he knew this had to be Shane’s doing.
Scott left the stage and for a long moment Ilya stood waiting for the crowd to quiet enough to be heard. He rand his hands down the side of his waist, his only nervous tell, and started.
“Alright so we see, not so difficult, not so scary, if Hunter can do it so can you yahoos! Now get out there and beat Montreal!” The fake team streamed past Ilya to applause, each grabbing his head and kissing it on their way through, a wide grin on his face.
Back stage, Shane and Hunter were pulling shirts back on, both laughing at Ilya, who had been sure he was going to be kissed by Scott Hunter and had steeled himself to it. The texting had been immediate, and both had agreed, not only was this funnier, it had the nice benefit of catching Ilya Rozanov off guard.
The show ran smoothly, Ilya swapped in and out of outfits and sketches as the night wore on, towards his last appearance of the night.
He took to the stage with the cast, shouting thanks and asking for people to check out the Irina Foundation as the credits rolled, and then the night was done. Shane tucked into his side back stage as Ilya got his stage makeup removed, changed back into his street clothes, and bid goodbye to the cast.
They’d join for a drink at the after party, but not before Ilya had a chance to lock the dressing room’s door and thank Shane thoroughly for being such a good sport.