Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Original Children of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

CarrierVerse, Mpreg | Male Pregnancy, Pregnant Shane Hollander, Fluff and Crack, Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Shane: if we use logic..., Ilya: WHAT LOGIC, Unplanned Pregnancy, Kid Fic

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-08 Words: 7,205 Chapters: 1/1

PSYCHO LILY/HARPY JANE 

Summary

“Jane,” Rozanov said in a strangled voice. Someone was probably eavesdropping, Shane realized. “Jane. Business sausage dearest mine.”

Sausage?..

“I’m trying to process the fact that I will have actual, real, boring Canadian kid in August. And you giving me speeches about logic and documents. Mercy, please.”

...

Shane's unplanned pregnancy, not angst or #shabortion, but a crack comedy

Notes

Book timeline, circa Feb-Mar 2012-Jan 2017

• A translation of Психованная Лили/Кошмарная Джейн by kurizakusturiza

If the situation could be described in two words, those words would be “oh, fuck.” The pregnancy test lying on the sink would, all in all, have agreed with Shane.

Fuck, fuck, and fuck him sideways.

He should have had a hysterectomy when he still had a chance. It would certainly have been reasonable to do it before he started hooking up with Rozanov! But that ship had sailed.

Shane began pacing around the bathroom, gnawing at his thumbnail.

At least he was a Canadian citizen, lucky him. He had no idea which of his and Rozanov’s hook-ups had been at fault for the slip-up; who knows how far along he was already? In the United States he could have gotten into trouble over abortion if…

He stopped.

Yes, he was being molded into a star player, but he was still at the beginning of his career. He would only get the captain’s patch in a year and a half, not earlier. What if he lied and took... a sabbatical?

No, no, what a stupid idea. Why would he? And Rozanov didn’t need that either. Though what did Rozanov have to do with it—aside from sex and hockey nothing connected them…

And yet… Hayden was already having kids with Jackie. As a rule, players married pretty young. In some cases, Shane frankly didn’t understand why if they kept sleeping with puck bunnies anyway, that could lead to a messy divorce and alimony. Maybe people would see him less like a weirdo. The teasing so far was fairly harmless, but still unpleasant. If Shane hid the fact that he himself was the one carrying the child, then…

No, no, that’s so dumb. He would miss several months on the ice, and what for?

But on the other hand, wasn’t now the better time? While he was still young and healthy?

It wasn’t all that pleasant to imagine himself chasing after a hyperactive kid once his career was over. Closer to forty, after a dozen injuries (he was not naive—there would be injuries), absolutely everything would hurt. He’d seen hockey veterans. When they attended team parties, they’d head to bed at ten, maybe eleven, because they were “too old for this shit.”

Sleepless nights at twenty or sleepless nights at forty?

Oh, come on! He’d be climbing the walls without hockey. This whole idea was batshi—

And would he even want to have kids if he waited until his career was over? Shane wasn’t sure he’d be up for that kind of adventure at forty, even if he’d found the right woman by then.

No, how the hell are you going to explain it, idiot? Do you really want everyone to find out you’re one of those?

Although…

Did he really have to provide any information about his health? That would be stupid. It wasn’t as though he planned to tell anyone he was carrying the baby himself. He’d lie and say he had a girlfriend. That he was taking a “family emergency” leave because his girlfriend was having a difficult pregnancy.

Hockey players could rival old ladies in nursing homes in terms of gossip. The Voyageurs locker room loved to gossip too—and one of the topics was Shane’s Boston Lily.

He could barely picture himself dealing with a temperamental and incredibly energetic three-year-old, but…

Whenever Hayden let him hold one of the twins, it was… nice. They were warm, tiny, and much easier to understand than adults—basic, simple, obvious needs and wants. Sometimes Shane would look into Ruby Pike’s bright, innocent eyes and think, You’re the only one who truly understands me, kid.

The baby would inevitably grow up, but that would be a problem for Future Shane.

He needed to sleep on this idea.

And schedule an ultrasound.

***

Lily: What kind of family circumstances?

Ah. Right. Rozanov.

Shane drummed his fingers on the table, staring at his phone, feeling awkward as hell.

As far as he could tell, dealing with the team and management had been relatively fine (well, not exactly, but they hadn’t crucified him—the boys called him a simp, but that was it). Telling his parents had been harder: admitting that… well, that Shane had had something with a man.

But sweetheart, you kept saying that you wanted the surgery, for years!

Well, he had. So people would stop asking awkward questions and all that.

The idea that he’d always been completely honest and held no secrets? That wasn’t true. As if he could have openly admitted he was having an affair with a man. The team definitely wouldn’t have understood, and the management would have asked (ordered) him to keep his mouth shut about it if they’d found out. And that would have been the best-case scenario.

Back in his teens, Shane was told that he was the new hockey role model, so he’d played that role.

Mom, did you really think I was actually like that? You know I wasn’t. You’re the one who had to explain to me that I couldn’t swear on camera. Otherwise, I’d have kept doing it. Maybe I’d have said completely different things in the interviews, too.

