Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Original Children of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Hayden Pike, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Good With Children, Anxious Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Pining Hard, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Depression, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander Being Adorable, Domestic Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kid Fic, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, ilya rozanov is a dad, Shane Hollander's Cottage

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of heated rivalry fics

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-29 Updated: 2026-05-25 Words: 118,425 Chapters: 24/?

cause it's on again, off again (love you like oxygen)

Summary

“Y-Yeah, totally,” Shane replied. “D-Do you uh– do you know who that kid with Rozanov is?”

Scott laughed a little, tilting his head in confusion.

“Probably Rozanov’s kid,” he informed Shane, causing his brain to stall completely.

“You didn’t hear?” Scott asked, and Shane blinked, trying to reboot his mind from the crash that Scott had just caused. “It’s why he took time off,” Hunter informed him. “Found out he had a kid, I guess. Or something like that, I didn’t really get the details.”

Of all the reasons he’d thought of for Ilya disappearing for the past month, this had never crossed his mind. A million different thoughts raced through Shane’s mind. How the hell was Ilya a dad, and why hadn’t he told Shane and how the fuck did Scott Hunter of all people find out before him and—

And what the fuck was Shane supposed to do now?

_______________________________________________________________

After the tuna melt situation, Ilya suddenly disappears from hockey for six weeks, claiming some sort of family emergency. Shane showed up to the All-Star game ready to try and fix things, only to be shocked to find a little girl at Ilya's side with remarkably familiar blue eyes.

Chapter 1: chapter one

It’d been a month since he walked out on Ilya. Shane was still trying to get the hurt, confused look that had been plastered all over the other man’s face out of his head. They chirped at each other all the time, teased and insulted one another, but none of that had ever led to so much pain on the Russian’s face. At least, not until Shane practically ran away from him. 

He hadn’t done anything wrong either, which only made the guilt in his gut a million times worse. No, Ilya had been affectionate, caring. More so than he’d ever been before. Hell, he’d made Shane a tuna melt. It’d been almost…domestic? 

He’d been having a good time. Shane couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so relaxed. There was so much pressure, so much attention on him all of the time, but when he was with Ilya, everything was easy. Natural. 

But then, Shane had come to the terrifying realization, right there in Ilya’s penthouse, that he was falling in love with him. Hell, not even falling. He was already in love with him. 

And if there was one thing that Shane knew with absolute certainty he wasn’t allowed to be, it was being in love with Ilya Rozanov. 

It was bad enough that it would ruin his career if anyone else found out. What only made the matter worse was that he knew Rozanov could never feel the same way. Ilya liked casual hookups, he liked fun. He wasn’t in it for feelings. 

So Shane left, as quickly as he could. He left before he could fall for the man even more. He left while he still could. 

Because the longer he stayed, the harder it would’ve been to leave. 

After that day, he vowed that enough was enough. He was going to focus on hockey, on bringing another cup home to Montreal. No more distractions. No more breaking the rules. 

That was part of the reason he started going out with Rose. Sure, she was gorgeous and funny and easy to be with. The fact that the rest of the world seemed to think it was perfectly natural for Shane to be with her only made it easier. 

His whole entire life, he’d always done the right thing. He focused on hockey, ate well, and practiced hard. He followed the rules that had been set out for him. 

And being with Rose, well, that was the right thing. Wasn’t it? 

“You ready to kick Hunter’s ass, Hollander?” JJ asked as he entered the locker room, carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder. 

Per usual, JJ was one of the last ones to arrive, meaning the locker room was already bustling with activity as everyone got ready for their game against New York. 

Hayden let out a scoff, laughing a bit. 

“Please, it’s Hunter. The guy’s ancient. Shane could take him any day,” Hayden remarked, to which a few other guys around the room chorused their agreement. 

Maybe, on a different day, Shane would’ve stood up for the guy a bit more, but the past few weeks, he hadn’t had much energy. He went out with Rose, showed up to practice, played in games, and that was about it. Doing anything else seemed like too much effort when his heart still had a massive gaping hole in it. 

Drapeau, who’d been sitting in his stall, scrolling on his phone to waste time since most of his gear was already on, suddenly looked up. 

“You guys hear Rozanov’s not playing tonight?” 

“What?” Shane asked, voice a bit higher than usual with panic, quickly turning his head to look over at the other man. 

Ilya wasn’t the type of player to miss a game. Shane was pretty sure the guy could be dying of the flu, and he’d still try to lace up his skates. If he was missing a game, well, that meant it had to be something serious. 

Hayden shot him a confused look, and Shane took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Or, at least, not be so obvious. It wasn’t his problem anymore. Ilya was probably fine. Even if he wasn’t, well, Shane shouldn’t care. He wasn’t supposed to care anymore. 

As he’d unfortunately been learning, not caring was a lot easier in theory than it was in practice. 

“ESPN just posted about it,” Drapeau confirmed with a shrug, tilting his phone so they could see the screen. “Some sort of family situation, apparently.” 

A bit of tension leaked out of his shoulders at hearing that Ilya wasn’t sick, or worse, injured, but a family situation still didn’t make much sense either. Granted, he didn’t know much about the man’s family, but it was pretty obvious he wasn’t close with them. And if he was dealing with a family situation, then that almost certainly meant he’d gone back to Russia. 

“Guess Buffalo might actually have a chance tonight,” JJ remarked, causing Hayden to snort a laugh. 

Even without Ilya, the Bears were still a great team. Buffalo, well… even on their best day, they sucked. For Buffalo to stand a chance against them, the whole first two lines of the Bears would have to be out. 

“I want everyone on the ice in ten!” Theriault announced loudly from where he’d been talking with some of the rookies, causing the locker room to instantly quiet down. 

Shane went back to lacing up his skates, forcing any thoughts of Ilya out of his mind. He had to win tonight, and he knew there was no chance of that happening if he spent the whole game thinking about the man he could never have. 

Despite how hard he tried not to, Shane couldn’t help but continue to keep tabs on Ilya. Any time an ESPN report mentioned him, he scanned the whole article twice. His concern only grew when it was announced that Ilya would be out until the All-Star game in January. Again, there was no mention of an injury, only talks of a family situation. 

But what sort of family situation would mean Ilya taking six weeks off of hockey? 

Shane distracted himself with Rose and hockey, anything to keep his mind off of Ilya. 

Unfortunately, that got significantly harder to do once he and Rose broke up. The break up itself wasn’t that upsetting. He and Rose had agreed to remain friends, and he, of course, understood why she’d ended their relationship. But once he came to the realization that he was gay, it made it a hell of a lot harder to move on. 

When he’d walked out of Ilya, he’d told himself that it was fine. That he could move on and have a normal relationship, one the world would be accepting of. But he’d never be able to have that, not really. Not when he couldn’t love a woman. Granted, the backlash wouldn’t be nearly as bad as long as he didn’t date his archrival, but there was no way the entire MHL would be supportive of their golden boy loving a man. 

So, if Shane’s only choice was loving a man or being alone, then it seemed he really only had one option. 

He tried not to be angry at the unfairness of it all. Rozanov could still go and have a normal relationship. He liked being with women. The end of their… well, whatever they’d had together, it didn’t mean being alone forever the way it did for Shane. He could have it all, a relationship, a family, a career. 

Shane would only ever be able to pick one or the other. 

Would only ever be able to have one or the other. 

And really, what kind of life was that? 

By the time the All-Star game came around, Shane was practically vibrating with anticipation to see Ilya. He’d accepted that he’d never be able to have a normal, public relationship. At least, not until he retired. But maybe he and Ilya could just keep doing what they were doing. Sneaking a moment here and there. Being together when they could. 

It’d be enough for Shane. It had to be. 

Plus, he was dying to finally make sure the other man was okay with his own eyes. He’d heard nothing from Ilya since November. No texts, no calls, nothing. Granted, Shane couldn’t blame him. He’d been the one to walk out, and it wasn’t like he’d reached out to check in either. But something serious had to have happened for Ilya to take so much time off of hockey, and Shane desperately wanted to make sure Ilya was alright, if only to relieve the vice around his heart, to lessen the anxiety coursing through his veins at the thought of anything happening to the other man. 

When he finally spotted him sitting at the bar, dressed in a hawaiian shirt – which was certainly a sight he didn’t think he’d ever see – and looking perfectly fine, at least physically, he let out a small sigh of relief before making his way over. 

“Can I offer you something to drink?” the bartender asked as Shane sat down on the stool next to Ilya, feeling the other man’s blue eyes trailing over him. 

“I'll have the same as my teammate, please,” he replied politely, not even bothering to see what Ilya had in front of him. 

He didn’t really care what it was. Perhaps he might have, if he was here to drink. But Shane had a different mission entirely.

Chapter 2: chapter two

Per usual, Ilya was the first one to break the silence, his confidence letting him do so in a way Shane’s anxiety never could. 

“So, what, are they out of ginger ale, Captain?” Ilya quipped, clearing his throat a bit and keeping his eyes resolutely on the bottle of Corona in front of him. 

Shane wondered if privately, that was a sore spot for the man. Surely, he had wanted to be named captain. He probably would have too, if it wasn’t for the time off he’d taken. 

“I'm feeling a bit wild,” Shane replied, feeling far too proud when the comment got just the smallest hint of amusement to flicker across Ilya’s face. “So this should be fun, huh? I've always wondered what it would be like to play on the same team.” 

Separately, he and Ilya were both amazing players. Two of the best. But Shane had always thought about what they’d be like together. Unstoppable, probably. Not just because of their skill, but because of their chemistry together. He knew, even without having ever played on the same side as the other man, that they’d be perfectly in sync on the ice. 

“Have you?” Ilya asked, seeming mildly disinterested in the same way he always did when he thought Shane was thinking too much about hockey. 

“Yeah, I have,” Shane confirmed, not really sure what else to say. He knew Ilya didn’t really care much for small talk, but what else was Shane meant to say? Sorry for walking out on you?  Sorry for falling in love with you and refusing to tell you? None of these were really comments Shane could make, especially not at a bar with half the MLH around. “Nice that it's in Florida this year, right?” 

“Yes,” Ilya conceded, shrugging a bit as though he could have cared less about the location of their game. 

The bartender stopped in front of them to drop off Shane’s beer and a fresh one for Ilya and he thanked the man, staying quiet until he was out of earshot. He took a sip of the beer, grimacing slightly. He’d never been a huge fan of beer in general, much less of Corona. Even when out with the team, he never drank much, preferring to stick to ginger ale. 

And then, for what seemed like the first time since Shane had sat down next to him, Ilya finally looked at him, blue eyes locking onto Shane intensely in a way that made him want to squirm slightly in his seat. 

“Did, uh, did you bring anyone with you?” he asked casually. 

He was unable to completely hide his interest in Shane’s answer though, something that told him that, perhaps, Shane hadn’t ruined things as much as he thought he had. 

“Uh, my parents thought about coming, but they're going to Mexico in, like, two weeks, and they've been to these before, so…” Shane rambled, having a bit of a difficult time focusing with those ice blue eyes peering what seemed like straight into his soul. “Also, I didn't feel like being managed this weekend.” 

It would also be a hell of a lot easier to see Ilya without his parents around, but Shane kept quiet about that. For all he knew, Ilya had no intentions of ever being with him again, and Shane was just annoying the man by sitting next to him. 

“Did you, uh, bring anybody?” Shane inquired nervously, praying the answer was no. 

“Da,” Ilya replied with a casual shrug, providing no other information in that incredibly annoying, mysterious way of his.

Shane tried desperately not to let the disappointment show on his face, although he was sure he’d failed miserably. Of course, Ilya had brought someone. Why wouldn’t he? He had no shortage of women that would probably kill to spend a week in Florida with him. 

His chest clenched tightly, and he tried to shove away the dismay building up inside of him. It was his own fault, after all. He’d been stupid to think that Ilya would just wait around. Besides, even if Shane hadn’t walked out on him, they’d never been exclusive before that. 

Suddenly far too away that he’d been quiet for too long, Shane fumbled for some sort of response to give. 

“Nice shirt,” he said eventually, wincing a bit at how awkward he sounded even through his own ears. 

Ilya didn’t seem bothered though, and responded with a bit of a smile. 

“Thanks. I like to, you know, get into the spirit,” Ilya remarked. “Plus, Sasha picked it out.”

So, Ilya’s guest had a name. Sasha. Shane wondered if it was serious. The only other woman he had ever mentioned by name was Svetlana, and Shane was never really sure where they stood together. It seemed like they were best friends, or best friends with benefits, but for all he knew, maybe Svetlana was madly in love with Ilya. 

“Sounds Russian,” Shane replied eventually, not knowing what else to say. 

He was too heartbroken to think about much else. All he’d wanted for the past few weeks was to see Ilya, to spend time with him in Florida, and now, the man would be spending all of his time with someone else. Sasha, whoever she was. She probably wasn’t an idiot either. There was no way she’d throw Ilya’s attention away, no way she’d ever walk out on him as if he meant nothing. Not like Shane. He’d had a chance to be with Ilya, and he’d wasted it. 

“Da,” Ilya said with a bit of a laugh, seeming far too amused for the comment. He was looking at Shane with an expression on his face that he’d seen before, the one that said Ilya thought he was being a bit of an idiot, but in an adorable way. He loved when Ilya looked at him that way, fondness seeping out of him. It never failed to make Shane feel better. “Is Russian, Hollander.”

JJ suddenly came up behind them, scaring the shit out of Shane for a moment as he wrapped his arms around their shoulders. The man was clearly a bit drunk, and although Shane loved his teammates, he’d never so desperately wanted to tell one of them to go away. 

His appearance seemed to have eased any remaining tension in Ilya though, for the man laughed as JJ walked away, before turning his attention back to Shane. 

“You're looking very pretty today. Hmm? Different, maybe?” he teased as Shane shifted someone self-consciously. No one else had commented on his new wardrobe yet, and he certainly hadn’t expected Ilya to be the first. Hoped so, yes. Expected to, no. “Someone take you shopping?”

Ilya had always been a bit more fashionable than Shane, as had the women he dated, and perhaps Shane just wanted to appear a bit more put together for once, in the hopes that it would get him more attention from the man. 

“If I, um...If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone or make fun of me?” he asked, unsurprised when Ilya shrugged noncommittally. 

If there was one thing Ilya Rozanov loved, it was making fun of him. 

“Well, it depends.”

“Seriously,” Shane pleaded and Ilya conceded with a bit of a sigh. 

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed easily enough. He was, after all, keeping a far bigger secret for Shane than this one. 

“I hired a stylist,” Shane said, bracing himself for the laugh he knew was coming. 

Sure enough, Ilya barely lasted three seconds before breaking into a grin, a laugh bubbling out of his chest despite how hard he tried to hide it. And even though Shane didn’t exactly like being laughed at for hiring a stylist, he didn’t mind it that much when Ilya was the one making fun of him. 

Because that laugh? He could listen to it forever. And that smile? There was no better sight in the world. 

Ilya didn’t smile that much, Shane had noticed. Little grins and smirks here and there, sure. But he very rarely smiled fully, without reservation, and when he did, it never failed to make Shane grin back. 

“Fuck you, I shouldn't have told you,” Shane said, although there was no real anger behind his words, just a bit of embarrassment. 

“No, no. I love it. I love it,” Ilya assured him teasingly. “You got, what? Tired of looking like shit?”

“I didn’t look like shit,” Shane fired back, his chest warming as they fell back into their usual banter. God, he’d missed this. He’d missed laughing like this. Smiling like this. He’d missed Ilya. “I just wore, like, athletic stuff.”

“Mmm. I know what you wore,” Ilya said knowingly, as though he’d paid attention to everything Shane wore, all of the time. 

To be fair, maybe he had. Shane paid more attention to Ilya than anyone else, after all. 

“And some of the guys in the league are so fashionable,” he continued, ignoring Ilya’s comment. 

“Yeah, so very,” Ilya smirked, sounding way too proud of himself in a way that Shane immediately had to correct. 

“Not you,” he clarified. He couldn’t let Ilya’s head get too big. “Some of the guys. Other players,  not you.”

Ilya seemed to know it was a lie though, for he just smirked teasingly, nodding his head a bit as though he was going to allow Shane to win the argument, just this once. 

“Okay,” he conceded with a smile, eyes narrowing a bit before he proceeded more carefully. “So, this has nothing to do with Rose Landry?” 

Shane had assumed that, by now, news of their breakup would have spread, but perhaps it hadn’t. Or perhaps, Ilya just hadn’t been keeping tabs on Shane the way Shane had been obsessing over Ilya. That was probably the case. Why would Ilya care what Shane was up to anyway? But still, he found himself quickly answering, not wanting the man to get the wrong idea. 

“No. Well, I mean, yeah, she always dressed, um, very well, and so do her friends, but…” he trailed off, trying to come up with an answer that was anything besides the truth. That he wanted Ilya to notice him. “I just wanted to stop looking like I was always going to the gym. I never really cared about clothes.” 

Ilya tilted his head a bit, leaning closer. 

“So, uh, you and her are not…”

“We're not,” Shane confirmed, needing Ilya to know that there was no one else. No one standing in their way. Well, besides Sasha, apparently. “She's great, but, uh...We're just not...compatible, I guess.” 

Ilya was listening closely, looking at Shane with such an intensity in his blue eyes that he had to stop himself from kissing the man right then and there. He knew he needed to get up now, or he’d end up trying to drag the man to a bathroom, or supply closet, or anywhere else that they could be alone.  

“I should circulate, I guess,” he interrupted quickly, moving to get up, no matter how hard it was to tear himself away. 

“Yeah,” Ilya agreed, eyes flicking up to look at him as Shane stepped close for a minute. “You have new clothes to show off.” 

He was lying by the pool later that afternoon, trying to meditate a bit to relax before the game the next day, when he heard his voice. Even through all the noise around the pool area, it was easy for his ears to pick it out. That deep, Russian timbre was, after all, his favorite sound. 

Quickly looking around, he spotted Ilya at the edge of the pool area. The man was drenched, clearly having just gotten out of the pool, his hair looking extra curly from the water in a way that made Shane immediately want to rake his hands through them. The board shorts he was wearing made his ass look unfairly good and Shane once again berated himself for ever walking away from that man. 

He was crouched down in front of a little girl who was probably around six and Shane watched as Ilya smiled at her – with his real smile, the one Shane always tried so hard to get out of him – before reaching out and gently tugging on one of her braids. Ilya had always been good with kids, Shane had seen him a couple of times at different charity events and games with them, and he never failed to make them laugh. He was so gentle with them, usually crouching down on their level and talking in a soft, gentle voice. 

Shane didn’t recognize the little girl as one of the Bears’ players’ kids, and he watched the interaction further, only becoming more confused when Ilya wrapped the girl up in a towel like a little burrito before scooping her up and settling down on a pool chair, the kid curled up in his lap. 

Sure, Ilya was great with kids, but Shane had never seen him so comfortable with one, so at ease and familiar, especially considering he’d never seen the kid before. 

“You ready for tomorrow, Cap?” a voice interrupted his train of thought and Shane tore his eyes off of Ilya, glancing over to see Scott Hunter taking a seat on the chair next to him. 

“Y-Yeah, totally,” Shane replied, sitting up as he looked back and forth between Ilya and Scott to make it not completely obvious that he was hardly paying attention to the man. “D-Do you uh– do you know who that kid with Rozanov is?” 

She could be Marleau’s kid, he supposed, given the dark brown hair. But as far as he knew, Marleau didn’t have a kid. Maybe Carmichael’s? 

Scott laughed a little, tilting his head in confusion. 

“Probably Rozanov’s kid,” he informed Shane, causing his brain to stall completely. 

Rozanov’s kid. 

Rozanov’s kid. 

Ilya didn’t have a kid. Or, at least, not one he’d ever mentioned. And he would’ve mentioned having a kid, Shane was sure of it. But how could–

“You didn’t hear?” Scott asked, and Shane blinked, trying to reboot his mind from the crash that Scott had just caused. 

“Hear what?” 

“It’s why he took time off,” Hunter informed him. “Found out he had a kid, I guess. Or something like that, I didn’t really get the details.” 

Shane looked back across the pool at Ilya, unable to deny the sight before him now that he had the context. Anyone looking at the pair could see it. The way the little girl was curled up in Ilya’s arms, looking completely at home, there was nothing else they could be beside father and daughter. 

He still couldn’t quite believe it though, even with the evidence right in front of his face. Ilya was a dad. 

“Say what you want about him,” Hunter continued, oblivious to the absolute crisis that Shane was having. “He seems like a good dad.” 

“Y-Yeah, he does,” Shane forced the words out, swallowing heavily as he watched the little girl laugh at something Ilya had said. 

Of all the reasons he’d thought of for Ilya disappearing for the past month, this had never crossed his mind. When Shane crafted his grand plan for trying to get back with Ilya this week, a kid had never been part of it. A million different thoughts raced through Shane’s mind. How the hell was Ilya a dad, and why hadn’t he told Shane and how the fuck did Scott Hunter of all people find out before him and—

And what the fuck was Shane supposed to do now?

Chapter 3: chapter three

Chapter Notes

“Rozanov!” 

Ilya slid to a halt, looking across the rink to see LeClaire standing at the edge of the boards, waving him over. The man looked impatient, probably wanting to yell at Ilya for being too aggressive during practice. Sure, he’d been checking other players a bit more often than usual, but it wasn’t like they were hard checks. 

He needed some way to get rid of the anger that had been boiling up inside of him ever since Hollander walked out on him. Some way to deal with the feeling like he was about to crawl out of his skin. The only other thing that really helped was mindlessly fucking girls, but it wasn’t like he could spend all day doing that. So, playing a little more aggressive it was. 

He skated over to LeClaire, bracing himself to get chewed out. But it wasn’t until Ilya made it over to the coach that he was able to see the expression on the man’s face. It was almost… concern? 

“There’s a call for you up in the office,” the man informed him, and Ilya sighed as he stepped off the ice. 

It was probably Alexei, or some other annoying relative. He tended to ignore any number that called from Russia, unless Alexei called one too many times for it to not be an emergency. There was no use picking up when, most of the time, it just led to Ilya being lectured or asked for money. 

“I’ll be quick,” he promised his coach, only for LeClaire to quickly shake his head. 

“Take all the time you need,” he told Ilya, being uncharacteristically patient considering Ilya was wasting practice time.  

He stopped quickly at the locker room, shucking his skates and pads off before heading up to the office, nodding at one of the secretaries before picking up the phone. It doesn’t escape his notice the way the woman quickly slipped out of the room, awfully eager to give him some privacy. 

“Hello?” Ilya said into the phone, sticking to English in the unlikely scenario that it was just some reporter calling to bug him. LeClaire probably would’ve warned him about that, though. 

“Mr. Rozanov?”

Ilya can tell immediately, just from the accent, from the way the R is rolled, that the woman on the end of the line is Russian. 

“Da, who is this?” 

“I’m calling from the Ministry of Health,” the woman explained briskly, with no emotion in her voice to betray her. “In regards to a child in our care. You might have known her mother, Natalia Gorev?” 

And while Ilya couldn’t tell you the names of some of his hookups – a fair amount of them, to be honest – he remembered that one. He remembered Natalia. 

They’d be young, not even eighteen. She’d been too good for him. Beautiful, with dark brown hair and emerald green eyes. Funny, too. And kind, so incredibly kind in a way that few people in Russia were. 

It’d been casual between them. A hookup here and there, over the course of a few months. Natalia had eventually called things off when she left for university, but there’d been no bad blood between them. He still remembered the last night they spent together, the way she pressed a hand to his cheek and smoothed back his rumpled curls before slipping out the door, and out of his life. 

Take care of yourself, Ilya, was what she’d said. 

“I– yes, I did,” he confirmed, unable to steady his voice as he gripped the phone tighter, bracing for what the woman would say next. 

And even though he knew what was coming, knew there was only one reason the woman could possibly be calling, he still wasn’t prepared for the way her words brought his whole world crumbling down to the ground. 

“We have reason to believe you’re the father of her child, Mr. Rozanov.”

Ilya, perhaps stubbornly so, refused to tell Alexei he was coming back to Russia. He didn’t want his brother to try and force him to come see their father, or guilt trip into staying longer to take care of him, or swindle even more money out of him. 

He was in Russia for one reason and one reason only. To get his daughter, and bring her home. 

Immediately after getting off the phone with Darya, he’d later learned the woman’s name was, he’d gone to get blood drawn so a paternity test could be run. Thankfully, LeClaire had taken one look at him and sent him home from practice, so he didn’t even have to wait until the next day. 

A few days later, it came back as positive, and by the end of the week, Ilya was on a flight to Moscow. 

He still had no idea how he was going to do this. Ilya didn’t know the first thing about kids. Sure, he was fairly decent at entertaining them, but raising one? That was completely different, and it wasn’t like Ilya had grown up with a shining example of what a father should look like. 

It was going to go horribly. Ilya was single, worked weird hours, traveled a lot, had essentially no friends outside of his teammates, and no family in Boston. He was set up to fail. 

But he still had to try. Because there was a little girl, his little girl, his Sasha, all alone in some orphanage in Moscow and he couldn’t just leave her there. Not when he’d already lost so much time with her already. 

Sasha was already seven. That was seven years of parenting that Ilya hadn’t been around for. Her first smile, her first word, her first steps. Ilya had missed it all. 

If that news hadn’t been hard enough to digest, it only became more impossible to cope with when Ilya was informed that, for most of those seven years, Sasha had been alone. 

Natalia had died when their daughter was two. Since Ilya hadn’t been listed on the birth certificate, Sasha had been placed in a children’s home. It wasn’t until one of Natalia’s friends went looking through some of her old things and found her journal and a couple of pictures of Ilya and Natalia that anyone connected the dots. 

For all Ilya had hated his father, the man had been there. He’d been there every day when Ilya was a child, providing for him, making sure he had food and clothes. 

Sasha had been completely alone, with no one looking out for her, and just the very thought of it was enough to make Ilya sick. 

It would be hard, he knew, to raise a kid on his own. But no matter how hard it was, he had to do it. 

He had to. 

He stayed at a hotel, not wanting to get anywhere near his apartment or his father’s house. If Ilya could get in and out of Moscow without Alexei ever knowing he was there, it’d be all for the better. By the time he arrived, it was late in the afternoon, so he and Darya agreed they’d head over to the orphanage in the morning, where he’d meet Sasha. 

Ilya couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so nervous. Even before the Cup game, he hadn’t been so worried. But now? He was nearly sick with nerves. 

Sveta, predictably, showed up not long after he checked in, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. Ilya snatched the cigarettes from her, side-eyeing the bottle of vodka as he did. He’d have one drink, maybe two, but that was it. He couldn’t be hungover tomorrow of all days, not when he was supposed to be meeting Sasha. 

They drank and smoked in silence for a moment, sprawled out on the bed. Ilya was laying with his feet against the headboard, his head dangling off the foot of the bed, something about the bloodrush making him feel less like he was going to fall apart at any moment. 

“Do you think I’ll be a good father?” he asked Svetlana, knowing that she of all people would be honest with him. 

They’d been friends since they were children, and had never once lied to each other. Neither of them were one to beat around the bush either. Whatever they were thinking or feeling, they just said the truth, and Ilya could use that right about now. 

Sveta tilted her head at him, her brown curls bouncing just a bit as she narrowed her eyes. 

“You’ll be horrible,” she deadpanned, only to burst out laughing when she saw his face fall completely. 

It was at times like these that he wondered why he was friends with her. 

She chucked a pillow at him, grinning as he caught it, knowing he wouldn’t dare to throw it back at her. 

“You’ll be fine, Ilyushka. Promise,” she assured him, sounding so confident that Ilya couldn’t help but believe her. 

At least, no matter what, he could count on Svetlana to help. She was really the only person he had that could be of any help with this. God knew his own family couldn’t be bothered. 

As if reading his mind, Svetlana carefully broached the subject he’d been avoiding all night. 

“Have you told your father?” 

“What would be the point?” Ilya asked with a shrug before taking a sip of vodka. “He barely knows who I am most of the time anyway. I’ll just have to imagine his disappointment, not that it's hard.” 

Most days, his father was lost in a world that no longer existed. In a world where Ilya’s mother was still alive. He was stuck in the past as his mind failed him, and Ilya knew there was no use trying to get through to him. Even if he was in his right mind, the man would only lecture Ilya on how irresponsible he’d been, on how Ilya’s child would somehow ruin everything he’d built. Ilya had stayed quiet and let his father get away with a lot over the years, but insulting his child wouldn’t be one of those things. 

He wished he’d had a better father. One that would’ve been overjoyed by the idea of being a grandfather. One that would have been proud of Ilya becoming a father, instead of being ashamed. 

Evidently, he’d let slip his last few thoughts and announced them into the quiet of the room. 

“Oh, Ilya,” Svetlana said with a sigh, eyes turning incredibly sad. “Your mama would be proud. So proud.” 

Ilya swallowed heavily, ignoring the tightening in his gut that occurred anytime his mother was mentioned. He didn’t respond, instead choosing to down the rest of his glass of vodka before moving to light another cigarette. 

“She’s a little shy,” Darya informed him as they walked through the hall of the children’s home (apparently, it was frowned up to call them orphanages now).

Ilya’s eyes flicked back and forth as they went down the hall, carefully inspecting the place his daughter had grown up. The deeper they went into the building, the more Ilya had to fight against the wave of nausea building up in his stomach. 

It resembled more of a prison than a home. The floors were cold tile and the walls a dull grey, nothing that could possibly be considered warm and inviting. They’d passed by a couple of bedrooms with the doors open, and the rooms were each lined with rows of metal bunk beds, thin grey blankets covering the mattresses. 

He’d seen a couple of toys, most of them broken or dirty, and there was nowhere near enough of them for the amount of children in residence. 

His daughter had grown up here, in this cold, lonely place, probably without so much as a stuffed animal to keep her company. 

No matter how hard his childhood had been, even Ilya had been given those small comforts. And when he was Sasha’s age, so young and small, he’d had his mother too, and she was all he’d ever needed. 

“Especially around men,” she added, almost as an afterthought, causing Ilya to grimace at the implications of what could have caused that particular fear. 

Eventually, they enter a small room tucked at the end of the hallway, a couch and small coffee table filling the area, with a few lonely toys scattered on the floor. 

Ilya didn’t really pay any attention to the furnishings however, his sole focus reserved for the little girl sitting on the carpet, flicking through a worn picture book with torn pages. 

She looked up as the door creaked closed behind Ilya and Darya, and the sight of his daughter nearly took his breath away.

If there’d been any doubt left in his mind that Sasha wasn’t his, her eyes would’ve banished such thoughts. They weren’t just blue, like his, but they were the exact same shade, the pale sky blue color he stared at in the mirror every day. 

Her hair curled too, just like Ilya’s, but the strands were darker than his, a warm chestnut brown instead of dirty blonde. 

The rest of her features - her nose, the smattering of freckles across her cheeks, the pale, rosy pallor – Ilya was fairly certain she’d gotten from Natalia. 

What really caught him off guard was how small she was. She was nearly seven and a half, he knew, but she could have easily passed for six, if not five. It wasn’t just that she was short either, but thin too, her cheeks drawn in where she still should’ve had baby fat. 

In Russia, most people would take one look at the girl and concede that yes, perhaps she was a bit thin. But in America? Ilya didn’t doubt that the word malnourished would be thrown around. 

God, she was cute though, in a way Ilya was certain he’d never been as a child. 

As they stepped closer, Sasha eyed them warily in a way that made Ilya’s heart crack straight in two. A child so young shouldn’t have any reason to fear an adult so much and yet, the little girl was clearly scared by Ilya and Darya’s presence. 

“Privet, Sasha,” Darya greeted her gently, “What are you reading?” 

Sasha shrugged a shoulder, looking down at the floor as her fingers nervously fidgeted with the worn sheet of plastic covering the outside of the book. Clearly knowing she wasn’t going to get a response, Darya continued. 

“Remember how we talked about your dad coming to meet you?” she asked, continuing when Sasha gave a tiny nod. “Well, this is him. This is Ilya.” 

He crouched down in an attempt to seem less intimidating, although judging by the guarded look on Sasha’s face, and the way she subtly inched a bit further away when Ilya got closer, he doubted it had much of an effect. 

“Privet, malyshka,” Ilya echoed Darya’s words, purposefully softening his voice as much as he could. 

While he expected the little girl, his little girl, to stay silent, just like she had when Darya greeted her, he was surprised when he was eventually rewarded with a response. 

“Privet,” Sasha whispered in a painfully unsure little voice. 

She finally looked up at him, pale blue eyes meeting Ilya’s own and he smiled softly at her, caught off guard by how quickly he’d become so incredibly attached to the child in front of him. 

And for the first time, Ilya found himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, he could actually do this. 

Chapter End Notes

Google translate always lets me down so any dialogue in italics is in Russian.

Hope y'all enjoyed this chapter!

Chapter 4: chapter four

Chapter Notes

Shane waited as long as he could, but eventually, he ran out of patience. Rolling over in bed and grabbing his phone, he quickly pulled up his last conversation with Lily. 

Can we talk? He texted Ilya. 

There was so much Shane had to say, and so much he wanted to ask as well – starting with when the hell did Ilya acquire a child – and if he didn’t talk to the other man soon, he was fairly certain he was going to explode. 

Thankfully, barely a couple of minutes went by before Ilya responded by sending Shane a text with his room number, and nothing else. 

It wasn’t long before Shane was standing in front of the door to Ilya’s hotel room, nervously waiting to be let in. Eventually, the door swung open, revealing Ilya looking far better than he had the right to in sweatpants and a tank top. Shane cautiously stepped inside, looking warily into the hotel room. 

“There’s no monsters waiting to eat you,” Ilya teased, smirking at Shane’s theatrics. 

He scowled at the man, reaching out to shove him a little before he ventured deeper into the room. 

“I wasn’t sure if Sasha would be here,” he defended himself as he took a seat on the bed. 

“Ah, yes, Hollander. I invited you here to hook up while my seven year old’s here,” Ilya quipped, raising an eyebrow at Shane’s stupidity. 

Okay, so maybe that had been a little foolish of him to assume the kid would be here, but Shane didn’t exactly think clearly when he was nervous. He wiped his hands on his shorts, hoping to make them a little less clammy from nerves, as Ilya leaned against the wall. 

“So, where is she?” he asked curiously, not wanting to broach the subject he’d really come here to speak with Ilya about. 

“Down the hall with nanny,” Ilya replied with a shrug. “Asleep.” 

While Shane should’ve assumed that, considering it was past 10 pm, he found himself a little disappointed that he wouldn’t meet the youngest Rozanov. He was kind of curious what Ilya’s kid would be like. Plus, Shane could watch Ilya with a kid all day long. There was just something so soft and gentle about the man when he was with kids that made it impossible for Shane to look away. 

Still, he supposed it was best that Sasha was gone for the time being. It wasn’t like the discussion they were about to have was very child-friendly. 

“You wanted to talk?” Ilya questioned, and Shane nodded, swallowing heavily past the lump in his throat. Ilya moved to lean against a side table and Shane bit his lip, hesitating as he tried to find the right words. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Of all the questions Shane had, that was the most pressing. He thought that he and Ilya were closer than that. Sure, they didn’t tell each other everything, hell, they didn’t tell each other a lot, but Shane had thought that Ilya would’ve shared such a major life update with him. The fact that he hadn’t hurt Shane a lot more than he’d like to admit. 

“About Sasha?” At Shane’s nod, Ilya continued, shrugging slightly. “It happened fast. And it’s been…” 

He waved his hand a bit, the way he always did when he couldn’t quite remember the word for something in English. 

“Stressful? Overwhelming?” Shane offered, giving a couple of options in an attempt to help. 

Ilya nodded quickly, eyes lighting up as the words clicked. 

“Da, overwhelming,” he said, carefully repeating the pronunciation to help the word stick in his brain. 

The expression on his face, the slight furrowing of his brown and the worry in his eyes, told Shane that finding out he had a daughter had been more than overwhelming for Ilya. Hell, Shane could only imagine how stressed he’d be, and he had an entire village in his corner. Ilya, well, as far as Shane could tell, the man wasn’t close with his family. Even if he was, they were halfway around the world, leaving Ilya to raise a child all on his own. 

He looked tired, beaten down in a way Shane had never seen him. Even after a long day of hockey, after being checked into the boards and getting into fights, Ilya Rozanov never looked defeated. 

But now? He looked absolutely beat, and Shane’s heart broke at the sight. 

Before he could stop himself, the question that had been on his mind for weeks slipped out. 

“It's not just me, right?”

He instantly wished he could take the words back, but now that they were out there, lingering in the quiet of the room, he desperately needed to know the answer. 

Well, it looked like Shane was in for a penny, in for a pound.  

Eventually after a couple minutes of talking, after desperately trying to keep from throwing himself at Ilya – which was made much more difficult when Ilya sat down next to him, so close that Shane could smell his cologne and feel the warmth radiating off of his skin – he couldn’t keep himself from confessing the truth he’d tried to deny for weeks after their last night together. 

“It felt like we were something,” Shane said softly, heart shattering when Ilya immediately shook his head. 

He knew admitting the truth was hard. It’d taken him forever to finally let himself see it. But now that he’d told Ilya how he felt, how could the man keep denying his own feelings? Couldn’t he see how much it was hurting Shane? Hell, how was it not killing Ilya? 

“We can't be something, Hollander,” Ilya protested, giving Shane a tiny bit of hope that flickered throughout his chest. 

After all, Ilya was right. They couldn’t be something, or at least, not something public. A real, public relationship was out of the question, but surely, they could have something private, just the two of them. Even if it was only real to the two of them, that was enough for Shane. 

He didn’t need a piece of arm candy to be photographed with. He didn’t need someone cheering him on from the stands. He didn’t need someone to bring to all the team events with WAGs. 

Shane just needed Ilya. He’d throw away everything else, sacrifice every normal piece of a public relationship, if it meant he could have Ilya. 

“Would you want to be, if we could?” he dared to ask, slightly terrified of the answer. 

“We can't,” Ilya said firmly, as he shook his head, refusing to look Shane in the eye. 

“That's not what I asked,” Shane reminded Ilya, frustrated by the man’s refusal to admit the truth. 

Ilya finally snapped, asking Shane why it even mattered. And then, just like that, Shane found himself unraveling. Before he could stop himself, he was admitting everything. That he couldn’t stop pretending, that he had real, true feelings for Ilya. 

As much as the thought of Ilya not feeling the same way terrified him, Shane couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t lie and pretend he didn’t have feelings for him. Couldn’t act like he wasn’t… like he wasn’t falling in love with the man sitting across from him. 

Because he was. 

He was falling in love with Ilya Rozanov, and it was killing him. 

“Don't. Don't fucking do this, Hollander,” Ilya begged him, finally looking at Shane and allowing him to see the pure anguish in those blue eyes he adored so much. 

“I'm not…”

He trailed off, not knowing what to say. That he wasn’t trying to hurt Ilya? That he could never, ever do anything to hurt him, because hurting Ilya might as well be Shane’s worst nightmare. That he’d hurt himself before it ever got to that point. 

“I wouldn't be able to go home again,” Ilya said, sighing, before looking Shane firmly in the eye. “Ever. Do you get that?” 

“Because your family?” Shane asked carefully, hesitating a bit at probing that particular wound of Ilya’s. 

While Shane hadn’t come out to his parents, he was almost certain they’d be okay with it. Maybe not the whole “I’m in love with Ilya Rozanov” part, but at least the fact that he was gay. But from how little Ilya spoke of his family, Shane already knew they didn’t get along. Perhaps this would be the final nail in the coffin. 

He’d never stopped to realize how ungrateful he was for the fact that he had a family that he knew would accept him, without hesitation. Shane was terrified enough about the idea of the rest of the world finding out he was gay, but he couldn’t imagine how scary it must be to know your own family would hate you for it as well. 

“Because Russia!” Ilya exclaimed, frustrated by Shane’s lack of understanding. “I would not be able to go back to Russia!” 

Shane winced a bit, remembering the conversation he’d had with Hunter and Vaughn at the Olympics. He’d been uncomfortable enough as it was in Russia, but Ilya actually had to live there. 

“What would happen to you?”

“I don't want to find out,” Ilya confessed, sniffling a bit as he turned to Shane. “But if I lost my visa here and had to go back… it wouldn’t be safe for me, or for Sasha.” 

Shane slowly reached out, setting a hand on Ilya’s back and rubbing gently to try and release the stiffness in the man’s shoulders. He had struggled enough as it was, carrying the weight of their secret. But for Ilya, he didn’t just have himself to think about, he had Sasha too. Every day, he had to think about how his actions affected the both of them, and considering how exhausted Shane was worrying about only himself, he was surprised Ilya was still functioning. 

Ilya heaved a deep breath, pursing his lips a bit as he continued. 

“She deserves… Sasha deserves the world. A world with only good things. And I’m not a very good papa–” 

“That’s not true,” Shane interrupted immediately. 

He would listen to Ilya for as long as the other man needed him to, but he wouldn’t let him talk about himself like he was some sort of failure. Shane got the sense that there weren’t a lot of people in Ilya’s life who complimented him, or encouraged him. If anyone did, it was likely only about hockey. No one else really bothered to get to know Ilya enough to realize there was more to him than that. 

But Shane knew there was so much more to compliment Ilya on. So much more of him to love. He was kind and considerate. Funny and smart, something few people realized due to the language barrier. And he was a wonderful father. Anyone who had been at the pool that day could’ve seen that. 

“I saw you with Sasha this afternoon and it was obvious you’re a great dad,” Shane told him firmly, needing him to believe that. 

But Ilya shook his head, eyes still full of doubt. 

“You were there for five minutes–” 

“That was enough for me to see the way you look at her. And the way she looks at you.”

Shane had never seen Ilya look so soft up until he saw him with Sasha. So… unguarded. The only time he’d ever looked remotely close to that was right before Shane ruined everything. Maybe… maybe that was always how Ilya was, with the people he loved.

“What way?” Ilya asked, seeming shocked at the idea that someone could think he was a good father. 

Shane shrugged, not quite knowing how to describe it. 

“Like she has your entire heart. And like you’re… like you’re her everything,” he said decisively, reaching out to squeeze Ilya’s hand when a hurt sound escaped the man’s chest, as though he never could have considered that his child would actually think of him that way. “Anyone can see it, even Scott Hunter said it. You’re a good dad.” 

The fact that Ilya didn’t take that moment to make some sort of comment about how Scott Hunter’s opinion meant shit told Shane how out of sorts he really was. Being a dad, having a tiny child to look after, being responsible for their life, it had to be terrifying. The idea of it certainly scared the shit out of Shane. It was no wonder Ilya was such a mess. Eventually, Ilya cleared his throat, shaking his head just a bit. 

“She deserves so much more than I can give, so much more than just me,” Ilya whispered in a broken tone. “But growing up in America, not having a pidor for a father, being safe, these are things I can give her.”

Shane felt such an intense feeling of desperation to convince Ilya that he was wrong, anything he could do to relieve the pain the other was so clearly suffering from. Because it didn’t matter what faults Ilya thought he had. If Ilya Rozanov loved you, then you were his world, and that was worth more than anything else Sasha could ever need. 

But before he could begin to argue, something else Ilya had said caught his attention. That Sasha deserved more than just him. Surely…surely the two of them weren’t truly that alone? 

“What about your family?” Shane asked hesitantly, inching a bit closer to Ilya. 

Obviously, Sasha’s mother was out of the picture, although Shane wasn’t quite certain what had happened to lead to that. But there had to be someone else, some other family. 

“Sasha’s mother, Natalia, she died in car accident,” Ilya explained before sighing. His words yanked on Shane’s heartstrings, the thought of such a tiny little child losing their mother unbearably painful. “And my father is police. My brother is police. 

The weight of what Ilya had left unmentioned hung between them, the same way it always did when Ilya brought up his family, and Shane finally had to ask. 

“And your mother?”

“Dead,” Ilya replied tersely, the word leaving his lips in the same manner one would rip off a bandage. 

Shane closed his eyes for a moment, holding back a sigh. He and his own mom were so close, he wasn’t sure what he would do if she ever… And even if something did happen to her, Shane knew his dad loved him more than anything. But here Ilya was, alone in the world, with no family to depend on. 

“I'm sorry,” Shane told him, the words feeling inadequate in response to the losses Ilya had faced. 

“I was young,” Ilya replied, as though it somehow made it better. 

But Shane could tell by the look on his face that the fact that Ilya was young when his mother died made no difference in the pain it had caused him, the pain he still felt every day. If anything, it only made it worse. 

“My father is very old fashioned, he would never approve of it. And Sasha, well… me being a father wouldn’t have been as much of a disappointment, but it would’ve been close, ” Ilya explained. “And he’s sick.”

Shane frowned in confusion, caught off guard by the turn Ilya had taken. 

“Sick like crazy?”

“That too, a little,” Ilya conceded, tilting his head. “But no, sick more like…”

He trailed off, as though unable to say the words, and Shane’s heart sank just a bit. It was clear Ilya’s father was physically sick, probably with something terminal, and even though he despised the man, hated him for the way that he treated his own son, he didn’t want Ilya to have to suffer the loss of another parent.

“Like cancer?” Shane asked, the word feeling sour in his mouth. 

“Dementia,” Ilya finished with a sigh. 

Christ, Shane wasn’t sure if that was worse or better than cancer. On second thought, probably worse. At least if his father had been dying of cancer, the man would’ve remembered him. But dementia was most likely taking Ilya’s father from him long before he dies. 

“That's awful,” Shane commented, not knowing what to say and immediately feeling like an idiot at saying something so incredibly stupid. 

Obviously, it was awful, and Ilya probably knew that better than anyone. 

Ilya tilted his head away suddenly, and gave another sniffle, but it wasn’t until Shane saw the gleam on his cheek that he realized the man was crying. Ilya Rozanov, a man most hockey players would say was tough as nails, was crying, and it hurt Shane more than any injury he’d ever received.  

“Hey,” he murmured, reaching out to pull Ilya into his arms. “Hey…”

“Sorry,” Ilya whispered, voice cracking as Shane moved to straddle him. 

