Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Rose Landry, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Svetlana Vetrova, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), David Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Original Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Sad Ilya Rozanov, Angst, Anxious Shane Hollander, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Author doesn’t really know hockey, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Shane Hollander, i wrote this instead of writing a book, in this fic hockey is in the closet, Same Team, Original Black Female Character(s) - Freeform, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, all the things i know about hockey is from HR fanfics subreddit, Thriller, Cliffhangers, Shane and Ilya Vs the world, Warning: Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Parent Ilya Rozanov, Parent Shane Hollander, Original Children of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov - Freeform, Good Parent Ilya Rozanov, Good Parent Shane Hollander, All or Nothing Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of Inspired By... Hollanov

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-29 Completed: 2026-05-22 Words: 43,995 Chapters: 5/5

Counting Summers

Summary

In 2014, just one week after winning his first Stanley Cup, Ilya is forced to leave everything behind when his brother abandons Moscow, leaving him to return to Russia, the KHL and care for their dying father. Before he goes, he and Shane make a desperate promise: to wait for each other.

Notes

I started this fic at the end of February. I really wanted to have it finished or close to finished before finishing. The plot changed so much from the first draft to now, thanks to o bea-readers:
✨️💜
Alidesidero, Faithella and Aerie.

As my beta reader suggests, an ode to the HR TV show. I am publishing the first 2 chapters.

And then one chapter a week, unlike my other long fic, this one is written more like a thriller TV show.
For this fic, the political climate (regarding LGBTQ+, gender, and social justice) in Russia is circa post-2022. To maintain suspense, tags will be updated.
Enjoy

• Inspired by Holding Patterns by boopboop

Chapter 1: Safe in Your Heart

May 2017/ Moscow

Ilya woke to footsteps in his apartment. Someone was there, several people, talking to each other. He left the bed, took the baseball bat he kept behind the bedroom door. He entered the living room, turned on the light, and saw no one, but could tell people were there.

“Who the fuck is there?”

“I’m calling the police, and I’ll knock you out.”

He advanced and felt someone, larger than him, grabbing him from behind. Ilya was not small; for the man to grab him like that, he had to be Ryan Price massive. He tried to scream, but the man put his hand on his mouth and then on his neck, making it difficult to talk or breathe

Another man appeared, smaller, talking to him in Russian but with a Finnish accent.

He was being kidnapped.

***

June 2014

“Open it,” Shane said.

Ilya opened the box. It was a worn Rolex watch.

“You are giving me your sponsor gift, Shane? I am MVP.”

“It’s my first watch, the one I wore most days. Turn it.”

Engraved, a number: 1410.

“The first room,” Ilya said.

“Yes.”

“You are giving it to me?”

“No. You will give it back to me when you come back to me,” Shane said.

It was not how tonight was supposed to go.

Three weeks ago, he had known he would see Shane, spend hours with him, ask him to put on a show, to put distance between them, because whatever was between them could not, should not, exist. He would never have it, even if it had been all he had wanted, the first thing he had wanted more than leaving Russia.

But Alexei happened.

10 days ago, still in the fog of his first Cup, there had been a call at 5 a.m. When he saw Polina’s name on the screen, his heart raced. Father, hurt, lost, dead. But when he answered, her voice was too calm, and she made polite conversation. He did not hate her, but he did not like her either. All those years and no feeling toward her except a slight annoyance. Maybe it was worse. He cut her off.

“Polina, did something happen?”

And yes, something had happened. Alexei. Always Alexei. He had disappeared for a few days. His work had upset his father. They had no reason to think he was hurt or dead. They had found him the day before, drunk and passed out. The police, because of respect for their father, and because being an alcoholic and a drug addict was not cause for revocation, had no real leverage. They would not fire him, but he would be on medical leave.

“I’ll pay for the doctor, and he’ll stay with father more,” Ilya said automatically, because that was what all those calls were. Money, more money, paying for something: roof repair, medication, energy, Alexei’s daughter’s school. One call, one wire.

He was ready to end that too-long call, at an ungodly hour, for his useless brother, but Polina was not.

“No, it’s more complicated,” she said.

How so? Alexei was a drug addict, a loser, in a profession full of alcoholics and corrupt men. He would not be the first nor the last. A little slap. But Alexei had to fuck his life and Ilya’s life, had to drag him with him, even from across the sea, make him pay again and again. Because he was talented enough to leave. Because he left. Because he looked too much like their mother. Because he was the one who found her. Because his father stopped beating him when he became a hockey star. Because.

“Alexei’s asked to go to St. Petersburg.”

“What do you mean? He’s asking for a transfer?”

“Yes. He says that Moscow’s environment isn’t good for him regarding...his consumption, so he’s asking to be transferred to St. Petersburg.”

“Moscow environment? With his wife and daughter?”

“They’ll stay here, but he’ll go for at least six months,” she said.

“When?”

“He has to deal with administrative things here, but in the middle of summer, I think.”

The fact that Polina was calm wasn’t reassuring; she wasn’t panicked about being responsible for their father, because she had already proved she wasn’t. The year before, their father had wandered for thirty minutes, barefoot and in inappropriate clothing, in their neighborhood. The neighbor had called Alexei, and Polina had just answered that she hadn’t seen when he left.

It was clear that their father’s illness was synonymous with freedom for Polina, who had married young to a widower she thought would take care of her, only to find out he still had it in him to crush and terrorize another woman. She did the minimum: appointments, medication, and sometimes overdosing Gregori enough to knock him out.

Alexei was unquestionably crooked, but he would never let their father wander around barefoot wearing only a T-shirt. Polina was taking small revenge on Gregori and was patiently waiting for his death. Ilya thought of Katarina, Alexei’s wife, the apparent choice in line with the Russian patriarchal tradition to which Gregori subscribed. It was always women who took care of the elders, but even Alexei, who was always willing to push onto others what he himself should do, didn’t favor that alternative and preferred to be the one taking care of their father. Ilya knew that Katarina wasn’t an option either.

“I have to go,” Ilya said to Polina. He didn’t let her say goodbye.

Middle of summer. Alexei had left for the other side of the country, his father alone, lost, sick. He left. To go to rehab? Ilya knew his brother. He would never go to rehab, neither for health reasons nor for pride. No, he was leaving.

“You think you’re the only one who can fucking go?” Alexei told him after Sochi during one of their phone calls. If Ilya had known, it would’ve been a warning.

Alexei left far enough to not be responsible. He made sure Polina broke the news to Ilya so that Ilya knew it wasn’t for rehab. It was because Ilya got one thing—The Cup. Alexei had to ruin everything.

He had to make the abyss and darkness cross the ocean to reach Ilya, to drag him back.

Ilya stared at the wall, calling Alexei. Of course, he didn’t answer. Ilya knew he wouldn’t answer.

“In the middle of summer.”

It was Alexei’s notice to Ilya that he had to flush his life and abandon everything, to take his turn and take care of their father.

Ilya called 23 times but didn’t leave a message.

Alexei sent him a text, “Think you’re the only one who wanted to pursue your dream and potential?”

The anger metastasized into dread, pure dread. It was what he deserved, to have abandoned his father, and to have paid Alexei to take care of him to ease the guilt. Now his time had come.

He had four years. Four years, and now he was forced to return.

He could pay someone, multiple people, but no—Ilya had abandoned his country when the MHL wrote up the best contract they could offer in 2009, and recently humiliated Russia at the Olympics by losing to Latvia, lived in Boston, photographed every night in clubs, with flashy cars and women, all while his father was dying and wandering around without shoes. At least Alexei could hide behind being in the service of Russia in St. Petersburg, holding the fort in a city minutes away from the European Union.

And who would they call if something happened? Why would they now, knowing that their father was not mistreated? For all the distance Ilya had tried to put between himself and Russia, he was a product of that particular class of government officials and carried its values and sense of obligation. He had already stretched one boundary by leaving; it was still acceptable, he wasn’t the first nor the only Russian in the MHL. But he couldn’t make that additional stretch, hiring people to live with and take care of their father, knowing Alexei wasn’t there, or not close. He could ignore Alexei’s phone calls for money because he knew that, if something major happened, he could act, he could make medical decisions.

Their father, as a true patriarchal figure, made sure that Polina couldn’t make medical decisions for him, or even legal ones. Someone could see it as love and respect for his sons, but it was a leash—a short leash—whether they wanted it or not, they were responsible for him.

And the guilt went further when all he could think about, about all the things he would lose, was Shane Hollander.

It was 5:45 a.m. His life was collapsing, and all he could think about was Shane’s face; how he hurt him in Sochi, the message he had ignored after. Shane folding his clothes, Shane asking if he was okay.

So maybe Ilya was paying for the hurt he caused, caused by going back to his home country, in his family, where men only hurt each other.

But nothing would matter anymore.

Middle of summer. At least he could go to Las Vegas; the MVP trophy, one last round of photos, maybe stay one week, lose himself in drinking. Pack his apartment, find a new apartment in Moscow, call his agent, dissolve his contract with Boston. Join a KHL team, surely the best, Moscow Sokol. They would definitely pay the remaining contract amount and other penalties to Boston. Say goodbye to Marleau. Maybe gift him one of his cars.

Middle of summer. Everything would go.

And because nothing mattered anymore, that Ilya, captain of the Boston Bears, didn’t matter.

So Ilya called Shane. Once, twice, three, four, five times; and every time the call went to voicemail, he typed again. Then he sent a text message:

Lily: Please.

and again

Lily: Please Hollander.

He called again, and Shane picked up.

“Rozanov.”

Of course, Shane was fully awake; maybe on a run while spending time with his family. His family of people who had not been trying to destroy him. His family of loving Canadians; of a very much alive mother and a father who had never beaten him. A loving family that had made a gentle Shane. Ilya did not answer, just breathed.

“Why are you calling me? Done ignoring me? What do you want?” Shane had asked.

 Still, Ilya did not know what he wanted. Nothing. He had wanted nothing, but he would have had to give up everything—all he had worked for, for Shane, whom he had worked for, to get, to lose, to avoid, to not think about, to not fall in love with.

Nothing mattered anymore, even Ilya’s fear of saying what he had wanted for Shane, someone that he could never have, because he would leave for Russia, KHL, and never see him again. So everything could go, like a last confession, like closing the door. 

“I want you,” Ilya had murmured.

“Are you calling for sex? You’re unbelievable. You ignored me for months, and you call at fucking six in the morning for sex? Fuck you.”

This was the truth of Ilya: if he wanted his “I want you” to mean “I want to be with you. I want you to want me. I want to hold you. I want you to hold me.” Instead, what he hid behind his Russian words when everything was too much, and he needed to tell Shane he loved him. Yes, he expressed his love, but in Russian, and only when he was inside Shane, and needed to hold him, even though he reminded himself not to stay too long. Everything led to "I want you" being heard the same as "I only want to fuck."

Ilya did not realize he was crying. He had not moved from his bed since Polina’s call; he had not even gone to the bathroom. He just stared at the wall, listening to Shane, breathing.

“Rozanov, are you crying? Are you okay? Where are you?” Shane asked.

“Home.”

“What’s going on? Is it your family?”

“I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”

“Okay, it’s okay, you were stressed. It’s okay now. I’ll see you again, okay?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have to go back.”

“Yes, but the awards, and after, you know, after the summer. What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“I can’t, I can’t. I’m sorry. I want you so much and I don’t know what to do with it. I pushed you away. I’m not good enough. We can’t.”

“Rozanov, are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“You seem upset, very upset, and not good. I can go home, and we’ll FaceTime, okay?”

“No, nothing matters. I’m just sorry, I'm sorry Hollander.”

Ilya hung up. He went to the bathroom, pissed, then went to the kitchen, took a glass and a bottle of cheap alcohol, and went back to his bedroom. He planned to drink enough to forget everything until the awards, until he had to make plans to dismantle his life, brick by brick. Cage his heart and his brain, leaving just enough space for Svetlana and the memory of Shane.

No one would bother him or check on him. He had spent the last two weeks celebrating the Cup, and everyone had started leaving for their families. If he did not answer, they knew he would be at the awards. Alexei’s plan had at least one good side: for one week, he could descend into a pure spiral of misery, alone, preparing for the loneliness.

Maybe he would find someone; he would lose himself in all the beautiful women in Moscow. Or he could be reckless, maybe he would also do men. Maybe he would find one with glasses, yes, freckles, who folded her clothes before sex, who was boring, and smelled like citrus and mint, and never wore wrinkled T-shirts. Maybe he would have kids he could love, send to an international school, and, when he retired, could go live somewhere hot.

He drank and descended slowly into his own misery, peeling it layer by layer, memory by memory, closing possibility by possibility.

The door rang frantically for at least seven minutes. Ilya blinked. The clock indicated 4 p.m. He had drunk himself to sleep. He was still slightly drunk but more hungover than anything. Whoever came to bother him would be sent away, and Ilya would return to his plan. He put on pants, shouting at the door, “What the fuck do you want?”

He opened the door, and standing there, baseball cap low on his face and sunglasses, was Shane Hollander.

Shane pushed him inside, did not wait to be invited, and stared at him like he wanted to kill him, to hug him, to kiss him, all at once. Ilya closed the door. He needed to ask something. What was he doing there? Why was he not in Montreal? No, stupid, it was off-season, so why was he not on vacation with his parents, or filming a Rolex commercial?

“What the fuck, Rozanov? I called you like fifty times. You can’t call me crying and turn off your phone. I thought...Oh my God. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Everything. Everything was wrong with him; inside, outside, his brain, his heart, his family, everything except Shane. Ilya stepped closer. At first, he wanted to corner Shane into the wall or the kitchen island and slip into the nonchalant Ilya, the confident one of the dark hotel rooms. He could do it, step closer and tell him he was nothing but a pretty mouth. He could corner him and tell him to get on his knees. No. He would get on his knees for Shane. They could go to the bedroom, and he could make love to him without calling it that. He could fuck him, and because it was off-season, maybe he would stay. It was 4 p.m, he could stay the night. If he did, Ilya would watch him sleep, hug him, and tell him the secrets of his heart in Russian. Hum into his hair, count all the freckles on his face, and remember them. He would steal his T-shirt and take it with him to Russia.

He moved closer; he was ready with an easy plan. He just needed an angry kiss, and the usual dance would follow. Their faces were closer, but Shane put his hand on Ilya’s face, and he looked at him. Looked at him as if he was scared, sad, worried; as if Ilya was fragile. He looked at him.

“What’s wrong? You scared me.”

And Ilya tried. He tried to go with the plan, to have the smirk on his lips, to tell Shane he was dramatic, that he had only called for his cock. He tried. He opened his mouth. He tried, but he cried. He fell into Shane, and he cried. It did not stop. His body refused to stop. He cried, and Shane held him tight, walked with him, not letting him go, and sat on the couch.

“I’m here. You’re okay. I’m here.”

Ilya could not stop. Shane was on his lap, with Ilya’s head on his chest, rocking him, hand in his hair. And they stayed like that for what seemed like hours, but it was not long enough. When Shane finally pulled away, Ilya wanted to grab him.

“I have to remove my shoes, okay? I’m getting water. I brought clothes, so we can lie down on the bed.”

“Okay,” Ilya said.

Ilya followed him, not letting him out of his sight, cataloging all the ways he removed his shoes at the entry, opened Ilya’s fridge, and poured water for both of them. Drinking it, Ilya took his hand and his bag, and walked with him to the bedroom.

He sat on the bed and watched Shane remove his clothes, unpack sweatpants and a T-shirt, and Ilya stopped him.

“No, stay like this.”

Shane lay on the bed. Ilya put his head on his chest, held onto him tight, and murmured, “Thank you.” And Shane responded with one hand in Ilya’s hair and the other trailing on his face,

“I’m here. You want to sleep, and we’ll talk after.”

“Okay.”

When Ilya woke up at nine, Shane was not there. He thought it was a hallucination — why would Shane be there? He was alone and had drunk too much. But when he rolled over, there was the bag and the folded clothes, so he left the bed with urgency.

Shane was there on the couch, watching a soccer game. He was there, not in his clothes, but in Ilya’s T-shirt and sweatpants, drinking a Canada Dry. Ilya did not have Canada Dry. Had he brought it? Ilya watched him, another memory he needed to lock in his brain, in the box he would need in Moscow, another thing he would never have.

When Shane saw him, he smiled, the gentle and soft smile Ilya had seen.

“I ordered Thai food. It’s still warm. I was waiting for you.”

“I need to freshen up, and I’m coming.”

Shane walked over him, put a gentle kiss on his lips, one on his jaw, and one on his neck.

“I’ll set the table.”

In the shower, Ilya did the calculations. He already counted everything that he would lose when leaving in the middle of the summer, but every minute with Shane added to it exponentially. It was only four hours. They did not even share fifty words. They did not even properly kiss, but it was so much, and he would have to leave it too.

He would have to leave knowing that Shane cared enough about him to fly to Boston the same day, hold him for hours, bring extra clothes, order Thai food, wait for him to wake up, and gently kiss him.

Every minute was an additional loss. Should he be pragmatic and tell him to go? But Ilya was selfish, like Alexei. He wanted to take, take, and take everything he could from Shane before he had to go. He would keep him as long as he could, even if it was just chaste kisses and being held.

In the kitchen, Shane put the food on plates, set aside a Coke for Ilya, and a glass of water. He sat across from Ilya, but Ilya could not stand the distance. He took his plate and sat next to him, put a kiss on his neck, his cheek, and took his mouth, kissing him as a thank you, as a sorry, as an almost goodbye, as an I want to remember you forever.

When he separated their lips, Shane was panting, “Talk to me,” Shane said.

Ilya looked away from Shane. How could he tell him how fucked up he had been, how fucked up his family had been, his brother who should have died with his mother, his father who had grown into a monster, his pathetic self who still wanted to be acknowledged and loved by him?

Shane stepped closer. “Hey, look at me. It’s okay. You can talk to me.”

Ilya pulled Shane into a hug, lowered his head, and started talking. He talked, and talked. Twelve, his mother in the bathroom. Fourteen, sex, and more hockey to not feel. Alexei, the hate; his father, the disappointment of leaving Russia, the constant reproaches, the loneliness, the dementia. Russia's anti-propaganda law, but also the summer and the love for Moscow. The hate of his family, Alexei's revenge, and finally, the leaving.

He said everything except the things about the one person who had been everything, the one who had been holding him then. He said everything and hoped Shane understood that he had been everything, that of all the things he would lose, Shane had been more important than Boston, than hockey.

“Why did you call me?” Shane asked.

Ilya had three choices: not answering, saying he had not known, or telling the truth. If he told the truth to Shane, he stepped outside his head, his heart. He would have to say out loud what he wanted, and the loss would exist for Shane to hear, and maybe it would be too much. Could he do that to Shane, tell him his true feelings, and then leave? Should he spare him, let him keep what they had been as fun memories, and those past hours as some bug, something they did not need to talk about? But he had been held with such care, Ilya could not find it in himself to do anything other than say, “Because you’re everything to me. And I… I like you, Shane.” It was almost all the truth, but he could not take the next step: he was already in love with him.

Shane moved away from him and looked at him. Was he panicking? It was too much.

“Say it again,” Shane said, mystified.

“I like you, Shane,” Ilya said, and Shane kissed him. He kissed him with everything he had, as if he wanted to merge with Ilya, and finally said, “Me too, I like you, Ilya.”

When they finished eating, they went to bed, kissed and hugged more, trailing their hands on their bodies.

“You’re not leaving?” Ilya asked.

“I’ve nowhere to be before the awards,” Shane said.

“We can go somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I know a place. Private”

“Okay.”

Ilya reached for his phone and sent a quick message to his travel agent.

“We’re leaving tomorrow. Early.”

“I don’t have many clothes.”

“Order online, and you can have them delivered there,” Ilya said, giving his iPad open on his Saks account "I already put the adress"

“Okay.”

They fell asleep, Shane spooning Ilya. It was the first night they slept together without sleeping together.

In the morning, they were ready to leave at seven.

Ilya drove them to the small heliport near Boston Logan Airport, and their helicopter landed thirty minutes later on Martha’s Vineyard. A car with tinted windows waited for them. A man handed the key to Ilya.

Ilya drove them. They did not talk much; they listened to music and commented on the landscape. It was Shane’s first time there. Ilya loved coming there. One of his NBA friends had told him about the discreet luxury travel service and the secluded, private house with direct beach access, available for the modest cost of $74,000 for six days. They would be alone, with a grocery delivery service, a car, a helicopter transport, and bicycles.

The house was perfect. Everything was ready. The fridge was stocked with drinks, including Canada Dry, as well as fresh food, luxury sheets and towels. Shane glanced over. “Wow, I love this house. Do you know the architect? Is it your house?”

“No, it’s rental. It’s private. Everyone signs an NDA, from the helicopter to the cleaning service. No one around, and we can go to a private beach.”

“You come here often?” Shane asked, the silent part was a question, Do you come here with someone else?"

“No, only when I need my head to be quiet, I always come alone.”

“You should buy it.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” he paused.

Ilya showed him every room and amenity. Shane did most of the talking, describing everything, even if it was his first time, and Ilya imagined everything they could do. Six days. He had six days to pack every essence of Shane into his mind before it was all done. He would fuck him in every room. He would hold him, feed him, make him laugh, ask him to kiss him, count his freckles, hold his hand, and put everything in a secure place in his heart.

They ended up in the ensuite bedroom, dropping their luggage and unpacking. Ilya took Shane’s hands.

He carefully removed Shane’s clothes; he wanted to memorize everything: the T-shirt, the pants, and the briefs. He was the one who folded them.

“Sit,” he had told him, pointing to the bed.

He undressed himself. Shane looked at him with intensity and need in his eyes. Ilya stroked himself; Shane moved, revealing his desire to fall to his knees and take Ilya in his mouth. Ilya stopped him. “No. I'll take care of you today. Stay.” Then Ilya dropped to his knees and took Shane in his mouth. Shane moaned, “Ilya.” Ilya didn't go fast; he took his time, his hand on Shane’s stomach, reaching for his pec. Shane fell back on the mattress. “I'm going to cum,” he said, so Ilya stopped. “Not yet. I'm going to fuck you,” Ilya said, standing.

Shane sat on the bed, and Ilya reached for his head. Shane took him in his mouth, but without Ilya’s patience—he devoured him. He tried to reach for his own cock, but Ilya stopped him. “You're so good, Shane, so good to me.” Ilya pulled out, reached for his bag, took out the lube and condom, and Shane waited. “Yes, please, Ilya, fuck me.”
“Lie on the bed. I want to see you. I'm going to fuck you slow.”

Ilya went back to Shane, played with Shane's rim with his tongue, and slid in a finger. “Ohh, Ilya, more, give me more.”
Ilya put in a second finger. “Be loud for me, Shane.”

“Yes, Ilya, I like it, I want more.” He was breathing hard. Ilya put on the condom with one hand and placed himself at Shane’s entrance, pushing his knee up. He entered slowly. “I am ready, Ilya, come all the way, please,” and he pushed. One thrust and Shane screamed, “Oh fuck.” He did what he had promised — he fucked him slow but hard. He kissed him on the neck, earlobe, mouth, cheek. “Talk to me, Shane.”
“It’s so good, you are so good. I love you, Ilya.”

Ilya had dreamt about those words, about saying them, but he had never dreamt about hearing them first, hearing them like this, facing Shane, inside of him, smelling his sweat, tasting him. All of this, with three weeks before he would have to leave his life, leave the continent, the league he shared with Shane. The happiness and cruelty of it. Shane’s love was given to him, to be taken away. He wanted to cry, to kiss him, and break something all at once.

“I don’t want to let you go. I love you.”

“Mark me," Shane breathed. Ilya kissed him hard, creating hickeys on his chest and neck.

Ilya accelerated his pace toward the end, still talking, reclaiming words to Shane, telling him how good he was, how good he was taking it. They came together, sweating and panting.
Shane looked up at him with glassy eyes, “I love you,” and Ilya buried his face in his neck, “I love you so much, I thought it’d kill me.”

They spent the week talking about their first kiss, middle school hockey gossip, playing video games, their families, Shane’s anxiety, Shane being Asian, how many Cups they wanted, when they thought they would retire, Svetlana, Shane and girls, Montreal, funny stories in the locker room, the worst players, Hayden and his kids, Sasha, Ilya and his mother, Shane's diet. On day five, walking on the beach and talking about nothing in particular, they stopped and watched the waves coming and going. Shane reached for Ilya’s hand, both silent, facing the sea.

“I love you,” Ilya said.

“Me too.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“But you have to, because you’re a good son.”

“I love you so much. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Wait? Wait for what? What was Shane saying? This week-long funeral of a stillborn relationship, their love, was the most Ilya could wish for in this life. This wait.

“I’ll wait for you. I looked it up. I’m sorry, I know it’s a bit morbid,” Shane said.

“What?”

“Your father’s health, what you said about the symptoms and the medication. I don’t think he has many years left, Ilya. I’m sorry.”

“You’ll wait?”

“Yes, until you come back, in two or three years. I’ll wait for you.”

“Shane, you know we can’t do long distance. If someone finds out, it’ll be dangerous for me.”

The development of the anti-propaganda law had taken a macabre turn the month before, when hackers had hacked into the phones and emails of public figures, handing them over to the police. Now, a TV presenter, a soccer player, and two singers were facing prosecution, even if they had not “propagandized.” The Russian police, compensating for the economic crisis, had launched a full moral police hunt for enemies from within: feminist activists, the opposition, but also those accused of propagandizing Western values. Sochi was past the point of needing to soften the image, too. He knew he would have to delete everything, or maybe change his phone, keep the one there. Because other men also had code names for their lovers, boyfriends, and hookups. Money could protect you, but nothing could protect you from the need for a public spectacle to distract from failing politics.

“I know. You’ll be safe in my heart. I’ll wait. I want you to know, I’ll wait for you.”

“It could be years.”

“I know, Ilya. I’ve tried, you know, to have other people, not to think about you. But I couldn’t. I thought I liked you too much, and that you didn’t care about me.”

“I cared, I care, so much, Shane.”

“I know now. And I can’t go back to not knowing you loved me, so I’ll wait. I’ll watch all your games and know where you are. And we’ll text and FaceTime every day.”

“If you want to be with people, someone…”

“You mean sex.”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t. I want sex, but only with you. You’ve ruined me for anyone else, remember. It’s only you. I’ll think about you and wait. We can see each other during the summer, in Europe, when people don’t care about hockey.”

“Years of jerking off and dildos, Hollander.”