Shane hadn’t told his parents about Rozanov either. Why would he? They couldn’t be seen together anyway. Shane had already piled the doctors with NDAs. He didn’t need any extra risks.

It somehow hadn’t occurred to Shane that he should also talk to Rozanov. The fact that he probably should tell him something never crossed his mind. He just... forgot about it.

He probably should, right?

At the very least, warn him that Shane wouldn’t be in Boston anytime soon—they had an arrangement. Shane hated breaking arrangements.

But then Montreal’s management officially announced that Shane would be out until September, and Rozanov immediately slid back to Shane’s texts.

For exactly that reason.

And besides, people generally informed each other about things like, “You’re going to be a father,” didn’t they? Even though Shane certainly wasn’t planning to raise a kid with Rozanov. Together. The whole thing was Dali level of surreal.

He picked up his phone and slowly started typing.

Jane: I requested a sabbatical because of my girlfriend’s difficult pregnancy.

Rozanov typed something. Deleted. Typed again.

A minute later, the phone finally chimed.

Lily: Where you were hiding a woman? You secret Casanova. She know about all your adventures?

Jane: I think my Boston Lily knows more about my adventures than anyone else.

Lily: I don’t understand anything now. So who’s pregnant? Definitely not me.

Jane: Of course not. You’re on top.

Lily: ?

Jane: I’m the one who’s pregnant. C-section is scheduled for mid-August.

Lily: sdfln;lfh365@#$%;:

Lily: WHAT?!

Jane: Don’t worry. I’ve already arranged to have my uterus removed while I’m there. So no more fuck-ups like this in the future.

Rozanov started typing again. Erasing. Typing. Erasing.

Shane didn’t really understand what chain of logic was unfolding inside that (unfairly attractive) asshole’s head, so he waited patiently to see how it would end.

Surely he couldn‘t be an idiot enough to think Shane was about to burn his entire public image to the ground—and his relationship with league management—just to file for some child support?

Shane had more than enough money of his own.

Typing didn’t end with a message.

Rozanov called him instead.

Shane answered.

“You fucking with me?” Rozanov demanded.

Shane frowned in confusion at the phone, then put it back to his ear.

“No? We had a contraception failure. C-section is in August. If you’re worried about the publicity, don’t be. I’m not dumb. I told everyone my girlfriend’s pregnant and I’m taking care of her.”

Rozanov muttered something in Russian—either cursing or praying.

Possibly both.

“Hold on there, Jane.” A shaky breath came through the speaker. “Are… are we having baby?”

“I’m having one,” Shane corrected him with a frown. “Do you seriously think I’m putting your name on the birth certificate? Do I look like an idiot to you?”

“Shhh-shh-shh! Give me a minute.”

“Don’t shush me.”

“Give me a minute!”

More Russian poured out of the speaker—again, either swearing or praying.

Shane fell silent and waited.

Rozanov seemed to catch his breath before continuing.

“Okay. Okay. So I got you pregnant. I understand that right?”

“Yeah,” Shane nodded, though no one could see him.

“And you’re keeping the baby.”

Shane smiled to himself in relief.

It seemed like they were finally having a productive conversation.

“Yeah. I figured that since it happened, it’s better to do it now than wait for retirement. I’ve seen our veterans. They’re pathetic.”

“Uh-huh.” Rozanov’s tone was odd, as though Shane had said something incomprehensible. “So… for rational, cynical reasons.”

“Why cynical? I don’t like that word. I thought about it for a long time and decided it made sense. I’ll get hysterectomy while I’m at it, too. I kept putting it off, so now’s the chance.” Shane considered what else might be bothering Rozanov. “Oh. Are you worried about child support or something? I don’t need that. Honestly, I don’t want any trace of your name involved in this.”

A high-pitched squeak—or maybe a strangled yelp—came through the speaker.

Wrong guess?

Oh.

Ohhh.

Well, of course. 

“As for our hook-ups, yes, that’s not good. I’ve got no reason to fly to Boston for now.” Shane suddenly felt a little shy. What if Rozanov didn’t want to sleep with him while he was… He tried to keep his tone casual but probably didn’t manage it. “But if you want, when you’re in Montreal—come by. I… I wouldn’t mind.”

There was a weird clapping sound on the other end. Possibly, Rozanov slapped his own face. Or forehead.

“Jane,” Rozanov said in a strangled voice. Someone was probably eavesdropping, Shane realized. “Jane. Business sausage dearest mine.”

Sausage?..

“I’m trying to process the fact that I will have actual, real, boring Canadian kid in August. And you giving me speeches about logic and documents. Mercy, please.”

“It’s not your kid, it’s mine,” Shane corrected him again.

“Yeah. Of course. Yours,” Rozanov repeated obediently. “Will you let me… will you let me see him… her… the baby, I mean?”

He sounded strange. Frightened, almost.

“If you want to?” Shane said, blinking in confusion.

He hadn’t really thought Rozanov would be interested in having kids. On the other hand—maybe he wanted to “fit in” too, but didn’t want to get married?

“Yeah, I want to,” Rozanov affirmed.