He pressed a kiss to Ilya’s lips, hoping the action would somehow take a bit of his pain away but knowing it wouldn’t. Still, Ilya kissed him back, leaning into the motion, and for the first time in months, it felt like maybe there was hope for them after all.

Ilya buried his head in Shane’s shoulder and he cupped the back of his head, giving him silent permission to hide away from the rest of the world for as long as he wanted. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Shane promised him softly, running a hand through those curls he loved so much. “You and Sasha, you’re gonna be okay.”

Ilya gripped the back of his shirt tightly in response and Shane pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, hoping that maybe, just maybe, Ilya could believe him. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for the comments and support you've been giving on the past few chapters! Hope you liked this one!

Chapter 5: chapter five

Ilya would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a wave of relief wash over him as the pilot announced they were descending into Boston. While he hadn’t even been in Russia a week, the short trip there had still been plenty stressful. 

There’d been what seemed like a mountain of paperwork Ilya had been forced to sign before he was allowed to take custody of Sasha, along with several interviews and conversations with different officials. Even after all of that, there’d been the immigration paperwork to sort through. Thankfully, the visa hadn’t been too hard to secure, given Ilya’s status in America. 

Still, the whole process had been stressful enough, with Ilya convinced that at any moment, someone would come along and decide that he wasn’t fit to parent Sasha after all. Or worse, that Alexei would find out he was in town and spill his secrets to everyone just to keep him away from his own child. 

But finally, everything had been settled, and Ilya wasted no time in booking the first flight back to Boston. 

Sasha had been quiet when they left the children’s home that morning, and even quieter at the airport. The bag containing her things that one of the caretakers had packed was a small, beaten up backpack that Ilya knew couldn’t hold more than one or two changes of clothes, probably as ill-fitting and worn out as the other outfits he’d seen her in. While he, of course, had the means to buy her an entire new wardrobe the moment they landed – which he very much intended to do - he wished she was leaving with at least a couple more possessions, something familiar to help her feel a little less untethered when everything else in her life had changed so quickly. 

He’d tried to talk to her a bit, earlier on into the flight, telling her all about Boston, but he quickly realized how overwhelmed the poor girl was and gave up conversation altogether, and instead let her watch a movie. She’d fallen asleep a couple of hours ago, and had been out ever since. 

Wanting Sasha to have at least a little time to fully wake up before they had to get off the plane, Ilya carefully reached over, gently rubbing her arm a bit to coax her awake. 

He felt guilty when she immediately startled awake, wondering what she’d been through to make her so on edge and panicking slightly when his mind raced with far too many possibilities. Swallowing tightly, he forced a smile onto his face in an attempt to reassure her, the expression becoming far more genuine when she let out an adorable yawn before rubbing her eyes. 

“We’re almost home,” he told her softly, nodding toward the window. 

Sasha glanced over, sitting up somewhat to get a better view through the glass. The city skyline was just off of the wing, hovering over the coastline. 

“That’s Boston?” she asked, seeming surprised. 

Ilya laughed a little, amused by her confusion. He supposed that, in the mind of a seven year old, a city halfway around the world might as well have been another planet. At the very least, Sasha had probably expected it to look far less like Moscow, or any other normal city. 

“That’s Boston,” he confirmed as she turned back toward him. 

A stray curl had fallen out of her braid and into her face and on instinct, he gently reached forward to brush it behind her ear. Sasha flinched as his hand invaded her space and Ilya paused, giving her a moment to realize that there was no danger before he finished tucking the curl out of the way. 

It was right then and there that Ilya vowed that whatever had terrified this little girl so damn much, whoever had hurt her, she would never be harmed that way again. He might not be a perfect dad, hell, he didn’t even think he’d make a very good one, but he could promise that much. He could promise that Sasha would be safe, and loved, and protected, and surely that had to count for something. 

Ilya had always felt comfortable in his house, but looking around it now, it seemed so… unwelcoming. The guest room was plain, with grey walls and white bedding, nothing that was exactly child-friendly. He’d have to have Sasha pick out some new things, some decorations or bedding that made the room seem somewhat less like a hotel room. 

It was late in the day when they got home, but thankfully, he’d had the forethought to order a few things to his place while he was still in Russia, which meant Sasha at least had a pair of pajamas for the night. 

He’d quickly whipped up some blinis for dinner, knowing Sasha was probably exhausted from all the travel and the time change. She ate them quickly, as though expecting someone to come along and snatch them away. Given the amount of kids he’d seen in the crowded cafeteria at the children’s home, he guessed that probably wasn’t too far out of the line of possibility. Afterwards, he sent the little girl to take a bath while he finished cleaning up the kitchen, and all too soon, it was eight o’clock, which to Ilya, seemed like a reasonable bedtime for a seven year old. Or, at least, he hoped it was. 

“My room’s across the hall if you need anything,” he reminded Sasha as he tucked the blankets around her, not wanting the little girl to be cold. She had the stuffed animal he’d ordered, a small, floppy grey and white dog, clutched tightly under one arm. From her reaction to being given it, Ilya wasn’t sure she’d ever had one before. “What are you going to name your little friend, hm?” 

Sasha’s eyebrows furrowed in an adorable expression as she thought on it for a moment, before answering. 

“Fyodor,” she informed him in a tone more confident than he’d ever heard from the little girl. “Like the writer.”

Ilya let out an amused laugh, the action almost catching him off guard from how suddenly it happened. He swallowed the noise, worried Sasha would be offended, but instead, she smiled at him. 

A tiny, small, little hint of a smile, but a smile nevertheless. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Like Dostoevsky?” he asked, still chuckling a little under his breath. 

“Da,” Sasha confirmed with a little nod. “The older kids read it at school.” 

Right, school. Yet another thing Ilya had to figure out, as if there weren’t enough overwhelming problems he needed to solve already. School was one of those important decisions too, or so everyone said. The type that mattered. Already, he could tell Sasha was smart. She couldn’t go to just any school. No, his daughter needed to go to a great school. The best one he could find. 

“And you like it?” Ilya questioned, raising an eyebrow. 

After all, Crime and Punishment wasn’t exactly a light read, especially not for a seven year old. Ilya couldn’t quite remember the books he’d enjoyed at such a young age, but he knew Dostoevsky wasn’t on the list. 

Sasha shrugged a shoulder, suddenly seeming a little self-conscious. 

“I just liked listening to them read,” she confessed as she suddenly looked down at the duvet cover and fidgeted with the seam, a touch of sadness in her tiny voice that yanked on Ilya’s heartstrings. “No one at the home would read to me.” 

Ilya sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment as he swallowed tightly. He’d give anything to go back in time, anything to spare this sweet, clever little girl from being tossed into an orphanage that hardly gave her a second thought. Give anything to be able to hold her in his arms, right from the start, instead of being forced to keep himself at arm’s length because she was terrified of him. 

He wished, more than anything, that he could have that chance. To erase all the pain, and fear, that his little girl had suffered. To change it so that the only thing she ever knew was love. 

But as his father used to say, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. 

“We’ll have to make sure we get some books for us to read then,” Ilya said eventually, returning to his ministrations as he finished tucking the blankets around Sasha. 

While LeClaire had been more than understanding about Ilya missing part of the season, there was a reasonable limit to the man’s patience. One of the compromises he and Ilya had made was that Ilya would still show up to practices a few times a week, seeing as how he was the captain. The only issue with that was that he’d been back from Moscow for over a week and a half and still hadn’t been able to find a nanny. So, without a babysitter, he’d been left with only one option. 

“Sasha,” he called from the doorway of his daughter’s room, waiting until she looked over at him. 

She was sitting on the rug, playing with some Legos he’d bought her, quiet as always. Unless Ilya directly spoke to her, Sasha rarely made a peep, and usually kept herself occupied in a room. It was almost unnerving. Children were supposed to be noisy and loud, and yet here was Ilya’s little girl, hiding in her room, silent as a mouse.

“How would you feel about coming to work with me?”

Sasha tilted her head curiously, eyes lighting up in what Ilya hoped was excitement. 

“To the rink?” she asked in a hopeful tone, causing Ilya to smile.

Perhaps his love of hockey was genetic. They’d spent most of their evenings with a game on in the background, partly because Ilya wanted to keep up with the season but also because he found most children’s television shows incredibly boring. Thankfully, Sasha had seemed most content to watch hockey, eagerly listening to him as he explained all the rules to her. 

“Da,” Ilya confirmed as he moved to Sasha’s closet to grab her a sweatshirt to wear under her coat. 

The rink would be chilly, and he couldn’t very well let Sasha sit there feeling cold the entire practice, especially not when she was usually cold enough in Ilya’s warm apartment. It had taken him a couple days to notice, because of course Sasha hadn’t said anything, the little girl never wanting to bother him, but eventually, he caught on to the slight shivers, the way she always sought out extra blankets and wore two layers.

He’d eventually learned, after some googling, that children often got cold far more quickly than adults, especially when they were underweight, which he was almost certain Sasha was, although that had yet to be confirmed by a pediatrician. Apparently, finding a doctor in Boston wasn’t as easy as he thought it’d be. 

Ever since he’d finally realized how cold Sasha had been, he’d made sure to keep the living room and Sasha’s bedroom stocked with extra blankets, and had kept the heat a couple of degrees higher than he usually preferred.

On their drive to the practice arena, located on the edge of the city, he glanced in the rear view window to check on Sasha, who seemed content enough looking out the window and watching the scenery go by. 

“We’ll have to get you some skates,” he commented as an afterthought, before correcting himself a moment later when he realized his mistake. 

While he, of course, would love it if Sasha liked hockey, or even skating, he wasn’t going to force her into it the way his father had always pressured him. Sure, Ilya had liked hockey growing up, but he didn’t think he would’ve ever ended up playing professionally if his father hadn’t made it Ilya’s only option. Even now, while he still liked hockey, he didn’t love it the way some players did, like Hollander. Although, Ilya wasn’t sure anyone loved hockey as much as Shane Hollander. 

He wanted Sasha to have options though. Ilya got the feeling that choices weren’t something she was offered much in the children’s home. She’d seemed incredibly overwhelmed the first time Ilya took her shopping, nearly panicking at the thought of having to make a decision until Ilya made it easier by simply presenting her with two options instead of ten. 

Ilya had no intentions of limiting his child the same way the children’s home had, however, or the way his father had. If Sasha didn’t like hockey, then that was more than okay with him. She could play soccer, or do gymnastics, or art, if sports weren’t her thing. 

He just wanted her to be happy, and whatever activity helped her be that way, Ilya would support it. 

“If you want to, that is. We don’t have to, malyshka,” he assured her quickly, but Sasha was already nodding eagerly at him, a smile stretching across her little face. 

“Yes, please,” she answered, polite as always, although Ilya had no idea where the hell she got that from. The children’s home must have been strict on manners, he thought absentmindedly. 

He glanced back in the rearview mirror again, wanting to make sure she really meant it. Sometimes, when Sasha felt pressured (which was unfortunately most of the time), the little girl would lie. Or rather, just answer in whatever way she thought Ilya wanted to hear, a habit he was desperately trying to convince her wasn’t needed. 

But judging by the excitement on her face, and the fact that she’d actually said she wanted them - whenever Ilya had offered her anything before, even essentials she needed like clothes, she’d tried to tell him she didn’t need them - she must have liked the idea of skating at least a little bit.

They got to the rink a bit late, as Ilya had planned, and he poked his head into the locker room, scanning the room to make sure everything was clothed. He’d already failed tremendously as a parent, the last thing he needed was to scar his seven year old by letting her see Carmichael’s dick. Thankfully, his plan to arrive late had paid off, and the only person remaining in the locker room was Marly, who was already in most of his gear. 

Considering he was usually one of the first out onto the ice, Ilya assumed he’d been waiting for them. Pushing open the door fully, Ilya entered the room, Sasha following behind him, her little hand having a tight grip on his. 

Cliff glanced over at the sound of the door opening, then stood up immediately when he spotted them. 

“Hey, man,” he greeted cheerfully, words coming out in a bit of a rush as his eyes flicked between Ilya and Sasha. “Good to have you back.”

Ilya dropped his bag on the floor in front of his stall, making sure to keep hold of Sasha’s hand while he did so, the fact that her grip on his hand had tightened incredibly so when she spotted Marleau not escaping his notice. 

“I’m not completely back yet,” he reminded the man. LeClaire had agreed that Ilya could miss the rest of the games leading up to the All-Star game, which gave him a couple more weeks to get into a new routine and make sure Sasha was settled. 

“Right, right,” Marly agreed, attention fully shifting to Sasha at the reminder of Ilya’s time off. 

Ilya glanced down at Sasha, who had pressed closer to his leg in response to Cliff’s attention, wrapping an arm around the back of Ilya’s knee to hide behind him a bit out of what he could only assume was nervousness. 

“Marly, this is my Sasha,” he told the man, reaching a hand down to cup the back of Sasha’s head, gently pressing her closer to him in the hopes it would relieve just a bit of her fear. Judging by the grateful look in the blue eyes that flicked upwards to meet his own, it had worked. “Sasha, this is Marly.”

Cliff crouched down to Sasha’s level so although the man was a complete idiot, it seemed he wasn’t totally lost when it came to dealing with children. 

“Hi, Sasha,” he greeted her, his tone resembling slightly less of a foghorn than normal. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

Sasha stayed quiet for a few moments, long enough that Ilya thought he’d have to intervene, but just as he was about to speak, a quiet little reply came from the girl. 

“Nice to meet you,” she echoed nervously, glancing up at Ilya as though looking for approval. 

He smiled at her encouragingly, feeling proud when Sasha seemed to grow a little more confident in response. Her English wasn’t perfect, obviously, but it was far better than Ilya would’ve expected from a seven year old who’d spent their entire life in Russia. She’d learned some at school, but apparently, most of Sasha’s knowledge had come from one of the carers at the children’s home who’d gone to college in America before moving home. 

“You look just like your dad, you know that? Same eyes and everything,” Marly continued, and Ilya watched Sasha carefully in case she needed any help, but it seemed she understood everything so far. 

 It was almost embarrassing, the little flicker of pride that ran through him at Marly’s words. 

Your dad

All the trophies and awards he’d won didn’t even begin to compete with how incredible that title made him feel.

Chapter 6: chapter six

With only two weeks left before Ilya had to go back to playing, he’d nearly managed to figure everything out.

 He’d found a school for Sasha, a highly recommended private school in Beacon Hill that had a great program for bilingual students. He’d hired a nanny, Jess, who was getting her masters degree at Harvard and who would help watch Sasha after school and while Ilya had to travel. He’d gotten Sasha an appointment with a pediatrician, who’d confirmed that she was ten pounds underweight and short for her age as well, putting her well off the normal growth curve for a seven year old. While he’d suspected that for a while, actually hearing it made him incredibly sad and incredibly angry all at once. Since then, he’d been working especially hard to sneak extra snacks into the little girl’s diet, hoping it’d help her gain some much needed weight.

But despite having almost everything figured out, he still felt an impending sense of doom at the thought of going back to work. Sasha was still so… distant. She held Ilya at arms length, in what he could only assume was an attempt to protect herself, expecting him to fail her or hurt her the way all the adults in her life had done in the past. He wasn’t sure how he was going to go back to work, how he’d manage spending so much time away from Sasha when she barely trusted him as it was. But he had no other choice. Without hockey, they’d have to go back to Russia, and that simply wasn’t an option.

 He’d been fast asleep after a long day of practice when a loud scream jolted him out of unconsciousness. After a moment of confusion, he scrambled out of bed, rushing down the hall to Sasha’s room.

He flung open the door, expecting to find that someone had broken in through the window or something, but was both devastated and relieved to find Sasha sitting in her bed instead, sobbing and on the verge of hyperventilating. 

From all his experience with nightmares, Ilya could recognize the after effects of one from a mile away. 

Crossing the room quickly, he flicked on the bedside lamp before sitting down on the edge of the mattress, scooping Sasha into his arms as fast as he could, her little sobs tearing a hole in his chest that ached more than he could ever possibly describe.

Sasha tried to push away at first, her tiny hands shoving at Ilya’s chest, but he simply held her tighter, rocking the little girl in his arms. 

“You’re okay,” he promised her fervently, whispering assurances into soft brown curls. “You’re safe. I’m here. Nothing’s going to hurt you.” 

He’d noticed the way Sasha flinched anytime someone moved toward her too quickly, watched how nervous she was around new people, noted how she never asked for anything, even when she needed it, seen the scars that littered her back, some fresher than others, but still. He’d hoped. He’d hoped that all his conclusions were wrong, that somehow, everything he’d noticed was just a coincidence. Because the alternative, that someone had hurt his sweet, innocent little girl so badly, it was impossible to consider. It made Ilya sick to his stomach, made him feel like sobbing and screaming and coming completely undone. 

The knowledge that his daughter had suffered so much was like being branded with  an iron hot poker. Horrifically painful, impossible to forget, and something that would never heal. 

Ilya had been hurt a lot in his life. His father had always been a fan of using a heavy hand on him as a child. Alexei had given him a black eye on more than one occasion. He’d broken his nose and a couple of ribs playing hockey. But none of that pain compared to this. 

Ilya would suffer a thousand more injuries, would break a hundred more bones, if it meant that Sasha didn’t have to go through this. He could handle his own pain, but Sasha’s? Ilya would rather die than have Sasha suffer. 

At some point, desperate to help make the little girl in his arms not absolutely terrified, Ilya began humming an old Russian lullaby under his breath, one his mother used to sing to him when he was small. 

After what felt like an eternity of his daughter trembling in his arms, her sobs eventually petered off into sniffles and hiccups that yanked at Ilya’s heartstrings. She was still shaking though, shivering hard enough that he could feel it against his chest, and he loosened his grip on her a bit, reaching for a blanket at the end of the bed. 

But before he could, Sasha’s little hands latched tightly onto the shirt he’d worn to bed, holding the fabric in a vice like grip.

“No, Papa! Don’t go!” She pleaded tearfully, voice catching as she let out another sob. “I-I’m sorry, I’ll be good.” 

Her words stopped Ilya cold, and he froze for a moment, too caught off guard by her use of the word Papa to respond. She’d never called him that before. Up until now, she’d avoided addressing him by any sort of title. Something about it felt so incredibly right though, like a missing piece to the puzzle of his heart slotting into place. 

He shook himself out of his stupor a moment later, readjusting his hold on Sasha and letting the little girl burrow herself into his chest. 

“Shhh, malyshka. I’m here, Papa’s here. I’m not leaving,” he promised her, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair as she tucked her head under his chin, curling up in his arms. “And you’re so good already, Sasha. So, so good.” 

Sasha sniffled as Ilya finally managed to yank the blanket closer to them with his foot, reaching down to wrap it around his daughter, burritoing her in the fabric. She lifted her head off of his chest just enough to look at him, the disbelief and sadness in her big blue eyes hitting him like a punch to the gut. 

“Really?” she asked, as though he was the first person to ever say such a thing to her. And to Ilya’s horror, he realized he probably was. 

He lifted a hand, cupping Sasha’s cheek and wiping away her tears with his thumb. She felt so small like this, her weight a barely there presence against his chest, his hand spanning the whole expanse of her face. She was just a baby, really. It was almost impossible to believe that this tiny, incredible, sweet little person was his. But she was. She was Ilya’s entire heart. 

“Of course you are, mishka,” Ilya told her, sniffing a bit as he swallowed past the lump that had appeared in his throat. He purposefully used the most recent nickname he’d come up with for his daughter, little bear, after a couple of the guys at practice had joked that she was a baby bear now, since he’d noticed it always made a little smile appear on Sasha’s face. “You’re the best thing in my life.”

She was the first good thing Ilya had been given that was allowed to truly be his. Not like hockey, which his father had always taken control of. Or Shane, who could never be his in the way Ilya wanted him to be. But Sasha was his. His daughter. His little girl. 

Sasha sniffled quietly, tucking herself closer to Ilya, and he knew right then and there that there was no way he could just leave her alone to sleep the rest of the night. He readjusted his hold on her before rising from the bed, making the short journey down the hall to his own room. Just as he settled them in his own bed, he had a brief worry that perhaps Sasha wouldn’t be comfortable being so close. This was the first time she’d even allowed him to hold her, but to Ilya, it felt so right. Holding his child in his arms, sheltering her from the world. Despite it being his first time holding her, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

Before he could say anything, Sasha chased his worries away by scooting closer to him, curling up against his side despite all the free space on the rest of the mattress. She fisted a hand in his shirt, using the other to hold Fyo, as she’d begun calling the toy dog, tightly. 

Ilya left the dim lamp in the corner on, hoping that the soft light would help chase away any remaining monsters from Sasha’s dream. He pulled the heavy duvet over the both of them, content with the knowledge that it would keep his little girl plenty warm. 

Sasha watched him with tired blue eyes as he ran a hand through her curls, hoping to help lull her into sleep. 

“I love you, my brave, clever girl,” he whispered, words as soft as a prayer, as Sasha blinked wearily at him, fighting against her exhaustion to keep her little eyes open. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead as Sasha snuggled closer. “So much.”

“I love you too, Papa,” she told him sleepily, a hint of disbelief flickering through her eyes before they slipped shut, as though she couldn’t quite believe that she was being cared for in this way, that she had a parent who loved her. 

Ilya stayed quiet as he watched Sasha fall into a deeper sleep, the rise and fall of her chest soothing him more than anything else ever had. A tear escaped from his eye, and he didn’t dare wipe it away for fear of waking the little girl up. 

She had no idea how much he loved her. But he’d spend every day for the rest of his life trying to show her. 

Chapter 7: chapter seven

Chapter Notes

Shane wandered down to the ground floor of the hotel to get some breakfast before the team’s flight out, not at all looking forward to leaving Florida. There was just something so special about the All-Stars game, getting to play with some of the best players in the league, on the same team for once instead of pitted against each other. And it’d been nice seeing Ilya, clearing the air and getting some clarity for once. But now, just like always, they had to go their separate ways, and Shane wouldn’t see him for weeks. 

He’d already decided that morning that he wanted to ask Ilya to come to his cottage over the summer. The day they’d spent together at Ilya’s house had been perfect. They had finally had the chance to just relax together, to truly be together in a way they’d never been able to before. He wanted more of that. An escape, some time alone to figure out what they really were to each other. Mostly, he just wanted to be with Ilya for as long as he could be. 

He was so distracted by the thought of a week – or maybe even two – alone with Ilya at the cottage that he missed the small child passing by, nearly running the poor kid over. 

“Sorry, kiddo,” he said, reaching out to steady the little girl, the word leaving an odd taste in his mouth. Kiddo? Who was he, his dad? 

It wasn’t until the kid quickly took two steps back from him, flinching out of Shane’s reach, that he realized whose child he’d almost run over. 

He’d only gotten a quick look at her the other day, but now that she was up close, Shane could see that Sasha had his eyes. The same soft shade of blue, like a pale winter sky. Her hair was curly like his too, curlier than it’d been the other day, the brown ringlets reaching just past her shoulder blades. 

Shane didn’t find most kids cute. Or rather, didn’t notice when they were. Then again, he didn’t think most guys gushed about how cute kids were, so maybe he wasn’t alone in that. But Sasha really was adorable. Maybe it was her big blue eyes, or the charming little freckles that scattered her cheeks, or the fact that she was just so damn tiny, but Shane couldn’t help but smile at her. 

“Hi,” he greeted her, a little unsure of what most people talked about with a seven year old. “You’re Sasha, right?”

She eyed him nervously, clutching the floppy stuffed animal in her hands even tighter – which, Jesus, could she be any cuter? – and Shane bit back a wince. Nice going, Hollander. Of course the fact that he knew her name had probably freaked her out. Kids spent their whole lives being taught stranger danger. She probably thought he was going to kidnap her or something. 

“I’m friends with your dad,” Shane rushed to say, looking around and hoping no one overheard and read too much into it. 

She perked up just a bit, a familiar spark appearing in her eyes, the one that always appeared in Ilya’s when he was truly, truly happy. 

“Papa kissed you on the cheek,” she recalled with a tiny giggle, one that melted Shane’s heart in about two seconds. 

He blushed a bit, recalling the display of affection, surprised no one else had mentioned it after the game. It’d been a bit bold of Ilya, but in the heat of the game, most things could be explained away, especially given Europeans tended to be a bit more casual with their affection. 

“I– he did, yeah,” Shane replied, laughing a little at how direct the little girl had been. 

Like father, like daughter, he supposed. 

“Sasha!” 

Shane looked up, spotting Ilya across the room, the other man quickly glancing around with a look of panic on his face. He could tell the moment Ilya spotted Shane and Sasha, relief washing over his face as the tension left his shoulders. Before he could blink, Ilya had crossed the room, reaching down to scoop Sasha up. 

“Don’t wander off like that, malyshka,” Ilya told her, voice gentle but firm before continuing in Russian instead. “You scared me.”

Shane wasn’t sure exactly what he’d said, but whatever it was made a guilty look appear on Sasha’s face, the little girl hanging her head to avoid eye contact. 

“Sorry, Papa,” she murmured what Shane assumed was an apology, judging by the sheepish tone. 

It was odd, seeing Ilya like this. The man standing before him was so different from the one the world usually saw, but so similar to the side of Ilya that Shane got to see. The gentle, soft, considerate side of the Russian most people considered heartless. Seeing that side of him in public felt strange, like something was out of place. Yet, it was also wonderful, allowing Shane the chance to spend more time with his Ilya, not the facade he put on for the rest of the world. 

Ilya took his attention off of the little girl propped on his hip, instead glancing toward Shane, nothing but softness in his eyes, a look that instantly lowered Shane’s walls the way it always did. 

“I see you’ve met my Sasha,” Ilya said as Sasha leaned against his shoulder.

“Not officially,” Shane said, clearing his throat a bit as he rocked back on his heels. 

Ilya breathed out a laugh, as though he knew Shane’s poor social skills would have meant he’d completely forgotten to ever actually tell Sasha his name. 

“Sasha, this is Shane,” Ilya told the little girl, readjusting his hold on her so that he could brush a stray curl out of her face, tucking it behind her ear with impossible gentleness. He cleared his throat, eyes darting around the room as though he suddenly remembered they were in public before quickly tacking on his last name as though that would make it seem like they were the rivals they were meant to be. “Hollander.” 

Ilya smirked suddenly, the way he always did before a chirp, as he added a bit more context for the little girl. 

“He’s the second best player. After Papa.” 

While Shane would usually protest that fact immediately, he found himself unable to say anything, his mind too distracted by the scene in front of him to bother forming words. 

Ilya looked good like this. Granted, he always looked good, but with an adorable little kid curled up in his arms, like they were the safest place in the world, it was even more obvious. 

As they both watched him with their matching blue eyes, one set filled with curiosity, the other looking at him like he was the only other person in the room, Shane knew it. He knew he was so far gone for this man, so desperately in love with Ilya Rozanov, that there was no escaping it. And now, watching him with Sasha, it only solidified what Shane already knew. 

He wanted it all with Ilya. 

A relationship, a life, a family, a future. 

He wanted everything. 

The only problem was, Shane couldn’t have any of it. 

The team managed to get into Boston early the night before their game against the Bears, and Shane found himself unable to keep from texting Ilya. He scrolled through his phone, finding their last conversation from a couple of days ago, and quickly typed out a message. 

Just got to the hotel. 

He tossed his phone on the bed before grabbing his suitcase to start unpacking some of his things. But by the time he got the bag unzipped, his phone had already pinged with a response. 

Come over? 

Shane instantly found himself typing out an agreement, but paused as something occurred to him. Or rather, someone. 

What about Sasha?

Ilya replied quickly, clearly still looking at his phone. 

She goes to bed at 8. You can come after. 

A few dots bubbled after Ilya’s message and Shane waited, watching as the man clearly hesitated over whatever he wanted to add. Eventually, after a minute of indecisiveness, another text came through. 

Or before. We could have dinner together. 

Shane frowned a bit, worry creeping into his mind. It wasn’t that he wanted Sasha out of the way or anything. He’d happily spend time with her and Ilya. Shane had been looking forward to seeing Ilya again every minute of the past two weeks. If they were going to be seeing each other more, then Shane wanted to know Sasha. She was a part of Ilya’s life, the most important part, and that meant she was important to Shane. 

But could a seven year old really keep such a secret? Was it really even fair to ask that of her? Shane had a hard enough time lying to everyone about Ilya, and he was a grown man. 

Is that a good idea? 

Ilya’s response came quickly, as though he’d anticipated Shane’s hesitation. He probably had, given how often he told Shane he needed to live a little more dangerously, to stop being boring. 

We tell her we are friends. She’s seven, Hollander. She won’t know. 

Shane sighed, knowing that the smart thing to do would be to say no. To tell Ilya he’d show up later, after Sasha was safely asleep. But as hard as he tried, he couldn’t. The idea of getting to spend the evening with Ilya and Sasha, having dinner and spending time together like whatever he and Ilya had was real, it was too tempting. And maybe it was selfish of him, but he just couldn’t turn Ilya down. 

I’ll be there in an hour. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for all the amazing comments! If anyone's interested in checking out a new fic I just posted (Ilya is trapped in Russia when he and Shane get outed) it's attached to my heated rivalry fics series. Hope y'all liked this chapter!

Chapter 8: chapter eight

Chapter Notes

“I’m making pelmeni,” Ilya said by way of greeting as they entered the kitchen. He went back to the stove, clearly focused on not burning their dinner, as Shane took a seat at the counter. 

He noticed the differences in Ilya’s place the second he stepped through the door. The last time he was there, it’d been nice, of course, but something had been missing. It’d been too empty, too perfect. Now, with toys scattered on the living room floor, soft blankets piled on the couch, and a few colorful drawings pinned to the fridge with magnets, it looked like a home. 

Ilya moved toward the fridge, grabbing a beer out for himself and a can of ginger ale, which he slid across the counter toward Shane. 

Shane couldn’t help but smile as he grabbed it, popping open the tab. Most of the people in his life made fun of his obsession with ginger ale, or for never wanting a beer instead. But Ilya had never commented on it, instead just always quietly offering Shane the drink whenever he could. It was a small consideration, and yet it made Shane feel seen. 

“Papa, is dinner almost ready?” a little voice called, and the patter of small feet echoed through the house a moment later before Sasha appeared in the kitchen. She stopped when she saw Shane, not seeming surprised to see him – Ilya had probably told her Shane was coming – but perhaps a little uncertain, like she wasn’t quite sure how to act around him. 

“In a few minutes, mishka,” Ilya told her, turning to look at her as he stirred a boiling pot on the stove. “Come sit while we wait.” 

Sasha hesitated for a moment, only rounding the counter after Ilya gave her an encouraging nod. She pulled the stool out next to Shane, climbing up to sit. The stool wobbled just a bit as she scrambled up, and he found himself instinctively moving to push down on the back of it, steadying it before it could tip over and letting out a small breath of relief once Sasha was safely seated. 

She was so little, so fragile, that Shane didn’t even want to imagine what could happen if the stool tipped, dumping her onto the hard floor below. 

“Are you coming to watch the game tomorrow?” Shane asked her, hoping a couple of simple questions would help make her a little more at ease. 

Sasha glanced at Ilya, clearly comforted by the reassurance his presence provided, before shaking her head. 

“Papa won’t let me watch on school nights,” she explained quietly, a hint of petulance in her tone as she looked pointedly at Ilya. 

Shane stifled a laugh as Ilya looked right back, the two of them having a silent battle of wills. 

“Your teacher will think I’m bad father if you fall asleep in class,” Ilya commented in a resigned tone that told Shane this wasn’t the first time this argument had been had. 

“But–”

A look from Ilya silenced the little girl and she let out a loud sigh, slumping a little in her seat, arms crossed in defeat around the stuffed dog she’d carried into the room with her, the toy seemingly a constant companion. 

Shane watched Ilya cave a little bit at the scene, the sternness in his face melting away. 

“You can come on Saturday,” Ilya said eventually, and while Shane couldn’t understand the words, whatever he’d said clearly cheered Sasha up by the smile on her face. 

God, he could watch Ilya with his little girl forever and never get sick of it. There was just something so soft and open about the man when he was in the presence of Sasha that made Shane fall in love with him all the more. 

Ilya set a glass of milk down on the counter in front of Sasha and she took a sip of it, using both hands to hold the glass, before turning back to Shane. 

“Papa’s going to win tomorrow,” she informed him knowingly, and Shane let out a surprised laugh. 

For such a shy kid, she certainly had Ilya’s confidence when she wanted to. 

“Your kid’s only seven and she’s already chirping grown adults?” he quipped and Ilya snorted in response, shrugging his shoulders as if to ask what he was meant to do about it.

Sasha tilted her head at Shane, looking back and forth between him and Ilya. 

“Chirp?” she asked in a quiet, confused little voice. 

“Teasing, malyshka,” Ilya provided the word for her, and Shane made a mental note to try and keep his vocabulary on the simpler side. 

They moved to the dining table a few minutes later, eating the delicious meal Ilya had made for them. Shane hadn’t known he could actually cook – aside from tuna melts – but his skill in the kitchen only made him more unfairly attractive. 

After dinner, they retired to the living room, where Ilya turned on the Toronto vs New York game, and Sasha went to get ready for bed. 

Shane shifted closer to Ilya on the couch, tucking himself under Ilya’s arm which was stretching along the back of the sofa. It wasn’t as much contact as Shane would’ve liked, but that could wait until later, when the seven year old in the house was asleep. He glanced up at Ilya, unsure if the other man would be okay with him being so close, but Ilya simply pressed a long, slow kiss to his lips before allowing Shane to slump against his chest. 

“You’re so good with her,” Shane told Ilya quietly, feeling as the man shook her head, his chin brushing across the top of Shane’s hair with the movement. 

“She’s easy,” Ilya said dismissively, as though anyone could do what he was doing. 

But not anyone could. Hell, Shane wasn’t sure he could. Being a parent sounded hard enough, but doing it all of his own? That was practically Shane’s worst nightmare. 

He hesitated for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. Shane knew that his question could be misinterpreted and was, perhaps, invasive, but it’d been on his mind every time he interacted with the little girl. 

“Is she…okay?” he asked carefully, leaning back a bit to watch Ilya’s reaction. 

Ilya had commented, more than once, on how shy Sasha was. But Shane had been shy as a kid, had been around shy kids before, and he could tell that with Sasha, it wasn’t just shyness. The way she had flinched suddenly when Shane reached past her to grab something on the table, how she’d go quiet so quickly without explanation, the fear in her eyes when she’d first bumped into him in the hotel. That wasn’t just shyness. It was more. 

“She was…” Ilya paused, hesitating for a moment, but not the way he usually did when he was searching for a word in English. No, this was different. Like whatever he had to say was going to be painful. His eyes closed for a moment, face clenched in something resembling agony. “Abused. In Russia.” 

Shane let out a small exhale, Ilya’s words landing like a rough check to the boards, knocking the air from his lungs. He had no idea how anyone on Earth could hurt a kid like Sasha. Any kid, for that matter, but especially Sasha. In what little time he’d spent with her, Shane could tell the little girl was so smart, and funny, and sweet. She had all the best parts of Ilya. The thought of someone hurting her, likely someone that was meant to care for her, made him sick. 

“Her mother?” Shane questioned, suddenly realizing he knew very little of how Sasha came to be with Ilya. 

He knew Ilya hadn’t known about her up until recently. The man hadn’t told him that, but Shane knew anyway. If he had known about his daughter, he never would’ve left her in Russia while he was in America. Nothing would’ve stopped Ilya from being by Sasha’s side. Ilya had mentioned that Sasha’s mother had been killed in a car accident, so presumably that was what had led to Ilya taking her in, but Shane had no idea when that had been. 

Ilya shook his head quickly, taking a deep breath. 

“Natalia died in a car accident when Sasha was two,” Ilya explained, reaching up to play with Shane’s hair a bit. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Ilya had a habit of doing that during difficult conversations, and he figured something about the motion was grounding to the man. “I wasn’t on birth certificate, so they put her in foster care, then children’s home. It was the foster parents, I think, but she hasn’t said.” 

No wonder Ilya was so hard on himself. Shane knew he must be blaming himself for everything, even though there was nothing he could’ve done. Everything Sasha had gone through, it wasn’t Ilya’s fault, but Ilya probably disagreed. 

“Is she in therapy?” 

While Shane knew the idea of therapy was likely frowned upon in Russia, he hoped Ilya could look past that stigma for Sasha. The little girl no doubt needed some sort of help coping with everything she’d been through, and while Ilya loved her more than anything, there were some things he simply wasn’t equipped to handle. 

“I’ve been looking,” Ilya said, and Shane found himself oddly relieved at the man’s words. “But not yet. She has hard time with strangers and… I want her to trust me, before I make her trust someone else. The pediatrician said it’s best to wait until she’s settled, anyway.” 

Shane hummed thoughtfully, seeing Ilya’s point. In any case, Sasha seemed fine enough for now. It probably was better to wait a bit. He didn’t doubt that Ilya would do what was best for Sasha whenever he could. 

“It kills me,” Ilya admitted quietly, voice cracking with emotion. He exhaled shakily and Shane grasped his hand, squeezing it between his own. “What she went through. She– She’s so small and they- they just–” 

“Papa, I’m ready for my story,” Sasha announced cheerfully from down the hall, startling the both of them. Shane quickly sat up, moving out from Ilya’s embrace as Sasha entered the living room, dressed in a pair of gray pajamas with little four-leaf clovers on them, no doubt some sort of reference to the Celtics. 

Ilya leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he roughly scrubbed a hand over his eyes, purposefully keeping his back to Sasha. Shane knew there was no way he could recover so quickly from the emotional state he’d been in just a minute ago, with a few tears having escaped despite what was no doubt Ilya’s best attempts not to allow them to. 

“Papa?”

“In a minute, malyshka,” Ilya replied, voice strained, with his shoulders switching from shaking to incredibly tense, as though he was forcing himself to stop any sign of emotion. 

He didn’t want Sasha to see him like this, Shane knew. Probably not even for his pride, but more likely because he didn’t want to scare the already anxious little girl. Before he even knew what he was doing, Shane had stood up, slipping past Ilya to round the couch to where Sasha was. 

“Hey, Sash. How about we go pick out a book?” Shane suggested, the nickname slipping out unconsciously as he held out his hand to Sasha, who eyed it nervously. “Your papa just needs a minute.” 

There was so much Shane couldn’t do to help Ilya, given the nature of their relationship, but this? He could do this. He could give the man a minute to himself to let him feel everything he’d probably been bottling up for months. 

Sasha took his hand tentatively after a glance at Ilya, apparently hoping he’d intervene, and Shane led her back down the hall, noticing the way she kept looking back at her father, hoping he’d follow. Her hand felt incredibly tiny in his, and it dangled loosely in his grip, as though she was too nervous to hold Shane’s hand back. 

They arrived in her room quickly, and Shane took a moment to take in the soft blue walls, the white and blue floral bedding, and the soft rug underfoot. It was clearly a room that had been designed with love and consideration of the child living in it. Sasha climbed into her bed, grabbing her stuffed dog off the top of it, the book that she had evidently already picked out sitting on the nightstand. 

“Is Papa okay?” she asked, worry in her little voice, lip wobbling just a bit. 

He wished the kid wasn’t so damn smart, so observant, but it was yet another trait she’d inherited from her father. 

“He’s fine,” Shane assured her, giving her a small smile, quickly thinking up some sort of excuse. “He just had to make a phone call.” 

Sasha played nervously with the dog in her hands, the stuffed toy looking well-loved. Shane glanced at the book on the nightstand, noting it was a chapter book. He supposed the reading level didn’t really matter, given Ilya was the one reading it aloud to Sasha anyway. Picking it up, he was surprised to find it was in English, rather than Russian. 

“Do you like this one?” he asked as a distraction, reading the title in his head. Peter Pan, the cover read. He gave a small smile at it, remembering he’d always liked that book when he was little too. 

Sasha nodded quickly, sliding under the covers a bit more, apparently cold. 

“We read English books for practice,” she explained to him. “That’s my favorite.”

Shane glanced down, thumbing the book open to where it’d been marked with a dogear. 

“Want me to read a bit while you wait for your papa?” 

 The little girl nodded eagerly, scooting over a bit to make room for him at the head of the bed. Shane sat down carefully, not wanting to make her uncomfortable, and opened the book to begin reading. Sasha listened intently, seeming more relaxed with each page that Shane read. He’d just gotten to the end of the chapter when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced up to find Ilya standing in the doorway, watching them. 

His eyes were a little red, not obvious enough for concern, but noticeable to anyone who knew to look for it. Thankfully, Shane didn’t think Sasha would realize. Ilya was watching them with an incredibly fond expression on his face, an almost wistful look in his eyes. 

“Guess I should let the expert take over, huh?” Shane quipped, holding the book out to Ilya as he rose from the bed. Ilya stepped forward, taking the novel from him, their hands brushing against each other for a moment. 

“I’m sure your reading is perfect, Hollander,” Ilya retorted, giving a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the man clearly still a little distraught from earlier. He sat down next to Sasha and the little girl instantly closed the distance that she left between her and Shane, cuddling up to Ilya’s side. “You were probably reading novels at two.” 

“Not true,” Shane argued, falling back into their usual banter routine with ease. 

“Sasha agrees with me, right, mishka?” Ilya asked, looking down at his daughter. 

Sasha considered her decision for a moment, tilting her head ever so slightly. 

“Shane was good,” she conceded before looking up at Ilya, wonder in her eyes. “But I like your reading more, Papa.” 

Her words put a fond smile on his face, the expression seeming to come easier than his previous one had. Apparently, all it took was just a few moments with his little girl to have Ilya feeling better. 

“I’ll be out in a bit if you want to watch the game,” Ilya offered and Shane nodded, wanting the two to have some time alone before Sasha went to bed since the little girl was clearly still a little uneasy from Ilya’s behavior earlier. 

He stepped back toward the door, stopping with his hand on the knob when Sasha spoke up. 

“Night, Shane,” she said softly, as though her words wouldn’t be welcome. 

His heart melted instantly, and he turned around, offering the little girl a warm smile. 

“Good night, Sasha.” 

Chapter End Notes

they're all so cute together i just can't

Chapter 9: chapter nine

“Hey, did you hear about Rozanov?” JJ asked Hayden, Shane catching the man’s words as he exited the showers, tightening the towel around his waist. 

“What about Rozanov?” Shane interrupted immediately, biting back a grimace after the words left his mouth. 

He should really work on being less obvious about the fact that he cared about Ilya. Seriously, Shane’s social skills were pretty awful, and he was sure that even he would’ve picked up on it by now if the shoe had been on the other foot. 

“Well, he did not fly with the rest of the team to Nashville,” JJ explained. 

“He flew separately?”

It wasn’t such a big deal. Ilya had probably just missed his flight or something. Most of the time, players traveled together, but occasionally, things came up, and some players would arrive later. 

“He did not go to Nashville at all,” JJ informed them

Shane frowned in confusion before moving toward his stall, not wanting to be standing in the middle of the locker room where everyone was watching him. 

Why hadn’t Ilya gone to Nashville? 

If it had been a planned absence, he would’ve told Shane about it. Plus, the fact that ESPN didn’t know the reason meant that the Bears hadn’t announced anything, which made the situation even more unusual. Typically, if a player was going to be out, their team would post some sort of reason, like an injury. 

“Well, he didn't get hurt last night, did he?”

“Not that I know of.”

“No, he didn't,” Shane said firmly, settling the debate between his teammates. 

He would’ve noticed if Ilya had gotten hurt. Even if it had been some minor injury that Ilya was trying to tough it out through, Shane would’ve noticed. But he’d been fine before the game, skin free of any bruises, no tender spots beneath his flesh, and he hadn’t gotten hit very hard at all during the game. 

“Maybe he's sick,” Hayden suggested casually, shrugging a shoulder. 

“He's not,” Shane insisted, the worry that had been creeping into his mind now shifting into panic. 

If he wasn’t sick, or hurt, then there weren’t many reasons why Ilya would miss a game. Maybe the nanny had flaked? But surely, Ilya had some sort of back-up care for Sasha in case that happened. 

Oh, god. Sasha. What if something had happened to Sasha? It would explain why the Bears hadn’t reported anything. They would never comment on the health of a player’s kid. Shit, Ilya must have been freaking out. Shane hoped it was just a cold or the flu – although the thought of Sasha being even a little sick made him an anxious wreck – and not something worse. 

Surely, if it was serious, Ilya would’ve told him, right? Maybe not. Maybe Shane was just getting attached too quickly, inserting himself where he didn’t belong. To Sasha, he was just her dad’s friend that she’d met all of two times. She probably liked Cliff Marleau of all people better than Shane, a fact that killed him. 

He held himself together until he got home, and then immediately called Ilya as he grabbed a ginger ale out of the fridge. 

The call went to voicemail and he sighed, running a hand through his hair out of stress. Ilya still hadn’t responded to the text he’d sent from the locker room either, and at this point, Shane was seriously worried. 

By the time his phone finally rang, hours later, Shane had all but convinced himself that either Ilya or Sasha was in the hospital, and had been brainstorming ways of how exactly he could find that information without outing the both of them. 

He answered immediately when he saw the name Lily appear on his screen, his phone only having time to ring once before he picked it up. 

“Hey, are you okay?” he greeted, voice tinged with worry, obvious enough even to his own ears. “Is Sasha okay?”

But instead of looking a stressed, worn-out mess the way he would’ve expected the man to look if Sasha was sick, Ilya just looked… tired. Resigned. 

“Sasha’s fine. You wear glasses?” Ilya asked, throwing Shane off. 

He was clearly dealing with some sort of emergency, that was the only reason he could’ve missed a game, and he was asking Shane about his glasses? Maybe Ilya was sick. A fever could make him delirious. 

Plus, it didn’t escape his notice that Ilya hadn’t stated he was fine, but rather than Sasha was. That much was a relief, at least. Shane wasn’t sure what he’d do if something had happened to the little girl. 

“Just for reading,” Shane answered in confusion, before demanding another answer. “Where are you?”

Shane didn’t recognize the room Ilya was in as the man’s house. It didn’t look like a hotel either, although it was hard to tell through Facetime. He wasn’t in Nashville, that was certain. 