“Yes,” Shane said, pausing and looking at him. “Would you wait?”

How could Ilya have deserved this? Love, the wait; Shane would have waited for his return. He had known the doctor had given his father two to three years, but still. He had known that being in Russia in the summer, passing through, was not the same as living there, having a Russian phone, home internet, and using an internet that could be shut down. After Sochi, it was revealed that a TV presenter had been living next door to his companion for three years and had been arrested. When the news broke, the other man was traveling. Now his partner was facing, at the very least, public humiliation and being cast out. At worst, they were imprisoned and had been forced to seek emergency asylum in Germany.

If Ilya were caught in contact with Shane, they would make sure the news did maximum damage to both of their lives. He was devastated, but something grew in Ilya, watching the sun on Shane’s face, an anchor, a light at the end of the years of darkness that were coming. He would do it for Shane. It would be his salvation, his redemption. He would wait. He would wait to come back. As soon as his father was buried, he would come to any team. He would do penance, focus on hockey, become the best in the KHL, and come back. The MHL would take him back.

“Yes.”

“You will come back to me.”

And Ilya said, “I will.”

They had flown to Vegas on separate flights. Ilya had packed Shane’s clothes and had displayed them directly in the penthouse. Back in the room after the ceremony, they were celebrating Ilya's MVP award, not like Ilya had planned weeks ago, the distance he had planned to put between Shane and him. 

“Open it,” Shane said.

Ilya opened the box. It was a worn Rolex watch.

“You’re giving me your sponsor gift, Shane? I’m MVP.”

“It’s my first watch, the one I wore most days. Turn it.”

Engraved, a number: 1410.

“The first room,” Ilya said.

“Yes.”

“You’re giving it to me?”

“No. You’ll give it back to me when you come back,” Shane said.

Ilya reached for the drawer, took a box.

“It’s for you.”

“I didn’t win,” Shane said, opening it. It was a thin gold necklace, the same one that Ilya had, but without the orthodox cross.

“It’s my necklace, I had it cleaned and bought a new one to put my mother's cross. You keep it, half of me.”

Shane did not even spend ten minutes in his own room. Every second outside of the press and parties was spent in Ilya's room. Room service, fucking, talking, making promises. But tomorrow came. And after waiting for the summer, they decided to interact more publicly. Shane would say something when Ilya announced his departure. Shane’s watch on his wrist, Shane on his arm, Shane telling him, “I’m proud of you, I love you.” Ilya tried to push away the after, his flight ticket for Moscow in five days, the PR announcement, and the end of his contract with the Boston Bears to take care of his father and join Moscow Sokol.

June 2015 (End of 2014-2015 Season)

For the last twelve months, Ilya had kept a routine. He had opened his mailbox. Hospital bills, sponsorship contracts, and letters from his bank. He had been waiting for a text from Shane on his Russian phone. Not every day, maybe two or three times a month. Mostly boring texts. “Good game.” “Not so weak backhand.” Comments about games. “Hope your family is okay.” When he arrived, he turned off his American phone, which he was still paying for, and left it in his luggage.

After that, every day when he woke up, and every night, he turned it on, sent a message to Shane, and answered his texts; they FaceTimed once or twice a week. Shane had been adamant that they could not take a risk, so Ilya never left the house with the phone, turning it on and off only to talk to Jane, send pictures, and say "I love you" every morning.

They spent one full night on the phone when Shane's cousin died in a car accident. This death hit Shane hard. It was the first time Shane took ten days of personal time from hockey. Ilya sent a flower arrangement under a pseudonym for the funeral. His AT&T roaming bill was scandalous, but he did not care, and it meant nothing to his finances. In his Russian phone, he kept everything boring, compliant. Former rivals with no animosity.

Ilya thought Shane was maybe too cautious, but three weeks into his first season with Moscow Sokol, a rich oligarch’s son, twenty-seven, was arrested in a sauna, and pictures were published. His father was in the U.S., maybe on his way to do something he should not. His father returned, his company was nationalized, his son was freed, and they both left the country. A reminder that they had ways of knowing and, when needed, would act. It got worse. Every week, there was a new case of moral panic and “interventions against immorality.”

One year. It was one year. Alexei did not come back except for six visits. He stayed in St. Petersburg. Word on the street was that he was living a full life, while his wife and daughter were still in Moscow.

Ilya had to move to a new apartment to be closer to his father’s house, but he still wanted to maintain some distance and privacy. He paid medical staff to be at home, but had to go every day when he was not traveling for games. His contract was good. He was the highest-paid KHL player. Sponsorships were generous. He went every month to the children’s hospital, did his job, went out with his team, did not drink much, cried a lot at night, scrolled Shane’s Instagram, and watched Shane’s games.

It was not an easy year. One night, spiraling and depressed, he went out. He drank too much and looked for a distraction. He settled on drugs and found a seller, but then a fight broke out. A random homeless man crashed in and accused the man of stealing his cart. Ilya left and went home, turned on the American phone, and sent “I miss you so much. I am miserable.” It was 9 p.m. in Montreal. Shane called him back and stayed the night with him on FaceTime.

In Moscow, when he was not with his father, coordinating with Polina and the medical aid, he spent a lot of time with his neighbor’s dog, Anya. Anastasia let Anya sleep in his apartment and let her stay with him as long as he wanted. She had moved into the building one month after him. Anastasia was an old, taciturn woman, the widow of a rich banker with no children. She did not ask many questions and did not talk much. Some days, she left food for him. Ilya loved her dog. He could not have a dog, because after two or three years, he would be back overseas with Shane. He felt guilty most of the time, living in Moscow, waiting for his father to pass away, and still feeling dread that his father was dying.

One year had passed since he had seen him. Boston was still mad at him for leaving, but mostly sad. The public sent him so many messages. The management told him that when he was ready, he could come back. The league posted a statement, wishing him and his family the best. Russian media praised him: “the return of the prodigal son,” and "Russian family values." Shane commented on his post, noting the loss of one of the league's best players, who had challenged him. Very sportsmanlike, very Shane.

One year, and he stayed true to his promises. To avoid Russian media in his business, he was spotted by Moscow paparazzi as often as possible when Svetlana was in town. For the rest, he was a responsible Russian son, playing hockey in his country and taking care of his father, a great man of the Russian military.

Some weekends, he played chess with Anastasia. She told him gossip about Moscow high society. Sometimes the gossip became grim; people disappeared, political opponents, activists, feminists, and gay clubs were being shut down. Ilya tried to enjoy the city. He walked a lot and was often stopped for photos. He tried new restaurants, spent time with youth, but most of the time he was with his father or at home.

One week before he left for Berlin, his apartment was broken into. They stole the TV, watches, sneakers, his laptop, and the ten thousand in emergency cash he had. When he came in and found the police that Anastasia had called, the first thing he checked when they left was the suitcase's front pocket, where he kept his American phone—it was still there. He always had Shane’s watch. Everything else could be replaced.

He was looking at the city on his way to the airport. He was meeting Shane in Berlin for a two-day sponsored event, which they would turn into a vacation: a full week in Berlin, then four weeks at Shane's cottage. When he arrived at the hotel in Berlin, he turned on the American phone and saw a text from Shane with an address and “waiting for you.” He slept, went to his media engagement, and had photoshoots for a sponsor. He saw Shane in the large conference room, but it was strange. He locked eyes with him but rapidly moved away. He would see him later.

At 5 p.m., he took a cab to the address. Fifteen minutes into the trip, a collision happened. Not dramatic, a small one, and a truck blocked the street. People were shouting. The truck was not moving. Ilya needed to go. He had somewhere to be. He could not wait.

The cab driver excused himself, “I don’t know when it’ll move,” still shouting at the truck. Next to the taxi, Ilya saw a mototaxi. He asked if he was free and could pass the small gap between the trucks. He paid the taxi, adding a fifty-euro bill, and took the moto.

He arrived at the address, buzzed, and was let in. The building had nothing special outside; it looked like a warehouse. He took the elevator; only one button was available. It was a large, well-decorated loft. He would never have thought such luxury was hidden in what seemed like a meat processing warehouse from the outside, in the middle of a Kreuzberg neighborhood.

Then Shane appeared.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.”

And that was it. One year.

“You said hello but did not look at me earlier,” Ilya said, lying in bed next to him.

“I know. I was worried.”

“About what?”

“People sniffing around. But don’t think about it. We are here,” Shane said.

“Yes, we are.”

“We can meet here at night, after the events.”

“Okay. I had to take a moto-taxi; I had a problem with my cab.”

“Oh, an accident?”

“A truck on the road,” Ilya said.

“Mmm, okay. I have a car service. They can pick you up. It’s not the league. No one will care if you don’t use your hotel room. You should bring your things here.”

“Okay,” Ilya said.

“It was hard,” Shane said, inhaling Ilya’s chest.

“I know.”

“I waited.”

“Me too.”

“I saw the news, the son of the businessman,” Shane said.

“Yes, they used his text messages and the internet.”

“But we're careful. We have to be cautious. Nothing can happen to you. Promise me,” Shane said.

“I will. I'm… I was not every time,” Ilya said. “That time I tried buying drugs but didn't. I went home and texted you on the American phone that I missed you and was miserable, and then we facetimed the rest of the night”

Ilya thought they might become claustrophobic, spending every late afternoon until morning in the large loft, not going outside, but no. There were so many things he needed to tell Shane, and that Shane needed to tell him. Ilya needed to tell Shane how proud he was of Shane winning the Stanley Cup again, and Shane needed to tell Ilya how proud he was of him for winning the Gagarin Cup.

“I told my parents,” Shane said

"About you?"

"Yes, about me, that I'm gay, and in a relationship. I told them I was in love with you,” Shane said

“You told them?”

“Yes, I want them to know, and when you come back, to know you. To know that we are serious. I don’t want to hide you when you come back.”

“Okay, I will tell Svetlana, she is my friend, she is safe,” Ilya said

“Yes, it’s good. I wanted to tell Hayden and J.J. later, too, if it’s okay,” Shane said.

“You are not scared for them to know?”

“They will keep the secret. I just want to talk about you so I can feel less alone,” Shane said.

“Yes, I want that too.”

They spent the last day alone in the loft, cooking, watching films, and fucking.

The other day, Shane gave him two boxes.

“Open it.”

“Shane, are you my sugar daddy? Every time, a gift.”

“Stupid. Open.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“I saw the watch in all your pictures. I liked seeing you with it.”

“I liked seeing you in post-game interviews with my chain too,” Ilya said.

“It came with this,” Shane said, giving him an envelope. Inside was an echography, and a woman—the one from the tabloid—pregnant.

Ilya’s heart raced. Who were those kids? And the woman?

“You’re gonna have kids.”

“We are,” Shane said.

“You and the woman from the TMZ picture.”

“No, Ilya,” Shane said, pulling a document from the envelope. “We are,” he said. “You and me.”

Ilya looked at the document—a pre-adoption agreement.

Chapter 2: Brother from Another Mother

Chapter Notes

The plot thickens

 

Special thanks to beta-readers:
✨️💜
Alidesidero, Faithella and Aerie

November 2014

Shane was born three years after Iro. In the same way, Yuna Matsumoto was born three years after Yoshimi Matsumoto, Iro’s mother, and like Yuna with her sister Yoshimi, Shane was also a shadow to Iro. He followed him everywhere until he moved to Vancouver with his mother when his parents divorced when he was sixteen.

When Shane was eleven, Iro fought a kid who called him weird at summer camp. When he was fourteen, Shane covered for him while he was trying to smoke cigarettes. For Iro’s eighteenth birthday, he made their mothers travel to Tokyo with them. Iro’s mother was diagnosed with cancer, and it was her last trip. She stayed there for the remainder of the treatment, and Iro stayed with her. She died nine months later.

Iro stayed in Japan for two years, then came back to Canada, but soon left for New York. He was not a college kid, but he was deeply talented in photography. Iro was fun, outgoing, kind, and always protected Shane. He was a rebel and a sentimental free spirit. Shane did not talk to him much once they were both adults. Iro was always traveling for The Times, covering political unrest and movements across the globe—one day in L.A., another in Caracas.

After Iro’s mother died, Yuna put all her grief into being there for him. She was the one attending his award ceremonies, calling him, and pushing Shane to stay connected. Yuna had made a promise to her older sister that she would look after her son, the same way she knew Yoshimi would have done for Shane. And there was an empty space in Yuna’s heart that remained after her sister passed—the last person who had shared those memories with her, who had known her for as long as their parents had.

Shane wished he had more time. He could have invited him more, gone out after games in New York, gone to see him. He went once, three years ago, to one of his photo exhibits. But it was always next summer, next off-season, next time.

Iro was the first person to tell Shane, when he was fifteen, “It’s okay to love whoever you want, and never get married.” He called him to congratulate him and told him not to be “a problematic Wasian athlete” when he got drafted. Iro was always making fun of the two of them being Wasian fake twins. They did not look alike, but when they were young, they always walked together, finishing each other’s sentences, even with three years between them.

Iro’s father was Norwegian. Iro took his height—tall and lean, with a more angular face—but still had the dark hair and eyes of their grandmother. Iro’s dad was a bohemian too, writing novels, traveling, listening to music, smoking too many cigarettes, and sometimes forgetting to pay the rent. He was so fun and knew so many stories. He died two years ago of lung cancer.

Shane was thinking of all the “next times,” and the trip to Yosemite Park they had said they would take together every year, but every year something else happened. It was all flooding back to him while he sat in a church in Ottawa, facing a large photograph taken by Iro’s colleague. Iro Johansen-Matsumoto, 1988–2014, son of Yoshimi Matsumoto and Lars Johansen, nephew of Yuna Hollander, born Matsumoto, and David Hollander, cousin of Shane Hollander.

Last week, Shane had been at Iro’s apartment in the East Village, five days before the funeral. He was supposed to assess the packing situation talk to the building management, who offered condolences but were more curious about what Shane would do with the apartment. His mom, as next of kin, would inherit it, not that she or Shane needed it.

Shane went over Iro’s life, minimalist, industrial. A yearly calendar covered a wall with travel, due dates, birthdays, Shane’s birthday. Shane did not have Iro’s birthday on his calendar; some years he forgot about it, and his mom reminded him to send a text. The bed was perfectly made, like Shane’s mom and aunt had taught both of them to do it. A leather sofa, a coffee table, books on the floor; the kitchen was, without surprise, well equipped—Iro always had a passion for cooking.

A small room was totally blacked out; his darkroom, his last photography, a protest in Seoul. On his desk near his bed, there was a list of students and his badge from the CUNY School of Journalism, where he was an adjunct professor. On the fridge there were Polaroid pictures of Iro’s friends parties, none of Shane. On the wall there were only five pictures: one of Iro with both of his parents, one of Iro with some friends, one of Shane and Iro with their grandparents, one of Iro with his mother in her last month in Tokyo, and one of Iro, his mom, Shane, and Yuna in Tokyo.

Shane used the stickers his mom had told him to use to label what to keep and send to Ottawa or to donate. She wanted to come, but it was too much, so she focused on organizing a beautiful funeral. Shane knew that going through Iro’s apartment for his mother meant going through her sister’s life, and even if she was dead, imagining her heartbreak for her son. So Shane took ten personal days, a first since he joined the Voyageurs, and no one questioned it.

It was the first and last time he would be in Iro’s apartment, an apartment he had lived in for six years, in a city where Shane came at least four times a year. “We’ll always have next year,” they would text, and Shane had put it on the list of things to do in retirement: spend more time with his cousin, come out, find a hobby (maybe woodworking), travel with his friends, go to Disneyland with the Pike children, a cruise with his parents, and remodel the cottage.

He was still packing when the front door opened. It was a woman he had seen before, and her face reminded him of someone.

“Good afternoon, Shane Hollander,” she said.

“Hello… I feel like I know you. Have we met? You’re a friend of Iro?” he said, hesitant—maybe more than a friend.

“Yes, we are, were, we were friends. I'm Anita. Anita Vaughn.”

Now he remembered. In his thorough study of Cup contenders, Shane had read an article on the Hunter and Vaughn friendship, and it had included a picture of his sister, a best-selling novelist. He remembered a post by Vaughn about his twin sister being one of the National Book Award finalists for a first novel.

“I didn't know you knew my cousin. Well, I didn't know a lot,” Shane said.

“We met at the New York Public Library fellowship four years ago. We were the youngest. I have a key because Iro let me use his apartment when I come to New York. I live in Boston,” she said.

“You’re not staying with your brother?”

“I love my brother, and his very fancy apartment, but… your demographic.”

“Hockey players?”

“Yes. Carter has an open-door policy, and his teammates are not the vibe I’m looking for when I come to see my editor. Mind you, 15 minutes older than him, but he can be a little bit overbearing. It’s quiet here. I like to write at the window.”

“You came to pick up things I was sorting?” Shane said.

“No, I don’t really leave things here. I guess I came to say goodbye to him, to talk to him here before the funeral,” Anita said.

“You were close?” Shane asked.

“Yes, we are...sorry.were...We were often in spaces where we were the only ones not white. And we were both in very solitary fields, us and our work; being judged, rejected, submitting,” Anita said. She removed her shoes at the door and put her bag on a chair by the desk.

“He talked often about you,” she said. “A brother from another mother.”

“A brother who did not call,” Shane said regretfully.

“We all know life is short, but at the same time we don't know-know that it can be that short,” Anita said. “I’m going to the bedroom for a moment,” she added, moving toward it with a small notebook.

Shane did not want to pry, but he heard her talking. She sobbed and cried, then spoke again, mostly in a whisper, and even laughed. She came out one hour later, went to the bathroom, and sat on the couch.

“I'm starving. Do you want to eat?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m quite hungry.”

“We can order from Miss Lily’s. It’s a Jamaican spotthat Iro loved.”

“Okay,” Shane said.

She helped him sort Iro’s belongings. They ate, and she told him about Iro’s life, their vacations together—they had gone to Yosemite Park last year. Her first book, the one that won the National Book Award, had a dedication to Iro: To my brother from another mother.

“What is your book about?” Shane asked.

“Twin sisters from the South in the ’50s, white-passing. One disappeared one day. The other stayed and had a Black child. The one who disappeared chose to live her life passing as a white woman with a white husband. So it’s about the cousins, the daughters, how they meet, and how their lives are different.”

“It sounds amazing,” Shane said.

“That's what people say,” Anita said.

“I never saw you at games in Boston.” Shane stated.

“Only when New York played. I’m afraid it would be considered treason to support the Bears,” Anita laughed.

“And you didn't want to move here, to be close to your brother? To Iro?”

“Moving here wouldn't have brought me closer to Iro, he was somewhere else half the time. And I don’t know… I like Boston. I thought I would move out after grad school, but I have friends. I’m a woman of habit. I love my apartment. Also, now I’m a fellow of a Black writers’ retreat in Martha’s Vineyard. I have a secret plan to convince Carter to buy a family vacation house and sell his monstrous house in Miami Beach,” Anita said.

They continued talking about their lives, and around midnight, they ended up sleeping on Iro’s convertible couch, next to each other, Anita’s head on Shane’s shoulder.

The moving company came the next day. Shane designated the boxes that would go to Ottawa—mainly belongings of Iro’s mother, Iro’s photojournalism prize, and albums. The rest would be donated before the apartment was professionally cleaned. He had already talked to his mother that morning, and they decided to contact the donations office of the CUNY School of Journalism, to offer Iro’s apartment for scholarship students in photojournalism.

Shane took the picture from Tokyo, a small Polaroid camera, and a small keychain in the form of a book with a quote: “We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.”

“You like the keychain?” Anita said.

“Yes, I like the quote.”

“It was my stupid gift in 2012,” Anita said.

“Stupid?”

“For our birthdays, we always did stupid gifts. Souvenir shop things, random notebooks. He gave me a pen with ten colors; it’s my favorite pen for book signings.”

“I would like to keep it, if that’s okay,” Shane said.

“Toni Morrison is always okay to keep.”

They said their goodbyes, exchanged numbers, and Shane promised to visit when in Boston. He added, because he felt he could tell her that, “My boyfriend…” He paused and looked at her face—surprise, then understanding, a slight inclination as if to say I understand, it’s a secret. He continued, “He used to go to this rental house in Martha’s Vineyard. In case Carter decides to stick to Miami Beach, maybe we could go.”

“You seem like a man with a plan, Shane. And you like quiet—proving me wrong about hockey players,” Anita said.

She gave him the key and they hugged each other tightly. Shane told her, “See you at the funeral.”

At the funeral, Shane and Yuna were sitting in the first row, as the closest members of Iro’s family. Yuna was pressing Shane’s hand as if she would collapse if they let go. David was at Shane’s left. She was so sad, grieving Iro and thinking about her sister, whom she had lost and had promised to look after. And now here they were, at a funeral with a closed casket because of the accident and the car that was engulfed in flames.

Iro had so many friends, different friends, many colleagues who loved his work, and many exes he still talked to. It was, as they said, a beautiful service. Shane could not stop the guilt. Every time someone stopped him—“He loved you so much, you were like a brother to him”— he thought to himself, what kind of brother only sent seven texts a year and never had time for a weekend? What kind of brother was Shane? Shane did not even know if he could be a brother to someone. He was an only child, Iro too, but Iro knew how to be someone’s brother. His mind drifted to Ilya, Ilya who loved fast cars. If he lost Ilya in Moscow, would it be an open casket? Could he go? Would there be a funeral? Or would Alexei keep him in solitude?

He was the one to give a speech. He spent the week trying to find the words. He wrote several versions, but that morning, he could not speak. He had a panic attack. He could not put another burden on his mother, who was grieving Iro and her sister. His father talked him out of it. His words were bleak. He had not seen Iro in three years. How was his hair? The picture at the funeral was older. Was it still long? Did it burn in the car? He did not even know what his hair looked like, and he was supposed to say words for his favorite, only maternal cousin, the only son of his favorite, only maternal deceased aunt. Unmemorable were his words: “great man, talented, supportive cousin, son,” and others. He had memories with Iro, but he felt cautious about them. They were his. He did not want to share them. Yes, he was selfish, but he had lost Iro and did not know what his hair looked like because his planning had no slot in three years for Yosemite Park.

Shane was looking for a place to hide during the reception at his parents’ house. He spoke briefly with Anita and made the rounds, but the need for air and solitude overwhelmed him. It was cold for October so the backyard was empty. He was heading toward the garden table when he heard sobbing.

He saw a woman, taller than him, with short dark hair framing a delicate, angular face, almond-shaped eyes, and warm-toned skin hinting at a mixed Asian heritage. He had seen her sitting in the back of the church. Shane was in no state to comfort anyone, nor to stand the constant sobbing.

“Tough day,” he said. “I’m Shane,” and gave her a tissue.

“Yeah, it was. Good speech. Miranda,” the woman said. She had an accent, maybe German. “He talked often about you. He had me watch one of your games.”

“Oh, sorry about that. You were friends?” Shane asked.

“Sort of. Friends always, and sometimes more. I wasn’t good lately at being either,” she said.

“I wasn’t a good cousin or a good friend, I think,” Shane said. “You live in New York, too?”

“No, I work at the Toronto office of the publishing house that did Anita’s book. We met on Reddit,” she said, laughing softly.

“Reddit?”

“You’re gonna laugh. A subreddit for unproblematic Wasians. My mom’s Dutch and my dad’s Japanese.”

“Oh, hope I can be in this club,” Shane said.

“Maybe you should do the quiz,” she said, with a faint smile. “After that, we worked on a book together. I was the editor and he did the photography in Japan; it was for a Korean American author writing about Zainichi Koreans.”

Her hands were shaking. “Damn, I need a drink and a cigarette.”

“Do you want me to grab you a drink? There is wine inside, and I don't think my parent would mind if you smoke here,” Shane said.

“No, it’s okay. I am not in drinking condition,” she said, looking at her stomach.

“Oh. Oh. Congratulations. New life, on a day like that, is good to remember, you know,” Shane said.

“New life with a dead father,” she said, and cried.

Shane did not know what to do, say something, or hug. He froze. He only said, “Iro?”

“Yes. You know the 'sometimes more'. Fucking accident,” she said. “He did not even know. I did not even know. I fainted at work. I was so stressed after, you know, the news of him. I could not sleep and went to the emergency room, and, well, I can’t drink, I can’t have a cigarette.”

“Oh, my God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Damn, Iro, fuck, he really did not know?”

“No.”

“My parents, me... you know, if you need anything, we would help,” Shane said.

“Thank you, but I'm not keeping it.”

“What?” Shane said. Then she looked at him. “No, no, fuck, of course, it’s your choice, your body. I'm not judging or anything.”

“Good. The last thing I need is guilt. Or people to know,” Miranda said.

“Sure, I will not tell anyone, I swear.”

They stayed silent for long minutes, Shane replaying the conversation. Did he just abortion-shame this woman at the funeral of the man who impregnated her by accident? Did he? He needed to say something.

“But are you okay? I mean, all things considered.”

“No. I'll miss my friend. I don’t want and never wanted to have a kid. It was an accident. But us, us as friends, was not an accident. I miss him.”

“I am sorry. Listen, if you need, I don’t know if it will be weird or how it works, a ride to the clinic, to do the thing. I don’t know if men can go there. Sorry, I am being weird,” Shane said.

“I don’t need a ride. If Iro were there, I would have had the abortion. But since last week, I've been thinking, because you know, he was the only son, and his mom, and he always talked about his grandmother’s lineage. I was thinking about adoption. Finding a family that culturally fits, you know, Asian Canadian, I don’t know. Maybe he would like this. I don't know yet, I need to think more.”

“How was his hair?” Shane asked out loud. The question was so random.

“His hair?”

“Yes, you know, before the accident, he never posted pictures of himself online. I don’t know if his hair was the same as in the picture at the church.”

She took her phone out and showed him a picture. “It was a week before the accident, at a friend’s party.”

Iro’s hair was not the same.

***

Shane read Anita’s novel and; he texted her often with his comments during his reading. He also read her short fiction in The New Yorker and sent it to his dad. They texted often and made a plan about Martha’s Vineyard during the summer. Miranda and Shane spent more time together, even being photographed by paparazzi as an alleged couple. The last thing Shane needed was them following her, and with her pregnancy becoming more visible, her being at the center of it.

