Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/F, F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander/Rose Landry, Rose Landry & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova/Rose Landry/Shane Hollander

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Luca Haas, Wyatt Hayes, Original Characters, Thinly Disguised Cameos from Other Fandoms, Thinly Disguised Hockey RPF Characters

Additional Tags:

Future Fic, Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Stanley Cup Playoffs, Hockey, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Kid Fic, Ilya Rozanov is Good With Children, Found Family, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Actually Quite a Lot of Hockey, Rating May Change

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Inty's Gay Hockey Boys (Heated Rivalry fics)

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-21 Updated: 2026-04-14 Words: 26,698 Chapters: 4/?

It’s Close to [Perfect], But…

Summary

In 2014, just before the Olympic Break, an old sex tape from Ilya’s youth is leaked. Desperate for political cover, he marries Svetlana and says goodbye to his situationship with Shane Hollander.

In 2019, pregnant and utterly done with the dating scene after a long string of loser boyfriends, Rose Landry asks Shane if he wants to be a father. Sick and tired of being alone, he agrees.

In 2030, still in search of that elusive Stanley Cup despite an otherwise perfect Hall of Fame career, Ilya asks to be traded to a contender. He never thought he might end up playing on the same team as his old lover… Or that feelings he thought long buried might resurface.

Notes

Much love to my besties and betas hopelessscribe, multifandomhomo, and phoenix_ascended. Also to Dragonmuse, who helped me brainstorm a bunch for this fic!

Chapter 1: March 2030: Three Days Before the MLH Trade Deadline

Chapter Notes

Office Suite in Winthrop Center: Boston, Massachusetts

Ilya Rozanov—three-time Hart Trophy winner, nine-time Rocket Richard Trophy winner, ninth all-time points scorer in Major League Hockey history and its fifth all-time goals producer—stared at his agent in shock. 

“Are you… serious?” he asked, speaking slowly despite the relative ease of the Russian words. He didn’t understand the point of the joke, if so. But the idea that Naomi was in earnest seemed even less likely. 

“You said you wanted a real contender,” she responded, raising her eyebrows. “The reigning dynasty seemed like a shoe-in, no?”  

Ilya’s lips quirked at the pun, despite his shock. Naomi was a second-generation immigrant rather than a native speaker, but her Russian was excellent, learned at her mother’s knee and polished with post-graduate work. It had been one of the requirements on the list he’d given Sveta, the last time they’d made a change, six… No, God, it was eight years ago, now. Despite his growing fluency in English, he needed the people closest to him to understand, to not force him to put his brain through a second language when he was at his most exhausted. Naomi, twice his age and with more class than him and Sveta put together, was perfect. She reminded him of… Well, not of his grandmother, but some kind of platonic ideal of the type, despite being a cutthroat corporate shark who could and had made grown men weep. 

“I asked if you had any no-gos, and you said no—” she continued, her confusion shifting to concern as his silence stretched out. 

“I just… I didn’t think Los Angeles was an option,” he managed to get out. “Why would the Reign want me?” 

“Ilyushka!” his wife said sharply, from the chair next to him. As he turned to her, she placed her hand on her heart in mock offense. “Who wouldn’t want the best player in the League?” 

He took her hand and kissed the palm, unable to keep from smiling despite the turmoil churning in his gut. She was his mainstay, his anchor—he owed her his freedom and his sanity. But…

“Plenty of teams don’t want me,” he reminded her. “The Reign are focused on playmaking, speed, finesse—not power or intimidation. I wouldn’t fit in there.”

“You are a playmaker, and fast, and clever,” she said, flapping her hand dismissively, “You have adapted to Boston’s style, not the other way around, and you can adapt to Los Angeles’s style as well. But how can they have the cap space for him?” she added, turning back toward Naomi. “With all that they’re paying their dynasty players, who have no-trade clauses. Unless they have players going out on IR for the rest of the season, but next year—

“You both said you would take a cut next year if necessary,” Naomi said, folding her arms across her chest and looking down her long nose at him. 

“A cut, yes!” Ilya snapped back, “for a chance to win the Cup, fine, but not—it cannot be an embarrassment. The League would challenge it, like they did with Kovalchuk, they would call it a violation of the spirit of the cap. And it’s no good trading me to someone who can’t afford me next year. I can’t count on going all the way this year, not with only six weeks to mesh with the team, and if I hop teams again, my image will never recover. The fans will forgive me for leaving Boston for a chance at a Cup—they won’t tolerate me leapfrogging all over the country.” 

“I know, Ilyushenka, I know,” Naomi said soothingly. Then she hesitated, drawing Ilya’s attention. Naomi never hesitated. She went on, every word sounding very careful and intentional, “There are things I haven’t been given permission to tell you. But I can promise there will be room under their cap. This year, and next, if you take a small cut.” 

Svetlana and Ilya both stared at her for a long minute, then turned at looked at each other. It was moments like these when Ilya most valued his wife. After sixteen years of marriage and thirty-four of friendship—since the day she’d taken his hand and tugged  him out of his father’s dim, musty office, leading him outside to play with her in the sunshine—they always knew exactly what the other was thinking. 

“A player has to be retiring, then,” he said slowly. “During the season, so it must be either a family crisis or an injury. Hollander, Lafleur, or Ronnonberg. They are the only three with a salary high enough to make room for me.” 

Svetlana nodded. “Hollander makes the most sense—he is old, and you would fit into his position perfectly—but…” 

“He scored a hat trick yesterday,” Ilya finished, ignoring the pang that shot through his belly at the thought of his old rival retiring. They had barely seen each other, except on the ice, in sixteen years—he dreaded the day when even that would be gone. But it couldn’t possibly be here already. “He couldn't have done that if he were injured, and he would not play if there were a family emergency.” 

“Ronnonberg has also been playing strong, no injuries,” Svetlana continued. “And while he contributes offensively, it would be ridiculous to replace their star defenseman with a power forward. But Lafleur…” 

They were both silent for a moment, following their joint calculation to its logical conclusion. Lafleur would be very young to retire—only thirty-two, and a brilliant goaltender. When he’d been a rising star, the commentators had compared him to Brodeur, and wondered if he might be the one who could finally match the legendary goalie’s unbeatable record as the “winningest” of all time. But those speculations had quieted in the last five years, as Lafleur had been out of the Reign’s roster frequently, mostly due to some kind of problem with his right shoulder. He’d had surgery in the offseason that had been supposed to resolve the issue. If it hadn’t, or if he’d reinjured it… 

“It must be. But then, why not trade for a goalie instead of a forward?” Ilya asked. “They already have Hollander—” 

“There are no Cup-worthy goalies looking to move teams,” Svetlana said immediately, flapping her hand again. “And the Reign have no offensive depth—their first line is so powerful, with Hollander and Haas, that with Lafleur in goal, they haven’t needed it. But if they are thinking they will be allowing more goals against, due to weakness in the crease, it would make sense to bring in more power for their second line to compensate. Replace Jackson with you, hnh? Lupo and Donovan are good, strong wingers; they would go far if they had a center who didn't die halfway through every season.”

Ilya frowned—not because he disagreed with the analysis, but at the part of it that concerned him. He’d never played on a second line, not even as a rookie—Boston had put him as a winger on the first line until he'd earned his chance at center. Still… He could just imagine the terror a team would feel at facing him after Hollander’s first line had already taken them apart. Their opponents wouldn’t know what had hit them… 

“Speaking entirely speculatively,” Naomi added, interrupting his thoughts, “LA’s rookie goaltender, the first-round draft pick they got in that trade with Ottawa—” 

“Vitny,” Svetlana supplied, her expression going thoughtful. “He’s had a decent first season; he’s been playing a lot to allow Lafleur to come back from the surgery slowly. He needs more time to develop, certainly, but everyone assumes he will be the eventual successor.”

Naomi nodded. “And the team likes him. He’s been living with Hollander, Lafleur has been mentoring him, and you know how much a team can coalesce around their goaltender. Bringing someone else in, passing him over—it could hurt his confidence permanently, damage the team’s chemistry.” 

Ilya choked. “And bringing me in would not damage their chemistry? We have faced them in the finals twice, I play in the same position as their captain, and Hollander and I…”

He trailed off, unsure of how much to say in front of Naomi.

“That’s why we’re having this conversation,” she said, peering at him. “And no doubt someone else is having it with Hollander.”

“Have they not already gotten his sign off, then?” Ilya asked, even more surprised. Hollander was the Reign—their longtime captain, the man they’d structured their rebuild around, the player who had led their team to four Cup wins in less than a decade. The possibility of the Reign getting serious about a blockbuster trade like this without clearing it through Hollander was slim to none. 

Naomi had to know that as well as Ilya did, but she just shrugged. “They haven’t confirmed that specifically. They’re probably worried about leaks, despite the NDAs. But they don’t seem to think they’ll have any trouble getting his agreement. Now, I’ve always been under the impression that that whole rivalry thing when you were young was exaggerated, no? I know the two playoff losses to him were hard… But you played beautifully together in the All-Stars, that one time the League didn’t keep you apart. What was it, in 2017?” 

“No one takes the All-Stars seriously,” Ilya said softly, leaning back in his chair. Remembering the joy of skating alongside Hollander for that single game, over a decade ago. It had been scarcely ten minutes of ice time, all told, but it shone in his memory like a beacon. With only three years having passed after his marriage to Sveta, the fury and hurt feelings had still been snapping back and forth between the two of them like a cut wire. Yet they’d had an almost psychic connection on the ice, an ability to sense where the other was, what he was thinking… 

“Hey, Ilyusha,” his wife said softly, sitting down on his lap. He jerked his eyes open—he wasn’t sure exactly when he’d closed them—and looked around for Naomi. 

“She gave us the room to discuss it,” Svetlana said. “You were lost to the world.” 

“We never thought this would happen,” he said, in oblique apology. 

She nodded. “But it’s the best-case scenario in some ways, isn’t it? If you don’t go to Los Angeles, you’ll likely have to beat them. I know that’s why we talked about setting up for next year, but if you could do it this year, wouldn’t that be better? The only other team I think you could do it with as things stand now would be Colorado, or perhaps Detroit, and even then—” 

“We’d have to get lucky,” he said, nodding. They’d already run through this analysis ad nauseum, over the past several months as he’d recovered from that last injury, gotten back onto the ice, and tried—and failed—to get Boston back into playoff contention position. 

He shook his head, remembering past grievances. Twenty years of not enough leadership, not enough depth, badly timed personal crises, even worse-timed injuries, a lack of support in the crease, lousy referee calls, bad bounces of the puck… And the three times he’d actually managed to carry his team to the Cup finals, they’d been so battered by the journey that they’d been easy prey for the champions of the much-less-competitive Western Conference. Which had, more often than not, been the Los Angeles Reign. He tightened his lips as he remembered the look on Hollander’s face the two times he’d all but ripped the Cup from Ilya’s hands. Both times in a Game Seven, on Hollander’s home ice… 

And so here Ilya was, thirty-nine years old, one of the most dominant scorers in the history of League, already a guaranteed Hall-of-Famer, and he’d never won his sport’s most prestigious trophy. He had been, perhaps, the most prominent victim of the Boston curse, the city’s longest dry spell without a major championship of any kind since big league sports had been invented… 

While during those same years, Hollander had notched up six Stanley Cup rings—two with Montreal, four with Los Angeles—matching the best any single player had ever done since the League’s expansions in the seventies. He had to be hungry for his seventh, to establish himself as the most highly decorated hockey player of the modern era. So hungry, apparently, that he was even willing to play with Ilya?

“What are you thinking?” Svetlana asked. “I know I’ve pushed you to do this, but if you’ve changed your mind, if you would rather finish out your career in Boston, it’s not too late—” 

“You know I haven’t,” Ilya growled. “Just… Give me a second, yes?” 

He lifted her up as he stood, hefting her minimal weight easily, and set her down on Naomi’s desk. Turning away, he walked over to the huge bay of windows and looked down at the Boston Harbor—a more familiar sight than the Moscow skyline, given that he hadn’t been back since 2013. While he'd never ended up facing any legal trouble for the leaked sex tape, or his later acknowledgement of his bisexuality, he’d never dared to go back—Sveta managed both of their properties and kept up appearances for their families.  

He paced back and forth a bit, his fingers itching for a cigarette. He had truly thought that he’d left his dangerous feelings for Hollander behind during that last furious conversation, just after Ilya’s marriage. What had there even really been to get over? They’d had three nights together over the course of four years. It had been nothing. But the wild sense of euphoria that had shot through him at the idea of Hollander wanting him for his team told Ilya that the emotions from that time weren’t as permanently buried as he’d hoped. 

They were both married men, he reminded himself. And unlike Ilya, Hollander took marriage vows very seriously. He’d made that very clear when he’d walked away, over sixteen long years ago. There was no possibility that he was interested in picking back up with their ill-advised affair—especially not now, when it would be even more ill-advised, and even more of an affair. More likely, with so many years between them and their youthful exploits—and with Hollander’s picture-perfect life, his movie-star wife, their two-point-three kids, and the beautiful Hollywood mansion—he had forgotten all about what the two of them had once had, and was thinking of nothing but putting his name in the history books once more before he, too, retired. 

In that moment, as his fists clenched with fury and frustration, Ilya knew one thing for certain: he’d rather win the championship with any team in the League other than Los Angeles. Hoisting that Cup would be forever a little cheapened if he didn’t defeat Hollander to get it. Worse, if it was Hollander, himself—the man who’d rejected him, who had beaten him far too many times—accepting it as Captain and then handing it off to Ilya, like a gift, instead of something he’d earned.  

But Ilya would damn well rather win it that way than never win it at all. 

He walked back to the desk and knelt down next to it, laying his knee on Sveta’s thigh. “Would you come with me?” he asked, unable to look her in the eye as he admitted his weakness. “I know we’d assumed you would stay here to manage the business…” 

She stroked her hand through his curls. “Why not? Who would turn down the chance to live in Los Angeles for a while?” 

He felt the tense muscles in his neck go limp with relief, and he exhaled, slow and shakily.  

“Oh, Ilyushech’ka,” she said, leaning down and kissing the top of his head. “As if I would let you go face Shane Hollander alone. I can manage the dealerships remotely for a couple of months. I just may have to come back for the occasional trip next fall, if you don’t win it this year.” 

He nodded, nuzzling into her thigh. With Sveta—his only true family—by his side, he could deal with Los Angeles. He could face Hollander. He could even face his own memories and deeply burning longing. 

“Alright, then,” he said, finally turning his face back up toward his wife. “If the Reign are stupid enough to take me, I guess I’m stupid enough to go.” 

Private Home in Playa del Rey: Los Angeles, California

“Slipper!” Shane bellowed. Sliding the broken window up, he made sure that he’d cleaned all the broken glass off the sill and there were no jagged edges sticking out under the sash, and then stuck his head out, glaring down at his younger daughter in the yard. “What have we said about playing hockey next to the house?” 

“It wasn’t me,” she yelled, balling her fists at her hips. “It was David, and—” 

“And don’t even try to tell me that your little brother would be shooting pucks that close to the windows if you hadn’t egged him on, young lady!” 

Shane bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning as he heard his mother’s voice slipping out from between his lips. Slipper—who’d declared at the age of three that she no longer wanted to be called Claire, and had somehow managed to bully the entire family into following her lead—had a distressing tendency to sense when he wasn’t really all that mad at her… And given the combined forty-two million dollars that he and his wife had taken home last year—before investments or sponsorships, that had just been their salaries—he had a hard time caring about replacing a few windows if breaking them made his kids feel happy. Rose always said he was overcompensating for his guilt over how often their busy careers took them away from home. There was probably some truth to that. 

This is the last year, he promised himself again. Whether we win or not. I want a seventh Cup, but it’s not worth missing any more of my children’s lives… Or my own.

“Where’s Kayla, anyway?” Shane called. He moved the dustpan he’d used to sweep up the broken glass from the windowsill to the floor and leaned even further out, peering from side to side. He didn’t see their nanny anywhere. Granted, at four and six, David and Slipper were allowed to be out in the backyard without supervision—they lived in a gated community with private security, after all—but Kayla usually kept a fairly close eye on them. 

“She’s making lunch,” Slipper reported, looking immediately cheerier now that she wasn’t being scolded. “We’re having grilled cheese! Do you want any?” 

“Not during the season, sweetheart,” he apologized. “But how about we put it on the list for the summer?” 

She pouted cutely. “It’ll be too hot, then. Melted cheese is only good when it’s cold out!” 

He couldn’t help grinning fondly down at her. “Okay, how about I have one bite of yours? If you promise not to play hockey this close to the house! Just stay on the other side of the red line, okay?” 