“Home,” Ilya replied casually. “Put them back on, please.”

Shane had to stop himself from sighing in frustration. Was Ilya always so annoyingly vague? The Russian was always good at being evasive when he wanted to be, but he was usually a bit more honest with Shane. 

“Boston?”

“Moscow,” Ilya answered, a faint smile on his face, apparently still caught up in the whole glasses thing.  

Moscow? What the fuck was Ilya doing in Moscow?

“Oh. Are you okay?” Shane questioned, Ilya’s behavior unnerving him a little. 

Something about the other man was just…off. The way he was avoiding Shane’s questions, how his smile didn’t reach his eyes, the fact that he was in Moscow during the middle of the season. None of it made sense. 

“I will be better when I see you in your glasses again.”

“Happy?” Shane asked, shoving them onto his face, having accepted that they weren’t going to have a real conversation until Ilya got his way. 

“Happier,” Ilya conceded, his smile fading away at the edges, sadness creeping in. 

And suddenly, the dots connected in Shane’s head. A missed game. An unplanned trip back to Moscow. An apparently healthy child. A sick father. It all pointed to one thing. 

“Is your father…” 

Shane couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the question, not knowing what word to use. Near the end? Dying? Passed on?

“Yes, dead,” Ilya confirmed, the words short and to the point, like he was giving a news briefing rather than announcing his father had died. 

Shane exhaled softly, closing his eyes for a moment. His heart ached for Ilya. While he knew Ilya’s father was far from Dad of the Year, he would’ve never wished death on the man. Ilya was only 26, and already, he’d lost two parents before Shane had even lost one. How the hell was that fair? He was an orphan now. Shane wasn’t sure he knew any other orphans, really. His mom and his dad still each had one parent alive. All his friends’ parents were alive as well. There was Scott Hunter, he supposed, but that was it.

“Ilya...I'm so sorry,” he murmured softly, not knowing what else to say. 

Ilya wouldn’t want his pity. He wouldn’t want Shane saying something stupid like “he’s in a better place” or even worse “he was a good man”. The latter certainly wasn’t true and the former, well, that seemed like something between Ilya and God, if that was even a thing Ilya believed in. 

“What are people saying about me?” Ilya asked brusquely, pursing his lips, predictably not wanting to hear Shane’s sympathies. 

Still, it was a bit shocking, the way Ilya just moved right along. 

“Nothing,” Shane replied, blinking in surprise. “Um, the media is being super secretive, and the Raiders haven't…”

“Good,” Ilya interrupted, seeming a bit settled by that piece of information. “We will be back by the end of the week.”

“Sasha’s with you?”

Shane supposed that made sense, given Ilya never would’ve left Sasha alone with the nanny for a whole week, but still. He figured the man probably wasn’t too happy about having to bring Sasha to Moscow, given how he felt about his family. Shane hoped the rest of Ilya’s family – which was really just Alexei now, as awful of a thought as that was – could behave well enough not to upset the little girl. Sasha was observant, she picked up on everything adults around her did. She was sensitive too, in the way Ilya was when he allowed himself to be. If things got too tense, it would almost surely upset Sasha. 

“Da,” Ilya confirmed. “Svetlana’s here, helping to watch her.”

While part of Shane – a very tiny part, that he was appropriately ashamed of – was jealous that Svetlana got to be with Ilya and Sasha instead of him, he was mostly just grateful that Ilya had someone there to support him. God knew Alexei wasn’t going to. Ilya had so much to worry about, between Sasha and dealing with his father’s affairs and handling Alexei, he needed someone on his side to make sure he didn’t break completely. 

Shane just wished that person could be him.

Chapter 10: chapter ten

The funeral was, predictably, horrible. All of his father’s colleagues telling Ilya how great of a man he’d been. Alexei acting like a complete ass. His cousins pretending as though they were grieving their uncle when they probably detested his guts. 

Sasha had been worryingly quiet since their arrival in Moscow, the little girl withdrawing back into herself just as she had when she first came to live with Ilya, but for the life of him, he couldn’t find it in himself to cheer her up. It would be better when they could go home, Ilya told himself. Once they were back in Boston, everything could go back to normal. Until then, they just had to push through. 

Dinner was a silent affair. No one in his family was particularly chatty, not that he really cared much about what they had to say. Alexei had been staring daggers at him the entire meal, and Ilya finally got tired enough of it that he excused himself from the table, whispering a request to Svetlana for her to keep an eye on Sasha. 

He’d barely had a moment to himself before Alexei followed him into the back room, lurking like a ghost. 

“Stop fucking avoiding me,” Alexei ordered, thinking he was in charge, just like always. 

“If only,” Ilya retorted with a scoff. 

He wasn’t sure when his older brother had begun hating him. Perhaps he had never loved Ilya at all. They used to be closer when they were younger, or had at least been at each others’ throats less, but that was before their mother died. Sometimes, Ilya thought that he was simply too much like their mother, and Alexei too much like their father, for them to get along. 

“So?”

“So what?” Ilya asked, annoyance clear in his tone. 

Alexei moved quickly, pinning him to the wall, but Ilya shoved him off easily. He was, after all, used to far stronger men decking him into boards with their full strength, and Alexei was both weaker than those men, and too much of a coward to actually try and hurt Ilya in front of an audience. 

“Don't fucking touch me,” Ilya spat at his brother, as Alexei shushed him. 

He would have kicked up more of a fuss, but he didn’t really care to have their entire family watch them argue either. It wasn’t that Ilya worried about their opinions – they could all go rot in hell for all he cared – but they would only side with Alexei. They were just like him, constantly begging Ilya for any scrap of money he was willing to throw their way, and then they went and wasted it on drugs or booze or gambled it away. 

“Then tell me the fucking plan,” Alexei hissed, eyes flaring with anger. 

His brother looked remarkably like their father at that moment, Ilya thought. Their father would’ve been proud. He would’ve relished the chance to try and put Ilya in his place, something he’d been far too weak to do for the past couple of years. Alexei was truly their father’s son. 

It didn’t matter how many medals or trophies Ilya won, or how much money he made, or the glory he brought Russia. It was never enough for their father. He thought Ilya was weak, lazy, a complete and utter disappointment. 

But Alexei, who spent all his days drinking and gambling, wasting his life away, amounting to absolutely nothing, he’d been their father’s golden child. 

When he was younger, Ilya had been able to reassure himself with the fact that he had his mother, who loved him. After she died, he’d been left with nothing but the knowledge that his father hated him. 

“Jesus Christ, I don't know yet, Alexei!” Ilya snapped, the control he had on his temper quickly spiraling out of control. “He just died. Can I get a minute to breathe?”

That was the problem with Russia. It was suffocating. When he was younger, his father’s temper and disapproval had hung over their house, sucking all of the air out of the room. As Ilya got older, and began having to deal with supporting the family financially and making sure he wasn’t outed, it only got harder. Everyone’s expectations of him – and the consequences he knew he’d face if he didn’t meet them – made it impossible to relax, even for a single moment. Ilya hadn’t had a moment to breathe in years.

“And me?” Alexei demanded forcefully, so close to Ilya he could smell the liquor on his brother’s breath. “What about me? Do I get to breathe too? Or is that just something reserved for rich faggots who abandon their families?” 

“Abandoned? Whose money do you live on, you piece of shit? Who puts food in your mouth and coke up your nose?” he reminded his brother, his words landing like the crack of a whip, harshly and without hesitation. 

He wouldn’t sit there and let Alexei act like he was the hero of the family for doing the bare minimum for their father. It was the least he could do, after their father raised him. Ilya had done nothing wrong. He’d done everything his father ever wanted. He became a brilliant hockey player, and he made more money than his father probably could’ve imagined, and he sent it back home for everyone. 

Ilya had done his duty, and then some, and now, he was done. 

“I have a child, Ilya!”

“So do I!” Ilya shouted, shoving his brother again. 

Alexei could talk as much as he wanted about responsibilities, but he would never understand the weight on Ilya’s shoulders. He had a daughter to look after, a demanding career, greedy relatives back home constantly wanting money, and no support. No one to help with Sasha, no one to pick up the slack. Alexei had everything. Their relatives adored him, he had a beautiful wife, a sweet child, a career that got him a decent amount of respect. He had everything and yet, for Alexei, it would never be enough. 

A slight rustling sound drew Ilya’s attention away, and he looked over to find Svetlana entering the room. 

“I thought I heard singing,” Svetlana said casually, and Ilya let out a sigh of relief, thankful for the interruption. 

But then he saw the look of disgust on Alexei’s face, and he knew the argument wasn’t over. 

“Great,” Alexei scoffed, glaring at Svetlana before looking back to Ilya. “Now we have to listen to this whore run her mouth.”

Before he even knew what he was doing, he’d grabbed Alexei by the lapels of his suit, slamming him against the wall, a cry of rage escaping him. He could listen to his brother spit all the insults in the world at him, but Svetlana? Alexei had no right to talk about Svetlana that way, not when all she’d ever done was look after Ilya the way Alexei should have. 

He delivered a quick punch across Alexei’s jaw, relishing in the flash of fear that ran through his brother’s eyes. For all that Alexei liked to pretend he was in control, like he had power over Ilya, he was weak. Ilya was taller, and stronger, and had fought men twice Alexei’s size and won. Alexei stood no chance if Ilya wanted to beat the living shit out of him. Maybe it would finally put him in his place once and for all. 

“Stop, Ilya! Stop!” Svetlana ordered him, but Ilya went to deliver another punch. “He’s not worth it.”

Alexei tried to stop him, but it wasn’t until Svetlana grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his bicep that Ilya paused. He went to shrug her off, but she hissed quietly at him, her words sending a chill down his spine. 

“Sasha’s watching, you idiot!” 

He froze, fist still clenched in anger and hanging in the air, ready to deliver another blow, and glanced to the doorway of the room. Sure enough, there was Sasha, hiding partly behind the door jam, staring at him with watery blue eyes. 

The faint look of fear on his daughter’s face was enough to make Ilya instantly feel sick to his stomach and he looked back at Alexei, heaving a few deep breaths before releasing him, taking two steps back. 

As much as he wanted to give his brother exactly what Alexei deserved, he wouldn’t do it in front of Sasha. His little girl had been through far too much to watch her father beat her uncle in front of her, and Ilya would never hurt her like that. The fact that he’d already scared her already had an immense feeling of guilt swirling up in his chest. He shouldn’t have let his anger get the better of him. He wasn’t supposed to be like his father, like Alexei. Ilya had no clue how he could’ve been so fucking careless as to not remember that Sasha was hardly ten feet away while he was screaming at his father. 

If he’d been a better father, he would have kept a hold on his temper. He never should’ve become violent near his child, no matter how much Alexei deserved it.

“You can have my apartment,” Ilya seethed, jabbing a finger into Alexei’s chest. 

He was done with his brother. Ilya didn’t care about the rest of his father’s memorial service, or the other arrangements that still had to be made. Someone else could handle that. He was done with this family, done with their expectations and the responsibilities they pressed on him. 

He was done. 

“And there will be a trust for my niece. She can have it when she's 18. And you will never, ever contact me again. If you do, I will use every piece of my fame and money and notoriety to make sure that you can't show your face in this fucking city without someone wanting to break it open. So take what I offer, shut your fucking mouth and walk away.”

He stormed toward the door, Svetlana right behind him, the pair leaving Alexei slumped against the wall. Ilya paused when he reached the doorway, the cautious look Sasha was giving him causing his heart to clench tightly. She hadn’t looked so unsure around him since a couple days after he brought her home, when she’d dropped a glass on the kitchen floor and had been convinced that such a crime would result in Ilya sending her away, or smacking her, or whatever awful thought had run through her little mind. 

But just as Ilya began to worry that he’d erased all the progress they’d made, Sasha hesitantly reached toward him, a clear silent request to be held. 

Ilya scooped her up in a flash, a sense of desperation behind his movements, and Sasha immediately clung tightly to him, tiny fingers fisting in the fabric of his jacket. He moved toward the exit quickly, refusing to stay there any longer than he had to. Footsteps echoed behind them, and he knew Svetlana was following. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her stop to grab their coats, and he continued outside, not waiting around for Alexei to start a fight again. 

As he stepped into the cold night air, Sasha buried her face in Ilya’s shoulder, and her little shuddering breaths blowing warm air against his skin wiped most of his anger away. He took a deep breath, purposefully softening his frame a bit, knowing that it’d help Sasha relax more if she thought Ilya was calm. Gently, he rubbed one hand over her back in small, soothing circles, before pressing a firm kiss to the top of her head. 

“We’re okay, mishka,” he promised her, a soft click echoing through the quiet street as Svetlana stepped outside after them, closing the door softly behind them. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

He hated who he was here. He hated the man in him that Moscow brought out. 

It was right then and there, as he held his daughter on the cold streets of Moscow, his little girl making the tiny sniffling noises she always made when she cried, a leftover habit from the children’s home where she’d been forced to cry as quietly as possibly so no one else would hear and lecture her, that Ilya knew. 

He would never come back to Russia again. 

Chapter 11: chapter eleven

Sneaking into Shane’s hospital room was surprisingly easier than Ilya thought it’d be. All of the rest of the Metros had been forced to continue on with their road trip, and his parents either hadn’t arrived yet, or had gone back home. Either way, Ilya wasn’t about to question his good luck. 

“Ilya!” Shane greeted cheerfully, saying his name in a sing-songy voice that Ilya thought might have been the man’s attempt at a Russian accent. 

So, Hollander was high. Clearly. 

“I, um, I just wanted to…” he stammered, not quite knowing what to say. Check in? Keep you company? Check and make sure you were alive so I could finally breathe? 

Ilya was convinced that, for a moment there, watching Shane’s limp body on the ice, surrounded by medics, that his heart had stopped. Not skipped a beat, but stopped completely. Like his eyes had watched Marleau check Shane into those boards, and the rest of his body had gotten the message that something was so terribly, horrible wrong that it needed to cease all functions immediately. 

He hardly remembered the rest of the game. No doubt, he’d played like shit. 

Because seeing Shane lying there on the ice? It was one of the worst moments of his life. He’d been sent right back to the night he found his mother in a similar position on the floor of their living room, except she never woke up. 

But Shane was awake. He was okay. So that meant Ilya could be okay now too. If only he could get the rest of his body on board with that. Until he walked into the man’s hospital room, Ilya wasn't sure he’d taken a full breath since their game the night before. 

“Are you okay?”

“Concussion and a fractured collarbone,” Shane answered, and Ilya grimaced slightly, knowing that neither of those injuries were pleasant to deal with. “Out for the playoffs, but…”

“Could have been worse,” Ilya finished for him.

“Could have been worse,” Shane agreed. 

And Ilya would spend the rest of his life thankful that it hadn’t been. The last time he’d been so terrified was the first time Sasha woke him up with a nightmare, her screams and cries taking years off of his life. 

Except with Sasha, Ilya had been able to hold her right away, to keep her close and feel her warmth and know that his little girl was just fine, even if she was scared. 

With Shane, Ilya had been forced to pretend like he was completely unaffected. Like the man lying unconscious on the ice in front of him was just a colleague, a colleague he didn’t even like, rather than the love of his life. 

It had been the most helpless Ilya had ever felt. 

“Marleau feels terrible,” Ilya told him, swallowing heavily. “He did not mean to hurt you.”

Ilya wasn’t sure why he was having such a hard time speaking. Usually, he was the talkative one. But every time he opened his mouth, it was like his jaw locked up. Even with Shane right here in front of him, up and talking, his cheeks a healthy pink instead of the pale, drawn complexion he’d had on the ice, Ilya couldn’t get that image out of his head. Couldn’t stop seeing the hit, or the way Shane’s body instantly went limp, like a puppet with its strings cut. 

“I know. Part of the game. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”

“Right.”

He moved across the room once Shane started complaining, not wanting any of the nurses to hear and come check on him. Ilya slipped his hand into Shane’s, the steady warmth of it ridding his body of a tension he hadn’t known was present. It fit into his own perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle slotting together. He tried to ignore just how right it felt. 

And maybe it was just how right it felt being there by Shane’s side, holding his hand, or maybe it was the last remnants of fear still running through his veins, but Ilya felt the walls he so carefully constructed to protect himself falling away. 

“You scared me,” he confessed, the words slipping out before he could stop them. 

“I'm sorry I didn't text you last night,” Shane apologized, but Ilya brushed him off. 

Obviously, he hadn’t been able to text. The man had a concussion, for Christ’s sake. 

“Sasha was sad you couldn’t come last night,” he added, trying to ignore the way his heart melted at Shane perking up at the mention of his little girl. “Well, she said Fyo was the one who was sad, but…”

Originally, Ilya had been planning on Sasha spending the night with the nanny, but that plan had quickly gone out the window after their trip back to Moscow. She’d been especially clingy since they returned, never saying anything, of course – she was still too worried about bothering him, Ilya thought – but he could see the worry in her eyes every time he left the room for a moment, hear the hitch in her breath when he said goodbye before going to work, feel the way she clung tight to him every time he held her. 

He’d finally found her a therapist, one that spoke Russian, and Ilya was desperately hoping it would help. He knew what it was like to live in fear, to grow up being terrified in your own home, and he didn’t want that for her. Sasha deserved to grow up feeling safe, and loved, and protected, and Ilya would do whatever it took to make that happen. 

Shane leaned back onto his pillow with a laugh, smiling broadly. 

“God, that kid,” he said, sighing happily. “You ever just want to squish her to death?” 

Ilya stifled a laugh, loving this drugged up version of Shane more and more by that minute. 

“Hm, that would be child abuse, Hollander,” Ilya replied, unable to hide the amusement in his voice. 

Shane rolled his eyes, pouting a bit. 

“You know what I mean,” he whined. “She’s just so damn cute.”

Ilya certainly wouldn’t disagree with that fact. Sasha was adorable, far cuter than she had any right to be. He never thought he’d be so soft but a minute with his daughter turned him into a putty. 

“You know, I had a whole plan to ask you something,” Shane said suddenly, and Ilya bit back a wince. 

It wasn’t the time to be having serious conversations. Not when Shane was high off of his rocker, and especially not when all that separated them from a hospital full of people was a thin wall. And Ilya… Ilya didn’t want to have to disappoint him again, like he had in Tampa. He didn’t want Shane to say all the right things, the things that made Ilya want him so desperately, just for Ilya to have to reject him. 

Again. 

It’d nearly broken him last time, and to do it once more would surely be the end of him. 

“Maybe it's better if you just rest now,” Ilya interrupted, trying to save him from making any crazy declarations. 

“I was gonna ask you…”

“Hollander…”

“Will you come to my cottage this summer?” Shane pleaded, gazing into Ilya’s eyes with an unexpected fierceness. “Don't go to Russia. Come to my house. We'll have so much fun. It's so private. No one will know.”

And God, Ilya wanted to say yes. He wanted to say yes more than he’d ever wanted anything. But he couldn’t. A night together here and there was one thing, but staying at Shane’s cottage? That was something real. That was something dangerous. 

They couldn’t do this anymore. Someone would find out, eventually, and his recent trip back to Moscow had only solidified what Ilya already knew. He couldn’t go back. And until Ilya had citizenship, he couldn’t take any risks. If the Bears ever found out, they could end his contract, and Ilya would be deported back to Russia without a visa. If he just had himself to think about, maybe he’d take the risk but…

He had Sasha. And Sasha came first, every single time. 

“Hollander, you know I can't do that,” Ilya reminded him, every syllable he uttered feeling like a knife through his heart. 

“We could have a week or even two,” Shane continued, completely oblivious in his drugged up state. “Sasha would love it there. It’s quiet, right on the lake. We could all be together.” 

It sounded perfect. That sort of privacy was hard to come by with their careers. A place where they could just be themselves, it was like a dream. 

But Ilya didn’t get to have dreams. Even as a child, he never got to think about what he wanted to be when he grew up. He was told he was going to play hockey, and that was that. Ilya never had dreams. He had expectations forced upon him. And even now, with his father gone, the world continued carrying those expectations for him. Expectations for him to play hard, to win, to follow along the rules laid out for him, rules that included finding some young, beautiful girl to join the ranks as a Bears’ WAG. 

Those expectations didn’t include him falling in love with a slow Canadian hockey player with cute freckles, soulful brown eyes, and a weak backhand. 

“Maybe,” Ilya told him, not wanting to upset him. He forced a bit of a smile on his face, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace. “Maybe.”

Chapter 12: chapter twelve

Chapter Notes

make sure to read the tags again folks, this chapter's rough

“You want the puck to be right here, remember?” Ilya explained to Sasha, holding her little hockey stick in one hand and circling a finger over the blade with the other. 

Since the Bears had lost to the Admirals a week prior, getting kicked out of the playoffs, Ilya had plenty of time on his hands to devote to Sasha. He planned to relish every minute he had with his kid over the summer, before the season started back up again. 

He’d been woken up that morning to Sasha crawling into his bed, begging him to take her to the rink. While Ilya had signed her up for the junior spring league that BU ran, it evidently wasn’t enough for the little girl. It ran twice a week, and Sasha loved every minute of it, but usually she managed to con Ilya into taking her to the rink a third day as well, if not a fourth. 

Maybe Ilya should have resisted more, but his daughter had him wrapped around her little finger. She just got so excited about hockey, he couldn’t deny her it. Plus, she looked adorable all bundled up in her hockey pads, like a tiny marshmallow. 

Sasha was the smallest kid on the ice for her age group, a fact that still made a bit of rage swirl up in Ilya’s gut, but the past few months of consistent, healthy food had finally put a bit of baby fat back in her cheeks. She hadn’t grown much, but Ilya knew she’d get there eventually. 

It was good for her though, running around and playing with all the other kids. In Russia, these sort of programs had always been so serious. Here, the kids just had fun. There was no pressure, no yelling. And if one of the coaches had maybe told Ilya that Sasha was by far the best player in the 7-9 year old group, and if Ilya had swelled with pride at her words, then that was his business. 

She’d had a half day at school, like she did every Wednesday, so Ilya had picked her up around noon and they’d gone straight to the rink, grabbing some lunch on the way. 

“Da, Papa,” Sasha replied, listening intently and giving him a little nod. 

“Good, now go take a few last shots and then we have to get going to Dr. Ivanova’s,” he told her, reaching out to tug on her braid a bit. 

He could see the difference therapy had been making for his little girl, and Ilya would be damned if they missed an appointment. 

“Can’t we stay a little longer?” the little girl pleaded, predictably so. 

Ilya smiled at her, shaking his head. 

“We’ll be late,” he insisted, before giving her a gentle push across the ice. 

Sasha didn’t argue further, although that wasn’t terribly surprising. She hardly ever complained, and even when she did, all it took was him saying no once and she gave up the fight. Her therapist, Dr. Ivanova, a woman around his own age who had immigrated to the States when she was younger, told him that it was a common trauma response. Some children acted out after abuse, others became people pleasers. 

As nice as having a well-behaved child sounded in theory, Ilya hoped that, one day, his kid would feel safe enough to fight back. 

“How have the nightmares been?” 

Every few weeks, Ilya would meet with Sasha’s therapist just after her appointment, the little girl usually being sent to play in the waiting room so Dr. Ivanova could get an actual adult perspective on how Sasha was doing. 

Dr. Ivanova – Alina, as she kept reminding Ilya – had a cozy, colorful office, the type that he assumed most children probably found comforting. She’d come highly recommended, and if that hadn’t been enough to seal the deal, the fact that she spoke Russian would’ve. She spoke with an American accent, a side effect of having grown up in the States, but her Russian was fluent. 

Sometimes, when Ilya was speaking with the woman, he found himself wondering if one day, Sasha’s accent would fade away entirely as well. She was so young, after all, and already, there were certain words in her vocabulary that had begun to sound particularly American. 

He shrugged a shoulder in response to the woman’s question, fidgeting a bit with his mother’s cross. 

“The same,” Ilya answered, frowning as he did so. He had hoped that, by now, they would’ve been less frequent, but it seemed there were some things even therapy couldn’t help. “One or two a week. They’re not too bad, mostly, but some…” 

Pausing, he took a deep breath, trying to find the words to explain. How could he tell this woman that at least twice a month, his daughter woke up screaming and crying, hysterical from whatever memories she had relived in her dreams? How could he explain that, on those nights, he would spend hours rocking a near-catatonic little girl in his arms, all while she cried silently, trembling, and refusing to say what her dream was about? 

Thankfully, Alina seemed to be able to fill in the blanks herself, and cleared her throat a bit to yank Ilya out of his train of thoughts. 

“It’s not because of anything you’re doing,” she reminded him gently. “Or anything you’re not doing. These things just take time.” 

He let out a sigh, hanging his head to stare at the floor for a moment before nodding. It didn’t feel that way sometimes. Sure, they had days where Sasha seemed to be thriving, would act like every other seven year old, and on those days, Ilya felt like maybe he wasn’t totally fucking everything up. But then, there’d be a rough day, where Sasha had a nightmare, or cried when he left for work, or refused to talk to any of the guys when he brought her to practice. And on those days, Ilya was convinced he was the worst father in the world. 

Surely, he had to be doing something wrong. 

“It’s been months,” he said, somewhat bitterly, silently beating himself up about his failure the way he would after a bad game. Sasha had been with him for nearly six months, and Ilya felt like he was as clueless as he was the day he brought her home. 

“And think about how far she’s come,” Alina replied pointedly, raising an eyebrow at him. 

While that was true, Ilya still felt like he should be doing more. He was terrified of letting Sasha down, of not being the father she needed him to be. She’d already lost her mother, the last thing she needed was a dad that couldn’t keep it together. 

He sat up a little straighter, lifting his head to look at Alina. It wasn’t until then that he noticed how hesitant the woman looked. Usually, she was a straight shooter, calling him out on his shit no matter what – something he deeply respected about her. But now, it was as though she was almost scared to bring something up. 

“Why you look so scared?” he questioned suspiciously.

“Sasha…she brought up something today that’s concerning,” Alina said carefully, choosing her words with a preciseness that was almost visible. 

“Like what?”

Alina took a breath, evidently steeling herself. 

“Sasha’s confirmed she was physically abused but… I’m worried she might have been abused sexually as well.” 

Bile burned the back of Ilya’s throat as he retched once more, his body rebelling against him as he emptied the contents of his stomach. 

His heart was pounding in his chest, black dots encroaching on the corners of his vision, but he still couldn’t get Alina’s words out of his head. 

She might have been abused sexually as well. 

His Sasha. His little, tiny daughter, who was practically still a baby. And Alina thought that some man had looked at her, had touched her like that and–

Fuck, he was going to be sick again. 

Ilya had thankfully managed to stumble out of Alina’s office and into the bathroom at the end of the hall in just enough time 

He heard the door to the bathroom swing open, followed by the click of heels on the tile. 

“Here,” Alina said, offering him a bottle of water. 

Ilya snatched it gratefully, downing a few quick sips to wash the bile from his mouth. He leaned back against the way, body still shaking a bit from the stress of having just emptied his stomach, and he watched as Alina slid down the wall before sitting across from him, seemingly not minding the idea of being on a dirty bathroom floor. 

Well, to be fair, the bathroom seemed clean but it was, well… a bathroom. 

“Who?” he managed to voice the question eventually, fist clenched tightly in anger, the plastic of the water bottle crinkling under his grip. 

Alina sighed before staring at him for a moment, as though trying to determine whether he would get on a flight to Russia and go murder the man if she told him the truth. Eventually, she seemed to decide it was a moot point either way. 

“A man at the orphanage,” she told him, ripping the bandaid off. “One of the caretakers.”

The bottle cracked.

Ilya didn't realize he'd crushed it until water was spilling over his hand, dripping onto the floor between his legs. He stared at the mangled plastic, watched the liquid pool on the tile, and felt something ancient and violent unfurl in his chest.

"His name," Ilya said, his voice barely above a whisper, switching back to English. Each word felt like glass in his throat.

"Ilya-"

"His name." Louder now. Harder.

Alina shook her head slowly. "She wouldn't say. Or maybe she doesn't know it. But Ilya, you need to-"

He slammed the bottle down, the sharp crack echoing off the bathroom walls. The rage was a living thing now, crawling up his spine, spreading through his limbs like fire through dry brush. His hands were shaking - not from fear, not from shock, but from the sheer effort of keeping himself contained.

"How long?" The question came out strangled. "How long did this happen to her?"

"I don't know. She’s so young, Ilya, she barely even understands. She's still not ready to talk about details. These things take-"

"Time," Ilya finished bitterly, his accent thickening as his control slipped. "Yes, you say this. Always time. But what about-" His voice broke. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if he could physically push the images away. "She is seven. She is baby."

The bathroom suddenly felt too small. The walls were closing in. He needed space. He needed air. He needed to destroy something.

No - he needed to destroy someone.

Ilya's mind was already moving, calculating. He had money. He had connections. Russian connections. It wouldn't be hard to find out which orphanage, which man. It wouldn't be hard at all to make someone disappear in Russia, especially a piece of shit who worked in a forgotten orphanage in some forgotten town.

He'd burn the world down if it meant protecting Sasha. He'd burn it all to ash and dance in the embers if it meant no one would ever hurt her again.

"I can see what you're thinking," Alina said quietly. "And I understand it. God, Ilya, if I could, I'd help you do it. But Sasha needs you here. She needs you present, not in a Russian prison. Not dead."

"He touched my daughter." The words came out flat, emotionless - which was somehow worse than if he'd been screaming. The rage had gone cold, calculating. Dangerous. "He put his hands on my little girl, and he is somewhere right now, living his life. Maybe doing same thing to another child."

"You're right," Alina agreed, surprising him. "You're absolutely right. And that's something you’ll have to live with and I’m so, so sorry about that. But Sasha can't lose you. She's already lost so much."

Ilya's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His mother's cross pressed against his chest, and he thought about prayers, about faith, about a God who was supposed to protect innocent children.

He thought about Sasha's nightmares. The way she flinched sometimes before she caught herself. How she never, ever complained. How she watched him with those big, dark eyes, as if waiting for him to hurt her too.

People pleaser, Alina had called it. A trauma response.

His baby girl, seven years old, had learned to be good so that bad men wouldn't hurt her.

The rage crested again, and Ilya drove his fist into the wall beside him. Once. Twice. The pain was sharp and bright and not nearly enough. He wanted to hit something until his hands broke. He wanted to scream until his voice gave out. He wanted to go back in time and never let his daughter end up in that place, never let some monster-

"Ilya. Ilya," Alina's hands were on his shoulders, and he realized he was breathing too fast, harsh gasps that weren't getting any oxygen to his lungs. "You need to breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Come on."

He wanted to shove her away. He wanted to punch through the wall, through the floor, through everything until he reached Russia and could wrap his hands around that man's throat and squeeze.

But Sasha was in the waiting room.

Sasha, who needed him to walk out of this bathroom and smile at her and pretend his world wasn't ending. Sasha, who needed him to be strong when he felt like he was shattering into a million pieces.

His baby. His daughter. His Sasha.

Who some man had—

Ilya's stomach lurched again, but there was nothing left to bring up.

Chapter 13: chapter thirteen

Chapter Notes

Ilya left the bathroom with bruised knuckles, a card for a psychologist’s office in his hand, and a strong recommendation from Alina that he start therapy. 

He'd nodded at her, mostly to get her to stop talking, and shoved the card into his back pocket without looking at it. The last thing he wanted to do was sit in some office and talk about his feelings when what he really wanted was to be on a plane to Russia with a baseball bat and zero fucking conscience.

But Alina was right. She was always right, damn her.

Sasha needed him here.

The walk down the hallway to the waiting room felt like miles. Each step was an exercise in control—in smoothing out his expression, in unclenching his fists despite the throbbing pain, in forcing his breathing to slow. By the time he reached the doorway, he'd managed to wrestle his face into something that hopefully didn't scream I just found out the worst thing imaginable and barely kept it together.

Sasha was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her backpack beside her, completely absorbed in the coloring book spread out in front of her. She had a purple crayon clutched in her small fist, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she carefully stayed within the lines.

For a moment, Ilya just stood there and watched her. His little girl. So small, so fragile, so good. The rage threatened to crest again, hot and vicious in his chest, but he swallowed it down. Not here. Not in front of her.

Never in front of her.

"Sasha," he called softly, his voice only shaking a little.

Her head snapped up immediately, those big blue eyes finding his, and the smile that spread across her face was like a knife to his heart. Pure and trusting and so goddamn innocent.

"Papa!" She scrambled to her feet, leaving the coloring book behind as she hurried over to him. "Are you okay?"

The fact that she was asking if he was okay made something crack further inside his chest.

"Da, malyshka," he managed, reaching down to ruffle her hair. "I'm okay. Come, let's go home."

Sasha nodded, but her eyes had already dropped to his hand - the one he'd driven into the wall. Her smile faltered slightly as she stared at his bruised knuckles, red and already starting to swell.

"Papa, your hand—"

"Is fine," Ilya said quickly, maybe too quickly. He flexed his fingers despite the pain, forcing a smile. "I just… was clumsy. Walked into door."

It was a terrible lie. Even a seven-year-old could probably see through it. But Sasha just nodded slowly, her expression unreadable in that way that made Ilya's stomach twist. She'd learned not to push, not to question. She'd learned to accept whatever adults told her, even when it was obviously bullshit.

People pleaser.

"Go get your things," he said gently, jerking his chin toward her abandoned backpack and coloring book.

Sasha scurried off obediently, gathering up her belongings with the careful precision of a child who'd been taught that leaving messes had consequences. She zipped up her backpack, placed the coloring book neatly on the table, and returned the crayons to their box one by one.

Ilya watched her, and tried not to think about what else she'd been taught. What else she'd learned in that orphanage.

The drive home was quiet. Sasha sat in the backseat, humming softly to herself as she looked out the window. Normally, Ilya would have asked her about her session, about what she and Dr. Ivanova had talked about, but the words stuck in his throat. He didn't trust himself to speak without his voice breaking.

So instead, he drove in silence, his bruised hand aching on the steering wheel, and tried to figure out how the fuck he was supposed to move forward from this.

"Papa?"

Sasha's small voice broke through his thoughts.

"Yes, mishka?"

"Can we have chicken nuggets for dinner?"

Such a simple question. Such a normal, childish request. For a moment, it made everything feel almost okay. Almost manageable.

"Of course," Ilya said, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. "With the dinosaur shapes, da?"

"Da!" Sasha's face lit up, and she kicked her feet happily against the seat.

Ilya forced himself to smile back, even as his heart was breaking.

He'd make her chicken nuggets. He'd tuck her in tonight. He'd read her a story and check for monsters under the bed and kiss her forehead. He'd do all the things a father was supposed to do.

And tomorrow, he'd figure out how to help her heal from things that never should have happened to her in the first place.

One day at a time.

That's what Alina kept saying.

One day at a time.

They pulled into the driveway and Ilya killed the engine. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the steering wheel, his bruised hand still gripping it tight.

"Papa? Are we going inside?"

"Da," Ilya said softly. "We're going inside."

He climbed out of the car and opened the back door, helping Sasha with her backpack. She slipped her small hand into his uninjured one, and they walked toward the building together.

Inside, Ilya would make chicken nuggets. He'd pretend everything was fine. He'd be the father Sasha needed him to be.

But later, after she was asleep, he'd fall apart. 

Dinner was a mechanical affair. Ilya went through the motions, plating up some chicken nuggets with apple slices on the side, since he was trying to get Sasha to eat more fruit, and sat across from her at their small kitchen table.

Sasha chattered about her day at school, about the art project they'd done and how her friend Emma had shared her crayons. Ilya nodded in all the right places, made the appropriate sounds of interest, but inside he felt hollow. Scraped out.

Every time he looked at her, his mind supplied images he desperately didn't want to see. Every time she smiled at him, he thought about what had been stolen from her before he'd even known she existed.

"Papa, you're not eating," Sasha observed, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth.

Ilya looked down at his own untouched plate. His stomach rolled at the thought of food.

"Not very hungry, malyshka," he said. "But you eat. You need to grow big and strong, da?"

Sasha studied him for a long moment, those blue eyes far too knowing for a seven-year-old, before she returned to her dinner.

After she'd finished and Ilya had cleaned up the dishes, he ran her a bath. He sat on the bathroom floor while she played with her bath toys, making sure to keep his eyes on the tile, giving her privacy. Another thing Alina had told him - children who'd been abused needed to know their bodies were their own, that they had autonomy, that even their father wouldn't violate that boundary.

He helped her into her pajamas - the ones with the little cartoon bears on them - and brushed out her long dark hair, careful with the tangles.

"Story?" Sasha asked hopefully, already climbing into bed.

"Of course," Ilya said, settling beside her with the worn copy of Masha and the Bear that she'd requested they read every night for the past two weeks.

He read it in Russian, his voice steady despite everything, and by the time he finished, Sasha's eyes were drooping.

"Love you, Papa," she mumbled sleepily, already curling into her pillow.

"Love you too, mishka," Ilya whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "More than anything."

He waited until her breathing evened out, until he was sure she was truly asleep, before he finally allowed himself to leave her room.

In the kitchen, Ilya braced his hands against the counter and just breathed for a moment. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

His phone sat on the counter where he'd left it.

Ilya stared at it for a long moment before finally picking it up. His bruised knuckles protested as he scrolled through his contacts, but he barely felt the pain.

He paused on Shane's contact, and before Ilya knew it, the line was ringing. 

He shouldn't. It was late. Shane was with his parents in Ottawa. Shane had a concussion, a fractured collarbone. He was supposed to be resting, not dealing with Ilya's shit.

But Ilya's hand was shaking again, and his chest felt too tight, and he couldn't breathe properly, and–

“Hey,” Shane greeted, picking up on only the second ring, voice soft in a way that instantly put Ilya at ease a little. “Everything okay?” 

Usually, they always texted each other before calling, in case the other wasn’t alone. But Ilya couldn’t find it in himself to wait any longer. 

Just hearing his voice made something crack in Ilya's chest, and suddenly he couldn't speak. The words were stuck in his throat, tangled up with everything he was trying not to feel.

"Shane," he managed, his voice rougher than he intended. "I… I'm sorry. I know it's late. You're probably with your parents."

"I am, but that's okay," Shane assured him quickly, and Ilya could hear him moving, probably going somewhere more private. "What's wrong? Is Sasha okay?"

"Sasha's fine. She's asleep," Ilya replied, then corrected himself. "No, that's… she's not fine. I'm not fine. I—"

He stopped, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

"Okay," Shane said, in an achingly gentle tone. "Okay. What’s going on?"

Ilya opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn't know how to say it. Didn't know how to form the words.

"Ilya, you're scaring me," Shane told him quietly, concern flowing through his voice. "Talk to me."

"I—" Ilya started, then stopped. He scrubbed his free hand over his face, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye socket hard enough to hurt. "I had meeting. With Sasha's therapist."

"Okay," Shane replied carefully. "And?"

Ilya's jaw clenched. He couldn't do this. He couldn't say it out loud. Saying it made it real, made it something he had to actually face instead of just a nightmare in his head.

"Ilya?"

"She told me something," Ilya forced out, each word feeling like pulling teeth. "About Sasha. About what happened in Russia."

There was a pause. Ilya could hear Shane's breathing on the other end of the line, steady and patient. Waiting.

"What did she tell you?"

Ilya's hand tightened around the phone. He could feel his heart pounding, could hear the blood rushing in his ears. His bruised knuckles were pressed against the counter, the pain sharp and grounding.

"I can't—" his voice cracked. "I can't say it."

He could barely think of it. 

"Okay," Shane interrupted evenly, as though it wasn’t a problem at all that Ilya couldn’t bring himself to form a simple sentence. "That's okay. You don't have to—"

"She thinks—" Ilya tried again, then stopped. His throat was closing up, making it hard to breathe. "The therapist, she thinks that Sasha was… that someone…"

He couldn't finish. The words wouldn't come. They were stuck behind his teeth, trapped by the rage and horror and grief threatening to consume him.

Shane was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was very soft.

"Touched her?" he asked carefully.

Ilya made a choked sound that might have been an agreement. His eyes were burning, and he pressed his bruised knuckles against the counter hard enough to make them throb. The physical pain was easier to deal with than the emotional agony tearing through his chest.

"Oh god," Shane breathed. "Ilya—"

"Don't," Ilya said sharply, cutting him off. He didn't want sympathy. Didn't want platitudes or useless apologies from someone who wasn’t even at fault. Didn't want to hear that it would be okay or that time heals all wounds or any of the other bullshit people said when they didn't know what else to say. "Just… don't."

"Okay," Shane said after a pause. "Okay."

Silence stretched between them. Ilya's hand was white-knuckled around the phone, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel his teeth grinding together. He focused on his breathing - in through his nose, out through his mouth - the way Alina had told him to do when the panic got too bad.

"Where are you right now?" Shane asked finally.

"Kitchen."

"Are you okay?"

Ilya let out a harsh laugh that sounded more like a sob. He wasn’t sure he’d been okay in a long time. Sure, he was fine, most days. He got by. But getting by and being okay were two completely different things. 

"No," he said flatly. "No, I'm not fucking okay."

"I know," Shane answered quietly, wincing a little. "Stupid question. I'm sorry."

More silence. Ilya could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock on the wall. Normal sounds. The world kept turning even when Ilya's felt like it was ending.

"Have you eaten at all?" Shane asked, sounding concerned. 

"No."

"Ilya—"

"I'm not hungry," he retorted. Ilya felt numb, and hunger was the last thing on his mind. Even if he had been, his stomach was still so unsteady, twisting and turning with nausea, that he wouldn’t have trusted it with any food. 

"You should eat something," Shane pressed. "Even if it's just-"

"I can't," Ilya interrupted, his stomach churning at the thought. "I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see… I think about…"

He trailed off, unable to finish. The images in his head were too terrible, too real. His sweet little girl, so small and fragile, and some man putting his hands on her, hurting her in ways that—

Ilya's stomach lurched and he had to breathe through his nose to keep from being sick again.

"I know," Shane said softly. "I know."

They sat in silence for a moment, Shane's steady breathing on the other end of the line the only thing keeping Ilya grounded. It was ridiculous, really, how much Shane's presence helped. They weren't even in the same city and still, just knowing Shane was there, listening, caring - it made the crushing weight on Ilya's chest just a little bit lighter.

"I wish I was there," Shane said finally, frustration clear in his voice.

"You're in Ottawa," Ilya replied, the words automatic.

"I know, but—" Shane paused, and Ilya could practically hear him making a decision. "I'm coming to Boston."

Ilya's breath caught.

"What? No—"

"I'm coming," Shane repeated, more firmly this time.

"You have concussion," Ilya protested, even as something desperate and hopeful unfurled in his chest. "You shouldn't fly. And your shoulder—"

"Is fine," Shane interrupted. "The concussion's almost gone. I barely have headaches anymore."

"Shane-"

"I'm coming," Shane said again, and this time there was no room for argument in his voice. "I'll get a flight out tomorrow morning. I'll tell my parents I need to do physio with the team doctors or something."

And God, Ilya wanted to say yes. He wanted it so badly it physically hurt. The thought of having Shane here, of not having to deal with this alone, of having someone to lean on - it was almost too much to hope for.

But he couldn't. There were too many reasons why this was a bad idea.

"You can't," Ilya said, forcing the words out even though they tasted like ash. "It's too risky."

"What do you mean?"

"What if someone sees you coming to my apartment?" Ilya asked, the practical concerns flooding back now that the initial shock was wearing off. "What if they take picture? What if someone from your team asks why you're in Boston?"

It was everything he’d been planning to say before Shane ended up in the hospital. Every little thing that had been weighing on his mind. Every reason that the logical thing to do was end things between them. 

"I'll be careful," Shane insisted. "No one will know."

"You don't know that," Ilya argued, his grip tightening on the phone. "And even if no one finds out about us, Sasha… she’s too young to understand. I won’t– I can’t ask her to keep our secret.” 

It sounded innocent enough, but Ilya knew how quickly these things could spiral. One casual comment, one person connecting the dots, and everything would fall apart.

Ilya had a hard enough time keeping their relationship a secret, and he was a grown man. It felt suffocating at times, the weight of lying to everyone around them. He refused to ask Sasha to do that. The little girl already had a long list of adults that had forced her to lie, to keep secrets, to protect them while they were hurting her, and Ilya would never, ever add himself to that list. 

"She doesn’t have to know, Ilya" Shane offered slowly, as though it was painful for him to say those words. "We’ll just… I don’t know, tell her I’m your friend. She already thinks that, doesn’t she?"

Ilya hesitated, biting his lip. When he and Shane were alone, either at his place, or Shane’s, or a hotel, it was the one place they could really be together. The one place they didn’t have to hide. But now, with Sasha, even if Shane came here, they’d still have to lie. Still have to pretend to be something they weren't.

"It's too much," Ilya said, shaking his head even though Shane couldn't see him. "I can't ask you to-"

"You're not asking," Shane cut him off. "I'm offering. There's a difference."

"But you shouldn't have to—"

"Ilya, stop," Shane said firmly. "Stop trying to push me away. I want to be there. I want to help. Let me."

Ilya's eyes burned. He didn't know if it was from exhaustion or emotion or both. His whole body felt heavy, worn down by months of holding everything together on his own. Being a single father. Dealing with Sasha's trauma. Managing his career. Grieving his father - or rather, grieving the father he never had. Cutting off his entire family. And now this. This fresh horror that someone had hurt his daughter in the worst possible way.

He was so fucking tired.

And for once - just this once - he wanted to be selfish.

He wanted Shane here. Wanted to feel Shane's arms around him, wanted to bury his face in Shane's shoulder and just break down without having to worry about being strong. Wanted someone else to carry the weight for a little while.

He wanted to not be alone. 

Ilya had spent his entire life putting everyone else first. His father's expectations. His brother's demands. His team's needs. And now Sasha, who would always, always come first because she was his daughter and she deserved everything.

But maybe - just maybe - he could have this one thing for himself.

"Okay," Ilya whispered, the word barely audible.

"Okay?" Shane repeated, sounding surprised that Ilya had given in.