It took Shane two months to make the decision. He came to it over the keychain: We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives. What was the meaning of his life? There were so many things he never said; living split would be measured at the end by what he said. His locker room speeches to his teammates, the jokes with Hayden, his thank you speech at the MHL awards, or postgame press. If he died tomorrow, he would be remembered as a generational talent—Shane, good friend, good godfather, good son, reliable—but only Ilya would know him fully. How he sounded when his body relaxed, that he loved to be touched by men - by one man - that he loved and was loved. That he trailed his finger in curly hair, loved being spooned, kissed on the neck, asked for kisses. That he was reliable, willing to wait for the love of his life. That he believed in love.

So he decided to give his life a larger scale of measure and called Miranda. “I want to adopt the baby.” She was surprised, but Shane was prepared. He had done a full research, and consulted with a family lawyer, and checked special nanny services for celebrities. He had not talked to his parents yet, but he had no doubt they could help as well. He laid it out over seven minutes, bullet point by bullet point: private kinship adoption via pre-arranged kinship adoption. The baby could be placed at birth after the ten-day delay, and the legal finalization would happen later, with court visitation but less tedious than agency. He would move out of his apartment and find a house with a backyard.

“And you are sure?” Miranda asked.

“Yes, it’s one of the three things I’m sure of,” Shane answered.

“What are the others?”

Ilya and hockey. Miranda would give birth to a human being, going through all the risks of it, and trust him with this child she created with Iro, so Shane thought he owed her something precious. He told her about Ilya,the wait, and about the fact that he was sure he wanted to raise the child with him. The conversation continued for two hours; they cried, they laughed, they exchanged more secrets. She agreed in the end, and agreed that Shane could tell his parents on the condition that they let her be during the pregnancy. She did not want, working in media, to end up pregnant in paparazzi pictures with Shane, nor for him to be overbearing. If she needed something, she would ask, but her autonomy and privacy were precious to her.

He did not know how to start the conversation with his parents, so he asked them to sit down, and told them, “I am going to talk for about 20 minutes. I will tell you very important things, things I never told you before, things I lied about by omission or sometimes lied about directly to you, others and to myself. Things that you will find surprising, shocking, or even funny. I ask you to listen to me, to take what I am saying seriously, and know that I will not change my mind. And I hope you will still love me and be there for me, but I am ready to do it by myself. After I’m done, you can ask questions.”

Yuna and David wanted to say something, but they looked at each other, and David said, “You can go, kiddo.” And Shane said everything, starting in Regina and ending with the call to Miranda.

His mom cried. His dad did too. They told him they were proud of him. His mom said nothing about hockey and optics. They promised they would do everything, starting with moving to Montreal when the baby was born. His mother assured him she would ensure a media blackout about it; NDAs for the Voyageurs, from the GM to the players. Shane wanted no information leaked about him being a father.

He told general management and his coach about the adoption, but not the gay part. He came out to Hayden and J.J. as gay and in a long-term relationship, explaining it was another athlete and not his place to out him. He also shared his plan to adopt. He thought about coming out to his team, but he knew how it would go in the Voyageurs locker room. His life was already full of big decisions, responsibility, and loneliness; the last thing he needed was to add dealing with targeted homophobia tainted with racism. He owed them nothing more than what he had already given.

So he made a decision, one his mother was not happy about, but he did not care so much. Shane’s sense of priority was measured on a different scale now. He would not stay in Montreal at the end of this contract. Instead, he would take his unrestricted free agency and leave. He knew where he wanted to go.

Miranda called Shane late one afternoon a few days after his conversation with his parents. "Shane," she said, "I had an appointment today. It's not just one... I'm having twins."

Shane was quiet for a moment as he processed what she said.

"That doesn't change anything. I will take care of them."

***

Ilya listened as Shane laid everything outabout how he had decided to adopt his cousin’s children, how he had planned to hire Russian-speaking nannies, and how he would make sure they heard Ilya’s voice every day. They would watch his games. They could spend weeks together in the summer. The words kept coming, steady and certain.

Ilya couldn’t speak.

And then he cried, but not like before. Not out of desperation. This was something else entirely.

Shane, his Shane, was taking those children not just for himself, not just for his cousin, but for them. For both of them. Children who were neither fully his nor Shane’s, but somehow both at once. Ilya found himself imagining it, children with Ilyavich as a middle name, growing up in a house filled with pictures of Shane, pictures of him.

Shane, who was waiting for him to come back, was giving him something even bigger to come back to.

Ilya didn’t know how he was supposed to return to Moscow knowing that July would be Miranda’s due date for the twins.

Would they love him if he was only a voice on the phone and a presence in the summer? If he couldn’t claim them publicly, couldn’t be on the adoption papers? How did you make up for time you’d already lost?

But it had never been his time to begin with.

He couldn’t have stayed, even if he had wanted to. He didn’t have a valid work visa for the U.S. or Canada anymore. He was still a Russian national. If anything leaked, it wouldn’t just be him—they’d all be dragged into it. Shane, the children. Everything could be taken away.

Maybe he could have left and asked for asylum, but that would have meant exposing himself, exposing Shane, and abandoning his father. He had never been able to choose that.

And now—

Now, after a year alone in Moscow, far from Shane but somehow closer than they had ever been, open about what they were to each other, he realized he wanted this. He needed it.

He wanted to be their papa.

He would love them.

Shane touched his arm. “Are you okay? I know it’s a lot. If it’s too much, I understand. But I want you, I want us, to be a family for real. I just need you to know I didn’t do this to trap you or force you. I did think about you, but it was for me and for Iro. You know. I wanted to be there for the baby. I didn’t know there would be two.”

He let out a shaky breath. “I never thought about that part. But you know, so many guys already have wives and kids. And I know we can’t have that yet, not like this, not with you in Moscow. But I want to be their father. For me, and for them. And every time I thought about it, you were there. So I don’t know. I just felt like you would want this too. But if it’s too much—”

“Breathe, Shane. Breathe,” Ilya said, a weak laugh breaking through his tears. “You’re crazy. And I love you so much. And I’m even crazier, because I want that.”

Shane swore softly. “Fuck. Okay. Good. I thought you’d say yes, but I was still scared.”

He rested his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder.

“I’ll leave Russia,” Ilya said suddenly. “I’ll come to Canada. I’ll ask for asylum.”

“What? No. No, Ilya.” Shane pulled back sharply.

“You don’t want to?”

“I want to go to bed every night knowing you’re there. I want nothing more than for you to be on the same continent. But this isn’t just about us anymore.”

He shook his head, his voice firm. “We have to protect them. And protecting them means making sure that when you come back, nothing that happens can separate you from us.”

Ilya swallowed. “Yes.”

“I’ve thought about it. I have a plan. You’re going to stay in Russia.”

“No.”

“Just let me say it all the way through before you freak out, all right?” Shane said.

“If you said hockey, I don’t care. I have enough money. I can retire now,” Ilya answered.

“Just listen.”

Shane dragged a hand through his hair, forcing himself to keep going. “You go back. For now, until June 2017, and then you re-enter the MHL, an unrestricted free agent, like me, and we try to have two close teams in Canada or the U.S.”

“You’re asking me to go back to Russia.”

“With an exit already built in.”

Ilya didn’t interrupt this time.

“I’m not done. Next summer, 2016. We get married, civilly, not disclosed and secret. No one will know. It won’t be public record. Even Russia won’t know.”

“Shane…”

“I talked to a lawyer. This is the safest way. I wanted to do it now, but with the twins, for finalizing adoption, they’ll disclose it.”

“And then what?”

“Once we’re married, I’ll start the sponsorship process. Even if you’re in Russia. Even if you go back to play. They run a background check.”

“And if something happens?”

Shane leaned forward. “When you come back in 2017, whatever happens—outing, contracts, visa issues—you don’t go back to Russia.”

“…Because of Canada?”

“Yeah.”

“If we end up in the U.S. and your U.S. visa holds, great. But if it doesn’t, we go to Canada. Because you’re my husband. Because there’s already a legal process tying you there. You won’t be alone. You won’t be sent back.”

Ilya was quiet for a moment. “And we stay together?”

Shane didn’t hesitate. “Always. If you’re in the U.S., I’m there. If you have to go to Canada, I’m there. You, me, the kids. No one gets split up.”

Silence settled again.

“I’ve really thought about it,” Shane added more quietly. “Every potential situation.”

Ilya closed his eyes for a second, then nodded.

He knew it would be hard, going back to Moscow, that strange kind of solitude, knowing Shane was miles away with their children. Seeing them through a screen. Missing everything that mattered.

But he also knew this was the best plan they had.

Whatever happened, he wouldn’t waste more time. The children would be two by then. He had already started thinking about which MHL teams to contact, how to get himself back into a strong position, and how to build something stable for them. For his family, he would do whatever it took.

Even leave hockey if it came to it.

Somewhere deep inside him, something opened, vast and terrifying and full of possibility. A year ago, he had thought he had nothing to look forward to. Now he had everything.

“I want to tell Svetlana,” he said. “She’s my friend. She’ll help.”

“Okay,” Shane said without hesitation.

After that, Shane called Miranda, but stepped out of the room so Ilya could speak to her alone. Get to know her. She spoke a little Russian; her family had Finnish roots, she explained with a smile.

Then they called Svetlana together.

She listened, quiet at first, then let out a short laugh. “Your Jane’s definitely the smart one in this couple. This is an amazing plan.”

Her voice softened. “And I’ll be an auntie. You can do this. Two years. I’ll make sure of it.”

They spent the next two days brainstorming girl names. They already knew that Iro would be the name for the boy. They agreed on Yuri, a name that was both Japanese and Slavic, a compromise between Yuna and Irina.

“Yuri Ilyinichna and Iro Ilyich Hollander,” Shane said, and all Ilya could do was kiss him.

The next day, they flew separately to Ottawa. Shane had already explained where he would find the car in the parking lot and had given him the key and a spare for the cottage, just in case. But Shane would be there for sure.

“Oh my God, Shane, you’re becoming more and more paranoid every time.”

“Ilya, this is serious. All of it. You’re not just on some gay summer vacation. You’re going back to Russia. One photo, one wrong question, and when you go back, I don’t know what could happen to you. It’s killing me. I’m scared I’ll get a call. Will you call me? Will I know?”

“Svetlana will call you if anything happens. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll be careful.”

Shane was already at the cottage, or more like a lake villa, if you asked Ilya, when he parked the Jeep with slightly tinted windows Shane had rented for him in advance.

They stepped into a blissful rhythm of sex, food, and rest for five days. On the sixth day, Shane’s parents came for dinner.

It was so strange, going from the terror of the MHL, hated widely by Montreal fans, and according to Shane, his mother was the first of them; and now he was going to be their son’s secret husband and the father of his children. Ilya dressed like the most ideal son-in-law possible.

Yuna and David watched him with careful interest, trying to understand him rather than judge him. They already knew about him, about Shane, about Russia, and that knowledge sat at the table with them, unspoken but present.

Yuna was the first to speak. “Tell me about your family, Ilya.”

Ilya hesitated. Under the table, Shane’s hand found his, steady and warm, and Ilya held on.

“My father’s in Moscow,” he said. “He has dementia. When my brother left, I had to go back to take care of him.”

Yuna’s expression softened immediately. “That must be very difficult.”

Ilya shrugged slightly. “It is what it is.”

“And your mother?” Yuna asked gently.

“She died when I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuna said.

“She was a good mother,” Ilya added. “Very kind.”

Yuna waited a moment before continuing. “Do you think you can go through with this? The distance, the pressure, being away from them?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya admitted. “I’m sad. And angry. And guilty.” His fingers tightened around Shane’s. “I’ll leave him alone with two babies. I won’t know them, not really, for at least two years. I don’t know how to be okay with that.”

Yuna listened without interrupting, then folded her hands calmly. “My mother met her father when she was four.”

“Four?”

“Yes. After the war, my grandfather went to Australia to work. Japan was in a difficult economic situation, and he couldn’t travel back and forth. My grandmother raised my mother alone for years. Many families lived like that.”

She held Ilya’s gaze. “Even now, millions of women raise children alone while working exhausting jobs. They don’t have MHL salaries or grandparents, or nannies.”

Ilya looked down, absorbing her words.

“You’ll be far,” Yuna said. “It’ll be hard. But you’re not in the worst situation. You have a plan and us. You’ll have summers together, and you can talk to them every day. What matters is that you stay present in their lives in every way you can.”

David spoke then, calm and grounded. “Distance doesn’t decide whether you’re a good father.”

Ilya lifted his head.

“My father wasn’t and still isn’t a good father,” he said. “My brother isn’t either.”

David nodded. “Then you already know what not to become.”

Ilya hesitated. “My mother was good. Even if… even if she died. I want to be like her. Kind.”

“You can be,” David said. “Being a good father is about being consistent, being responsible, and making sure your children know they’re loved and safe.”

Yuna added softly, “You won’t be alone. Shane won’t be alone either. You’re building this together.”

Ilya nodded, more certain now. “I’ll call every day. I’ll come every summer. I’ll be careful. I won’t take risks that could separate me from them.”

He glanced at Shane. “Or from him.”

Shane’s hand tightened around his.

“I’ll be a good husband,” Ilya said. “And a good father.”

Yuna smiled slightly. “I’ve been following you in the KHL. You’re playing very well, even better than in Boston.”

Ilya blinked, surprised.

“You’re stronger than you think,” she continued. “This will be difficult, but it isn’t impossible. What you need is love, responsibility, and communication—but always love.”

Ilya lifted his chin. “I will.”

Shane didn’t let go of his hand for the rest of the evening.

***

Three days before Ilya had to return to his life in Moscow, Shane’s phone rang at three in the morning.

“Mr. Hollander?” a voice said. It was not Miranda.

“Yes, it’s me. Where’s Miranda?”

“This is the Heart Birth House in Toronto. Miranda is with our doula team. She entered labor, and you’re registered as the parent and emergency contact. She asked us to let you know that the babies are on their way.”

“Oh my God, it’s early. She was supposed to be due in four weeks.”

“Yes, we know, but for twins it happens. She is on the more medical side now. The doula and doctor are there, but for the moment, everything’s all right.”

“Okay, how long do we have?”

“It could be in the next hours, or up to twelve.”

“We’re coming.”

Ilya was fully awake.

“I have to go to Toronto. They’re coming, Ilya. Our children. They’re coming, and you’re here. They’re coming to meet you.”

Ilya kissed him briefly. They prepared in a rush, putting things into bags.

“I’m only taking the important things, leaving the rest here, okay?” Shane said.

“Yes. I think you’ll fly back from Toronto. The birthing plan is that we have to stay six days. Oh my God, the list has so many things to do,” Shane said, breathing rapidly.

“Shane, breathe. I’m here. We’re doing this together. You drive the first half. Send me the list, I’ll do it. Then I drive faster, and you do the rest, okay?”

“Oh fuck, you’re here. I thought I’d be alone. You’re here for their birth.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Maybe they wanted to meet me very badly.”

Shane sent a voice message to his parents while closing the cottage, asking them to go over it since he hadn’t closed it properly, and saying they would be in Toronto for the next ten days. He also mentioned the need to transform the room in his apartment into a nursery earlier than planned. He had already ordered everything.

In the car, in the passenger seat, Ilya went over the items on Shane’s list that he could handle. He had Shane’s phone.

“I’m going to order the things. I’m paying,” Ilya said.

“Okay, but use your American card. That’s the rule for everything regarding our kids. American card, American bank account, Ilya.”

“Yes, our kids,” Ilya said.

Ilya bought everything in the saved cart that Shane had prepared, from the fancy online boutique of organic baby clothing and accessories. He opened the email thread with the two nannies Shane had hired, vetted by Yuna, sending them a message in Russian explaining that they would need to be ready to start in Montreal in seven days and would be contacted by Yuna, but that the contract was starting now to make sure everything was ready.

For him and Shane, he booked a house in Toronto on Airbnb that was noted to be very private and available for the same afternoon.

“We need two car seats. Fuck. I bought them, but they’re in Montreal,” Shane said.

“We can pay for extra car seats, Shane. You’ll give them to charity.”

Ilya bought two car seats to be delivered the next day to their Airbnb.

Ilya changed his return flight, pushing it to the date Shane had to return to Montreal. Surely his parents would come and drive with him.

They arrived four hours and thirty minutes later. Ilya drove the second half, faster than expected, to the private clinic that was on top of a hill, very secure.

“We chose it together. She liked it, and it’s among the most confidential birth clinics in Ontario,” Shane explained as they passed two security checks and identification, and private aisles where they did not see another patient.

They waited, and a nurse came to pick them up.

“She’s ready. She said you can both come, but first you need to sterilize wash your hands.”

Ilya and Shane did as instructed.

“Hey, you,” Miranda said, visibly exhausted.

“How are you?” Shane said.

“Tired, but proud of the work.”

“Hey, Ilya,” she said shyly.

Shane put a kiss on Miranda’s forehead.

A nurse entered with two small transparent bassinets.

“Here they are, all clean and fresh,” she said.

And Ilya saw them, two small human beings with closed eyes, wrapped in yellow and white, with small beanies. On their tiny wrists, name tags: Iro I. Hollander. Yuri I. Hollander.

“They arrived three hours ago,” Miranda said.

“Can we?” Shane said.

“Yes, just sit, both of you,” the nurse said.

She placed Iro in Shane’s arms and Yuri in Ilya’s arms.

“They’re so small,” Ilya said.

“Yes, but not that small for being three weeks early. They did not need extra supervision; it’s good.”

The room was silent.

“Hello, it’s Daddy,” Shane murmured.

Ilya spoke in Russian, “Hello, sunshine, it’s Papa.”

They spent the rest of the day in the birth companion room next door. Shane did not regret paying the full premium for the facility. It was a room with a small bathroom, a table, and a sofa.

Miranda would be released in two days, and the children would be as well, as the adoption papers had already been signed three months before.

To be prepared, they checked into the Airbnb at eight p.m., when visiting hours ended, tired and happy. Yuna and David called and saw the pictures of their grandchildren. They would be there in three days, after everything was prepared in Montreal with the nannies. They cried and thanked Miranda.

Ilya woke up in the middle of the night.

“Shane, I can’t leave.”

Shane was not sleeping.

“Ilya, we talked about this. You need to be stronger for the four of us, to make sure no one will ever take you away from us. I know I’m asking a lot, but we need you to do the hard part for us.”

Ilya nodded and cried in Shane’s arms.

The next day was the same, but they also met with the postpartum doula, who explained the feeding system. Shane already had a notebook full of notes, adding more to send to the nannies in Montreal.

Ilya spent every moment he could with the babies when they did not need to sleep, carrying them, talking to them. Shane took hundreds of photos and videos, putting everything into a secure folder.

On the third day, they said goodbye to Miranda.

“Thank you. I don’t know what to say,” Ilya said.

“Just make them happy. Really happy. And protect them. I’m sure they’ll feel wanted.”

“We will,” Shane said. “Where are you going now?”

“I’m taking the rest you offered, three weeks in Cabo. I’ll write. After that, California. I got offered a position there.”

“Do you need anything?”

“My best friend’s coming to pick me up. We’ll go to my apartment tonight and fly tomorrow. I think it’s best that you both take them now.”

“Thank you so much,” Shane said. “Call me for anything.”

“I’ll try not to. You’ll do well. For your brother from another mother, Shane.”

That afternoon, they left with Iro and Yuri. The facility had prepared a pack containing everything needed for one week. They only had three days together before Shane had to go to Montreal and Ilya to Moscow.

Those three days were brutal. In their lives, they had never known what sleep deprivation was. They learned. Every three hours, and never at the same time, Iro or Yuri cried, needing feeding, changing, burping, or something mysterious.

They FaceTimed Yuna and David so often that they considered keeping the line open. Ilya called Svetlana and sent a picture. She called back and said she would come visit in two months and stay with Shane to help for one week.

Ilya asked to FaceTime Petra and Nina, the two nannies Shane had hired. Shane had moved to a four-bedroom apartment, with his bedroom, the children’s bedroom, and a bedroom for the night nanny, Petra. Ilya was pleased that they were serious, mid-thirties Russian-Canadians who spoke perfect Russian and knew all the necessary baby songs.

The day before Ilya had to leave for Moscow, Shane’s parents arrived in the late afternoon. They fussed around Yuri and Iro, barely acknowledging Shane and Ilya, but at least it gave them a full night to rest.

They ate in the living room, spent time together, and had a quiet night in their bedroom, far from Yuna and David’s.

Ilya’s flight was at noon, and Shane and his parents had to drive to Montreal. It would be a six-hour drive. Shane decided to leave his car in Toronto and pay a service to bring it back. They would drive in the family car that his parents had brought, splitting the drive among the three of them, with one always in the back with the twins.

They said their goodbyes in the bedroom in the morning, leaving the twins with Shane’s parents.

“We can do it,” Shane said.

“Yes,” Ilya said.

They made love slowly.

Before leaving, Ilya packed one small baby sock from each of them. He gave Shane two of his worn shirts.

“So they don’t forget.”

“They won’t,” Shane said, and continued, “You can wear the ring next to the necklace. We’ll be closer to your heart.”

“Here, take this,” Shane said, giving Ilya a box.

“You will be,” Ilya said, putting the ring on his necklace next to his mother’s cross. Ilya opened the second box, and it was an iPhone.

“I already have a phone, two phones,” Ilya said.

“I know, but this one’s special. It has special protection and security. It’s for your American mobile if you lose it.”

“I never leave my apartment with the phone, except when I’m coming here.”

“But your apartment got robbed,” Shane said.

“True.”

“So you can transfer everything there, and if you lose it or are robbed again, it’ll erase everything,” Shane said.

“So cautious. I promise I’ll be too.”

Ilya spent one hour saying goodbye to Yuri and Iro. When the time finally came, he went to the car for the airport, tears running down his face.


July 2016 - End of the Season 2015- 2016

The first thing he had done when he came back was put his children’s clothes into a special box. Three days later, he went to one of the best artists in Moscow to have a loon inked along his left ribs, surrounded by clouds, with the twins’ initials and their birth date, June 28, 2015, set inside.

Before, he would occasionally miss a call from Shane, but now he woke up automatically reaching for his American phone. There were always pictures waiting for him, with a recap of their day made by Shane and one of the nannies, or messages in the group chat with Yuna and David. Every day, he video-called. When Shane was on the road for games, he called the iPad at home that the nannies used for video calls, and they also used it when they were out walking in the park.

Ilya missed them dearly. Shane had to tell him to stop sending gifts; they had no more space. He even sent oversized jerseys from Moscow through Svetlana.

In November, Svetlana came for one week and brought new things from Montreal. Shane sent one of the twins’ worn pairs of shoes. Svetlana reminded him to be very cautious. Even her father, a minister, had been looking over his shoulder lately.

“What the fuck is this?” Svetlana said, showing him a TMZ article about Shane, with Rose Landry.

Ilya told her they had met, that they were friends now. She had even met the twins, and he had talked to her on Skype.

“So you’re telling me you talk to Rose fucking Landry and didn’t tell me? Traitor,” Svetlana said.

“Don’t worry. If I come back, I’ll introduce you.”

“Stop right now,” Svetlana said. “Not if. When. Fucking when. We’re all working together, and it’s going well. Shane, most of all, his parents, and me. Don’t joke about it.”

Ilya was not present day-to-day. His hockey was good, but his mind was not in it. He touched the ring constantly, spent nights looking at pictures and videos of Yuri and Iro. Their faces had changed. They had Miranda’s green eyes and a dirty blonde shadow in their hair that had begun to curl, but Yuna’s and Shane’s features.

Shane updated his contract in Montreal, requesting a private room because he needed to FaceTime his children as a single father, which was true. But on the road, Shane put on a show for Ilya.

This was the worst year. His father’s decline was spectacularly fast. Nothing helped: medicine, hospitalization. He forgot things all of the time, was anxious, panicked. He did not sleep well, called Ilya at all hours, and had night terrors. He did not eat and lost weight, making the treatments less effective.

Ilya vented his frustration on the ice, making his team run drills and became the strictest captain in the KHL. No going out, no partying, and no drinking. He applied pressure and discipline. He waited for Svetlana’s visits like fresh air, and Shane’s texts and calls like oxygen.

The political atmosphere was suffocating. More arrests among oligarchs, who everyone knew were having affairs and non-Christian orthodox lives, because they could then, but now they needed to go. A populist message was on the rise to tell the population that living costs and restrictions of freedom were not the priority, but the deranged elite. Raids on clubs, every slight opposition resulted in personal lives exposed in the media, and accounts seized. Those people did not accumulate their money by being honest, and their downfall was not meant to replace them with honest people either.

Everyone was more cautious to stay on the good side. When the uber-rich were arrested for cocaine possession, you knew it was not the time to fool around. Luckily or not for him, Ilya was a necessary component to give the people something, panem et circenses. In times of no bread, the game had to be constant.

He saw his brother four times that year. He avoided seeing him when he was at their father’s. He could not stand the smirk on his face, the happiness of seeing Ilya there. Alexei seemed more agitated lately. Ilya thought the drugs were kicking in. Surely the expensive watch on his wrist was a sign that the St. Petersburg rackets were going well.

In one week, they would be together. This year, like the last, crime was rising in Moscow. According to the state press, crime was only the work of political opponents paid by the West.

The police came to his apartment. There had been reports of “activity against national security” in the neighborhood, and they were searching all the apartments. And, because warrants were unnecessary for “security of the state,” he found them at the door, trying to open it. Since the last break-in, Ilya had installed a reinforced door with three locks. They could open it if they were anti-terrorist police, but political police mostly had files and papers to ruin people’s lives.

He opened the door for them, and Anastasia came up, accompanied by one of her friends, an old government official. One who had always been old, and would always be old. He had been a minister, a judge, a TV anchor, and a columnist. Always old, always on the side of the state. He carried himself like Ilya’s father used to, like he was the man of every situation, naturally asking what was going on. And because police officers knew how the unofficial hierarchy worked in their country, old politicians were assumed to be everyone’s superior. They seemed caught off guard by the “routine checking,” exchanged looks, and decided that their hobby of glancing at a KHL star’s apartment was not worth being reported.

Ilya did not tell Polina that he was leaving; he texted her when he landed. He did not want the pressure of staying. He left his key to Anastasia in case of emergency and went to the airport.

Shane decided that he could not stay a full six weeks at the cottage with the twins without feeling trapped, as they had to avoid the press or random people taking pictures, and it was impossible to go incognito close to Ottawa or in Canada as Shane Hollander. So they came up with a plan—or, more precisely, Rose Landry came up with it: three weeks in a secluded villa where wealthy celebrities sought total privacy, a place unreachable by paparazzi.

Shane was coming with the twins and their two nannies.