“Okay, Dad!” She turned and ran toward the red stripe they’d created with the stone and mulch xeriscaping, brandishing her hockey stick in the air.

“You’re going to eat bread during the season?” a resonant voice asked, thickly threaded with amusement. “Will wonders never cease.” 

He pulled his head back in hurriedly, then yelped as he hit his head on the window sash. Behind him, Lucy giggled, and he turned and mock-glared at his oldest child, wrapped in her mother’s arms. 

“Here, honey, go climb on your dad,” Rose said, putting down their nine-year-old with a grunt of effort. “You’re getting too big for me to carry you around like this.” 

Lucy ran to him, and he scooped her up with a grin, throwing her effortlessly into the air. “Did you have a good morning, sweetheart?”

She clung to his neck as he swung her around, giggling. “Mm-hmm.” 

“Yeah? What did you do?” 

“I went horseback riding with Grandma! And then I finished reading The Return of the King.” 

“What was this, your third time through the whole trilogy?” he asked, amused. 

“The fourth. It’s my favorite! But the Silmarillion is good, too—” 

He shook his head. For all that she was the only one of the children who wasn’t Shane’s, biologically, she took after him the most: studious, advanced beyond her years, socially awkward, and she had his tendency to cling to familiar habits, and lose herself in her favorite activities. 

“Can we play Scrabble after lunch?” she asked, turning her greatest weapon—those big, glistening brown eyes of hers—on him. 

“Maybe,” he said, looking over her shoulder at Rose. “Why don’t you go see if you can get your sister and brother to come in for lunch, and we’ll join you in a sec?” 

“They won’t listen to me,” she said, the voice of wise experience. 

“Well, that means you’ve got to practice your leadership skills, right?” 

She pouted, but nodded and squirmed to get down. He kissed the top of her head and shooed her toward the door, then turned to look at his wife. 

“Where did we get the idea that it would be a good idea to be outnumbered in our own house?” he asked, only half-joking. 

“With a live-in nanny, five part-time tutors, coaches, or babysitters, your mom over here more days than not, and your rookie in the carriage house, I wouldn’t exactly say we’re outnumbered,” she said, laughing. 

“Fair point,” he admitted. “There are some perks to our princely salaries, I guess.”

“Any word, yet?” she asked, lowering her voice a bit. 

“No,” he said, in the same quiet tone. There was no real reason they needed to worry about someone overhearing them right now, but they’d gotten used to using hushed voices when discussing confidential matters—especially after Slipper had accidentally let a key X-Squad spoiler spill out at preschool. “His agent said they’d have an answer by close of business, though, so there’s a few hours left.”  

She nodded. “What do you think he’s going to do?”

He shrugged, turning away from her and looking out the window again. As Lucy had predicted, Slipper and David were still running around the yard, heedless of her shouting at them. “I was never very good at predicting what Ilya Rozanov was going to do. Even when I was sleeping with him,” he said, bringing his voice down to a whisper with the last few words. 

She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his back. He sighed and put his hands over hers, holding them at his belly. 

“You know you can win another Cup without him,” she said. 

“Our chances would be a lot better with him than trying to fight our way through him,” Shane said, shaking his head. “He’s going to be so hungry for it—this is his last chance, same as mine. We barely beat him the last two times we faced each other in the playoffs, and that was when his team was already exhausted after fighting their way through the East. If he goes to Colorado or Vegas, we’ll have to face him earlier—maybe even in the first round, when he’s completely fresh. Without Laffy-Taffy in the crease, we’ll be easy meat for a desperate Rozanov.” 

“Maybe,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “But I don’t believe for a second that you’re doing this because you don’t think you can beat him. You love a challenge. You have fun with it.” 

He sighed, staring at the frieze of broken glass scattered in the dustpan. “No, it’s not that,” he admitted, rubbing his hands across hers. “I… I don’t want to beat him, Rose. The last time… God, the look in his eyes when we shook hands. I can’t do that to him again. It’s not fun anymore.” 

“So, instead, you want to win a Cup for him?” she asked, her voice barely inflected. “That’s almost… romantic.” 

“Oh, don’t you start.” 

“I’m just saying, you never really got closure there.” 

“Understatement,” he said, snorting. “But it was never anything but sex for him, Rose. And he never knew it was anything more than that for me. Hell, I didn’t know, not really. Not until you broke me out of my closet. It’s not like we can just pick up back where we left off—or that I’d even want to.” 

He disengaged from her embrace and took the dustbin back to its usual spot under his desk, a little hypnotized by the way the glittering shards shifted back and forth on top of the rest of the broken pane and shredded documents. 

“This is all premature, anyway,” he said firmly. “We don’t even know if he’s going to accept the trade, and Boston’s not going to do it without his say-so. It’s not like they want to lose him; they just want to give him one more chance to win.” 

“I would have never thought to see Boston rooting for another team to win the Cup,” she said. “It almost seems like the whole League is conspiring on his behalf.” 

“Yeah, well. He’s come a long way from the player everyone loved to hate. And seriously, with all the times he came so close? It hurt to watch. But that doesn’t mean anyone else is going to go easy on him. Sympathy goes out the window during the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Florida’s hungry for another Cup, so is Colorado, Vegas wants their first after we robbed them two years ago—”

“And I didn’t mean to start another dissection of the playoffs,” she said hastily. “Much though I love you, Shane. I asked because I have to leave for the airport soon—” 

He laughed and kissed her cheek, then laced her arm with his as he turned toward the door. “Have a good two weeks living it up as a single woman in New York,” he said. “No kids, no husband—any fun plans lined up?” 

“Oh, a few. Tessa and Lea want to take me out clubbing—apparently there’s some new hot spot that’s all the rage. And I’ll probably spend a night or two with Edward… Oh! And Scott and Kip invited me over for dinner—they’ve got an idea about a new acting program for that school of theirs—” 

Shane smiled as they walked down the stairs toward the kitchen, Rose still chatting away. She worried about him too much. He’d left his feelings for Ilya Rozanov behind years ago, discarded in the dustbin of his personal history just as he’d swept up the broken glass shards from the window. Now… He just wanted to win one more Cup, side-by-side with one of the best players he’d ever come up against. With the two of them together, the other teams wouldn’t stand a chance. 

Anyway, they were both seasoned veterans. The whole “heated rivalry” thing had been over for more a decade. They would both be professional about it.  He’d win a Cup with Rozanov, fulfilling his last hockey dream, and then retire. He would wait a year or two, until the media stopped paying attention to him as anything other than Rose Landry’s husband, and then quietly come out to their family and closest friends. He could finally date, and find a lover who would accept and love his family as much as he did. It was a good, solid plan. 

And after all, if Rozanov had any problems playing with him, he’d just say no to the trade. So what could go wrong?

Chapter End Notes

In case there are any other Old People™ in this fandom with me who noticed the similarities… Yes, this story is absolutely based on Ray Bourque and the Avs’ second Stanley Cup win in 2001, aka the last time I cared this much about anything to do with ice hockey.

---

Come scream with me about the gay hockey boys on tumblr or in the comments—fandom interaction fuels my productivity!

Chapter 2: Five Days Later: Six Weeks Left in the Regular Season

Chapter Notes

LAX International Airport: Los Angeles, California

“Where the fuck is the fucking driver they promised?” Ilya muttered in an annoyed mix of Russian and English, peering through the small gaggle of men in bad suits lining the edge of the baggage claim. It wasn’t as if a foreign language would catch any attention at one of the biggest international airports in the world; or that he would care if it did.

After once again coming up dry on his search, he rolled his eyes and crouched down in front of the traveling kennel next to them. Not that he needed to crouch down too much; Svetlana had insisted that their baby travel in style, and so her carrier was almost four feet tall, with a giant memory foam base across half of it. Huddled deep inside it, their white puffball of a samoyed whined groggily at him. 

“I know, Snegurochka, I know,” he said soothingly, switching entirely into Russian, as he always did with her. “Not too much longer, I promise.”  

Or at least, it had better not be. It wasn’t a great sign for his future with the Reign if they’d managed to mess up something as simple as sending a driver to meet them at the airport. 

“Ah! Over there,” Svetlana said, raising her hand and waving. 

Ilya stood up again, peering in the direction she’d indicated, but he still didn’t see the discreet Rozanov sign he’d been looking for anywhere. A moment later, though, a tall, broad-shouldered blond waved back at them and started heading in their direction. 

“Is that Haas?” Ilya asked, taken aback. When the Reign’s travel coordinator had told him they’d have someone meet him at the airport, he’d assumed a professional driver, not someone from  their first line. 

Holy fuck, was Hollander here, too? Surely he wouldn’t have done anything so insane…

As Ilya looked frantically around, Sveta waved eagerly back at Haas, then shot Ilya a jaundiced look as the younger player made his way across the terminal. She had no doubt recognized Hollander’s right wing immediately—she still knew hockey better than Ilya did, despite his twenty years of elite professional play. He’d long ago given up hope that he would ever have her ability to keep the stats and styles of every player in the League in her head, to analyze and predict how an entire team would perform in a given situation. 

But at least he still played hockey better than she did. 

And he really needed to stop thinking about everything associated with this team as belonging to Hollander. At least it looked like the man himself wasn’t here, thank God. Ilya had counted on having his next meeting with the captain of his new team be at the practice arena—on familiar, easy ground for them. 

“Captain Rozanov! Good to see you again!” Haas said, grinning and offering a hand as soon as he got close enough to do so. 

Ilya took it and shook, taking a moment to take in his new teammate. It wasn’t as if they didn’t know each other, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen Haas out of hockey gear. He was a little surprised at how well the younger player cleaned up; his curly blond hair looked much better not plastered to his head with sweat, and he was more built up than Ilya had subconsciously expected, from the hits the Swiss player had delivered the last time their teams had met in the playoffs.

Fortunately, he managed to restrain himself from saying something along the lines of “with this many muscles on your chest, you should be able to smash me into the boards much harder.” 

He’d wait until he’d been on the kid’s team for more than five hours before hitting him with that one. 

“Thank you for coming to get us,” he said, surprised into politeness, then forced himself to go on, despite how the next thing he needed to say hurt his heart. “But I am not a captain, any longer.”

“You will always be Boston’s captain,” Svetlana said sharply. In English, which meant she was saying it at least partly for Haas’s benefit. 

But the fingers she interlaced with Ilya’s free hand were entirely for him, and it eased his heart enough for his next words to come out more easily. “But not Lucky’s. And he should call me Rozy. Yes?” he added, pulling his free hand out of Svetlana’s and clapping the younger player on the shoulder. “We are teammates now, right?” 

Haas actually blushed. Oh, Ilya was going to have so much fun with this one. He was almost as adorable—and almost as blonde—as Snegurka. 

“I still can’t quite believe it,” Haas said, shaking his head. He still hadn’t pulled his hand out of Ilya’s, either. “I thought playing on the same team with Shane Hollander and Michel Lafleur was amazing, but now, Ilya Rozanov? If you went back in time to when I was a teenager and told me this was where I was gonna be in fifteen years, I’d lose it, man.” 

Rozanov laughed, charmed in spite of himself. He’d faced this kind of hero-worship from rookies, but Haas was what, thirty? Thirty-one? He’d certainly been in the MLH for at least a decade—a first round draft pick to Ottawa, if Ilya remembered correctly, before he had been seduced away from those perennial losers when he'd hit free agency by the golden lure of the Championship Cup. 

“And I’m Svetlana Rozanova,” his wife interrupted, elbowing Ilya aside and smiling up at the tall blond through her lashes. Haas finally dropped his hand, coloring even redder. “But you can call me Sveta.” 

Ilya narrowed his eyes at her flirty tone. Granted, Haas was quite attractive—more her type than his, but he certainly wouldn’t have passed by the man in a private club. But the one firm rule they had about their particular version of married life was that she didn’t sleep with his teammates, and he didn’t sleep with her salesgirls. Saleswomen, rather—she corrected him on that often enough that he shouldn’t still be making the mistake. 

Or salesmen, for that matter. No matter how hot some of them were. 

“It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am!” Haas said enthusiastically. “And the boys and WAGs mostly call me Lucky, but Luca is fine, too.” 

Ilya had to press his lips together to keep from laughing at the pained expression on Sveta’s face. 

“The WAGs group out here was super excited when management told us you were coming,” Haas went on, clearly oblivious to her displeasure at being ma’amed. “Lisa—that’s Dr. Hayes, she’s married to one of our assistant coaches—asked me to tell you that they’re doing happy hour this afternoon during practice, if you want to join, and she can pick you up. But she also understands if you’re too tired after all the travel.” 

“Mmm, I don’t know,” Svetlana teased—as if she would miss such a chance at new gossip. “Will Rose Landry be there?”

Haas laughed. “Sorry, no. She’s out of town this week. But she does usually go to the WAG events! Actually, she and Hollzy host a lot of team stuff out at their place.” 

Ilya just nodded at the confirmation that he would have to go to parties at Hollander’s house. It was entirely expected—he’d hosted many team events at his place, as captain, and of course Hollander did the same, with that beautiful, custom-built mansion that Ilya had seen shots of on ESPN. Ilya would be fine—doubtless there would be more than sixty people present, and he and Hollander would scarcely have to interact more than they did at the All-Stars or the MLH awards every year. It didn’t need to be a thing. 

“And who’s this beauty?” Haas asked, crouching down next the kennel. “Gosh, she’s gorgeous. What’s her name? Or his…?” 

“Her,” Svetlana affirmed, crouching down next to him. “Snegurka, or Snegorochka when she is being very cute.” 

“So all the time,” Ilya murmured.

Svetlana glared at him for a second before turning her attention back to their baby. “It means snowmaiden.” 

“Snegurka,” Haas attempted, not mangling it too horrible. “Um. Wow. Do you have anything you call her for short?” 

“No,” Svetlana said quickly. “You may call her Snezhevinochka, also, if you wish.” 

Haas blinked haplessly at her, and Ilya took pity on him. “We also call her baby, rabbit, snowchild, sunshine, beloved,” he said, rattling off the endearments in rapid-fire Russian. “But the Raiders called her Snuggie. Because her fur looks like one.” 

“Ilyushka!” Svetlana complained. 

“Sveta is not a fan of hockey nicknames,” Ilya explained. “I wanted to name her Anya, for this exact reason. But Sveta said that people who give their pets normal human names need therapy.” 

Haas choked out a laugh. 

“Yes, this is why it would have been perfect name for you to give her,” Svetlana muttered in Russian. “My poor baby sunshine.” She clearly wasn’t referring to Ilya with that last. 

The banter halted as they worked efficiently to get themselves, Snegurka, and their luggage out of the airport and into Haas’s car—fortunately, he’d brought one of the team equipment vans, so they had plenty of room to load everything up, although Ilya had to perch precariously on a hotseat that folded out from the side of the cargo area. 

It was normally a very short ride from LAX to the Reign’s practice facility—Ilya had done it plenty of times over the years—but there must have been an accident, because traffic slammed to a stop as they pulled out from the airport complex and merged onto the interstate, with several ambulances crawling past them. 

“So,” Haas said tentatively, after a few minutes of stop-and-go traffic. “There was something Laffy-Taffy asked me to bring up with you, if I got a chance.” 

Ilya quirked his eyebrows. “Oh?” 

“Yeah. Well, the team got you a hotel—I mean, of course they did, it’s required. CBA and all.” 

“Yes, I understand it’s very close to the arena…” Svetlana said, exchanging a curious look with Ilya. Haas sounded almost diffident, entirely different than the confident demeanor he’d presented so far—the blush aside—and Ilya couldn’t imagine what he could possibly be getting at. 

“Oh, yeah, it’s nice,” Haas said. “But… With you bringing your wife out, and a dog, Laffy was thinking, a hotel for three months—that might suck.” 

Ilya leaned forward in his awkward chair, bracing his arm on Haas’s seat. “Yes, Snegorochka needs a yard. We were planning to take the money, instead of the room, after the first week or so, and get a rental. Or perhaps buy—real estate is always a good investment, yes?” 

He made sure to keep his voice friendly and inviting, anticipating now where the conversation was going, despite his surprise at such an offer being made. It wasn’t as if he was a broke rookie, after all, or a young, foolish player who needed the guidance of an older player… For that matter, Lafleur wasn’t older than he was!

“That makes sense,” Haas said easily. “But we were thinking—Laffy was thinking, I mean—that you might take his garden apartment. It’s really nice—two bedrooms, and one has a desk, so you can use it as an office if you want. Full kitchen, of course, plenty of sunshine with the egress windows. New bathroom. He’s got a big yard, and it’s like, a five-minute walk from the rink.” 