“Well… okay, I’ll think on how to make it work,” Shane faltered. Kids didn’t filter their speech much, which in this case was risky. “Hey, wait, you didn’t say anything about the sex thing.”

Rozanov yowled like a cat again.

“Um, yeah? I will come by? Why not?!”

 ***

“Well???”

Ilya, lowering his phone, looked at the Bears crowding him with a dazed expression. So much for going to the gym to work out. He almost fell off the stationary bike when he got that message from Hollander about the C-section. Never scrolling in the gym again!

“You all heard. I will be dad by the start of next season.”

“Who? Who’s the mommy, Roz?!” Saint-Simon raised his hands to his face, fingers twisted in mock shock.

“What do you mean—who’s the mommy? Jane, she’s his Montreal girlfriend,” Marlow waved away, patting Ilya on the shoulder. “When’s the wedding, asshole?”

“Kidding? She don’t want to write me in birth certificate. Wedding, my ass.”

“Hmm.” Hammersmith patted his back sympathetically. “If you want, you could, I don’t know… sue for custody?”

To be fair, it wasn’t just Ilya who stared at Hammersmith with an expression that clearly said “are you out of your fucking mind.”

“If I even mention lawsuit, Jane will never sleep with me. No thanks, I’ll pass.”

***

Shane spent almost the entire second trimester in Boston. He wanted sex so badly and so often that his whole body itched with need. When he first texted Rozanov about this problem, the answer was simple: “okay, come over.” So Shane did.

They fucked so hard his ears rang. Shane drank liters of smoothies. Rozanov nearly threw up at his own kitchen counter when he saw the ingredients, though he wasn’t the pregnant one in the room. They watched hockey and gossiped, and…

It was pretty fucking good, honestly. Except for Rozanov’s away games, when Shane would sit on his couch and stuff himself with ice cream topped with wasabi. He only went back to Canada twice for scheduled checkups, and that was it, no other entertainment. But Shane knew perfectly well what it was like to live by a tournament schedule.

By the seventh month, when his mom had started carefully asking when he was coming home—surely Shane wasn’t planning to have an emergency C-section in the States if something went wrong—Rozanov stopped ignoring the elephant in the room. The elephant was already visible in Shane’s figure and kept kicking his liver.

“You thought about names?” Rozanov asked over breakfast, all businesslike (deceptively so).

He wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere; the Bears had already been knocked out of the playoffs by then.

“Mm,” Shane agreed. “I was thinking maybe Agatha, like my paternal grandmother.”

“Agatha Christie,” Rozanov drawled with some strange, dreamy tone.

“Didn’t know you liked detectives,” Shane raised his eyebrows, looking at Rozanov like he was seeing him for the first time.

“I do, but I mean rock band, not writer,” he corrected, and softly hummed some song in Russian.

“Oh.” Shane had never heard of such a rock band, but he didn’t really know much about music. “Anyway, I rejected that idea. Hayden said the name was archaic as hell, and she’d get bullied at school.”

“Yeah, Pike probably know all about bullying,” Rozanov said with a displeased twitch of his brow.

“So I figured, we athletes are a superstitious bunch, gotta pick something for luck,” Shane continued, ignoring the bitchy comment. “Victoria or Veronica. Not sure about the middle name, though. My mom’s side of the family didn’t do that. I don’t have one.”

“You’re not special there. I don’t have one either,” Rozanov flashed a crooked grin.

Hold on. What do you mean you don’t have one.

“What do you mean you don’t? I googled you once, there was something long, I don’t remember exactly...”

“That’s not a middle name. In Russia, after your first name we always put your father’s name. ‘Ilya Grigoryevich’—that’s Ilya, son of Grigory. Like Thor, son of Odin. Shit, Agatha Ilyinichna. That’s seriously sound like something from Mesozoic, name for eighty-year-old grandma.”

“I. Will not. Write. ‘Ilyinichna’ on the birth certificate.”

***

 “Don’t bother lying, I know she looks like a boiled shrimp,” Hollander said when Ilya rushed to his place in Montreal after the quiet discharge from the hospital.

Ilya let out a laugh—more of a surprise than anything. He had doubts he’d be capable of appreciating any joke at that moment.

“You’re the most cruel, tactless parent on planet Earth,” he snorted.

Hollander was essentially right. But it didn’t matter at all. A shrimp alright—all newborns look like shrimp. But this was their shrimp.

Jesus Christ, they’d made a human.

Ilya swallowed and hesitantly raised his hands. “Can I?”

“She might be unhappy,” Hollander warned him. “Do you know how to hold her?”

“Yeah, I do. I have niece, she’s two.”

The squirming bundle settled in the crook of Ilya’s elbow, and he carefully poked the tip of his index finger at her tiny pink nose. He only noticed he was smiling when his cheeks started to ache.

“Hi, Nikulya. I love you.”

Hollander breathed in with a sharp noise, and Ilya looked at him, questioning.

“What? Should I give her back?”

He really really didn’t want to.

“You!” Hollander made a strange, sweeping gesture with his hands. “You can’t be like this! You’re a weapon of mass destruction!”

“You have fetish for hot daddies?” Ilya giggled.