Shane was over the top all year about security and funding. Ilya was adamant about contributing, so he paid for all the nanny services and wired money to the account that the travel agency Rose’s contact had sent them.

He left his apartment at five in the morning for the airport and took a private flight to Sicily. Shane was already there with Yuri and Iro, and they would celebrate their one-year birthday there.

When he boarded, two pilots and two flight attendants, all with British accents, welcomed him. They told him they were heading to Sicily, with a two-hour layover in Berlin. When he woke up, they were landing at a small airport in Taormina.

A woman was waiting for him outside the plane. She helped him through VIP immigration and walked him to a car with a driver. The scenic mountain road led them to a gate. The driver called ahead, and the gate opened. They drove for another five minutes before reaching what could only be described as a small palace.

The driver took Ilya’s luggage and said, “See you in three weeks, sir.”

When the car disappeared, the door opened. Shane stood there. Behind him, Yuri and Iro came running in their baby walkers toward the entrance. Ilya dropped his bag, ran to Shane, kissed him, and then immediately went to his children.

Shane introduced him properly to the nannies. They were staying in an adjacent house, allowing the four of them privacy. The nannies were off at six p.m., working in rotation. They also had staff coming every morning to cook and clean.

Ilya showered and then spent the rest of the day with Yuri and Iro, listening to their babbling. They could now say “Daddy,” “Papa,” “ampa” instead of “grandpa” for David, and “Sobo” for Yuna.

Ilya heard “Papa” on the phone, but in person it was different. He could press his face against theirs, make them laugh, feel them.

That first night, Ilya and Shane did bedtime together. When both children were asleep, Ilya entered the bedroom.

He congratulated Shane on his second Stanley Cup win, but there was sadness in how much they had missed each other. Shane looked tired, more than usual, more than after the Cup.

“You’re tired,” Ilya said one night.
“I am. It’s so hard,” Shane answered.
“What? Hockey?”
“No. Everything else. You. Missing you. Loving them, it’s great, but I want to share so much with you,” Shane said.
“I’m sorry you have to do so much alone. What do you need from me?”
“I want you to be with us… but soon. Just… kiss me. Get me out of my head.”

Ilya started slowly, placing kisses on Shane's lips, jaw, and neck, trailing down his pecs and abs until the waistband, then stopped. He straightened and looked at Shane.

“You're so beautiful, strong, and perfect, my love.” Shane lifted himself to kiss him, tugged Ilya’s hair, panting into his mouth. “I've missed you so much,” Shane said.

Ilya gently pushed him down. “Me too. Let me take care of you…you've taken care of our family so well.” Ilya started kissing again, soon licking Shane’s stomach, chest, and neck, and kissing him fully. He removed his briefs and helped Shane lift his hips to remove Shane’s as well. Shane was already hard. He glanced down at Ilya, waiting for Ilya to take him in his mouth. Instead, Ilya pushed Shane’s knees up and started kissing his hole.

A muffled cry escaped Shane. “Shh, we've got to be quiet,” Ilya said, and put his tongue back on Shane’s hole. Shane reached for a pillow and screamed into it as Ilya pressed, licked, and worked his tongue inside Shane. After a minute of licking, Ilya reached for the pillow hiding Shane’s face. “No, I want to see you. No hiding. Just quiet, my love,” he said, and got back to it. “Ilya, please, I want you inside, please,” Shane said.

“You've waited one year; you can wait,” Ilya said. He slicked his finger with lube and started to finger Shane open. “You're doing so well, so quiet, so beautiful,” he praised, entering a second finger. “Please, I’m ready, I'm ready,” Shane said. Ilya leaned over, his fingers still inside Shane, pushing his knees up. “You opened so well for me,” he said, kissing him hungrily. “I'll make you feel so good,” Ilya promised.

He removed his fingers, added a little more lube on his cock, and placed himself at Shane’s entrance but stopped. “How d'you want it?”

“Come inside me, fuck me, Ilya.”

“No, be specific, how?”

“I want it hard,” Shane said. So Ilya pushed: one push, a second, then with a third, he was fully inside. “Breathe, you're doing well,” Ilya said, and started moving, gentle but firm.

“Yes, more, more,” Shane begged, and Ilya started pounding. “Look at me, open your eyes, look how you make me crazy, Shane.” Ilya accelerated, and Shane reached for him, trying to muffle his scream on Ilya’s chest, biting him.

“Yes, mark me,” Ilya said, relishing the slight pain of Shane’s teeth and his hand on his back. Ilya slowed. “Hands and knees, face the mirror.” Ilya had spotted the long mirror facing the side of the bed and was ready to put it to use. Instead of pinning him to the mattress as Shane liked, he held Shane’s head to look at the mirror

“Look at you, taking me so well. You've waited so long for my cock.”

“Yes, fuck, Ilya, you're so good, it's so good.”

“Such a slut for my cock, Hollander. Open your eyes, you're so beautiful…mine.”

“Yours. Harder, Ilya, more.” And Ilya pinned him to the mattress, holding him, pounding harder, breathing heavily. English left him for Russian as he listened to Shane trying to hide his noises in the mattress. “I love you,” he heard Shane say.

“I love you so much,” Ilya replied, racing for the last instant. He felt Shane coming, and he came a second later, screaming on Shane’s back, sweat dripping, vision blurred.

“Fuck, I've missed you. I've missed us,” Shane said.

They were so out of breath that Shane didn’t rush for them to clean up. They spent 15 minutes entwined in each other, drunk on love and sex, before Ilya went to the bathroom to grab a cloth and clean Shane. After, they changed the sheets, rinsed themselves, and put on sweatpants.

Their three weeks were unlike anything they had known before. Yuri and Iro were relentless. They had so many activities. Ilya improvising a swimming lesson, using the baby walkers on the terrace, walking across the property, going to the beach, yet nothing tired them.

On the second week, Svetlana and Rose arrived on the same day. The house felt fuller and warmer. The property had a direct path to the beach and a small creek, and there was a small boat. They went out for the day, surrounded by adults, and Ilya’s hypervigilant mode eased.

On the third week, Shane’s parents arrived. Their presence brought another kind of calm, the reassurance of people who had raised a child to adulthood. They celebrated the twins’ birthday with too many photos and champagne for the adults.

Again, they had to fly separately. Shane left with the twins and his parents, flying to Ottawa with a connection through Paris. Ilya flew with a connection through London. The nannies were off for the next three weeks while they stayed at the cottage.

The urgent matter, two days after arriving at the cottage (which now looked very different from the year before, fully childproofed and less neat, with small signs of chaos everywhere) was the civil marriage.

They went to the office to sign the sealed and secret documents in the presence of Yuna, David, and Svetlana. Svetlana stayed for two days and then went back to Boston.

For the rest of the time, they enjoyed being alone together.

Ilya told Shane that he could tell Hayden and JJ that he was the other father. Shane had already told them there was someone, but not who. Shane said no immediately, without hesitation.

“It’s not the time to take that risk. One message, one drunk night, and we lose you. Svetlana, Rose, my parents, that’s enough for now. When you’re back and safe, then we can tell them.”

Ten days before Ilya left, Shane yelled his name. When Ilya stepped into the living room, where everything had been rearranged for the children, Yuri was walking toward Shane, and Iro was trying to imitate her, stumbling forward.

“Yes, yes, baby, come see Papa, princess,” Ilya said in Russian, then to Iro, “Come on, sunshine, go with your sister, do like her.”

“They’re walking, Ilya. They’re walking.”

Again, the time came, and Ilya left for Moscow.

Leaving behind a husband and two children who were now walking, he went back to his purgatory.

But this time, he knew it would be his last year.

May 2017 - End of season 2016- 2017

Ilya had thought the year before had been the worst. He had been wrong. His father went from being bedridden at home to living in the hospital. His team was no longer clicking. His brother returned to Moscow in November, seeing that the end was near. He harassed Ilya with questions every day. The man went from almost three years of not talking to him to showing up unannounced at his apartment, asking about the plan, cornering him at the end of games, and belittling him.

At the end, his father was like a child. He cried sometimes. He was scared. He did not know where he was and kept asking where his own father was. He did not even know who Ilya was.

Ilya lived like a ghost, going from practice to the hospital, to his apartment, to games. He was put on leave for away games in February, when it became evident that it was almost the end.

Every day, Shane called, even if it was only for a minute. Ilya felt like crying every day, while Shane told him, “I wish I could hold you,” and “I’m here for you.” Shane made sure he woke up and went to bed with videos and audio of the twins. Some days, Nina left the iPad on, and he watched them sleep. He told them stories and recorded several so they could listen at night when he was not there.

He felt guilty for so many things: waiting for his father’s death so he could leave as soon as possible, to reach Shane; not being able to be there full-time for his children; and still having to play, making Shane wait.

And Alexei—all Alexei was focused on was his plan, obsessing over his contract, how much more Moscow Sokol was paying him, that he would be ungrateful to leave, to be an immigrant in America, that Boston and the MHL had already replaced him, and that Ilya was already someone from the past.

At the end of February, he had called Shane.

“Hi,” Shane said.

“Hey.”

“How are you, sweetheart? For real?”

“I want to be with you, I want to leave. Even with no team, I’m coming home, to the cottage, with you and the kids,” Ilya said.

“About that, maybe you could consider changing your agent. My agent, Farah, is good. You should take her,” Shane said.

“You trust her?”

“Yes. I think your agent will be more difficult to convince.”

“Yes, I’ll call her.”

“Good, I’m sorry I can’t stay long. I have to go to the bus. We’re playing against Ottawa tonight. I love you.”

“I love you,” Ilya replied.

It was 4 p.m. in North America, and Ilya had decided it was still business hours. He called Farah.

“Mr. Rozanov, thank you for calling,” she answered. She sounded jovial and positive.

"You can call me Ilya."

Ilya was very blunt about what he wanted: being close to Shane. He was the highest-paid player in the KHL with a record $5 million contract, but in the MHL, he wanted to be closer to the $8.5 million deal he had had when he left Boston. He knew that leaving Boston the way he had would make things difficult, but he had won two Gagarin Cups in the time that he was in Russia. He wanted the operation to remain confidential, with no announcement until he was out of Russia. His one-year contract was up, and he had until July 1st to sign, but each year he had waited until June 20 to re-sign, so there was no reason to suspect he would leave. On top of that, he did not want any public pressure to stay. As for his team’s performance that season, there would be no playoffs, so he would be able to leave at the end of May.

He nurtured no hope regarding his father. Every week, the doctors treated it like a miracle. He had already survived an infection and was in hospice.

“Do you have a secure email address?”

“Yes.”

“Text it to me. We’ll communicate on it and send you a representation contract. But you’ll need to break with your agent. He doesn’t need to know who your new agent is yet.”

“Okay.”

Ilya fired his agent, Petrov, on February 25. Petrov dismissed it as a mental breakdown due to his father’s condition and said quietly, “Let’s talk about it later.”

On March 24, Ilya’s father passed away. Ilya was in the room. Nothing happened. No last words, no ultimate “I love you” or “I’m proud of you.” He just disappeared.

Alexei came, uneasy, shouting at everyone. Polina cried silently, or faked it. Ilya was not sure if it was because of the loss of Gregori. Only Viktoria, Alexei’s daughter, seemed to cry from sadness. Ilya cried from loss, tiredness, and emptiness. He needed to get out. Eleven more games, and the season would be over.

He planned the funeral and paid for everything. Svetlana came. Everything was clean, pretty, and miserable. He paid all the charges for the house that Polina would keep and signed her a check that would be enough with his father’s pension. He did not talk to Alexei, but let his wife know he would set up a trust for his niece, accessible when she turned eighteen.

Alexei tried to corner him.

“What’s the plan?”

“What fucking plan? You didn’t talk to me for three years, and now you come back asking for a plan?” Ilya had shouted. He had grabbed his wrist, the expensive Patek Philippe watch that couldn’t be bought on a police salary. “Seems the plan’s working fucking well for you.”

“Little piece of shit. You think you can leave again? Remember, we made you come back. You’re not going anywhere. Fucking fag.” Alexei had pushed him.

Svetlana had entered. “I thought I heard singing.”

“No, this whore—” Alexei had started.

But Ilya had cornered him. Svetlana had restrained Ilya. “He’s worth nothing.”

Ilya, looking at Alexei, had retorted, “Keep doing what you were doing. Don’t talk to me. Go back to whatever you were doing in St. Petersburg.” And he had left.

He had spent the rest of the day with Anastasia and her dog, then had joined Svetlana for dinner that night.

One month earlier, he had had a call with Farah where his wildest dream had come true. He had been ready to go to the AHL in Ottawa, which had meant being close to Shane. They had both been unrestricted free agents, and Farah had promised to find the closest city. The perfect combination could have been Brooklyn Scouts and New York Admirals, or New Jersey, Philadelphia.

He had been home when the call with Farah and Shane had happened. Shane had appeared on the screen with Iro climbing onto his lap, and the sound of Yuri off-screen. When Iro had seen Ilya, he had shouted, “Papa! Papa!”

Ilya had smiled widely. Soon he would be with them. “Hi, my sunshine. I missed you.”

Iro had started fussing, and Yuri had appeared next to Shane on the couch. “Papa!”

Ilya had laughed softly. “My princess, you heard Papa.”

“Okay, okay, you both go with Nina. Daddy needs to talk to Papa. Give Papa a kiss,” Shane had said. They had blown kisses at the camera, and Ilya had kissed back. Nina had picked them both up, while Farah had followed the interaction with fond eyes.

“Oh my God, I love my job. Even you two make it exceptional—and difficult,” Farah had said.

“Hi, Farah,” Shane had said.

“Hi, Farah,” Ilya had said.

“Okay, so I have big news. I worked my ass off—like, really—but it’s big, if you can manage it.”

“So, close teams?” Ilya had asked.

“Better. Same team,” she had said.

“What?” Shane had said.

“Yes. And yes, I did my due diligence on the climate in the team and locker room, but once you learn the team, you’ll see you have room.”

“Farah, that’s too much suspense. Who? Minnesota? Buffalo?” Ilya had asked.

“No. Boston.”

“Boston… my Boston?”

“Yes. They want you, Shane. But Ilya—they want you back. They want it very badly. Not every day do I get calls with the GM and the owner.”

“After everything?” Ilya had asked.

“Yes. They were really understanding about your father, and in the press, Boston still loves you. You broke their hearts, but at the same time, it humanized you a lot. They want their captain back. And you, Shane—you’re you,” Farah had said.

“And for our situation?”

“You’ll have to disclose it to the GM and coach, but they dropped hints, and it won’t pose a problem. Ilya, they even agreed to start the green card process after one year for you—even if you’re married to Shane. Double security.”

“It sounds too good to be true,” Ilya had said.

“They want both of you, and it’s an opportunity to take. Because you’re not in the MHL, the surprise effect is good, but now they know you want to be together. But the money and the cap…” Farah had said.

“How much?” Shane had asked.

“One of you can have the salary asked. The other would go down at least 35%. In total, they can go up to 16.7 million. Shane, you’re already at 9.3 in Montréal,” Farah had said.

“I’ll take the cut,” Ilya had said.

“Ilya, we can talk about it. Maybe we can both take a cut,” Shane had said.

“No, Shane. You did enough. You spent two years with the children. I made good money here, and the costs were lower. I don’t care. Shane takes the 10, and I’ll take the rest,” Ilya had said.

“Okay, but can we negotiate other compensation, like childcare, in addition to the moving costs, and include full confidentiality about our marital status and the children in the contract, so we have time to talk to the team?” Shane had asked.

“Yes, I’m on it. You’re both signing for five years, with no-trade, no-movement clauses, so you won’t be separated,” Farah had said.

“Cliff, St-Simon, Hammersmith, Carmy, Connors are still there. They’re good guys. I’ll manage the locker room. We can trust Marly,” Ilya had said.

“They’re also bringing in a rookie from Switzerland, a kind of prodigy—Luca Hass. He’ll start at the same time as both of you. So, can I go?”

“Yes,” Shane and Ilya had said together.

“Okay, perfect. I’m on it. Shane, I’ll CC your mother, so maybe give her a call to let her know. She knows about the Montreal part, but the Boston part…” Farah had said.

“I’ll call her. Thanks, Farah.”

“Bye, guys,” Farah had said, and had left the call.

“Shane, we’ll be in Boston, together,” Ilya had said.

“Yes, together as a family.”

“You don’t have to worry, sweetheart, about the locker room.”

“Okay… we should start looking for a house. I don’t want to go to a hotel with the kids. You know Iro doesn’t do well with change. And the nanny—maybe Nina could move? Her husband’s American… Oh my God, it’ll be such a change. My parents won’t be there to help. We’ll have to find daycare, and when we travel with the team…” Shane had said.

“Hey, hey, Shane. I’m here. We’re here together. Remember what your mother said—that we have a lot to deal with, but we can handle it. You loved my house in Boston?”

“Yes, I loved it. But you sold it.”

“I did, but Svetlana knows the realtor. I’ll ask her—even if I have to pay a premium to get the current owners out.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Yes—for you and our children. Don’t worry, my love. I’ll take care of the house and the move, and you—you see if Nina can come?” Ilya had said.

“I love you. I can’t wait for you to be here.”

“Me too.”

After that call, Ilya had started to feel it in his body—his future with Shane and the twins. Same city, same team, same house. He had thought that the way he had left would bar him from coming back, but it had seemed that the city had forgiven him and had wanted him back.

The children had loved the cottage, but it would have been too far to go often during the season. What he would do was buy the house Shane had loved in Martha’s Vineyard.

After the call, he had messaged Svetlana. By the time she had come to Moscow for Ilya’s father’s funeral, they had negotiated to get Ilya’s house back. The current owners had been more than pleased with the cash offer. Ilya had not even needed to pay a premium, as Svetlana had strongly negotiated with the realtor to also buy the Martha’s Vineyard house.

Shane had opened a U.S. bank account in both their names after their wedding, into which Ilya had transferred the funds he had had in the U.S., and through which all their expenses had gone. Shane had insisted on paying for the house in Boston. Ilya had refused, but Shane had been too fast with the Martha’s Vineyard house, as he had put down 60% of it as the down payment.

By mid-May, Ilya had not told his current team he was not signing. He would have given his best for the remainder of the season and had left quietly.

On May 16th, his team had been out of the playoffs, and Ilya had started packing his apartment, looking to sell it. He had not planned to come back. At least not any time soon. He had spent more time with Anastasia. He was going to miss her and her stories, and the dog, Anya, who was four by then.

On May 28th, he had sent a package to a storage service in Ottawa that Farah had given him, containing important things he had wanted to keep: photographs, dirt from his mother’s grave, his jersey, and two pieces of art. He would have driven from there at the end of the summer with Shane, from the cottage, to Boston. Everything else would have been donated. He had planned to have a goodbye dinner with Anastasia on June 8th. The fancy lady would have loved to go to the ballet. He would have said goodbye to his favorite bookseller, left money for the doorman, and his cleaning lady.

His plan for leaving had been June 16th. He would have gone to Ottawa, spent two weeks at the cottage with the twins and Shane, and then gone to Montreal to help Shane pack. After that, they would have driven to Boston.

Tonight, May 30th, Ilya woke to footsteps in his apartment. Someone was there, several people, talking to each other. He left the bed, took the baseball bat he kept behind the bedroom door. He entered the living room, turned on the light, and saw no one, but could tell people were there.

“Who the fuck is there?”

“I’m calling the police, and I’ll knock you out.”

He advanced and felt someone, larger than him, grabbing him from behind. Ilya was not small; for the man to grab him like that, he had to be Ryan Price massive. He tried to scream, but the man put his hand on his mouth and then on his neck, making it difficult to talk or breathe

Another man appeared, smaller, talking to him in Russian but with a Finnish accent.

“Mr. Rozanov, you have to stay quiet. We won’t hurt you unless you force us. Do you understand?” the shorter man said

Ilya nodded.

“What do you want? Money? Watch?”

“We’re here for you. You need to come with us. You need to leave Russia tonight.”

“What? Who sent you? You’re the police?”

“I’m not Russian. We’ll give you ten minutes to pack the necessary things, and we need to leave now.”

“I’m not leaving. I’m not disappearing. Who the fuck are you?” Ilya said.

“You’re in danger. We’re here to protect you.”

Ilya let out a rough breath, anger rising through the fear.

“And I’m supposed to trust you? You break into my apartment, you hold me—I can’t even breathe. How should I know you’re not some kind of police? Or the Bratva, huh?”

Both men looked at each other. They said something in Finnish.

Then they gave Ilya a card: “Leave. Now. Jane.”

Chapter End Notes

questions for you:❓️
🤔This fic was inspired by several post-2010s TV shows and movies, as well as Greek literary classics; give me your guess in the comments
❓️Also would love to know your guess: is the message really from Shane? how do think Shane knows? and what exactly Shane knows?

Anita and Iro are two of my OCs who recur in all my fics.
The subreddit reference dates back to my own teenage years. One of my best friends, who’s Black Bi-racial, used to be on a forum called "Unproblematic Biracial (basically the one with the Black mom)". And yeah, she really is still unproblematic.

By now, if you’ve read my other fics, you probably know I’m obsessed with Hollanov, forced proximity, and them against the world. I’ve read a lot of fics about adoption (often centered on Ilya’s niece, and the abrupt death of Alexei and his no-name wife), but another thing I really care about is giving women layers, agency, and real choices. And letting Hollanov exist beyond hockey (who is a cult)

See you next week

📕
Anita's novel on The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett

The book Miranda mentions is inspired by Min Jin Lee's novel Pachinko (which is amazing, and the TV show is great too). It deals with the long history of discrimination and racism that Koreans have faced in Japan, especially Zainichi Koreans. If this is a topic you want to know more about, check out the
Funambulist Magazine issue “Asian Imperialisms”,
especially the article
“Japanese Colonialism and Imperialism from Manchuria to Okinawa, and Beyond: A Conversation Between Wendy Matsumura and Rory Huang” .

P.S.: If you are reading Going Broke and Broken, I am late, but I really had to finish Future Tense and publish this one... no worries, the last chapter is coming.

Chapter 3: Shadows

Chapter Notes

CW: homophobic language

bea-readers:
✨️💜
Alidesidero, Faithella and Aerie.

Shane

July 2014

Shane had promised Ilya he would wait and come back to him. But Shane knew that promise needed help to be kept.
Their week together had been so fast, and so slow. He had opened his heart, unfolded every corner of his soul to Ilya, from the first time someone was mean to him at school to when he realized his team would never respect him. Ilya would come back, Shane would make sure he would.

When he came back from Las Vegas, the only way for him not to slide into despair was to create a mission: keeping Ilya safe. He went down a rabbit hole of everything happening in Russia, from political repression and reorganization of the oligarchy to the use of the anti-propaganda law to do so. According to experts, it was a moment of strength in the face of too many popular protests on too many fronts, and it was not possible to give up on the people. The opposition, celebrities, oligarchs, and activists were the targets.
But was it enough? Shane needed more information. Was Ilya safe? Could he stay two, three, or even four years? God forbid a miracle for his father. Shane was not very sad for Ilya’s father, only for Ilya’s sadness.

He knew how to find out. Farah, his agent, could hire services to get access to detailed non-public information. She was the agent for enough high-profile athletes that they knew how to find out all secrets, like if someone was at a party with minors in Greece on a given date, so they could avoid signing a representation contract with them.

So he asked Farah, “I need it to help a friend. I can’t say more, and my friend cannot know.”

She warned him, “Just so you know, it’s not a cheap service. Not like you can’t afford it.”

She gave him an IP address. He entered it. It was a form on a black screen.

Individual or organization
Country of the person of interest
Short description

Shane answered:

Individual
Russia
Making sure he is safe and not targeted
A message appeared: Are you free in 13 minutes for a call Y/N
Shane typed Y and tried to enter his phone number, but nothing happened.

Thirteen minutes later, his laptop shut down and reopened to a video conference. There was a smiling emoji and a distorted voice.

“Did I get hacked?”

“Mr. Hollander, your network isn't really secure, but we aren't here to talk about this.”

“Farah gave me your contact.”

“We know. Each IP is linked to a specific referral.”

“What do you need from us?” the voice said.

“I have a friend in Moscow. He is an athlete. I want to know if he is safe and if not, how I can protect him.”

“We can provide you with some information, but we have additional services, for an added cost, to protect people. Everywhere. We have a high rate of success.”

“Okay. Do you need information about him? His address?”

“No. Ilya Grigovich Rozanov, Moscow. We have his address, number, and passport.”

“How do you know it’s him?”

“As I said, your network and information are not well protected, Mr. Hollander. You should be more cautious with this type of secret. Many people are in the business of secrets.”

“How can I trust you?”

“We made money because we are trusted and good at it. Your secret is not important to us.”

“So what happens now?”

“The call will be disconnected. You will have a message with acceptance options and payment, and we will get back to you.”

“That’s it?”

“You should also secure your information. It’s option 3.”

“What?”

And the call disconnected.

The screen came back.

Type options:
Option 1: General information about risk assessment, physical
Option 2: Complete risk assessment and proposal of protocol protection including extraction
Option 3: Secure your shit

Shane typed 2 and 3.

The screen came back.
Payment: $56,760 USD
Delivery time: 10 days
Mode of delivery: package, home address

Followed by wire instructions to an account in Liechtenstein.

Nine days later, while he was preparing to go to bed, Shane’s doorbell rang.

“Pizza delivery for Mr. Hollander.”

“I didn't order pizza.”

“Bon appétit,” the man said, putting the box in Shane’s hands and leaving.

Shane was ready to call the pizzeria instead of yelling in the hallway, but he realized the box had no pizza, only an envelope with a USB key and a note with a link to a web page. He typed the address. A message appeared: “Insert encryption key.”
He put the key in his laptop.

The screen read: In 3 days, leave your phone and laptop at this address. Pick them up at the same address 5 hours later.

The address was a laundromat.
He clicked next.