Ilya nodded slowly, then looked at Sveta, cocking his head to the side in silent question. Staying with a teammate, even one on injured reserve—and especially a goaltender—would likely help him to bond with the team better; and refusing could make him look standoffish and unsociable, although Lafleur might well have asked Haas to sound him out precisely to avoid the pressure that making such an offer publicly would place on them. But living on the same property as someone else, even in separate residences, might also create friction—they wouldn’t have the same level of privacy and freedom that they would in a rental where their landlord wouldn’t be right there, able to oversee their actions. And it wasn’t as if he would be spending all that much time at home; and the work of finding them a rental would also naturally fall more to Sveta, so it was only fair for her to make the final decision.

“That’s a very generous and kind offer,” she said. “We’d want to see the space before making a final decision, of course, but I don’t see any reason we wouldn’t choose to take him up on it.” 

“Great,” Haas said, but there was still tension in his voice, and Ilya and Sveta looked at each other with matching puzzlement. “One other thing I should tell you first, though. Laffy lives there with his husband.” 

Ilya blinked in shock. “I… didn’t know he was married,” he said, knowing his voice was strained. 

But surely no one could blame him for that. There were no openly gay hockey players in the League—Ilya himself was the only technically open member of the queer community at all, and he thought people had mostly forgotten about that, after all these years of successfully keeping his personal life out of the news. A little over a decade ago, Scott Hunter’s marriage—despite his recent retirement and clear attempt to keep it out of the news—had caused a small stir, and there had been much discussion about whether or not his team had known, whether he had slept with other players, whether the MLH was too toxic for minorities. But it had died down after a couple of weeks, and nothing had changed. 

“Nobody really does,” Haas explained. “Like, Skinman knows, and the team doctor, in case there’s an emergency. And I know because I was actually billeting with him when they got together. But the rest of the team… No.” 

Ilya’s jaw dropped. “But he wanted to tell me?” 

Haas shrugged. “Well, he figured that you, uh, wouldn’t be the type to out someone. You know, with your history.” 

That made Ilya’s mouth snap closed again. “No,” he said, the word choked off. “I would not.” 

“And now that he’s retiring, it doesn’t really matter anymore,” Haas said. “He’s gonna tell the rest of the team this summer—he just doesn’t want to distract anyone in the lead up to the playoffs, you know?” 

Ilya’s mouth twisted bitterly. Oh yes, he knew. 

“Well,” Svetlana said, in the slightly awkward silence that followed. “In that case, we will definitely stay with him. You know, gay men, they really know how to decorate.” 

Ilya laughed—a little hysterically, but he thought it was understandable—and Svetlana and Haas joined in. 

Honda Sports Performance Center: El Segundo, California

What should have been a less than ten-minute drive had taken a half-hour, but they finally made it to the practice facility. 

“Very nice,” Ilya approved, as Haas led them out onto the rubber rolls next to the rink. It was—he’d practiced in this facility before, of course, but it felt different coming here as his new home. Or… “Has been redone, recently?” 

“Oh yeah, that’s right—you were out on IR the last couple times Boston played here, weren’t you?” Haas said. “Man, that had to suck.” 

Ilya swallowed. Moving past Haas, he planted his hands on the boards and leaned forward, letting his head hang between his shoulders. Keeping pace with him, Sveta slid her arm into his, then slid her hand down to hold his. Injuries were a part of hockey; no one went their entire career without getting their bell rung at some point. But this had been the first major injury he’d taken in a good eight or nine years, and he’d been dismayed at how much harder it had been to battle his way back to full health. If he could really even say that he had. Oh, he was confident could still play better than ninety-five percent of the players out there, or he wouldn’t have been here at all. But there was an edge of speed and stamina that he was grimly certain at this point he was never going to get back. 

And everything hurt, all the time. The only time he escaped it was when he was having sex, or a few fleeting moments on the ice, when the thrill of victory chased the omnipresent aches and soreness away.

“No, bunny,” Svetlana murmured quietly to Snegurka in Russian. “Papa doesn’t need kisses right now.” 

Ilya did, in fact, absolutely need kisses right now. But he appreciated her not letting Snegurochka jump all over him when he needed to be putting up a professional front—their snowchild tended to get very affectionate when she sensed Ilya was feeling down. 

“But yeah, they put in a bunch of improvements in 2028, after our last Cup win,” Haas went on, once again oblivious to the undercurrents of the conversation. 

And now Ilya had to clench his teeth. At least that hadn’t been one of the years he’d lost to them directly—he hadn’t managed to get the Raiders into the Cup Finals since ‘26—but the reminder of the ways in which Hollander had succeeded, repeatedly, where Ilya himself had failed was… ill-timed. 

“Rozy!” a deep, vaguely familiar voice called from behind them. “Glad to see you made it okay!” 

They all swung around to see three men approaching them quickly from the offices behind the rink. Ilya took a deep breath, steeling himself. 

He knew all three of them, of course, to varying extents. The two men on the outside were somewhere between casual acquaintances and familiar enemies. Boston didn’t play Los Angeles often, but there were only thirty-two head coaches and roughly the same amount of starting goaltenders in the MLH; Ilya knew them all, had met them on the ice and at events, had studied their styles, their strengths and weaknesses, their backgrounds and histories. 

The man in the middle, on the other hand, he knew significantly more… biblically. 

“Rozanov,” Shane Hollander said, offering his hand. 

Ilya took it. “Hollander. Good to see you.” 

It shouldn’t have been weird. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t shaken hands plenty of times over the last sixteen years—

Six times after playoff series. Twice when we couldn’t avoid each other at All-Star Games. Four times at the MLH awards. 

—but those handshakes had been brief, meaningless things, barely more than a brush of their hands before one of them had pulled away. This time, Hollander kept hold of Ilya’s hand for several interminerable seconds, his grip firm and solid, his fingers brushing lingeringly across Ilya’s wrist. 

“Been a while,” Hollander said, finally dropping Ilya’s hand, allowing him to take a breath. “We missed you at those last two games. It’s never any fun beating Boston when you’re not on the ice.” 

It was just chirping, Ilya reminded himself. Hollander wasn’t trying to rub it in. “You must be masochist, to have more fun losing,” he managed to get out. 

“No, I just enjoy winning more when it’s against the best.” For a split second, there was a glint of heat in Hollander’s eyes. But it disappeared fast enough that Ilya almost doubted he’d seen it at all.  “And who’s this?” Hollander cooed, crouching down next to Ilya’s baby. 

“Snezhevinochka,” Ilya said, just to be an asshole, then laughed at Hollander’s expression. “I’m joking. She will answer to anything, as long as you say it like you are in love with her.” 

“That won’t be hard,” Hollander admitted, as Snegurochka immediately stuck her nose in his crotch, her tail wagging furiously. 

Ilya was not jealous of his own damn dog.

Svetlana knelt down next to Hollander and Snegurochka, allowing Ilya to pivot his attention to the other men who had accompanied Hollander. The Reign’s head coach, Skinner—or the Skinman, as his players and the papers called him—stepped forward, nodding. He was a tall, bald man with a close-cropped silver beard, still powerfully built and good-looking in his early sixties. He’d been a damn good offensive defenseman with Los Angeles in his own time—when Ilya and Hollander had been boys—and his old number still hung in the rafters of the main arena downtown. Ilya didn’t think Skinner deserved too big a share of the credit for the Reign’s successes—those kudos rightfully belonged to the two men who had accompanied him—but he had a good reputation for backing up his players, running a tight ship, and otherwise staying out of their way. 

“I think we’re all looking forward to having fun winning with the best two players in the League on our side of the ice,” Skinner said now, in the same deep voice that had called out to Ilya before. The tall coach grinned fiercely as he offered his hand. He had a near-crushing grip, although Ilya could feel that he’d held some of his strength in reserve. “But in all seriousness, Rozy, we all know it’s your year. We’re just happy to be along for the ride.” 

That was incredibly generous, coming from a man with five championship rings of his own—one as a player, four as a coach—and Ilya forced himself to smile back. 

“Plenty of room on this ride for everyone,” he said, just to poke at Hollander. Sadly, he didn’t manage to provoke an audible noise. But the skin around Hollander’s freckles reddened, at least. Ilya had an excellent view of it, with the man still crouching near his feet, now rubbing Snegurka’s belly as her feet waved ecstatically in the air. 

“But not for me, to my endless regret,” the third man said, in a light French accent. 

This time, Ilya stuck out his hand without hesitation, and when the coppery-haired Quebeçois took it, Ilya reached up and grasped his forearm as well, gripping tight. Even if it hadn’t been for their newly found connection—Ilya knew the day would come soon when he couldn’t make it on the ice again, and he had nothing but sympathy for a man who’d had the bad luck to find that day coming for him far sooner than it should have. 

“You’ll still be a champion with us, Michel,” Hollander said. He stood up again—to Snegurochka’s evident dismay—and patted Lafleur’s left shoulder sympathetically as Ilya let his hand go. 

It was technically true—even with how much they’d started their backup goaltender this year, Lafleur had easily met the forty-one-game threshold for getting his name engraved on the Cup. But Ilya shook his head at Hollander’s cluelessness, nonetheless. 

“I’m sorry I won’t have the chance to play with you behind me in the net,” he said to Lafleur. “You were always one of the hardest to score on.” 

“Oh, our Vitty-boy will do plenty good enough for you,” Lafleur said, with an off-center smile. “He’ll be even better than me, one day, and with you and Hollander finally paired up? The other teams will be so busy running away from the two of you, the real danger will be him getting so bored he falls asleep in the crease.” 

Ilya felt his lips twitch, remembering how many times he’d thrown boring as an insult at Hollander. “If things get too onesided, I’ll forget which side I’m playing on for a little while,” he said. “If he can stop me from scoring, he’ll know he’s truly made it.” 

They all laughed. Even Hollander. 

“This is my wife, Svetlana,” Ilya said, remembering himself. “I’m not sure if you have met? She’s been to many of our games, of course, and League events.” 

“Yes, I remember running into the two of you at the MLH awards a few times,” Skinner said, offering Sveta his hand as she stood. “A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Rozanov.”

“Rozanova,” she corrected, emphasizing the correct pronunciation. “We keep the traditional ending. But please, call me Sveta. You will get used to seeing me around.” 

“Boston’s video coach often called her in to help,” Ilya offered, hoping to make up for forgetting to introduce her at the start of the conversation. “And she counsels me and the Raiders. She is the best hockey tactician I have ever met.” 

Hollander’s eyebrows rose. “Your English has gotten way better,” he blurted out. 

Ilya raised his eyebrows. “Your social skills have not,” he observed, only to bite his tongue. He’d promised he would be on his best behavior… 

Fortunately, Hollander just laughed. “Yeah, I guess we’ll probably find that a lot of things have changed over the years,” he said. 

“I apologize for rushing this along,” Skinner said, glancing over his shoulder, “but we’re running a bit behind schedule—” 

“There was an accident on the 405,” Haas said apologetically. 

“—and the boys should already be gathering in the locker room,” the coach finished, ignoring the interjection. 

“If they know what’s good for them,” Hollander muttered, looking at his watch. 

“But Laffy—maybe you could introduce Sveta to Sam? I think she’s in the office today. Sam Carter does our video coaching,” Skinner added, to Ilya and Sveta. “She’s brilliant, but she’s also holding down about three other jobs around here, so if you’re willing to help out, we certainly won’t turn it down.” 

Ilya felt his eyes widen, once again. Boston had been welcoming to Sveta after their marriage, but it had still taken several months before she’d managed to ingratiate herself enough with the coaching staff for them to let her at their tapes. After that, of course, it had only taken days before she’d impressed the players enough that she’d become an integral part of the team. 

“I’d be happy to,” Lafleur said, and then glanced swiftly at Haas. Even watching for it, Ilya just barely caught the slight nod and wink that Haas sent back; apparently hecould be subtle. “And if you have some time this afternoon, maybe I could drive you out to my place and have you take a look at my garden apartment? We were thinking that you might like to stay there for the rest of the season. No pressure, of course.” 

Hollander’s eyes widened. “Wow. You’re a beautician, Laffy, that’s an incredible offer.” 

“I know you’d have normally offered them your carriage house, Hollz,” Lafleur said, with a slightly apologetic note in his voice, “But since you’ve got Vitty out there already…”

“Oh yeah, no, your place makes a lot more sense,” Hollander said, clapping the goalie’s shoulder again. He turned back to Ilya. “Laffy’s closer, too, right across Sepulveda, next to Wash Park. I enjoy the five-mile run down from Playa del Rey, but with a dog, it’ll be way handier for you to live within walking distance.” 

“It’s a very kind offer,” Svetlana cut in, beaming at the goaltender. “We’d be delighted to accept.” 

“Great,” Lafleur said, smiling back at her. “Well, shall we get going, then?” 

Svetlana gave Ilya a wry look, and he shrugged. He knew she would have much preferred to come along with him to see the locker room, and start gathering opinions on the team dynamics. He would have rather had her there, too. But he couldn’t start things off by bringing his wife into a private team meeting without any other partners or family members—he’d be branded as a codependent simp right from the beginning. 

“Try not to have too much fun without me,” she said, switching to Russian. Gripping the side of his face, she pulled him down into a brief kiss, then whispered, in the same language, “And when you get home, I want to know whether he makes those longing eyes at you for the entire afternoon, mm?”

Wait, what? Ilya wanted to ask, but before he could think of a discreet way to ask the question—he wasn’t willing to bet that Hollander hadn’t learned Russian over the past decade, along with the perfect French and Spanish Ilya had heard him show off on tv—she’d pulled away and allowed Lafleur to take her arm. Snegurockha required a quick tug on her leash and a soft command to remind her of her manners, but once they were given, she fell in obediently next to Sveta’s side, with only a quick glance back at her papa.

“Oh, here, Laffy-Taffy.” Haas tossed the keys—badly—toward the Québécois, who snagged it out of the air with surehanded goaltender’s instincts. “No way you could fit all those suitcases—and the kennel!—in your convertible. Just tell Siler you got ‘em before you head out, so he doesn’t have my head?”  

The older player nodded. “No problem—thanks, Lucky. Rozy, I’ll see you later.” 

Ilya tried to make sure his returning nod showed his appreciation for the French-Canadian’s kindness. He loved his teammates on the Raiders: both the older men who had stood by him when he was at his lowest, and the younger players who had taken the place of the children he and Sveta didn’t have. They were his only remaining family, other than Sveta, and Snegurka… and Sasha, he supposed, although Sasha was more like the annoying cousin everyone wished would disappear. Ilya knew that if he called for help, any one of the men he’d played with over the last twenty years would be there by his side in seconds. But he’d almost never asked, especially since Marly had retired about ten years back. Ilya was the captain—he was the one who was supposed to keep an eye out for everyone else. And coming to Hollander’s team under these circumstances, he hadn’t expected to be made so very welcome. He was a strictly temporary asset, after all, a rental—only here to guarantee them another Cup. He wasn’t a player they were building their team around, to be courted and cossetted. 

But apparently no one had bothered to tell them that.

As Lafleur walked Sveta away, Skinner led the rest of them into the team’s locker room. The loud, bustling atmosphere died down to silence the instant they walked through, and Ilya squared his shoulders, trying not to show the way his knees wanted to shake. It was ironic that as one of the preeminent players in the League for the last two decades, he was less prepared for this moment than ninety percent of the League. He’d played with many players over the years who had worked for five, seven, ten different franchises over the course of their careers—who had the process of working up with a new team down to a science. But Ilya had only ever played for two teams—first, the Russian Junior team, coached by a friend of his father, whom he’d known his entire life, and then, the Boston Raiders. He’d been so terrified when he’d come to Boston, and so determined to never show it. He couldn’t possibly be that scared now, not as a twenty-year veteran with only one thing left to prove. 

But it felt as if he was. 

“Okay, boys, listen up!” Skinner bellowed—entirely unnecessarily, given the way the entire room was already staring at them in silence. “You all know who this is and why he’s here, so I’m not going to waste time or insult your intelligence by doing a recap.” 

“What intelligence?” one of the players muttered, to a general round of laughter. 

“We’ve got a lot of work to do before the game against Vegas tomorrow. I know that none of us are happy about where we are in the standings right now—leading our division isn’t enough for a team as good as we are. Leading the conference wouldn’t be enough, either! We should be leading the entire fucking League, and we all know it. Right?” 

The players all muttered agreement, with some grim looks. Ilya resisted the urge to rub the back of his head. The Reign were currently second in their conference and third in the League—only Florida and Colorado had had a better record so far this season, and both were in less competitive divisions. Ilya would have been delighted to have such a season with the Raiders—even more so, knowing they’d been struggling with injured and inexperienced goalies in the crease. But Los Angeles held itself to higher standards, and with good reason—four good reasons, in fact. 