“No,” Hollander deadpanned. “It’s just that you’re an asshole. On the average. But now I’m looking at your stupid smile… all happy and tender. I’m losing it. You’ve been showing me the most unexpected sides of yourself all this past year.”

Nika squirmed, seeming unhappy, so Ilya found her heel in the blanket and started tickling her.

“You know, Hollander, maybe you should swear less?”

“Oh, fuuuuuck…”

“Exactly what I mean.” 

***

Lily: Stop it. Half the league gossiping that “Hollander’s woman is terrible mother”! Don’t call me that!

Jane: First of all, I didn’t call you that. I said you have postpartum depression. Second, you’re one to talk. I’ve already heard rumors that “poor Roz’s girlfriend is a total harpy, won’t marry him, won’t let him claim the kid as his, won’t let him see his daughter.” [message deleted]

Jane: You know what, maybe I should actually tell everyone that Boston Lily is a terrible mother. Everyone would feel so sorry for me.

Lily: Want nanny service for free? You fraud.

Jane: Maybe. :)

Lily: Send me Nikulya’s fresh pics, please.

Jane: Sent the whole archive to your email.

Lily: You killed me! I’m dead! You two are so fucking cute! You should warn me you going to give me heart attack. Kiss my lovely girl for me! She behave good?

Jane: She’s fine, just refuses to sleep unless I have my hand on her back. So, I haven’t been sleeping properly for ages. It’s really uncomfortable.

Lily: Oh, easy lifehack for that. My niece had same thing, look: [photo: baby sleeping on stomach in a crib, a water-filled latex glove lying on their back]

Jane: WAIT

Jane: Oh my god. Thank you. This actually works.

Lily: Oh, for you just Ilya)) [message deleted]

***

 “And you couldn’t just call me and tell the news, as if it’s none of my business, huh? Ungrateful brat, hiding my grandson from me! I hope you at least had the decency to name him Vladimir. Your brother already let me down, I can’t get Yuri Alexeyevich from him…”

Ilya, wincing, held the phone away from his ear.

He’d talked Hollander into bringing Nikulya to spend the holiday week after Catholic Christmas with him. Hollander had brought her, and himself too, which hardly was a hardship (he’d put on some meat on his thighs, and now whenever Ilya looked at him, he practically started drooling).

Nikulya didn’t like the new place at first, so she refused to sleep and was generally extremely unhappy with the change of scenery. So for everyone’s peace of mind, Ilya would load her into the car in the evenings and drive her around until she got drowsy. After this little routine, Nikulya would sleep like a bear in winter.

One evening he decided to pop into the supermarket with Nikulya to grab some ginger ale for Hollander, and someone recognized him. “Oh, so you’re married?” they asked Ilya. And Ilya, as usual, couldn’t manage a proper media-friendly answer. “No, not married. It’s like… my Jon Snow.” And that’s how a couple of yellow gossip columns published stuff about Ilya Rozanov’s illegitimate child, with barely a shred of truth to them.

“Nikulya. Nikochka. Nikusya. Where have you ever seen girls named ‘Vladimir,’ for God’s sake…”

“Oh, not you too…” his father clicked his tongue in disappointment. How annoying. And yet—how typical.

“Besides, legally she’s nobody to me,” Ilya continued not bothering to hide poison in his tone. “Her mother thinks I’m not a worthy suitor. She won’t marry me. Comes by on weekends, plays me like a fiddle, and takes off.”

“What do you mean, ‘not worthy’?” His father’s voice lost all the grandeur he loved using to lecture his children, wives, and subordinate officers, and became flat and businesslike. “Did she lose her mind?”

“Well, I’m lazy, unreliable, can’t be trusted with anything, and I’m an athlete on top of it…”

“Lazy?! You?!”

Ilya blinked in confusion, feeling as if he was Alice in Wonderland. What the fuck was happening.

“You started bringing home gold back when you were just a kid! An international hockey star, Mother Russia’s pride and joy—not good enough?! Son, either she’s playing hard to get and that’s solved with a fancy bouquet and an expensive ring, or you need to get that kid away from her through the courts immediately because she’s completely fucking insane! Not good enough, are you kidding me?!”

Ilya dropped the phone and stared at it like it was a venomous snake. He was having a stroke. Hallucinations. This couldn’t be real.

Since when did dear dad start praising his own children? Ilya needed an MRI. Urgently.

***

Except for the occasional “Rozanov, get the keys to the rink, I need to skate now” episodes, Shane had to admit it had been a fucking brilliant idea.

In the locker room, he was no longer the untouchable little hockey prodigy the whole goddamn roster had to bend around. He was one of the guys.

The attempts to set him up with women stopped for good. If some lady at a team barbecue in the park or one of the other team get-togethers tried to hit on him—which Shane usually wasn’t in the mood for anyway—he’d quickly hide behind Veronica.

Reporters practically cried from how touching the story was: “I didn’t play because I spent several months hauling my girlfriend from the bed to the bathroom and back.” The guys, meanwhile, knew that Shane Hollander’s woman was total batshit, as was their relationship, and laughed their asses off in the group chat whenever Shane shared one of Ilya’s especially insane “lifehacks.”