"Okay," Ilya confirmed, louder this time. He took a shaky breath, his chest tight with a mixture of relief and guilt and desperate need. "I… I need you here."

The admission felt like it had been dragged out of him, like he was confessing to a crime. Needing someone was weakness. Depending on someone meant they could let you down. Ilya had learned that lesson early and learned it well.

But Shane had never let him down. Not once.

"I'll be there tomorrow," Shane promised, his voice soft and sure. "I'll text you my flight info when I book it. And Ilya? We'll figure out the rest. The logistics, keeping it quiet, all of it. We'll make it work."

Ilya nodded, then realized Shane couldn't see him. "Da. Okay."

"Try to get some sleep," Shane said gently. "I know it'll be hard, but try."

"I will," Ilya lied. He knew he wouldn't sleep tonight. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sasha's face, imagined what she'd been through, pictured the man who'd hurt her. Sleep was impossible.

But Shane didn't need to know that.

"I'll call you when I land tomorrow," Shane continued. "Probably early, if I can get a morning flight."

"Okay."

There was a pause, and Ilya could hear Shane's soft breathing on the other end of the line. It was comforting in a way he couldn't quite explain.

"It's going to be okay," Shane said finally. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it will be. You and Sasha - you're going to get through this."

Ilya wanted to believe him. Wanted to have that kind of faith. But right now, he just felt numb.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For… for everything."

"Always," Shane replied simply.

They said their goodbyes, and Ilya stood in his kitchen for a long moment after hanging up, staring at his phone.

Shane was coming.

Tomorrow, he wouldn't have to face this alone.

The guilt was already creeping in - guilt for being selfish, for putting Shane at risk, for potentially confusing Sasha, for needing someone when he should be strong enough to handle this on his own.

But underneath the guilt was something else. Something that felt almost like hope.

Maybe it was okay to need someone. Maybe it was okay to not be strong all the time.

Maybe it was okay to let Shane help carry the weight.

Ilya moved through the apartment mechanically, checking the locks, turning off the lights. He paused outside Sasha's door, pushing it open just a crack to make sure she was still sleeping peacefully.

She was curled up on her side, Fyo tucked under her arm, her face relaxed in sleep. She looked so small in that bed. So innocent.

Ilya's chest tightened, and he had to look away.

He retreated to his own room, climbing into bed fully clothed. He stared at the ceiling, his mind racing with everything Alina had told him, everything he needed to do, everything that could go wrong.

But through it all, one thought kept circling back.

Shane was coming.

And for tonight, that would have to be enough.

Chapter End Notes

okay so maybe two more sad chapters after this and then i promise its going to be happier times for our little Hollanov family

Chapter 14: chapter fourteen

Chapter Notes

Shane’s flight landed at Logan just after ten in the morning. He'd managed to book a 7 AM departure from Ottawa, lying smoothly to his parents about needing to get back for mandatory physio sessions. His mother had fussed, worried about him flying so soon after his concussion, but Shane had assured her he was fine. The doctor had cleared him for travel, he'd said. It was just precautionary check-ins with the team medical staff.

All lies, but necessary ones.

He texted Ilya as soon as he landed, grabbing his bag from the overhead compartment and making his way through the terminal as quickly as he could without jostling his healing shoulder too much.

Just landed. On my way.

The response came almost immediately.

Okay.

That single word told Shane everything he needed to know about Ilya's state of mind. The man was barely holding it together.

Shane caught a cab outside the airport, giving the driver an address two blocks away from Ilya's building. He'd walk the rest of the way, just to be safe. The last thing either of them needed was some nosy neighbor or paparazzi spotting Shane Hollander showing up at Ilya Rozanov's apartment.

The morning was warm, typical for Boston in late spring, and Shane pulled off his jacket as he walked. His shoulder ached a little from carrying his bag, but it was manageable. Nothing compared to what Ilya was going through.

When he finally reached Ilya's building, Shane glanced around to make sure no one was watching before slipping inside. He took the elevator up, his heart pounding harder with each floor.

He knocked softly when he reached Ilya's door, not wanting to startle Sasha if she was nearby.

The door opened almost immediately, as though Ilya had been waiting right on the other side.

Shane's breath caught at the sight of him.

Ilya looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, his hair was a mess like he'd been running his hands through it all night, and his face was drawn and pale. He was wearing sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, and Shane could see the bruised, swollen knuckles on his right hand.

"Hey," Shane greeted softly, feeling as though he could spook the other man at any moment.

"Hey," Ilya echoed, his voice rough, but his eyes shining with relief.

For a moment, they just stood there in the doorway, looking at each other. Then Ilya stepped back, letting Shane inside.

Shane barely had time to set his bag down before Ilya was pulling him into a fierce embrace. Ilya's arms wrapped around him tightly, his face buried in Shane's good shoulder, and Shane could feel the tremor running through his body.

“I’ve got you," Shane murmured, his good arm coming up to hold Ilya close. "I'm here. It's okay."

Ilya didn't say anything, just held on tighter, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps against Shane's neck.

They stood there for a long moment, wrapped up in each other in the entryway. Shane rubbed small circles on Ilya's back, just holding him, letting him take whatever comfort he needed. He could feel Ilya trembling slightly, the tremors running through his body like aftershocks, and Shane tightened his grip. 

He'd never seen Ilya like this - so completely undone, so vulnerable. Even at the hospital after Shane's concussion, even in Tampa when they'd had that conversation about Ilya's father, Ilya had managed to maintain some semblance of control. But now, standing in his entryway, Ilya was falling apart in Shane's arms, and all Shane could do was hold him and hope it was enough.

Finally, Ilya pulled back slightly, scrubbing a hand over his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, and Shane wasn't sure if it was from crying or lack of sleep. Probably both. There were lines around Ilya's mouth that Shane didn't remember being there before, and his skin had that grayish tinge that came from too much stress and not enough rest.

"Where's Sasha?" Shane asked quietly, glancing around the apartment.

The living room and kitchen were eerily quiet, devoid of the usual sound children seemed to produce so effortlessly. No cartoons playing on the TV, no humming or singing, no patter of small feet. Just silence that felt heavy and oppressive.

"Her room," Ilya replied, his voice hoarse as though he'd swallowed a shard of glass. "Playing."

Shane's chest tightened. Of course Sasha was being quiet. That's what she did when things were bad - she made herself small, invisible, tried not to be a burden. He'd seen it before, the way she retreated into herself when Ilya was upset, and it broke Shane's heart every single time.

"She's not at school?"

Ilya shook his head, looking away, and Shane could see the guilt and shame written across his features. "I called them this morning. Said she was sick."

"Is she actually sick?"

"No," Ilya admitted, the word coming out clipped and harsh. He crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw clenching so hard Shane was worried he'd crack a tooth. "I just… I couldn't. I couldn't let her go."

Shane's heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in Ilya's voice, at the way he couldn't even meet Shane's eyes as he made the admission.

"Okay," he said gently, keeping his tone carefully neutral. "That's okay."

"It's not okay," Ilya said, his accent thickening with emotion in the way it always did when he was upset or exhausted. "I'm being… what's the word? When you protect too much?"

Shane could see Ilya searching for the English vocabulary, his frustration mounting when the word didn't come immediately. It was another sign of how badly he was doing - stress had a way of making Ilya’s English slip away from him.

"Overprotective?"

"Da, overprotective," Ilya confirmed, looking frustrated with himself, his hands flexing and unflexing at his sides. "But I can't help it. Every time I think about sending her out there, about her being away from me, I just…"

He trailed off, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Shane could see the bruised knuckles more clearly now in the light of the apartment, the skin mottled purple and yellow where Ilya had driven his fist into the bathroom wall. The sight made Shane wince internally. Ilya had to be in pain, but he probably didn't even notice it, too consumed by the emotional agony to register the physical.

"You're scared," Shane said simply, stating the obvious because sometimes that was what people needed. "That's normal, Ilya. After what you found out yesterday, of course you're scared."

"I dropped her off yesterday," Ilya continued, as though Shane hadn't spoken, his voice taking on a desperate quality that made Shane's stomach twist. "I dropped her off at school and I went to work and I had no idea. No idea what had happened to her. And now I know and I can't… I can't stop thinking about all the times I wasn't there. All the times she needed someone and no one came. All the times she was hurt and scared and alone and I—"

His voice broke completely on the last word, shattering like glass, and he turned away, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as though he could physically force the tears back.

Shane moved closer, carefully placing a hand on Ilya's shoulder. He could feel the tension there, the muscles bunched tight like coiled wire, ready to snap.

"You're here now," he said firmly, squeezing gently. "That's what matters. You're here and she's safe and she knows you'll protect her. That's what she needs, Ilya."

Ilya let out a shaky breath, dropping his hands.

"She asked why she couldn't go to school," he confessed quietly. "And I told her we were having special Papa-Sasha day. That we'd do something fun together."

"That sounds nice,” Shane assured him, wanting to find some way to relieve Ilya’s turmoil. 

"She looked at me like she didn't believe me," Ilya continued, his voice cracking. "Like she thought she was in trouble. Like she thought I was keeping her home to punish her."

Shane’s heart hurt for Sasha, for the little girl who’d been forced to grow up far too quickly. Most kids would celebrate a day off of school, but Sasha was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

"Did you explain?"

"I tried," Ilya said, shaking his head. "But what do I say? 'Papa found out something terrible yesterday and now he can't let you out of his sight because he's terrified something will happen to you?' I can't tell her that."

"No," Shane agreed. "You can't."

Shane wished he could do more, say more, make this better somehow. But he knew there were no magic words that would fix this, no platitudes that would ease Ilya's pain. All he could do was be present, be steady, and hope that his presence alone was enough to keep Ilya from completely falling apart.

"You don't understand," Ilya said, his voice muffled by his hands. "You don't… she was hurt, Shane. For years. By people who were supposed to take care of her. And I wasn't there. I didn't protect her because I didn't even know she existed and now—"

He broke off, a choked sound escaping his throat that might have been a sob.

"And now you do know," Shane said quietly. "And you're doing everything right. You got her out of there. You brought her here, where she's safe. You're getting her therapy. You love her more than anything. That's what matters."

"But what if it's not enough?" Ilya asked, finally dropping his hands and turning to look at Shane. His eyes were wet, tears clinging to his lashes, and the devastation in his expression made Shane want to gather him up and never let go. "What if I can't fix her? What if she's always going to be scared and broken and it's my fault because I should have known, I should have found her sooner-"

"Stop," Shane interrupted, his voice firm. "Ilya, stop. You can't do this to yourself. None of this is your fault. You didn't know about her. You couldn't have known."

"But I should have," Ilya insisted, his voice breaking again. "I should have- Natalia- I should have stayed in touch, should have checked, should have-"

"You were eighteen," Shane reminded him. "You were a kid yourself. And Natalia knew how to get in touch with you. You can't blame yourself for this."

Ilya shook his head, clearly not believing him, but Shane could see some of the frantic energy starting to drain out of him, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion.

"Have you slept at all?" Shane asked, though he already knew the answer just from looking at Ilya's face.

Ilya shook his head, confirming what Shane had suspected.

"Have you eaten?"

Another shake of the head, and Shane felt a surge of frustration mixed with concern. Ilya was running on empty, physically and emotionally, and he couldn't keep going like this.

"Okay," Shane said decisively, channeling every bit of authority he could muster. "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to go take a shower - a real one, not just standing under the water for thirty seconds. Then you're going to eat something, even if it's just toast. And then we're going to spend the day together, all three of us, and you're going to try to relax. Just for a few hours."

"I can't-" Ilya started to protest, but Shane cut him off.

"You can," Shane interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm here now. You don't have to do this alone anymore. Let me help you, Ilya. Please."

Ilya looked at him for a long moment, something vulnerable and desperate flickering in his eyes, like he wanted so badly to believe Shane but was afraid to let himself.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Shane's chest tightened painfully at the question, at the wonder and disbelief in Ilya's tone, as though Shane being here was some kind of miracle rather than the most natural thing in the world.

"You don't have to deserve me," he said softly, reaching up to cup Ilya's face gently, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down his cheek. "I'm here because I want to be. Because I care about you. Both of you."

More than care, Shane thought but didn't say. Because saying it now, when Ilya was barely holding it together, when everything was so fragile and uncertain, felt like too much. But the words were there, pressing against his chest, demanding to be spoken: I love you. I'm so in love with you. I want to be here for you, always.

Ilya nodded slowly, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders as he leaned into Shane's touch for just a moment before pulling back.

"Okay," he said finally, his voice still rough but steadier than before. "Okay. I'll… I'll go shower."

"Good," Shane said, giving him what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "Go. I'll check on Sasha."

Ilya hesitated, his eyes immediately darting toward the hallway where Sasha's room was, and Shane could see the reluctance written all over his face. Letting Sasha out of his sight, even for five minutes, even when she was just down the hall, was clearly causing him physical pain.

"She'll be fine," Shane assured him gently. "Five minutes, Ilya. Just five minutes. I promise I'll take care of her."

Finally, reluctantly, Ilya nodded and headed toward his bedroom. Shane watched him go, his heart aching at the defeated slope of Ilya's shoulders, the way he seemed to be carrying the weight of the world.

Shane took a deep breath, trying to center himself. He needed to be strong right now, needed to be the steady presence that both Ilya and Sasha needed. He could fall apart later, could process his own emotions about all of this when he was alone. But right now, they needed him.

So he straightened his shoulders and headed down the hall to check on Sasha, hoping he could provide at least some small measure of comfort to this family that had somehow, without him really noticing, become the most important thing in his world.

He knocked lightly on the door, a soft rap of his knuckles against the wood. 

"Sasha? Can I come in?"

There was a pause, then a quiet "Okay."

Shane pushed the door open to find Sasha sitting on her floor, surrounded by Legos. She looked up at him with those big blue eyes - Ilya's eyes - and gave him a small, uncertain smile.

"Privet" she greeted quietly, voice tinged with just a bit of nervousness. Sasha looked back down at the floor, fiddling with one of the legos in her grasp. "Papa didn’t tell me you were here."

Shane crossed the room, knees cracking as he crouched down to settle on the floor across from here. God, he was turning into Scott Hunter. Soon, all the rookies would be calling him the old man instead. 

"Just got here a little bit ago," Shane replied evenly, something that seemed to soothe the little girl a bit. She had known he was coming, Shane knew, but it wasn’t like Sasha had had much time to adjust to the idea that he was coming. "Your papa's taking a shower. What are you building?"

"A house," Sasha explained, holding up a partially constructed structure. "For Fyo."

Shane smiled at the stuffed dog sitting nearby, presiding over the Lego construction.

"That's really good," he complimented softly, the tone taking over his voice almost instinctively, the way it always did when he was in the presence of the littlest Rosanov. "I’m sure Fyo will like it.”

Sasha's cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment, and she ducked her head, focusing intently on snapping another brick into place. It was endearing, the differences between Ilya and Sasha sometimes. While Ilya usually preened under compliments, oozing with confidence, Sasha seemed almost nervous by his words. 

worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Shane helping her find the right pieces while Sasha carefully built up the walls of her Lego house. There was something soothing about the repetitive action—sorting through the colorful bricks, snapping them together, watching something take shape piece by piece. Shane found himself relaxing slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he focused on the simple task.

"Shane?" Sasha interrupted the quiet after a moment, not looking up from her construction.

"Yeah?"

"Are you… are you mad I'm not at school today?"

He looked up from the legos he'd been sorting immediately, coming face to face with Sasha's blue eyes carefully watching him, seeming incredibly anxious about his response. The question caught him completely off guard, and Shane felt his chest tighten at the worry he could see written across her small face.

The question surprised him. "What? No. Why would I be mad?"

Sasha shrugged, her shoulders hunching slightly as she looked back down at her Legos, avoiding his gaze. "You came all the way from Ottawa to see Papa. And I'm supposed to be at school during the day, instead of here. I didn't want to be… in the way."

Shane's heart clenched painfully. God, this kid. She was seven years old, a baby, really, and already so worried about being a burden, about taking up space, about inconveniencing the people around her. It made Shane want to find whoever had taught her to think that way and shake them until they understood what they'd done to this sweet little girl.

"Sasha, look at me," he said gently but firmly.

She looked up hesitantly, her blue eyes wide and uncertain.

"You are never in the way," Shane said, putting every ounce of conviction he had into the words. "Never. I came here to see you and your papa. And to make sure you were both okay. And I'm really happy you're home today so I get to spend time with you."

"Really?" Sasha asked, her voice small and disbelieving, like she couldn't quite imagine that someone would actually want to spend time with her.

"Really," Shane confirmed, reaching over to ruffle her hair gently, freezing for a moment afterwards in fear that he might’ve scared her, that he might’ve trampled straight over a boundary like so many people had before. But Sasha didn’t seem to mind, and if anything, melted into the touch a little. Ilya was the same way, the two of them like cats trying to get scritches.  "Promise.”

A small smile tugged at Sasha's lips, tentative but genuine. "Okay."

"Okay," Shane echoed, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

They went back to building, and Shane thought the conversation was over. He was already mentally moving on, thinking about what he could make for lunch that Ilya might actually eat, when Sasha spoke again. Her voice was quieter this time, more hesitant, like she was testing the waters to see if it was safe to continue.

"I'm not sad about missing school anyway," she said, carefully placing a small window piece into the wall with the kind of intense concentration that told Shane this statement was far more important than she was pretending it was. "We were just supposed to finish our Mother's Day crafts."

Shane's hands stilled mid-reach for another Lego brick. "Oh."

The single syllable felt inadequate, but Shane didn't know what else to say. He could feel his heart starting to sink, could sense where this conversation was going, and he wasn't sure he was prepared for it.

"Everyone was making cards for their moms," Sasha continued, her words coming faster now, like she'd been holding them in and they were finally spilling out. Like a dam breaking, releasing everything she'd been keeping inside. "Mrs. Patterson said I could make one for Papa instead, but…"

She trailed off, and Shane felt something crack in his chest. He carefully set down the Lego piece he'd been holding, giving Sasha his full attention even though she still wasn't looking at him.

"But what?" he prompted gently, keeping his voice soft and non-judgmental.

"It's not the same," Sasha said quietly, her little fingers twisting together in her lap, worrying at the hem of her shirt. "Papa is Papa. He's not a mommy."

Shane swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. "No, he's not."

"All the other kids have mommies," Sasha confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. She still wasn't looking at him, her eyes fixed on the half-built Lego house like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Shane recognized the avoidance tactic - he'd used it himself plenty of times when talking about difficult things. "Emma has a mommy. And Michael. And Sofia. Even Tommy, and his parents are– are– what is it when they don’t live together anymore?”

“Divorced,” Shane provided softly, feeling that if he spoke too loud it would shatter the moment.

“Divorced,” Sasha repeated, face scrunching a little in concentration, the same way Ilya always looked when he was trying to commit a new word to memory. “But he still has a mommy. He sees her on weekends."

"And you don't," Shane said softly, stating the obvious because sometimes that's what people needed - someone to acknowledge the truth they were dancing around.

Sasha shook her head, a jerky little movement that made Shane's chest ache. She looked up suddenly, eyes filled with panic that didn’t belong on such a young face. 

“I love Papa,” she blurted quickly, with a desperation that told Shane she was terrified he thought otherwise. 

As though she’d been told time and time again in that fucking orphanage that she should be grateful for what she had. It was obvious to anyone with half an eye that Sasha loved Ilya, that she looked at her father as though he hung the moon. Shane hated whoever had made Sasha feel this way, whoever had taught her that missing her mother, that wishing she had more people in this world than just her father, made her ungrateful somehow. 

“I know you do,” he assured her, watching as a little bit of the tension in Sasha’s shoulders softened. 

Sasha looked down, avoiding his eyes as she placed another lego block, a click echoing through the room as it slotted into place. 

“But he works a lot,” she told him quietly, a sadness in her little voice that made Shane’s heart feel like it had been ripped straight out of his chest. “And my mama’s gone.”

Shane felt his eyes burn slightly, and he had to blink a few times to clear them. "I'm sorry, Sash."

"It's okay," Sasha said automatically, in that way kids did when they'd been taught not to make a fuss, not to cause problems, not to burden others with their pain. Shane hated it, hated that she'd learned to minimize her own feelings like this. "Papa says she loved me very much.”

"I'm sure that's true," Shane said, and he meant it. He'd never met Natalia, would never get the chance to, but if she was anything like her daughter, she must have been something special. "Your papa wouldn't lie to you about that."

"But she’s not here," Sasha said, and for the first time, there was something that sounded almost like anger in her small voice. A flash of emotion breaking through the careful politeness she usually maintained. "And now I don't have a mommy and everyone else does and it's not fair."

Her voice cracked on the last word, the anger dissolving into hurt, and Shane saw her eyes welling up with tears that she was clearly trying very hard not to let fall.

"Hey," he said gently, moving closer to put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. She was so small, so fragile, and Shane felt a surge of protectiveness that surprised him with its intensity. "It's okay to be upset about that. It's okay to wish things were different."

"But I don't want Papa to know," Sasha said, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand in quick, angry movements, like she was mad at herself for crying. "It’d make him sad.”

Shane's heart broke for this little girl, so young and already so concerned about protecting her father's feelings. She was seven years old and she was trying to carry the weight of her own grief alone because she didn't want to add to her father's burden. It was too much for anyone to handle, let alone a child who'd already been through so much.

"Your papa loves you," Shane said, choosing his words carefully. "More than anything in the world. And I think he'd want to know if you were sad about something."

Sasha shook her head frantically, seeming panicked at the thought. Her breathing started to waver, little breaths hitching in a way that almost sounded painful. It immediately sent Shane into panic mode, feeling an intense desperation to do something to make the little girl feel better. 

"That’s okay," Shane assured her quickly, holding her a little closer, feeling her small body press against his side. "Okay. You don't have to tell him if you don't want to."

He knew that wasn't necessarily the right answer, that a therapist or a parenting expert would probably tell him he should encourage Sasha to talk to her father about these feelings. But Shane also understood the impulse to protect the people you loved from pain, even when it meant carrying that pain yourself. He couldn't fault Sasha for wanting to shield Ilya from more hurt.

Sasha leaned against him, and Shane held her, staring at the pile of Legos scattered across the floor and trying not to let his own emotions overwhelm him. His mind was racing, thinking about Ilya and Sasha and everything they'd both been through. Thinking about how much they needed, how much they deserved, and how little the world had given them. Thinking about Mother's Day crafts and seven-year-olds who had to make Father's Day cards instead because they didn't have anyone else.

After a few minutes, Sasha pulled away, scrubbing at her face with both hands in a gesture that reminded Shane so much of Ilya it made his chest tight.

"I'm okay now," she said, though her voice was still shaky, still thick with the tears she was trying to hold back.

"You sure?" Shane asked, studying her face carefully.

She nodded, straightening her shoulders in a visible attempt to pull herself together. "Can we go back to playing?"

Shane recognized the tactic well. He always tried to change the subject after an emotional conversation too, something about all the feelings coursing through him just too overwhelming. If he didn’t shift the topic to something else, a feeling came over him like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. 

“Sure, kiddo,” he agreed softly, moving his focus back to the legos on the floor.

They finished building the Lego house together, working in a comfortable silence that felt different from before - heavier, weighted with the conversation they'd just had. Shane found himself glancing at Sasha every few seconds, looking for signs that she was still upset, but she seemed to have compartmentalized her sadness the way children sometimes could, tucking it away to deal with later.

By the time Ilya emerged from the shower fifteen minutes later, freshly dressed in jeans and a clean t-shirt and looking marginally more human - his hair was damp and curling wildly, and some of the grayish tinge had left his skin - Sasha seemed to have packed away her sadness completely. She was proudly showing off the completed structure, holding it up for her father to see.

"Papa, look what Shane helped me make!" she said brightly, and if Shane hadn't just witnessed her crying a few minutes ago, he never would have known anything was wrong.

"Is beautiful, mishka," Ilya said, his voice softening as he looked at his daughter, and Shane could see the love written all over his face. "Very good work."

Shane watched them together, watched the easy affection between father and daughter, and felt his heart clench with a complicated mix of emotions he couldn't quite name. Love, definitely. Protectiveness. A fierce desire to keep them both safe from anything that might hurt them.

And underneath it all, a growing certainty that he was in far, far deeper than he'd ever intended to be.

Chapter End Notes

Okay y'all, I need help on the timeline for another fic I'm writing. Shane and Ilya get drafted in June of 2009 but then don't play a MLH game against each other until October of 2010. Are we just living in a world where Montreal and Boston don't play each other for an entire season....? Send help pleaseeeeee

Chapter 15: chapter fifteen

The park was fairly empty when they arrived around noon - Shane supposed that most kids were probably in school. There were a couple of children around, along with a few parents, but it was mostly quiet otherwise. The warm weather, the gentle breeze, and a sky that matched Ilya and Sasha's eyes made it a picture-perfect day in Boston. The trees were full of new green leaves, and there were flowers blooming in the beds around the playground.

Ilya and Shane had both worn sunglasses and baseball caps that Ilya had dug up from his closet - a navy Red Sox one for Ilya and a green one for Shane which seemed to have the name of some sort of bar on it. There was a faint worry in the back of Shane's mind that they'd be recognized, but no one was paying them any attention at the park and the hat and sunglasses would ward off anyone from immediately spotting them unless they looked closely.

Sasha had made a beeline for the swings, Fyo tucked carefully on the bench beside Shane and Ilya since she couldn't swing with him, and was now pumping her legs in that determined way kids had, trying to get higher and higher.

"She's okay," Shane assured quietly after several minutes of tense silence.

Ilya didn't respond, his jaw tight, his bruised hand clenched on his thigh. His eyes tracked Sasha's every movement - the arc of the swing, the way she dragged her feet to slow down, how she jumped off and ran toward the slide.

"Ilya," Shane said, a little louder this time. "She's okay. She's right there."

"I know," Ilya replied tersely, but he didn't relax.

Shane sighed, leaning back against the bench. The sun was warm on his face, a welcome change after the long Boston winter. Despite the tension radiating from Ilya beside him, it was objectively a beautiful day. The kind of day that should have felt peaceful, restorative. Instead, Shane felt like there was a weight pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

They sat in silence for a while, watching Sasha play. Shane noticed that every time another kid got too close to her, Ilya's entire body would tense, like he was preparing to spring off the bench and intervene. When a little boy around Sasha's age approached the slide next to where she'd been, Ilya actually started to lean forward before Shane put a hand on his arm.

"She's okay," Shane repeated. "Look, she's on the monkey bars now. The kid's nowhere near her."

Ilya settled back reluctantly, but his leg started bouncing, nervous energy pouring out of him.

Shane's mind kept drifting back to his conversation with Sasha that morning. About Mother's Day crafts. About not having a mom when all the other kids did. About feeling different, left out. About the tears in her eyes and the way she'd tried so hard to hold them back, to be strong, to not be a burden.

He glanced at Ilya - exhausted, terrified, trying so hard to be everything his daughter needed. And Shane couldn't stop thinking about how much easier this would all be if Ilya had a partner, one he could actually be with. Someone to share the burden with. Someone who could be a mother to Sasha.

And Ilya could have that. He was bisexual. He liked women. He'd been with women before. Shane had heard the stories, had seen the way women looked at Ilya, the way they threw themselves at him. It wouldn't be hard for Ilya to find someone. Someone who could give Sasha what she needed.

The thought made Shane feel sick. Actually, physically sick, like someone had reached into his chest and was squeezing his heart in a fist. The image of Ilya with a woman - marrying her, building a life with her, giving Sasha the mother she wanted - it was like acid burning through Shane's insides.

But this wasn't about what Shane wanted. It was about what was best for Sasha. And what was best for Ilya.

Shane took a breath, steeling himself. This was going to hurt. God, this was going to hurt so much. But he had to at least bring it up, had to at least put the option on the table, even if the thought of it made him want to throw up.

"Can I ask you something?" Shane said quietly, still watching Sasha rather than looking at Ilya. He couldn't look at Ilya for this. If he looked at him, he'd lose his nerve entirely.

"Da."

Shane took another breath, choosing his words carefully. Each one felt like pulling teeth, like causing himself deliberate pain. "Have you ever thought about… about getting married? To a woman?"

He could feel Ilya go still beside him, the nervous bouncing of his leg stopping abruptly.

"What?"

"I just mean-" Shane forced himself to continue, even though every word felt like swallowing glass, like cutting himself open and bleeding out right here on this park bench. "You're bisexual. You like women. You could… you could have a normal relationship, not have to hide it. Get married. Give Sasha a mother."

The silence that followed felt endless. Shane's heart was pounding so hard he was sure Ilya could hear it. He kept his eyes fixed on Sasha, watching her attempt to hang upside down from the monkey bars, because if he looked at Ilya right now, he might actually break down.

Finally, Shane made himself look at Ilya. He expected anger, maybe. Or hurt. But the Russian's face held something Shane hadn't anticipated - a slight quirk of his lips, almost amused.

“You think I should marry a woman," Ilya said, but there was no heat in it. If anything, he sounded curious, like he was trying to figure out where Shane was going with this.

Shane's stomach twisted. He hadn't expected Ilya to sound so... calm about it. So willing to actually consider the possibility. It made everything so much worse somehow.

"I'm not saying you should," Shane replied quickly, desperately. It might actually kill Shane to watch Ilya do that. The thought of Ilya with someone else, building a life with someone else, being happy with someone else - it was physically painful. "I'm just asking if you've thought about it. For Sasha's sake."

"For Sasha's sake," Ilya repeated, and now there was definitely amusement in his voice, though Shane couldn't for the life of him understand why. What was funny about this? What could possibly be amusing about Shane's heart being ripped out of his chest?

"She needs a mother, Ilya," Shane told him, and he hated how his voice cracked slightly on the words. Hated that he was even saying this, even suggesting it. Hated himself for bringing it up, but he couldn't stop now. "Or at least, she wants one. And you could give her that. You could have a normal life, a normal family. You wouldn't have to hide anymore. Sasha could have what all the other kids have."

Ilya was quiet for a moment, and when Shane glanced at him again, he found Ilya staring out at the playground, a thoughtful expression on his face. Shane's heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. This was it. Ilya was actually considering it. Shane had planted the seed and now Ilya was going to realize that yes, this was the right choice, the smart choice, and Shane was going to have to watch him fall in love with someone else.

"I could marry Svetlana," Ilya commented finally, and Shane felt his stomach drop.

The words hit Shane like a physical blow. Svetlana. Of course. Beautiful, smart, Russian Svetlana who already knew all of Ilya's secrets, who was already part of his life. It made perfect sense. Too much sense.

"What?"

"Svetlana," Ilya repeated, still watching Sasha play, his voice infuriatingly casual. "She's American. Would be easy citizenship. She would do it."

Shane's throat felt tight, like someone was wrapping their hands around it and squeezing. He couldn't breathe properly. Couldn't think properly. All he could see was Ilya standing at an altar with Svetlana, Ilya kissing her, Ilya building a life with her and Sasha, the three of them becoming a perfect little family that Shane could never be part of.

"Right. Yeah. That makes sense," he managed to get out, though the words felt like they were being dragged from somewhere deep inside him.

"Her father is goalie," Ilya continued conversationally, like they were discussing the weather instead of Ilya's potential marriage to someone else. "Sergei Vitrov."

"Yeah, you've told me," Shane managed, his voice sounding strangled even to his own ears. 

The rational part of his brain knew this was what he'd been suggesting, what he'd asked Ilya to consider. But hearing Ilya actually talk about it, about marrying someone else, was so much worse than Shane had imagined. It was one thing to think about it in abstract terms. It was another thing entirely to hear Ilya planning it out, naming names, making it real.

"She would help me," Ilya added, his tone still maddeningly level. "We are friends. She knows about… everything. She would do this for me."

The implication was clear - Svetlana knew Ilya was bisexual, probably knew he was seeing a man. And she'd be willing to marry Ilya anyway, to give him the cover story he needed, to help him get citizenship. It was practical. Smart. The kind of arrangement that made sense on every level except the one that mattered to Shane.

"Is she, I don't know, someone you'd want to marry?" Shane asked, and he hated the desperate hope in his own voice, hated how transparent he must sound. "I mean, even just as friends?"

"We are friends," Ilya replied with a shrug, and Shane's brief flare of hope died as quickly as it had sparked. "We would be fine. And it would be for Sasha. And for passport."

Shane's heart sank further, settling somewhere around his feet. Of course they'd be fine. Svetlana was beautiful and smart and she already knew Ilya, already understood his life in a way Shane never could. They'd probably be more than fine. They'd probably be happy. Maybe even have a couple more kids, each one as perfect and adorable as Sasha. 

"Right. Of course," Shane forced out, his voice hollow.

"But…" Ilya said again, and this time when Shane looked at him, there was something in Ilya's expression that Shane couldn't quite read. Something that made Shane's pulse quicken despite himself.

"But what?" Shane pressed, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice and failing miserably. He needed to know what that but meant. Needed to understand why Ilya kept hesitating.

Maybe it was Svetlana. After all, the idea of marrying your best friend who you didn’t really have feelings for wasn’t the most romantic of ideas. But that idea was only more painful to Shane. It’d be one thing watching Ilya in a pretend marriage. But watching him actually fall in love? Shane wasn’t sure he’d survive that. 

"You like women, right?" Shane asked, even though he already knew the answer. He'd seen the way women threw themselves at Ilya, had heard the stories about his conquests. "You could find someone you'd want to marry for real and still get the passport. Someone who could be a real mother to Sasha."

The words hurt coming out. Each one was like a knife to his own heart. But Shane forced himself to say them anyway, because this wasn't about what he wanted. This was about what was best for Sasha. What was best for Ilya.

"Maybe," Ilya said slowly, drawing out the word. "But…"

He trailed off again, and Shane wanted to shake him. Wanted to demand he finish his sentences, stop leaving Shane hanging on these unbearable pauses.

"But what?" he demanded, his patience fraying, his emotions too close to the surface to maintain his usual careful control.

Ilya sighed, a long, deliberate sound that seemed to contain multitudes. "I have this problem."

Shane's brow furrowed. "What's the problem?"

"I like women, yes?" Ilya said, and now there was definitely amusement in his voice, a slight smile tugging at his lips that Shane didn't understand at all.

"Yeah, I know," Shane said, confused about where this was going. He was pretty sure everyone in America knew just how much Ilya Rozanov loved women. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what Ilya was getting at, why he suddenly seemed almost... playful?

"And everywhere I go," Ilya continued, spreading his hands expressively in that way he did when he was telling a story, "I'm surrounded by beautiful women. And they love me."

Shane felt something hot and ugly twist in his gut. Jealousy, he recognized dimly. Pure, undiluted jealousy that made him want to put his fist through something. The image of all these beautiful women surrounding Ilya, touching him, wanting him - it made Shane want to scream.

"Sounds rough," he said flatly, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Yes, it is," Ilya agreed, completely serious, nodding like this was a genuine hardship. "Listen. And these women, they're so sexy and fun."

Shane was going to be sick. He was actually going to throw up right here on this park bench. Why was Ilya telling him this? Why was he twisting the knife like this? Wasn't it enough that Shane had suggested Ilya marry someone else? Did Ilya have to rub it in his face how many options he had?

"But I am always thinking about this slow fucking hockey player with beautiful freckles," Ilya said, and Shane's heart stopped.

Wait. What?

Shane's brain stuttered to a halt, trying to process what Ilya had just said. Beautiful freckles. Shane had freckles. Was Ilya talking about...?

"And a weak backhand," Ilya added, and now he was definitely smiling, looking at Shane with those impossibly blue eyes, and there was so much fondness in that gaze that Shane felt like he couldn't breathe.

"A weak backhand?" Shane repeated, his brain struggling to catch up with what was happening. His heart was doing something complicated in his chest, some combination of hope and fear and love that he didn't have words for.

"Yes, very weak," Ilya confirmed, nodding seriously like this was a legitimate criticism and not the most backhanded declaration of love Shane had ever heard.

"And he's so boring," Ilya continued, warming to his theme now, and Shane could see the smile growing on his face, could see the affection written in every line of his expression. 

"I’m not that boring!" Shane protested automatically, even though that was absolutely not the point, even though his entire world was tilting on its axis and all he could focus on was the fact that Ilya was talking about him. Was saying he thought about Shane when he was with other women.

"I am always wishing that these women were him," Ilya said quietly, and the amusement had faded from his voice, replaced by something raw and honest that made Shane's chest feel like it was being crushed. "It's a terrible problem, huh?"

Shane couldn't breathe. His entire chest felt tight, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard it hurt. His hands were shaking slightly, and he had to clench them into fists to hide it.

"Do you want that problem to go away?" he asked, barely above a whisper, terrified of the answer but needing to hear it anyway.

It was the last thing Shane wanted. It’d kill him to walk away. 

But for Ilya, for Sasha… so that they could have a good life, so that they could be happy. Shane would do it. He’d do it in a heartbeat. 

Ilya looked at him for a long moment, and Shane could see everything in his eyes - the fear, the hope, the love. So much love it was almost overwhelming, almost too much to process.

"Mm-mm," Ilya said, shaking his head slowly, deliberately. "I don't ever want that problem to ever go away."

Shane's eyes burned, and he had to blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay. His throat was too tight to speak, his chest so full of emotion he thought he might burst. He'd never felt like this before, never felt so completely overwhelmed by feeling.

"Papa, look!" 

Sasha’s voice tore them out of the silence they’d been sitting in, and both men turned their heads to find Sasha at the top of the jungle gym, waving to them.

"I see you, mishka!" Ilya called back, managing to inject some warmth into his voice despite the tension in his body. "Be careful!"

Sasha laughed a little, and began climbing down, heading off toward the swings again when her feet reached the ground. 

Ilya's expression softened, some of the playfulness fading as he turned more serious. "Sasha doesn't want a mother," he said quietly, glancing over at where Sasha was playing. "Not really. She just wants more people in her life. More love, more support. And even if I did marry a woman, it wouldn't fix her pain, not completely."

Shane watched him, seeing the sadness in Ilya's eyes, the weight of experience behind his words.

"My father remarried after my mother died," Ilya continued, his voice taking on a distant quality, like he was remembering something painful. "I was young. I thought maybe it would help. That having a new mother would make the pain go away."

"But it didn't," Shane said softly, understanding dawning.

"No," Ilya confirmed. "It never helped. Although that might have been because Polina hated me almost as much as my father did. Sasha... she doesn’t even have enough memories of Natalia to really miss her. She just knows that all the other kids have more than her. More than just a father that works and leaves her with a nanny half the time.”

Shane felt his chest tighten at the raw honesty in Ilya's words. He'd never thought about it that way, never considered that giving Sasha a stepmother might not actually solve anything at all. Never considered that Sasha was just… lonely. 

"So no," Ilya said, returning to the original question, his voice firmer now. "I'm not going to marry a woman. Not Svetlana, not anyone. I won't do that to myself, and I won't do it to whoever the woman would be. It's not fair to anyone, getting married just for Sasha."

Shane nodded, relief flooding through him so intense it was almost painful. "I know," he said. "You're right. I shouldn't have suggested it. I just… I want to help. I want to make things better for both of you, and I don't know how."

"You're here," Ilya said simply, and the way he looked at Shane made Shane feel like he was the most important person in the world. "That's enough."

Shane looked at him - really looked at him. At the exhaustion in his face, the fear in his eyes, the love he had for his daughter written in every line of his body. 

They sat in silence for a moment, both watching Sasha play. She was pumping her legs on the swing, going higher and higher, her laughter carrying across the playground. She looked happy. Carefree. Like any other kid on a beautiful spring day.

"She is happy," Ilya said finally, echoing Shane's thoughts. "Maybe she doesn't have everything other kids have, but she has me. She has love. And for now, that has to be enough."

Shane nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

After a few minutes, Shane felt Ilya's hand brush against his on the bench between them. It was brief, barely noticeable to anyone watching, but it was there. A whisper of contact that sent Shane's heart racing.

A promise. A reassurance.

Shane's pinky hooked around Ilya's for just a second before they both pulled away, and Shane felt something settle in his chest. Something that felt almost like peace, almost like contentment. Like maybe, despite everything, they were going to be okay.

When he glanced over, Ilya was smiling - a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes and made Shane's heart skip a beat. The kind of smile that was rare and precious and meant everything.

They stayed at the park for another hour, Sasha running between the swings and the slide and the climbing structure with seemingly endless energy. Ilya remained tense, never fully relaxing, but at least he was present, occasionally even smiling when Sasha did something particularly cute.

Eventually, Sasha started to slow down, her movements becoming less frenetic. She climbed onto the swing one last time, but instead of pumping her legs, she just sat there, gently rocking back and forth.

"I think she's getting tired," Shane observed.

"Da," Ilya agreed. "We should go home soon. Get her some lunch."

As if on cue, Sasha slid off the swing and made her way over to them. Her cheeks were flushed from the exertion and the warm sun, and there was wood chip dust on her pants, but she looked happy. Content.

"Papa, I'm hungry," she announced, climbing up into Ilya’s lap and making herself at home there.

"When are you not hungry?" Ilya teased, brushing a curl out of her face. "You have hollow leg, I think."

Sasha giggled, nose scrunching up adorably. "Can we have grilled cheese?"

"We can have whatever you want, mishka," Ilya said, and this time when he smiled, it almost reached his eyes.

They walked back to the apartment together, Sasha chattering about everything she'd done at the park. Shane and Ilya didn't talk much, but Shane noticed that Ilya seemed a little less tense, a little less like he might shatter at any moment.

Maybe the park had been good for all of them.

When they got home, Ilya made grilled cheese while Sasha sat at the kitchen table coloring. Shane helped, mostly just keeping Ilya company and making sure he actually ate something himself.

It felt domestic. Normal. Like they were a family.

And Shane tried not to think too hard about how much he wanted that. How much he wanted this to be real, to be permanent.

Because it couldn't be. Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

But for today - for this moment - it was enough.

Chapter 16: chapter sixteen

Shane woke to the sound of screaming.

For a moment, he was disoriented, his brain struggling to place where he was. The unfamiliar darkness, the soft sheets, the warmth beside him - then it all came flooding back. Ilya's apartment. Ilya's bed. The day they'd spent together, the park, the careful way they'd navigated the evening with Sasha before finally retreating to Ilya's room once she was asleep.

Then the scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a choked, gasping sound that was somehow worse. More terrifying in its sudden silence than the scream had been.

Shane sat up just as Ilya bolted from the bed, moving faster than Shane had ever seen him move off the ice. It was like watching a switch flip - one second Ilya had been sleeping, the next he was already halfway across the room. The bedroom door flew open and Ilya disappeared into the hallway, leaving Shane alone in the dark.

For a second, Shane hesitated, unsure if he should follow. This was Ilya and Sasha's routine, something they'd done countless times before. Shane was an intruder here, an outsider who didn't belong in these intimate family moments. He didn't have a right to be part of this, didn't have a place in it.

But then he heard Ilya's voice, soft and urgent in Russian, followed by more of those terrible gasping sounds, and Shane couldn't stay in bed anymore. Couldn't just lie there while Sasha was clearly in distress, while Ilya was dealing with it alone.

He got up and quickly made his way down the hall. The hardwood was cool under his bare feet, and he was suddenly aware of how underdressed he was - just boxers and a t-shirt. But there wasn't time to worry about that now.

Sasha's bedroom door was open, light spilling out into the hallway, creating a yellow rectangle on the dark floor. Shane paused in the doorway, his hand on the frame.

Ilya was sitting on Sasha's bed, the little girl pulled tight against his chest. She wasn't crying - at least not in the way most kids cried after nightmares. Instead, she was making these horrible, silent, hiccupping sounds, her small body shaking with the force of sobs she was clearly trying to suppress. It was like she was trying to cry without making any noise, like she'd learned that crying too loudly had consequences.

It reminded Shane uncomfortably of what Ilya had mentioned before, about how Sasha had learned to cry quietly at the orphanage. The thought made him sick. Made him want to find whoever had taught her that and make them understand exactly what they'd done to this little girl.

"Shhh, malyshka," Ilya murmured, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles on her back. His voice was gentle, soothing, but Shane could hear the strain underneath it, could see the tension in Ilya's shoulders. "You're safe. Papa's here. You're safe."

Sasha's fingers were twisted in Ilya's shirt, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her from drowning. Her face was buried in his chest, and Shane could see her shoulders trembling, could see the way her whole body was rigid with fear or distress or whatever nightmare had gripped her.

Ilya looked up and caught Shane's eye. His face was drawn, exhausted and helpless, and Shane's heart broke all over again. There was so much pain in Ilya's expression, so much desperate love mixed with the agony of not being able to fix this, not being able to take away his daughter's pain.

"Is okay," Ilya said quietly, though Shane wasn't sure if he was talking to Shane or to himself. "Just a nightmare. She's okay."

But Sasha didn't look okay. She looked terrified, even in the safety of her father's arms. Her little body was still shaking, still making those awful silent gasps that sounded like she was drowning in air.

Ilya stood carefully, keeping Sasha pressed against his chest. She immediately wrapped her legs around his waist, koala-style, clinging to him with a desperation that made Shane's throat tight. It was like she was trying to crawl inside him, trying to get as close as physically possible, as if proximity alone could keep her safe.

"We'll go to my room," Ilya said, moving toward the door. His voice was soft but strained. "More comfortable."

Shane stepped back to let them pass, then followed them down the hall. He felt useless, helpless, like he should be doing something but had no idea what. This wasn't his area of expertise. He didn't know how to comfort a traumatized seven-year-old. He barely knew how to comfort himself most of the time.

Ilya settled back onto the bed, propping himself up against the headboard with Sasha still glued to his chest. She hadn't made a sound since that initial scream, just those awful silent gasps that seemed to wrack her entire body. Her little fingers were still fisted in Ilya's shirt, holding on so tight her knuckles were white.

Shane stood uncertainly near the foot of the bed, watching as Ilya murmured soft reassurances in Russian, his hand never stopping its soothing motion on Sasha's back. Then Shane noticed it - the way Sasha was shivering, her small body trembling not just from fear but from cold. Her thin pajamas weren't enough, and the tremors running through her were making everything worse.