“Now, look, we all know we’ve been struggling in the crease, and why,” Skinner went on, “And trades are always difficult. I and your other coaches understand that. You’ve lost some brothers, and we’ll be shifting up our lines and plays to accommodate our new alternate captain. We know that change is hard, and we expect there to be some growing pains. I’m not going to be writing anything down over the next couple of days, and I’m going to be nice about the inevitable problems—for just as long as I see that you’re all giving a hundred percent to fix them. Right, boys?” 

“Right, coach!” the players chorused. 

They were still a little off-kilter, some of them chiming in a full second after the rest, but Skinner nodded, satisfied. “Cap, anything to add?” 

“Thanks, Skinman. I do have something I want to say,” Hollander said, stepping forward. 

Ilya tensed. It was ridiculous—if Hollander hadn’t wanted him here, he would have just told the team not to trade for him, not waited until he arrived to say something negative. But his muscles didn’t appear to be listening to reason at the moment. 

“We’ve all played some hard games against Rozanov over the years,” Hollander said, then smiled off-sidedly. “Hell, no one’s played more hard games against him than me!” 

“No one’s played as many games as you, period, Cap,” one of the guys chirped. “S’what you get for being old as dirt!” 

“Yeah, Cap, when you gonna pass Mr. Shark?” another jibed, referring to the current holder of the League’s record for most games played in a career. 

Hollander echoed the room’s laughter. “That is one record I feel absolutely no need to beat, asswipes,” he jibed back, shaking his head. 

“But you still know the answer,” Ilya couldn’t stop himself from saying. “Don’t you?” It just felt good to be lightheartedly chirping Hollander again. 

Hollander rolled his eyes. “Fine. It would take another two-hundred and fifty-three games, so I’d have to play through 2033! It’s not gonna happen, boys.” 

Ilya found himself laughing. It was just… so Shane.

“Anyway,” Hollander said, glaring impartially around the room. “What I was intending to say is this. We’ve faced you in the playoffs twice, and I know I speak for everyone here when I say that those were the two toughest series we’ve ever played.” 

The room muttered their agreement, and Ilya blinked, surprised. The truth was that Boston had never been the best team in the League. They were a big, tough crew that liked to play a little dirty, hit hard, fight harder, and get under their opponents’ skin—but they didn’t have a lot of sheer talent, not outside of Ilya, himself. Their general manager had never had the money, or the patience, or perhaps the imagination, to build up a dynasty team around their star player the way that Montreal and Los Angeles had with Hollander. He’d managed to take them to the Cup finals three times, nonetheless—but he’d always been keenly aware of the luck that had been involved, the way that he was compensating for his teammates’ lack of talent by driving them with his own innate passion, his determination, his fury. 

And of course, they hadn’t won any of those three series. 

“We know better than anyone how easily either of those series could have gone the other way,” Hollander continued, oblivious to Ilya’s inner confusion. “Different injuries, different calls, the puck bouncing a different way—and you wouldn’t be here today. You wouldn’t need to be. Everyone in this room knows that you deserve that Cup three times over. Right, boys?”

“Right, Cap!” The ragged chorus from the beginning was now a smooth, chiming unison, the players showing off the chemistry and instincts that made them a crackerjack team. 

Hollander grinned fiercely. “And we’re going to damn well get it for him, aren’t we, boys?” 

“Yes, Cap!” they yelled. Those sitting leapt to their feet. Several threw their fists into the air. A few cheered.  

Ilya’s eyes stung as he looked around at their confident, excited, jubilant faces. Hollander had led them there, showing off his hard-earned captaincy skills as he played his team like a violin. But Ilya could tell that they all believed it, down in their guts. And for just a second, the ache of failure, of inadequacy, of not being good enough, that had lived like a stone in his breast for twenty years—

(No. For twenty-seven.)

—that pain lifted away, leaving him feeling lighter than a feather. 

“Thank you,” he choked out. “I promise I will work very hard to be worthy of this.”

Chapter End Notes

h/t to my bestie Dragonmuse, who suggested the stray I tossed at Book!Ilya with Snuggie’s name. 😂

Chapter 3: One Month Left in the Regular Season

Chapter Notes

I know there's a real horde of new characters in this one (unless you're as big a fan of early aughts SF&F television as I am), with the entire Reign roster to bring in. I haven't written many fics with a lot of OCs, and I'm trying to play a balancing act with keeping the flood of new names and information to a manageable level where you as the readers don't get overwhelmed, while still keeping it real (in the sense that it's been well over a decade for these guys, they WOULD have a whole new set of connections and people in their lives, etc), and making sure that I get the team fully fleshed out for the moments when we'll really need to have those emotional connections established. Constructive feedback is very welcome!

Celestial Center Arena: Denver, Colorado

“Hell yeah,” Shane bellowed, as the red light went off. He leaned forward and banged his stick against the boards, yelling, “Way to fucking go, boys!”

Across the ice, Lupo punched his fist up and down, shouting in triumph as he slid past the goal line and then crashed into Rozanov in the corner. Rozanov caught his right wing with a shout of triumph and swung him around like a figure skater, actually lifting the diminutive Slovakian off the ice for a split second. A moment later, Donovan pulled up next to them and wrapped his arms around Lupo from behind, sending all three linemates into the boards, cackling like hyenas. Around them, the Celestial Center—nicknamed the Teapot by the locals—jeered and booed, and the jumbotron started pounding out Taylor Swift’s latest hit, Payback, urging the Colorado Blizzard to respond to the goal with some offensive momentum of their own. Rozanov broke away from his linemates and skated in a slow half-circle around Lupo and Donovan, lifting his arms above his head and making bring-it-on gestures to the crowd. The fans' disapproving screams and chants got louder in matching pace with Rozanov's gleeful expression, and Shane shook his head in fond exasperation. He'd almost forgotten how much Rozanov fed off that kind of negative energy, delighting in rage-baiting unfriendly arenas. The contrary bastard. 

That said, it was a well-deserved celebration. Rozanov, Lupo, and Donovan were all up by two in the plus-minus tonight, with Rozanov scoring the Reign’s first goal in the opening minutes of the game, and Lupo having just slammed in their fifth with only seconds to go in the second period; that put the Reign up by three over Colorado, all but guaranteeing them a much-needed win tonight. After five slow, tentative games—full of missed passes and lost opportunities—Rozanov's new line was finally hitting their groove, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. They really couldn't have afforded another loss; after a road trip that had seen them struggle to beat teams they would normally have plowed through, they were in danger of slipping to second in their division, with Vegas panting hard at their heels. Winning tonight would put them back up over their divisional rival by two points, with a game in hand—and the four-point shift of a regulation win tonight might even let them catch up to Colorado, the current league leader, in the conference standings. Although that might be a bit of a pipe-dream. The Reign had struggled too much early in the season, and while Vitny was playing decently, he wasn’t coming anywhere near the 1.85 goals-against average that Lafleur had hit in his prime… Or even the 2.35 average that the rookie goaltender had managed during his games in the top half of the season.  

And Shane was taking far too much for granted. “Still one period left, boys,” he yelled, in case any of his teammates were getting similarly complacent. “Gotta keep the pressure up! No time to get sloppy!”

He decided to ignore the performative eye roll and muttered “seriously, Hollzy?” from McKay, sitting next to him. Being annoying was their yappy fourth-line center’s job, after all, and he couldn’t be expected to keep it only to one side of the ice all of the time. Besides, he wasn’t wrong—the Blizzard weren’t likely to come back from a three-goal deficit with only one period to go. Especially not since this game didn’t mean as much to them; Colorado was well in the lead of the Central Division, having all but clinched their playoff spot. For that matter, even if Los Angeles slipped below Vegas, they would still be a shoo-in for the playoffs, save for some kind of catastrophic performance in the last month of the regular season (Shane quickly and quietly knocked on the wooden bench underneath him to ward off any such ill-luck). Still, McKay should have been in a better mood—with the game essentially over, Skinner would probably give third and fourth lines a lot more ice-time in the third period, allowing their top players to rest in preparation for the rapidly approaching postseason. 

Shane would have liked to win the Western Conference title again—and the Governor’s Trophy awarded to the team that led the entire league, for that matter. But neither achievement meant all that much, except for guaranteeing home ice advantage throughout the playoffs. In fact, some teams preferred to avoid the Governor’s Trophy, because of how rarely teams who won it also captured the much-more important MLH Championship Cup. The more superstitious players called it the Governor’s curse. But it was more likely that such victory-laden teams simply expended too much effort during the regular season—and took too many injuries in doing so—to sustain their triumph into the postseason. 

Still, regardless of playoff positioning, it was important to put up a good show against a team that they would almost certainly face during the playoffs, unless the Blizzard had another embarrassingly early exit. Or unless the Reign did, of course.

(Shane knocked on the bench again at that thought, earning a sideways glance and then another eye roll from McKay. Shane restrained himself from slapping the man lightly upside the head, but he made a mental note to—again—remind McKay that his opinions on the uselessness of hockey superstitions did not need to be broadcast to all and sundry.) 

As the music died down and the loudspeaker started reading out the stats for the goal—Lupo with assists from Rozanov and Ronnonberg—the second line came off the ice, still celebrating, allowing Squirrel and the rest of the third line to vault over the boards and take their place. Rozanov ended up squeezed in next to Shane, with Lupo and Donovan on his other side. He grabbed his water bottle and upended it over his mouth, allowing the electrolyte and protein-laced water to trickle down his cheeks as he gulped it down. 

“Jesus, asshole.” Shane ducked, laughing, as some of the stray drops landed on his cheeks and forehead. “Watch where you’re flinging those!”

“Ahh, but this is victory juice,” Rozanov cooed at him cockily. “You should be very happy to let my triumph hit you in the face! Perhaps it will rub off on you, a little. Still no goal tonight? So embarrassing.”

Shane shook his head, snorting, and grabbed a towel to wipe himself off. Before he could come up with a retort, the buzzer sounded, ending the period, and they all stood up, filing off the bench toward the locker room. 

“Okay, boys!“ Shane shouted again, as he stripped his jersey off. “Bedtime! Who’s up tonight?”

“I am!” Samuil Moschenko, their huge third-line center, bounded toward the extra large exercise stepper set up at the end of the room, shaking his shaggy, sweat-strewn hair out of his eyes and grinning ear to ear. He and his wife had just had their first child three months ago, and he was fathoms deep in love with his baby girl. “Hey Squirrely, can you get my phone?”

“Yeah, Moose, I got you.” Dimi Svenqvist, Moschenko's right wing, quickly jumped up and took his linemate’s phone, taking up a post kneeling a few feet in front of Sam. 

With two powerful checkers and Svenqvist to make plays, their third line was a powerful asset in most games, although they’d been on the ice for one of Colorado’s goals and scored none of their own tonight, leaving them at minus one for the game. Still, they’d also drawn two penalties as Colorado’s enforcers had leapt up to retaliate for some of the checks they’d delivered, and one of those power plays had led to Haas’s game-winning goal, so they’d earned their share of the glory. 

The team buzzed with eagerness as they took their places, most of them pulling out their phones as well. Shane felt a wide smile spread across his own face as he made his own call and walked forward to sit cross-legged in front of Moschenko, making sure not to block Svenqvist’s sight lines. By tradition, those with small kids got the best spots, while the rookies and other bachelors lined the edges of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rozanov leaning against the wall with a soft smile on his face, his head tilted down as he said something to Haas in between bites of a protein bar.  

“Hey, Lucy-love!” Shane said, when his oldest accepted the call. All three kids had phones to carry for emergencies, but Lucy was the only one allowed to use it at home, and had only recently earned the privilege—it still felt a little weird to be calling her instead of Rose. “Are your brother and sister there? Got the book ready?”

“Yes, Dad,” she said, rolling her eyes a little. “It’s not like we haven’t done this a hundred times.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Shane said, pantomiming being offended. “Have you done it too much? Am I boring you? Should we skip tonight?” 

Behind Lucy, her brother and sister started loudly protesting, and she laughed. “No, Dad!” 

“Oh, okay!” he said. “Well in that case… Since you’ve done this so many times, I think you should know what to do next, right?” 

Lucy giggled again, then turned the phone into landscape mode and propped it up on—the living room coffee table, Shane figured out quickly, as she moved away and sat down on the couch, with Slipper and David to either side. Shane held up his phone to show the center of the locker room as Lucy pulled out the book of the week and held it so both her siblings could see it. To his surprise, his mom suddenly walked into frame, sitting down on the edge of the couch and lifting David into her lap. Before he could think of a subtle way to ask why she was there, the chatter around them started dying down, and Moschenko stomped on the stepper, signaling that he was ready to start. 

“Okay, Eileen, you got her ready?” Moose asked, signing the words at the same time. His wife was hard of hearing, and while she had an app that created captions on the screen during video calls, Moschenko liked to sign as well.

“She’s all snuggled up and ready to hear from Daddy,” she confirmed, her distinctive voice coming through loud and clear over the small phone speaker.

“Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away,” he started. “So he said to his mother, ‘I am running away.’” 

Shane listened attentively, focusing on making sure that he was keeping Moschenko centered in frame. This was the third time he’d heard this story this week, and he was looking forward to getting a new book on Sunday, after the team’s family brunch. But the nice thing about alternating readers was that they got a slightly different spin on it each time; and the guys tended to go all out, memorizing the short books and playing up each line for laughs. Moose was telling it well, putting his whole body into the signs, hopping around in a circle every time the bunny ran away, and pantomiming the different objects the bunny turned himself into.

The whole story only took about five minutes, of course—they couldn’t afford to use any more of the intermission than that. The team applauded, and Moschenko took his bows and stepped down, heading for a quiet corner to say goodnight to Eileen. As he left center state, Sam Carter, their video coach, wheeled up a monitor and started calling certain players down, walking them through any mistakes they'd made in the first two periods and giving them tips for improvement. Shane wasn't one of those called, and he quietly ducked out the back and went into the stick room, asking Lucy to give her phone to her grandmother. 

 “Hey Shane,” his mother said, smiling at him. “How is the game go—” 

“What’s up, Mom?” Shane asked, cutting her off. “Why are you there? Rose was supposed to be home by now.” 

His wife's flight back from her New York shoot had been scheduled for the night before, getting in around midnight. She’d texted that she’d gotten home safe, hadn’t she? In Shane’s sudden anxious spiral, he couldn’t remember—after so many road trips and so many flights, they all blurred together. Had she been delayed in New York? Or had there been some last-minute event tonight in LA that she’d needed a babysitter for? But then why was Yuna there, instead of Kayla, the kids’ nanny? Kayla didn’t work regularly in the evenings, but was always happy to pitch in with a few hours, if needed. If Yuna had been pressuring Rose into giving her more time with the kids again—

And no matter what was going on, why wouldn’t they have texted him to let him know what was going on?

“Shane, breathe,” Yuna ordered. “There’s no emergency or anything, and I promise I’m not overstepping.” 

Shane scoffed. “But then why—” 

“Rose woke up with a sore throat this morning. After Kayla had already gotten the kids to school, thankfully, so they haven’t been exposed. It’s probably just some crud from the plane—she tested negative for the flu and COVID—but she didn’t want to risk getting anyone in the house sick, especially this close to the playoffs. So she’s staying in my condo, and I’m here until she’s better. But she’s doing fine, I promise—we’ve been checking in, and Kayla’s just running her over some soup now.” 

Shane breathed out, feeling his shoulders slowly relax. “And you didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me to worry before the game.” 

His mother smiled sadly at him through the screen. “We know how you get when someone in the family gets sick.” 

Shane nodded, running his hand through his hair. Having kids meant dealing with illness in the household—little plague rats that they were—and he’d gotten a lot better about dealing with it. But they’d had a bad scare when David had been a baby—he’d gotten the measles from some antivaxxer asshole in Miami when they’d all flown there for the All-Star Game. Just one month later, and he would have had his first round of shots, and been protected… But instead, they’d spent five days in the hospital, getting progressively more distraught, until he’d finally pulled through. Coming less than two years after Shane’s father had passed away from pancreatic cancer, it had left Shane with a bit of a twitchy panic trigger when it came to family members getting sick.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, guilt coursing through him. “I shouldn’t have jumped to the worst conclusion—” 

“It’s okay, honey,” she said immediately. “I know I haven’t always given you reason to assume the best.” 