Like the time Shane complained he couldn’t get Veronica to take her vitamins, Rozanov said that his mom—God rest her soul—used to just throw pills for Rozanov and his brother onto the floor. Because as kids they were little barbarians who kept trying to eat things off the floor like dogs.

His parents got a grandkid, so they finally stopped trying to set him up too, and nobody asked awkward questions anymore, even though Mom clearly wanted to.

There was only one thing Shane didn’t like: people had started milking the supposed rivalry between him and Rozanov again, because the way they decided to do it was too fucking dangerous for their secret.

First came the social media comments wondering whether they’d literally gotten women pregnant at the same time on a bet—which was just stupid. How exactly did people even imagine this?

Later, a couple of articles with pictures appeared on gossip sites.

Thankfully, Rozanov wasn’t an idiot. Whenever he went somewhere with Veronica while Shane was visiting, he always shielded her face from cameras. As a result, every picture showed him hugging her like she was his most precious treasure or kissing her forehead.

Shane, on the other hand, kept getting caught in moments when he was literally dragging his daughter under his arm (the second Veronica learnt to walk she started making escape attempts). He would usually be in huge dark sunglasses, clutching a coffee containing six or seven shots of espresso, a baby stuff duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and wearing the bitchiest face in all of Canada.

The headlines on those articles were always an absolute embarrassment. “The NHL’s Ultimate DILF: Vote Now!”—ugh. Every single time, Shane’s eye started twitching.

The Olympics were approaching.

He was in the best shape of his life.

He was ready to wipe the floor with everyone.

(It didn’t happen. Fuck you, Hunter.) 

***

“Shane, I’m worried about Veronica.”

Shane, picking his daughter up from his parents after a road trip, raised his eyebrows. Worried, how so? She was a good, relatively calm baby (except for the escape attempts), no allergies; the pediatricians said everything was fine, and he’d already found daycare for her.

Mom looked at him with an odd uncertainty in her eyes before dragging out.

“How are you teaching her to talk?”

How? Shane talked around her all the time, just like Jackie had advised—mostly about hockey and his team, admittedly.

When the guys found out her first word had been “puck,” everyone with half a pulse busted his balls about it. 

Yeah, okay, he was a hockey workaholic. So what?

Maybe Veronica would grow up to be an analyst. Or play in the women’s league.

Puck, stick, it all comes in handy.

“I talk around her and all that. Why? Has she started calling cookies pucks?”

“That’s not it,” Mom said, clearly searching for words. “She was saying something strange. We thought it was baby babble, but one of the moms at the playground said it was Russian. Pretty clear Russian at that.”

OH FUCK

“Um.” Shane didn’t know where to look.

“We almost got kicked off the playground. Veronica told some boy ‘die’, but it turned out to be the Russian word for ‘gimme’. Marina basically saved us.”

ROZANOV YOU MOTHERFUCKER

Rozanov, the girlest dad to ever dad, for fuck’s sake, had tearfully begged Shane to let him have evening Skype calls with Veronica. Shane bought a tablet. He put it in her crib in the evenings instead of bedtime stories while he showered or busied himself around the kitchen. He knew Rozanov talked to Veronica in Russian so she wouldn’t pick up any of his butchered English grammar.

Fine. Whatever.

Everything Shane had read online said babies didn’t even have to understand the words—just hearing their parents’ voices was comforting.

Now Shane wanted to strangle himself. With passion.

(And Rozanov while he was at it.)

“And how good is her Russian exactly?” Shane asked, sensing the Apocalypse coming.

Because Veronica’s English was pretty mediocre, honestly. Basic. He’d thought she was just babbling in her own baby language. Idiot!

“Well... Marina’s son is four, he lives in a Russian-speaking family but goes to an English-language daycare. And Veronica, according to Marina, speaks Russian better than he does. And she’s two. Do you want to tell me something, honey?”

Shane wanted the ground to swallow him.

“Veronica’s dad talks to her a lot on Skype. He’s Russian.”

Well, every day, to be precise. And when he came for games. And for the holidays. At least Shane had forbidden him to call himself “papa”—he so didn’t want to imagine Veronica letting it slip during one of the Boston games.

“So you are in touch with him,” Mom stressed. Ever since Shane told her about the baby, she’d been dying to meet the other half of the equation. 

What was he supposed to do? There wasn’t enough money in the world to make Shane reveal Rozanov’s identity to anyone on his own volition. 

“I… could give you his number? He can translate what Veronica’s saying,” Shane compromised, suppressing the urge to squeeze his eyes shut.

Mom looked distinctly unimpressed.

“Honey, I understand there might be issues with the league, and you can’t exactly get married because of that…”

“Get married!” Shane snorted. “Really.”

“But you can bring him home, can’t you?”

“We don’t have that kind of relationship. We’re not dating,” Shane insisted.

“He’s the father of my granddaughter, and he’s constantly in touch with her,” Mom said, steel creeping into her voice. “I want to know what kind of man he is.”