RISK ASSESSMENT REPORT
Codename: Falcon

Physical Risk: LOW
The subject remained a protected asset across multiple overlapping systems (professional sports, financial stakeholders). His continued performance was in the interest of several actors.
Assessment: No immediate threat to life or bodily harm under current conditions.
Psychological Risk: MEDIUM/HIGH
Observed indicators:
Depressive patterns
Alcohol use
Possible drug use (unconfirmed)
Social withdrawal
Ongoing emotional distress linked to father’s health condition
Assessment: Subject was maintaining external functionality. Internal strain was significant and increasing.
Critical Addendum:
Analysis of the subject’s schedule, travel windows, and behavioral patterns indicated periods of increasing vulnerability.
Providing full threat disclosure at this stage, without a viable exit pathway (constraints: Russian passport, contractual obligations, father’s terminal condition), presented a high probability of accelerating psychological destabilization.
Financial Exposure: LOW to MODERATE
Contained extortion attempts via media intermediaries.
Medium financial outflow through medical professional structures.
Low-level extraction from stepmother; the subject appeared aware.
Assessment: No immediate destabilization risk, less than 5% of the subject’s annual income.
Freedom of Movement: EXCEPTIONALLY HIGH
The subject retained unusual mobility due to status and professional value.
Assessment: This remained the primary vector for intervention or extraction.
Threat Actor Assessment: 
Falcon is not aware of the extent of the threat actor’s activities.
Investigation confirmed:
The subject was coerced into returning to Moscow through undisclosed pressure mechanisms.
Brother maintained active ties to organized crime networks.
Subject’s professional participation was leveraged for gambling operations and financial gain.
In exchange: erasure of brother’s debt and structured annual payments.
Behavioral intelligence:
High control intent
Escalation capability
Established surveillance capacity
Recorded statement (source O1):
The threat expressed long-term ownership logic over the subject (“will work for him forever”).
Operational Clarification:
The threat has formal links to law enforcement structures. However, current activities fell outside official mandates.
Assessment indicated rogue operational behavior, driven by personal financial exposure, resentment, and opportunistic alignment with criminal networks.
Cognitive Assessment of Threat Actor
Despite substance abuse (drug use, gambling) and emotional volatility rooted in resentment, the threat demonstrated high investigative intelligence, adaptive reasoning, and a strong capacity for tracking and exploiting leads.
Given a viable lead, the probability remains high that the threat actor could identify concealed variables over time.
Forward Risk Projection
Based on comparative modeling and active intelligence:
Risk escalation is expected at or following Falcon's father death.
Likely escalation pathways:
Legal entrapment (civil and criminal)
Use of compromising personal or intimate material
Escalation to severe criminal framing (drug possession, violent crime)
Additional intelligence:
Brother’s financial instability increasing
The network is likely to assume direct control if necessary
Assessment:
The threat is structural and ongoing.
Current level: Medium–High (constant, non-decreasing)
Operational Recommendations:
Immediate:
Initiate full counter-surveillance (close and remote)
Monitor all contact vectors
Communication Protocol/CRITICAL:
No contact via phone or SMS on Russian phone.
All communications within Russian territory are assumed compromised
Additional Directive:
All incriminating communication related to same-sex relationships must be strictly avoided.
Assessment:
Such material represented high-value leverage for coercion or prosecution.
Psychological Containment Advisory.
No guarantee that therapeutic or psychological support in Moscow are secure.
The threat actor could gain access to or exploit such avenues.
Approved alternatives:
In-person contact is limited to the Schengen zone or Canada
Meetings requiring advance planning.
Contingency Planning.
Emergency extraction protocol available.
Activation is dependent on subject awareness, timing, and compliance.
Attachments:
Visual intelligence (restricted access)

Total (12 months): $530,000 USD
Accept: Y / N

Shane typed Y

Choose the name code.

Shane typed: Jane.

***

May 2017

Ilya was lost. What was happening? Why was Shane organizing his kidnapping? But he trusted him. He was the only one he could trust with this, and even if it was the wrong choice, he would prefer to make it because he trusted him.
“Okay,” he said.
He went to his room, took the box with the twin clothes, his watches, charger, phones, laptop, his passport, important documents, three T-shirts, three briefs, two sweaters, two pants, travel toiletries, and was ready.
The two men turned off all of the lights. “Leave your Russian phone here, take only the American one. Close the door with the keys.”
Ilya did it.
They were going outside the building when Anastasia’s door opened.

“Where are you going?”

Ilya panicked and looked at the men. They made a sign to be short, not threatening. They now looked more like bodyguards than kidnappers.

“I have to leave early. I am sorry for the ballet. I'll call you.”

He saw in her eyes that it was not the first time she had seen people leaving, voluntarily or not, in the middle of the night. By the way she was looking, not screaming or asking to call someone, she understood. It was something that could happen, that still happened here.

“Wait,” she said. She came back with Anya, a small bag of food, and an envelope with Anya's travel documents. “Take her.”

“What? No, no, it’s your dog.”

“Ilya, I have not gone out with her for nine months. I can’t walk. I will die. I have no kids. She is your dog that lives with me. Take her, wherever you're going.”

Ilya took the dog. He felt the two men were impatient. He hugged Anastasia.

“You have the key to the apartment. Do whatever you want with the rest,” he said.

“I will watch you on TV, son.”

Ilya was gone. He was pushed into the car. They did not take the main exit of the building, but the back, passing the garbage storage. A van was waiting. They drove. Anya seemed to enjoy the ride, sleeping through it.

“Where are we going?” Ilya asked.

No one answered.

They drove for 2 hours, so it wasn't the airport. When they arrived, they were at an airstrip, more like a field with a landing strip, and a small plane. They put him on the plane. It was not a private luxury plane, more like a drug cartel plane.

They flew for two hours, and Ilya recognized the signs and lights of St. Petersburg. His mind raced. No, Alexei went back to Moscow. It could not be him. A trap?

“What are we doing here?”

“Fucking answer me,” Ilya said. He was agitated, but the idea of a possible gun and Anya was limiting him.

No answer.

They rushed him out of the plane, into another van, and arrived at the dock.

“Get in the boat,” the small man said.

The other one talked to someone on the phone in English. “Package on the move, crossing,” and hung up.

Ilya went to the boat with a Finnish flag. The boat was more luxurious. It was a yacht. Inside, two different men, but still the same dynamic. One man large enough to knock Ilya out, and a smaller one, the boat driver, and what seemed to be a steward. It was a fast yacht.

The smaller man came to Ilya.

“We will be there in seven hours. You should sleep.”

Ilya did not even bother to ask where. He knew there would be no answer. He dozed off. As the journey continued, he became more certain that it was not Alexei. They were on the water long enough to be in Estonia or Finland. He was woken up by the steward.

“We've almost arrived in Helsinki, Mr. Rozanov. The bathroom with clothes is ready for you. A car will wait for you.”
Anya was there, but the two men were not. It was like the atmosphere was different.

He went to the bathroom with Anya, showered, and freshened up. Inside the bathroom, expensive sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt, all in Shane’s favorite brand. Shane.
When he went out, breakfast was set on the table. He did not know if it was safe to use his phone. If Shane did all of this to get him out without going through Russian immigration, there had to be a reason. He decided to trust him and his planning. He ate, walked with Anya on the dock, and gave her some food.

They arrived one hour later. He disembarked and passed immigration in Helsinki. Someone was waiting for him with a sign that said “1410.” He went to him. He took his bag and got into another car. This time, the car took him
to the airport, and he got into another private jet. Same service, passed immigration in the VIP section. They took his bag and placed Anya on the seat next to him.

In the car to the airport, he called Shane, no answer, sent him several texts too, all left on read.
“Welcome, Mr. Rozanov. We will be in Ottawa in eight hours.”

It was now twenty hours since Ilya had begun traveling. It was not the worst secretive travel he had taken: a small plane, a yacht, a luxury car, a kidnapping van, and now a private jet. He did not sleep. His mind calculated all of the potential possibilities. Was he in danger? If so, from whom? And how did Shane know? How did he organize all this? Why rush? He was already going to be in Ottawa in two weeks.

When he arrived, someone was waiting for him. Now he knew the routine: VIP immigration section. He had only his backpack and a small carry-on, but realized he had lost the small twin cover he had in his backpack. He let Anya run a few minutes after those long flights. A black car was waiting for him.

They drove, and he recognized the route. It was the route to Shane's cottage. The drive took a little more than 2 hours. The driver opened the door and left.
Ilya walked to the front door with Anya. He still had his key to the cottage. He crossed the front door, and Shane called out, “Ilya!” Shane ran to him, and kissed him. Ilya hugged him, kissing him back.

“Shane, what is it? Where are the kids?”

“You're safe now. Oh my God, you are safe,” Shane said, panic in his voice.

“From what, Shane? You made people kidnap me? Shane, where are Yuri and Iro?” Ilya said.

“They are fine, they're at my parents' cottage. They will come later. I need to be alone with you. I"m sorry. Don’t hate me,” Shane said.

Ilya followed him inside.

“Sit,” he said, gently pushing him onto the couch.

“I’d rather you sit on my face,” Ilya said, pulling Shane into his lap and kissing his neck. He was kissing him almost aggressively, like he could drag them somewhere easier, somewhere without whatever this was.

“I want to, but we have to talk about many things, and some of them, or maybe all, will make you upset. And I’m not sure you’ll want to have sex with me, or anything,” Shane said.

“Never going to happen. But tell me why you kidnapped me,” Ilya said.

“Okay, but please keep your mind open and remember I was very scared for you. And I love you. And I thought about it a lot.”

“Shane. Speak,” Ilya demanded.

Shane pulled away from his lap, grabbed a thick folder from the coffee table, and handed it to him. Inside were pictures of Ilya, and the same two men again and again over three years. Moscow. Berlin. Streets he recognized. Nights, he did not. And Alexei.

***

Alexei

It was a perfect plan. This fucking fag brat of a brother, living in America while Alexei was dying in this fucking job, meanwhile their father, who forgot who Alexei was, asked again and again for Ilyusha. This pittance he had to beg every time to be sent money, and even after humiliating himself and the country at Sochi. Now here he was screaming “for mama” at the Cup—for mama, that his useless self had let die because he could not enter the fucking bathroom.

It was the perfect plan. He could have done it just to erase his debt. He owed 150,000 USD on the card. He had a bad streak of luck with the horses, and even with his little service on the side with the police, he was still reaching the collection point. She knew they were in-game gambling—soccer, hockey, everything—so he offered, “What if I could assure you my brother would come back to the KHL?” And he saw stars in their eyes. If they were the first to know the information, they could place bets, invest in the Moscow team's adjacent—meaning illegal— businesses, and prepare to cash out. So they said yes: debt erased, and every year, a side of $100,000 for Alexei.

So he made him come back. He knew this weak, pathetic romantic would throw everything for the father who could remember him. And he did.

Alexei did not like St. Petersburg in particular, but life was fucking good. Money was floating around him. He was doing small replacements for the police, on their Moscow connections cases, while “away.” Sometimes he missed his daughter, but he was doing it for her—better money, better life. He did not miss his wife—how could he? Every night, beautiful women threw themselves at him. He had a nice apartment that a regular police salary could not cover. Life was fucking good.

He went to see his father from time to time. Ilya was miserable. Alexei smirked, knowing that he was working for him; that Alexei did not even have to ask him for money because he was his fucking mule, and he wanted him forever like that. He would suck his brother’s blood until retirement.

Alexei knew his father would not live forever, and this fucking brother would prefer going back to be a fucking whore in North America, but he would make him stay. He worked with a small team. He could not use the police officials to target the “prodigal son,” "KHL's finest," and no one could know. One wrong person, and Alexei would be finished. But it should not be hard—he knew his brother. Righteous, but he wasl ike Alexei, he loved drinking, women, and sometimes cocaine. Ilya was just better at getting out of it with his million-dollar contract.

His first plan, the most solid, was to have a woman. His brother, fucking sentimental, would never leave a woman with a kid, and he loved fucking women. He was smart enough to never impregnate one, but Alexei knew women who knew ways to bypass condoms. Ilya loved clubs. Alexei had a list of women who were worth thousands of dollars, and the prospect of having a child with a KHL star was enough. He knew his brother’s type, but he also needed one he could leverage a secret on so she would not think about asking for life in America—a reformed escort with a very light drug past, cute, all teeth, very clean.
He placed four in the club; he knew Ilya’s team would go to. But after four months, his brother seemed to have his dick cut off—not one time he left with one. The only time he left was with the whore Vetrova, and Alexei would be damned if he ended up with an American citizen and became American.

So Alexei began to be uneasy, to wonder why. He knew his brother, and he knew he was hiding something. He hoped it was a relationship with a man—it would be easier for Alexei—so he had his two men follow him up. Clear instructions: find something, catch him, and then call me. Alexei would appear as the savior of Ilya—from jail or worse—keep photos and proof, and remind him that he had nowhere to go, that Alexei could have his passport revoked. Alexei would not even let him go on summer vacation.

But the year passed, and not a thing. His fucking brother was living like a saint—walking dogs with fucking old Muscovite aristocrats, and going to bookstores. Only one night, they were close to catching him after buying cocaine, ready to bust, but a fucking crazy homeless man went wild, and Ilya disappeared. Not that cocaine would be enough, fucking prodigal son of Russian, it would not put him at any risk of losing something, but it could have been a first step, and plan B, for later, easy to change a dose. He became more and more sure Ilya had a secret. Their father was still alive. Ilya signed his contract on June 15, 2015, one year, buying Alexei another year of fast life in St. Petersburg, but the clock was ticking.

But he knew the secret existed, and the clock ticked away. Before Ilya left for the summer, he sent two guys to Ilya’s place and made it look like a break-in. They could keep the valuables. They took his laptop. They found no letters, no other phone, no pictures. Where the fuck is the American phone? They placed three mics, but because the two were fucking idiots used to office work, not fieldwork, the mics were just noise. Alexei told them to put them away from the radio or TV.
But at least the laptop gave Alexei information. Ilya was going to Berlin, and he had searched for “romantic places in Berlin.” Alexei could not go, but the academy alumni went a long way, and many undercover Russian agents or former police working in private security were there. He asked two of them.

He thought about Berlin and Sasha, the coach’s son. One time, when Ilya was 17, he saw Ilya with him, nothing incriminating, but no doubt about what they were doing in the hidden car behind the rink, and now Sasha was living in Europe. Maybe it was why Ilya became sufficiently absent-minded. Sasha was at the Olympics too. If only Alexei could get a picture, he could do a double win: Ilya and Sasha’s father's money.

But again, Ilya disappeared. The car followed him, and a truck cut them off. They told him he was nowhere to be found, and every day, a car would come pick him up, but he would disappear in Berlin.

Ilya came back five weeks later, one week after he was supposed to, tanned, and with a fucking ring next to their mother’s cross, and two weeks later, he was on a tabloid bear chest, with a new tattoo on his rib. 

Alexei was sure now. The secret had to be someone, a man, because Ilya would never hide a woman like this, except if it were the wife of someone very important or dangerous or both, but still. Alexei made sure to have all of Ilya's mail opened at a postal station, a counter-terrorism link with a foreign government, but still nothing. He asked friends to intercept text messages, nothing, not even coded messages. He wrote jokes to his former teammates in Boston, Marleau, St. Simon, his teammate in Moscow, Svetlana when she was in Moscow, some congratulations to the boring Canadian player Hollander, Polina, his neighbor, his agent, and the fucking bookshop owner.

The clock was ticking, March 2016. Still nothing. Their father got worse and worse. Alexei applied more direct pressure to Ilya. He put two teams following him everywhere. Nothing. Alexei became more anxious. For sure, Ilya would sign a one-year contract again, but his father’s health left no doubt that it would not be a three-year contract, giving Alexei no room to breathe. So he changed plans. He could not wait to catch Ilya with Sasha on a European vacation. It was time for the theater. If gay shit were easier, regular petty crime would make it. A random search, a pack of drugs, enough to be serious.

The plan was ready. Alexei was waiting two blocks away with someone else. Three agents went to Ilya’s building. He was not there. And since the break-in, he had installed a fucking federal bank door. Efficient plan, but also this fucking gossip of old Muscovite posh was there, with a fucking former minister, a judge, someone so much higher than Alexei and his fifth-rank police position, that could trigger everything down to the drill ending Alexei in jail.

The two officers canceled the operation and left. He could not blame them, and Alexei knew that at the first question from their hierarchy, they would sell him out. Not only was his job on the line, but his life was at stake if the organization came into the spotlight trying to frame a certain “KHL star.”

The clock was ticking, and by the end of 2016, Alexei knew he had to move back to Moscow to do things on his own and be more creative. He started spending time in dark web chats, searching for any talk about his brother—anything, even the beginning of a rumor. He needed more than womanizer gossip; that would do nothing. On the contrary, in Russia, it would only make things worse. After a month, he stumbled upon a LoneStar profile on an English professional hockey forum. The man seemed to know a lot, hated many people, and he had insider information—maybe a staff member or another player. They started to chat, and rapidly it became clear that the man was obsessed with Ilya, and that Ilya leaving had been the best thing that had ever happened in his life. Good for Alexei—having someone in North America, inside the MHL world, with the same interest in keeping his brother in Moscow. Ilya had signed his one-year contract, but by the time Alexei arrived to try to ambush him in his apartment, he was already gone. He asked Polina. She only knew he had gone on vacation for six fucking weeks, he said. He did not say where.

Alexei needed to know, to put his contacts on it. He knew he was with Sasha or a man somewhere, but he had already been gone for five days. How did Alexei not know? He had someone at the airport to inform him if Ilya was leaving. Maybe he left by car, but where? He had removed his men for the summer, and now he had lost him.

Alexei called Ilya’s U.S. number. It rang. He left an angry voice message: “You abandoned our father, you don’t answer. If something happens—” It was a bait. He knew Ilya had left instructions to Polina, so if something had happened, he would know. Ilya did not call him. Just sent a text telling him to go fuck himself. So the U.S. phone was in use, he used it. Why did Alexei’s men not find it in the apartment? Why was Ilya never with it outside? He knew that the phone was the answer to all his problems, and he could not find a way to get it.

It took Alexei three days to track Ilya. A private jet registered to a company in Liechtenstein. He could not ask for information without risking triggering alerts from superiors about why someone of his rank was contacting separate European entities. He asked one of his guys, who was a hacker on the side. The plane went to Sicily, Italy. The bastard, he did it again.
Alexei called contacts, but no one was available to track him when they did not know where he was in the following days.

The clock ticked still, and by November, Ilya’s father had entered the hospital. Alexei returned full-time to Moscow with his family, putting direct pressure on Ilya. What would Ilya do? He would not leave directly after their father passed. Maybe Alexei would have more time. Because yes, the organization’s money was good, but life was life, and Alexei was back to owing them a little under one hundred thousand. He was more and more anxious. If one thing his father could do was stay alive until June 15th, Ilya would sign for another year, and Alexei would have more time.

When the doctor talked about less suffering, Alexei metamorphosed into a devout Orthodox and asked them to do everything to keep him alive. Everything. Alexei was using money he did not have to ask people to find where Ilya went in Italy. A dead end. He hacked his email again, put a mic and a small camera in front of his apartment.

He could check Ilya’s Russian bank account to access his transactions, but not his American bank account. In the Russian bank account, no transactions that could have given Alexei a lead.  Ilya no longer went to clubs. Rumors said he was traumatizing his team into discipline, to the coach's and the KHL's satisfaction.

Alexei could not sleep. Ilya’s secret was his obsession, not even for the organization and the debt, but how his brother found a way to escape him, in his own field, in Moscow, with the police. He hated him.
He wanted to destroy him, slowly, keep him working for him, and let him know. Because now, he could be mad at Alexei, but he was working for his father. Alexei wanted to keep him there, take his money, and keep him stuck in Russia. He drank more and spent money he did not have on more drugs. And, in March, their father died.

It was clear that his fucking brother would leave. Already planned too. He knew that Ilya fired his Russian agent. He searched all blogs, subreddits, and podcasts; there was no sign that Boston would take him back, or that any other American team. Maybe he would leave to live his life with a man in Europe. This option would still leave Alexei something to leverage, if only he could find something, but Alexei could not even find where and when Ilya went on vacation. He could not let Ilya leave, not even for another city in Russia. Alexei was receiving messages from the organization: “Hope we are still celebrating a champion staying on June 15th.” He lied about Ilya staying to honor their father’s memory. A fucking joke.

Alexei had his back against the wall; he had to go all in. He did not want to, but Ilya pushed him. On May 28th, he received a message from a UPS contact letting him know that Ilya had sent packages to Ottawa. Ilya was leaving. Leaving for a Canadian team. Alexei ran all the databases he had access to. Flight ticket to Ottawa, with a layover in Berlin, June 14th. Fucking bastard, Ilya was leaving before the deadline to resign with Moscow Sokol.

Alexei needed to act rapidly. He needed six days so that they could come up with a scenario that Ilya would feel inescapable in. They needed a woman's body, supposed proof of her murder by Ilya's hands, and a good staging scenario. Ilya was not drinking to get drunk, but still, he was Russian; they would put something in his drink at a bar or in water at the fucking bookstore if he had to, so that he would wake up with a dead girl next to him. He would spiral and call Alexei. Alexei needed him to function, so he would give Ilya some hope and the illusion that Ilya needed to give him time to find the real culprit while protecting him.

It was a perfect plan. However, when they arrived at Ilya’s building parking garage, his cars were gone, all three of them. They asked the concierge where he was. “Mr. Rozanov left. We are now emptying his apartment.” Alexei ran upstairs. Everything except the sofa was gone. He ran downstairs. “Where? When?”
“Five days ago,” the concierge said.

No, not possible. Alexei put an alert on all Russian airports. He had to be in the country. If they found him, they could say he was running. Then Alexei quickly realized that no, he could not say Ilya was running. Alexei did not want to go to jail. He called Ilya. The phone was disconnected.

He drove like mad to his office, ran Ilya’s passport number through all airports, ports, and land border checkpoints, and nothing came up. The video surveillance he placed in front of Ilya’s door was damaged and useless. He ran video surveillance in front of his building. Ilya never left. He simply disappeared. He called his friend at the immigration office and asked for a favor. He told his friend he was worried about his brother and gave him his passport number. “Coming back to you in one hour.”
One hour later.
“Passport scan at departure. Helsinki. Arrived in Ottawa five days ago.”
He looked at the piece of paper they found on the back of the building's garage: “Leave. Now. Jane,” and a small wool plaid fabric with, in one corner, the initials Y.I.H, and in the other corner, the initials I.I.H. He saw this before, but where? Alexei had no doubt Jane was a he. Whoever Jane was, Ilya would give everything to Alexei to keep him secret, so Alexei would find him.

Alone in his office, Alexei cried out of anger for exactly 42 seconds. Then he took his phone to log into the chat server, in the darkweb, and resumed his chat with LoneStar51

BronzeHorseman35: your friend is going back to MHL
LoneStar51: what, no way, no news about it
BronzeHorseman35: sure info, have good source that he had a big secret a woman
LoneStar51: this dog will never have a chick a secret, must be fucking big secret maybe some coach wife or daughter
BronzeHorseman35: if it's a chick...
LoneStar51: the fuck
LoneStar51: will get back to you wil ask discreetly around, dont want him back here, need to fucking get back in Russia fucking commie, you have any other info
BronzeHorseman35: I only know the name is Jane

Alexei looked again at the small wool plaid, and he remembered all of a sudden. He opened the search engine, pulled out a tabloid picture of Ilya from last month, the tattoo, he zoomed in incrust on the bird, Y.I.H, and I.I.H in Cyrillic.

He booked a flight to Ottawa.

Chapter End Notes

Alexei is unfortunately a messy villain with a high-functioning brain when it's come to ruin his brother's life.

Chapter 4: Boston

Chapter Summary

Thanks for beta-reading and editing this chapter:
Witwandwolfbird
Faithella
Alidesidero,

Chapter Notes

“You made people follow me? And my brother? You don’t trust me?” Ilya said, flipping picture after picture, faster now.

“No, I trust you. I don't trust the people out there to harm you. I needed to protect you,” Shane said.

“You had people around me for three years. In Moscow. While you were in Montreal with the kids. Watching my life like a file,” Ilya said.

“I was watching the people trying to end it.”

“Oh, so you get to decide where that line is.”

“You let me live like nothing was happening,” Ilya said, his voice shaking. “You let me go back there. You let me stay there!”

“What would you have done, Ilya? What?” Shane shot back.

“I would have killed him.”

“Yeah, amazing plan. Killing a police officer. With your father dying, no work visa in the U.S, no way to leave, and two kids without a father. Amazing.”

“At least it would have been my choice.”

“And you would be dead or in prison, and Iro, and Yuri, and me? What about us?!”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you. That’s the whole point.”

“You should have told me.”

“And watch you destroy yourself. No, you think it wasn't hard enough for me when you called me crying and alone, because you missed us? That I could not even tell you to see a therapist because Alexei would have found a way to get his hands on that?”

“You should have trusted me with my own life.”

“This isn't your life alone anymore, Ilya. This is our life. Our, meaning the four of us. So you should stop acting like your life was only yours when you promised our kids and me you would come back!” He paused and added, “If you knew he was trying to destroy you or find out who I was, and find out about our children, you would have done anything to stop him. I told you that you would come back to me, to us. I made sure of that,” Shane said.

“So you decided for me.,” Ilya said. “You decided I don’t get to know, don’t get to act, don’t get to protect my own family.”

“I decided you get to live.”

“You decided to lie to me for three years.”

“I never lied.”

“Oh fuck you, Shane. Don't try to be slick, you know you lied by omission,” Ilya said, louder now. “You built a whole reality around me that wasn’t real.”

“And what would you have done with the truth? Tell me. Not the fantasy version.”

“I told you. I would have killed him.”

“And then what? You think I would just watch you disappear? And what would I tell Yuri and Iro? That their father did not even have time to get back to Canada before he disappeared, but they can look at his picture? The love of my life that no one knew about,” Shane said, his voice sharper now. “You think I could sit in Montreal knowing exactly where you were and how it would end?”

“I didn’t get to choose that.”

“What fucking choice is it, Ilya? Leaving us behind or being safe and coming back? Why the fuck does it have to be a choice?”

“And you paid for all of that for three years,” Ilya said.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“It’s not important. We have enough money.”

“How much, Shane?”

“Close to two million. Maybe more, with Berlin and Sicily.”

“I will pay you the money back.”

“I don’t want it. It’s our money for our family. We are married, and I didn't sign a prenup.”

“It’s not 'our money' if I didn’t even know what it was used for.”

“Yes, it is still 'our money.' And you stayed alive because of it.”

“You should not have to protect me because I have a brother who wants to destroy me, while you are the one taking care of our children. I am fucking liability, ruining everything,” Ilya said, his voice breaking.

“Look at me, Ilya, you are everything. I should, and I did, protect you. You are my husband, the father of my children,” Shane said, stepping closer. “I saved myself and our children — I would not have survived if you were gone. You don’t get to die proving a point.”