They looked at each other in silence, sitting with the truth of that for a moment. After they’d made the decision to get married, Rose had insisted that they tell Shane’s parents the truth of their relationship and Lucy’s parentage, despite his resistance to the idea. She hadn’t been willing to begin their family by lying to the people Shane was closest to. Unfortunately, Yuna hadn’t taken it well—she’d felt like Rose was taking advantage of Shane, stealing years that he could have spent finding someone he could fall in love with, and raising "his own" children with them. And she'd hated Shane's choice to leave Montreal and move cross-continent so that Rose wouldn't have to travel as much. Shane had struggled to explain that he didn’t love Rose any less, and wasn't any less committed to making sacrifices for their family, just because he wasn’t attracted to her; that she was doing him a favor by giving him a chance at having a family without having to give up hockey to get it. 

Things had gotten better after Lucy had been born—she’d had her grandmother wrapped around her finger from the moment they’d placed the baby in her arms for the first time—only to get worse again when Rose had gotten pregnant with Slipper. At first, Yuna had assumed that Rose had been careless with a hookup, and had said some nasty things about it. Then, when Shane had defended his wife, explaining that they’d chosen to have more children together, Yuna had been even angrier, certain that Rose had pressured him into it, further trapping him in a marriage that his mother was positive he couldn't truly want. Neither of them had spoken to her for almost six months after that, not until Shane’s father had managed to patch things up between them. And while Yuna and Rose usually got along these days, they’d fought a lot in the couple of years after Shane’s father’s death, when Yuna had moved out to LA to be closer to Shane and her grandchildren. In many ways it had been a godsend to have her there—Shane had been grieving, and Rose had had a difficult recovery from David’s birth, with an unplanned c-section and postpartum depression. But Yuna found it difficult to take a backseat in anything or to anyone, even the mother of her grandchildren; and Rose had gone through too much already to be remotely gracious about her mother-in-law’s highhanded behavior at that point. 

“Still,” Shane said finally. “I really do appreciate you stepping in with the kids, and helping Rose out when she’s sick. I shouldn’t have jumped all over you like that.” 

Yuna smiled. “You’re forgiven,” she said lightly. “And since I’m sure that now you don’t have time to tell me how the game is going—” 

“Like you haven’t been watching every second.”  

“No comment,” she said, and they laughed together. “Let me give you back to the kids so you can say a proper goodnight.”  

“Alright,” he said. “I love you, Mom.” 

“Love you too, Shane. So much.” 

He did still text Rose as he headed back into the locker room, reminding her that he really didn’t mind worrying about her and the kids. She didn’t text back immediately—hopefully she was sleeping, but more probably, she’d put her phone on do-not-disturb so she could mark up a script—and Shane shook his head fondly as he put the phone away, then sat down at his stall to swap out a shinpad that had been bugging him during the last period. 

A few minutes later, shinpad dealt with, he looked up and found Rozanov watching him from a few stalls over. Shane cocked his head to the side in question. 

Rozanov shook his head. “I was just thinking, it’s very different,” he said. “My locker room and yours. And wondering why that is.” 

“Let me guess, my locker room is boring?” Shane asked, unable to keep a slight edge from his voice. But at least none of the boys were close enough to hear—a few were still clustering worshipfully around Carter, but most of the others were changing equipment of their own, or had gone to the lounge to get some quick fuel. 

Rozanov shook his head, surprising him, but then quickly turned it into a nod. “Well, yes. Objectively, very boring. But I like it. The bedtime story tradition, I like this very much—it’s fun, it makes everyone miss home less. And having the reader change every time, it gets the men without children to feel like they are included, too. I can see how much they enjoy it—they compete over who will be the best reader, make bets, force the team to vote.” 

Shane stared at him. The enthusiasm in Rozanov’s face was undeniable—it was an expression Shane had seen a hundred times, right before the man thought of a particularly good chirp, or broke a record, or scored a goal. Right before he’d pushed Shane’s knees up to his shoulders, that last… 

“How did you think of it?” Rozanov continued, apparently certain that it had been Shane’s idea. “Having everyone read to the children, I mean.” 

Of course, it had been his idea. Shane lifted a shoulder. “Mmm… Well. When I was drafted to Montreal, I really hated how the team was divided into the guys who had kids and wives, who did stuff with their families on their off days, and all the single guys who went out to clubs and bars and partied hard all the time. I don’t like going out and getting drunk, or trying to get laid; but it felt weird to hang out with a bunch of families when I didn’t have kids or a girlfriend, either. Until Rose, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Rozanov echoed, his eyes dark and unreadable. 

Shane leaned back against his stall, bracing his hands on the bench below him. “Well, then my linemate Hayden, and his wife Jackie basically adopted me. Made me an honorary uncle for their kids, let me tag along to team events as part of their family. They helped me find a place where I fit, you know? And they said that having me there made a difference—you know, with four kids and Hayden gone on road trips a third of the year or more, another adult getting involved was a big help, even if I was gone, too, whenever Hayden was. So, when I moved out here, and had more of an opportunity to shape team culture, I wanted to do it differently—not have two different groups, find social shit that the whole team would want to do together. And then, when Lucy was three, she started refusing to go to bed without me reading to her, and—” he lifted his hands in the air, “I don’t know—the rest is history. At this point, I’m pretty sure they’d find a way to keep it going even if none of us had kids under twenty.”  

The intermission was rapidly coming to a close, and Shane turned back to getting his equipment on, kicking himself. Rozanov had probably just been showing a little polite interest—he hadn’t asked for a whole lecture. But to Shane’s surprise, Rozanov’s next comment wasn’t a dismissal, or even a gentle change of subject.

“Hayden…” Rozanov drawled thoughtfully. “Is that the same…” 

“Hayden Pike, yeah, he’s our assistant coach now,” Shane confirmed, tensing up for a whole new reason. “He’s great, he works mainly with the rookies and other younger guys, focusing on attitude, strength and conditioning—he finished out his career in Montreal, but he came out here after he retired in 2026.”

Fortunately, Rozanov just nodded, and Shane let his hackles down. It was silly to be defensive. Hayden was a fantastic coach; he could easily have gotten the same job in Montreal, or with half a dozen other teams. If anything, his friendship with Shane had been what had allowed the Reign to lure him out to LA, when otherwise he would probably have never been willing to leave Canada. 

“Boston was very different,” Rozanov said. “I do not think there are fewer men with children on the Raiders, but they do not talk about them so much.” He laughed suddenly. “And I think the only dramatic reading we ever did was the Five Tips to Fuck Good.” 

“The what?” Shane asked.  

“It’s this silly online article," Rozanov said, still chuckling. “From a very long time ago—Connors found it, I think. We used to do readings of it when we were out at clubs, until we all had it memorized, and then we would quote from it, for many years after.” With a mischievous smile, he stood up, put his hand on his heart, and declaimed, “In one hundred years, you will say to your sexual lover, remember the fucking? And they will say, yes, it was loud when it happened.”

As heads turned toward them around the locker room, Shane bent over his knees, cackling—it wasn’t that it was all that funny, but to hear Rozanov say something like that, in such a serious manner… 

And after all—while it hadn’t been a hundred years yet, it felt like it, sometimes. And Shane had been loud when it happened. 

“Oh, God,” he said, finally straightening up. “I needed that.” 

Rozanov grinned back at him, looking exhilarated. “It’s good to see you relax a little,” he said, reaching out and squeezing Shane’s shoulder. “Have a little fun sometimes.” 

“I have plenty of fun!” Shane protested. 

“Oh, yes?” Rozanov challenged, his eyes glinting. “You and Hayden, you live it up, hmm?” 

“For sure,” Shane confirmed. “Sometimes we even go wild and do a fifteen-hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle.” 

It took Rozanov a second to parse the words, and another to realize that Shane was joking. Once he did, it was his turn to bend forward, gasping for air. 

Shane leaned back against his stall, shaking his head with no small amount of wonder. This was really going to work. 

Golden Triangle Nightclub: Denver, Colorado

This was so not going to work.

“There’s no way,” Luca said, shaking his head. “Don’t take it, Rozy, it’s a sucker bet.” 

Shane groaned and leaned forward, planting his elbows on the low table and burying his face in his hands. “Well done, Lucky. Now he’s guaranteed to take it.” 

Luca snickered. “C’mon, Hollzy, losing a couple grand to Ronin in darts is a Reign tradition. You can’t go letting the Russian Menace here get off easy; you don’t want the captain to be accused of playing favorites!” 

“Russian Menace?” Rozanov asked. He smiled off-sidedly, leaning back against the couch cushions and stretching out his arms. His fingers grazed the side of Shane’s shoulder. “I have not heard this nickname in a very long time. You know I have been an American citizen for twelve years now.” 

“Lucky probably had that one poster of you with it on his wall as a teenager,” Shane said, somewhat unwisely. But then, he was distracted. “You know, the one where you were horsing around with your stick right in front of your—”

“Cap, what the fuck!” Luca hissed, turning to him with accusing eyes. 

Rozanov cackled. “And how often did you look at that poster, Hollander, to still remember it… what, seventeen, eighteen years later?”

“We used it in Montreal for slapshot practice,” Shane prevaricated quickly. “Ten bucks to anyone who hit you in the… stick.” 

“Ah, one dollar for every inch, then.” Rozanov nodded consideringly. “Fair price.” 

“You know what, actually, I think I misremembered, I think it was five—” 

Rozanov clicked his tongue. “Ahh, is the memory starting to go? This was probably inevitable, at your age—” 

“You’re like a month younger than me—” 

“Mmm, you are just jealous of my youth and beauty—” 

“I’m tired of talking,” Dex said, folding his massive arms across his chest. He leaned his hip against the couch the three of them were sitting on. “Are we going to play darts or not? I understand if you want to back out. It’s really not a fair contest—I’m probably close to half again your weight.” 

Shane was accustomed to feeling small, despite his objectively large stature—MLH didn’t have many men under six feet. But at over six and a half feet and two hundred and fifty pounds, Dex Ronnonberg was one of the few men who made him feel tiny.

“My old linemate Marly is just as big as you,” Rozanov said, grinning over his shoulder up at Dex. “And I have drunk him under the table many times.” 

“Marly isn’t Ronin,” Shane said tiredly. “I promise you, Rozy, you’re not going to win this.” 

Rozanov shook his head. “So sad, Hollander. You have no respect for your old rival?” 

“No, I’ve just seen Ronin walk the boards while three sheets to the wind,” Shane said. “And frankly, I don’t think you could beat him in darts while sober.” 

Rozanov gasped and put his hand over his heart. “Just because you are old and decrepit, now, Hollander—” 

“Wow, decrepit, big word—” 

“—does not mean that I am.” Rozanov said, easily drowning out Shane’s mild chirp. He unfolded himself off the couch, clapped Dex on the shoulder—reaching up to do it—and gestured grandly toward the bar. “Come. We will take shots as true men—as Russian men—do, and then show these idiots how to throw darts.” 

“You know I’m Hawaiian, right?” Dex said, following him to the bar. "With some Pawnee and German and shit on the other side..." 

“There must be some Russian in there, too,” Rozanov insisted, just before they got out of earshot. 

Shane took a sip of his own drink, savoring the way the ginger spread across his tongue, then leaned back against the couch seat, chuckling. 

“So,” Luca said, a minute or so later. “Good game tonight, huh Cap?” 

Shane nodded his agreement. “Couldn’t have come at a better time.” 

“I don’t know,” Luca said, with a one-sided smile. “Wouldn’t have minded if it had come last week against Vegas.” 

Shane made a face. The Vegas Golden Spurs had been a constant thorn in the Reign’s side for years—given that Anaheim sucked, Vegas was their closest divisional rival, and their captain—a powerful defenseman named Acastus Kolya—had put together a well-oiled, tightly disciplined team. They didn’t have quite as much star power as LA, but they played with a damnably effective neutral zone trap, and Kolya could read a developing play quicker than a rookie snatching free pizza, and shut it down even faster. It made playing against them exhausting, annoying, and—worse—boring. Still, the Reign usually won, at least. 

“We knew that the shake up was going to require some adjustment,” Shane said, lowering his voice. 

He probably didn’t need to; now that Rozanov and Ronnonberg had deserted them, they were the only players in this little heated corner of the rooftop patio. Most of their teammates were out on the various dance floors the club they’d chosen offered, or had already found a hookup and had headed out. 

“Losing Tag and Jackson,” Shane went on, referring to the two players they’d traded for Rozanov, “calling Lorden up from the Kings… Plus, it’s not like Donovan and Lupo make it easy to jump on a line with them.”

Luca laughed shortly. “I mean, be fair Cap, it’s not like that’s Lupo’s fault.” 

Shane snorted, but nodded in acknowledgement. Anyone looking at Lupo and Donovan off the ice would, if asked to choose the more unpredictable and difficult player, pick Lupo every time. The Slovakian was short and wiry—for a hockey player, at least—and dark and intently handsome, with incredibly skilled hands and an amazing turn of speed. By contrast, his linemate Donovan was laid back and jovial; a tall, well-muscled American with average looks, a nose that had been broken several times, and ordinary brown hair. But, in fact, Lupo was reliable and predictable—always where he was supposed to be, always doing exactly what anyone would expect of him—while Donovan was a wild card. The right wing had fantastic intuition and puck-handling skills, was a powerful checker, and had a talent for getting under his opponents’ skins that rivaled Rozanov’s; however, he played hockey by gut and emotion, which often led to him taking sloppy penalties or allowing odd-man rushes when he leapt without looking. That inconsistency had seen him traded four times and relegated to third and fourth lines, despite his occasional bursts of brilliance, before he’d ended up with a one-year contract with LA as part of a three-way trade. They’d put him on a line with Lupo, and the Slovakian’s steadiness—and willingness to smack Donovon upside the head when needed—had done what all his previous coaches had been unable to do, and evened him out; Lupo’s grounding energy allowing Donovan’s brilliance to shine. The two of them could have probably left LA at this point and gotten higher pay, along with guaranteed first-line appearances, from a dozen other teams in the League; but they stayed with the Reign, instead, loyal to the team that had put them together and given them both two Cup rings. 

But despite everything Lupo could do, Donovan was still unpredictable enough that Shane was fairly impressed at how quickly Rozanov had adapted to playing on a line with him. Their previous 2C, Jackson, who was now playing with Boston, had learned how to handle him, anticipating most of the times he would jump up into plays; but even he’d occasionally gotten left behind. 

“I’m actually surprised at how quickly Roz picked up Donovan’s quirks,” Luca said, echoing Shane’s thoughts. “When I first heard that Jackson had been traded, I wondered if you’d choose to move me and the Rook down to second line, and move Donovan and Lupo up with you, where you could keep an eye on them. But Rozy’s almost as good as you are at knowing where everyone is on the ice.” 

“I think he’s better, in some ways,” Shane said, thinking it over. “It’s something I've always worked at—watching tapes, drilling players’ habits and tendencies, mapping out scenarios in my head, until I can read what plays everyone will make. Rozanov just fucking knows. It’s intuitive for him.” 

Shane couldn’t keep the annoyance—and fondness—out of his voice, and only realized when he saw Luca’s surprised expression how revealing the observation had been.

“And then there’s Laffy-Taffy…” he said quickly, seizing on his first idea for a distraction. “We’re still learning to compensate for not having that wall in the crease.” 

“Mmm, yeah, that’s true,” Luca said, allowing the change of subject. “I think Vitter’s got some nerves going on, too, now that he’s wearing the big shoes.” 

“Yeah,” Shane acknowledged. Their rookie goaltender wasn’t up to Lafleur’s weight at his best—not yet, anyway—but he’d definitely not been at his best on this road trip. “I wish Laffy-Taffy could have traveled with us. I wonder if we could hire him as a goaltending coach…” 

Luca shook his head. “Maybe in a couple years. I think he’s planning to focus on his personal life for a little while.” 

“Oh?” Shane said, cocking his head to the side. “I didn’t know he had a personal life.” 

Not that the French-Canadian had ever seemed shy or introverted—quite unlike Shane, he’d always been the life of every party, the backbone of every team event. But he’d only rarely had the team over to his place, despite living closer to their training facility than Shane did, and he’d never introduced any partners or even dates to them, not that Shane could recall. 

Luca looked a little queasy. “No, I—I shouldn’t have said anything, I just… You know, I meant, after the disappointment of this year, having the surgery and going through recovery, and all for nothing, in the end… I just think he needs a break from making hockey his whole life, you know?”

Shane took his time in thinking that one over; Luca let him process, finishing the last of his beer and waving at a waitress for a refill. 