Without thinking, Shane grabbed the throw blanket draped over the footboard. He moved carefully, not wanting to startle her, and gently draped the soft material over Sasha's small form. She was still curled up on Ilya's chest, her face hidden against his shoulder, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other clutching Fyo so tightly the poor stuffed dog looked like it might burst at the seams.

Shane carefully wrapped the edges around her, making sure she was covered from shoulders to feet, creating a little cocoon of warmth. His hands moved with a gentleness he didn't know he possessed, tucking the blanket securely around her trembling body. It took a little longer than usually, what with him only having one hand free, but he made it work. 

When he looked up, Ilya was watching him with an expression that made Shane's chest tight. There was so much gratitude there, so much relief and love that it was almost overwhelming. Ilya's eyes were shining with unshed tears, and he gave Shane a small, grateful smile that said everything words couldn't.

Shane nodded, then started to back away toward the door. He should leave, give them space. This was a father-daughter moment, not something he should intrude on. They didn't need him here. Sasha didn't need a stranger hovering over her while she was this vulnerable.

"I'll just— I'll go sleep in the guest room," Shane said quietly, keeping his voice low so he wouldn't startle Sasha. "Give you guys some space."

He'd only taken two steps toward the door when he felt a small hand grab the hem of his shirt. 

Shane froze, looking down. Sasha's hand had shot out from beneath the blanket, her small fingers twisted in the fabric of his t-shirt. Her grip was surprisingly strong for such a little kid, desperate and pleading without words.

Shane looked at Ilya, uncertain. This was his call. Ilya was her father, and if he didn't want Shane here for this, Shane would understand. Would go sleep in the guest room and pretend his heart wasn't breaking. He tried to communicate all of this with his eyes, tried to give Ilya an out if he needed one.

“Do you want Shane to stay, malyshka?” Ilya asked quietly, sounding a bit surprised. 

Sasha's breathing was still uneven, still punctuated by those horrible little gasps, but she gave a tiny nod against Ilya's chest. It was the smallest acknowledgment, but it felt like progress.

"Okay, mishka," Ilya said softly to Sasha, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. His voice was infinitely gentle, the kind of gentle Shane had only ever heard him use with his daughter. "Shane can stay."

Shane carefully settled down on the bed next to Ilya and Sasha, lying on his side so he could keep an eye on them. From where she was curled up on Ilya’s chest, Sasha had a clear view of him, and it seemed to calm her a little bit, being able to track where everyone in the room was. 

There was relief in Ilya’s expression, Shane realized. Like he'd been hoping Shane would stay but hadn't wanted to ask.

Ilya smoothed a hand over Sasha’s head, his expression softening even more.

"That was good idea," Ilya murmured to her in that same gentle voice. "Shane will help keep the monsters away."

Shane felt his throat tighten at the words, at the trust implicit in them. Ilya was telling his daughter that Shane was safe, that he could be counted on, that he would protect her too.

Sasha reached a hand out toward him, the one that wasn’t holding Fyo, making small grabby motions. The message was clear enough and Shane hesitantly scooted a bit closer, a bit of relief running through him when Sasha settled back against Ilya’s chest, breathing steadying just a bit.  She needed both of them there, needed the reassurance that neither of them would leave. That she was safe between them.

"You're okay, Sash," Shane said quietly, testing out the nickname he'd used before. His voice came out rougher than he intended, thick with emotion. "Your papa's got you. And I’m right here. You're safe."

They sat in silence for a while, Ilya's hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on Sasha's back, Shane just being present, being there, being an anchor if they needed him. The room was quiet except for the sounds of their breathing and the occasional hiccup from Sasha as she tried to calm down.

Gradually, painfully slowly, Sasha's breathing began to even out. The trembling in her small body started to subside, the rigid tension slowly leaving her muscles. Her death grip on Ilya loosened just a fraction, though she didn't let go completely, and her eyes were still locked onto Shane. Like she still needed to know he was there, that he hadn't left.

"That's it, mishka," Ilya murmured, his own voice thick with emotion. Shane could hear how close Ilya was to breaking, how hard he was fighting to keep his voice steady for his daughter's sake. "Just breathe. In and out. Just like that."

Shane glanced at Ilya and saw that his eyes were closed, his jaw clenched tight like he was fighting to keep his own emotions in check. A single tear tracked down his cheek, catching in the dim light from the hallway, and Shane's heart clenched painfully at the sight.

Without thinking, Shane reached out, carefully covering Ilya's hand with his own, both their hands resting on Sasha’s back. The contact was brief but grounding, a reminder that Ilya wasn't alone in this. That Shane was here, that he wasn't going anywhere.

Ilya's eyes opened, meeting Shane's, and Shane could see everything there - the pain, the helplessness, the overwhelming fear and something that looked startlingly like… like love. It was almost too much to witness, too intimate, but Shane couldn't look away. Couldn't break the connection between them.

"It's okay," Shane mouthed silently, squeezing Ilya's hand again. "I'm here."

Ilya nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard. His hand turned under Shane's, their fingers linking together. The small bit of contact seemed to steady Ilya, seemed to give him the strength to keep going.

They stayed like that - connected, grounding each other while Sasha finally, finally started to calm. After what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes, Sasha's breathing had mostly returned to normal. The gasping sobs had faded away entirely, replaced by the occasional shaky exhale. Her body had gone limp against Ilya's chest, exhaustion finally overtaking fear.

"Is she asleep?" Shane whispered, barely breathing the words.

Ilya waited a moment, then shook his head slightly. "Not yet," he murmured back. "Soon, though."

They fell quiet again. Shane wasn't sure what time it was - probably somewhere around three or four in the morning based on how exhausted he felt. His shoulder was starting to ache from the awkward angle he was lying at, but he didn't dare move and risk disturbing Sasha. The pain was nothing compared to what this little girl had been through, what she was still going through.

Shane kept his voice low and soothing, speaking quietly to fill the silence. He talked about safe things, gentle things - about the park earlier that day, about how brave Sasha had been on the monkey bars, about how the sun had been warm and the sky had been so blue. Just meaningless words to let her know he was there, that both of them were there, that she was surrounded by people who loved her.

By the time his words trailed off, Sasha's eyes had finally closed, her grip on Fyo going slack, the stuffed dog tumbling onto the comforter below. Shane scooped it up, softly tucking it securely against Sasha. Her breathing had evened out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. She looked peaceful finally, the fear and distress erased from her small face.

"She's out," Shane whispered, not daring to speak any louder for fear of disturbing the peace the little girl had finally found.

"Da," Ilya agreed quietly, but he didn't move. Neither did Shane.

They stayed like that, the three of them in Ilya's bed, connected by Sasha's small form and the intimacy of the moment. Shane knew he should probably extract himself, go back to the guest room now that Sasha was asleep. This was pushing boundaries, crossing lines that maybe shouldn't be crossed.

But Ilya's hand was still locked around his own, and Sasha looked so peaceful finally, and Shane just…couldn't bring himself to move. Couldn't bring himself to break this fragile bubble of safety and warmth they'd created.

"Thank you," Ilya whispered, his voice barely audible. His eyes were fixed on Shane with such intensity it made Shane's breath catch. "For staying. For… for everything."

"You don't have to thank me," Shane replied just as quietly, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "I wanted to stay."

It took a scary amount of strength to keep himself from spilling out the whole truth, every word he wanted to say. He wanted to stay. He never wanted to leave. He wanted to be here with Ilya and Sasha, always. He wanted a thousand more days like this, with trips to the park and legos and grilled cheeses. 

He wanted it all. 

"She's never asked for someone else before," Ilya told him, glancing down at his daughter with an expression so full of love it hurt to look at. "During nightmares. It's always just… just me."

"She trusts you," Shane said, because that much was obvious. The way Sasha had clung to Ilya, the way she'd immediately sought him out when she woke from her nightmare - that was pure trust. Pure love. "She knows you'll keep her safe."

"She trusts you too," Ilya pointed out, looking at where Sasha's hand still rested against Shane's sleeve. "She wanted you to stay."

Shane didn't know what to say to that. The weight of Sasha's trust felt enormous, terrifying and precious all at once. This little girl who'd been hurt so badly, who had every reason not to trust anyone, had reached for Shane. Had wanted him there during one of her most vulnerable moments.

“They’re not usually this bad,” Ilya explained softly, as though knowing the turmoil Shane was going through and wanting to lessen it. “Not anymore. Maybe only once a month, like this.” 

Shane swallowed heavily, wondering how bad it had been when Sasha first began living with Ilya. What it must have felt like to wake up in the middle of the night, terrified, having only what amounted to a stranger to comfort her, a man that had obligation to her other than blood, a man she had no idea would never dream of hurting her. He didn’t even want to think about what it must have been like in the orphanage. Judging by the way she’d tried to silence her cries, Shane assumed she was probably yelled at for making a fuss. Or worse, punished. 

"We should sleep," Ilya said finally, though his voice suggested he wasn't sure he'd be able to. "She might wake up again."

"Do you want me to—" Shane started, gesturing vaguely toward the door.

"Stay," Ilya said firmly. His eyes met Shane's, and there was no uncertainty in them now, just certainty and need. "Please.”

So Shane stayed.

He carefully adjusted his position, trying to get more comfortable without disturbing Sasha. Ilya did the same, settling more deeply into the pillows with his daughter still cradled against his chest, still holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

Their hands were still near each other on the bed, and Shane found himself focusing on that proximity - not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from Ilya's skin. It felt like an anchor, like a promise.

"Go to sleep, Hollander," Ilya murmured, his eyes already closing. He looked exhausted, wrung out by the emotional toll of the past few days.

"You too," Shane replied, but he kept his eyes on Ilya's face, watching the lines of tension slowly smooth out.

But even after Ilya's breathing had evened out, even after Shane was sure both father and daughter were finally asleep, Shane stayed awake for a while longer. He couldn't stop himself from watching them, from memorizing this moment.

He watched them in the dim light filtering in from the hallway - Sasha curled up small and safe against her father's chest, Ilya's arms wrapped protectively around her, their matching curls tangled together. They looked peaceful now, both of them, the fear and pain temporarily set aside in sleep.

And Shane thought about being trusted to stay, about being asked to help keep the monsters away. About Ilya's grateful smile when Shane had wrapped the blanket around Sasha, about the way Ilya had said that was good idea like Sasha choosing Shane had been exactly right.

He thought about Sasha's small hand twisted around his shirt, about the way she'd reached for him without words, about the trust implicit in that gesture.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under, and Shane finally slept, his hand near Ilya's. And for the first time in a long time, Shane felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Like he was home.

Chapter 17: chapter seventeen

Ilya was stretched out on his couch with Sasha tucked against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. Svetlana was in the armchair, her legs tucked under her, a glass of wine in hand.

"Papa, can I get more popcorn?" Sasha asked, blue eyes pleading with him as she held up the nearly empty bowl.

Never one to deny the little girl anything – especially food, since despite putting on some much needed healthy weight over the past year, Sasha was still smaller than she should be – Ilya nodded in agreement. 

"Da, go ahead," Ilya told her, and Sasha scrambled off the couch, heading toward the kitchen.

As soon as the little girl was out of earshot, Svetlana set down her wine glass and fixed Ilya with a serious look.

"I want to take Sasha on a trip this summer," she said without preamble.

Ilya's head snapped toward her. "What?"

It certainly didn’t escape Ilya’s notice that he wasn’t included in Svetlana’s statement. A trip. A trip without him. A trip where he wasn’t with Sasha, where anything could happen to her, where–

"A week or two," Svetlana continued, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "Maybe to New York. Or Paris, oh she’d love Paris."

The ridiculous notion of taking a seven-year-old to Paris aside, Ilya refused.

"No," Ilya said immediately, his voice firm. "She needs me."

"Ilya—"

"She has nightmares still," Ilya interrupted, his accent thickening the way it always did when he was getting defensive. "She needs routine. She needs to be home. She needs—"

"You," Svetlana finished, sighing in exasperation. "Yes, I know. But Ilya, you need a break."

"I don't need a break," Ilya insisted, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

Svetlana raised an eyebrow, her expression making it clear exactly what she thought of that statement. "You're falling apart."

"I'm not-"

"You are," Svetlana told him firmly, leaning forward. "I can see it, Ilya. You're exhausted. You barely sleep. You're wound so tight you're going to snap. And when you do, you won't be any good to Sasha."

Ilya clenched his jaw, looking away. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell Svetlana she was wrong. But he couldn't, because deep down, he knew she was right. The past few months had been the hardest of his life. Between Sasha's trauma, her therapy appointments, the constant worry about whether he was doing enough, being enough - it was taking its toll.

"Sasha will be fine without you for a week," Svetlana assured him gently. "I promise. She trusts me. And you… you could use the time to rest. To take care of yourself. Maybe see Jane."

Ilya ignored his best friend’s suggestive tone, even though his heart twinged at the thought of seeing Shane again. It’d only been a few weeks since the man had come to Boston, but it seemed longer. He’d once again extended an invitation to his cottage before he left, but Ilya had yet again delayed giving him a real answer, instead leaving the offer hanging between them.

"I'll think about it," Ilya finally agreed, which was more than he would have conceded a few weeks ago.

Svetlana smiled, seeming satisfied with that answer. "Good."

Sasha returned then, the popcorn bowl refilled and clutched in both hands. She climbed back onto the couch, settling against Ilya's side again.

"Mishka," Ilya began carefully, his heart already clenching at the thought of being away from her. "How would you feel about going on a trip with Auntie Sveta this summer? Maybe for a week?"

Sasha's eyes lit up immediately. "Really?”

"To New York," Svetlana explained, grinning at Ilya in an I told you so manner. "We could go to museums, and Broadway, and go shopping–”

"Yes!" Sasha interrupted excitedly, bouncing a little on the couch, blue eyes filled with so much hope Ilya knew it would kill him to say no. "Can we, Papa? Please?"

Ilya felt his chest tighten. Of course she was excited. Of course she wanted to go. And that was good - it meant she was healing, becoming more confident, more willing to try new things. But the thought of being away from her for a whole week made Ilya feel physically ill.

"We'll see," Ilya told her, the words automatic. "We'll talk about it more later, da?"

"Okay," Sasha agreed easily, already turning her attention back to the TV where the third period was winding down.

They fell into silence, all three of them watching as the game intensified. The Admirals were pressing hard, and with less than two minutes left, Scott Hunter took a shot from the blue line that somehow found its way through traffic and into the net.

"Goal!" the announcer shouted. "Hunter scores! The Admirals take the lead with under two minutes to play!"

The final two minutes felt endless. The Kings pulled their goalie, threw everything they had at the Admirals' net, but nothing got through. And then the buzzer sounded, and the Admirals were the Cup champions.

The TV showed the celebration on the ice - players throwing their gloves and sticks in the air, piling on top of each other, the pure joy on their faces. Ilya watched, feeling that familiar pang of longing. He'd won the Cup before, knew what that feeling was like. But it had been years now, and he wanted it again.

The camera focused on Scott Hunter, the Admirals' captain, as he skated around the ice, his arms raised in triumph. And then he did something that made Ilya's breath catch.

Hunter skated to the glass, gesturing for someone in the stands to come down. The camera panned to show a man making his way down to ice level, and when Hunter reached him, he pulled him close and kissed him.

Right there on national television. In front of millions of people. After winning the Cup.

The announcers seemed momentarily speechless, and then one of them recovered. "You don’t see that every day, folks. Pretty big night for hockey.”

Ilya stared at the screen, his heart pounding. Scott Hunter - captain of the Admirals, one of the best players in the league - had just kissed a man on live TV. Had just come out to the entire world in the most public way possible.

And the world hadn't ended. The ice hadn't opened up and swallowed him whole. His teammates weren't skating away in disgust. They were celebrating around him, some of them clapping him on the back, clearly having known all along.

"Papa, why did he kiss that man?" Sasha asked, her voice curious but not judgmental. Just a question.

"Because he loves him, malyshka," Svetlana answered before Ilya could, her voice gentle. "Sometimes men love men. Just like sometimes women love women."

"Oh," Sasha’s face scrunched up a little bit, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as she glanced at Ilya for a moment before seeming to accept this information easily the way children did. "Okay."

Ilya couldn't speak. Couldn't move. His mind was racing, thoughts tumbling over each other too fast to catch.

If Scott Hunter could do it…

If Scott Hunter could come out and still have his career, still have his team, still have everything…

Maybe Ilya could too. Maybe he and Shane could actually work. Not right now - Ilya still needed his citizenship, still needed to make sure Sasha was safe and secure. But someday. Eventually.

Maybe.

The thought was intoxicating. Terrifying and wonderful all at once.

"I need to make a phone call," Ilya said abruptly, standing up.

Svetlana gave him a knowing look. "Take your time."

Ilya grabbed his phone and headed toward his bedroom, closing the door behind him. His hands were shaking slightly as he pulled up Shane's contact and hit call.

The phone rang once. Twice. Then Shane's voice came through.

"Hey, did you see—"

"I'm coming to the cottage," Ilya interrupted, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess himself.

There was a pause on the other end.

"What?"

"The cottage," Ilya repeated, his heart pounding. "This summer. Your invitation. I'm coming."

"Ilya-" Shane's voice was cautious, uncertain. "Are you sure? What about Sasha?"

"Svetlana is taking her for a week," Ilya said, the decision solidifying even as he spoke. "I can come then. If… if invitation is still open."

"Of course it's still open," Shane answered quickly, and Ilya could hear the smile in his voice now, could hear the barely contained excitement. "Ilya, of course. When?”

"July?" Ilya suggested. "Maybe late July. Sasha’s birthday is the fourth, but after that…”

"July," Shane said. "Okay. I'll… I'll make sure everything's ready."

They talked for a few more minutes, making tentative plans, both of them trying to contain their excitement. When Ilya finally hung up, he stood in his bedroom for a long moment, just breathing.

A week. A week at the cottage with Shane. A week where they could just be themselves, be together, without fear or hiding.

It wasn't everything. It wasn't public or permanent or safe. But it was something.

And for now, that was enough.

When Ilya returned to the living room, Svetlana took one look at his face and smiled.

"So?" she asked.

"So," Ilya said, settling back on the couch with Sasha. "I'm going to need you to take Sasha for a week in July."

Svetlana's smile widened. "Done."

Sasha looked up at him. "Where are you going, Papa?"

"To visit a friend," Ilya explained, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "But I'll miss you every single day."

He watched the little girl carefully for a reaction, fully ready to call Shane back and cancel if she showed even a hint of worry, although it’d pain him ridiculously to do so. But Sasha just smiled at him.

"Will you bring me back a present?" Sasha asked hopefully, unbothered in a way only children could be.

Ilya laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks. "Da, mishka. I'll bring you back a present."

They drove in comfortable silence, the suburbs giving way to countryside, houses becoming more sparse, replaced by trees and open fields. Shane kept sneaking glances at Ilya, hardly able to believe he was actually here, that they had two whole weeks together. Two weeks where they didn't have to hide, didn't have to pretend to hate each other, didn't have to measure every word and gesture.

"I think you're gonna like the cottage," Shane said eventually, needing to fill the silence with something. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel in an unconscious rhythm.

"It's, uh, relaxing."

"Ah, is that what we are going to do?" Ilya asked, and Shane could hear the smile in his voice even without looking. The teasing lilt was unmistakable, warm and affectionate in a way that made Shane's stomach flip.

"Relax?"

Shane felt his cheeks heat again. Of course Ilya would tease him about that. He focused harder on the road ahead, watching the white lines blur past, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing.

"I hope so."

"I would like to relax with you," Ilya said quietly, and the teasing edge had disappeared from his voice, replaced by something softer. He shifted in his seat, turning slightly toward Shane, his knee almost brushing Shane's hand on the gearshift.

"For once."

Shane's chest tightened at the words, at the weight of meaning behind them. They'd never really had the chance to just be together, had they? It was always stolen moments, frantic and desperate, weighted with the knowledge that they'd have to part soon. Always looking over their shoulders, always afraid of being caught.

"I bought groceries, so we don't need to leave," Shane said, his voice coming out rougher than he'd intended. He cleared his throat, gripping the wheel a little tighter, his knuckles going white.

"Or not leave much. If we don't want to."

They didn't need to say it out loud - they both knew what this was. Two weeks where they could just be themselves, be together, without fear or hiding or pretending. Two weeks that might be all they'd ever get of this kind of freedom.

"Thank you for inviting me," Ilya said after a moment, and there was something in his voice that made Shane's throat tight. The gratitude sounded almost painful, like Ilya couldn't quite believe this was real either.

"I'm glad you're here," Shane replied, meaning it more than he'd ever meant anything. He risked another glance at Ilya, catching the softness in his expression before turning back to the road, his heart doing that stupid fluttering thing again.

"Me too, but... also, like, terrified, yeah?"

Shane laughed, surprised by the admission. Ilya rarely admitted to being scared of anything. Some of the tension in his chest eased at knowing he wasn't alone in this feeling, that Ilya felt it too—this precipice they were standing on together.

"Yeah. Same."

They fell quiet again, and Shane found himself thinking about Sasha, about how Ilya must be feeling being away from her. He'd been texting Shane daily updates—what Sasha ate for breakfast, a funny thing she'd said, how she'd done on a test at school. Shane knew this separation had to be killing Ilya.

"Are you worried?" Shane asked carefully, glancing over at Ilya. The question hung between them, delicate, and Shane hoped he wasn't overstepping.

"About Sasha?"

Ilya was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming against his thigh - a nervous habit Shane had noticed before. The rhythm was irregular, anxious, and Shane could practically see him thinking, weighing how much to say.

"Yes," Ilya admitted finally, the word coming out heavy. He exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on something outside the window, though Shane doubted he was really seeing the landscape rolling past.

"I called her before I got on plane. Svetlana says she's excited about their trip, but..."

"But you're still worried," Shane finished, understanding completely. Of course Ilya was worried. That was what parents did, wasn't it? Especially parents of children who'd been through what Sasha had been through. Shane wanted to reach over, to touch him, to offer comfort, but he kept his hands on the wheel.

"Da," Ilya said with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of separation visible in his posture, in the way he seemed to fold in on himself just a little.

"I know she'll be fine. Svetlana is good with her. But I've never been away from her this long. Not since I brought her home."

Shane could hear the strain in Ilya's voice, could see the tension in his shoulders. Six months. Ilya had only had Sasha for six months, and now he was leaving her for two weeks. Shane couldn't imagine how hard that must be - to finally have your daughter with you, safe, and then have to leave her, even if it was with someone trustworthy.

"That's normal," Shane said gently. He wanted to reach over, to take Ilya's hand, but he was driving and the road was winding now, demanding attention.

"You're her dad. Of course you're worried."

"I know," Ilya said, still staring out the window at the passing scenery. Trees blurred into a green smear beside them, and his reflection in the glass looked tired, drawn.

"Svetlana says I need to trust Sasha more. That she's stronger than I think."

"She is strong," Shane agreed, remembering the little girl who'd grabbed his sleeve during her nightmare, who'd wanted him to stay. The memory was vivid, Sasha's small hand surprisingly tight on his arm, her eyes wide and trusting even in the midst of fear.

"But that doesn't mean you can't worry about her."

Ilya nodded, some of the tension seeming to ease from his frame at Shane's words. He took a deeper breath, his fingers finally stilling against his leg, and Shane felt a small surge of relief at seeing him relax even fractionally.

"I'm supposed to call later."

"We'll make sure you call," Shane promised. He'd set a reminder on his phone if he had to, would make sure nothing interfered with that call. He knew how important it was to Ilya, knew that hearing Sasha's voice would be the only thing that would let Ilya truly relax. Shane would make it his mission to ensure that happened, even if it meant stopping whatever they were doing.

They drove for a while longer, the conversation drifting to easier topics - the season that had just ended, their teammates, the offseason training they were both supposed to be doing but weren't. Ilya told him about Sasha's last day of school, about how proud she'd been to finish first grade, about the artwork she'd brought home that Ilya had immediately put on the fridge. His voice warmed when he talked about her, animation returning to his features, and Shane found himself smiling just watching the transformation.

Eventually, the highway gave way to smaller roads, and then to a winding dirt road that led through thick forest. The trees here were old and tall, creating a canopy overhead that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the road. The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees in the shade, and the air smelled like pine and earth and growing things.

"Wow," Ilya said, sitting up straighter as the cottage came into view through the trees. His eyes widened, taking in the structure ahead, and Shane felt a flutter of nervous anticipation in his chest.

It wasn't particularly large, but it was beautiful - all wood and glass, nestled among the trees with a view of the lake beyond. Shane had designed it himself, had spent hours with the architect making sure every detail was exactly right. This place was his sanctuary, the one spot in the world where he could truly be himself. And now he was sharing it with Ilya.

"Your real estate fetish really paid off, huh?" Ilya said, and Shane could hear the amusement in his voice mixed with genuine appreciation. He was already leaning forward in his seat, trying to get a better view, his hands pressed against the dashboard.

Shane pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, feeling a rush of pride at Ilya's reaction. The keys jingled as he pulled them from the ignition, the sound loud in the sudden quiet.

"I didn't buy this. I had it built."

"Oh, I know," Ilya said, already climbing out of the car, his eyes still on the cottage. The door slammed behind him, and he stood there for a moment, just looking, taking it all in with an expression of wonder that made Shane's chest feel tight.

Shane grabbed Ilya's bag from the trunk, the weight of it familiar in his hands. It was strange, doing something so domestic - carrying Ilya's luggage, showing him to the cottage - when so much of their relationship had been anything but domestic. It felt significant somehow, like crossing a threshold into something new.

When Shane went to carry the bag toward the house, Ilya stopped him with a hand on his arm. The touch was brief but electric. Shane felt it like a spark down his spine, awareness crackling through him at the contact.

"I can carry my own bag," Ilya said, reaching for it. There was something stubborn in the set of his jaw, that familiar Rozanov pride that Shane had seen on the ice a hundred times.

Shane held it just out of reach, feeling stubborn himself. He raised an eyebrow at Ilya, challenging.

"How are your ribs?"

"Fine, I can take my bag," Ilya insisted, making another grab for it. His hand closed on air as Shane moved it away again, and there was something almost playful in the exchange now, despite the underlying concern.

"I can't believe you played with those bruised ribs," Shane said, shaking his head. The memory of watching Ilya take that hit still made his stomach turn. He'd had to grip the edge of the bench to keep from reacting, from showing how much it affected him to see Ilya hurt.

"Whoa, you can't?" Ilya retorted, grinning now. The expression transformed his face, made him look younger, less burdened.

"Okay, maybe I can."

The humor made Shane smile despite himself. He carried the bag up to the front door, Ilya following close behind. Close enough that Shane could feel the warmth radiating from him, could smell his cologne mixed with airplane and coffee. Close enough that if Shane stopped suddenly, Ilya would walk right into him.

Eventually, they did go inside, and Shane gave Ilya the tour - pointing out the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom with its view of the lake. Ilya took it all in with quiet appreciation, running his hand along the wood paneling, pausing to look out the windows. Shane watched him explore, feeling nervous and hopeful and terrified all at once. 

They eventually ended up in Shane’s room, and before he knew it, it was like the entire afternoon had disappeared. 

"You need to call Sasha," he reminded Ilya once they’d both woken up, looking at the clock on his nightstand. 

Ilya's face lit up in a way that made Shane's chest ache. The transformation was immediate, his whole body straightening, energy returning to his movements.

"Da, yes."

He pulled out his phone and FaceTimed Svetlana. It took a few rings, and Shane watched Ilya's face, saw the anxiety there as he waited, the slight tension around his eyes.

Then Svetlana's face appeared on screen. Her smile was warm, knowing, and Shane wondered how much she knew about them, about this.

"Ilyushka!" she greeted warmly, her voice slightly tinny through the phone speaker. "One moment, let me get her."

The camera shifted and moved, and Shane could hear Sasha's voice in the background, excited and bright. Then there was Sasha, her face was flushed and happy.

"Papa!" she exclaimed excitedly, her face filling the screen. Her smile was gap-toothed and beautiful, and Shane felt his heart squeeze at the sight of her.

"Mishka," Ilya greeted softly, his whole expression softening. He settled against the headboard, holding the phone carefully, like it was precious.

"How was your day?"

Shane watched as Sasha launched into a detailed account of her day - they'd gone shopping, Auntie Sveta had let her have ice cream twice, they were going to a play later. Ilya listened with rapt attention, asking questions, laughing at her stories. His eyes never left the screen, and Shane could see the love there, raw and undisguised. It was beautiful to watch, seeing Ilya like this - unguarded, openly adoring.

"Are you having fun on your trip, Papa?" Sasha asked after a while. She tilted her head, studying her father through the screen with those sharp, observant eyes that seemed to see too much sometimes.

"Da, very fun," Ilya confirmed. His thumb traced the edge of his phone absently, a nervous gesture. "I miss you though."

"I miss you too," Sasha replied, a trace of sadness in her voice. Her lower lip pushed out slightly, the hint of a pout, and Shane could see Ilya's resolve wavering. "When are you coming home?"

"Not for a while yet, malyshka. But you're having fun with Auntie Sveta, da?" There was a note of worry in his voice despite his efforts to keep it light, a tremor that Shane doubted Sasha could hear but that he recognized immediately.

"Da," Sasha confirmed. She bounced slightly, her earlier sadness forgotten with the resilience of childhood.

"We're going to the park tomorrow."

They talked for a few more minutes - Sasha showing Ilya a drawing she'd made, Ilya asking about what she'd had for lunch - before Svetlana reappeared, saying it was time to say goodbye before they were late. Her voice was gentle but firm in the background, the voice of someone who knew how to handle an energetic eight-year-old.

"Love you, Papa," Sasha said, blowing a kiss at the screen. Her small hand pressed to her lips, then opened toward the camera with a flourish.

"Love you too, mishka," Ilya told her. His voice was thick with emotion, and Shane could see him struggling to keep it together. "Be good for Auntie Sveta."

When the call ended, Ilya just sat there for a moment, staring at his phone. The screen had gone dark, showing only his reflection, and Shane could see the grief written across his features.

"She sounds happy," Shane offered. He moved closer, sitting beside Ilya on the couch, close enough that their shoulders touched.

"Da," Ilya agreed. But his jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and Shane could see him fighting against the guilt.

"She does."

But Shane could see the worry still there in his eyes, the guilt at being away. It was written in every line of his body, in the way he couldn't quite let himself relax.

"Come here," Shane said, holding out his hand. His fingers stretched toward Ilya, palm up, an offering.

Ilya took it, and Shane pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him. He felt Ilya's weight settle against him, solid and real, and pressed his nose into Ilya's hair.

"She's okay," Shane murmured. His lips brushed against Ilya's temple as he spoke, gentle and reassuring.

"You heard her. She's having fun. She's safe."

"I know," Ilya said, but he held onto Shane a little tighter anyway. His fingers gripped Shane's shirt, bunching the fabric, and Shane could feel him trembling slightly.

They stayed like that for a while, Shane holding Ilya, offering what comfort he could. Eventually, Ilya's breathing evened out, the tension slowly bleeding from his body.

The days blended together in the best possible way. They developed routines - morning coffee on the deck, afternoons by the lake, evenings cooking together. Every night, they called Sasha, who seemed to be having the time of her life with Svetlana. Ilya learned the rhythm of Shane's days, the way he took his coffee, the way he laughed at terrible jokes, the way his face softened when he looked at Ilya when he thought Ilya wasn't watching.

When Shane first shook him awake in the middle of the night and started yammering on and on about Ilya playing for Ottawa, Ilya had no idea what was going on. His brain was still foggy with sleep, and Shane's words came at him in a rush - Ottawa, closer, citizenship, together. But slowly, as Shane kept talking, Ilya started to get the idea, and the more Shane talked, the more Ilya found himself picturing it.

A life where they could be close. Where two hours separated them instead of countries, instead of oceans. Where seeing each other wouldn't require elaborate planning and secrecy.

"If people saw us out in public or whatever, it wouldn't be so fucking crazy," Shane pointed out, and Ilya's heart clenched at the casual way he said it, like it was obvious, like it was already decided that they would have a future together. Like Ilya deserved that. "And we're only two hours apart all year round. Apply for, like, citizenship here in Canada."

Canadian citizenship. 

The words hit Ilya square in the chest. It was something he would never have thought he'd want, but over the years, the idea of having a non-Russian passport had become increasingly appealing, up until the point where it was practically the thing he wanted most in the world. He didn't care if it was American or Canadian, as long as he and Sasha were safe, far from Moscow, that was all Ilya wanted. A future for Sasha, a life where she didn't have to worry about her father being deported. Where she could grow up without fear, without looking over her shoulder.

Where Ilya could breathe.

And then Shane continued, and his next words had Ilya holding his breath.

"And maybe one day when we both retire... we could be together. For real. You, me and Sash." Shane's voice had gone quieter, more vulnerable, but he held Ilya's gaze, eyes never once leaving his.

Ilya's entire world narrowed to those words. You, me and Sash. A family. Shane was talking about them being a family.

It was too good to be true. Too much to hope for.

Ilya had dreamed about this - late at night when he couldn't sleep, in the quiet moments between games, in the seconds before he drifted off. He'd imagined what it would be like. Him and Shane and Sasha, together. Really together. Not stolen weekends and secret phone calls and careful distance in public. But a real life. A home.

He pictured Sasha running to Shane after school, the way she already lit up on their video calls. He imagined the three of them at the dinner table, Sasha chattering about her day while Shane smiled at Ilya over her head. He dreamed of sleeping next to Shane every night, of waking up to him every morning, of building something real and solid and permanent.

But dreams were dangerous things. Hope was even more dangerous.

Because what if Shane didn't really mean it? What if this was just pillow talk, the kind of pretty words people said in the afterglow when everything felt possible? What if when they left this cottage and went back to their real lives, Shane would realize how complicated it all was, how difficult, how much easier it would be to find someone else? Someone who didn't come with all of Ilya's baggage, all his complications, all his fears.

Someone who wasn't Ilya.

"You really think that far ahead, Hollander?" Ilya asked carefully, heart slamming against his ribs. His voice was fragile, even to his own ears, and he was terrified that at any moment, Shane would take it back. Would laugh it off, say he was just thinking out loud, didn't mean anything by it.

But he didn't.

"I do. About this." Shane squeezed Ilya's hand, his thumb stroking over his knuckles reassuringly, and Ilya felt something crack open in his chest.

It was like everything Ilya had ever wanted was being served to him on a silver platter, and yet, he couldn't trust it. Couldn't let himself believe it was real. Because if he let himself hope, really hope, and then Shane changed his mind—Ilya didn't think he'd survive it.

He'd spent so long protecting himself, building walls, keeping people at a distance. It was safer that way. Easier. Less painful. But Shane had gotten past every single one of his defenses, had wormed his way into Ilya's heart so completely that Ilya didn't know how to function without him anymore.

And that was terrifying.

Because Shane could destroy him. Could take everything Ilya was offering and walk away, and Ilya would be left with nothing but the ruins of the life he'd imagined for them.

"And is that what you want? To be together?" Ilya's voice was barely above a whisper now, the hope that was almost more terrifying than the fear swirling around in his chest.

Please, he thought. Please say yes. Please mean it. Please don't break my heart.

"So much," Shane admitted to him, brown eyes staring deeply into Ilya's own. "So much it scares me."

Ilya looked at him with an intensity that made his own chest tight. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

The words were right there, sitting on the tip of his tongue. Three words he'd been carrying around for months, maybe longer. Three words that felt both inevitable and impossible.

He'd never said them to anyone before. Not like this. Not and meant them the way he meant them now.

But Shane deserved to know. Deserved to hear it.

Even if it terrified Ilya to say them.

Even if Shane didn't say them back.

Ilya pulled Shane closer, burying his face in the curve of his neck, and the words spilled out before he could stop them. "Ya tebya lyublyu," he whispered against Shane's skin, pressing a kiss to his throat. "Ya tebya lyublyu." Another kiss, softer, more desperate. He couldn't stop himself, the confession tumbling out in his native tongue like it had been locked away too long.

Then he pulled back just enough to meet Shane's eyes, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I love you," Ilya confessed in English, making sure Shane understood. The words hung in the air between them, precious and terrifying.

"Holy shit," Shane exclaimed, pulling back to look at Ilya.

And there it was. The rejection Ilya had been bracing himself for. The moment where Shane realized this was all too much, too fast, too intense. The moment where he took it all back.

Terror seized Ilya's heart, ice flooding his veins. Fuck. It had just slipped out, the three little words Ilya had been wanting to say for months, and now it was out there lying between them. Maybe Shane didn't feel the same. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe he was about to take it all back, just because Ilya had scared him. 

Fuck, he'd ruined everything. He'd ruined the one good thing in his life, the one person who made him feel like he could breathe, like he could be himself, like he was worth something. He'd pushed too hard, wanted too much, hoped for too much.

He'd lost him.

"I love you too," Shane told him, his words cutting through Ilya's terror like a knife through butter.

Ilya's entire body went slack with relief.

"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya whispered, burying his head in Shane's chest, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut. His shoulders were shaking, still trembling with the residual fear that Shane would take it back, that this was all some cruel dream and he'd wake up alone.

Shane loved him. Shane loved him back.

Shane wanted a future with him. With him and Sasha. A real future. A real family.

It felt impossible. It felt like a miracle.

"Oh my God, I love you so much," Shane told him, running a hand through his hair. His fingers carded through the dark strands, gentle and soothing, and he pressed a kiss to the top of Ilya's head.

Ilya could feel Shane's heart beating against his cheek, steady and strong and real. This was real. Shane was real. This love between them was real.

"Does it... Does it fucking kill you too?" Shane asked, and Ilya understood exactly what he meant.

Because it did kill him. Or at least, it had.

Loving Shane had felt like dying at first. Like his chest was being ripped open, like every defense he'd ever built was crumbling to dust. It had felt like standing on the edge of a cliff with nothing to catch him if he fell. It had felt terrifying and overwhelming and too much, too much, too much.

But not anymore.

Now it felt like coming home. Like finally, finally being able to breathe after holding his breath for years. Like the missing piece he hadn't known he needed clicking into place.

"Not anymore," Ilya said, and kissed him again. 

This kiss was different—deeper, more certain. Full of relief and joy and promise. Full of all the dreams Ilya had been afraid to hope for. Him and Shane and Sasha, a family. A future. A life together.

Real. Tangible. Possible.

For the first time in his life, Ilya let himself believe in it.

Chapter 18: chapter eighteen

Chapter Notes

Their bubble lasted three beautiful days. Three days of just being Shane and Ilya, not Hollander and Rozanov. Three days of honesty and laughter and planning a future that seemed almost possible. Three days where Shane let himself believe, really believe, that they could have this.

And then, on day four, everything changed.

"Fuck," Shane breathed. The word came out strangled, barely audible, and his legs felt weak beneath him. 

His dad had seen them.

His dad had seen them.

The reality of it kept hitting him in waves, each one worse than the last. His father—his father who thought Shane was straight, who thought Shane was perpetually single because he was too focused on hockey, who thought his son was someone he wasn't—had just walked in on Shane making out with Ilya Rozanov.

With Ilya fucking Rozanov.

His rival. The guy the media loved to pit him against. The guy Shane had spent years publicly trash-talking, competing with, maintaining this careful fiction of hatred for.

And his dad had seen them. Together. Like that.

"Fuck," Shane said again, louder. His hands were shaking, his whole body starting to tremble, and he felt like he might be sick. "Fuck, this is a fucking nightmare."

Because it was. This was literally Shane's worst nightmare, the one that had kept him up at night for years. The one he'd played out in his head a thousand times, always ending badly. He'd imagined telling his parents—had practiced the words, planned the conversation, chickened out every single time.

But he'd never imagined this. Getting caught. No warning, no preparation, no chance to control the narrative.

Just his dad walking in and seeing everything Shane had been hiding for a decade.

Ten years. Shane had been lying to them for ten fucking years.

His mind was racing, spiraling. What had his dad seen, exactly? Shane and Ilya in the lake, too close, laughing. Ilya's hand on Shane's ass. Their mouths pressed together. The way Shane had looked at Ilya like he was everything.

There was no explaining that away. No "we're just friends" or "it's not what it looks like." His dad wasn't stupid. His dad had seen the truth written all over both of them.

Shane's vision was starting to blur at the edges, panic rising, threatening to drown him. His breath was coming too fast, too shallow, and his chest felt tight.

"Shane..." Ilya said, moving toward him, his hand reaching for Shane's arm.

"Oh, fuck, this is a fucking nightmare," Shane repeated, feeling panic rising in his chest. His breath was coming faster, shorter, and he couldn't seem to get enough air.

His dad knew. His dad knew Shane was gay. His dad knew Shane had been lying. His dad knew Shane was with Ilya.

And his mom—oh God, his mom.

"Oh, what the fuck am I supposed to do?"

"We should go talk to him," Ilya said calmly, but Shane could hear the concern underneath. Ilya reached for him, his hand warm and steady on Shane's arm, grounding.

"Yeah, what if he doesn't want to talk to me? What if... fuck, my mom!" Shane was pacing now, his hands coming up to grip his hair. He felt like he might fly apart, might shatter into a thousand pieces, and the only thing keeping him together was Ilya's hand on his arm.

His mom, who'd been asking him about dating for years. Who kept trying to set him up with nice girls. Who worried that Shane was lonely, that he worked too hard, that he never let anyone in. His mom, who he'd lied to over and over again, who he'd let believe he was something he wasn't.

What was she going to think? What were they both going to think?

That Shane had been lying to them his whole adult life. That everything they thought they knew about their son was a lie. That Shane hadn't trusted them enough to tell them the truth.

And they'd be right.

What if they didn't want to talk to him? What if they were so angry, so hurt, so disgusted that they just... cut him off? What if his dad had already called his mom, and right now they were talking about how to handle this, how to deal with their gay son who'd been lying to them for a decade?

What if they hated him?

What if they were ashamed of him?

The thought made Shane want to vomit.

"Hey, hey, they will talk to you," Ilya assured him, voice soft and gentle, achingly similar to how he spoke to Sasha after a nightmare.

"Yeah, but I fucking lied to them," Shane said, his voice rising. The words came out ragged, desperate, and he could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. "For so many years, I fucking lied to them, and now my dad just walks in on me. This... This is my fucking nightmare. This is my actual fucking nightmare, Ilya!"

Because it was. Not just that they'd found out, but how they'd found out. Shane had wanted to tell them on his own terms, when he was ready, when he had the words prepared. He'd wanted to sit them down and explain, to make them understand why he'd hidden this, why he'd been so scared.

He'd wanted to tell them about Ilya properly. About how they'd met, how things had developed, how much Ilya meant to him. He'd wanted them to see Ilya the way Shane saw him—not as Rozanov, the rival, the Russian, the guy Shane was supposed to hate, but as the man Shane loved. As the person who made Shane happier than he'd ever been.

Instead, his dad had walked in on them in the lake, and now Shane had to do damage control without any idea what his dad was thinking, how much he'd seen, what he was going to tell Shane's mom.

Shane had lost control of the entire situation, and it was terrifying.

"Okay, okay," Ilya said, taking Shane's face in his hands. His palms were cool from the water, grounding. He forced Shane to meet his eyes, to focus, and Shane clung to that contact like a lifeline. "Then maybe it's time to wake up, yes?"

Shane wanted to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both.

Time to wake up. Time to stop hiding. Time to face the consequences of ten years of lying, of carefully constructed personas, of keeping the most important part of himself locked away from the people who loved him.

Time to tell his parents the truth.

All of it.

That he was gay. That he'd been gay the whole time. That he'd been terrified to tell them, terrified of their reaction, terrified of losing them. That he'd met Ilya, that he'd fallen in love with Ilya, that Ilya was the best thing that had ever happened to him even though it was complicated and messy and they had to hide it from the world.

That Shane had been living a double life, and he was so fucking tired of it.

He moved forward, pressing himself into Ilya’s arms, melting a bit when the man rubbed a hand over his back.

"Fuck, I'm scared," Shane admitted. His voice broke on the words, all his bravado stripped away. He felt like that scared kid again, the one who'd realized he was different and had learned to hide it, to protect himself by never letting anyone see the truth.

The kid who'd heard the way his teammates talked about gay people and had learned to laugh along, to make the same jokes, to prove he was one of them. The teenager who'd dated girls he didn't want to date, kissed girls he didn't want to kiss, just to maintain the illusion. The young adult who'd perfected the art of deflection, of changing the subject, of keeping everyone at arm's length so they couldn't see what he was hiding.

And now all of that was crumbling, and Shane had no idea what would be left when the dust settled.

"Yes, it's scary," Ilya agreed, holding him close. His hands stroked Shane's back, gentle and reassuring. "But you're brave."

"Shut up." But there was no heat in it. Shane's voice was weak, trembling.

Because he didn't feel brave. He felt terrified. He felt like a fraud who'd been caught, like a liar who was finally facing the consequences of his lies.

"You are, you're brave." Ilya's voice was firm, certain, and Shane wanted to believe him so badly.

But brave people didn't lie to their parents for ten years. Brave people came out, faced the consequences, dealt with whatever happened. Brave people didn't hide who they were, didn't construct elaborate facades, didn't spend a decade pretending to be someone they weren't.

Shane had been a coward. And now he was paying for it.

"I feel like I'm gonna die." Shane's chest was tight, each breath a struggle, and his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst.

What was he supposed to say to them? How was he supposed to explain? Where did he even start?

God, they were going to be so hurt. So betrayed. And Shane deserved every bit of it.

"So much for easing them into it," Shane said, trying for humor but failing. His laugh came out strangled, more like a sob, and he pressed his forehead against Ilya's.

He'd had plans. Vague, half-formed plans that he'd never quite committed to, but plans nonetheless. He was going to tell them after this season. Or maybe next season. Or maybe when he retired. Or maybe when he and Ilya could actually be public, when it wouldn't cost them everything.

He was going to sit them down somewhere private, somewhere safe. He was going to explain it carefully, gently. He was going to give them time to process, to ask questions, to adjust to this new reality.

Instead, his dad had gotten a front-row seat to Shane making out with his supposed rival in a lake, and now Shane had to deal with the fallout with zero preparation.