“You saved me,” Ilya said.

“I will do it again.”

Ilya walked to a window, looking at the lake, his children's toys on the deck, proof of a life so much different than the one he had in 2014. A glimpse of the life he would have now that he was back because Shane had done it, for them. He knew that the first year, even with the most expensive nanny service and his parents, was brutal, but parenthood made Shane someone different. Hockey and winning were important, but a life where his children could be surrounded by people they loved, where he could talk about his love, was also important. And he made sure that Ilya came back.
“I forgive you for hiring spies to protect me against my evil brother, and for kidnapping me so I would not end up with a dead woman next to me,” Ilya said.

Then, firm again:

“No more lies by omission. No more protecting me. You tell me everything now. I can handle it. Also, I am paying for everything. You are not paying for things anymore,” Ilya said.

“When are the kids coming back ?” Ilya asked, his fingers trailing down Shane’s neck.

“We have four hours; I wanted some extra time in case I needed to beg for forgiveness,” Shane replied, his hands on Ilya's chest.

“You don't need to beg for my forgiveness, but you can beg me for something else,” Ilya smirked.

“Bed,” Shane said, and Ilya followed.

Later, after they had cleaned up, taken a short nap, and spent some time outside with the dog, they were waiting for Shane’s parents with the children. Ilya was making dinner, and Shane was tidying up.

“Iro’s still a no for mashed potatoes?” Ilya asked. Even from afar, Ilya followed everything the kids did very closely. He logged into the pediatric app, read the reports, went through all the messages from the nanny about their days, and often ate with the twins via FaceTime, since it was nighttime in Moscow. Iro was the picky eater, while Yuri was a chaotic eater.

“Nope,” Shane said.

“Rice with tuna for them, and I’m roasting chicken with potatoes and salad for your parents and us.”

“If you make roasted chicken, they’ll eat that, not tuna.”

“Okay, roasted chicken for all,” Ilya said.

“They don’t have godparents,” Shane said.

“As if Svetlana would let anyone else be their godmother,” Ilya laughed.

“We need four. I was thinking about Anita, because she was Iro’s best friend and she’s my friend now—and Hayden,” Shane said.

“I’ll tell Svetlana, and I think Cliff. So we’ll have smart women and dumb hockey players,” Ilya said.

“You’re an asshole. Maybe we should invite everyone for the final, to watch it here?” Shane asked.

“We can, but that’s a lot of people for Iro.”

“He knows everyone except Marleau, so it’ll be okay. You’re worrying too much, Ilya.”

“I am. I don’t like it when he looks stressed. But okay. I’ll tell Cliff to come earlier so I can tell him about everything—and Boston. He’s captain now, and I’m sure the GM didn’t tell him they want me back as captain,” Ilya said.

“Good,” Shane said.

“I want to take care of things. You have to let me,” Ilya said, pouting as he put the little pasta letters into the boiling water.

“What do you mean?”

“Your little spy thing. I know Alexei won’t stop. You’ve done enough. I want you to show me—or put me in contact with your secret spy—and I’ll take care of it from now on, and pay,” Ilya said.

“Are you sure?”

“I will not blow it off, put you or the children at risk, or myself. I promise. But I need to deal with it. Now I am here.”

Shane went for his laptop and a USB key. He sat next to Ilya, typed an internet address, and inserted the key.

“You can do it now,” Shane said.

“Okay.”

He typed “Contact.”

The screen showed:

“Connected.”

Then: “Closure of contract?”

Shane typed, No.

Then the screen showed: “Accept call? Y/N.”

Shane typed Y.

A smiley face appeared.

“Mr. Hollander, we believe our service was delivered on the contract. Do you wish to close it?”

“No,” Ilya answered.

“I guess it is Falcon speaking. Glad to hear you had a nice journey.”

“Yes, very nice. Next time, more pillows on the yacht, and snacks, and less 1 a.m. kidnapping.”

“Hopefully, there will be no need next time, Mr. Rozanov,” the voice said.

“We believe that Alexei will not stop, so we will need your service for a little while,” Shane said.

“Wise. We believe this too,” the voice said.

“What do you know?” Ilya asked.

“After confirmation of extension and payment, you will receive, in four days, a new report, same method,” the voice said.

“Also,” Shane said, “it will not be me in contact anymore. Ilya will talk to you from now on.”

“In this case, Mr. Rozanov, make sure to drop your laptop at the following address in three days, and pick it up five hours later,” the voice said.

“And after?” Ilya asked.

But the call ended. The screen lit again.

"Not very polite. They're definitely not Canadian," Ilya said

“Contract extension, collateral damage: $340,000 USD”

Followed by bank transfer information.

“Oh, you got a discount,” Shane said.

Anya was barking.

Ilya petted her and talked to her in Russian. “It’s okay, girl. It’s your new papa, and soon a new house. More toys coming soon.”

Shane looked at them. “I am happy I didn't fuck everything up. I told them to find a way for you or the person assigned to your close protection to have a dog,” Shane said.

Ilya looked at him. “Anastasia? You paid more than two million for close protection by my sixty-year-old neighbor?”

***

Arya

Arya did not like dogs. She never had. Since she was a kid, she has been a cat person, loving independent, clean animals. Maybe it was the fact of being responsible for six younger siblings that made her hate being responsible for cleaning up after anyone, dogs, people, and especially men. And here she was, cleaning poop after a dog in her old age.

Once upon a time, she was doing exciting and dangerous missions. When she was young, she wanted to be a ballet dancer, but that was not a time for dreams for a poor girl from the slums of Moscow. She was pretty, smart, and good with languages. Someone hired her first to get close to some men, and afterward she underwent brutal, elite training. She did things that went beyond getting close. Some people died, and sometimes she was the one killing them. Never brutal. She was always discreet and sophisticated.

Everything was supposed to be forever, as a career, but it was a different time. There was no need anymore for pretty girls to sleep with enemies, after a while, and when everything collapsed, she knew it was a chance to reinvent herself. She already had everything ready: face, names, birth certificates, no family she loved, or wanted to love. At the end of the Soviet Union, at 38, she was still looking good, spoke four languages, and understood three more. She went to the place to be for people with her skills: the new court of the former Soviet Union. She knew the right people who would hire someone like her at very high prices.

She went on like this, making a lot of money, one hundred countries in two decades, seven passports, more than fifty hair colors, but she always came back to Moscow. At 65, she was tired. She could not do the running and hiding that had cost her a rib in Berlin in 1996.

So now, here she was with a fucking dog, because she was working for the new wave millennial organization. The people in her field used to be a certain type. It was powerful to live in that other world. Yes, the bank accounts were full, but at some point, it was not even about the money; it was about knowing, about changing yourself.

Now she was a gossiping, charming old neighbor, close to her personality, but six months ago, she was a fish shop owner in Alaska. This was better. The apartment was nice, the job was easy (except for the dog part), and the person she was here to protect, who was 57 kilograms heavier and half a meter taller than her, was also charming. She loved that. She hated hockey, but he was nice.

The money, she would never say it, was almost too much against those amateurs, but it was a good thing that Falcon was not a target of the state. Except for extraction, you could not escape the state. Falcon’s brother was alone with his sloppy team, doing a pathetic job while trying not to get caught by the police or the mob.

Until extraction, it was not too hard. They had two random guys for night shifts. One who liked to play homeless, for people you never remember, always outside the clubs where Falcon went. Another, an unremarkably good-looking man inside those same clubs. And a third person, who had the easiest part, Alexei in St. Petersburg, a cute Swedish woman.

She was supposed to stay for several months, and it was so easy. Putting a bug in a drug addict’s office, who ran his mouth about his plan to destroy his brother during a blowjob. The club was easy. Falcon made it easy. Alexei’s two idiots, who were always in the same car following Falcon, waiting for him to slip up, were easy. Mr. Homeless only had to create a little drama.

There was that time when Alexei’s two idiots sat outside for four hours in the same car that they always used for trailing Falcon. Their level of unprofessionalism was mind-blowing. She knew she would have about one hour between Falcon leaving and them breaking in. She got Falcon's door open in one minute, an easy task. She went in looking for liabilities. The American phone was easy to find. She took it and opened the laptop to see if the American phone was synced with it. It wasn't, so at least some minimal brain power was used there. After that, she left. She waited for those two idiots to finish their staged break-in, then came back, put the phone back where it was, and searched for bugs. She found four total that were in the living room, bedroom, guest room, and even the bathroom, those perverts.

When the text came from the office for an emergency extraction within 24 hours, she knew things were serious. She's sent a message to the travel agent.

She loved their travel agents. They could get you out of any country one way or another, with degrees of efficiency, except for war zones. But still, good service. The agency consisted of two brothers. It was a family business that worked incredibly well, with high-quality service.

She was sad Falcon had to leave, but at the same time, she did not get to be sad in this job. This job was to keep the big man with curls who loves dogs alive, out of prison, out of the media for propaganda, and out of his brother’s blackmail scheme of being framed for murder. And she did the job. At least she could give back the dog that she did not like, but would miss a little.

And because now she was working for a millennial agency with millennial clients, they had emotional and well-being demands: not scaring Falcon, not causing anxiety, and respecting his privacy. My God. The man was hours away from waking up with a random dead woman next to him, with no memory, and his brother as his only lifeline. He could take a little anxiety, but no, emotional well-being was put in bold in her mission recap. These millennials.

She conducted a sweep of the apartment to see if there was anything Alexei could use. She locked the door and headed to the garage to move Falcon’s three cars to an empty lot. Mr. Homeless would go to the lot, pick up the cars, and make them disappear.

She emptied her apartment, cleaned all proof of her existence there, reverted to her original dark red hair color, and sent a text to the office: “Confirm closure of contract.” She was waiting for a confirmation message; instead, “Contract extension. Threat on the move. Localization: Boston. Confirm availability.”

Boston. That would be nice; it had been a while since she had eaten a good lobster roll and cannoli. She replied, “Confirmed.”

***

Having Ilya back lifted a weight from Shane’s shoulders that he hadn’t known was so heavy. It wasn’t only the worry about him being in Moscow with Alexei wanting to ruin him, or how much he had missed him—it was all the big and small things. Managing his own feelings and the children’s feelings while Ilya wasn’t there, the crying… The epitome of it had come a few months before Ilya came back, when Shane had to ask Svetlana to call Ilya’s Russian phone and tell him to FaceTime.

Ilya had been away. Shane had tried to call the American phone, but there was no answer—and Ilya always answered when he was home, on the first or second ring. Twenty minutes later, Ilya finally FaceTimed. Yuri had been having a moment, crying and refusing to stop, asking for a story from Papa. They had to put the iPad next to her, with Ilya’s face reading a story, staying there, breathing softly for close to an hour until she fell asleep.

Afterward, Ilya had broken down and cried. He told Shane he would take a flight and come the next day. Shane had to suppress his own desire to say yes—yes, come home—and instead told him they had to stick to the plan.

The day Ilya came back from Moscow had been a catastrophe of emotions. When the kids arrived and saw him, they ran to him, barely kissing Shane. Ilya hugged them, lifted them up, let them climb onto his broad back, and threw them onto the couch, talking to them in Russian. Shane caught words like “Not leaving,” “I love you,” “My sunshine,” “My princess.”

Shane had told his parents that Ilya was coming earlier than planned, but he had never told them about Alexei or the spy situation. That stayed between Ilya and him.

Ilya had eaten with both Yuri and Iro on his lap, refusing to let them go. Then they saw Anya and became obsessed with the dog. Ilya handled bath time and bedtime, leaving Shane to go over the plan with his mother and the lawyer.

“All the papers are ready, so sign everything, and you’re both going to the notary in two days. Hopefully, in two months it’ll be done.”

In a maximum of two months, Ilya would officially be the children’s father, new birth certificates in hand. In the meantime, Shane had signed everything for a power of attorney for the children, and they would leave for Boston with everything in order—Ilya was already de facto registered for daycare, medical, and emergency matters.

This last year had been so much, and now Shane saw how tired he had been. Just breathing, with Ilya there and the nanny, everything was easier: the mornings, the tantrums. Ilya had taken care of the house in Boston and was already looking for a daycare. Nina had told them she wanted to go to Boston and be their live-in nanny. Ilya had asked for modifications to the house, and applied for a permit to build a small guest house in the backyard to give Nina independence and them privacy.

Ilya had been adamant that now that he was here, he wanted their children to be with them more and to take care of them as much as possible.

Shane would never have thought he’d be glad not to be in the playoffs, or the Stanley Cup Final, but the Voyageurs getting kicked out of the playoffs couldn’t be blamed on him. On the contrary, he had given more than he had to the team, and they still tried to make him feel guilty and blamed him for having children. For “not finding a WAG to have kids with and playing single dad,” because he was no longer the first to arrive and the last to leave, doing everyone’s job and carrying the team on his back like the years they won the two Cups.

Coach Thériault and management had been surprised when he told them he wouldn’t sign and would use his unrestricted free agency. They had tried to change his mind. Thériault had even talked to Comeau, Drapeau, and Fuller—the trio who had been behind small and large acts of mutiny against him—and they apologized to him half-heartedly. They had thought Shane would stay no matter what.

Except now, his priorities were different. Hockey was still an important part of his life, but it wasn’t the only thing anymore. They hadn’t seen it coming—and they certainly wouldn’t see it coming when Boston made the announcement.

On the day of the Stanley Cup Final, Cliff had come early, at 10 a.m. Ilya's talk with him had gone in the following order: coming out, announcing he was married and had children, moving to Boston, and finally, asking him to be godfather.

Shane had been walking with the kids and the dog in the woods behind the lake. When he came back, Cliff was on the deck with Ilya, his hand on his jaw. When he saw Shane—

“Hollzy!” he screamed. “Damn, Rozy really pulled the best player of the MHL!”

“Fu—” Ilya started, but Yuri and Iro were running toward him. “I’m the best player,” he corrected.

“Listen, I’ll be the best godfather ever,” Cliff said, turning to Yuri and Iro. “Hello, I’m Uncle Cliff.”

“Hello, my name’s Yuri.”

Iro looked at Ilya, who gave him a sign, and he said softly, “Hi.”

“So which one’s mine?” Cliff asked.

“Yuri. Ilya told me you have six sisters,” Shane said.

“I do,” Cliff said.

“Go play inside, my loves. I’m coming,” Ilya said, turning his chair to watch them through the window with Anya.

“Hollzy, I told Rozy I’m fucking glad he’s coming back. I can’t do the captain shit anymore, and with you—fuck, beautiful Cup for us,” Cliff said.

“And about the locker room,” Shane said. “We don’t want to live as a secret for the kids, but we want to stay private. We don’t want anything messed up to happen, like being unprotected.”

“Don’t worry. I did the math—we’ve got four guys for sure. The new baby, Hass, seems fine, but I don’t know yet. For the rest, we’ve got you. We’ll be your shield—especially if the coach and GM know. Eyes and ears open. The kids can come to the box with Svetlana and the other WAGs. The four guys—we’ll shut anything down. But you need some cover too,” Cliff said.

“Like what?”

“You know the first apartment you had? St-Simon was there, but he’s leaving—second kid with his wife. You should keep it as the captain’s apartment. You know, if you need to do things with the others and don’t want them in your home sniffing around,” Cliff said.

“Yes. Good idea.”

“I’ll ask St-Simon to tell the building management to keep it furnished. Easy. But I’ve got you—you, Hollzy, my goddaughter and nephew? You’re fucking back in your city, Rozy, and we’re keeping you—and your husband,” Cliff said.

It was that simple.

After that, Ilya spent time with the kids, making lunch and putting them down for a nap before everyone arrived. Shane had asked Jackie to come with Hayden, JJ, and the twins, and had told Hayden and JJ he had news—and that the children’s other father would be there.

After seeing Cliff welcome Ilya with open arms, Shane had been determined to give Ilya the same—no crap.

He waited for Hayden’s car and stepped outside the cottage. He hugged everyone and asked Jackie, Hayden, and JJ if they could step out of the car while the kids stayed a bit longer.

“Just five minutes, then you can join Yuri and Iro.”

They stepped out.

“Don’t worry, buddy. We’re ready to meet your man—we’re excited,” Hayden said.

“Jackie, I’m not worried about you at all, but I want to talk to both of you,” Shane said.

“Thank you, Shane,” Jackie said

“Listen, inside isn’t just my 'man'. He’s the love of my life, the father of my children. I’ve loved him, been obsessed with him since 2008. I waited three years for him to come back. I married him last summer. And I’m living with him now and moving in.”

“In the same secret city you’re going to, but you don’t want us to know yet?” JJ said. 

“Yes, we’ll be in the same city. But that’s not the important part. What matters is that every person close to him, his friends, embraced me without question. So when you step inside, you won’t make comments about him, about whether you think he’s good enough for me, or what you think he is, because you don’t know. I don’t want comments. Nothing. What happens now, how you act, will define what happens next, whether we’re friends or not. And to be friends, you’ll have to be civil with him and not make comments about our very real, very long relationship that started before I knew either of you. You never knew any version of me that wasn’t, at minimum, infatuated with him. I’ll choose him every time. So whatever feelings you have when you meet him, push them down. Sit with them. I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want my kids to hear it. I don’t want his friends to hear it. You deal with them on your own, with a therapist, or between yourselves.”

“Wow, we are not animals, you know how to be polite, you're not the only Canadian here,” Hayden said, scared and confused by Shane’s tone. They had never known him to be more intimidating, even as captain during a Stanley Cup Final. The tone was definitive. They had both told Shane that fatherhood had changed him for the better. He was less anxious about certain things and, in a quieter way, was less worried about small messes.

Only Jackie didn’t look confused; she squeezed Shane’s arm.

Shane shouted, “Okay, kids, let’s go inside!”

Inside, Svetlana, Rose, Yuna, David, and Anita were in the kitchen. When Jackie, JJ, and Hayden entered, Jade, Ruby, and Arthur ran straight to the deck.

First, JJ and Hayden saw Marleau.

“Pike! Boizeau! Finally here!” he yelled.

They exchanged a look, confused, then looked at Shane and Jackie. The look said everything Marleau? Was Shane married to Marleau? They were still processing when they froze.

Ilya Rozanov walked in from the garden, Yuri and Iro following him, calling “Papa” while he spoke to them in Russian.

They stood stunned. Hayden reached for JJ’s hand, as if to make sure it was real. Shane’s expression made it clear how serious he had been minutes ago. Shane saw in their eyes that they now understood the mystery around the 'I' initial in the twins' middle names, which Shane insisted be included on all their tags, but refused to tell anyone what it stood for. It had become a running joke about what the 'I' meant. Even Pike's twins started saying "Yurii", "Iroi", and asking for a middle-name initial, since they found it cool. Maybe Hayden had a flash of suspicion two months ago, when an ESPN feature on the best moments of All-Star games and the twins started saying "papa" when Shane and Ilya were on screen. And Hayden had said, "Getting them already on French," and Shane only nodded.

Shane moved toward Ilya. “Help?”

“It’s okay. I’m going to put sunscreen on them again and wash their faces.”

Then Shane kissed him, in case they did not get the point.

Jackie was the first to step forward. “Ilya, nice to meet Shane’s husband—and the twins’ father.”

“Nice to meet you, Jackie. I’m sure Hayden doesn’t deserve you,” Ilya said, and Jackie blushed.

Shane saw Hayden push JJ forward.

“Rozanov. Nice...good...you’re back from Russia,” JJ said.

“Welcome to my house, and I’m sure we’ll be happy when the season starts,” Ilya said. JJ let out a shaky breath.

Hayden stepped forward. “Rozanov.”

“Pike.”

Hayden struggled for words until Jackie shot him a murderous look.

“Your kids are great.”

“Thanks. Yours seem great too.”

After that, the afternoon went smoothly. The Pike kids were fond of Ilya, and Hayden seemed to have a mini heart attack every time the twins or Arthur called him “Uncle Ilya,” as Ilya was the best entertainer.

JJ forgot his antagonism toward Ilya as he became very interested in Anita Vaughn.

“Not in New York? Your brother’s in the Stanley Cup Final,” he said.

“I’m not into hockey at all, even with a brother and friends in it,” Anita said.

“Have you tried having a boyfriend in hockey? Heard it is good dating hockey players,” JJ added.

The game was on, and at the end, when the final buzzer rang out, the Admirals were the Stanley Cup champions. Yuna said, “I told you, it was Scott Hunter’s year. Your brother’s so happy, Anita, he played well.”

“Yes, he is. Look, that’s my mom and dad going on the ice. They’re so cute,” Anita said.

“Pike, can you start the barbecue?” Ilya asked.

“Me? Why?”

Ilya gestured to Yuri, Iro, and Arthur, who were sleeping on him.

“Oh, yeah.”

As Hayden went to start the barbecue, Svetlana said, “Wait, what’s happening?”

Everyone turned to the screen. A man was walking onto the ice toward Scott.

“He doesn’t have a brother, he’s an orphan, right?” Rose said.

“Why are you smiling?” Shane asked Anita, and she murmured to herself, "You got it, Scotty."

At that exact moment, Scott took the man’s face and kissed him at center ice.

What happened next in the cottage was pure chaos—conversations overlapping, group chats exploding on every phone. The kids woke up; Arthur joined his mother; Yuri went to Shane; and Iro started to feel overwhelmed until Ilya stepped away with him.

Then Ilya came back, kissed Shane, and said, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Shane asked.

“For waiting for me, and for making this life possible,” Ilya said.

Packing the Montreal apartment would be the first time Ilya saw Shane's apartment in person, even though he had seen it plenty of times on video calls. Shane had already sold the infamous sex condo. But the day before closing the cottage to drive to Montreal, Shane asked his parents to take the twins in the morning and keep them until the next day before bedtime.

"No, why? We're here. Why do they have to leave? It's summer," Ilya said.

"Because I wanted to have time with you before everything becomes crazy," Shane said.

"We've got time; we're all here together."

"Ilya."

"Shane."

"I want to be fucked properly."

"So I didn't do that yesterday, or all of those days before, for the past two months?"

"Yes, but always between naps...I know you want to make up for lost time with the kids, but you are a bit glued to them."

" I missed them so much, I missed so much."

"I know, but I missed you too. I missed you, Ilya, too."

"I've missed you, you know. I'm here now."

"Yes, you're here, but you let the twins get all over us."

"Like what?"

"Sometimes they sleep with me, yes, but not every night. They know they need to sleep in their own beds, but you let them sleep with us every night."

"But they're sad."

"They're not that sad; they just know that you'll allow it," Shane said.

Ilya could not deny it; he was a little overbearing with Iro and totally under the spell of Yuri, the tornado. The only boundaries where he was inflexible were eating, keeping them safe from hurting themselves, and keeping them clean. At this point, Shane and Ilya had slept alone in their bed six times; they had snuck out during naptime for a moment.

"I just want us to have a little bit of 24 hours alone, and for you to fuck me, blow me, on every surface of the cottage, so I can be loud, and we can sleep together," Shane said.

Ilya agreed, though it took him a long time before letting the twins go with Yuna.

Ilya was in the TV room when Shane emerged with a jumbo bottle of lube in hand.

"You gonna use all that?" Ilya said, standing and walking toward him.

"Maybe."

Shane put the bottle on the coffee table and started kissing him—lips, jaw, trailing down his neck. "You know what'll make you feel good?" Shane said.

"Tell me," Ilya said, now his hand on Shane's waist, going up under his shirt.

"Taking care of me. Don't you love taking care of me?"

“Yes, I do. Do you love it? ”

“You take care of me so well, Ilya," Shane continued, his hand slipping inside Ilya's briefs.

"This what you want?" Ilya asked, starting to pant as Shane rubbed his cock.

"Yes," Shane stepped back and stripped himself entirely. He sat on the couch, legs spread, never breaking eye contact with Ilya. Ilya understood where this was supposed to go and did the same—taking all his clothes off, bending to kiss Shane's full mouth, sucking his tongue, and trailing kisses down his stomach. Ilya was on his knees between Shane's legs.

"Tell me how much you like me taking care of you," Ilya said before taking Shane's full length in his mouth. And Shane told him.

Yeah, like this, you're so good... I'd have waited years just for your mouth... You suck me so good, make me want you to fuck me more... don't stop.

Ilya was intensifying the pace, one hand on his own cock, one on Shane's pecs, twisting his left nipple. Shane was moaning, hand in Ilya's hair—one at first, then two—bending forward to fuck Ilya's face. "You're too good, Ilya."

Ilya stepped back. "I want to fuck you," he said. He stood, Shane's face now level with his cock. He lazily stroked himself, but went back to put Shane's legs up, ready to slick his fingers with lube. But when Shane's legs were up—Shane on his back—Ilya saw it, and Shane said, "Surprise."

Ilya caught his breath, looking at the base of the yellow plug. "So eager for me. How long's it been in?"

"Since this morning."

Ilya wanted to take the plug out and slide inside Shane in one stroke, but he was entranced. This was what the past two months had done to him—even during quick sex, the appetite he'd had for Shane before 2014 and the summer's reunion hunger had been replaced by a new kind of hunger, a need to make it last. Every time they'd fucked in the past two months, he'd made a mental note to do this or that next time, because now "next time" wasn't a year away but the next day. "Ilya, c'mon, get inside, stop teasing," Shane pleaded.

Ilya removed the plug, lube dripping from Shane's hole, and kissed it.

"Flip over—gonna show you how I take care of you."

Shane flipped, and Ilya positioned himself behind, adding lube to his cock, and slid in with one slow movement. "Oh fuck," Shane moaned.

"Fucking perfect slut for my cock. Perfect husband," Ilya said.

"Fuck Ilya, fuck me."

"What d'you want? Tell me."

"Make me be loud."

Ilya started setting the rhythm, faster and then harder. "Yeah, only you can take care of me." Shane would be the ruin of Ilya. He didn't know there could be something hotter than seeing his cock enter his husband, saying being taken care of was as good as this.

"Yes, every day, I'll take care of you, fuck you," Ilya said, continuing his frantic pace and reaching to kiss Shane's neck.

"Harder, give me more," Shane cried out, reaching for Ilya's thigh with his right hand to force the rhythm.

"Fuck, Shane, you're taking me so well—so good."

"I’ll always be good for you."

Ilya went harder, gave Shane more, pressing his head into the couch, sweating as Shane touched himself.

"You're gonna be a good husband and come for me, Shane."

Shane came hard, shouting nonsense words, out of breath. "Thank you... I love you... fuck, you are so good." Meanwhile, Ilya gave his last strokes until he came, collapsing on Shane, elevating into an astral plane. "I love you so much."