“Oh, for mint chip ice cream sake.” 

***

After long negotiations whether Rozanov even had to spend Christmas with them—he said it was fine, that New Year was the family holiday in Russia, and he had a choice between Ottawa and some club in Boston. Hollander, just give me your address already—Shane, gritting his teeth, told Mom to set fifth place at the table.

He arrived by car (Shane thanked all the hockey gods that the ostentatious Dodge was at least black, not some neon orange), parked neatly in front of the Hollanders’ house, and Shane went out to meet him.

“Seriously, a fucking bear?” Shane said darkly when Rozanov pulled a plush monster and some gift bag that clinked with glass from the passenger seat.

“What?” Rozanov said, feigning offense. “Normal gift for kid. Common. It doesn’t even look like Boston’s Fangbeast, if you worry about it. Or what, you wanted to give Nikulya your high-on-crack lumberjack?”

“Well, no,” Shane rolled his eyes. The Montreal Voyageurs’ mascot really was the subject of constant mockery. “Besides, our mascot isn’t even that bad. The Voldemort lizard from Detroit—that’s a real horror show.” He looked over Rozanov’s jacket and nodded toward the house. “Come on, you’ll freeze to death.”

“In minus four?” Rozanov snorted, following him. “You know, back in two thousand eight I came to Canada not even for the Cup, just to get some warmth. We had minus thirty-five in Moscow then.”

They hadn’t even taken off their shoes when a rocket crashed into Rozanov, and he, completely forgetting both the clearly alcoholic bag and the bear, scooped Veronica into his arms. They talked about something, smiling. Rozanov gently flicked Veronica on the nose, and then it hit Shane with the force of a truck. 

Oh.

Oh no.

They looked alike.

Veronica had dark hair and Shane’s eye shape. But Rozanov’s curls. Rozanov’s light eyes. His smile. At least Rozanov’s nose had been broken at some point, so its original shape was hard to tell, but—

Well, shit. 

Shane had been hoping nobody would notice. He needed an explanation. 

A simple one. A stupid one.

Right. If anyone asked, he’d say he was sleeping with Rozanov’s sister.

At dinner, Mom watched Rozanov (and his interactions with Veronica) for so long and so obviously that she forgot to eat. Rozanov, usually thick-skinned, eventually started shifting uncomfortably and leaned toward Shane.

“Did I do something wrong? Your mom scares me. Tell me what’s wrong, I’ll apologize. I don’t want to get kicked out,” he murmured in Shane’s ear.

“Mom,” Shane said immediately. “Stop scaring Rozanov. You insisted I bring him home—I brought him.”

“Oh,” Mom snapped out of it. “Yes, sorry.”

“Ilya,” Rozanov added.

“Yes, Ilya. You just have such a reputation…”

“Is this about me pissing everyone off?” Rozanov observed.

“Frankly, yes.”

“Come on, darling,” Dad suddenly spoke up. “That’s an obvious strategy. And the fact that so many players fall for it… It’s like getting mad at Bugs Bunny when you fall into his trap, it’s just what he does.”

Great analogy, thanks, Dad. Shane was already sick of repeating to his teammates: “Don’t pay attention to Rozanov, ignore him. That’s all he wants. Don’t listen to Rozanov”—with little to no effect.

Rozanov, surprisingly, beamed at that.

“You played too? Yeah, Hollander, good thing your dad isn’t your coach. He would explain things to Pike…”

“If only…” Shane grumbled. “And it really is so obvious. I don’t get the problem.”

“Huh!” Mom suddenly exhaled, and Shane looked at her, frowning in confusion. She was looking back and forth between him and Rozanov like something had just clicked. “Ilya, tell us where you grew up.”

If Rozanov was sending him panicked looks that clearly said “help!” Shane preferred not to notice.

Later, when Dad (thank God!) dragged Rozanov and Veronica off to do puzzles (Veronica seated her bear next to her, which was three times bigger than she was), Mom looked at Shane carefully while he helped her clear the table, and said:

“Excellent choice. Well done.”

“Mom, I told you we’re not dating,” Shane grumbled.

“I’m not talking about that, though you should think about it. Shane, do you understand what spectacular genetics Veronica has?”

…oh, no, flashed through Shane’s head.

“You need more children,” Mom asserted and raised a dreamy gaze toward the ceiling. “A Hollander hockey dynasty…”

Rozanov, clearly eavesdropping, coughed, choking on his wine.

“Mom, I got a hysterectomy,” Shane reminded her.

“Well, you’ve already done the maternity leave anyway. You still need the Stanley Cup,” Mom said unbothered and turned toward the living room. “Ilya, dear, do you have the RMP-32 gene?”

Rozanov laughed nervously, and instead of answering, he started quickly draining his wine.

“Yuna, don’t scare the boy,” Dad scolded her gently.

“What?” Mom said with mock innocence.

“Mom,” Shane repeated, trying to erase her brilliant idea from his brain, because he remembered Rozanov did have the gene—and that line of thought led nowhere good. “Rozanov lives in Boston. Do you remember how many cults in the States think that gene is ‘from Satan’? He could easily get his throat slit somewhere in Ohio.”