“Do you think we need to give him more space?” Shane said finally. “I thought… He said he wanted to still be involved with mentoring Vitter, he’s housing Rozanov and his wife, coming to team events, but if that’s going to be too much… He’s more important to me than—” 

“No, no, no,” Luca said, waving his hands in the air. “I know he wants to stay involved this season. Please, Shane, pretend I didn’t say anything, I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just… He said something to me about kinda… resetting this summer, you know? But if he hasn’t discussed it with you…” 

Shane swallowed. He hated that Michel hadn’t felt like he could talk to him about this; he’d thought they were friends. He hated even more that his friend might be hurting himself for the team—Shane had done that himself for far too many years in Montreal, before Rose had forced him to see what he was doing. But Luca was right that Michel wouldn’t appreciate Shane coming to talk to him about something that he’d told Luca in confidence. And Shane knew that there were things that players just didn’t feel comfortable talking to him about. Sometimes it was easier to talk things over with teammates; the captain was too much of an authority, and if they brought it to him, they could no longer pretend it wasn’t real. 

Besides—as Rose would be the first to point out—it wasn’t like Shane was in any position to lecture his teammates about not opening up about his private life. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said aloud. “I won’t say anything, Lucky, don’t worry.” 

Luca sagged back, blowing out his cheeks. “Thanks, Hollzy.” 

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, until the waitress brought Luca his IPA—and Shane another Fever Tree—without being asked. 

“So, uh,” Luca said. “Rozy seems… cool?” 

Shane snorted. “Yeah, he was always like that. You’ll get used to it after a while. I do have to say he’s been on his best behavior here.” 

“Did you two know each other well, then? When you were both back in the East?” 

Shane eyed up his alternate. “Not really. What are you fishing for, Lucky?” 

Luca threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t know, Cap! When I first heard about the trade, I thought it was crazy—” 

“It made good tactical sense, even if all we did was stop him from going somewhere else. The momentum that comes with his story—” 

“—cause, like, I remember when I was a rookie, and those first few years in Ottawa, everybody always talked about how much you two hated each other, like, it was this whole thing—” 

“Oh, come on, that was like, a decade ago, and it was never, like, a personal enmity. It was just a narrative that sold a lot of tickets, so we played along, you know?” 

“Which is what I figured, after I’d thought about it for a bit,” Luca agreed. “I know how the league likes to run with narratives like that, and I thought, well, if Hollzy had any kind of real problem with him, he would have said something, right?” 

“Sure, sure I would—” 

“Except then, he gets here, and he’s all, like, squirrely around you—” 

“What? He’s not like—” 

“Not like, Squirrel squirrely, just like… normal squirrely.” 

“ … Oh. Wait, how is he—” 

“And you’re acting all… weird? Like you’re trying to give him space on the ice or something. Like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. I’ve never seen you give anyone space, Cap.” 

Shane opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. “I don’t… I haven’t…” 

“You’ve only scored four points in the last five games, Hollz.” 

It wasn’t as if Shane hadn’t known that. It wasn’t as if the officials hadn’t been commenting on it. But hearing it from Luca—Shane’s protege, his linemate of seven seasons, and one of his best friends—made it real to him in a way he hadn’t been, before. He was in a slump. 

For most forwards, of course, four points in five games would be nothing to sneeze at. But Shane’s consistent point production had been one of the hallmarks of his career. He’d kept his points per game average well above one for twenty seasons in a row, breaking a record held by the Great One, and he was second on the league record boards for most multi-point games in a career, having passed Jagr earlier this season. And the Reign relied on that consistency. Oh, sure, Shane could blame their recent struggles on the adjustments to their lines, or on Vittny letting in more points than Lafleur would have, or on a half-dozen other factors. But the Reign’s sudden dip in scoring was largely at his door, and given that they’d lost three of those five games, and all by two goals or less… 

He took a long swig of his ginger beer, savoring the spiciness. He'd made the switch shortly after moving to LA—it was so bougie out here, more places carried ginger beer than ginger ale, and he’d found that he actually liked it better. Even if only because the power of it gave him an excuse not to talk for a few seconds after drinking. 

“I know,” he said, finally. He leaned forward, putting the bottle down, then braced his forearms on his knees, letting his head hang for a moment. “I know the scoring is a problem, I just… I’m not sure how to…” 

“You know, I was kinda surprised that Skinman hasn’t put the two of you on the power play together,” Luca said thoughtfully. “I mean, you on first unit and him on second makes sense, sure—doesn’t give the opposition a rest, keeps the pressure on for the whole two minutes, I know you’re both too old to stay on the whole time—” 

“Hey!” Shane objected. “I am not—”

“But what if you talked to him, got him to put the two of you on together next game? Drill it between now and then… Try and… I don’t know, jar something loose? Exposure therapy, or something.” 

Shane leaned back against the couch again. “I asked him not to put us together for the first few games,” he admitted finally. “I didn’t… I didn’t think he’d leave it alone this long, I just… I thought maybe it would be good if we both had a chance to breathe, you know? Let him get his bearings…” 

“You know that Skinman isn’t gonna do anything to countermand your hockey instincts, Hollzy. You say to do something, he’s gonna do it until you say otherwise. Unless you force him to—” 

“Yeah,” Shane said quietly. Because he had known that, hadn’t he? Had known he wouldn’t get an easy way out of this, with no choice but to obey his coach and learn to play with Rozanov. “Yeah, I know.” 

“I don’t know what the issue is there, Cap,” Luca said, patting him on the back. “And I don’t need to know. But it’s time to rip off the bandaid.”

Chapter End Notes

I do want y'all to know that I fucking adore Yuna, and she's gonna be a major and very positive character in this story! I just also think that she and Shane have a big, complicated relationship, and like many people without a lot of exposure to queer and ace-spec people, she would find it difficult to adjust to the idea of her son in a lavender marriage—especially one that he's leaving the team that drafted him and moving to another country for!

I love comments—comments give me life. Reblogs on tumblr are also very welcome!

Chapter 4: Three Weeks Left in the Regular Season

Chapter Notes

My sincere apologies for how long it took me to get this chapter out—I'm afraid that my ADD brain has fractured into about a dozen different WIPs for this fandom, and I'm having a hard time getting it to focus down on finishing the ones I've already started posting! That said, this is still the story I'm most interested in telling, and I'm super excited to take you deeper into this world!

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This chapter was beta'd by my Conclave besties Superworm and Phoenix_Ascended, who I'm so happy to share a second fandom with!

MLH Western Conference Standings

Understanding the standings is not crucial to appreciating this story; I put them here because I had to create them in order to keep the internal references to how the season is going consistent, and I thought some people might appreciate them getting to see them! However, for those who are interested, I also wrote up an explanation of how points and standings work in major league hockey on my tumblr.

Honda Sports Performance Center: El Segundo, California

“Okay, boys! Wind down your warmups and gather up!” Skinner bellowed, pounding his stick on the ice. “If you’ve got sticks, keep ‘em; if you don’t, grab one. Pucks go to Hazy!” 

Ilya turned from where he’d been playing a game of Chase the Rabbit with Donovan just in time to see Sollys suddenly squeak—in fright?—and flinch back. Ah—along with Lorden, their other rookie, the kid had been stretching his hammies under the watchful eye of Coach Pike, and Skinner’s stick had landed a little too close to his outstretched leg for his comfort. Although it had missed by a good few inches. Ilya shook his head fondly. Ah, rookies. With a little more time in the upper echelons of their sport, Sollys would learn to trust in the staff and players’ stick-handling competence, and stop freaking out over nothing. In the meantime, he suffered needlessly. It was the way things went in the big leagues.  

But even as Ilya thought that, Skinner pivoted, moving the blade of his stick farther away from the rookie’s leg, and put a hand down to pat the kid’s shoulder reassuringly, murmuring something inaudible. Ilya shook his head again. Had he ever had a coach who would notice, let alone care, about an anxious rookie? When they’d moved out to LA, he’d been skeptical about the Reign’s head coach; the man had a rather hagiographic reputation in MLH, after winning four cups in seven years, and Ilya had assumed it was all stolen glory—just another coach happily taking advantage of a great team of players to build his own legend. But since he’d joined the team, Skinner had earned his respect, and even a grudging affection. 

Ilya wrapped his arm around Donovan’s shoulder, casually kissing the side of his linemate’s helmet as they glided together over to the quickly forming huddle of players, shooting their practice pucks into the bucket that Wyatt Hayes, their goaltender coach, held out. 

“Go to Wolfman, he is pining for you,” Ilya said, giving Donovan a shove toward where their other linemate was doing spirals by the half-boards. 

Lupo, just close enough to overhear, snorted. “Pining for the days I had at least one sane liney, you mean.” 

Donovan laughed and went, holding out his arms to pull Lupo in and making kissy faces at him.

“Aw, c’mon, you know you missed me!” he crowed. 

“Like a stone in my foot, I missed you,” Lupo muttered, but he stopped circling and suffered Donovan draping his arms over his shoulders with good grace, even leaning back into the taller player for balance. 

Ilya fucking loved how chill this team was. Back in Boston, it had taken him over a year before his teammates had relaxed around him, dismissing his physicality as “just Roz being Roz”—and then, the leaked tape showing him and Sasha had set him all the way back to square one, with several of his teammates cringing away every time he made a dirty joke or touched them for a second longer than necessary. But the Reign not only took him in stride, they gave as good as they got. And their own antics took the already slightly unhinged homoeroticism of sports culture to an entirely new level—as Skinner demonstrated when Ilya came to a stop next to him, resting a gloved hand at the back of his neck and squeezing briefly, with just the right amount of pressure to be tension-relieving.  

Ilya still believed that the credit for the Reign’s dynasty status largely belonged to Hollander and Lafleur; but he’d been forced to admit that Skinner deserved some hefty kudos also, for how well he stayed out of their way. Ilya hadn’t once seen him waste his players’ time with bullshit plays that would never work during a real game, or teambuilding exercises that really only built loathing, or pregame lectures and speeches that were only intended to underscore his own power.  And needless to say, he didn’t go in for the light physical abuse and unnecessarily grueling workouts-as-punishment that Ilya had faced in his time in Russia, or even the verbal abuse that was still common in MLH. It didn’t, perhaps, say much about hockey as a sport that of all the coaches Ilya had played under in his long career, Skinner was the only one who hadn’t indulged himself in at least one of those unsavory habits. But it did mean that Ilya leaned into the caring touch with none of the mild annoyance or slight apprehension that he would have felt with any of the others.

“What’re we doing, Coach?” Ronnenberg asked. He swooped in from where he’d been running a shot blocking drill with the other d-men and came to a skidding stop with his blades horizontal, deliberately scraping up ice from the rink surface and casting it onto the still-stretching rookies. 

The snow hit Lorden in the face, and he sprang up, fists clenched, and growled up at the massive defenseman, looking rather like a kitten hissing angrily at a bulldog. Ronnenberg just laughed and wrapped an arm around Lorden’s neck, pulling the struggling rookie into a headlock and giving him a noogie. 

“Ronin, please don’t torture the rookies,” Hollander said. “At least until after the playoffs?” 

Ronnenberg laughed again, but he released the struggling Lorden and slapped him companionably on the back once he regained his balance. Of course, a companionable slap from Ronnenberg still sent Lorden staggering forward, and Hollander sighed and slid closer to him, bracing a hand under the rookie’s elbow. 

“Thanks, Hollzy,” Skinner said, shaking his head. “Ronin! I know it’s a struggle, but quit being an asshole for five minutes, will you?” 

“No prob, Skinny,” Ronnenberg said lazily. “But what’re we doing?” 

Skinner rolled his eyes, but he skated forward until he cleared the huddle, then pivoted to face the group, crouching forward and bracing his stick on his knees. “Special teams today,” he said shortly. “Power play against penalty kill, and we’ll alternate units, both goalies in the net. Standard set up for scrimmage. First PP unit—that’ll be Hollzy, Rozy, Squirrel, Quinjet, and Ronin—stay on the ice, you’re up first. Second PP unit—Wolfman, Zany, Lucky, Rodder, and Radman—get on the bench and keep warm, you’ll be up soon. First PK unit’ll be Moose and Fangs up front, Ice T and Jax out back. Second PK unit: Beckie, Koala, Ferrari, and Lordie. Get moving, boys!” 

Stenqvist groaned aloud from where he was resting by the boards in front of home bench, chugging some last sips from his water bottle. “Christ, Skinny, you’re putting Hollzy and Rozy together? They’re going to fucking murder us,” he said. “Do we get Vitter, at least?”

“Wow, way to make me feel loved, Squirrel,” Baltar, their backup goalie, muttered. 

“Do you want to face shots from the Rozinator and Hole in One at the same time, Gaius?” Hayes asked him. “Because we can arrange that.” 

“On second thought, I’m quite happy to take the second team,” Baltar said, drifting backward. 

The volume on the ice rose as the rest of the team joined in on the complaints and jokes. Ilya himself felt frozen, glued to his spot as his teammates milled around him. When he’d been traded to the Reign, he hadn’t anticipated sharing much ice time with Hollander. After all, the whole reason they’d wanted him was to build up their offensive depth, replacing Jackson, the notoriously inconsistent 2C they’d sent to Boston. He’d understood that he and Hollander would function as a one-two punch, keeping their opponents too busy with preventing them from scoring to test the Reign’s weakness in the crease. 

But he’d expected to share some ice time with the Reign’s captain. After all, Los Angeles used four forwards and one defenseman on their power play units, just like most of the League; it would have been natural to slot the two of them together there. And while it was less of a fit to put them on a penalty killing unit—the Reign had plenty of good defensive-minded offensemen, perhaps too many—it wouldn’t have been out of the question for them to try that out, too. The Reign also had one of the highest number of shorthanded goals scored this season, and Rozanov’s style fit in perfectly there—one of the few places that he and the Reign were a match. And so it had come as a bit of a surprise—if an entirely welcome one—when he hadn’t been asked to figure out how to act normally playing with Hollander, to pass to him and share a line and celebrate goals without letting any of his feelings through.

Until now.

So what had changed? 

Their third-line left wing, Benny Lafitte—called Fangs for reasons that Ilya hadn‘t bothered to discover—knocked his shoulder affectionately against Ilya’s as he skated by. Ilya didn’t respond, and Lafitte looked back at him with a puzzled look after taking up position in the middle of the faceoff circle. Ilya shook himself and got moving. He was overthinking things—it made sense to mix things up with new players, to try to find out what combinations worked well. It didn’t need to mean anything more than that. 

He set himself opposite Lafitte, the two of them grinning challengingly at each other—the burly Louisianian was a powerful checker, a perfect example of the Reign’s previous emphasis on stifling their opponent’s offense rather than generating their own. 

Outside of Hollander’s first line, of course. 

“I do surely appreciate the compliment to my checking ability, here,” Lafitte said, his grin tilting a bit off-center. “But you know, it’s one I’m thinking I could’ve lived without.” 

“Coward,” Ronnenberg called, as he took an aggressive position a couple feet in front of the blue line. 

“Prove your courage and trade sides, Ronin,” Tealque challenged grimly, stationing himself more conservatively behind the opposing blue line. 

“But T, Hollzy said that he was supposed to behave,” Stenqvist singsonged tauntingly in Tealque’s direction as he set himself in the left winger’s spot at the edge of the center circle, primed to play sweeper. 

“Save it for Phoenix, Squirrel. Less chatter all around, boys,” Hollander called, his polished captain’s voice rising easily over the ice without sounding like a shout. “Goalies, get to your fucking nets. Anyone who isn’t on the first unit, I want you on the bench thirty seconds ago!” Skating strongly to the center circle, he came to a showy stop right next to Ilya and Lafitte. “Rozy, what the hell makes you think you’re taking this faceoff?” 

Ilya opened his mouth. Closed it. That was… an entirely fair point. Hollander had been surprisingly deferential to him over the last three weeks, but of course, the Reign’s first line center and captain—and the man with the most successful faceoff win percentage among actives this season, even if he was ahead of Ilya by less than a percentage point—would be taking them when they were on the ice together. 

“Ah, nothing,” Ilya admitted. “Just fucking with Fangs.” 

Fortunately, Hollander and Lafitte both let him keep his dignity, ignoring the threadbare excuse as Ilya backed up and headed over to the right winger’s spot. Skinner gave him a weird look as he headed past him, going to the center of the faceoff circle to act as the referee. Yet another person who could tell that Ilya was fucking all of this up. 