After, they tried to clean their mess, they made a note about an appropriate sex-proof duvet for the couch in Boston.

For the rest of their 30 hours alone in the cottage, Ilya continued to deliver: desk, kitchen counter, bathroom, guest room, against the window—letting Shane ride him, blowing, moaning, begging.

Tangled in each other that night, Shane traced circles on Ilya's hair.

"I can hear you thinking, Shane."

"It's nothing."

"Tell me anyway."

"You know...I think it's a lot for you."

"Yes, but now it's good. I'm here with you and our kids, and we'll be on the same team. No more separation."

"I know, but I'm not sure it's enough, Ilya."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes, when you get sad, I think your brain can feel sad even if everything's okay."

"Yes, but I'll be better for you, and for Yuri and Iro. I won't get sad."

"You can't control it. It's not your fault either. Maybe when we arrive in Boston, we can find someone that you can talk to about all of it."

"I don't want to talk about that piece of shit of Alexei."

"I know, but having a brother who wants to destroy you isn't nothing. You can always talk to me, but I think you need someone you can talk to about the things you can't tell me, and in your own language."

"Someone who speaks Russian?"

"Yes."

"I want to be a good father, Shane."

"You are, but you need to be good for yourself too."

"Okay, I'll find someone to talk to."

By early August, they were in Boston. They had driven from Montreal, and Shane was surprised that Ilya made no comment about the car. But when they arrived at the house in Boston and saw a Mercedes SUV and a McLaren in the garage—and he saw Ilya's wide smile—he understood that this would surely be the last time Ilya used this car.

Shane looked at him, and the bright orange car, and Ilya said, "Don't worry, only for special occasions and always under the speed limit."

"Our kids will never get inside it," Shane said, and Ilya opened the door to unbuckle the children and told them in Russian, "Don't listen to Daddy, you love nice cars, not boring cars."

"Stop bad-mouthing me in Russian," Shane had said.

In the house, everything had been unpacked by a professional service. That morning, the Boston Bears had published their photos—together and separately—announcing they were joining the team, and Ilya was back as captain.

They had turned off their phones after the first hour of pure media chaos, with his mother and Farah letting them know the number of interview requests was overwhelming. The fans in Boston were exhilarated about the return of their captain and the acquisition of Shane, but Montreal fans were disappointed and called him a traitor. He had told JJ and Hayden one week before the announcement, but by this time, they had already figured it out and had time to deal with it. They kept negative comments to themselves and even offered, "You really look happy, very happy," and he was.

Pre-season had started, and Cliff took his job as shield very seriously. Both he and Shane were alternate captains. Coach LeClaire had opted for Shane as center and Ilya as his left wing. The new rookie, Luca Haas, looked starstruck by Ilya, and there was a slight crush underneath it, but soon enough, he became Ilya's protégé, following him everywhere.

In September, they had Anita and Svetlana over for dinner at home.
"Wish they'd go to day care," Shane said.

"It's 'cause you're an only child. They're not bored, they've got each other," Ilya said.

"I know, but still, it's good they know other kids. Not to feel like a secret. It's not good," Shane said.

"You could send them somewhere private," Svetlana said.

"How?"

"I have so many men clients with second families, picking up secret kids, buying cars for their mistresses and teenage children. I'm not talking about anonymous men, but rich and public ones. You're famous, yes, but not Beyoncé famous, baby. Hockey famous. So you gotta keep them away from hockey-obsessed people," Svetlana said.

"I know somewhere, definitely not hockey people," Anita said.

She took her phone. "Here, I sent it," she said, sending the link to their group chat, the Twin Story, where grandparents, godparents, Shane, and Ilya shared photos and news about the twins.

"The school is run by a couple. She was one of my professors at Harvard, and her wife's a diplomat at the U.N. She's Indian, her wife's from Slovakia. When they adopted their kid, they wanted a school that was kind of elite but multicultural and multilingual, like the U.N. school in New York," Anita said.

Shane, Ilya, and Svetlana were scrolling. Anita continued, "So they basically copied the model, added a little Montessori, but smaller. Now they've got pre-K to middle school. It's in high demand, two-year waiting list," Anita said.

"But what about the press, if people start talking?"

"They've got kids from government, foreign presidents, even royalty. Everyone on payroll has signed an NDA. I only know about it because some parents talked about it publicly. It's very liberal virtue signaling: 'We're privileged and rich, but we value diversity,'" Anita said.

"So you want us to send our kids to some rich people's performative school?" Ilya said.

"Let's be honest, guys, you both are far from some anarchist, with your luxury house, and full garage of luxury cars minus Shane's sensible one. You've really got three choices," Anita said. "First, you can keep the kids at home with the nanny, no interactions, no friends, and the risk of becoming sociopathic twins like the one in American Horror Story. Second, there's Washington Academic Day Care. That's where all of the rich families send their kids. They have strict NDA rules, which is imperative. However, most of the parents are Republicans. It will be very much like Montréal's locker room, except they are more polite, come from old money, and are passive-aggressive with a degree from M.I.T. Yuri and Iro would for sure be ones of the only non-white children. The staff signs NDAs, but I doubt the parents will keep quiet. You'd have to avoid going together or even pretend one of you is just the godfather."

"Third, you could send them to Rosa and James, named after Rosa Luxemburg and James Baldwin, by the way. Most parents there couldn't care less about hockey, and the white parents there are the 'I don't have POC friends, but I voted for Obama twice' type. Let me read their website: '41% of our students have at least one BIPOC parent, 43% have one parent who's a citizen from outside North America, and 26% have queer parents.' Oh, look at this, they even think about the poor: 15% of their students are on full scholarship."

"You two will be the minority there. Everybody went to Ivy League or Ivy League-adjacent schools; they even have a Swedish princess kid," Svetlana said.

"Choice 3," Shane said.

"Yup, choice 3, tomorrow we're enrolling them" Ilya said.

"Wait a minute. Did you hear what I said? Founded by a Harvard professor, aka you need to pass an interview test to get in," Anita said.

"What? We are rich and famous." Ilya said

"Are you Nobel-famous? Fill out the form," Anita said.

At the end of September, Yuna and David came to spend the weekend and brought the documents from the lawyer. The twins' new birth certificates listed Ilya as the second parent. Ilya looked at the document as if it were the most precious piece of paper. He made a copy to keep in their office and locked the rest, along with their important papers, in the safe, next to their marriage license.

Two weeks after the dinner with Anita and Svetlana, they had an interview with Rosa and James Global School. The head of admissions, Mrs. Meg Haake, introduced herself. She was Dutch and had been living in the U.S. for 15 years. She explained the school's philosophy: inclusivity, curiosity, and the development of global citizens. Unlike Washington Academy, they don't believe in making children take IQ tests or any other tests to enroll. They offer six language paths, the same as the official languages of the U.N.: French, Russian, Spanish, English, Arabic, and Chinese. If four or more children are interested, they could build a curriculum for other languages. They currently have a specific extracurricular program for students in Japanese, Swahili, Hindi, and ESL. The tuition was $45,000 per year, per child, which excluded extra fees. There was an additional mandatory $6,000 per family to contribute to scholarships for low-income kids, but the school allowed a generous 10% discount for the third child.

The school has a very strict rule that was established by the founder from the very beginning about any incidents involving parents and students around racism, homophobia, and classism. She told them they had expelled a middle school student who made comments about other children coming for a scholarship. Shane and Ilya thought the comments were mostly addressed to them as hockey players to test their values, as she said, "We know that even people from minority groups can have internalized bias."

They visited the school, liked it, and appreciated that it was true to their website; it was, in fact, a very diverse school.
When they left, Ilya told Shane, "I think we made a good impression, but if not, we can sign a check."
"Do you think they will take a bribe? I'm sure they'll put that in the 'no column' for us."

Five days later, Anita wrote in the group chat.

Anita:  So?
Shane: They put us on the waiting list. They asked questions about violent sports. I don't know; maybe they think we're not good enough. But they liked the twins.
Svetlana: Waiting list? For my godchild? Who do I have to kill?
Ilya: Told Shane we should sign a check, everyone like bribes.
David: It would reflect poorly on the people in charge of educating children.
Yuna: Maybe we could write a letter. It works well with this kind of school.
Anita: Fuck that shit, leave it to me.
Anita: Sorry, Yuna.
Anita: And David.

Three days later, they received the admission email for Yuri and Iro. They returned to the school, brought all the required papers, and signed an NDA to protect the privacy of the other children and their parents. They greatly appreciated the NDA's provision regarding posting pictures on social media without parental approval. Ilya felt a rush of emotion and happiness as he signed the documents and listed Svetlana, Anita, Marleau, and Shane's parents as emergency contacts. What was this feeling? Responsibility, but not the heavy, dreaded kind he had known during those years in Moscow, taking care of his father. This was something different.

He and Shane, husbands, fathers, and teammates, were building their family together, signing papers side by side and learning about their responsibilities. He signed a check paying the twins' full tuition. The check was from the bank account under both of their names. Before leaving for Moscow, his life's responsibilities had been hockey, parties, occasional sponsorships, and the calls from Alexei. But this was different. This was the responsibility for his children’s lives.

His children were going to their small, expensive pre-K, where teachers would speak to them in Russian about colors. They would go to other children’s birthday parties, and people would tell Ilya, “Your children are so cute,” or, “They have your eyes.” And it was true. They both had the same eye color as Ilya. Shane said it matched his cousin’s father’s eyes. As more days passed, friends and family began to notice that Yuri mimicked Ilya’s expressions, becoming his little twin. She was also a terror, full of energy and always pushing her brother into adventures that could easily fall into the category of “zero sense of self-preservation.”

On their way out, they saw a flyer by the library announcing a special reading by Anita Vaughn, a National Book Award winner and MacArthur Genius.

Ilya glanced at Shane. "This doesn't count as a bribe?"

Shane grinned. "I think the currency here is a bit different."

Ilya laughed. "Shane, we just signed a 100K check."

Ilya:  [picture of the flyer] Anita bribed them.
David: Can I attend?
Yuna: Amazing godmother.
Svetlana: Godmothers are always the best.
Anita: Anything for my babies.
Hayden: Making me and Cliff pass as useless.
Svetlana: You both are dead weight.
Cliff: I could give a reading on how to knock off a center.
Svetlana: Proving my fucking point. You also need to know how to read to do readings, fuckface.
Svetlana: Sorry Yuna.
Svetlana: And David.

***

LoneStar51

Boston Globe  “A Captain Returns: Rozanov’s Homecoming and Hollander’s Arrival Ignite Boston”

ESPN  “From Rivals to Teammates: Hollander Joins Rozanov in Boston Blockbuster Move”

TSN  “Voyageurs Lose Their Captain: Hollander Departs as Rozanov Reclaims Boston Leadership”

The Athletic  “Three Years Later: How Rozanov’s Return and Hollander’s Signing Reshapes the MHL Landscape”

Journal de Montréal  “Trahison ou gestion ratée? Le départ de Hollander fait rage à Montréal”

New York Times  “Grief, Loyalty, and a New Beginning: Rozanov Returns, Hollander Leaves Montreal Behind”

It had been a fucking nightmare since the return of that rat Rozanov, the fucking commie, and now he had to deal with the other weirdo, Hollander. Every single day since July, he woke up, and his phone was full of them: pictures, always smiling.

And after that, it only got worse. Just one month into the season, the Boston Bears were at the top of their division, and the media was eating up the Hollonov story. Of course, they gave them a name: two immigrants in the fucking MHL.

The Athletic  “Boston’s Perfect Storm: Rozanov’s Discipline, Hollander’s Vision, and a Line No One Can Read”

ESPN  “Top of the Table: Rozanov and Hollander Outpace the League—But Kent Stays in Reach”

TSN  “Captain and Alternate, In Sync: Boston’s Leadership Core in Driving Early Dominance”

Sports Illustrated  “More Than a Line: How Rozanov, Hollander, and Rookie Luca Haas Are Rewriting Boston Hockey”

Boston Herald  “From Rivalry to Rhythm: Rozanov and Hollander Play Like They Never Stopped”

Vogue (Sports & Culture)  “Box Seats and Book Clubs: Anita Vaughn, Rose Landry, and Boston’s New Power Orbit”

People Magazine  “Friendship, Rumors, and Late Nights in Boston: Inside Hollander and Rozanov’s Expanding Circle”

Vulture  “From Power Plays to Public Fascination: Why Hollanov Can’t Stay Out of the Spotlight”

But what really pushed him to get serious about finding a way to send the fucking commie back home, and whatever secret Jane he was hiding so closely, was the fucking interview last month.

The Athletic “We Just Know Where the Other Is”: Inside the Hollander–Rozanov Connection in  
By Devin Hurtson
There was a moment, midway through the conversation, when Shane Hollander started answering a question about structure and systems—the kind of answer that would have satisfied any coach watching a tape—and Ilya Rozanov cut in, smiling. "He's lying," Rozanov said, grinning, before turning to Shane. "We don't think that much, really."

Hollander didn’t look surprised. He didn’t even look annoyed. If anything, he looked like he expected it.
"That’s not true," he replied, his tone even. "We do think, just not... like that."
The exchange landed somewhere between deflection and explanation, which, over the course of an hour, began to feel like the most accurate way to describe their dynamic. On the ice, it reads as instinct. Off it, it reads as something built more deliberately over time.

A month into the season, the results were difficult to ignore. Both sat at the top of the League in points and goals, and moved through games with a kind of shared timing that felt less like chemistry and more like recognition. Plays developed before they were visible. Space appeared where there should have been none. They didn’t look for each other so much as assume the other would be there.

When asked to explain it, neither reached for anything abstract.

"It’s repetition and trust," Hollander said, as if stating the obvious. The version of their relationship now was markedly different from the one that had defined them earlier in their careers, when they occupied opposite sides of a rivalry that, by most accounts, was as intense off the ice as it was on it. Both acknowledged that history, but neither seemed particularly invested in it anymore. "That was bigger outside than inside," Hollander said, referring to the rivalry between them. Rozanov nodded. "Media loves stories, and we were young. It was easy to build something like that."
"We’re not eighteen anymore," Hollander added with a smile, looking a little older, a little wiser.  Rozanov left the League in 2014, returning to Russia to play in the KHL in order to take care of his father. It wasn’t something he elaborated on easily, but he didn’t avoid it either. "It wasn’t a hockey decision," he said simply. "It was family." His father had passed away earlier that year. The return to Boston followed soon after. "I’m grateful," Rozanov said, and this time there was no humor in his voice. "Not everyone gets to come back to the same place like this."
Hollander’s path to Boston came under very different circumstances. After two Cups with the Montreal Voyageurs, where he served as captain, he entered free agency and chose to leave. It was a decision that continues to generate strong reactions in Montreal. "I wanted to move forward," Hollander said, his words careful.
"I’m grateful for everything there. The organization, the guys, what we built. That doesn’t change just because I’m here now."

For all of the attention placed on their partnership, they were careful to redirect it outward. They noted the addition of rookie Luca Haas to the second line, the presence of Marleau as an alternate captain, and the depth that allowed their line to function without carrying the entire system.

When the conversation turned to their current position atop the League scoring charts, the dynamic sharpened slightly. "I think I’m first," Hollander said, feigning innocence. Rozanov looked at him, amused.

"You think a lot of things," Rozanov retorted, not quite hiding his amusement. "Stats say..." Hollander began, but Rozanov cut him off with a wave of his hand. "It doesn’t matter," he said, his voice softer now. "It’s always us two." "And then everyone else," he added after a beat. Hollander didn’t disagree. He just exhaled, something close to a laugh under his breath. It was the closest either of them came to acknowledging the separation that had already begun to define the season.

They have been seen outside the rink often, though they have rarely spoken about it. Restaurants, museums, community spaces. Always together. Sometimes with others. Always without explanation. Hollander offered an explanation that seemed simple. "We respect each other," Hollander said, his tone steady. "As players, as people." Rozanov nodded.

"Especially as a person," he said, and for the first time, there was nothing more to add.

The fuckin fucker, he had said it. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, voice softer now. “It’s always us two.” “And then everyone else,” he adds after a beat.

Who does he think he is, coming back and deciding he's worth more than anyone else, him and boring Hollander? They both need to go and leave the league to real Canadians and Americans.

He was determined and spent every free minute combing through social media trying to find something. He checked Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, tabloid photos, but he still couldn't put his hands on anything. He tried to scrutinize the box during games and watched the people in the stands, but found nothing. Still, he was sure, like BronzeHorseman, that Rozanov was hiding something. Since he came back, he acted like he had better things to do off the ice.

The answer to his search came by looking through the Hollonov tag. The two were always joined at the hip: Marleau, Carmichael, St-Simon, then Boizeau and Pike. He scrolled and scrolled. It took him two weeks, but he finally found something: a photo with a hideous shirt with a dragon. He couldn't forget the hideous shirt from Rozanov at the 2014 All-Star Game bar, and in one of Pike’s pictures, the same shirt was next to a lake, with Hollander sitting on it in the corner.

He knew where the picture was taken: Hollander’s cottage, the one featured on ESPN, where he bragged about yoga and the cottage bought with his million-dollar deal. For anyone else, Rozanov being at his alternate captain's cottage might have been fine, but the photo was from summer 2016. What the fuck was Rozanov’s shirt doing in a picture from September 2016 at Hollander’s house? He checked the calendar and saw that Rozanov was in Russia at that time for the season. So when, and more importantly, why had Rozanov come, or met Hollander, to end up with the shirt there?

He went back to the chat and sent the picture to BronzeHorseman,

LoneStar51: I think something fishy is going on between Hollander and Rozanov. Look at the shirt.
BronzeHorseman35: Fuck yes
LoneStar51: I can find something in a week. I'll sniff around.

He had three days off and went to Montreal. Alexei had three old mates on the Voyageurs team, so he made sure to go when they would have a few days off from games. He pretended he was visiting his family. He invited them to a club, and of course, they said yes. He waited for them to get drunk enough not to notice that he was interrogating them, but not too drunk answer. He started with bait: "Damn, losing your captain for Boston. He would rather be under Rozanov than stay with you?" he'd said.

"Fuck off, he's a fucking traitor," Drapeau had said.

"Good riddance, he was fucking annoying and boring, and soft," Comeau said. "Don't need a fucking fairy playing single dad."

"Single dad?" he had asked.

Comeau and Fuller weren't listening, just drinking and continuing to ramble. "Sure, he went to Boston to fuck his fucking Boston Lily, fumbled Rose Landry for her, I'm sure," Fuller had said.

"So, Hollander has children? Why does nobody know?"

"It's a fucking secret, shouldn't have even told you. His mom made us all sign an NDA, from the GM to the fucking janitor. No one ever saw them. I only caught them once," Comeau mumbled, totally drunk.

“Loser didn't want anyone to know Lily left him with two kids, surely tired and went to find a real man," Drapeau said.

"So you don't even know their names?" he had asked.

"Something Chinese, foreign name, Ira something," Comeau said,  totally drunk, as he just poured more whiskey into his glass.

"No, no, I saw it the last time Pike had a bunch of his kids’ ugly drawings in his locker, and one of them was the two with Hollander. Fucking softy. Wait, I took a photo," Comeau said.

LoneStar51 was proud of his work. He hadn't drunk yet, but a hot blonde with big boobs was alone at the bar, so he decided to do what he knew best, and celebrate at his hotel with her, but before he opened his chat with BronzeHorseman

LoneStar51: Hollander has a big secret, maybe Rozanov is protecting it too.
LoneStar51: + he had a girlfriend named Lily in Boston.
BronzeHorseman35: What is the secret?

He sent the picture he took from Comeau's phone to BronzeHorseman: an ugly pastel-colored drawing of one girl, one boy, and a man in the middle, all in Voyageurs colors with number 24 jerseys, and at the bottom, written in large letters,

Yuri I. 🩵 uncle Shane 🩵 Iro I.

He closed the chat and clicked on the notification alert attached to his name. He loved seeing himself in the media, even if most of those idiots only ever hyped up Chinese like Hollander, loudmouths commie like Rozanov, or fucking boring Scott Hunter. Still, attention was attention.

LoneStar51 clicked on the TMZ Sports link to take a closer look at himself in the picture.

Dallas Kent spotted with Voyageurs Comeau and Drapeau in Montreal.

Chapter End Notes

One more chapter to go, might come in 10 days (after the commencement ceremony season is over)

Chapter 5: Drop-off

Chapter Notes

CW: mention of rape, sexual assault, and sex trafficking (aka Dallas Kent)
Huge thanks to my beta readers Witwandwolfbird, and Faithella

September 2017

The apartment Ilya had rented downtown had only been used for team parties. On the road, they did not room together, but sometimes Ilya, who was with Marleau, and Shane, who was with Luca, would tell Shane to come to his room and send Marleau away for a few minutes so they could make out.

The rhythm at home was smooth, but the question of next year and privacy/semi-secrecy lingered. Shane had said he wanted to wait until the adoption was finalized and that Yuna and Farah's PR contingency would be ready in case of a leak. They both agreed that they did not want the kids in the public eye. When Yuri and Iro came to home games with Svetlana, Anita, or Shane's parents wearing Ilya and Shane's jerseys, they were in a private box and, for the moment, under the media radar.

Shane and Ilya tried their best to drop off or pick up the twins as often as they could, as the school was a 20-minute drive from their house in the opposite direction from the practice rink. Only three weeks in, Yuri and Iro had made new friends, and they were even invited to one of the kids' birthdays in two weeks.

This morning was already off to a slow start. Ilya was negotiating like a SWAT agent in a hostage situation with Yuri and Iro, both of whom refused to put on their mandatory school polo shirts. Ilya already caved in for Yuri's Spider-Man pants and Iro's rain pants (even though it wasn't raining). They had to be in the car in 15 minutes to drop Shane off at Marleau's so he could go to the rink for a private training session with Luca.

“Princess, you can't go to school in full Spider-Man. C'mon, put your shirt on,” Ilya pleaded.

Now, Yuri and Iro were both shirtless, running around instead of getting ready. Since August, Ilya had been seeing Galina, a Russian therapist. Before tackling the long list of his childhood trauma, they were working on his cautiousness around discipline and boundaries with the twins, and how he couldn't let go of the guilt from missing those first two years.

As the clock ticked, Shane stepped in, and in those moments, he never looked more like Yuna. He gave Ilya a look that meant, at some point, you'll need to be more firm with them.

Shane clapped his hands. “So, no t-shirt? That's okay, you two can stay here today with Nina. Guess it's not a drawing day.”

“No, no!” Yuri and Iro started yelling. “We're gonna do a new game with Tatiana at school,” Yuri said.

“I'm sorry, baby, but you can't go to school without the polo. See, your papa and I are going to work, we are wearing the right clothes with our names on them. But if you don't want to put it on the polo, you can stay here with Nina.” Iro caved first, reaching for Ilya to put the polo on for him. Yuri, stubborn, didn't move at first, so Shane kept going.

“Okay, we're leaving when the big clock's hand is on 5. Everyone with the right t-shirt can come; the rest stay with Nina.”

That did it, Yuri reached for Ilya to put the t-shirt on. Shane passed Ilya and kissed him on the cheek. “You'll get there,” he said as he left the twins bedroom.

Ilya and the twins arrived at school right on time. As he was entering the classroom, he heard a woman speaking Russian: “We’re already late, I’ll look at it later, my love.” When he turned, he saw a tall Black woman with long braids, her skin lighter than Anita’s, and eyes of different colors. The left was hazel and the other light brown. She continued, turning to the little one that Ilya had seen with Yuri and Iro, “Let’s go, baby.” Ilya lingered a little bit in the corridor, waiting for her to come out of the room.

“Hello,” he said in Russian.
"Hey, Ilya."

"Sorry, I don't know your name."
"I'm Zahra, Zahra Tchernovanov, Tatiana's mom."

"Nice to meet you. We got Tatiana's birthday invite," Ilya said.

"You got time for coffee? I've got a couple of hours before work," she said.

"I'm heading into the city too. Let's grab coffee somewhere on the way."

They drove their own cars and went to a coffee shop convenient for both of them.

"Yuri and Iro didn't say that Tatiana was Russian," Ilya said

"Yeah, half. People don't think I am, even with my accent, 'cause I'm Black. My mom's Sudanese. She studied in the Soviet Union, where she met my dad; I was born and raised in St. Petersburg."

"You've been here a long time. Your English is perfect."

"Came for university at sixteen."

"Sixteen?"

"Yeah, I was a bit ahead, but I had an advantage. Both my parents teach physics and math at St Petersburg University."

"And you stayed?"

"Yep. Got into engineering, started my own little company, and met my wife four years ago. You know how it is in Russia. I used to go every summer and at the New Year. When we got married three years ago, I was already close to U.S. citizenship. Now, when I go, I only stay two weeks, and I'm always careful. I'm not famous like you, so it's different, less risk."

"Your wife, she's Russian too?"

"No, she's Afro-American. Her firm opened a new office in Boston, and she's one of the main architects there. Before we were in New York, we were planning to enroll Tatiana in the UN International School. She knew some parents here, and with our background, we wanted her in this kind of environment. And now I get to meet the great Rozanov."

"Thought everyone here didn't care about sports."

"I'm Russian, of course I know the Moscow Sokol star. Are you kidding? Even if you did destroy my team!"

"Of course you supported St. Petersburg. I'm so happy to meet you. The other parents are a bit older."

She smiled and said, "I have great skin care. I am thirty, which makes me younger than Scott Hunter."

"He is a dinosaur."

"Stop! My wife is thirty-six and she is not a dinosaur."

"Your daughter looks very much like you."

"My brother and I look very much alike. He was the donor so my wife could be pregnant. I like being a mother very much, but pregnancy was a hard no for me. Yuri and Iro look like both of you, too. Did you find a close-looking donor?"

"No, Shane's cousin passed away, and he was Wasian, and so is the mother of the twins. He was Japanese-Scandinavian, and their mother is German-Japanese. She wanted them to be adopted, so we did at birth."

"Epic story."

"More convenient for lesbians."

"What can I say, dick and sperm are abundant and low in value."

Ilya laughed.

They talked about raising their kids to be bilingual and cross-cultural parenting, and Zahra added him to a group chat of Queer Parents on Signal. She told him that she could give him tips on how to not be a problematic, white, Russian dad to bi-racial children, based on her experience of having the best papa ever.