“The NDAs,” Mom said. “You did it yourself.”

“And I might have problems at home too,” Rozanov said with a strained smile.

“What do you mean?” Dad frowned. “Same-sex marriage has been legal there since the sixties.”

“Not because the government wanted to be nice,” Rozanov said cynically, “but for population growth. They need more people to send to war and factories. It’s allowed only with certificate proving one of spouses can carry a child. The problem here is cultural—it’s misogynistic. Not openly, but still. If you can get pregnant, you’re basically woman, second-class citizen. And my father is exactly that type. I don’t even want imagine his reaction. He didn’t asked single question about any of his granddaughters.”

Saying the last sentence, he pulled Veronica onto his lap and hugged her tightly.

Mom watched Rozanov cooing to Veronica in Russian (Shane’s heart always gave out at scenes like that—weapon of mass destruction, that bastard was too damn cute like this), and quietly, so it was not heard in the living room, said:

“Propose marriage for citizenship. He’d agree. You should see the way he looks at you.”

“I’m not even dating him.”

…was only sleeping with him, but that was details.

“Hockey dynasty!” Mom hissed, eyes gleaming.

Shane began to suspect she might break into his Montreal apartment just to poke holes in his condoms.

Poke away, Mom. Rozanov basically never bottomed anyway.

***

“Who’s texting you?” Marlow asked, and Ilya immediately turned his phone screen down.

“Um. Well, how to say. My mother-in-law?” He had no idea what to call her. “Nikulya’s grandmother. We met on Christmas.”

“So that’s where you’ve been running off to.”

Ilya noticed the other Bears perk up their ears and rubbed his face with his palms, tired.

“Pros: Jane’s mom sends me tons of Nikulya’s pics. Cons: she really wants more grandkids, and Jane’s eye is already twitching about it. And she possibly wants me and Jane to marry. But that’s optional. On the other hand, my dad’s been busting my balls for years now to either get married or demand full custody in court.”

“Meanwhile you’re still sleeping with Jane,” Saint-Simon observed.

“Well, yes,” Ilya said darkly.

 “Have been for years.”

“And your point is?” Ilya said, eyeing him threateningly as he tapped his phone against his palm.

“My point is,” Marlow rumbled. “When are you gonna get married, you idiot?”

“Maybe you should ask Hollander why he won’t marry his own girlfriend?” slipped out of Ilya.

“That’s also a fair question, actually,” Conners drawled. “Sometimes it feels like you two are long lost twin brothers. Top snipers, had kids at the same time, questionable taste in women…”

***

If Hollander was living in a sitcom, Ilya had the growing feeling that he was stuck in a Latin soap opera. And everyone wanted something from him.

His dad had rapidly slipped into non-compos mentis, and Lyosha now wanted money for supervising him. Because he had zero desire to deal with it himself, and a hired caregiver would probably have strangled the old man by day three anyway—he hadn’t exactly been a sweetheart even when he was still sane.

The Bears wanted more cups. The press wanted scandals.

Mrs. Hollander still wanted Ilya to marry her son.

Hollander himself wanted Ilya to keep things simple: just fuck and part ways.

Only Nikulya didn’t want anything from him that he couldn’t give. And Ilya couldn’t even tell her that she could call him “papa” instead of just his name. Hollander didn’t even let him take her out for walks anymore, because she had become too recognizable.

October. First game of the 2016 season against Montreal. Hollander came over the day before the match to hook up. They had a good time, as always.

Then Hollander started getting ready to leave, something in Ilya’s chest tightened—and it just burst out of him.

“Hollander. Shane. Please. I can’t do this anymore.”

“What can’t you do?” Hollander frowned in concern. “Did you find someone else?”

Ilya gave a hollow laugh, trying not to burst into tears right there—fast, hard, and humiliating.

“Do you really not get it? I want to be with you. I want to live together. Maybe even get married, like your mom wants. I want to see Nikulya in real life, not on screen.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck—he actually started crying.

He turned away so Hollander wouldn’t see this disaster. What an idiot…

A heavy, warm hand settled on his knee, and Ilya, quickly wiping his tears (a pointless effort, he was still crying), looked at Hollander as he knelt down in front of him.

“Roz, you have to understand I didn’t expect this. I wasn’t even considering it.” His fingers squeezed Ilya’s thigh reassuringly. “Can I think about it?”

“You didn’t tell me to fuck off, already good news,” Ilya tried to joke, but his voice was shaking. “Yeah. Think about it. Please.”

***

“Hey, JJ,” Shane began uncertainly, nursing his beer. They were in a gastropub where Shane’d been dragged for a celebrity hangout. “I think I’m an asshole.”

“Whyyy?” JJ drawled.

“So I went to see Lily when we were in Boston.”

“Ooooh, your hot psycho baby mama.”

Shane didn’t bother correcting him.

“We hooked up, like usual. And then she drops on me that apparently she wants to be in a relationship, and she wouldn’t mind living with me, and she’s not happy only seeing Veronica on holidays, and she’s even down to get married.”