"Maybe... maybe he didn't even notice," Ilya tried, and Shane half-heartedly glared at him before a small smile twitched across his lips, unable to stay serious when Ilya was being so ridiculous.

They'd been obvious - wet and laughing, standing too close, Ilya's hands on Shane's body, Shane's hands in Ilya's hair, their mouths pressed together. They'd been completely lost in each other, not paying attention to their surroundings, not being careful.

His dad would have had to be blind not to see it. And his dad wasn't blind.

His dad had seen everything.

"Okay, I'm gonna get changed," Shane said, his hands shaking slightly. He wiped at his face, trying to pull himself together, trying to be brave the way Ilya thought he was.

He had to do this. He had to face his parents, had to tell them the truth, had to deal with whatever came next.

"I'm gonna drive over. Uh... And then... And then fuck! What am I gonna say?"

Because he still didn't know. He had no script for this, no prepared speech, no carefully crafted explanation. He was just going to have to wing it, and that was terrifying. He pressed his forehead against Ilya’s own, letting out a groan as the other man held him up, keeping him steady.

"Do you... do you want me to come with you?" Ilya asked hesitantly. There was something careful in his voice, like he was trying not to push, giving Shane an out if he needed it.

Shane looked at him, at the strength and support in his eyes, and felt something settle in his chest. 

Ilya was offering to walk into what might be a hostile situation, was willing to face Shane's parents' potential rejection, just to be there for him. Ilya, who had his own fears about being outed, who had Sasha to think about, who had everything to lose if this went badly - Ilya was willing to stand beside Shane anyway.

The love in that gesture made Shane want to cry.

Because this wasn't just about Shane anymore. If Shane's parents reacted badly, if they rejected him, if they made a scene - Ilya would be caught in the crossfire. It could get back to the media, could become a story, could ruin both of their careers and put Sasha at risk.

But Ilya was offering anyway. Because he loved Shane. Because he wanted to support him. Because they were in this together.

"Would you?"

"Of course." No hesitation. Just certainty, solid and unwavering.

"Okay... Okay." Shane took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, trying to find that bravery Ilya kept insisting he had.

He could do this. He had to do this.

He was going to tell his parents the truth. All of it. And whatever happened next, at least he wouldn't be alone.

At least he'd have Ilya.

"And there were no nice men in Montreal?" Shane's dad asked as he poured Ilya a glass of vodka.

Shane bit back a wince, running his hands through his hair and yanking at the strands a bit. The words landed like a punch to the gut, even though he knew - he knew - his dad hadn't meant them the way they sounded. But still. Nice men in Montreal. Like Shane had been shopping around, casually dating, living some kind of normal gay life while playing for the Canadiens.

Like it had been that simple.

Ilya stiffened a little next to him, and Shane felt it—the tension radiating off him, the way his spine straightened almost imperceptibly. Shane wanted to reach over and squeeze his hand, wanted to apologize for his dad's clumsy phrasing, wanted to explain that his parents were trying, they really were, but they just didn't understand how any of this worked.

How could they? Shane had never told them anything. For ten years, he'd kept them completely in the dark, and now they were stumbling around trying to make sense of a situation they had no context for.

"I don't know, probably there were?" Shane replied, shrugging a little.

It wasn't like he'd bothered looking.

It wasn't like he'd wanted to look. Even before he and Ilya admitted their feelings for each other, Shane had been so deep in the closet he could barely see daylight. And then there was Ilya. And suddenly Shane hadn't wanted anyone else. Hadn't even been able to think about anyone else.

"And do your teammates know?" his mom asked curiously, and Shane heaved a sigh.

God, here we go.

"No! Nobody knows," he clarified, frustration clear in his voice. 

What, did his parents just think they were going around telling the world? Did they think Shane and Ilya were holding hands in public, posting couple photos on Instagram, living openly while somehow managing to keep their careers intact?

Did they have any idea what would happen if people found out?

Shane took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. It wasn't their fault they were so confused, after all. He was the one who'd been hiding pretty much his whole life from them. 

They didn’t know how much was at risk. 

They didn't know because Shane had never told them.

"Well, Sasha knows," he added absentmindedly, trying to throw them a bone.

The name slipped out before Shane realized he'd said it, and he felt Ilya's hand tense in his. Fuck. He'd just dropped Sasha into the conversation without any context, without asking Ilya if that was okay, without thinking about how his parents would react to finding out Ilya had a daughter.

Sure, the little girl didn't know know but the kid was smart, smarter than most other kids her age. Ilya had told him that Sasha's teacher said she was ahead of most of her class, even with the slight language barrier, something that had made a ball of pride build up in Shane's chest when he'd heard it. Pride for this little girl who wasn't his, who he had no claim to, but who he'd somehow started to think of as... his.

Even if Sasha hadn't figured out they were together, she surely could tell he and Ilya were more than just friends.

And if she hadn't, the fact still remained that she was the only person who even knew he and Ilya were friends.

The only person who'd seen them together, really together. Who'd witnessed the casual intimacy between them, the way they moved around each other, the way they fit.

God, Shane loved that kid. When had that happened? When had Sasha stopped being Ilya's daughter and become this person Shane thought about, worried about, wanted to protect?

When had Shane started imagining a future where all three of them were together?

"Sasha?" Shane's dad asked, confusion in his voice as he raised an eyebrow. He looked between them, clearly lost, and Shane felt Ilya tense beside him. 

Shane's mom looked equally puzzled, her brow furrowing. Shane hadn't mentioned Sasha to them - it hadn't felt like his story to tell, and now he'd just dropped her into the conversation without context.

Without permission.

Ilya stiffened a bit, his spine straightening, and he exchanged a glance with Shane who didn't exactly know how to proceed. Shane could see the protective instinct rising in Ilya, the same one he'd seen countless times before - whenever someone at the rink got too close to Sasha, whenever anyone so much as looked at her wrong.

This was another revelation, another layer to explain, and Shane squeezed Ilya's hand under the table, trying to offer support. Trying to say I'm sorry, I should have warned you, I should have asked first.

Trying to say I've got your back.

The silence stretched out for a moment, Shane's parents waiting for an explanation. Ilya took a breath, seeming to steel himself, and Shane watched him transform. Watched him put on that armor he wore when he was protecting what was his.

Eventually, Ilya answered carefully, as though knowing he was treading on thin ice.

"My daughter," he explained, shoulders tense. He sat up a little straighter, bracing himself, and Shane could feel the protective energy radiating off him. His voice had changed, become firmer, almost challenging them to have a problem with it.

Daring them to judge him for being a single father. Daring them to say something about Sasha, about his parenting, about his choices.

Shane watched his parents, trying to gauge their reactions, ready to defend Ilya and Sasha if he needed to. Ready to shut down any criticism, any judgment, any hint of disapproval.

Because Ilya was an incredible father. The best father Shane had ever seen. The way he was with Sasha, patient and loving and present, it made Shane's chest ache.

Made Shane want things he'd never let himself want before.

Shane's mom's eyes widened, her mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise. His dad blinked, clearly not having expected this piece of information. Shane watched them both, his heart pounding, waiting for them to say something. Anything.

Please don't fuck this up, he thought desperately. Please don't make this harder than it already is.

"Oh," Shane's mom exclaimed, clearly processing the information slowly. Shane could see her mind racing, reassessing. "I didn't know you had a daughter."

There was no judgment in her voice, just surprise, and Shane felt some of his tension ease. But Ilya was still rigid beside him, still waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Shane knew why.

Because people always had opinions about Ilya's situation. About him being a single father, about whether it was appropriate for a professional athlete to be raising a child alone.

People loved to judge Ilya. The media, other players, fans. Everyone had something to say about Ilya Rozanov and his choices.

Ilya nodded, taking another sip of his vodka. He set the glass down slowly, buying himself a moment before responding, and Shane could see him choosing his words carefully. His jaw was tight, and Shane knew he was preparing to defend Sasha, to protect her from any potential criticism.

When Ilya finally spoke, his voice was measured but carried an unmistakable edge of protectiveness.

"I try and keep her out of media. It's not good for children." His voice was protective, fierce, and Shane saw his mom's expression shift at the paternal tone. 

There was a warning in it too - don't push this, don't ask too much, don't make me explain things I don't want to explain.

Shane knew what Ilya wasn't saying. That he was all Sasha had. That Ilya had been doing this alone for eight months, with barely any help. That he hadn’t had any time to prepare or adjust to having the idea of a kid, that he’d been thrown straight into the deep end and could only pray he wouldn’t drown. That he'd given up so much - his privacy, his freedom, parts of his career - to make sure Sasha had everything she needed.

That Ilya would do anything, sacrifice anything, to keep Sasha safe and happy.

Shane's mom was quiet for a moment, absorbing this information. She exchanged a glance with Shane's dad, some wordless communication passing between them that Shane couldn't quite read. Shane held his breath, waiting.

Please, he thought. Please be okay with this. Please don't make him feel like he has to justify his life to you.

"I see," Shane's mom commented, not saying much beyond that.

But her expression had shifted somewhat, in a way Shane couldn't fully read. Was it approval? Concern? Judgment? He couldn't tell, and the uncertainty was killing him.

Silence fell over the table, and he fidgeted uncomfortably in the awkwardness and tension of it all. His leg was bouncing under the table, and he couldn't seem to make it stop. The only sound was the clink of silverware against plates, and Shane felt like he might crawl out of his skin.

This was going terribly. His parents were probably thinking Ilya was some irresponsible playboy who'd knocked someone up and was now trying to play house. They were probably wondering what the hell Shane was doing with someone like that. They were probably-

"This is good vodka," Ilya commented, clearly sensing Shane's discomfort and trying to relieve it.

Shane could have kissed him for it. Actually, he wanted to kiss him for it. For trying to smooth over the awkwardness, for throwing Shane a lifeline, for being the bigger person when Shane was sitting here spiraling.

"Thanks," Shane's dad replied, seeming to sense what Ilya was attempting to do. "I try to buy the Russian stuff."

A peace offering. Shane recognized it for what it was - his dad trying to meet Ilya halfway, trying to show that he was making an effort. 

Shane felt something in his chest loosen slightly.

"You never… I mean, you never let him win, did you, Shane?" his mom asked carefully, still caught up in the fact that Ilya was technically his rival.

The question was so absurd that Shane almost laughed. Let Ilya win? Let Ilya fucking win? Did his mother have any idea how competitive they both were? How much pride was on the line every time they stepped on the ice together?

"Do you let Dad win at cards?" Shane retorted, scoffing in offense.

He'd never even dream of letting Ilya win on the ice. That wasn't how this worked. Their rivalry on the ice was real - had always been real. The only thing that had changed was what happened off the ice.

"I'd rather die," his mom replied quickly.

"Same here," Shane shot back fiercely, to which his mom held up her hands in surrender.

And it was true. Shane would rather die than throw a game for Ilya. Their relationship didn't work that way. On the ice, they were opponents. Enemies. They played hard, they played to win, and neither of them would respect the other if that changed.

Off the ice... well, off the ice was different.

"Okay, okay," she conceded.

"So is your plan to, what, just keep doing this in secret until you both retire, or…" Shane's dad asked, trailing off.

And there it was. The question Shane had been dreading, because he didn't have a good answer. He didn't have any answer, really, except the truth - which was that they had no fucking idea what they were doing.

They were just trying to survive. Trying to hold on to each other while the world kept trying to pull them apart.

"Probably. I don't know," Shane admitted, shrugging.

It wasn't like they had many other options, not good ones anyways.

Coming out wasn't an option. Not now, maybe not ever. The MLH wasn't ready for it. Scott Hunter was one thing, but he wasn’t dating his rival. The media would tear them apart. The fans would turn on them. Other players would make their lives hell. And Sasha - God, what would happen to Sasha if this all came out?

So they hid. They lied. They stole moments when they could and pretended to hate each other the rest of the time.

It was exhausting. It was painful. But it was the only way they could be together.

"Probably, yes," Ilya confirmed.

"Oh, no, that's sad," his mom exclaimed.

And Shane wanted to laugh, because yes, Mom, it was sad. It was fucking devastating. It was loving someone with everything you had and knowing you could never really have them, not the way you wanted to. It was planning a future in whispers and maybes and somedays that might never come.

It was the best and worst thing that had ever happened to Shane, and he wouldn't change it for anything.

"I know. We know. We just can't come out and, like, announce it," Shane explained, frustrated.

He wished he could make them understand. Wished he could explain what it felt like to be in love with someone you couldn't be seen with. Someone you couldn't talk about, couldn't introduce to your friends, couldn't bring home for the holidays.

Someone who was right there but somehow still impossibly far away.

"Ilya, I gotta say, I'm surprised. You have such a reputation as a ladies' man," Shane's dad butted in, causing him to wince. 

The phrase ladies' man was almost as bad as Ilya's use of the word lover. Shane nearly groaned. Could this conversation get any more awkward?

"Mmm. It's not untrue," Ilya agreed, shrugging casually.

And it wasn't. Shane knew it wasn't. He'd seen the photos, read the articles, heard the stories. Ilya had been with a lot of women over the years - beautiful women, models, actresses, the kind of women who showed up on Page Six.

It had driven Shane crazy before they'd gotten together. Had made him irrationally, stupidly jealous in a way he'd had no right to be.

"Ilya likes both," Shane added, filling in the blanks for his parents.

He could see the slight surprise on their faces, and Ilya took advantage of the silence the revelation of that information left in its wake to explain.

"It's true, I've been with many women, but..." Ilya paused, and Shane's heart stopped. He knew what was coming, could feel it in the air between them, could see it in the way Ilya was looking at him. "I have only been in love with one person," he told them, glancing over at Shane, blue eyes boring into his own as their feet brushed under the table.

Shane's breath caught in his throat.

God, how had he ever been so oblivious to how much he loved this man.

This man who'd just told Shane's parents - practically strangers, people who could destroy both their lives if they wanted to - that Shane was the only person he'd ever loved. This man who was sitting here, vulnerable and exposed, trusting Shane's parents with the truth of who he was.

This man who'd chosen Shane. Out of everyone in the world, Ilya had chosen Shane.

Shane felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes and blinked them back furiously. Not now. He couldn't fall apart now, not in front of his parents, not when they were already looking at him like they weren't sure who he was anymore.

"Same here. Only one," Shane answered softly, the two of them looking at each other for a moment.

Only one. Only ever Ilya.

Shane had thought he'd known what love was before. He'd had crushes, infatuations, brief flickers of attraction that had burned out as quickly as they'd started.

But this? This thing with Ilya? This was something else entirely.

This was waking up and thinking of him first thing. This was hearing his voice and feeling everything else fade away. This was imagining a future - a real future, not just stolen moments - and seeing Ilya in every part of it.

This was love. Real, terrifying, all-consuming love.

And Shane was telling his parents about it. Was sitting here at his parents' dining room table, holding Ilya's hand where they could see it, admitting that he was in love with another man.

With Ilya Rozanov.

His rival. His best friend. His everything.

Shane's mom's expression had gone soft, and when Shane finally tore his gaze away from Ilya to look at her, he saw something that looked almost like... understanding. Like maybe she got it, even if she didn't fully understand the situation.

Like maybe she could see how much they loved each other, and maybe that was enough.

Shane squeezed Ilya's hand under the table and let himself hope that maybe, just maybe, this was going to be okay.

The screen door closed behind Shane and his mother with a soft click, and suddenly Ilya was alone with David Hollander.

Shane's father.

The man who had walked in on them in the lake. The man whose opinion could make or break Shane's relationship with his family. The man who was now sitting across from Ilya at the kitchen table, both of them left in the wake of Yuna's tears and hasty exit.

Ilya's heart was hammering against his ribs, and he had to resist the urge to down the rest of his vodka in one go. He needed to stay sharp, needed to say the right things, needed to make a good impression.

He'd never been good with fathers. His own had been a nightmare, and the few times he'd met the fathers of women he'd dated had been exercises in barely concealed hostility. They'd looked at him and seen exactly what he was - a playboy, a troublemaker, someone not good enough for their daughters.

And they'd been right, mostly. Ilya had never intended to be serious with any of those women. Had never wanted to be.

But Shane was different. Shane was everything. And David's opinion mattered in a way that made Ilya's chest feel tight with anxiety.

Ilya shifted in his seat, acutely aware of every sound - the hum of the refrigerator, the distant murmur of voices outside, the way David's fingers drummed once against the table before going still.

Was David angry? Disappointed? Disgusted? His face was hard to read, neutral in a way that reminded Ilya uncomfortably of his own father's calculated silences before an explosion.

This was worse than any press conference. Worse than any contract negotiation. Worse than facing down an enforcer who wanted to rearrange his face.

At least in those situations, Ilya knew the rules. Knew what was expected of him, how to play the game.

Here? He had no idea what he was doing.

Ilya took a sip of his vodka - good vodka, actually, he hadn't been lying about that - and tried to think of something to say. Anything. The silence was stretching out, becoming uncomfortable, and Ilya knew someone had to break it.

Small talk. Americans loved small talk, right?

"So you read The New Yorker," Ilya said, then immediately wanted to kick himself.

That was what he'd come up with? That was his icebreaker? He sounded like an idiot. Like someone desperately scrambling for anything to say to fill the silence.

David was going to think he was a moron. Or worse, that he was trying too hard. Which he was. But David wasn't supposed to be able to tell that.

David glanced at him, and something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. "Shane told you that?"

At least he didn't sound angry. That was something.

"Long time ago," Ilya admitted, trying to keep his voice steady. "When we were still... before we were really together. Don't remember the context."

He did remember, actually, but he wasn’t about to tell Shane’s father that it had been in a bathroom at an award show. 

David actually smiled at that, a small thing, but genuine. "Yeah, Yuna got me a subscription. Been reading it for years now. Half the time I don't understand what I'm reading, but it makes me feel smarter."

The self-deprecating humor caught Ilya off guard. His own father had never joked about himself, had never admitted to not understanding something. Weakness was unacceptable. Ignorance was shameful.

Ilya huffed a small laugh, some of the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally. "I tried once. Fell asleep."

"Most people do," David replied jokingly, and the tension eased slightly.

But only slightly. Ilya could still feel the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He took another sip of vodka, buying himself a moment, trying to figure out what to say next.

The silence settled again, but it felt slightly less oppressive now. Slightly less like Ilya was being evaluated and found wanting.

Shane and his mother had been gone for almost ten minutes now. Should he be worried? Was Yuna upset about Shane being gay, or upset about Shane being with Ilya specifically, or just overwhelmed by all of it at once?

And what was he supposed to do, sitting here with Shane's father, waiting?

Every second felt like an hour. Ilya could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, could feel sweat starting to gather at the back of his neck despite the air conditioning. He wanted to say something, anything, but couldn't think of what. More small talk? An apology for being caught with Shane? An explanation of their relationship?

Nothing felt right. Nothing felt safe.

"They'll be a while," David said, as if reading Ilya's thoughts. "Yuna needs to process things. She's not upset, just... it's a lot to take in. All at once."

Ilya nodded, not entirely sure what to say to that. He understood it was a lot - it was a lot for him too, and he was living it.

But what if "processing" turned into deciding Shane could do better? What if Yuna came back inside and asked Shane to reconsider, to find someone easier, someone who didn't come with all of Ilya's complications?

Someone who wasn't Ilya.

David stood up, moving toward the kitchen.

"Might as well make something to eat," David said, opening the refrigerator and peering inside. "Yuna's going to be hungry once she calms down. She always is after she cries."

It was such a domestic observation, so intimate in its understanding of his wife, that Ilya felt something twist in his chest. That's what decades of marriage looked like. Knowing someone well enough to predict their needs, to anticipate what they'd want.

Ilya wondered if he'd ever have that with Shane. If they'd ever get to the point where they were domestic and comfortable, where Ilya knew exactly what Shane needed without asking.

If they'd ever have the chance.

If David and Yuna would let them have the chance.

After a moment, David pulled out ingredients - pasta, cream, cheese, some tomatoes.

David was pulling out a pot, filling it with water, and Ilya found himself standing up.

He couldn't just sit there doing nothing. His father had always said idle hands were a sign of a lazy man, and even though Ilya tried not to let his father's voice dictate his actions anymore, old habits died hard.

Besides, maybe if he helped, David would see that Ilya was useful. That he contributed. That he was worth keeping around.

"I can help," he offered eagerly, desperately needing something to do.

David looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "All right. You can chop the vegetables."

Ilya moved to the counter, accepting the cutting board and knife David handed him. They worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the rush of water as David set the pot to boil and the rhythmic thunk of Ilya's knife against the cutting board.

It should have been awkward. Maybe it was awkward. But there was something almost comfortable about it too - two men, working side by side, doing something productive while the real conversation happened outside.

Ilya focused on the vegetables, making sure each piece was cut evenly, precisely. His father had always criticized sloppy work, and even now, years after his death, Ilya found himself trying to meet those impossible standards.

"How old is Sasha?" David asked eventually, not looking up from where he was grating cheese.

The question was casual, but Ilya's heart rate spiked anyway. Here it was. The interrogation. The questions about his daughter, about his fitness as a parent, about whether someone like Ilya should be raising a child at all.

He'd heard it all before, from strangers and reporters and well-meaning acquaintances who couldn't understand how a single hockey player could possibly be a good father.

"She just turned eight," Ilya said, a smile tugging at his lips despite the tension. "On the fourth. Shane got her gift - a hockey stick, purple. She loves it. Begs to go to the rink every day to play with it."

He could hear the fondness in his own voice, the way it softened when he talked about Sasha. The way it always did.

He waited for David to say something about that - about Shane buying gifts for Ilya's daughter, about them being that involved in each other's lives. Waited for the judgment, the concern, the suggestion that maybe they were moving too fast.

But David just smiled. "Eight's a good age," he answered. "Shane was eight when he really started taking hockey seriously. Still young enough to have fun, old enough to start understanding the work it takes."

No judgment. No criticism. Just... understanding.

Ilya felt something in his chest loosen slightly.

Ilya nodded, continuing to chop. "Yes. Sasha loves hockey too."

There was pride in his voice, unmistakable and unashamed, the way he always sounded when he spoke about his little girl. It was only right, after all. Everyone should understand how wonderful Sasha was. 

David was quiet for a moment, and Ilya could feel the weight of another question coming. His shoulders tensed, his grip on the knife tightening slightly.

This was it. The real questions. The ones that mattered.

Then David asked, carefully, "Her mother?"

And there it was.

Ilya's hands stilled on the knife. He'd known this question was coming - it always did, eventually - but that didn't make it easier to answer.

This was where people judged him. Where they decided he was irresponsible, reckless, not fit to be anyone's father. A casual hookup that resulted in a child he didn't even know about? How could someone like that be trusted with a little girl?

How could Shane's parents possibly want someone like that in their son's life?

"Car accident," he said quietly. "When Sasha was two. Her name was Natalia."

"God, I'm sorry," David replied, and he sounded like he meant it. "That must have been..."

"It was complicated," Ilya admitted. "Natalia and I, we were not together. Just casual, you know? Kids goofing around. We were both very young, very stupid. I didn't even know she was pregnant—she never told me. And then she was gone, and Sasha was in orphanage."

He could hear the tightness in his own voice, the anger that still surfaced sometimes when he thought about it. All that time Sasha had spent alone, scared, without family, when she could have been with him.

"I didn't find out about her until December," Ilya continued, focusing on the vegetables in front of him rather than looking at David. "I brought her home as soon as I could."

Seven months. Sasha had been his daughter for only seven months, and already Ilya couldn't imagine his life without her.

He waited for David's response, his stomach churning with anxiety. This was the part where people usually looked at him with thinly veiled disgust. Where they made assumptions about his character, his morals, his fitness as a parent.

Where they decided he wasn't good enough.

"I can't imagine," David said quietly, and there was no judgment in his voice. Just... sympathy. "Finding out like that. And then suddenly being a father to a six-year-old—"

"Seven," Ilya corrected automatically. "She was seven when I got her."

God, she'd been so small when he'd first seen her. So scared. Looking at him like she expected him to leave her too, like everyone else had left her.

"Still," David said. "That's... doing it all alone, raising a kid while playing professional hockey, especially when you barely knew her. That must be hard."

"Hardest thing I've ever done," Ilya answered honestly, finally looking up at David. He needed to make sure David understood this, understood how seriously Ilya took being Sasha's father. "And easiest. Loving her… it’s the easiest thing in the world."

David smiled a little at that, understanding in his eyes. 

“I know what you mean,” he replied softly, a nostalgic expression on his face, the man clearly thinking back to when Shane had been younger, smaller, more in need of his father. 

David added the pasta to the now-boiling water, stirring it absently. They fell back into silence for a moment, and Ilya could feel another question coming. He braced himself for it.

He set down the knife, wiping his hands on a towel. His palms were sweating. When had that started?

"Does your family know?" David asked carefully. "About you being bisexual?"

And there it was. The question Ilya had been dreading most of all.

Because the answer made him look pathetic. Made him look alone. Made him look like someone with no support system, no family, no one who gave a damn about him except for an eight-year-old little girl who hadn't had any choice in the matter.

Why would Shane's parents want that for their son? Why would they want Shane tied to someone so fundamentally broken, someone whose own family had rejected him?

Ilya's jaw tightened. He should have expected this question too.

"My parents are both dead," he said flatly, trying to keep his voice even. Professional. Like he was answering a reporter's question instead of admitting to Shane's father that he was completely alone in the world. "My father, he... he would not have been okay with it. So maybe is for the best he never knew."

That was putting it mildly. His father would have beaten him bloody for it, probably disowned him, definitely made his life a living hell. Grigori Rozanov had been a hard man with rigid ideas about what made a real man, and Ilya had spent his entire childhood trying and failing to meet those impossible standards.

But he didn't need to tell David all that. Didn't need to lay bare all the ugliness of his childhood, all the ways his father had broken him down and tried to remake him into something acceptable.

"I'm sorry," David said quietly.

Ilya shrugged. "Is okay. Was long time ago." He paused, then added, "I have brother, but we don't speak."

Another casualty of his father's legacy. Alexei had learned at their father's knee how to be cold, how to be cruel, how to use family as a weapon. Ilya had gotten out, had built a different life, but his brother had stayed mired in all that bitterness and rage.

David was quiet for a moment, processing this. "That must be hard. Not having family support."

"I have Sasha," Ilya said simply, shrugging a little. “And Shane.”

Shane and Sasha were his family. The family he'd chosen, the family he'd built from nothing.

It was strange, standing here in the kitchen, being asked these questions with genuine care rather than judgment. David's concern felt real, felt warm, felt like something Ilya had never experienced from his own father.

His father had never asked Ilya how he was doing, had never shown interest in his life beyond whether he was winning, whether he was making the family name proud, whether he was being man enough. Every conversation had been a test Ilya was failing, every interaction a reminder that he wasn't good enough, would never be good enough.

But David - David was different. He was asking because he wanted to know, because he cared about the answers, because he was trying to understand his son's partner. There was no malice in his questions, no trap waiting to be sprung. Just genuine curiosity and concern.

This was what fathers were supposed to be like, Ilya realized. This warmth, this acceptance, this willingness to listen and try to understand even when the situation was complicated and uncomfortable.

Shane was lucky. He didn't even know how lucky he was.

And maybe - maybe Ilya could be lucky too. Maybe he could have this.

If he didn't fuck it up. If David and Yuna decided he was worth accepting. If they could look past all his flaws and mistakes and see that he loved Shane, that he would do anything for Shane.

"Well," David said, and there was something gentle in his voice, something that made Ilya's throat feel tight, "you have us too. If you want. Yuna and me - we're not going to win any parent of the year awards. But we're here now. And we're not going anywhere."

Ilya's throat felt tight. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak for a moment.

You have us too.

No one had said anything like that to Ilya in... he couldn't remember how long. Maybe ever. His own family had made it clear he was on his own, that love was conditional, that acceptance had to be earned and could be revoked at any moment.

But David was offering it freely. No conditions, no expectations, just... acceptance.

"Thank you," Ilya finally managed, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "That means a lot, Mr. Hollander."

More than David probably realized. More than Ilya could put into words.

David added cream to a pan, stirring in the cheese. "You know," he said after a moment, "you can call me David. Not Mr. Hollander. We're past that, I think."

Ilya paused, looking at him. It was such a small thing—a name—but it felt significant. An offering. An acceptance of sorts.

Or maybe it was a test. Maybe David was waiting to see if Ilya would presume too much, get too comfortable, overstep.

No. No, Ilya was being paranoid. David's expression was open, genuine. This wasn't a trap.

"David," Ilya repeated, testing it out. It felt strange on his tongue, too informal, too familiar. But also right. "Okay. David."

David nodded, a small smile playing at his lips. "Good. I was starting to feel old."

Ilya smiled back, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. David added cream to a pan, stirring in the cheese, and Ilya brought over the chopped vegetables.

They worked together in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and Ilya found himself relaxing incrementally. This wasn't going as badly as he'd feared. David wasn't hostile, wasn't judgmental, wasn't asking questions designed to trap or test him.

He was just... being a father. Trying to understand his son's life, trying to figure out where Ilya fit into it.

Maybe Ilya could do this. Maybe he could be enough.

"Shane's happy with you," David said eventually, adding the vegetables to the pan. "I can see that. I saw it earlier, at the cottage, before I..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "Before I interrupted."

Ilya felt heat rise in his face. Yes. That interruption. He still hadn't quite recovered from the mortification of being caught like that, like a teenager sneaking around. What kind of first impression was that? 

But David didn't sound angry about it. Just... observant. Matter-of-fact.

"He makes me happy too," Ilya said, because it was true, and because it was important that David knew it. That David understood Ilya wasn't just using Shane, wasn't just playing around. “And Sasha, she loves him. She asks about him all the time. 'When is Shane coming? Can we call Shane? Can we watch his game?'"

He hadn't meant to say all that, but once he started, the words kept coming. Because David needed to understand that this wasn't just some fling, some secret affair that would burn out. This was real. This was family.

Please let him understand that. Please let him be okay with it.

David's expression softened slightly. "That's good. That's... that's really good, Ilya."

Ilya swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat. "I love him. And Sasha, she thinks he hung the moon. She has decided he is hers now, I think. No longer just mine."

"That's how it works with family," David explained quietly. "You don't belong to just one person. You belong to all of them."

Family. The word hung in the air between them, significant and heavy with meaning.

Is that what they were becoming? A family? Ilya, Shane, and Sasha?

The thought should have terrified him. Should have sent him running, because Ilya didn't do family, didn't do permanent, didn't do anything that could trap him or tie him down.

But instead, it felt... right. It felt like something Ilya had been moving toward without realizing it, like something he'd been building without meaning to.

Like something he wanted desperately, with every fiber of his being.

"Yes," Ilya said softly. "Family."

David nodded, plating up the pasta. "Then welcome to ours. It's messy and complicated and we don't always know what we're doing, but we figure it out."

Ilya took the plates David handed him, following him to set the table. Through the kitchen window, he could see Shane and Yuna on the back deck, still talking. Shane's shoulders were hunched, his hands moving as he spoke, and Yuna was listening, nodding occasionally.

"They'll be okay," David said, following Ilya's gaze. "She's not upset about you or about Shane being gay. She's upset that he felt he couldn't tell us for so long."

Ilya understood that. Could see how it would hurt, to realize your child had been hiding something so fundamental for years. Had been suffering alone when he could have had support.

"Shane was scared," Ilya said quietly. "Of losing you. Of disappointing you. Of not being the son you wanted."

"He could never disappoint us," David said firmly. "I wish he knew that. I wish we'd made it clearer that he could tell us anything."

Ilya heard the regret in his voice, the guilt of a parent who'd missed something important. He understood that too. How many times had he worried about Sasha, wondered what she wasn't telling him, feared that he was missing something crucial?

"He knows now," Ilya offered. "Today, you showed him. You are here, you are listening, you are trying to understand. That is what matters."

David looked at him, something grateful in his expression. "I hope so."

They stood there for a moment, watching through the window, bound by their love for the same man.

And somehow, Ilya thought that maybe, just maybe, they were all going to be okay.

Chapter End Notes

THE COTTAGEEEEE, hope y'all enjoyed it! Also, from here on out, my plan is probably going to be to stick to longer chapters (like this one) with a bit more time in between updates

Chapter 19: chapter nineteen

The cottage looked different in September than it had in July. The trees were just starting to turn, hints of gold and red creeping into the green canopy, and there was a coolness to the air that hadn't been there during the summer. Shane stood on the dock, watching the sun set over the lake, and tried to calm the nervous flutter in his chest.

Ilya would be here in less than an hour.

It had taken weeks of careful planning to make this weekend happen. The season hadn't started yet, but training camps were in full swing, and both of them were supposed to be focused on getting ready for the grueling months ahead. Shane had told his coaches he needed a few days for "personal matters," and thankfully they hadn't pushed for details. Ilya had done the same, leaving Sasha, who had already gone back to school, with the nanny for the two days he’d be at the cottage - something that had clearly pained him, but that Sasha's therapist had encouraged. Small separations, Dr. Ivanova had said, to help both Ilya and Sasha build confidence in their independence from each other.

Shane wasn't sure who'd had a harder time with it - Ilya or Sasha. According to Ilya's texts from the drive up, he'd already called three times to check in, and Sasha had cried when he left, even though she loved Jess.

But they needed this. Needed time together that wasn't stolen in hotel rooms or measured in hours. Needed to feel like they were building something real, something that could last.

His phone buzzed with a text.

20 minutes out

Shane's heart jumped. He typed back quickly.

Can't wait

Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. Finally:

Ya tebya lyublyu

I love you.

Shane smiled, warmth flooding through him despite the cool evening air. Ilya had been saying it more often lately, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in English, like he was making up for all the time he'd kept the words locked away.

Shane typed back: I love you too

He headed back up to the cottage, checking everything one more time. He'd stocked the fridge with food, changed the sheets on the bed, made sure there was plenty of firewood for the fireplace. Everything was ready.

Everything except Shane's nerves.

Because tomorrow night, they were having dinner with his parents.

Shane and Ilya. Together. With his mom and dad.

It had been his mother's idea, actually. She'd called two weeks ago and asked, very casually, if Shane was planning to visit the cottage before the season started. And when Shane had mentioned that Ilya might come up for a quick visit, she'd immediately suggested dinner.

"We'd love to see him again," she'd said, her voice warm. "And you. We'd love to see both of you."

Shane had agreed before he could overthink it, and now here they were. About to have an actual dinner together, like a real couple meeting the parents. Except they weren't a real couple, not publicly. And his parents knew they had to keep this secret, had to pretend not to know when they saw Ilya  at games or events.

It was complicated. Everything about this was complicated.

But Shane wanted it anyway. Wanted his parents to know Ilya, really know him. Wanted them to see what Shane saw - not the arrogant Russian rival the media portrayed, but the thoughtful, caring man who loved his daughter more than anything and who somehow, impossibly, loved Shane too.

Headlights swept across the driveway, and Shane's heart kicked into overdrive. He stepped out onto the porch, watching as Ilya's car pulled up and the engine cut off.

The driver's side door opened, and Ilya climbed out, stretching slightly after the long drive. He was wearing jeans and a dark henley, his hair slightly messy from running his hands through it - something he did when he was anxious, Shane had learned. Their eyes met across the driveway, and Ilya smiled, that soft smile that was just for Shane.

"Hey," Shane greeted, unable to keep the grin off his face as he jogged down the porch steps.

They met halfway, and for a moment, they just stood there, looking at each other. It had only been two months since July, but it felt like longer. Shane's fingers itched to reach out, to touch, to confirm that Ilya was really here and not just another daydream.

"Hi," Ilya echoed, his smile widening. "You going to help me with bag, or just stand there looking pretty?"

"I could say the same to you," Shane retorted, but he grabbed the bag anyway, their fingers brushing in the exchange.

The brief contact sent electricity up Shane's arm, and he saw Ilya's breath catch slightly. Two months. It had been two months since they'd been able to touch each other, kiss each other, be together without fear of being caught.

Shane dropped the bag on the porch and pulled Ilya close, kissing him hard. Ilya made a soft sound of surprise before melting into it, his hands coming up to cup Shane's face, his fingers sliding into Shane's hair.

"Missed you," Shane murmured against Ilya's mouth. "God, I missed you."

"Me too," Ilya replied, kissing him again. "So much."

They stood there on the porch, wrapped up in each other, until the September chill finally drove them inside. Shane grabbed Ilya's bag and led him inside, setting his bag down on the counter while Ilya took his shoes off, knowing all of Shane’s quirks. 

Ilya crossed the room and pulled Shane close again, this time just holding him. Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya's waist and buried his face in his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely Ilya.

They stayed like that for a long moment, just holding each other, before Ilya pulled back slightly.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, eyes searching Shane’s face for any hint of anxiety. "About tomorrow?"

"Nervous," Shane admitted hesitantly. He wasn’t sure if admitting he was anxious about dinner with his parents would make Ilya more or less worried. "You?"

"Terrified," Ilya answered bluntly, and Shane laughed despite himself.

"It'll be fine," Shane assured him, trying to convince himself as much as Ilya. "They liked you in July."

"They were in shock in July," Ilya corrected. "They had just found out their son is gay and dating his rival. I’m surprised we didn’t give your father heart attack. They didn't know what to think."

"They invited us to dinner," Shane pointed out. "That's a good sign."

"Or they want to tell us in person that this is terrible idea and we should stop," Ilya suggested, only half-joking.

Shane pulled back to look at him properly. "Do you really think that?"

Ilya sighed, running a hand through his hair. "No. Maybe. I don't know. Your parents are very nice, but they are also your parents. They want what is best for you. And I am not sure I am what is best for you."

"Stop," Shane ordered firmly, taking Ilya's face in his hands, fingers threading through those soft curls he loved so much. "You are what's best for me. You are what I want. And my parents know that."

Ilya looked at him for a long moment, something vulnerable in his eyes, before finally nodding. "Okay. Okay, I believe you."

"Good," Shane said, kissing him softly. "Now, are you hungry? I made dinner."

Ilya's eyebrows rose. "You made dinner? Should I be worried?"

"Shut up," Shane said, shoving him playfully. "I can cook."

"Mmm, yes, I remember your grilled cheese," Ilya teased. "Very gourmet."

"I made pasta, asshole," Shane informed him. "With sauce from scratch and everything."

Ilya's expression softened. "You made me dinner."

"Yeah," Shane said, suddenly feeling shy. "I wanted to. Is that okay?"

"Is perfect," Ilya murmured, pulling Shane in for another kiss. "You are perfect."

Dinner was good—the pasta was maybe slightly overcooked, but the sauce was decent, and Ilya ate two helpings while telling Shane about Sasha's first week back at school. She was in second grade now, Ilya explained, and already reading at a fourth-grade level.

"Her teacher says she is gifted," Ilya continued, pride evident in every word. "Wants to test her for advanced program."

"That's amazing," Shane commented, grinning. "She's so smart."

"Too smart, sometimes," Ilya admitted ruefully. "Last week, she asked me why we can't just tell everyone we are friends. Said it doesn't make sense that we pretend not to like each other."

Shane's stomach twisted. "What did you say?"

"That sometimes grown-ups have to keep things private for work," Ilya replied. "That it's complicated. She didn't like that answer, but she accepted it."

"Does she ask about me a lot?" Shane asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

Ilya grinned, clearly seeing right through his facade. "All the time. 'When can we call Shane? Can Shane come visit? Did Shane watch my game?”

Shane smiled softly at that, his chest feeling a bit tight. It shocked him sometimes, how much he missed Sasha. He was glad his attachment didn’t scare Ilya off, because Shane wasn’t sure he’d be able to lie. There was no way he could pretend like that little girl had him wrapped around her little finger the second he met her, hadn’t claimed his heart in the way only small children could. 

They cleaned up dinner together, moving around the kitchen in comfortable sync, and Shane was hit with a sudden wave of longing for this to be his everyday life. Coming home to Ilya, cooking dinner together, talking about their days, Sasha sitting in the seat between them at the table. Normal, domestic, simple.

Instead, they got stolen weekends and secret phone calls and a future that was always just out of reach.

"Hey," Ilya said, pulling Shane out of his thoughts. "Where did you go?"

"Just thinking," Shane waved him off, not wanting to worry him.

Of course, that excuse never worked with Ilya. The man’s eyes narrowed, his determination to find out what was bothering Shane only growing. 

"About?"

"About how much I wish this could be our life," Shane admitted. "All the time, not just weekends."

Ilya's expression went soft. "Me too. But we will get there, yes? When I move to Ottawa, it will be easier. We will be closer."

"That's still a year away," Shane complained, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. "A whole year, Ilya."

"I know," Ilya consoled him, moving closer to wrap his arms around Shane from behind. "But we have made it this far. We can make it one more year."

Shane leaned back against him, letting Ilya's warmth seep into him. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

"Of course I am right," Ilya quipped, pressing a kiss to Shane's neck. "I am always right."

"You're an asshole," Shane protested, but there was no heat in it.

"But I am your asshole," Ilya pointed out, and Shane couldn't argue with that.

They moved to the couch, Ilya pulling Shane down beside him and tucking him against his side. Shane rested his head on Ilya's shoulder, and they sat in comfortable silence, watching the fire crackle in the fireplace.

"Tell me about Sasha," Shane said eventually. "How is therapy going?"

Ilya sighed. "Good. Hard, but good. Dr. Ivanova says she is making progress. The nightmares are less frequent—maybe twice a month now, instead of every week."

"That's good," Shane replied, heart twinging a little at the memory of the one nightmare he’d witnessed the little girl have. God, he couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for Ilya, having to deal with that on a regular basis. Not the disturbed sleep, no, Shane knew Ilya didn’t mind that in the slightest, but seeing Sasha in pain, seeing a little girl so small and innocent so deeply afraid. 

"Yes," Ilya agreed. "But she is still so scared sometimes. Still so worried about being good, about not making mistakes. Last week, she dropped a glass and it shattered, and she looked at me like..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "Like she thought I would hit her."

Shane's chest ached. "But you didn't."

Because Shane knew with absolute and complete certainty that, off the ice, Ilya Rozanov didn’t have a violent bone in his body, especially not when it came to his little girl. He’d never forgive himself if he gave Sasha so much as a paper cut. 

"Of course not," Ilya answered fiercely. "I would never. But the fact that she expected it, that someone taught her to expect it..." He shook his head. "It makes me so angry. So fucking angry."

"I know," Shane replied softly, taking Ilya's hand and lacing their fingers together. "But she's getting better. She knows you won't hurt her."

"Most of the time," Ilya agreed, swallowing tightly. "But sometimes, she forgets. Sometimes, she’s just…so scared.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Shane squeezed Ilya's hand.

"She's lucky to have you," he said finally.

"I'm lucky to have her," Ilya corrected. "She is best thing that ever happened to me. Her and you."

Shane's throat felt tight. "Ilya..."

"It's true," Ilya said, turning to look at him. "Before Sasha, before you, I was just... going through motions. I was not happy. But now, I have Sasha. I have you."

"You have us," Shane confirmed, his voice rough. "Always."

Ilya kissed him, slow and sweet, and Shane poured everything he couldn't say into it. All the love, all the longing, all the desperate hope that someday this could be their normal.

When they finally pulled apart, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane's.

"I'm still terrified about tomorrow," he admitted.

"Me too," Shane said. "But we'll do it together."

"Together," Ilya echoed, and Shane could hear the smile in his voice.

The next evening, Shane found himself standing in his parents' kitchen, watching his mother bustle around while his father set the table. Ilya was in the bathroom, where Shane suspected he was actually just trying to calm his nerves.

Shane understood. His own stomach was in knots.

"Stop fidgeting," his mom told him, not even looking up from the salad she was preparing.

"I'm not fidgeting," Shane protested, immediately stilling his hands that had been drumming against the counter.

"You're fidgeting," his dad confirmed from the dining room. "You always do when you're nervous."

Shane sighed. "Okay, fine. I'm nervous. Are you happy?"

"Why are you nervous?" his mom asked, finally looking up at him. "It's just dinner."

"It's dinner with my boyfriend and my parents," Shane reminded her, the word boyfriend feeling strange in his mouth. For so long, he and Ilya had refused to admit what they really were to each other. Now, the word felt…monumental. "That's a big deal."

His mom’s expression softened. "Shane, honey, we like Ilya. We want to get to know him better. That's all this is."

"But what if—" Shane started, then stopped, not sure how to articulate his fears.

What if they saw something tonight that made them change their minds? What if they realized how complicated this relationship was and decided it wasn't worth it? What if they asked him to choose between his career and Ilya?

"What if what?" his dad asked, coming back into the kitchen.

"What if you decide this is a bad idea?" Shane finally said. "What if you think I should end things with him?"

His parents exchanged a look, one of those wordless conversations that came from decades of marriage.

"Shane, honey," his mother began gently, coming around the counter to take his hands. "We would never ask you to do that. You love him. That's obvious. And he loves you."

"But it's complicated," Shane argued weakly, letting out a sigh. Complicated didn’t even begin to describe their situation. "So complicated. And dangerous. If anyone finds out—"

"Then we'll deal with it," his dad interrupted firmly. "Together. As a family."

"We're not going to abandon you," his mom added. "Or Ilya. Or Sasha. You're all part of this family now, whether the world knows it or not."

Shane felt his eyes burning and blinked rapidly. "Thanks, Mom. Dad."

His mom pulled him into a hug, and Shane let himself be held for a moment, feeling like a kid again.

The bathroom door opened, and Ilya emerged, looking slightly pale but composed. He spotted Shane in his mother's arms and hesitated, like he wasn't sure if he should interrupt.

"Ilya," Shane's mom said warmly, pulling back from Shane and moving toward him. "Come here."

Ilya looked startled but allowed himself to be pulled into a hug. Shane watched him freeze for a moment before carefully putting his arms around her, his movements stiff and uncertain.

When she pulled back, Ilya looked a bit dazed.

"Now, let's eat,” Yuna declared. “David, is the table set?"

"Yes, dear," his dad replied, and Shane caught the fond exasperation in his tone.

They moved to the dining room, and Shane found himself sitting across from Ilya, their parents at either end of the table. It felt surreal, sitting here like this. Like a normal family dinner, except nothing about this was normal.