When Ilya joined Shane at the rink later, he added Shane to the signal group chat 'Queer Family', which was 60% memes, 20% 'straight people are weird' comments, and the rest was life-saving parenting advice. On their drive home, he talked about Zahra and her wife, Norma Greene.

"Wait, Ilya, is that her?" Shane asked, showing him the picture.

"Yeah, that's her."

"Oh my God, she's not just an architect. She designs buildings, Ilya. Museums! Her firm's built stuff all over the world. They're even working on the new Smithsonian on the National Mall right now!"

"Ah, Mr. Real Estate. Sorry, I don't read Architecture Digest, my love. But Russians have great taste. Of course she married an architect genius," Ilya said.

"We gotta go with the twins to their daughter's birthday. I bet their house is wild."

"Thank God they made us sign that NDA. You're the one who's nosy about the other parents."

They went to the birthday with Yuri and Iro, and the house was amazing indeed. It wasn't big or flashy, but every space was designed beautifully. The windows followed the sun to maximize the light. Shane stuck close to Norma, who explained how she tried to blend the feeling of Louisiana, where she's from, with Zahra's St. Petersburg roots, using metal.Zahra engineered the room's acoustics to create a lovely ambiance, and because they're both of African descent, there was mahogany and baobab everywhere, tracing lineage between them.

Ilya sent a message to the group chat.

Ilya: I think my husband's going to leave me for a lesbian architect. [Picture of Shane in an in-depth conversation with Norma.]
David: Her firm has a building next to The Aqua Tower in Chicago.
David: And the Museum of Contemporary Art in Denver.
Ilya: Thank you for your support David.
Svetlana: Her wife's super hot too. She wouldn't abandon a Russian for a Canadian.
Shane: Rude.

***

November, 21 2017 - Chicago

Shane was keeping an eye on Ilya; something was off, and he could not point out what. It wasn't depression off, or parenting off, but he could tell that Ilya was keeping something from him. He ran over the possibilities, the cheating one crossed his mind for half a second, but he knew Ilya would never. They were on the same team, and now, close to Thanksgiving break, so far their season had been going well; the kids were doing very well, and life was generally going well.  

They kept their family out of the media's eyes and were very good at keeping their teammates who did not know about their relationship out of the circle with the help of Marleau, St-Simon, Carmichael, and Luca Haas. Hass happened to be a great last-minute babysitter, but of course Marleau was keeping close eyes on him because, as he said, "I am the favorite uncle, get in line, Haasy, trying to steal them from me."

They did not have a money problem, far from it. Ilya's immigration status was advancing; his petition for an extraordinary ability green card had been submitted and approved, and now it's just a matter of months before he receives the actual green card.

Tomorrow they were supposed to go to Ottawa for American Thanksgiving break to stay and have time with his parents and the Pike's, but a few days ago Ilya had said that he needed to stay in Boston for a vague legal immigration issue. "Okay, we can ask my parents to come instead," Shane had said, but Ilya protested emphatically that the twins need to see their other godparent, namely Hayden, as if it was not the most suspicious thing Shane had heard.

Something was off. Shane asked more questions, changed strategy, tried to seduce him in bed, petting him. The closest he came to was after his most skilled blowjob two weeks ago, and Ilya had answered: "Just trust me, my sweetheart, nothing for you to worry about."

But now, as they were getting off their gear in Chicago, he scanned Ilya, who was doing something peculiar. Ilya was trying to mask an emotion, worried but also excited. They had lost 3-2, but it was not a devastating loss, and it was still early in the season. Shane checked his phone; everything was great. Don's children were on their way back to the hotel. They had talked to them before the game, but as usual, they sent a voicemail before going to bed, when both of them are on the road.

He would not ask again because he had told Ilya that he trusted him, but still, he could not chase away the worry. The post-game interview was done, the shower was done, and everyone was dressed and ready to hop the bus to go back to the hotel to drown their sorrows at their hotel or some club. Shane would definitely be part of the former rather than the latter, but usually, Ilya went out with the team on the road, and Shane did not mind enjoying the hotel room by himself as he was not rooming with Ilya.

"What the actual fucking fuck?" Carmichael shouted, taking aback Shane, who was ready to leave. Everyone rallied around Carmichael's phone, going silent at first, and then the locker room exploded in chaos. "Wow," "fuck","wait scrolled back," and some visibly not enjoying Carmichael's phone, grabbed their own to pull up the news. "What is it?" Shane asked, and St-Simon turned his phone to him, an article from Reuters.

“Dallas Kent Found Dead in Suspected Overdose in Toronto; Police Investigating Possible Human Trafficking Links”

Shane started scrolling down the article.

Dallas Kent, 22, draft pick and center for Toronto’s star line, was expected to be a 2018 MHL All-Star. Kent, who had recently come under scrutiny following allegations of drug-facilitated sexual assault, was found unresponsive by an assistant coach after failing to appear at practice and not responding to calls or messages after a 4-day break.

Public scrutiny surrounding Kent intensified earlier this season after photos and videos circulated online allegedly showing the player leaving a Montreal bar with an unidentified woman who appeared barely conscious. While the footage sparked widespread concern and speculation on social media, the woman was never publicly identified, and no formal complaint related to the incident was ever filed.

Shane scrolled further, reading the details.

According to the initial Toronto Police report, investigators discovered a large quantity of cash at Kent’s residence, along with gamma hydroxybutyrate (GHB) commonly associated with sexual assault cases. Authorities also confirmed that Kent had become part of a joint U.S.-Canadian investigation tied to alleged money laundering and human trafficking operations.

Police stated they were investigating the possibility of a staged overdose, though officials could not yet confirm whether the overdose itself had been genuine. During a press conference, investigators acknowledged finding messages on Kent’s phone that appeared to reference the assault allegations directly. According to a source close to the case, some exchanges allegedly involved both MHL and Toronto officials, raising questions about how much league personnel knew.

And as Shane reached the end of the article, while the locker room sounded like the reading room of the Boston Public Library, he saw their names mentioned in the final paragraphs.

“Since the start of the season, Dallas Kent had reportedly displayed increasingly erratic behavior. Several sources described an apparent fixation on Boston Bears players Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, with more than 600 social media posts targeting the pair throughout the season. One month ago, after a post that drew widespread backlash from commentators and fans for racially and ethnically charged remarks directed at the duo, the MHL reportedly pressured Toronto management to force Kent to deactivate his account and issued the player a two-game suspension.”

Shane put his head up and saw it. Everyone was shocked, reading in silence, but Ilya was not reading. Shane could read Ilya's face: this was not news to him.

***

November 20, 2017 - Wenham, MA

"Are you certain about this?" Arya asked Ilya.

He replied, "Yes," more certain than ever before.

Today was the culmination of months of false starts and adrenaline. When Ilya assured Shane that he would take care of things, namely his brother, he meant it— for Shane, their children, and himself. He intended to handle the situation without burdening Shane. Ilya was diligent and goal-obsessed, much as he was when he decided at age 13 that hockey would be his escape from Russia.

Since June, Ilya had kept in regular contact with O via chat and occasionally by phone, when the voice was distorted for privacy. He avoided the house phone when the children, nanny, Maud, or the chef were around. Once a week, Ilya drove his McLaren to a secluded lot or park, laptop in hand, locked the door, and communicated privately for up to 20 minutes. On Shane's drop-off days, he would leave early for practice and stop by their apartment downtown for these talks.

"Your brother is in Ottawa. We’re lucky the visa slowed him down," O had told him in August. They had learned Alexei had planned to go to Ottawa since June after finding out Ilya had left—he had even booked a flight. He might have forgotten his visa had expired. By the time he arrived in Ottawa, they were moving to Boston. At that point, Alexei was in Canada and needed another visa to enter the U.S.

Ilya considered driving to Ottawa to confront Alexei directly. However, he realized patience and secrecy were essential, preferring to monitor Alexei and act only when it was to his advantage, using information Alexei didn't know he had.

In mid-September, they told him that Alexei was in Boston, but they had eyes on him. Ilya had asked, "Where, tell me where?"

"No, we are professionals, and you will jeopardize this operation. It's better if he thinks you are oblivious of his moves, which makes him more careless," O answered.

"What did you do to Dallas Kent?" O asked him in late September.

Dallas Kent did not matter to Ilya. Ilya did not do anything to Kent. Ilya left MHL in 2014, a year after Kent was drafted. Kent was known to be a racist homophobe on ice and a rapist off ice. Everyone saw Kent talking trash on Twitter about him, Shane, and Scott Hunter. Kent was just another star center, full of bitterness that he would never be at Shane's or Ilya’s level of fame, barely known outside Toronto, too corrosive for sponsors, and not good-looking.

"Why?" Ilya asked.

"It seems he had been in contact with your brother on some forum since March," O answered.

"What the fuck, if he hated me, why would he talk to Alexei? He is fucking racist, xenophobic, and hates Russians."

"He didn't know that he was talking to your brother, but your brother very much knows he was talking to him. Between the two of them, your brother was the mastermind."

"So what about Alexei? He had Kent write tweets. What the fuck did he think would happen?"

"The tweet part is not tied to your brother, but Kent had access to people and information about Shane."

"Shane? How?"

O explained that Kent was friends with Comeau and Drapeau. Ilya recalled the TMZ photo of Comeau, Drapeau, and Kent at a bar, the same night a picture showed him leaving with a semi-unconscious woman. Shane and Ilya discussed the group, and Shane described them as "birds of a feather." Ilya knew Comeau and Drapeau were unaware of his relationship with Shane. Shane said everyone signed NDAs about fatherhood, and the public believed he was a single father.

"They signed an NDA."

"They did, but they aren't respecting it. We know that they told him on a drunken night about the twins, and he gave information to Alexei."

Ilya panicked as anger surged. Alexei knew about the twins, but did he know that both twins were Shane's and Ilya's, or about their marriage?

"Did he know?"

"Kent definitely didn't know, but your brother tried in Ottawa to access public birth records. Your kids weren’t born there, and he isn’t a resident or a Canadian citizen, so he was sent back. We believe he linked your tattoo and the kids' names. Kent sent him this picture," O said. An image on the screen showed a drawing by Jade that Shane kept on the fridge.

"Is he coming for my children?" Ilya asked, his voice trailing.

"We believed that he had modified the plan as he couldn't prove anything, either for blackmail or otherwise. Yes, trying to access or hurt people you care about is what he was planning, but we have the advantage that he is alone in the actual task. Kent could not be far from Toronto. He had limited financial and legal means here if he wanted to get back to Russia."

When Arya asked if he was sure, he was. Any empathy for Alexei died when Alexei came for his family. Shane could defend himself against Alexei, but what if Alexei kidnapped them? Ilya imagined Iro and Yuri scared, Alexei speaking in Russian and lying, their hands clutching each other. Would he keep them in a dark room? Iro needed starlight on the ceiling to sleep, and Yuri needed three kisses before bed: one from daddy, one from papa, and one from Iro, left cheek, right cheek, and forehead, always in order.

"Okay," Arya said, "You want me to go with you?"

"No, you did enough," Ilya answered.

"Okay, will be here, don't get carried away."

Ilya took several sips from his water bottle and set it on the coffee table. He watched Arya, who remained calm on the couch in the room, which looked comfortable except for its lack of windows. One wall had a large one-way mirror giving on another room, also windowless. Ilya stood, pushed the door, and entered the other room; the door closed firmly behind him.

Ilya sat, keeping a distance from the bed where the man lay restrained at the ankles and wrists. He turned his head toward Ilya, recognizing how Ilya had crossed his legs.

"How long are you going to keep me here, you fucking fag?" Alexei yelled at him.

Arya loved her little catharsis denouement and settled comfortably on the couch with a perfect view of the room and her two brothers. The place in the Boston suburb was a well-soundproofed, windowless basement in a former meat shop, now transformed into a kidnapping setting. The bedroom, where the asset was kept, could be set to sound on or off, minimizing the headache from his yelling. It was the last moment between Cane and Abel—a fratricidal tragedy.

She had kept an eye on Alexei from Moscow, whose visa issue slowed progress by weeks. Once all of the players in this biblical tragedy were in Boston, events moved quickly. Alexei, resourceful but not impulsive, sought to accelerate and fund revenge against his brother by returning to the organization. He didn’t have Ilya yet, but he gained a Canadian citizen hockey player with easy border access. The organization calculated its moves; Kent, tolerant of crime, did not need much convincing to launder money or travel with trafficked women on private flights.  

Kent was careless, and Kat, one of the other agents, easily tracked him. She played a drunk woman at the bar, wearing a fake bra, and avoided cameras. Using her blond wig with fringe, she acted too intoxicated to leave alone. She guided Kent to the right street so another person could photograph them for the media. In the hotel, Kat drugged Kent’s drink, making him drowsy. She stole his phone, used facial recognition to unlock it, and installed spyware to monitor his actions.

Taking Kent out was an easy plan; proof of what happened in his mansion and his involvement in international organized crime was supposed to be handled cleanly by the authorities. Dumb, junior criminals are always the ones who overestimate their chances or their importance.

Kent made the classic rookie mistake of being greedy. He demanded 14% of the proceeds from fake investments, or payment in kind on his private jet, involving trafficking victims. He believed that because he was a star center, he was an irreplaceable asset to an organization that influenced justice and politics across its countries of operation. Because Kent never accepted "no," he stole from them, becoming Alexei's problem.

Kent was so oblivious about what was next. When Arya was monitoring his exchange with Alexei, she spotted a change in tone in mid-November, which tracked the movement in the offshore account, which was, for sure, Kent siphoning from the organization. How comical, a man who spent his time being so xenophobic about fucking communist Russians, was being handled virtually by a man he did not know, who was the brother of his nemesis. And he could not put two and two together that if his BronzeHorseman35 (very poetic to choose the iconic status in St. Petersburg, which has a code name) had spent months being anonymous, never revealing identity or location, and suddenly wanted to meet, it did not bode well for him.

Arya’s employer avoided harm and disappearance, but had no interest in helping criminals. Their philosophy was, as the French say, ‘Vivre et laisse vivre.’ Whatever happened next would benefit them, and Alexei’s plans would slow down. Arya tracked him closely as he found Ilya and Shane’s downtown apartment, then located the house by following Svetlana, who was with the twins. Following Svetlana, Alexei helped identify the twins’ school, and Arya saw him buying children’s supplies.

She waited for Alexei to leave his place and then went to Kent’s insalubrious apartment in Brockton, where she understood the plan. Alexei intended to kidnap the children and demand 36 million from Shane and Ilya, as the letter said. Arya could not guess how Alexei calculated the ransom.

She sent O a message: "Need to act when he comes back."

O answered, "Kat and Travel agency will do phase 1, prepare the yellow room," with a link to the yellow room's address, where she was now.

The Finnish brother delivered Alexei 2 days ago at 5 p.m.

She read the mission note. Everything went as they thought. Kat waited outside the Kent mansion; she had accessed it one month ago and had already placed a small recording device in several places. Alexei arrived. He had driven from Boston to Toronto and put on a fake beard, a low cap, and even colored contacts. Kat and Arya were both following what was at play. Kent said, "Happy to see you for real. Want a drink?"

Alexei stayed cold and said, "Sure."

He was trying to keep his talk short.

"I felt maybe I met you before," Kent said

"No," Alexei answered. There were no pictures of Ilya with his brother, but maybe he saw something familiar in Alexei's eyes. 

"Yeah, whatever, all of y'all Russians look a bit alike, no offense," Kent said.

Alexei did not say anything, Kent put a glass in front of him, and Alexei told him, "The organization agreed to pay more for you, just need to pick up old safe house and give the new one."

"Fuck yes, wait a sec." Kent left the living room, and Alexei took something out of his pocket and put it in Kent's drink.

Kent came back all happy.

"Let's toast to a long collaboration," Alexei said, and while he sipped his drink, Kent drank all his whiskey in one sip.

They chatted a bit, mostly Kent talking about buying a second house on the island to throw crazy parties, and to ask if Alexei's friend could help with silencing one of the women who went to the press about Kent assaulting her.

Alexei said, "Sure, they can look into it."

Fifteen minutes later, Kent tried to stand up and fell over. "Fuck..." he trailed off, and he did not finish the sentence he had started. He was reaching out a hand to Alexei, who stepped carefully back, and Kent realized at this time that Alexei had never removed his gloves, even though the house was very warm. Alexei stood over him and said, "Fucking stupid Canadian."

Alexei waited 20 minutes. He took the glass he had drunk from, took the key from the safe, added the incriminating cash, and left.

From there, Arya had no image, but the shorter Finnish brother was really good at storytelling.

Kat came in just to remove her device. They didn’t call the police. The Finnish brother waited for Alexei to return to Boston. As Alexei unlocked his door, the shorter Finnish brother walked by, pretending to head to another unit, then said in Russian, "I heard the weather is good in Moscow." Alexei froze, and the second brother took advantage, stepping in, grabbing Alexei, and injecting him with a tranquilizer. They waited until midnight to transport him to the yellow room.

When Ilya came earlier and opened the door, he did not make a fuss about seeing her there; he only said, taking her in a hug, "Anya is doing fine." She was happy to see him,

"The opposite of your brother," she said, pointing out his brother on the bed. "The sound is off, too much screaming when I am reading my novel," Arya said. She sat Ilya down and told him about Kent, "You called the police?" Ilya asked.

"To tell them what? That the secret private security company hired by a secretly married hockey player was at the crime scene with the brother of the newly returned Russian player of the Boston hockey team, because he wanted to kidnap secret children for a multi-million-dollar ransom after killing another hockey player for an international crime organization?"

"I see," Ilya said.

"They will find him, he is a star center and making people a lot of money. He has practice in two days. I'm sure they will send someone over to check in on him when he does not show up," Arya said.

"And Alexei?" Ilya asked.

"Oh, I had a proposition here," Arya said and turned the screen. Ilya took a moment to read it and read it again.

"How do you know they will not let him go?"

"Ilya, you know how Russia is. They will not let this level of embarrassment pass, especially from someone like your brother in the U.S."

It's been 20 minutes now, and she was waiting for the two to say something, but none of the brothers were giving Arya any entertainment. They were silent when Ilya finally talked.

"You are going back to Moscow, to jail or worse," Ilya said.

"Good for me. Send me back, and I’ll do two days and be out. No one cares about a faggot. I would tell them I came here to verify the shame you bring to Russia."

“Oh, about shame, I think they’ll be more concerned about you, Alexei. See?” Ilya threw a photo at Alexei; it was a picture of him at Kent’s house. Alexei’s face went blank.

“So now all this gets sent to the federal crime agencies, Alexei—the U.S. and Canada’s. What do you think the big U.S. imperialists will do with a police agent who worked in the political police in Moscow when there’s proof he came to Canada to kill a Canadian citizen for international crime and crossed the border into the U.S.? I wonder if they’ll go for a trial and justice, or call the Russian ambassador? And what will the ambassador do to make sure a crooked police officer doesn’t end up in the news or spill some secrets?” Ilya said.

“You can’t do that. You know they would torture me back home. My wife and your niece.”

“Oh, now I have to think about your wife and daughter when you planned to kidnap my fucking kids? When you planned to frame me for murder in Moscow?”

“I will tell them about you and Hollander.”

“Fucking delusional. Do you think anyone, here or in Russia, would let you near the internet again? Never. And do you think they’d want even more attention on this, people saying the KHL is rigged? Do you think they’d let you talk?”

“Don’t do it. I'll leave, disappear, never contact you again.”

“How generous. I guess I’d have to pay for that too, for you to disappear, and then in two or three years wait for you to threaten my family again. I fucking hate you.”

“You are the worst. I only wanted money. You know they will send me to the worst place, and I would never see the light again.”

“I’m not like you. Your wife and daughter are in Germany. Funny enough, your wife doesn't seem to care about you at all. No one would cry for you. You are nothing to me. You are even worse than him.”

“Fuck you. Shut up.”

“He was a horrible father, but he would never have done something like that. Never would have worked with Kent or with your criminal organization. You have no family loyalty, no country. You are nothing. You’ll die alone. No one will remember you. I’ll tell my kids their cousin has no father,” Ilya said as he stood up. “I thought I would kill you, but this is better. Maybe when I get citizenship, I’ll come visit you in whatever hell they put you in.”

Alexei shouted, “Come back! Fuck you, come back! I’ll tell everyone!”

The door closed, and Arya cut the sound. They watched Alexei screaming, but they could no longer hear him.

***

December 25th, 2025

“We don't have enough food,” Ilya said.

“Send a text message in the group, please.” Shane asked him 

Ilya: ETA + what are you bringing?
Anita: Parking now + I have cornbread
Caroll: 20 minutes + red wine
Svetlana: 30 min + ice cream
Zahra: 15 minutes + pecan pie

Out Magazine had titled it The Best Christmas Gift, and today Shane and Ilya’s house was full of family and friends. Marleau, Svetlana, Anita, others from the queer parents’ group, and their children were there for a big Christmas lunch while watching the arrival in New York of WNBA player Tiffany Rinder, who had been detained for nine months in Russia for drug possession. Pressure from queer organizations, mostly Black feminists, and from her wife had finally paid off, and the news broke that a confidential prisoner swap had accelerated in the last few weeks.

To the public, it was anonymous, but the article talked about high-profile Russian police involved in organized crime. Ilya and Shane knew the truth, and it was a secret bigger than their own lives. Somehow, though, their personal turmoil ended up helping other queer people and reuniting a queer athlete with her wife. Shane had gotten the opportunity to bring Ilya home with him and protect their family.

The night after the game in Chicago, Shane had stayed up late to ask Ilya why he wasn’t surprised and how he knew. When Ilya explained what Alexei had done and planned to do to their children, Shane felt both rage and immense love for Ilya for making the call that protected their family.

Shane decided the secret was too dangerous—not just for them, but for their children—and that they would come out at the end of the season. Surprisingly, the service they hired offered them support for free. They handled all of the conversations with U.S. authorities. The way private semi-legal operations were connected to U.S. and Canadian diplomacy and federal law enforcement agencies was foreign to Shane. But in exchange for all the information they provided, and in addition to the swap, Ilya had his green card process expedited, and Canada had also granted him exceptional residency.

Shane looked around at everyone as his world expanded: their children, their friends, his parents, teammates. All the fears—the fear of being outed, the fear of losing Ilya, the fear of their children being harmed—and now he was looking at a life full of hope. Hope that they could survive whatever came with being the first husbands in hockey, the first fathers, hope for their children to grow up fearless, loved, and kind. To learn more about the world, to help others, and to be part of a community where they never had to hide parts of themselves. He was still counting the summers, but now as promises.

***

O.

Being on the right side of history had never been easy.

It started young, watching their parents. They thought they were discreet, but O and their sibling knew they were doing things they weren’t supposed to do—helping people they weren’t supposed to help. They learned to study their parents’ faces: the public ones with officials, smiling, agreeing, keeping to themselves, and then the faces at home, in the laundry room behind the fake wall, passing messages.

Late at night, people stayed in the basement.

“They need a place to stay. It’s a secret,” their mother would say.

As time passed, the risks grew. The country became more dangerous, but their parents stayed determined even as they got older. O and their brother K first played at being secretive when they were ten. By their teenage years, they started helping in small ways—telling their parents what they overheard at school from the children of important people, warning them when someone might get a visit.

By adulthood, K had picked up what their parents had been doing: hiding in plain sight, protecting people, helping dissidents, all while keeping a very public-facing position and publicly supporting the regime. O handled the operations—building technological infrastructure, securing systems, and modernizing the old methods their parents had inherited from another era. But their parents had something they didn’t: contacts. People who did more than build digital infrastructure. Travel agents. Arya. Kat. Mr. Homeless.

It had been ten years now. O’s pragmatism had created two branches of the organization: one offering high-end services to the super-rich that brought in money and contacts, and the other helping people who needed protection from the regime, one person at a time.

O had never imagined the Falcon contract would lead to one of the biggest rescues of the year, one that kept O awake at night. One O attended meetings about and made people sign petitions for. But as soon as Alexei did what he did to Kent, O realized it was meant to be.

They had said #BringTiffanyHome. Tiffany should have been home already. If she had been a different race, gender, or sexuality, she would never have faced five to ten years in prison for an empty vape never been used as a political pawn. And if she had been in a men’s league, people would have cared more.

It was not the first time they had transferred information to the authorities, but O tried to stay away from them, especially the U.S. government, knowing that nothing they did came from justice or concern for the greater good. People were pawns to them — exchanged, pressured, exploited, and used.

O had seen it firsthand: friends and family contacts sacrificed when convenient, sent back despite the risks by Western agencies that had promised protection and exfiltration in exchange for cooperation. Their parents’ policy had always been: never trust them, but you can use them. O's parents always helped people escape or be exfiltrated with no strings attached, no demands for allegiance, no expectation that anyone would become a poster child for another government’s propaganda.

But here, O had the upper hand and did not care what happened to Alexei. The negotiations with their contacts had secured Tiffany’s return and the Falcon papers, but there was another undisclosed condition: four young people imprisoned for writing gay fiction would be released and allowed to travel to Canada under asylum.

The deal was that the U.S. would not reveal that Alexei was a police officer, nor disclose his name or the extent of his connection to Kent’s murder. That information would inevitably lead to public outrage and demands for a public trial, something Russia did not want exposed, and neither did O, especially if it meant outing Falcon and Jane.

In exchange, Russia would ignore whatever Alexei said about Ilya, which they agreed to quickly, since no one wanted to add more chaos to an already disastrous situation.

The U.S. initially tried to negotiate for someone else, but O made it clear that if it was not Tiffany and the four queer youths they wanted released, everything would be made public, destroying any chance of further negotiation. O thought about how far they had gone beyond all their own rules about distance and clients, becoming too entangled with Falcon. But O couldn’t help it. O's family had been in this business for generations, preparing for authoritarianism and fascism. As her father always said:

“Some people need to leave, but we also need people who can do the secret part. People who can’t be the face of it, but who still do the work.”

And that was what O and K were doing. So fuck the little self-imposed rules.

Thinking about rules, O realized the time, and O loved being on time. O texted back:

15 minutes + pecan pie

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! And yes, baby Zahra. I imagined her a bit like the kids from the TV show The Americans, but in another version: children of revolutionaries and hidden operatives.

This chapter was partly inspired by the horrific imprisonment of Brittney Griner. It was also an indulgence in queer poetic justice and solidarity: free the people, get Alexei out, and kill a rapist in one strike. It also implied that Crowell and the Toronto manager would not walk away untouched either.

Thanks again for reading, and check out my new fic, Public Record!