His thoughts spiraled again as he bent his knees into a proper stance and rested the blade of his stick on the ice, ready to grab the puck if it squirted out his way. He’d let Hollander center him before. It had been over a decade ago, but he’d played it over in his head a hundred times afterward. He’d done fine. They’d been fine. This was nothing to worry about. But on the other hand, that had been at an All Star Game, when the League had decided it would get more mileage from a “rivals forced into cooperation” narrative than by playing up their enmity for the millionth time. No one took the All Star Game seriously. And they were competitive. What if Hollander wouldn’t—

Skinner dropped the puck. Hollander won the faceoff. Of fucking course. He poked the damn puck straight through Lafitte’s legs, which would normally have just left it loose for Tealque to pounce on, but because it was Hollander, he managed to dance around Lafitte and pick up the puck before anyone else knew what was happening. Ilya was moving without another thought, shouldering past O’Neill and angling toward the boards. Hollander liked to come down the center, and Tealque was already arrowing in to intercept, and Hollander could probably finesse around him, but it would be easier if—

Hollander passed without more than a microsecond glance, sending the puck skittering into the attack zone just ahead of Ilya. He just barely avoided being offside—the puck passing the blue line centimeters ahead of his blades—but he’d been that confident that the pass was coming, a thousand hours spent opposing Hollander on the ice and watching tape of him play turning into subconscious knowledge living underneath his skin. O’Neill was practically on top of him, stick probing between his legs, but Ilya kicked the puck forward to his own stick, turning toward the goal and hipchecking O’Neill into the boards in the same motion. A second later, he had the puck squarely on his blade, and he snuck it diagonally through the attack zone, passing between Tealque's skates and just outside the crease, beyond Vitny’s reach—

—onto Hollander’s outstretched stick. Tealque turned toward the other center with a dawning expression of horror. Far too late; Hollander had already slapped it forward with that insane backhand of his, easily powering it over Vitny’s right pad and into the back of the net. 

That had taken… what, three seconds? Four? They didn’t run an official clock during practice—

“Let’s fucking go!” Hollander yelled, that ridiculous celly of his that Ilya had never been so happy to hear. He let his momentum take him behind the net and slingshot him around the boards, skating toward Ilya with a wide, bright smile that took Ilya’s breath away. Ilya held his arm out on automatic, waiting for the celebratory hug with dread and anticipation crawling up his spine.

Vitny swore something, in Ukrainian, presumably; Ilya didn’t understand it, but he knew the tone of awed profanity too well to mistake it. 

“Holy shit,” Sollys squawked, from somewhere behind them. Ilya had—not forgotten that the other winger was there, but disregarded it, because he’d known the rookie was irrelevant to the play. 

Hollander was still coming around the boards, and Ilya braced himself on the glass, ready for the impact. But Hollander stopped before Ilya could snag him, grabbing onto the boards barely two feet away. His smile wavered as he looked at Ilya’s outstretched arm. 

“Great goal,” Ilya managed to say, feeling as if he was dragging the words up through pure rock. As casually as possible, he dropped his arm, adjusting one of the ties on his pants. 

“Great pass,” Hollander said quietly, his eyes now intent on Ilya’s face. 

“What the fuck was that?” Svenqvist shouted, and the two of them snapped their heads back toward center ice. 

The right-winger had followed in Sollys’s wake, the two forwards arrowing in from the center of the offensive zone. With where tqhey were now, they must have barely passed the blue line when the puck had gone in the net—Ilya and Hollander had left them far behind. 

“Well now, boys,” Skinner bellowed from the neutral zone, a broad grin in his voice. “I think we might just be able to do something with that.” 

Coinbase Arena: Los Angeles, California

The walls of the hallway outside the Reign’s office, locker, treatment, and equipment rooms were filled with huge framed prints of the franchise’s many heroes: Vachon diving in front of the puck, Lafleur in a fight with Hellebuyck, the Triple Crown Line celebrating after the Miracle on Manchester, Gretzky on a breakaway, a teary-eyed Haas holding the Cup over his head, Blake hip-checking someone into the boards, Hollander with a baby sleeping in the Cup, Robitaille blocking a shot, and… 

“Fuck me,” Svetlana said aloud in Russian, pausing at the next huge framed canvas photograph. “They seriously let him do that?” 

“Sveta?” Dr. Samantha Carter—Ph.D. in Sports Data Science and Analytics—stuck her head out from an entryway down the hallway. “Hey! I was starting to wonder if you’d decided to watch the game from the bleachers, after all.” 

“Sam,” Svetlana said, pressing her lips together to hide her smile. The blonde’s cute, mocking face was considerably lower than it should have been, and none of her body was visible—doubtless she was just sitting in a chair, but it made her look, comedically, as if she was floating sideways in the air. “No, I was just admiring the scenery.” 

Sure enough, Sam rolled into the hallway on a wheeled office chair, bouncing herself off the walls with her hands and feet to get to Svetlana’s side. “Oh yeah,” she said, chuckling. “Ronin had to fight so hard with the League on that one. They don’t even like it going in pools! He had to swear up and down that it wouldn’t end up in the ocean, play on how it was in honor to his Hawaiian heritage—they made him send them his registrations as a boat pilot and a competitive surfer going back like five years! And even then, they insisted that he use safety equipment. Hence the…” 

Svetlana put her hand over her mouth and giggled; she couldn’t help it, despite how she detested the way it made her look like a naughty schoolgirl. The photograph showed a sun-drenched Ronnenberg, stretched out on the trampoline section of a catamaran, with his head “pillowed” on a surf board; and right next to him, as if it were his girlfriend, the MLH Championship Cup, with a life jacket strapped around its bottom half, a life ring wrapped around its “neck”, and (just for the joke, she had to assume) a scuba mask and aqua lung hanging out of the bowl. It was just too good. 

“What does Ilya plan to do, if he wins the Cup?” Sam asked, after glancing conspicuously up and down the hall—doubtless to make sure there weren’t any players within earshot to hear her tempting fate in such a way. 

Fortunately, Sveta wasn’t superstitious. “He’s not sure. He would like to take it to Boston, of course, but… He doesn’t want to rub it into the Raiders’ faces, either, that he had to leave them to win it. And the thing that makes him most emotional is the idea of taking it to Moscow, to visit his mother’s grave. He has not been back there in almost two decades.” 

Sam winced. “Yeah, that’s a hard choice. Would he even be allowed to take it to Russia? I remember that Moose didn’t get to take it there in ‘26. I can’t remember for sure if they said no again for the win in ‘28, or if he just didn’t ask—he used it to propose to Eileen that year, back in her hometown. Apparently her parents had been a little hesitant about things—she’s a professor at UCLA, and they didn’t like the idea of an immigrant hockey player for her—but that sweetened the pot enough for them. ” 

Svetlana snorted. “Tale as old as time. They did let one of the Florida players take it home to Novgorod, last year, when Harris’s ceasefire was still holding strong. But things have gotten worse again since then, and… there are other considerations that could make it difficult for Ilyukha to go back, in any case. So, probably we’ll just go to Boston.” She laughed suddenly. “Or maybe we will take a page out of Ronnenberg’s book and just take it out on a boat in the Greek Islands. I wouldn’t mind working on my tan this summer.” 

“That sounds pretty great, I’m not going to lie,” Sam said, with a wistful expression. “Have you been before?” 

“Oh yes,” Svetlana said. “We have a close friend who is a ballet teacher. When he was still performing, he lived in Paris and traveled all over Europe. Since he transferred to Boston, he takes us to a new spot on the Mediterranean every summer—Venice, Positano, Antalya, Saint-Tropez, Crete… And for the last few years, Ilya’s niece has been able to come travel with us for part of the summer, which he loves.” 

“That sounds like a dream. I’ve been to plenty of international tournaments and games, scouting or helping our boys: every city in Canada, it feels like; Sweden, Denmark, Switzerland, Germany; oh, and Milan in ‘26, that was amazing. But always ski town, no seaside resorts. Lying on a boat in the sun with nothing to do sounds amazing.” 

“You should go,” Svetlana said. She turned away from the framed print and grabbed the back of Sam’s chair, pushing her down the hallway. “You get vacation time, don’t you?” 

Sam tilted her head back, looking up at her with a grimace. “Oh yeah, I’ve got weeks saved up. But no one to go on a romantic vacation with. I swear, sometimes it’s like I’ve got some kind of curse—as soon as I get to the point of a first kiss with a guy, he disappears.” 

Svetlana raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like you need a better caliber of guy. Or maybe just a little less of a serial killer vibe,” she added, as they entered the tape room. 

“What?” Sam asked, looking blank. “What do you mean?” 

Svetlana gestured at the more than a dozen TV screens and computer monitors set up around the room. “Are you planning to murder me? Or just send me on a mission to seduce a debonair and charming British spy?” 

Sam started laughing. “We just park them in here when they’re not in use. I forgot how weird it looks.” 

“Mmm, that makes sense for these,” Svetlana waved her hand at the cluster of flatscreens on wheeled stands in the corner, then pointed in the opposite direction, “but what about those?” 

Sam looked at the seven monitors clustered over her desk, stacked on top of each other like tetris pieces. “What do you mean? That’s just my normal set-up.” 

“Sam.” Svetlana folded her arms across her chest. “That is a supervillain nest, and I have at least three internet quizzes that will back me up on that. Why do you need so many monitors?” 

“Oh, now, those are fighting words,” Sam said. She interlaced her fingers and stretched her arms out in front of her chest, cracking her knuckles. “I’m going to show you exactly why.” 

They were deep in it hours later, at the beginning of the second intermission—with each of Sam’s seven monitors split into multiple windows, allowing her to view feeds from the more than two dozen cameras covering the game for the TV broadcasts, the referees’ replays, the jumbotron footage, and the franchise’s own use—when someone knocked on the door. Before they could do more than half-turn around, it opened, and a small girl pushed her way through.  

Svetlana wasn’t good at estimating children’s ages, but this one looked about as well grown as they got while still being prepubescent. She was cute as a button as well—sleek, dark-brown hair in a pixie cut and huge black eyes, dressed in a black Reign hoodie over checkerboard leggings and silver glittery sneakers. Without a word to either of them, she crossed the room and clambered into Sam’s lap. 

“Oh,” Sam said, her expression melting as she wrapped the child in her arms. “Hey, bug. Get to be too much out there?” 

The girl nodded, burying her face in Sam’s shoulder.

“Lucy, I said wait for me!” an exasperated voice called from the hallway. 

Svetlana straightened up in her chair as Rose Landry walked into the room, weighed down by a heavy, deep pink Hermès shoulderbag. Svetlana resisted the urge to rearrange the way her hair was framing her face wishing with all of her might that she hadn’t let Ilya talk her into wearing his jerseys instead of something more flattering. But then again—taking a broader view than her personal ego, presenting herself as Ilya’s most devoted and loyal fan might be exactly the right note to strike here. 

And at least it was the jersey she’d had tailored. 

“Hey, Sam, I—oh,” Rose Landry said, catching sight of Svetlana. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you had company. We can go—” 

“No!” Lucy said, pulling her head out from Sam’s shoulder and twisting it around toward Rose Landry while barely moving her torso, like a monster in a horror movie. “Mom, you promised!”

Children were so creepy. 

“Honey, I didn’t promise. When I said you could come hang out with Aunt Sam, I didn’t know that she was working with someone else today. You know you can’t distract adults with important jobs—” 

“I don’t distract Sam! I help her!” 

“I know, honey, but—” 

“Rose, it’s fine with me if she wants to stay,” Sam said easily. “Lucy can help me show Svetlana the ropes. Rose, you’ve met Sveta, right? Rozanov’s wife?” 

Rose’s frustrated expression blossomed into a wide smile as she came forward. “I haven’t, and I’ve been wanting to! I was so disappointed when I didn’t see you in the family section tonight, I thought I’d missed another chance. I can’t apologize enough that we haven’t had gotten to know each other yet—I was on a shoot in New York when you arrived, and came home sick, and then when I was finally well enough to go out in public without looking like a hideous snot monster, I had to book myself back to back for three days straight just to keep from getting slapped with breach-of-contract fines.” 

“Of course,” Svetlana said sweetly, taking the hand that was offered to her. “I completely understand.” 

What else could she do? If she snubbed Rose Landry, it would only make things worse. But if the other woman thought that Svetlana’s gracious smile and unchallenging handshake was a capitulation, she had another think coming. The team captain’s wife had been a complete no-show for three entire weeks after the biggest trade in franchise history since Wayne Gretzky himself. No matter what excuses Rose Landry was making now—even if she was being entirely honest about her reasons for not showing up, and Svetlana had no way of knowing whether that was true—her behavior had still sent a message loud and clear. And despite everything that Lisa and Jackie had done to make Svetlana welcome in their queen’s absence, there had been a growing coolness from the other wives and girlfriends when Rose Landry returned to Los Angeles but still didn’t appear at any of their events or games. 

The significantly more private spouses and partners group had been even more welcoming, as if they were trying to make up for the WAGs’ ambivalence all on their own. But no matter how much Svetlana preferred the company of queers to straights, she wasn’t going to forgive such a slight. She would play nice with Rose Landry now, because she had no choice. But at some point in the future, the actress would regret taking the Rozanovs so lightly. 

“Are you sure you don’t mind us hanging out, Sam?” she was saying now, pulling up a couple chairs from the other corner of the room. “Yuna’s here, so Lucy and I really could just go home—” 

“It’s really no trouble,” Sam affirmed, before Lucy could protest again. “You know I enjoy her company. Hey, Lucy, do you want to help me go over some of the footage from the second period?” 

“Yeah!” the the small fairy-goblin said, brightening up as Sam spun the chair back around to face the monitors. “I want to see the power play goal—I could tell they did something new, but it was too fast for me to see what.”

“That’s very perceptive of you, they did do something new with the power play today. Let me just pull it up here—” 

It would have made sense for Rose to leave, then; but instead, she pulled out her phone. She leaned back in her chair, sending a quick text from the look of it, then looked up at Svetlana with a smile. “So, how are you settling in?” she asked, keeping her voice low enough not to disturb Sam and the child. 

“You do not need to get back to your other children?” Svetlana asked. 

“Nah, my mother-in-law’s here. I just let her know that she’s got Slipper and David for the rest of the game—she’ll be delighted. Spending time with them is her favorite thing in the world; well, except for getting to spend time with them and Shane without me in the picture.” 

Svetlana raised her eyebrows at the acerbic bite in the other woman’s voice. 

“Shit,” Rose said, covering her mouth. “Please forget that I said that when you meet Yuna.” 

“I’ve met Yuna several times already,” Svetlana said, letting her voice grow just a little distant. “At all the home games since we moved out here, and the WAGs brunch last week, and happy hour a few times.” 

Rose groaned. “Right. Fuck. Look, it’s not like this is anything she hasn’t heard before, and I don’t want to put you in a tough spot. But—” she shrugged charmingly, “—I’ll owe you a big favor if you could just not mention it to her?” 

“The two of you do not get along?” Svetlana asked noncommittally, probing for weaknesses. “She has bragged about you quite a bit.” 

That was true enough—oh, Yuna was full of boasts about her superstar son and her three precocious grandchildren, but her A-list actress daughter-in-law had come in for her share of praise as well. 

Rose sighed “I’m sure she has. We’re… trying to do better, these days. I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have said anything about it; I don’t want to put you in the middle of a family squabble. I’m just used to venting to Sam when Lucy needs a break during games.” 

Part of Svetlana didn’t want to leave it there, but she reminded herself that taking the high road just made it easier to drop heavy rocks onto the heads of one's enemies.

“I’ve been there,” she said graciously. “I won’t say anything to Yuna unless she asks me directly about it.”

“God, thank you. You’re a lifesaver.” Rose blew out her cheeks, then cocked her head to the side. “So, then, do you have in-law problems, too?” 

Svetlana hummed. “Mmm, not really. I meant that I could also see myself getting too honest if my bestie Sasha had some unexpected company while we were dishing tea together.” 

“Oh.” Rose smiled wanly. “Right.” She was an even better actress in person than on film. She had amazing screen presence, but in person, she exuded a vivacious, sparkling charisma that made her version of puppy dog eyes particularly effective. 

That magnetic quality was surely the only reason that Svetlana couldn’t stop herself from offering up, “Both of my husband’s parents are dead, but they were very much in support of our marriage—we were childhood friends, and our fathers worked together. His brother has never liked me, but they are not close.” 

“That’s tough,” Rose said, leaning forward. “I have three brothers—I can’t imagine staying on the outs with any of them.” 

“Fortunately, her brothers worship the ground Shane walks on,” Sam put in. 

Rose and Svetlana jerked away from each other, turning toward Sam in unison. The video coach was looking at them over her shoulder, torso still facing the monitors, and fortunately, the child in her lap seemed to be deeply entranced in the monitors in front of her, hands moving with confidence on the keyboard and mouse as she pulled up the replay she wanted. 

“What?” Sam asked, with a one-sided shrug. “I’ve met them plenty of times. I honestly believe that if you two broke up, your brothers would choose Shane’s side in the divorce.” 