His mom had made roast chicken with vegetables and potatoes, and she served generous portions onto everyone's plates. Shane noticed that she gave Ilya an extra large helping, and Ilya's eyes widened slightly before he murmured his thanks.

"So, Ilya," David said as they started eating. "Still hoping to move to Ottawa for next season?”

Ilya glanced at Shane before nodding. "Yes. My contract with Boston ends this season. I have been talking to my agent about Ottawa."

"That's a big change," Yuna reminded him, as if he wasn’t well aware. "How do you feel about it?"

Ilya shrugged a little, clearly not knowing how to answer. 

“It will be good for Sasha, I think,” he replied eventually. “And good for..." He trailed off, glancing at Shane again. "Us. Two hours is much better than five.”

"How is Sasha?" his mom asked curiously, taking a sip of her wine. "Shane says she's doing really well in school."

Shane blushed a little at the way his mom made it so obvious how often he gushed about the little girl. 

Ilya's entire demeanor changed, the way it always did when someone asked about his daughter. He sat up straighter, his face lighting up, all that nervous energy transforming into pure parental pride. Being a father suited him in ways Shane never would’ve thought. It was like it had settled something in him. 

"She is wonderful," he answered warmly, shoulders softening a little, the question putting him at ease. "She loves school and she is making many friends now. Before, she was too shy, but now she talks about Emma and Sofia all the time."

"That's lovely," Yuna replied, smiling. "It sounds like she's really settled in."

"She has," Ilya confirmed. "Boston is good for her. Good schools, good therapist, good..." He paused, seeming to consider his words. "Good support system. My nanny, Jess, she is wonderful with Sasha. And Svetlana visits when she can. And Shane, when he is able to call..."

He trailed off, and Shane saw the longing in his expression. The wish that Shane could be more present in Sasha's life, could be there in person instead of just phone calls and video chats.

"Shane talks about her all the time," Shane's mom remarked gently. "About how much she's grown, how proud he is of her."

It wasn’t really all the time, was it? Okay, maybe a lot of the time, but what else did he have to talk about? Pre-season games? Like that was half as important as Sasha. 

Ilya looked at Shane, something soft in his eyes. It was a look Shane had seen plenty of times before, but only recently realized what it really was. 

Love. 

They talked about hockey for a while, the conversation flowing more easily now. Ilya relaxed incrementally, his shoulders losing some of their tension, and Shane watched as his parents drew him out, asking thoughtful questions and actually listening to his answers.

This was what Shane had wanted. His parents getting to know Ilya, seeing past the media persona to the real man underneath. The man who loved his daughter fiercely and who was trying so hard to be good enough for Shane's family.

Yuna Hollander had been to Boston countless times over the years – watching Shane play, attending events, supporting her son's career. But this was the first time she'd been here with a secret tucked close to her heart, a secret that made her see the city differently.

Her son was in love with Ilya Rozanov.

And Ilya Rozanov had a daughter.

The meetings with the sponsorship companies had gone well – some sportswear brand wanted Shane to be the face of their new hockey line, and they'd flown Yuna out to discuss the details. She'd sat through presentations and negotiations with her usual sharp focus, but the whole time, part of her mind had been elsewhere.

On the text she'd sent Ilya that morning.

I'm in Boston for the day. Would you want to grab lunch?

Part of her expected him to decline. To make up some excuse – practice or something – to get out of it. She wouldn’t have blamed him. She’d seen how nervous he was the last time they’d been together, and that was when he’d had Shane as a buffer. But once again, it seemed Ilya Rozanov had set out to prove her wrong. 

His response had come quickly: Yes! I know good place. 1pm?

Now, sitting in a small Italian restaurant in the North End that Ilya had suggested, Yuna found herself nervous in a way she hadn't expected. She'd met plenty of Shane's teammates over the years, had navigated countless social situations with ease. But this was different.

This was her son's partner. The man Shane loved. The man who, if everything went according to plan, would eventually be part of their family.

The man she'd only met a handful of times, and always under less than ideal circumstances.

First at the cottage, when David had walked in on them in the lake. Then the awkward dinner that followed, where Ilya had been so tense Yuna had worried he might shatter. He'd come to visit in September, spent a weekend with Shane at the cottage, and while that had gone better, Ilya had still seemed like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he expected them to suddenly decide he wasn't good enough for Shane and withdraw their tentative acceptance.

It had broken Yuna's heart a little, seeing how anxious he was around them. How carefully he weighed every word, how he watched them like he was trying to anticipate criticism before it came. She and David had tried to put him at ease, but Ilya Rozanov was apparently very good at hiding behind practiced smiles and careful politeness.

The door opened, and Ilya walked in, scanning the restaurant until his eyes landed on her. He smiled—a genuine smile that reached his eyes—and made his way over, but Yuna could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand gripped the strap of his bag just a little too tight.

Still nervous, then. Still uncertain of his place with them.

"Yuna," he greeted warmly, and she noticed he didn't hesitate over her first name this time. 

That was progress, at least. The first few times they'd spoken, he'd called her Mrs. Hollander with such stiff formality that she'd had to insist—twice—that he use her first name.Then again, it’d taken her a while to train herself out of thinking of the man as Rozanov. It was how she’d thought of him for so many years. Rozanov, her son’s greatest rival, an arrogant, cocky, rude man who held nothing back on the ice, who made each move without hesitation. 

The version of Ilya she’d seen so far was nothing like what she’d expected. Hesitant, thoughtful, polite. Comments that she used to attribute to being brash or crude she now realized were actually a result of a language barrier. Most of the English he knew, he’d learned in a locker room. Of course the man didn’t know how to speak delicately. 

"Is good to see you."

"You too, Ilya," she replied, standing to exchange a brief hug.

The embrace was careful, almost tentative, like Ilya wasn't quite sure if it was allowed. Like he was still testing the boundaries of what was acceptable. Yuna made a mental note to hug him more naturally next time, to help him understand that he didn't need to be so careful around her.

He looked good – less exhausted than he had at the cottage in July, more settled. He was wearing dark jeans and a navy sweater that brought out his eyes, and his hair was slightly damp like he'd showered not long ago. Yuna could see why Shane had fallen for him. There was something magnetic about Ilya Rozanov, something that went beyond his obvious good looks.

Though she had to admit, her first impressions of him from years of watching him play against Shane had been far less charitable. The arrogant Russian who taunted her son on the ice, who seemed to take pleasure in getting under Shane's skin, who the media loved to paint as brash and cocky and too confident for his own good.

That wasn't the man sitting across from her now.

This Ilya was thoughtful and careful. He admitted he’d picked the restaurant because Shane had once told him Italian was her favorite. When her water glass got low, he caught the waiter's eye without her having to ask. She mentioned being cold from the air conditioning and he'd immediately offered her his jacket before she could protest.

Small gestures, maybe, but they painted a picture of someone far more considerate than the persona he wore on the ice.

"How are the meetings going?" Ilya asked, and Yuna appreciated that he was trying to ease into things with small talk, even though she could see the slight tremor in his hands as he unfolded his napkin.

"Good. Really good, actually. The deal they're offering Shane is generous," she replied, watching Ilya carefully. "Though I think we can negotiate a bit more."

Ilya grinned, and for a moment, some of that famous Rozanov confidence flickered through. "Shane is lucky to have you handling business. You are... what is word? Scary?"

"Formidable?" Yuna suggested with a laugh.

"Yes! Formidable. Very formidable," Ilya confirmed, and there was genuine respect in his voice that warmed her. But then he seemed to catch himself, like he worried he'd been too familiar, and added more carefully, "Shane, he speaks very highly of you. Says you are best agent in hockey."

"I don't know about that," Yuna demurred, but she was pleased. "I just make sure people don't take advantage of him."

"That is important job," Ilya said seriously. "Especially in this business. Many people try to take advantage."

Yuna wondered if he was speaking from experience. He’d come to America, an eighteen year old kid making more money than most people ever dreamed about, with no one looking out for him. He had probably had to learn the hard way to be suspicious of people who wanted something from him.

Their food arrived, and they ate in comfortable enough silence for a few minutes. Yuna watched Ilya carefully, cataloging all the small tells of his nervousness. The way he checked his phone twice in quick succession. The slight tension in his shoulders that never quite released. The way he cut his food into precise, even pieces – something Shane did too when he was anxious, she'd noticed.

It made her sad, seeing Ilya so on edge around her. She wanted to tell him that he could relax, that she and David had already accepted him, that he didn't need to try so hard. But she suspected Ilya wouldn't believe her. Not yet. He'd probably spent too much of his life being judged, being found wanting, to trust that acceptance could come without strings attached.

"How is Shane?" Ilya asked after a moment, and Yuna could hear the longing in his voice. "We text, but..."

But it wasn't the same as seeing each other, Yuna filled in mentally. She knew they hadn't seen each other in person since the cottage in September. Two months of texts and phone calls and stolen video chats when they could manage it.

Two months of loving someone they couldn't be with.

"He's good. Busy. You know how it is this time of year," Yuna told him, then paused. "He misses you."

Ilya's expression softened in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable. The carefully maintained composure cracked just enough for Yuna to see the real emotion underneath.

"I miss him too. Very much."

There was so much weight in those three words. Yuna could see it in the way Ilya's jaw tightened, the way his fingers gripped his fork a little harder. This wasn't some casual fling. This was real, deep love – the kind that hurt when you couldn't be together. She’d known it when she saw them together for the first time, but it still kept catching her off-guard, taking her breath away sometimes. 

Her son had found real love, and they couldn't even be in the same city most of the time.

"I know it's hard," Yuna noted gently. "The distance. The hiding. All of it."

Ilya nodded, looking down at his plate. "Yes. Is very hard. But is worth it. Shane, he is worth it."

The simple conviction in those words made Yuna's chest tight. This was what she'd wanted for Shane his whole life – someone who would love him unconditionally, who would see him for who he really was, who would think he was worth any sacrifice. She'd just never imagined it would be so complicated.

"How is Sasha doing?" she asked, changing the subject to safer ground.

The transformation was immediate and dramatic. Ilya's entire demeanor shifted - his shoulders relaxed, his face lit up, and that guarded expression melted away completely. It was like watching the sun come out from behind clouds. This was the real Ilya, Yuna realized. Not the nervous man trying to make a good impression, but the father who loved his daughter more than anything in the world.

"She's wonderful," he said, and Yuna could hear the love in every syllable. "She just started second grade. And she keeps coming home with all these new jokes from school to tell me.”

Yuna smiled, charmed by his obvious pride. There was no trace of nerves now, no careful weighing of words. When Ilya talked about Sasha, he was confident and animated in a way he never was when talking about himself.

"She’s very proud of herself when I laugh at them," Ilya continued, grinning. "And she tells them to Shane on the phone. He always laughs, even when they are not that funny. It makes her so happy."

The casual mention of Shane's relationship with Sasha - the phone calls, the inside jokes, the easy affection - made Yuna's heart squeeze. Shane talked about Sasha constantly. About her latest accomplishments at school, about something funny she'd said, about how she was doing in therapy. He lit up when he talked about her in the same way Ilya did.

They both loved this little girl so much.

"How is school going for her?" Yuna asked, genuinely curious. She'd been thinking about Sasha a lot since the cottage, this little girl she'd never met who'd somehow become important to her.

"Very good. She loves it. Has made friends - Emma and Sofia, they are her favorites. They do everything together," Ilya explained, his eyes bright. He leaned forward slightly, the nervous tension completely gone now. "Her teacher says she is reading above her grade level, even in English. In Russian, she reads even better. Very advanced."

The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and Yuna found herself smiling at it.

"And hockey, she still loves hockey. Wants to play all the time," Ilya continued. "This weekend, we have practice for her league, and she has been talking about it all week. 'Papa, how many more days? Papa, can we practice my slapshot?'"

His imitation of Sasha's voice was adorable, and Yuna laughed.

"Like father, like daughter," she observed.

Ilya shrugged, but she could see he was pleased. "Maybe. Or maybe she just likes it. I don't push. Whatever makes her happy, that is what matters."

There was something slightly defensive in the way he said it, a subtle shift back toward that guarded nervousness, and Yuna realized he was probably used to people questioning his parenting. A single father, a professional athlete with a demanding schedule, raising a daughter who'd been through trauma – she imagined people had plenty of opinions.

"I'm sure you're doing a wonderful job with her," Yuna assured firmly, putting as much conviction as she could into the words.

Ilya looked up at her, surprise flickering across his face, and she saw how much he needed to hear that. How much he doubted himself, despite all evidence that he was doing everything right.

"I try," he replied quietly, some of the brightness fading from his expression. "Some days are harder than others. But she is happy, I think. Happier than when I first brought her home."

"Shane talks about her all the time," Yuna admitted. "About how smart she is, how sweet. How much she loves that purple hockey stick he got her."

Ilya's smile widened, becoming something softer, more intimate. "She uses it every chance she gets. But you know what she loves even more?" He paused, and there was something almost shy in his expression now. "Shane sent her a stuffed bunny. For no reason, just because he saw it and thought of her. She named it Tolly."

"Tolly?" Yuna repeated, charmed.

"After Tolstoy," Ilya explained. "To go with her stuffed dog, Fyo, who is named after Dostoevsky. She sleeps with both of them every night. Won't go to bed without them." His voice had gone soft, almost wondering. "Shane, he didn't have to do that. Send her gifts, call her, remember things she tells him. But he does. He loves her."

The last sentence came out quiet, almost awed, and Yuna understood. Ilya had been alone for so long, raising Sasha by himself with minimal support. The idea that someone else could love his daughter, could choose to be part of her life without obligation – it clearly meant everything to him.

"Of course he does," Yuna said gently. "I’m sure she's easy to love, like you."

Ilya looked away quickly, but not before Yuna saw the emotion flash across his face. He cleared his throat, took a sip of water, clearly trying to compose himself.

They talked for another half hour, the conversation flowing easier as Ilya gradually relaxed again. Yuna found herself genuinely liking him more with every passing minute, which was a relief. She could see layers to Ilya that the public never got to see. The way he worried about Sasha's nightmares, even though they were getting less frequent. The thoughtful way he talked about Sasha's therapy, clearly taking it seriously and trying to understand. The careful consideration he put into every decision regarding his daughter.

This wasn't the arrogant player she'd seen on TV for years. This was a young man who'd been thrust into fatherhood unexpectedly and was doing everything in his power to get it right. A young man who loved her son and was terrified of not being good enough for him.

Eventually, Ilya glanced at his phone and grimaced slightly. "I am sorry, I have to go soon. Sasha gets out of school at 2:30, and I like to be early to pick her up."

"Of course," Yuna said in complete understanding, signaling for the check.

Ilya moved to grab it, but Yuna was faster, her years of business negotiations making her reflexes sharp. "My treat. Consider it a thank you for meeting with me."

"You don't have to thank me," Ilya protested, but there was less fight in it than Yuna expected. Maybe he was learning that arguing with her about things like this was pointless.

"I wanted to," Yuna insisted. "It's been really nice, Ilya. Getting to talk to you. Getting to know you better."

And she meant it. Every time they spent time together, she understood better why Shane loved him. Why Shane was willing to risk everything for him.

"For me too," Ilya said, and sounded like he meant it. Some of that nervous energy had returned as lunch wound down, like he was worried he'd said something wrong or failed some invisible test.

They stood to leave, and Yuna was gathering her purse when Ilya hesitated, shifting his weight in a way that reminded her of Shane when he was trying to ask for something he wasn't sure he'd get.

"Would you..." he started, then stopped. Took a breath. Tried again. "Would you want to come? To pick up Sasha? You could meet her. If you want."

Yuna's heart jumped. She'd been hoping for this – hoping for a chance to meet the little girl who'd become so important to both Ilya and Shane. But she hadn't expected the invitation today, and the fact that Ilya was offering, despite his obvious nervousness, meant something.

"Are you sure?" she asked carefully. "I don't want to overwhelm her."

"You won't," Ilya assured her, though his hands were fidgeting with his phone in a way that betrayed his own uncertainty. "She is a little shy with new people now. Much better than before. But I have told her about you – about Shane's mama who is visiting Boston."

Yuna noticed he didn't say he'd told Sasha they were dating, didn't say he'd explained their relationship. Just that she was Shane's mother. Safe. Neutral.

"Then yes," Yuna agreed, surprising herself with how much she wanted this. "I'd love to meet her."

The walk to Sasha's school was about fifteen minutes from the restaurant, through the beautiful tree-lined streets of Beacon Hill. October in Boston was gorgeous – the leaves were turning brilliant shades of red and gold, and the air had that perfect autumn crispness that made everything feel sharper, more alive.

Ilya walked beside her, his hands shoved in his pockets, and Yuna could see the nervous energy building again. He kept checking his watch, even though they had plenty of time.

The school was a beautiful brick building, the kind of expensive private school that spoke of security and stability. Parents were already gathering outside, some in small clusters chatting, others checking their phones. Yuna noticed several of them glance at Ilya, recognition flickering across their faces before they looked away. Being Ilya Rozanov's daughter probably came with its own complications.

The doors to the school opened at exactly 2:30, and children began streaming out in a chaos of backpacks and laughter and shouted goodbyes. Ilya's entire demeanor changed—his spine straightened, his face lit up, and all that nervous energy transformed into something purely joyful.

"There," he said, pointing, and Yuna followed his gaze.

She saw a little girl with dark curly hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing the same charcoal gray skirt and light blue polo shirt as all the other girls, carrying a lavender backpack. She was talking animatedly to two other little girls, her hands moving expressively, and even from a distance, Yuna could see she was laughing.

God, she looked just like Ilya. The same pale blue eyes, the same curly hair – just in a darker shade, even some of the same mannerisms – the way she tilted her head when she listened, the expressiveness of her hands when she talked. There was no mistaking whose daughter she was.

She was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

Then Sasha spotted Ilya, and her whole face transformed. She lit up like the sun, and Yuna watched as she said something quick to her friends before starting to run toward them, her backpack bouncing with every step, her face split in a huge grin.

"Papa!" she called out, and Yuna could hear the pure joy in that one word.

Ilya moved forward to meet her, and Sasha launched herself at him with the complete trust of a child who knew she'd be caught. Ilya scooped her up easily, lifting her into the air before settling her against his hip, and Sasha immediately wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Mishka," Ilya said, his voice soft and warm in a way Yuna had never heard from him before. This was a different Ilya entirely – completely unguarded, purely happy. "How was your day?"

"So good, Papa!" Sasha exclaimed, pulling back to look at him, her words tumbling out in a rush. "We learned about the solar system and I told everyone that Pluto should still be a planet just like you said and Mrs. Patterson agreed with me and Emma said—"

She cut herself off mid-sentence as she noticed Yuna standing slightly behind Ilya. Her eyes went wide – those same sky blue eyes as her father's – and she suddenly went shy, pressing closer to Ilya's shoulder and tucking her face partially against his neck.

The transformation was immediate. The confident, chattering little girl became small and uncertain, and Yuna's heart ached at it. This was the fear Ilya had been talking about, the lingering effects of trauma that therapy was slowly helping to heal.

"Sasha," Ilya said gently, rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles. "This is Mrs. Hollander. Shane's mama. Remember I told you she was visiting Boston?"

Sasha peeked out from Ilya's shoulder, studying Yuna carefully with those sharp, intelligent eyes. Yuna could see her processing, evaluating, trying to decide if this new person was safe.

"Hi, Sasha," Yuna greeted softly, giving her warmest, most non-threatening smile. "It's so nice to meet you. Shane talks about you all the time."

At the mention of Shane's name, Sasha's whole demeanor changed. She pulled away from Ilya's shoulder slightly, her eyes going wide with excitement.

"Is Shane here?” she asked, her voice hopeful. “Did he come too?"

The disappointment when Yuna shook her head was so visible, so genuine, that Yuna had to suppress a smile at how adorable it was.

"No, sweetheart, he's in Montreal," Yuna explained gently. "He has training camp. But he asked me to say hi to you."

"Oh," Sasha said, her shoulders drooping slightly. Then, with the resilience of children, she seemed to accept this and refocused on Yuna. "Hi, Mrs. Hollander. It's nice to meet you too."

Her English was excellent, Yuna noted, though there was a slight accent that made certain words sound softer, rounder. It was charming.

"You can call me Yuna, if you want," Yuna offered. "Mrs. Hollander makes me feel old."

Sasha considered this seriously, glancing at Ilya as if for permission. When he nodded encouragingly, she turned back to Yuna.

"Okay," she agreed, still not quite smiling but less hidden now. "Yuna."

"Is it okay if Yuna comes with us to get ice cream?" Ilya asked Sasha, bouncing her slightly on his hip. "I was thinking we could stop on the way home."

"Ice cream?" Sasha perked up immediately, and Yuna saw the shyness recede a bit more. "Can I get chocolate?"

"Whatever you want, mishka," Ilya told her, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Sasha seemed to think about this for a moment, studying Yuna again. Then, with the directness of children, she asked, "Are you nice? Shane said you're very nice."

"I try to be," Yuna answered honestly, charmed by the question. Shane had talked about her to Sasha. Had clearly painted a good picture if Sasha was using it as a reference point. "Are you nice?"

"Papa says I'm very nice," Sasha reported seriously, relaxing another fraction. Yuna had meant it mostly as a joke, and had to bite back a grin at the little girl’s response.  “And brave, and clever, and–”

“Okay, mishka,” Ilya cut her off, huffing with amusement. “I think that’s enough adjectives, hm?”

Sasha seemed undeterred by her father’s interruption, happy to keep on chattering. 

“What’s your favorite color?” she asked. 

They were getting to the serious questions then, Yuna thought. She’d never quite understood the reasoning, but she knew from when Shane was younger that if she dared to answer with the wrong color, it’d be the first strike against her.

“Blue,” she answered honestly, and Sasha nodded approvingly. 

“Mine too,” Sasha told her, tilting her head in consideration. “Or purple. Papa likes green. Not red though.”

"I do like red," Ilya protested, starting to walk down the sidewalk toward the ice cream shop, Yuna falling into step beside them. "I just said I didn't like that one red shirt."

"Because it was ugly," Sasha said matter-of-factly, and Yuna laughed.

"Sasha!" Ilya said, but he was smiling. "You said it was nice!"

"I lied," Sasha replied with a shrug, completely unrepentant. "I didn't want to hurt your feelings. But it was very ugly, Papa."

Watching them together was like watching a perfectly choreographed dance. The easy affection, the gentle teasing, the way Ilya held Sasha so carefully while also giving her space to be herself. This was what fatherhood looked like when it was done right, Yuna thought. When love came first, before ego or expectations or anything else.

Ilya had taken to fatherhood like he'd been born for it, even though it had been thrust upon him without warning. He was patient and attentive and so clearly devoted to this little girl that it made Yuna's chest ache.

And more than that – he was confident with Sasha in a way he never was with Yuna and David. All that nervous energy, all that careful weighing of words, it disappeared when his daughter was around. With Sasha, Ilya knew exactly who he was and what he was doing. He trusted himself completely.

Yuna wished he could see himself the way she saw him right now. Not as someone who had to prove his worth, but as someone who'd already proven it a thousand times over just by being the father Sasha needed.

"Yuna," Sasha said, and Yuna realized the little girl was looking at her seriously. "Do you like hockey?"

"I do," Yuna confirmed, although that was maybe an understatement. David would probably use the word obsessed. "I watch your papa and Shane play all the time."

"Papa's better," Sasha responded immediately, her loyalty shining through and Ilya laughed.

"Malyshka, you can't say that to Shane's mama," he chided gently, but Yuna could see how pleased he was.

"Why not? It's true," Sasha asked, nose scrunching a little in confusion. Then, as if it had dawned on her that she might have seemed rude, she added quickly, "But Shane is very good too. Just not as good as Papa."

Yuna bit back a smile. "I think they're both pretty great."

"That's because you're Shane's mama," the little girl commented, nodding like this made perfect sense. "You have to think he's great. Like how Papa thinks I'm great even when I'm not."

"You're always great," Ilya said firmly, squeezing her gently.

"Even when I spilled juice on the carpet last week?" Sasha challenged.

"Even then," Ilya confirmed. "Great people make mistakes sometimes. That's how they learn."

Sasha seemed satisfied with this answer and settled more comfortably against Ilya's shoulder as they walked. She was watching Yuna with less wariness now, more curiosity, and Yuna could see her trying to figure out where exactly Yuna fit in her world.

The ice cream shop was small and cheerful, with bright colors and a chalkboard menu that listed at least twenty different flavors. Ilya set Sasha down carefully, keeping a hand on her shoulder as she pressed her nose against the glass display case, trying to decide.

"Chocolate or strawberry?" she mused aloud. "Or maybe cookies and cream?"

"Get two scoops," Ilya said. "One chocolate, one cookies and cream."

"Really?" Sasha looked up at him with such hope that Yuna wanted to hug her.

"Really," Ilya confirmed. "Special treat, because we have guest."

Sasha beamed and turned back to the case to make her selection. While she was distracted, Ilya glanced at Yuna.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For being patient with her. She is shy with new people still, but she is trying very hard."

"She's doing wonderfully," Yuna assured him. "And Ilya? You're doing wonderfully too."

He looked surprised, then pleased, and ducked his head slightly like he didn't quite know how to accept the compliment.

They got their ice cream – Sasha with her two scoops, Ilya with pistachio, and Yuna with vanilla – and found a small table near the window. She noticed Ilya smiling fondly for a moment when she placed her order, likely having realized it was the same as Shane’s. If he was here, Ilya would probably tease him for being boring. Sasha sat between them, swinging her legs that didn't quite touch the floor, and dug into her ice cream with enthusiasm.

"This is the best day," Sasha announced between bites. "Ice cream and Papa and meeting Yuna."

"I'm glad you think so, mishka," Ilya said, reaching over to wipe a bit of chocolate from her chin.

They finished their ice cream, Sasha chattering away about school and hockey and her friends Emma and Sofia. She was completely comfortable now, the shyness from earlier completely gone, and Yuna could see glimpses of Ilya in her – the expressiveness, the sharp intelligence, the way she observed everything carefully even while seeming to just be a carefree child.

When they finally left the ice cream shop, Sasha reached for Ilya's hand automatically, and after a moment of hesitation, reached for Yuna's too.

Yuna looked down at the small hand in hers, feeling the trust implicit in that gesture, and felt something shift in her chest.

This was Shane's Sasha. The little girl he loved. The little girl who'd somehow become part of their family without any of them quite realizing when it happened.

And walking down the sidewalk in Boston, holding this child's hand while Ilya held the other, Yuna felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Even if the world didn't know it yet.

Even if it had to stay secret for now.

This was her family. All of them.

And she'd protect them with everything she had.

Chapter 20: chapter twenty

Shane stared at his phone, reading his mom’s apologetic text for the third time.

I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I promised your grandmother we'd all be there this year. She's been asking about it for months – you know how she gets. You don't have to come if you don't want to. I'm sure she'd understand if you had other plans.

But they both knew that wasn't true. Grandmother Hollander was ninety-two years old and famously particular about family gatherings. If Shane didn't show up to the big extended family Christmas without a very good reason, there would be questions. So many questions.

And "I want to spend Christmas with my secret boyfriend and his daughter" wasn't exactly an explanation Shane could give.

He typed out a response: No, it's okay. I'll be there. Don't worry about it.

Then he called Ilya.

"Hey," Ilya answered, and Shane could hear the smile in his voice. "I was just thinking about you."

"I have bad news," Shane started, his chest tight, guilt rushing through him. "About Christmas."

There was a pause. "Okay..."

"My parents can't come to Boston," Shane explained, the words tumbling out. "My grandmother – my dad's mom – she's having this big family thing and my mom promised we'd all be there months ago, before she knew about us. And I can't not go without everyone asking questions I can't answer."

Another pause, longer this time. Shane could practically hear Ilya thinking.

"It's okay," Ilya told him eventually and Shane bit back a wince. Sure, Ilya had said it was okay, but he said it the way he always did when things were very much not okay. "You should be with your family for Christmas."

Shane probably could’ve stabbed Ilya in the heart and he would’ve insisted he was fine. Shane wasn’t sure if it was just an attempt to be strong, or a side-effect from a less than ideal childhood, but Ilya always hid his true feelings, not wanting to burden anyone else with his pain. It killed him. 

"You are my family," Shane protested, needing him to understand that. "You and Sasha. I want to be with you."

"I know," Ilya assured him quietly. "But we can't always have what we want, da? Is how it is."

Shane's throat tightened. "I'm sorry. I tried to figure out a way—"

"Don't apologize," Ilya interrupted. "Is not your fault. We knew this would be hard. This is just... part of it."

But that didn't make it hurt less.

"What will you do?" Shane asked. "For Christmas?"

"Sasha and I will be fine," Ilya replied, and Shane could hear him forcing brightness into his voice. "We'll have our own celebration. Make it special, just the two of us."

Just the two of them. The words made Shane's chest ache. They shouldn't be just the two of them. Shane should be there too. They should all be together.

"I have a few days off after New Year's," Shane explained, quickly coming up with a plan in his head. "No games until January 4th. I could come down to Boston and spend a few days with you guys?"

"Yeah?" Ilya's voice lifted slightly. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," Shane said firmly. "I can't be there for Christmas, but I can be there for New Year's. If you want me."

"Of course I want you," Ilya answered softly, and the warmth in his voice made Shane's eyes sting. "We both do. Sasha asks about you all the time."

"Will you tell her I'm sorry I can't be there for Christmas?" Shane pleaded, only feeling worse about the fact that he was letting the little girl down. "Tell her I'll make it up to her when I see her."

"I will," Ilya promised. "And try to enjoy Christmas with your family, solnyshko. Don't spend the whole time feeling guilty."

Shane huffed a bit of a laugh at how well Ilya knew him. Better than anyone else, really. 

It had been three months since he'd last seen Ilya – a stolen weekend in September when Ilya had managed to get away from training camp to come to the cottage. And he hadn't seen Sasha since May, seven long months ago. That was too long. Way too long to be away from the people who'd become his family.

At least next season things would be different. Ilya's contract would be up, and he was still planning to request a trade to Ottawa. The Centaurs weren't great – honestly, they were pretty terrible – but they were two hours from Montreal instead of six. Two hours Shane could drive on days off, two hours that felt manageable instead of impossible.

Just one more season of this. One more season of stolen moments and long distances and missing everything.

Then they could actually start building the life they both wanted.

The locker room was subdued after the loss – not the way most of them would’ve liked to end the year. Ilya sat in his stall, mechanically untaping his stick, trying not to focus on it too much, instead redirecting his attention to thinking about all the presents for Sasha that he still had to wrap. 

"Rough one," Marly commented from the stall beside him, pulling off his jersey. "But hey, at least we get a few days off for Christmas."

"Yeah," Ilya replied, not really listening.

"You got plans?" Marly asked. "My parents are doing this huge dinner thing. You and Sasha should come – my mom always makes way too much food anyway."

Ilya looked up, surprised by the offer. "That's– is nice of you, Marly, but–"

"Come on," Marly insisted, his expression earnest. "It'll be fun. My whole family will be there—aunts, uncles, cousins, the whole chaos. And my nieces are around Sasha's age. She'd have kids to play with."

The offer was tempting. Really tempting. Ilya thought about Sasha alone with him on Christmas, just the two of them in their quiet house. Thought about how she deserved the big family gathering Marly was describing.

But he couldn't. Not when he was hoping – desperately hoping – that Shane would somehow be able to come to Boston. That maybe the whole Hollander extended family would suddenly get food poisoning at the last minute, and Shane would end up deciding to come down to Boston and spend Christmas with them. 

"I appreciate it," Ilya answered carefully. "But I think Sasha and I are just going to have a quiet Christmas this year. Just us."

"You sure?" Marly pressed. "The offer stands if you change your mind."

For all the shit he gave the other man, Marly really was a good friend when it came down to it. A friend that made stupid decisions, sure, and could be a bit obnoxious, but one that was always looking out for Ilya. 

"I'm sure," Ilya told him, tossing some of his gear in his duffle bag before looking up at the man. "But thank you. Really."

Ilya woke up on Christmas morning to the sound of small footsteps creeping down the hallway.

He smiled to himself, keeping his eyes closed, and waited.

A moment later, his bedroom door opened slowly, and a small voice whispered, "Papa? Are you awake?"

"Maybe," Ilya said, still not opening his eyes. "Depends on why you're asking."

"It's Christmas," Sasha replied, and Ilya could hear the excitement in her voice despite her attempt to be quiet. "Can we open presents?"

Ilya opened his eyes to find Sasha standing beside the bed, already dressed in green pajamas with Fyo tucked under her arm. Her curls were a mess, her eyes bright with anticipation.

She looked so different from the scared little girl he'd brought home from Russia just over a year ago. He thought back on what last Christmas had been like, only a few weeks after he’d brought Sasha home. They hadn’t done much to celebrate. Ilya had wrapped plenty of presents for Sasha, which the little girl had opened warily, as though convinced it was some sort of trick. 

She’d carefully unwrapped them, not causing so much as a rip in the wrapping paper, keeping one eye on Ilya the whole time. And that had been it for their holiday. Ilya hadn’t done much more for fear of overwhelming his daughter, who was still so terrified of him, so untrusting, and for good reason. But things were different now. Sasha was still cautious, still careful, but there was joy there now. Hope.

"We can definitely open presents," Ilya replied, sitting up with a yawn. "Give me a minute to make coffee first?"

Sasha nodded eagerly, bouncing on her toes, and Ilya couldn’t help but smile.

They went downstairs together, and Ilya caught Sasha eyeing the presents under the tree. It was a real one that they’d driven outside of the city to get, to one of those farms where they let you cut it down yourself. Sasha had been particularly indecisive, but had eventually picked out a perfect one. There were two stockings hung on the mantel, one for each of them, and all the presents had been sitting under the tree for a couple of days now. Santa wasn’t as big of a thing in Russia – they had Ded Moroz instead – but Sasha hadn’t believed in him in a long time, another painful side effect of the orphanage. 

Ilya made coffee while Sasha sorted through the gifts, reading the tags carefully. Most were for her – Ilya had maybe gone a bit overboard, but he had so many years to make up for — although there were a few for him too, sent by Shane and Sveta.

As he watched her, Ilya felt guilt settle heavy in his stomach. He thought about Emma's Christmas, about how she'd told Sasha her whole family was coming – grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. About Mira's big family gathering with everyone together.

And then there was Sasha. Just her and Papa. No extended family, no grandparents to spoil her, no cousins to play with. Just the two of them in their quiet house.

Was this enough? Was he enough?

Sasha deserved the big, loud, family-filled Christmas that other kids got. Deserved grandparents who doted on her, aunts and uncles who brought presents, cousins to run around with.

Instead, she had Ilya. Just Ilya. Because his own family was gone or estranged, and Shane's family couldn't be here because too many questions would be asked.

"Papa?" Sasha's voice broke through his thoughts. "Can I open them now?"

Ilya pushed the guilt down and smiled. "Go ahead, mishka."

Sasha tore into the presents with enthusiasm – new books, art supplies, a beautiful set of colored pencils, the warmest winter coat Ilya could find, new skates because she was growing so fast. Each gift was met with genuine delight, and Sasha hugged each one like it was the most precious thing in the world.

The biggest gift was last. A box that was almost as big as Sasha herself.

"What is it?" Sasha asked, shaking it gently.

"Open it and see," Ilya said, smiling.

Inside was a hockey stick. Blue this time, the same shade as her eyes. She'd outgrown the purple one Shane had given her for her birthday, and needed something longer.

Sasha's face lit up. "Papa! It's perfect!"

"You've been getting so good," Ilya told her, leaning forward from where he was sitting on the couch to set his mug on the coffee table. "You need the very best stick, da?”

Sasha launched herself at him, hugging him tight. "Thank you, Papa. Thank you so much."

Ilya held her close, pressing a kiss to her curly hair, breathing in the familiar smell of strawberry shampoo, and tried not to think about how Shane should be here for this. Should be watching Sasha open presents, should be part of this moment.

But he wasn't. Because they had to keep secrets. Because loving each other meant constantly choosing between what they wanted and what was safe.

"Papa?" Sasha's voice was muffled against his chest. "Is Shane okay?"

Ilya's throat tightened. "Yes, mishka. He's with his family today. Remember?"

"I know," Sasha said quietly, cuddling a bit closer. "I just... I wish he was here too."

"Me too," Ilya admitted, his voice rough. "But we'll see him soon. He's coming to visit after New Year's."

"Promise?" Sasha asked, pulling back to look at him with those blue eyes that matched his own.

"Promise," Ilya replied firmly, even though the uncertainty of it made his chest ache. Because what if something happened? What if Shane's schedule changed? What if—

No. He couldn't think like that. Shane would come. He'd promised.

They spent the day together, just the two of them. Ilya made blini for breakfast – Sasha's favorite – and they watched Christmas movies curled up on the couch. They built a snowman in the backyard, even though it was so cold Ilya's fingers went numb. They made cookies together, and Sasha got flour everywhere, and Ilya didn't care at all.

It was nice. It was good.

But there was an emptiness to it. A Shane-shaped hole in their little family that neither of them mentioned but both of them felt.

And Ilya couldn't shake the image of Sasha's friends with their big families – grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles all gathered together. Couldn't stop thinking about how quiet and small their Christmas was in comparison.

Sasha deserved more than this.

She deserved everything.

That night, after Sasha had gone to bed, Ilya sat alone in the living room with the Christmas lights glowing softly and his phone in his hand.

He scrolled through photos from the day – Sasha opening presents, Sasha holding her new hockey stick, Sasha's flour-covered face in the kitchen. He sent them to Shane with a simple message: Miss you.

Shane's response came quickly: Miss you too. She looks so happy.

She is, Ilya typed back. But she wishes you were here.

A pause, then: Me too.

Ilya stared at the message for a long moment, then added: Next season will be better. Ottawa is close enough that we can actually see each other. Actually be a family.

Can't come soon enough, Shane replied.

Ilya closed his eyes. Just one more season. One more season of this half-life, this in-between existence. Then he'd request the trade to Ottawa, move Sasha again, uproot their lives again – all so they could be closer to Shane.

He hadn't told Sasha yet about the potential move. Wanted to wait until the trade was actually finalized, until he knew for sure it was happening. No point in worrying her about another change until it was certain.

All so they could stop missing so many moments.

All so Christmas next year wouldn't feel so empty.

Shane pulled into Ilya's driveway just after six in the evening on New Year's Eve, his heart racing with anticipation.

He grabbed his bag from the trunk and walked to the front door. He knocked gently, and a moment later the door opened.

Ilya stood there, and for a second they just looked at each other. Then Ilya pulled Shane inside and kissed him – quick and desperate and full of three months of missing each other.

"Hi," Ilya breathed when they pulled apart.

"Hi," Shane replied, grinning like a fool, his hands still on Ilya's waist. "I missed you."

"Missed you too," Ilya told him, leaning in for another kiss.

"Shane!"

They broke apart quickly at Sasha's voice. She came running from down the hallway, and Shane barely had time to set down his bag before she crashed into him.

He scooped her up immediately, lifting her high, and was struck by how much heavier she felt.

God, she'd grown. She'd grown so much.

She was taller – at least two inches– and heavier in his arms. Her face had lost a bit of baby fat, and her hair was longer, her curls as wild as ever. 

Seven months. Seven months of growth and change that Shane had completely missed.

"Hey, Sash!" Shane greeted, trying to keep his voice light even as his chest felt tight. "I missed you!"

"I missed you too!" Sasha exclaimed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Papa said you were coming today and I've been waiting by the window forever!"

Shane held her close for a moment, memorizing this – the weight of her in his arms, the way she smelled like strawberry shampoo and something sweet, the softness of her curls brushing his chin.

How much more would she change before he saw her again?

"Well, I'm here now," Shane replied, swallowing tightly, setting her down but keeping one hand on her shoulder, not quite ready to let go.

She looked up at him with those blue eyes – Ilya's eyes – and Shane saw the happiness there, but also something else. Uncertainty. Caution.

She'd been seven when he'd last seen her. She was still only eight now, but somehow she seemed so much older. Like she'd lived months of life that Shane knew nothing about.

"I want to show you my new hockey stick!" Sasha told him, but there was a slight hesitancy in her voice now, like she wasn't quite sure if Shane would be interested. "Papa got it for me for Christmas and it's blue!"

"I definitely want to see that," Shane assured, not having to feign excitement, and watched some of the uncertainty fade from her face.

Ilya stood in the hallway watching them, his expression soft with relief and something that looked like pain.

"Come on!" Sasha said, pulling Shane toward the living room. "I'll show you!"

But Shane noticed how she immediately looked back to check where Ilya was, noticed how she kept herself positioned between both of them, like she needed to keep them both in sight.

She didn't fully trust him yet, Shane realized. How could she, when he was essentially a stranger who showed up a few times a year?

Ilya watched Shane and Sasha together in the living room and felt his chest warm despite the underlying sadness.

Sasha was showing Shane her hockey stick, her Christmas presents, the drawing she'd made of the three of them (when had she drawn that? Ilya hadn't seen it before). She was chattering away, excited and happy, but Ilya could see the way she kept glancing back at him, making sure he was still there.

She was happy Shane was here, but she wasn't comfortable. Not yet. Not after seven months apart.

"This is really cool," Shane was saying, examining the blue hockey stick. "I bet you have the best stick on the team now, huh?”

"Papa picked it out,” Sasha informed him, the hint of pride in her voice making Ilya’s chest tighten just a bit. 

Shane looked over at Ilya, something soft in his expression. "He's pretty great, isn’t he? Your papa."

Sasha nodded seriously. "The best."

Ilya felt his throat tighten. He loved watching them together – loved seeing Shane be gentle and patient with Sasha, loved seeing Sasha slowly warm up to him. But there was always this distance, this gap that seven months had created.

How much easier would this be if Shane could be here more? If Sasha could get used to him, could learn to trust him fully instead of having to rebuild that trust every time he visited?

Next season, Ilya reminded himself. Next season in Ottawa, and Shane could visit more. Could be a real part of Sasha's life instead of an occasional visitor.

They just had to make it through this season first.

Later, after they'd ordered pizza for dinner and Sasha was full and sleepy, they settled on the couch to watch a movie.

"Can we watch The Mighty Ducks?" Sasha asked. "Emma said it's really good."

"I cannot believe you've never shown her The Mighty Ducks," Shane chastised Ilya, looking genuinely offended and slightly horrified.

As though that of all his parenting failures, this was somehow the deepest cut of all. 

"Is American movie about kids," Ilya retorted, shrugging a bit. "I was too busy actually playing hockey to watch movies about hockey."

"It's a classic," Shane insisted, shoving him a little before grabbing the remote, already pulling it up. "Sasha deserves to see it."

They settled in – Sasha between them on the couch, Fyo in her lap. About twenty minutes into the movie, during a quiet scene, Sasha spoke up.

"Papa?” Her voice was careful, uncertain. "Are you and Shane boyfriends?"

Both men froze. Ilya felt his heart stop, felt every muscle in his body go rigid. Beside him, Shane had gone completely still.

"Why do you ask that, mishka?" Ilya asked carefully, trying to keep his voice calm even though panic was racing through him.

Sasha looked between them, her expression serious, brows furrowing in confusion. "You hold hands sometimes when you think I'm not looking. And you talk a lot on the phone, more than with Auntie Sveta. You smile more too, when Shane’s here.”

Ilya exchanged a glance with Shane, seeing his own fear reflected there. How much had Sasha noticed? How long had she been piecing this together?

"And," Sasha continued, her voice getting quieter, "Auntie Sveta said that sometimes boys love boys, remember? When we were watching the cup game.”

Ilya's throat was so tight he could barely breathe. 

"So are you?” Sasha asked, looking at Ilya with those too-perceptive eyes. 

Ilya looked at Shane, asking a silent question: Do we tell her?

Shane gave a tiny nod. They'd been so careful, so cautious about hiding this from everyone. But Sasha had figured it out anyway. And lying to her now felt wrong.

"Yes," Ilya answered quietly, his heart pounding. "Shane and I... we love each other.”

Sasha was quiet for a moment, processing this. Then: "Okay."

"Okay?" Shane asked, his voice uncertain.

"Yeah," Sasha said, shrugging. "I kind of already knew. You're not very sneaky." She paused, then added, "I won't tell anyone. I know it's a secret."

Ilya felt tears prick at his eyes. "Thank you, mishka. That's... that's very grown up of you."

"I'm eight and a half, Papa," Sasha reminded him matter-of-factly. "I'm not a baby."

Shane huffed out a small laugh, and some of the tension in the room eased.

Sasha turned back to the movie like this was settled. Like she'd just asked about the weather instead of completely upending their careful secret.

Ilya and Shane sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then Shane reached over Sasha's head and squeezed Ilya's hand briefly before pulling away.

They'd talk about this later, Ilya knew. About what it meant that Sasha knew, about whether this changed anything, about how careful they'd need to be going forward.

But for now, they just watched the movie, the three of them curled up on the couch together.

And despite the fear still racing through his veins, Ilya felt something else too.

Relief.

At least with Sasha, they didn't have to hide anymore.

Shane woke up early on New Year's Day, his mind still racing from Sasha's revelation the night before.

She knew. Sasha knew about them.

And she'd been... fine with it. Better than fine. She'd basically shrugged and gone back to watching the movie.

Shane got up quietly and headed downstairs, planning to make coffee and think through everything. But when he got to the kitchen, he found Sasha already there, sitting at the table with a glass of orange juice and a piece of toast.

"Oh," Shane said, surprised. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep," Sasha answered quietly, taking a small bite of toast, her blue eyes tracking his movements.

Shane poured himself coffee and stood awkwardly by the counter, not sure what to say. This was the first time they'd been alone together since he'd arrived, and suddenly the air felt thick with uncertainty.

"Can I sit?" Shane asked, gesturing to the chair across from her.

Sasha nodded, but Shane noticed how her shoulders tensed slightly, how her eyes flicked toward the stairs like she was checking if Ilya was nearby.

Shane sat down carefully, keeping his movements slow and non-threatening. "So. Last night was... unexpected."