“Ah, expressed her wishes properly. So why are you the asshole?” JJ tilted his head, interested.

Shane awkwardly swirled his glass.

“Apparently this is one of those cases where someone’s been hinting at something for a long time and I just didn’t get it. She cried, thought I’d tell her to fuck off.”

“You really are not the sharpest tool in the shed in terms of people and feelings,” JJ said thoughtfully. “So do you actually like her? Not just for sex.”

Shane carefully considered it.

Handsome. God on the ice. A troll. A pro wrapped in shameless chaotic goblin image. And at the same time, soft underneath—Veronica had never once doubted that Uncle Ilya adored her.

He’d called Shane “sweetheart” at their last hook up, as if it had just slipped out.

And Shane liked watching Rozanov do puzzles with Veronica and Dad during the holidays.

He didn’t want to call him by his last name anymore.

Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

Warmth spread in his chest. Not the nervous trembling he’d had all those years ago, from the early days. Warmth.

It felt like he wanted to keep Ilya.

A mental chain flashed through his head: a free agent in a year and a half—Montreal has no salary cap—if Ilya tries to sign below his value Shane will strangle him—Ottawa has the cap—buy a house in Saint-Isidore, one hour to Ottawa, one hour to Montreal—check out schools there…

“I think I’m getting married this summer,” Shane blurted out, not even realizing he’d said it out loud.

He blinked. JJ was grinning wide (and slightly mad).

Shane’s phone chimed with a notification from the team chat:

JJ: GUYS CAP IS GETTING MARRIED

“When the hell did you—” Shane sighed mournfully.

You: Hold the salutes, I haven’t even bought a ring yet.

Hayden: I was about to be offended, how dare you

Seb: That psycho chick? Please say yes, I’ve been dying to see her in person for ages.

Shane shook his head disapprovingly (JJ saluted him with tequila) and opened his texts with Lily before anyone could leak the latest gossip. Most scandalous rumors travelled from Montreal to San Francisco in fifteen minutes flat.

Jane: What’s your ring size?

Lily: …for which finger?

Jane: You know which one, Ilya.

Lily: omg I don’t know give me 3 minutes

7 minutes later

Marlinator: Guess what, Hollander’s actually gonna marry his girl you know what that means you gotta do it too right right right

Rozocop: already know

Rozocop: What can I say, start picking your tux

Marlinator: WAIT SERIOUSLY

3 minutes later

Jane: People are already telling me you’re getting married just to spite me.

LiIy: I honestly don’t know how we gonna explain this

Jane: We’ve got till summer, we’ll figure something out

Lily: 100%

***

They didn’t have to come up with anything, because at the next Boston-Montreal game at the Montreal home ice, Veronica attempted another escape—this time a successful one. Shane was cursing and yelling that he’d buy a leash for his runaway kid. Ilya, after getting a panicked text, showed the Bears a photo of Veronica, and the search party doubled.

Hayden found her by the popcorn stand.

“Why did you run away?” Hayden asked sternly, scooping her up.

Veronica answered, but he didn’t understand a word.

“Sorry, what?”

“She said she was looking for me, but got distracted by popcorn,” explained a low voice with a disgustingly familiar accent from behind him.

Veronica had said something that Hayden had thought was baby babble. Rozanov answered… and it seemed like it wasn’t babble, just not English.

“What… you… you!!!”

Rozanov raised a finger and dialed, Hayden managed to notice, someone called “Jane<3.”

“Found our treasure, section C12.” He ended the call and pocketed his phone. “Thanks for help, Pike, but maybe you hand me my daughter?”

Hayden stared at beaming Veronica in shock. Curly-haired, light-eyed Veronica, who apparently wasn’t babbling kindergarten nonsense, she just sometimes talked Russian at people who didn’t understand her.

“You’re Boston Lily!” 

“Yep.”

“Shane’s psycho!”

“One and only.” 

“And he wants to marry you?!”

“Nobody shocked more than me. Give me Nikulya, yeah?”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs from the upper section.

“Veronica!!!”

 Hayden, who was just handing Veronica to Rozanov, stared at Shane with a look of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane.

“Shane, seriously, HIM?!”

Shane instantly forgot the whole passionate “no more running away or else” speech.

“Well… I mean…” He blinked, then just pointed at Rozanov with an open palm. “Just look at him! And stop asking stupid questions.”

“Wha…”

Rozanov, meanwhile, was busy: smoothing down Veronica’s happy curls, kissing her forehead, and not trolling a single soul in sight.

***

@undead_in_retail Posted with the permission of His Grace Shane Hollander. Veronica Hollander = Nikulya Rozanova [Video: happy ending of Veronica’s escape]

@carterv_admirals Now that’s what I call a hard launch…

@yunahollander This summer dear Ilya will finally officially become a member of our family. Boys, I still want a hockey dynasty. I need more grandchildren. ;)

@theriault_mtlheadcoach Thank God for hysterectomy, Hollander, you’re such a good boy, have a cookie.

@leclaire_bears 

@theriault_mtlheadcoach I really hope you’re joking

@yunahollander Madame, what exactly are you hinting at, have some fear of God