Rose chuckled ruefully. It sounded entirely different than her laugh did in the movies. “You’re right, they probably would.” 

“Now, that is not a problem I’ve ever had,” Svetlana said, smiling in spite of herself. “Unless you count Sasha, our best friend; but even then, I do not think he would automatically choose Ilya if we split up. He would choose whoever he thought was more in the right. Or if we were equally wrong, he would go with whoever was not making him choose, I think.” 

“Honestly? That’s probably the best way to do it,” Rose said, her tone growing more serious. “I’ve lost way too many friends because of stupid breakups.” She kicked off her ballet flats and pulled one leg up under herself, while bending the other and resting her hands on her knee. “And, I mean, if Shane… I don’t know, cheated on me or something equally horrible, of course my brothers would line up to defend my honor. But he would never do that. If we ever split up, it would definitely be my fault.” 

“Psh,” Svetlana scoffed, waving a remonstrative hand in the air. “Never admit fault, especially in advance! I promise you that if my Ilyukha left me, or I left him, everyone would blame him. Including him, if he knew what was good for him.” 

“Oh, believe me, Shane’s not perfect,” Rose said, snorting. “But he doesn’t have a disloyal bone in his body. He could never give up on someone he cared about. If he ever walked away, it would be because the other person had already left him, first.” 

Svetlana’s head reared back involuntarily, despite every measure of self-control she possessed. Could Rose Landry possibly mean everything that statement had just implied? Or was she actually somehow unaware of the history between their husbands? The actress’s face gave nothing away—it was open, calm, and friendly: inviting confidences. 

“Well,” Svetlana said, with barely a moment’s pause, despite the way her mind was still spinning with questions. “Lord save me from a perfect man.” 

Private Home near Wash Park: El Segundo, California

Ilya folded his arms across his chest and pasted a frown on his face, despite how his chest ached with suppressed laughter. “It was really not so big a deal.” 

Svetlana snorted. “Tell that to the people who got sprayed. Oh wait, I forget. You did.”  

Michel leaned forward, cackling, and had to brace his hands on the wicker arms of his chair to keep from falling. “He did not—”

“I don’t know, Laffy, I don’t think there are a lot of stories about Rozy here that I wouldn’t believe, at this point,” Wyatt said, from where he was sprawled out on a round, cozy hammock chair, with his wife, Lisa, perched on his lap. 

“I swear to God,” Svetlana said, painting a picture in front of her chest, “Ilya Grigoryevich here gets right in front of the dealer principal, looks back at the double streak of bright red blood the wheels left behind, and says, with this innocent little grin, ‘oh, did I run over something?’ And meanwhile, the poor salesmen have bolted, and the dealer is trying not to gag—it was the worst thing I’ve ever smelled—” 

“It was not!” Ilya objected. “It wasn’t even that big of a skunk, it couldn’t have been worse than time your mother tried to make borsch for your papa—” 

“Oh, god, Ilyukha, don’t remind me of that crime against Russia—” 

From the other side of the Lafleurs’ comfortable patio, Luca and his partner joined in the general laughter. It was only Ilya and Svetlana’s second time meeting Raffi, but Svetlana had struck up an immediate rapport with the actor slash artist during the last queer lunch, drinking cocktails and gossiping on the patio until they were both giggling maniacally, and there hadn’t been a reputation left unscathed west of the 405.  

“Is your mom not a good cook?” Luca asked. 

“Oh, no, she was a great cook,” Svetlana said.

Ilya lifted his hand from where stretched along the back of the couch behind his wife’s shoulders, and waggled it from side to side, just outside her range of vision. From where he was manning the grill, Michel’s husband Ameet shook his head disapprovingly at Ilya, but he couldn’t hide the smirk on his face. 

“But she’s from Trinidad, so borsch wasn’t exactly in her repertoire,” Svetlana went on. “My father was sick and she was trying to make some comfort food for him.” 

Luca smiled. “Well, that was nice of her, though. Do you see much of her these days?” As Svetlana and Ilya exchanged a look, the right winger winced. “Oh, I—If she’s still around, I mean. I’m sorry—” 

Svetlana shook her head. “No, no, you’re fine. She isn’t around anymore, but not because she is dead. She and my father met while she was a student at MIT and he was playing for Boston. They married when she became pregnant with me, but she never really wanted to go back to Russia with him. He convinced her to try it for a few years, but eventually, she decided to go back to Trinidad. We haven’t been in contact since.” 

“How old were you?” Lisa asked, giving Sveta a sympathetic look.

“Seven, when we moved back to Russia. Ten, when she left.” Svetlana said, looking serene as always. 

Ilya took her hand, and she clutched it back almost immediately. Their shared losses, coming within the same year, had been one of the earliest foundations of their long intimacy; despite the different circumstances, they’d both had to wonder why they hadn’t been enough for their mothers to stay. 

“My mother died a few months after I was drafted,” Luca volunteered sadly. “Cancer.” 

“Câlisse,” Michel muttered. “Mine passed last year. Emphysema.” 

Ameet abandoned the grill for a moment, crossing over to stand behind his husband and massage his shoulders. 

“My mother is alive, but we don’t really talk,” Lisa said, leaning forward and grabbing her drink off the wicker and glass patio table. “Not really any one thing, just… I couldn’t deal with the constant judgment and disapproval, you know?” 

Ilya picked up his own drink, nodding morosely before he took a long drink. Fortunately, Ameet had used a heavy pour on the mojitos. 

Raffi laughed suddenly. Off the rest of the party’s surprised expressions, they explained, “I was just thinking, it seems like we don’t have a single mother among the lot of us. Living and involved in our lives, at least. What does that make this, a Disney princess convention?”

“My mother is alive and present, thank you,” Ameet retorted. He gave one last squeeze to his husband’s shoulders and a kiss to his copper curls, then went back to the grill, shaking his head at Raffi over his shoulder as he went. “Unless you count living in the Valley as tantamount to death… Which I admit most Angelenos do.” 

They all laughed at that—maybe a little hysterically, but the release of tension had been well-earned. Attracted by the sound of their merriment, Snegurka came running over from where she’d been playing out in the yard, followed closely by Minka, Haas’s fox terrier-whippet mix, and Oreo and Mars, Ameet and Michel’s twin rescue greyhounds. Ilya put his drink back down on the table and welcomed his baby, currying her fur vigorously and taking the opportunity to check that she hadn’t taken any harm in her play with the other dogs. Minka had been around Oreo and Mars since she was a puppy, and they’d all been a little anxious about introducing Snegurka to the mix. Fortunately, three already-bonded dogs had happily welcomed their new playmate so far, treating her deferentially like the queen she was. With his concerns assuaged, Ilya turned to softly petting the fur on either side of his baby’s face and murmured soft, loving words to her, giving her the attention she was looking for—and discouraging her from jumping up onto the couch with him—until she finally responded to Oreo and Mars’s playful nudges to her hindquarters by spinning around and chasing them back out to the yard.  

“Alright, burgers are up!” Ameet reported. “All lamb, all the time, get it while it’s hot.” 

Ilya kept his sigh strictly internal—he wasn’t a fan of lamb, but knew better than to say so. Ameet didn’t eat beef and Luca and Raffi tried to avoid pork, so there weren’t a lot of other options. Other than grilled chicken or ground turkey burgers, and he had to hide a shudder at that thought. At least Hollander hadn’t infected his entire team with his insane notions of a proper hockey diet during the season. Still, Ilya had a certain misty nostalgia for the food from their last gathering; Michel had made fish tacos for his turn to cook. However, Ilya’s apathy didn’t last long past his first surprised bite of the burger—it was juicy and richly spiced, the herbs balancing the musky taste that he normally disliked in lamb, enhancing it into a hot, savory richness. 

“Did you get this recipe from Ronnenberg?” Luca asked, after his first bite. “It’s got a nice kick to it.” 

“Kawalsky, in fact,” Michel said. 

“Really, Charlie?” 

“You’d be surprised,” Michel said, grinning, “he plays up the whole dumb Midwestern jock vibe, but he’s actually from Brooklyn. Plus, he’s been with us for five years and Florida before that. His palate is plenty educated.” 

“Is he the one who runs the programs with kids with disabilities and chronic illnesses?” Raffi asked. 

“Mm, yes.” Lisa said, leaning forward. “We give them as referrals to families checking out at the hospital. Well, it’s him and O’Neill, but Charlie takes lead for most of it.”

“O’Neil had more to do with the inspiration, though,” Michel pointed out. 

“Oh?” Svetlana asked. 

“Jack lost his son at a young age,” Michel explained. “His marriage didn’t make it through the tragedy, and he and Kawalsky transferred here a year or two later—they live together over in Hawthorne.”

Raffi nodded. “Oh, okay, yeah. I’d heard some of that, but hadn’t gotten the whole story before.” 

Ilya looked back and forth between his teammates and their partners, trying to figure out if he was just reading too much into what they were saying. Finally, he said, “Did someone just forget to tell me before I arrived that this is the gayest team in the League?” 

Luca burst out laughing. “I don’t know, Hazy, what do you think? Ottawa gave us a run for our money in our day, back when you were still in the crease .” 

Ilya chuckled at the slightly schizophrenic way that had come out, although he appreciated where Luca was coming from. The Reign were finally starting to feel like his team—he’d found the plural pronouns coming out much easier over the last few days—but Boston would always be his, as well. 

“Mmm, yeah, I think Ottawa was gayer,” Hayes said, grinning at his former teammate. “Benefit of being at the bottom of the League, with no one watching. But the Reign are more queer, I think? Especially if Kawalsky and O’Neil are actually hooking up.” 

“No, no,” Michel said, although he was chuckling as well. “Kawalsky and O’Neill are just best friends. They’ve been linemates ever since Kawalksky was a rookie. I mean, a little codependent, for sure, but they’re not friends of Dorothy.” 

“They are not what?” Ilya asked. 

“I’ll explain later,” Svetlana whispered. 

“Hmm,” Raffi said, cocking their head to the side. “I don’t know. I mean, not for each other, no, but don’t you think that O’Neil had a bit of a crush on Jackson, before he was sent to Boston?” 

“Oh, that was just Jack being protective,” Michel said, although he didn’t look entirely convinced. “You know how enforcers are about their top centers… And I always thought he was interested in Carter.” 

“Please, the entire team is interested in Sam Carter,” Raffi said, snorting. “She’s gorgeous. And absurdly good at what she does, and I haven’t yet met a hockey player who didn’t have a competency kink.” 

“I didn’t realize you’d met anyone else on the coaching staff,” Ilya said to Raffi, before he thought better of it. Svetlana swatted his arm, and he flinched away with a performative wince. “Ow! I just meant, I know Michel isn’t out, so I assumed Luca wasn’t, either. But if Raffi has met the whole team…”

Luca shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve never come out to anyone on the team, like, in a formal sense. I don’t know. The team knows that Raffi uses they/them pronouns, but I don’t think most of them really understand what it means? It’s not as if any one of them wouldn’t happily trade places with me, even though they’re straight. Well. Who could look at Raffi and not think they’re gorgeous?”

Ilya snorted. Not that it wasn’t true—Raffi was one of those insanely attractive people that LA was known for, all lean curves and sleek muscles and tattoos and piercings, with a sharply carved, delicate face, a short asymmetrical haircut, and a vaguely androgynous vibe. 

“I mean, they might if they were ace,” Raffi countered. 

“Mmm, no. They wouldn’t be attracted to you, but they’d still think you were hot,” Svetlana said, smirking across the table. 

Raffi blushed and looked away, fidgeting idly with the miniature sword-shaped earring they wore on their left ear. The right had a little miniature pen, and Ilya was willing to bet it could actually be used to write. Even he had a bit of a crush on Raffi, and Svetlana had been trying to talk him into propositioning Luca for a foursome ever since they’d met. 

Fortunately, the dogs came gallumping back into the group at that point, and while everyone scrambled to make sure their burgers weren’t in range of any doggy tongues, tails, or paws, Ilya was able to discretely elbow his wife. 

“Oh, come on,” she whispered in Russian. “Not dating your teammates doesn’t extend to their dates.”

“Yes, it absolutely does,” he hissed back. “I have to play with him—you can’t seduce his partner.” 

“I’ve said before, I’d happily share…” she said. 

“After we win the Cup, you can have a go at both of them with my blessing.” 

“How about this—I’ll take them, you take him.” 

Ilya swallowed. He’d been pretending that he wasn’t attracted to Luca so well, he’d thought… “I’m not sleeping with Hollander’s winger.” 

Svetlana raised an eyebrow. “Interesting that that’s your first association for him.” 

“I just meant…” Ilya couldn’t even finish the sentence for himself, unfortunately. 

“Yes?” Svetlana prompted encouragingly, leaning back against the couch with evident enjoyment. 

“Shut up,” Ilya muttered. 

“Mmm, no, I don’t think I will.” 

“Anyway,” Luca said, calling everyone’s attention back to the previous conversation, the only time anyone’s ever said anything to me about dating Raffi is chirping me about how far out of my league they are. Or how my hero-worship of Hollander extended to picking out a movie star partner, just like him. Except they don’t use the word partner,” he added, grimacing. 

“Yeah, I mean,” Raffi said, shrugging, “I don’t always pass, but most people just assume I’m a woman. And with bierasure being what it is… I don’t think anyone considers Luca queer for dating me. It’s fucked up being misgendered all the time, but… I get that everywhere, even in Hollywood, so. I’m glad he doesn’t have to deal with any bullshit from the team about it, at least.”

“I can’t control the boys, but I promise if you come to any of the WAG events, I’ll jump on any misgendering,” Lisa said, turning from Raffi on her last word to glare down at her husband.  

“Hey, I told Luca to tell me if he had any issues,” Wyatt said. “I’ve corrected them when I hear it.”

Raffi shrugged. “No offense, Lisa, but I’m not going to go to WAG events unless they at least change the damn name.” 

Lisa winced. “Yeah, I… Yeah. I know. I think if I push for it this summer—especially if Laffy comes out. Not to push any pressure on you, Michel, I just…” 

“It was always the plan to do it after I retired,” the French-Canadian said, shrugging. “I didn’t want it to be this soon, but c'est ça qui est ça, enh? I just don’t want to be a distraction during the playoffs.” 

Raffi rolled their eyes a bit, but nodded. 

Ilya pursed his lips. “Do you really think it would be such a distraction? With O’Neill, then, it’s almost a quarter of the team, now, that is gay—or queer,” he said, nodding to Luca. Thinking of his two single linemates—whose “friendship” certainly bordered on codependent, if not romantic—he added, “If not more. You don’t think the rest would be good about it?” 

“Not really a quarter. Even if you still count me as being on the team,” Michel said, only to wave his hands in surrender as they all started to protest at once. “Even then, it’s only four actual players out of more than twenty—us here and perhaps O’Neil. No offense, Hazy.” 

“None taken,” Hayes said, hastily. “Coaches don’t exactly count. And it’s not like I’m technically out as bisexual, either, even if only because no one’s asking me for quotes anymore.” 

“I’m a little sus about the rooks, actually,” Luca said. “Dean and Quentin have been spending a lot of time together. Could just be that they’re the two newbies and close in age, but…” 

“Even with them, that’s still only six,” Michel said, although he’d raised his eyebrows at that piece of information. “So, yeah, a quarter, but still…” 

Over the last month, Ilya had come to feel so comfortable with these men, he almost let the words, “what about Hollander?” cross his lips before he could bite them back. The sudden realization that Hollander wasn’t just too busy being a responsible, neutral captain to join them —that he didn’t know about all the queer members of his own team, that they didn’t know about him—was a little bewildering. 

But then, perhaps Hollander didn’t even think about himself as gay, any longer. If he ever even had. And either way, it wasn’t any of Ilya’s business any longer. 

“Alright, fine, just take it. Take the burger,” Luca said loudly, breaking Ilya away from his reverie. 

Ilya looked over and laughed at the sight of Luca resignedly allowing Minka to clean his plate with her tongue, gulping down about a third of a burger that he hadn’t managed to eat in time. 

“You spoil her,” he said. 

“Pot, kettle,” Michel said, raising his eyebrows. 

“I do not let Snegurochka eat food off my plate.” 

“No,” Michel admitted. “But given that you bought her her own fancy china plate and serve it her covered in artfully presented raw meat while we’re eating dinner every night, I’m not sure how many points you get for that.” 

Svetlana pouted performatively. “She likes to feel like she is being included.” 

“And we made sure that she learned not to beg or steal food,” Ilya said. “This is important training.” 

“Yes,” Svetlana said, nodding. “Very important. It took me many years to be certain that Ilya learned these things. Although I do occasionally allow him to beg. When appropriate.”

Chapter End Notes

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