"Sorry," Sasha said quickly, and Shane saw guilt flash across her face. Her little voice was painfully unsure, and it yanked at Shane’s heartstrings. "I didn't mean to– I know you and Papa were keeping it a secret. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Hey, no," Shane corrected quickly, trying to find the fine line between firm and gentle "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm glad you asked instead of just wondering. That was brave."

Sasha relaxed slightly but still looked uncertain. "You're not mad?"

"Not even a little bit," Shane assured her. He paused, then added gently, "Can I ask you something?"

Sasha nodded, but her grip on her toast tightened.

"How long have you known?" Shane asked. "About me and your papa?"

Sasha thought about it. "I don't know. A while, I guess. You call every night. And Papa gets this look on his face when he talks about you. And when you visit, he's happy. Happier than normal.”

Shane felt his chest tighten. "And you're... okay with it? Really okay?"

Sasha looked at him directly for the first time since they'd sat down. "I like you," she explained simply. "You're nice to Papa. You make him smile. And you're nice to me, even though you don't have to be."

God, this little girl killed him sometimes. She said it as though it was surprising, as though her default was being treated horribly. And Shane thought bitterly that, with the exception of Ilya, he supposed that had been the case for most of Sasha’s life. 

"I want to be nice to you," Shane told her, his voice rough with emotion. "You're important to your papa, which makes you important to me. But also... you're just a really great kid, and I like spending time with you."

Sasha's cheeks flushed pink, and she looked down at her toast. "Really?"

"Really," Shane confirmed, hesitating for a moment before continuing a bit more carefully. "I know I'm not around a lot. And I know that makes it hard to get to know me, to trust me. But I want you to know that when I'm not here, I'm thinking about you. Both of you. And I wish I could be here more."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, just drinking their beverages and eating breakfast, Shane letting Sasha process his words. 

"Good morning," Ilya's voice came from the doorway, and they both looked up to see him standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair adorably messy. "Am I interrupting?"

"No," Sasha replied quickly. "Shane and I were just talking."

"Yeah?" Ilya looked between them, something uncertain in his expression. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's good," Shane promised, meeting Ilya's eyes and trying to convey everything he couldn't say in front of Sasha. "Really."

Ilya's expression softened, and Shane saw relief there. "Good. Who wants pancakes?"

"Me!" Sasha exclaimed her earlier shyness disappearing in the face of breakfast. "Can I help?"

"Of course, mishka," Ilya said, moving to the kitchen.

And as Shane watched Ilya and Sasha work together to make pancakes – Sasha measuring out ingredients while Ilya guided her, both of them laughing when she spilled flour everywhere – he felt something settle in his chest.

This. This was what he wanted. This easy domestic morning, this feeling of belonging, this sense of family.

And next season, when Ilya moved to Ottawa, Shane would get more of this. Not just stolen days here and there, but regular visits. Weekends. Everyday moments.

He just had to be patient for a little bit longer.

Just one more season.

Then everything would change.

They spent New Year's Day quietly, the three of them. Ilya suggested going to skate at the practice rink, and after a few phone calls and calling in a favor, they had the Boston Bears facility to themselves for two hours.

"How did you manage this?" Shane asked as they laced up their skates in the empty locker room.

"I have my ways," Ilya answered mysteriously, causing Shane to shoot him a little glare of annoyance. "Equipment manager owes me a favor. We have the rink until three."

Sasha was bouncing with excitement, already in her skates and holding her new blue stick. "Can we just skate around? And play?"

"Whatever you want, mishka," Ilya said, tying his skates.

They stepped onto the ice, and Ilya watched as Sasha immediately took off, gliding smoothly across the rink. He glanced at Shane and saw shock on his face.

"She's really good," Shane said quietly.

"She's my daughter," Ilya reminded him, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. "What did you expect?"

But he understood Shane's surprise. For only being eight years old, Sasha moved across the ice with confidence and grace. Her form was solid – knees bent, weight forward, smooth strides that ate up the distance.

"She's been practicing a lot," Ilya explained. "Twice times a week with the youth league, and I take her to public skate on weekends. She loves it."

"I can tell," Shane replied, still watching Sasha with something like awe on his face. 

Ilya felt warmth bloom in his chest. He loved watching Sasha skate – loved seeing her joy in it, loved recognizing pieces of his own skating style in her movements, loved knowing that hockey brought her happiness the way it had always brought him happiness.

But watching her skate while Shane was here, while Shane got to see her talent and skill – that was even better.

For the next hour, they just played. No drills, no coaching, just the three of them skating and passing the puck and laughing. Sasha's face was bright with joy, her movements free and easy in a way Ilya didn't often see off the ice.

She was just a kid. Playing hockey with the two people who loved her most. No pressure, no expectations, just fun.

"Okay," Ilya called after a while. "How about we play a game? Shane and me versus Sasha?"

"That's not fair!" Sasha protested, skating over with a huge grin.

"We'll go easy on you," Shane promised with a wink.

"We will not," Ilya corrected, grinning at Sasha. "She can handle it."

They played a scrimmage – loose and fun, with Ilya and Shane definitely going easier than they'd admitted but still making Sasha work for it. She scored twice, both times squealing with delight, and Ilya felt his chest swell with pride and love.

This. This moment right here. The three of them on the ice together, laughing and playing and just being.

This was what Ilya wanted. Not just for himself, but for Sasha. She deserved to have Shane in her life, to have this kind of joy, to have a family that was more than just her and Papa.

When they finally left the rink, Sasha was exhausted but happy. She fell asleep in the car on the way home, her head lolling against the window.

"She had fun," Ilya commented quietly, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

"Me too," Shane replied, letting out a small sigh. "I hate that I have to leave tomorrow."

Ilya's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "I know."

"Just one more season," Shane said, like he was trying to convince himself. "Just one more season and you'll be in Ottawa.”

"One more season," Ilya agreed, but his chest felt tight with uncertainty.

One more season of missing moments. One more season of Sasha growing and changing while Shane was hundreds of miles away. One more season of being apart more than they were together.

And then... then what? Ilya would uproot Sasha again, move her to a new city, new school, new everything. All so they could be closer to Shane.

He still hadn't told her. Wanted to wait until the trade was official, until he knew for certain where they were going. No point in worrying her until it was real.

All so they could finally try to build the family they both wanted.

It was worth it, Ilya told himself. For Shane, for Sasha, for the chance at something real—it was worth it.

It had to be.

Shane's last day came too quickly.

He spent it soaking in every moment – Sasha's laughter when they made pancakes together, Ilya's soft smile over his coffee mug, the way they all fit together on the couch watching movies.

But underneath it all was the knowledge that tomorrow, he'd be gone again. Back to Montreal, back to his real life, back to the world where Ilya and Sasha existed only in phone calls and text messages.

Too soon, it was evening. Time to pack. Time to say goodbye.

Shane found himself in the guest room, slowly folding clothes and putting them back in his bag. He was dragging it out, he knew. Trying to make these last moments stretch as long as possible.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," Shane called.

Sasha peeked her head in, Fyo under her arm. "Are you leaving soon?"

Shane's chest tightened. "Yeah, Sash. I have to drive back tonight so I can be at practice tomorrow morning."

Sasha came in and sat on the edge of the bed, watching Shane pack. She was quiet for a long moment, then: "Will you really come back? Or will you forget about us?"

The question hit Shane like a physical blow. He abandoned his packing and sat down beside her, making sure he was at her level.

"Sasha, look at me," he said gently, waiting until she obeyed to continue. "I will never forget about you. Never. I know I'm not here as much as I want to be, and I know that's hard. But every day I'm in Montreal, I'm thinking about you and your papa. Every single day."

"Promise?" Sasha's voice was so small, so uncertain.

"I promise," Shane answered firmly. 

"Okay," Sasha said, but she still looked doubtful. Like she'd heard promises before from adults who didn't keep them.

Shane pulled her into a hug, and she went willingly, tucking her face against his chest. "I know it's hard to trust me when I'm not around very much. But I'm going to keep showing up, okay? I'm going to keep coming back. Until you believe that I mean it."

"Okay," Sasha repeated, her voice muffled.

They stayed like that for a moment, and Shane felt his throat get tight. She was so small still, so fragile despite how much she'd grown. And she'd been let down by so many adults in her short life.

Of course she didn't fully trust him. Of course she expected him to leave and not come back.

He'd just have to prove her wrong.

Later, at the front door, Sasha clung to him one more time.

"Do you have to go?" she asked, her voice muffled against his jacket.

"Yeah, Sash," Shane said apologetically, crouching down to her level. "I have practice tomorrow. But I'll come visit again as soon as I can."

Sasha nodded, but she looked unconvinced. She'd heard this before, Shane realized. Had heard promises from adults who then disappeared.

"Go get ready for bed, mishka," Ilya told her gently from where he stood in the hallway. "I'll come tuck you in after Shane leaves."

Sasha nodded and headed upstairs, but she kept looking back, like she was afraid Shane would disappear if she took her eyes off him.

Once she was gone, Ilya and Shane stood in the entryway, neither quite ready to say goodbye.

Ilya pulled him into a tight hug, and Shane buried his face in Ilya's shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent one more time.

"I love you," Shane whispered.

"Ya tebya lyublyu," Ilya replied. "Drive safe. Call me when you get home."

"I will," Shane promised.

One more kiss – quick and desperate – and then Shane forced himself to pull away, to grab his bag, to walk out the door.

He sat in his car for a moment, looking back at the house. At the warm light in the windows, at the life inside that he wanted to be part of but couldn't.

Not yet.

But soon.

Just one more season.

Chapter 21: chapter twenty-one

"Uncle Shane!"

Shane had barely made it through Hayden's front door before Ruby launched herself at his legs. He laughed and scooped her up, spinning her around while she squealed with delight.

"Hey, kiddo. You get bigger every time I see you."

"I'm gonna be six soon!" Ruby announced proudly.

"Not for a few more months," Jackie corrected gently, appearing from the kitchen with a dish towel over her shoulder. "Shane, so glad you could make it. Hayden's in the backyard with the other kids."

Shane set Ruby down and she immediately grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the back door. Through the window, Shane could see Hayden playing hockey with Jade and Arthur in the driveway, using a plastic puck and mini nets.

"Shane!" Hayden called when he spotted him. "Finally! We need another player. Girls versus boys."

"No fair, I want Shane on our team!" Jade shouted in protest.

Shane spent the next hour playing street hockey with Hayden's kids, letting them score on him more often than he'd admit, listening to their constant chatter and laughter. Hayden’s kids were – well, chaotic would be putting it nicely – but sweet too. 

Sasha would love this, Shane thought. Having other kids to play with, being part of this chaos and noise and family.

But Sasha was in Boston, probably doing homework with Ilya or reading before bed. Six hours away, in a life Shane only got to visit in stolen moments.

"You okay?" Hayden asked quietly while the kids argued over whether Jade's last goal counted.

"Yeah," Shane answered automatically, a response he’d given so often recently it was practically a reflex. "Just tired."

"You seem distracted lately," Hayden observed. "Everything alright?"

Shane forced a smile. "Just the grind of the season, you know."

He hated lying to Hayden. Hated that his best friend didn't know about the most important parts of Shane's life – Ilya, Sasha, the family they were trying to build in secret.

Someday, Shane promised himself. Someday he'd be able to tell Hayden everything.

At dinner, Jackie had made pot roast and the table was loud with kid conversation – Jade talking about her science project, Arthur happily humming some little made-up song to himself, Ruby was asking for seconds.

Shane sat between Jade and Ruby, helping cut Ruby’s meat and listening to Jade’s rambling. It was warm and chaotic and exactly what family dinner should be.

And Shane felt the absence of Ilya and Sasha like a physical ache.

"So," Jackie began curiously, during a brief lull in the chaos. "Anyone special in your life these days?"

Shane's chest tightened. "No," he lied, taking a bite of pot roast. "Too busy with hockey."

"You work too hard," Jackie told him as she reached over to wipe Arthur’s face with a napkin. "You should make time for a personal life."

"I know," Shane agreed tiredly, feeling like he’d had this conversation a million times. But what was he supposed to say? I do make time for a personal life, but I can’t tell anyone about it? 

After dinner, while the kids were in the living room watching a movie, Shane helped Jackie clean up in the kitchen.

"You really do seem different lately," Jackie repeated, sounding concerned as she handed him a dish to dry. "Quieter. More withdrawn."

"Just the season," Shane tried again, shrugging a little.

"Hayden worries about you," Jackie continued, raising an eyebrow a little, clearly not believing him. "Says you turn down plans more than you used to. That you're always checking your phone."

Because he was waiting for Ilya's goodnight text. Waiting to FaceTime with Sasha before her bedtime.

"I'm fine," Shane assured her. "Really. Just focused on making the playoffs."

Jackie didn't look convinced, but she dropped it.

When Shane left that night, Hayden walked him to his car.

"You know you can talk to me, right?" Hayden said. "If something's going on?"

"I know," Shane said, and meant it. "I'm okay, Hayds. I promise."

"Papa, I can't find my purple sweater," Sasha called from upstairs.

Ilya looked up from where he was packing her lunch, glancing at the clock. 7:42 AM. School started at 8:30, and they still needed to eat breakfast, and Ilya had morning skate at 10.

"Check the dryer," Ilya called back. "I did laundry last night."

Solo parenting was relentless. There was no one to tag in when Ilya was tired or overwhelmed. No one to make breakfast while he helped Sasha find her shirt. No one to pick up the slack when Ilya had early practices or late games.

Just Ilya, doing everything, all the time.

Sasha appeared in the kitchen wearing her purple sweater, and Ilya set a plate of eggs in front of her.

"Eat quickly, mishka. We need to leave in twenty minutes."

After dropping Sasha at school, Ilya went straight to practice. Coach was running them hard, and Ilya could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones.

"Rozy, you good?" Marly asked in the locker room after practice. "You look beat."

"Just tired," Ilya explained, pulling off his gear. 

It wasn’t a lie. He was tired. But how could he possibly explain that it wasn’t just the sort of tired one night’s sleep could fix? That it was the sort of exhaustion that ran bone deep, the type that came from having to devote every bit of yourself to everyone around you, to caring for a tiny little human all on his own? 

He loved Sasha more than anything, truly. And he would always do whatever he had to do to take care of her. But lately, it somehow felt harder. Like all of it – cooking, signing permission slips for school, helping with homework, reading bedtime stories, doing school drop-offs and pick-ups – it all just felt like too much. 

Yuna had been chopping vegetables for a salad when she heard Shane's key in the lock. She glanced at the clock. Six-thirty, right on time.

"Mom, we're here," Shane called out, and Yuna set down her knife, wiping her hands on a towel as she walked toward the entryway.

Shane came in first, dropping his bag by the door with his usual carelessness, and behind him—

Ilya looked like he was bracing for impact.

He stood in the doorway with his shoulders slightly hunched, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, a careful smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. His hair was longer than it had been in November, curling slightly at the ends, and there were shadows under his eyes that made Yuna's chest tighten.

They'd been at the game earlier – had watched Shane and Ilya battle it out in the faceoff circle for sixty minutes, the way they always seemed to find each other on the ice. Ilya had won most of the draws but Shane had held his own. She’d watched from the stands as Ilya chirped Shane a few times, something that made Shane laugh even as they'd lined up again. The Metros had won 3-2, but it had been close. Too close. Ilya had nearly tied it up in the final minutes with a shot that had rung off the post, making Yuna's heart leap into her throat despite herself.

"Yuna," Ilya greeted, and his voice was polite, formal in a way that made her want to gather him up and tell him to stop being so careful. "Thank you for having me."

It was so different from that first time in July, when he'd walked into their home with his walls up so high Yuna had wondered if they'd ever come down. He'd been polite then too, almost painfully so, his posture rigid and his responses carefully measured. Like he was taking a test he couldn't afford to fail.

Eight months later, and he was still doing it. Still walking in like he needed to prove he deserved to be here.

"Ilya," she said warmly, crossing the space to pull him into a hug before he could protest. She felt him stiffen for just a moment before relaxing into it, his arms coming up to return the embrace. "I'm so glad you could come. That was quite a game today."

"Thank you," he replied as she pulled back, that careful smile still in place. "Was good game. Close."

Shane closed the door behind them, and the moment it clicked shut, something in both boys shifted. Shane's hand found the small of Ilya's back, a casual touch that spoke of comfort and familiarity, and Ilya leaned into it almost unconsciously.

It always caught Yuna's breath a little, seeing them like this. The way they could finally touch each other, finally be themselves without looking over their shoulders or maintaining careful distance. In public, at games, in restaurants – they had to be so controlled. But here, in the safety of her home, they could just be.

"That faceoff in the third period," Shane added, his thumb rubbing small circles on Ilya's back. "When you tied me up and got it to Marly, that was dirty."

"Was smart," Ilya corrected, leaning further into Shane's touch, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "Is not my fault you’re so slow."

"I'm not slow, you cheated."

"I never cheat. I just play better."

"David's in the kitchen," Yuna interrupted, smiling at their bickering. "He's been cooking for hours. I'm pretty sure he's made enough chicken parm to feed the entire Metros roster."

Something flickered across Ilya's face – surprise, maybe, or pleasure – but it was gone before Yuna could place it. "Chicken parm?"

"I noticed you liked it last summer," Yuna explained, watching him carefully. 

Ilya's careful mask slipped for just a moment, something raw and vulnerable crossing his features before he schooled them back into polite gratitude. "That's– thank you. You didn't have to–"

"Of course we did," Yuna cut him off firmly, leading them toward the kitchen. "You're family, Ilya."

She saw him swallow hard, saw the way his throat worked around what looked like difficult emotions, and her heart ached. This boy – and he was a boy, really, not even twenty-seven and trying so hard to hold everything together – still didn't quite believe that they meant it. Even after months of knowing, after dinners and lunches and ice cream with Sasha, he still walked into their home like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

David looked up from where he was pulling a massive pan of chicken parm out of the oven, his face breaking into a wide smile. "There they are! Hell of a game today, boys.”

"Thanks, Dad" Shane said, his hand still resting on Ilya's back. 

"Thank you" Ilya echoed, moving toward the counter. "Can I help with anything?”

“No, no, you just played a full game," David replied, waving him off. Sit down and relax."

But Ilya was already reaching for plates, pulling them down from the cabinet with the ease of someone who'd memorized where everything was kept. "I can help," he insisted, that earnest quality in his voice that made Yuna's chest ache. "Is no problem."

He was always like this – eager to help, to make himself useful, to contribute in any way he could. Like he needed to earn his place at their table, needed to prove he was worth keeping around. It broke Yuna's heart a little more every time.

"I’ve got it, honey," she said gently, taking the plates from his hands. "You and Shane go sit. Let David and I take care of you boys.”

He looked startled by that, like the concept of being taken care of was foreign to him. Then Shane's hand squeezed his hip, and some of the tension left his frame.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Thank you."

Yuna watched them orbit each other as David plated food – the way Shane's hand would find Ilya's waist as he passed, the way Ilya would lean into Shane's space when he thought no one was looking, the way they moved together like magnets drawn to each other after hours of forced separation on the ice.

After months of knowing about their relationship, since that fateful day in July when David had caught them, she'd gotten used to seeing them like this. But it never stopped making her heart swell. They were so careful everywhere else, so controlled. Here, they could finally breathe.

"Sit, sit," David encouraged, gesturing to the table. "Before it gets cold. Yuna actually made a salad that looks edible."

"I'm an excellent salad maker," Yuna protested, bringing the bowl to the table. "It's literally the one thing I'm allowed to make in this kitchen."

"For good reason," David added solemnly, although there was a teasing look in his eyes. "Remember the casserole incident of 2018?"

"We don't talk about the casserole incident," Yuna reminded her husband firmly, and was rewarded by a small, genuine smile from Ilya.

They settled around the table, Shane and Ilya sitting close enough that their shoulders brushed, and Yuna watched as Ilya carefully served himself, his portions smaller than Shane's despite having played a full game.

Even here, in their home, where he should feel safe – where he'd been welcomed for months now – he still held himself like he expected to be asked to leave at any moment. Like he was afraid of taking up too much space, of asking for too much, of being too much.

"So," David said after a few minutes of companionable eating. "How's Sasha doing?"

Ilya's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down carefully, his expression shifting to something softer, more vulnerable. "She’s…happy," he started carefully, and there was a wealth of emotion in those words. "I signed her up for hockey again this spring and she talks about it all the time.” 

David chuckled a little, eyes flicking toward Shane with a look of fondness. 

“Shane was the same way at that age,” he informed Ilya, who smiled a bit at that. 

“Have you mentioned anything about the trade yet?” Yuna asked carefully, knowing it was probably a bit of a sensitive subject. 

Ilya tensed, and Yuna regretted asking the question, but there was no taking it back now. He glanced at Shane, the two having a silent conversation, before answering. 

“Not yet,” Ilya said eventually, fiddling with his fork a little. “I don’t want to tell her too soon, she doesn’t need another secret to keep. But she’ll… she’ll be okay with it. I hope.”

There was a worry in Ilya’s voice that told Yuna he wasn’t concerned about Sasha being an ordinary level of upset for an eight year old about moving, but something deeper instead. Shane read between the lines that Yuna couldn’t decipher, his hand finding Ilya's own on top of the table, their fingers lacing together. 

"She’ll be fine. She knows you love her," Shane reminded softly. "She knows you're not going anywhere."

Ilya nodded a bit, swallowing tightly. 

Yuna's heart clenched. She still thought about that day back in November, when she’d met Sasha, often. A bright, sweet girl who was clearly devoted to her father, but who also had a wariness in her eyes that no eight-year-old should have. Who watched adults carefully, like she was constantly assessing whether they were safe. Who'd held Ilya's hand the entire time they were together, like she was afraid he'd disappear if she let go.

"She'll adjust," Yuna added gently, hoping perhaps he’d find the wisdom of another parent more reasuring. "And you'll be there to help her through it. That's what matters."

"And she'll have Shane around more," David pointed out, ever the optimist. "That'll help, won't it? Once you're in Ottawa?"

Ilya nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Yes," he agreed, glancing at Shane, such fondness in his eyes it nearly took Yuna’s breath away. "She ask about him all the time. When is Shane coming to visit, can Shane come to my hockey game, can Shane help with my homework." A small smile played at his lips. “Shane’s probably her favorite.”

“That’s not true,” Shane protested instantly, although Yuna could see the happiness shining in his eyes at being put on the same level as Ilya. “You’re like dad of the century and she knows it.”

Ilya barked out a laugh as that, shaking his head, a certain type of self-depricating smile that Yuna had started to recognize appearing on his face. 

“You’re a great dad, honey,” Yuna agreed, heart breaking a little at the surprise on Ilya’s face at her comment. “Sasha’s lucky to have you.”

Ilya looked at her, and there was something fragile in his expression, like he wanted to believe it but couldn't quite let himself. "I try," he said quietly. "I try so hard. But I don’t really know what I’m doing. I just—" He swallowed hard. "I just want her to be happy. To feel safe. To know she's loved."

"She does know," Shane promised, his thumb stroking across Ilya's knuckles. "Trust me, she does."

How could anyone look at this boy, Yuna thought, watching the way Ilya's eyes filled with tears he was trying to blink back, and not love him? How could anyone see how hard he was trying, how much he cared, how desperately he wanted to do right by his daughter – and not want to gather him up and tell him he was doing beautifully?

"This chicken parm is incredible, David," Ilya said, clearing his throat, clearly trying to change the subject, to get control of his emotions. "You have to teach me how to make. Sasha would love this."

"I'd be happy to," David replied, letting him steer away from dangerous waters. "Though I should warn you, the secret ingredient is an absolutely obscene amount of garlic."

"I like garlic," Ilya told him, and there was the hint of a real smile now, something less guarded.

"How much garlic are we talking?" Yuna asked, eyeing her husband suspiciously.

"More than any reasonable recipe would call for," David admitted cheerfully. "I don't believe in measuring when it comes to garlic. Just add it until your soul feels satisfied."

"You're going to give someone garlic poisoning," Yuna told him firmly, but unable to keep the smile off of her face. 

"Is no such thing as too much garlic," Ilya argued seriously. "My mama, she always said–" He stopped abruptly, something shuttering in his expression. "She liked garlic too."

The shift was subtle but immediate. The careful walls coming back up, the smile becoming more fixed. Shane's hand tightened around Ilya's under the table, and Yuna saw Ilya take a slow breath, visibly steadying himself.

Yuna's heart clenched. Ilya didn’t speak often about his mother. The only reason she even knew what happened to her was because of the foundation they were planning, the one that would be in honor of his mother. Knowing what she did know about Ilya’s family situation, Yuna had no idea how the woman ever could have left such a wonderful boy. How she ever could have–

Yuna cut off that thought, feeling a flash of something uncomfortably close to judgment before she caught herself. 

That wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. The woman must have been in so much pain, must have been struggling in ways Yuna couldn't begin to imagine. Mental illness didn't care about how much you loved your children. Depression didn't ask permission. Whatever Irina had been going through, it had been enough to make her see death as the only way out, to see leaving behind her sweet, amazing boy as her only option.

And Ilya had been twelve. Had found her. Had lived with that for fourteen years now, carrying that grief and trauma and guilt that no child should ever have to bear.

"Well, your mother had excellent taste," David said gently, and Yuna loved him for it, for the way he moved the conversation forward without dwelling, without pushing. "Garlic makes everything better."

Ilya nodded, reaching for his water glass with his free hand, his other still clasped tightly in Shane's under the table.

As dinner progressed, Yuna watched Ilya slowly unfold.

It started small – a joke about one of Shane's teammates that made David laugh, a story about Sasha mixing up English words that had them all chuckling. But gradually, the careful mask slipped further and further, until the boy sitting at their table was less guarded, brighter, a little bit cocky in the way she'd seen in press conferences.

Watching them together – the easy way they touched each other here, the way Ilya's fingers played with the hair at the nape of Shane's neck, the way Shane pressed into Ilya's side like he belonged there – Yuna felt her heart swell with affection and ache with sadness in equal measure.

This was what they deserved. To be able to touch each other, to be affectionate, to not have to hide. And yet they could only have it here, in private spaces, behind closed doors. Everywhere else, they had to pretend to be rivals, had to maintain careful distance, had to hide the most important relationship in their lives.

The Irina Foundation would help with that, at least. Would give them a reason to be seen together, to spend time together publicly without raising suspicion. It was a cover story, yes, but it was also meaningful work, work that mattered to both of them. Work that would honor Ilya's mother while protecting her son.

"More chicken parm?" David offered, and Ilya didn't hesitate before holding out his plate.

"Yes, please," he begged, and the careful formality was mostly gone now, replaced by something warmer. "I really will have to make it for Sasha.” 

"You’ll have to bring her this summer," Yuna said suddenly, a bit desperately, before she could stop herself. "I'd love to see her again. It's been too long since November."

Something soft crossed Ilya's face. "She would like that," he replied gently. "She still talks about ice cream. She asks if we can get cookies and cream again when we visit."

"Anytime," Yuna told him firmly, and she meant it with every fiber of her being. "Our door is always open, Ilya. For both of you. You know that."

He looked at her for a long moment, Shane's arm solid around his shoulders, and she saw him trying to believe it. Trying to trust that after months of proving it, they still meant it. That they would keep meaning it.

That they wouldn't change their minds, wouldn't decide he was too much trouble, wouldn't look at him one day and decide he wasn't worth the complications.

How could he not know? How could this earnest, caring, devoted boy not see how impossible it would be not to love him?

After dinner, Shane and Yuna tackled the dishes while David pulled out a massive jigsaw puzzle he'd apparently been saving for a special occasion.

"Fifteen hundred pieces," he announced proudly, opening the box on the coffee table. "Neuschwanstein Castle. Been wanting to do this one for months."

"Dad, you know Mom and I hate puzzles," Shane called from the kitchen, his hands in soapy water while Yuna dried.

"I know," David replied cheerfully, unbothered by Shane’s input. "That's why I waited until Ilya was here. Ilya, you like puzzles?"

Ilya had been helping clear the table despite repeated protests that he should relax, his need to be useful stronger than his exhaustion. He paused, a stack of glasses in his hands. "I... yes? I do puzzles with Sasha sometimes. She like the animal ones."

"Perfect," David declared, waving him over. "Shane, you’ve lost your spot as my favorite son."

Ilya's lips quirked into a smile, warm and genuine. Shane came up behind him, took the glasses from his hands, and pressed a kiss to his temple. "Go do the puzzle," he encouraged softly. "You know you want to."

"But I should help—"

"You should relax," Shane told him firmly. "You’re tired. Let us take care of the cleanup."

Ilya hesitated, that same uncertainty crossing his face – like he didn't know how to accept care, didn't know how to let people do things for him without earning it first. Then David called his name, holding up a puzzle piece, and Ilya's resistance crumbled.

"Okay," he agreed, and there was something almost shy in his smile as he went to join David at the coffee table.

An hour later, Yuna sat on the couch with Shane while David and Ilya hunched over the coffee table, arguing good-naturedly about whether a particular piece went in the sky or the turret section.

"No, look, see the shadow?" Ilya was saying, holding up a piece. "Is definitely turret."

"But the color matches the sky better," David argued, showing him a piece of the blue sky.

"Color is wrong. Trust me. I do many puzzles with Sasha. I know turrets."

On the TV, the New York vs. LA game played on low volume, but Yuna wasn't watching. She was watching her son watch Ilya, the soft expression on Shane's face as Ilya laughed at something David said, the way his shoulders had finally, fully relaxed.

This was what Shane had been like all through July, after they’d found out about Ilya. Lighter. Happier. More himself than he'd been in years. And over the months since, as they'd seen more of Ilya, as they'd watched him slowly start to believe he was welcome here, Shane had only gotten happier.

From the coffee table, there was a crow of victory. "Ha! I told you was turret!" Ilya was saying, grinning at David.

"Beginner's luck," David grumbled, but he was smiling.

"I'm not beginner. I'm expert."

"Expert is a strong word."

"Is perfect word. I'm expert at many things. Puzzles, hockey, being extremely handsome—"

"Now that's just showing off," David complained, and Ilya laughed, bright and genuine and unguarded.

Yuna's chest ached with fondness. This boy with his careful masks and his cocky press conference persona, who was really just soft and kind and desperately wanting to be loved. Who lit up when he talked about his daughter, who made her son happier than she'd ever seen him, who was worming his way into her heart faster than he probably realized.

On the coffee table, Ilya fitted another piece into place, and David clapped him on the shoulder. Ilya didn't flinch away – just smiled and leaned into the touch, his posture relaxed in a way it hadn't been when he'd first arrived.

Progress, Yuna thought. Slow and steady, piece by careful piece.

He was starting to believe he belonged here.

And they would keep proving it, for as long as it took.

Just like a puzzle – you had to be patient, had to keep trying different pieces until you found the ones that fit. Until the whole picture came together.

And Ilya Rozanov, Yuna was certain, fit perfectly into their family.

She just hoped that one day, he'd believe it too.

TD Garden was packed for the final home game of the regular season. The Bears had just barely lost out on the playoffs, but that didn’t stop the fans from showing up for their last game. It was electric inside the arena, and yet, Ilya felt like he was moving through water, everything slightly distant and surreal.

This was it. His last game as a Boston Bear. His last time skating out onto this ice as the home team.

And nobody knew.

The trade wouldn't be announced until after the season ended, until the first of July at the earliest. So Ilya got to keep this secret, got to pretend everything was normal while saying goodbye to a team and city that had become home.

In warm-ups, Ilya took his time, skating every lap deliberately. He looked up at the crowd, at the banners hanging from the rafters, at his teammates going through their routines.

The game was close – both teams fighting hard. Ilya had two goal and three assists, and every time he touched the puck, he was aware it might be the last time in a Bears jersey.

When the final buzzer sounded – a 4-2 Bears victory – the crowd roared. The team celebrated, tapping helmets, ready for summer vacation.

Ilya skated one more lap, taking it all in. The lights, the crowd, the feel of this specific ice under his skates. The sight of his teammates celebrating together.

He was leaving all of this. For Ottawa. For Shane. For the possibility of a future that felt less lonely and fractured.

It was the right choice. He knew it was the right choice.

But that didn't make it hurt less.

In the locker room after, the mood was celebratory. Everyone was talking about summer plans, looking forward to a few months of relaxation and time with their families. 

"Hell of a game, Rozy," LeClaire said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We’ll get ‘em next season.”

Ilya nodded, unable to form words around the lump in his throat.

He changed slowly, listening to his teammates chatter. 

As he packed his bag for what he knew was the last time, Ilya felt the weight of all the goodbyes he couldn't say.

Goodbye to this locker room. To these teammates who'd become friends. To this city that had given him and Sasha a home when they'd needed one most.

He was doing this for good reasons. For Shane. For a chance at being a complete family instead of fragments held together by phone calls and stolen nights.

But that didn't make leaving any easier.

Ilya took one last look around the locker room – at Marly's stall with the photos of his nieces, at Connors' equipment laid out in perfect order, at the logo on the wall that had been Ilya's symbol for his entire career.

Then he turned and walked out, knowing he'd never walk back in as a Boston Bear again.

Outside, the night air was cool. Ilya stood in the parking lot for a moment, looking back at the Garden.

His phone buzzed with a text from Shane: Great game. Proud of you.

Ilya smiled despite the ache in his chest. This was why he was doing it. 

Chapter 22: chapter twenty-two

Chapter Notes

PLEASE STOP BEFORE READING. This chapter will contain scenes of Sasha's time in Russia prior to living with Ilya. As a result, this chapter contains the following triggers.

TRIGGER WARNING: child abuse + sexual abuse, please skip this chapter if either of these might trigger you.

Also, since a majority of this chapter would've been in Russian, I've left Russian unitalicized, but you can assume that any conversations occurring in Russia or solely between Ilya and Sasha are in Russian.

In the first seven years of her life, Sasha learned a lot of things. Rules, really. Be quiet. Don't talk back. Be grateful. She'd learned that the less trouble you were to adults, the better. That grown-ups, especially men, couldn't be trusted. That promises were usually lies. Mostly, she learned that nothing lasted forever, especially good things.

She didn't remember life before the orphanage, with her mama. She wished she did. Sometimes she tried really, really hard to remember – squeezed her eyes shut tight and thought and thought until her head hurt – but there was nothing there. Just darkness and cold and the feeling of being alone.

Maybe if she could remember Mama, she wouldn't feel so lonely all the time. Maybe if she could remember what Mama's voice sounded like or what Mama's hugs felt like, it wouldn't hurt so much inside.

But there was nothing. Just the orphanage. Just the cold.

The orphanage was all she knew. The thin mattress that poked her back. The scratchy blanket that was never warm enough and always smelled funny. The lumpy porridge for breakfast that tasted like nothing and made her tummy hurt. The older girls who pushed her and took her things. The caretakers who yelled all the time and never, ever smiled.

At night, when she was lying in bed shivering because the older girls had stolen her blanket again, Sasha would think about mamas and papas. The kids at school had them. They'd talk about "my mama said" and "my papa took me to" and Sasha would listen and wonder what that felt like.

What did it feel like to have a mama who made you breakfast and kissed your forehead? What did it feel like to have a papa who picked you up and called you special names and made you feel safe?

Sasha didn't know. She'd never had those things. And when she'd asked Tatiana Pavlovna once – she was only four, she didn't know better yet – Tatiana Pavlovna had said, "Your mama died and your papa didn't want you. That's why you're here."

Sasha had cried that night. Cried because somewhere out there, she had a papa who didn't want her. Who knew she existed and decided not to keep her.

What was wrong with her that made her own papa not want her?

The orphanage was always, always cold.

In the winter, it was so cold that Sasha's fingers turned white and stiff. She'd try to button her coat – the thin, gray one with holes in the elbows – and her fingers wouldn't work right. They'd be too frozen to make the buttons go through the holes.

Sometimes she'd stand in the hallway trying and trying to button her coat, getting more and more scared because everyone else was ready and Olga Popova would yell if she was late, but her fingers just wouldn't work.

Other kids, the ones who had real parents, had nice coats. Thick ones that looked warm and puffy. Coats with hoods and zippers and pockets. But Sasha's coat used to be dark blue a long, long time ago, and now it was gray and dirty-looking. Five other kids had worn it before her. Maybe more.

The zipper had broken when the second kid wore it, and nobody ever fixed it. So Sasha had to use the buttons, but half of them were missing too.

When they walked to school in the winter, Sasha would wrap her arms around herself tight-tight-tight and try not to cry. She learned that crying made your face hurt worse in the cold. The tears would freeze on your cheeks and make them sting.

Her shoes were too small. They squeezed her toes until they hurt so much she wanted to cry. But when she told Olga – she was only five then, she didn't know yet that you weren't supposed to complain – Olga had snapped, "You'll get new shoes when those ones fall apart completely. Stop your whining."

So Sasha stopped saying anything. She learned that complaining made grown-ups angry. She learned to just be quiet and deal with it, even when her toes hurt so bad she could barely walk.

Food was the hardest part though. Worse than the cold, worse than the too-small shoes. There was never, ever enough food.

Breakfast was thin porridge. It was supposed to be hot, but it was always somehow hot on top and cold on the bottom, and it never tasted like anything. Just... nothing. Sasha would eat it as fast as she could because she was so hungry, but it never made the hungry feeling go away. Her tummy would still hurt after, still feel empty and achy.

Lunch was at school and was a little better. Not good, but better. Sasha always ate it too fast and then her tummy would hurt in a different way, but she couldn't help it. She was so hungry all the time.

Dinner at the orphanage was soup and bread. The soup was mostly just water with a few pieces of carrot or potato floating in it. The bread was hard and dry and hurt to swallow. Sometimes Sasha would try to dunk the bread in the soup to make it softer, but there was barely any soup, so it didn't work very well.

The older kids would take food right off her tray. They'd reach over when the caretakers weren't looking and just take her bread or scoop soup out of her bowl with their fingers. And if Sasha tried to stop them, they'd pinch her arm or pull her hair hard.

So Sasha learned to eat fast. She learned to protect her plate with her arms, hunching over it like a shield. She learned to sit in corners where it was harder for kids to sneak up on her.

But she was still always, always hungry. Her tummy hurt all the time – a hollow, achy feeling that never went away. Sometimes she'd drink lots of water to try to make the feeling go away, but that never really worked.

At night, she'd lie in bed with her tummy growling and hurting, and she'd think about the kids at school who brought snacks from home. Who had mamas who packed them cookies and sandwiches and fruit. Who complained about being full.

Sasha didn't know what being full felt like. She didn't think she'd ever been full in her whole life.

The older girls were mean. They were mean to all the little kids, but they were extra mean to Sasha.

She didn't know why. She tried so hard to follow all the rules, to be good, to not cause trouble. But they didn't like her anyway.

They'd steal her blanket every single night. Sasha would wake up shivering and shaking, and she'd see the older girls all piled together with all the blankets they'd stolen, warm and cozy while the little kids froze.

Sasha tried everything. She tried holding onto her blanket while she slept, but the older girls would pull harder and her fingers would let go without her meaning to. She tried hiding under her blanket so they couldn't find her, but they always found her anyway. She tried sleeping with the blanket wrapped around her really tight, but they'd just unwrap it.

Nothing worked. Every night, they took her blanket. Every night, she froze.

Sometimes Sasha would cry from being so cold. Little tiny tears that she tried to keep quiet so nobody would hear. Crying was against the rules. Crying made you a baby, and the older girls would make fun of you even more.

So Sasha would cry silently into her flat pillow, her whole body shaking from cold, and wonder why nobody liked her. What was she doing wrong? She followed all the rules. She stayed quiet. She didn't complain. She tried so hard to be good.

But nobody was nice to her anyway.

When Sasha was five, a family finally wanted to take her.

The Sokolovs.

Sasha had been so excited she couldn't sleep the night before. A family! A real family! Maybe she was finally going to get a mama and papa like the other kids had. Maybe she'd finally have a home and enough food and someone to hug her when she was sad.

Elena and Mikhail seemed nice. They smiled at her and their house was so warm and Sasha had her own room with a real bed and a fluffy blanket that was so soft it made her want to cry.

The first night, lying in that soft bed under that warm blanket, Sasha promised herself that she was going to be so good. That she was going to follow all the rules, and that way, they’d keep her forever. She'd be the best kid ever. She'd be quiet and helpful and she wouldn't complain about anything. She'd make Elena and Mikhail so happy they'd never want to send her back.

Elena made real food – hot meals with meat and vegetables and bread that was soft and fresh. Sasha's tummy hurt the first few days because she ate too much too fast. She couldn't help it. There was so much food, and it all tasted so good, and her tummy had been empty for so long.

Mikhail gave her a teddy bear on the first day. It was brown and soft and had a red ribbon around its neck. Sasha loved it more than anything. She'd never had a toy that was just hers before. All the toys at the orphanage were shared, and the older kids always took them from the little kids anyway.

But this bear was hers. Just hers.

She named him Misha and took him everywhere. When she went to sleep, she'd hug him tight and whisper to him about how happy she was, how this was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

But then things started going wrong, and Sasha didn't understand why.

Elena had friends who would come over, and Elena wanted Sasha to talk to them. To smile and say hello and answer their questions about school and what she liked to do.

But Sasha couldn't do it. The women were so tall and their voices were so loud, and they'd lean down close to her face – too close – and Sasha's words would get stuck in her throat.

Her heart would beat really fast and her hands would get all sweaty and she'd just stand there, frozen, trying to remember what she was supposed to say.

"How old are you, dear?" one woman asked.

Sasha knew the answer. She was five. That was easy. But her mouth wouldn't work. The words were stuck.

"She's very shy," Elena said, but her voice sounded... disappointed. Like Sasha had done something wrong.

After the women left, Elena sighed. "Sasha, you need to try harder to be polite. These are my friends. You have to talk to them."

"I'm sorry," Sasha whispered quietly, staring at the floor, biting her lip a bit. "I'll try harder. I promise."

And she did try. She tried so hard her head hurt from trying. But the next time Elena's friends came over, the same thing happened. Sasha's words got stuck and she couldn't make them come out, and Elena sighed that disappointed sigh again.

Mikhail wanted to take Sasha places. Just the two of them.

"Let's go to the park!" he'd say, smiling. "Just you and me. We can get ice cream after!"

But Sasha's tummy would twist up into knots. Her heart would beat too fast and her hands would shake and something inside her – something she didn't understand – would scream danger danger danger.

She didn't want to be alone with him. She didn't want to be alone with any man. It didn't matter that Mikhail was nice and smiley. Something inside her said it wasn't safe.

"Can Elena come too?" Sasha would ask, her voice small.

Mikhail's smile would fade a little. "I thought it could be just us. Father-daughter time."

But Sasha would shake her head, feeling tears start to build up behind her eyes. "Please. Can Elena come?"

After this happened a few times, Mikhail stopped smiling so much. He'd look at her with sad eyes and say, "Don't you like me, Sasha?"

"I do," Sasha would whisper. And she did! Mikhail was nice! He read her stories at night and helped her with her homework and never yelled.

She tried to be brave. She tried so hard. One day she said yes to going to the park, just her and Mikhail. But when they got there and Mikhail reached for her hand, Sasha's whole body froze up. She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might die.

"Sasha?" Mikhail's voice sounded worried. "Are you okay?"

Sasha wasn't okay. She felt like she was going to throw up. She felt like something bad was about to happen, even though nothing bad was happening.

"I want to go home," she whispered, pleading, unable to meet Mikhail’s gaze. "Please. I want Elena."

Mikhail had taken her home, but he'd been quiet the whole way. Quiet and sad.

That night, Sasha heard Elena and Mikhail talking through the walls. Their voices were upset.

"She won't even hold my hand," Mikhail said, clearly frustrated. "She acts like I'm going to hurt her. I don't understand what I'm doing wrong."

"Maybe she needs more time," Elena replied slowly, but she didn't sound like she believed it.

"How much time? It's been three months, Elena. She flinches when I come near her. I wanted a daughter, not... this."

Sasha pulled Misha close and tried not to cry. She was ruining everything. She was doing everything wrong. She was trying so hard to be good, to be brave, to follow the rules, but it wasn't working.

What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she just be normal? Why couldn't she just hold Mikhail's hand and go to the park and be the daughter they wanted?

One week later, Elena and Mikhail took her back to the orphanage.

"It's just not working out," Elena told Tatiana Pavlovna.

Sasha sat in the hard plastic chair, holding Misha tight, and felt her whole world break apart. She'd tried so hard. She'd done everything she could think of. But it wasn't enough.

She wasn't enough.

When Olga Popova came to take her back to the dormitory, she ripped Misha out of Sasha's hands.

"No!" Sasha cried, hiccuping on a sob as she reached for him. "Please! He's mine! Mikhail gave him to me!"

"You don't deserve him," Olga snapped. "You had everything –a nice family, a nice home, more than any of these other brats will ever get – and you ruined it. Ungrateful, stupid child."

"Please," Sasha begged, tears running down her face. 

But Olga held Misha up high where Sasha couldn't reach. "You're too old for toys anyway. Stop crying like a baby."

Olga gave Misha to Artem, a little boy with blonde curly hair that all the caretakers loved. Three weeks later, Sasha watched Artem leave with his new family, held protectively on the man’s hip,  Misha tucked under Artem’s arm.

The couple never brought him back. 

That night, Sasha cried harder than she'd ever cried before. She'd lost the Sokolovs and she'd lost Misha and it was all her fault. She'd had a chance at a family – a real family – and she'd messed it up.

She promised herself she'd never be that stupid again. Next time – if there was a next time – she'd be braver. She'd be better. She wouldn't mess it up.

The worst part of the orphanage was Ivan.

Ivan was young for a caretaker, in his mid-twenties. Some of the older girls thought he was handsome and would giggle and fix their hair when he walked by. But Sasha thought there was something wrong with his eyes. They were cold and mean, and when he looked at her, her whole body would go cold too.

He paid special attention to some of the children. Not in a good way. 

Sasha tried never, ever to be alone. She tried to always be around other kids or other caretakers. But sometimes it happened anyway. Like when she needed to use the bathroom. Or when she was doing chores by herself. Or when she was the last one to finish getting dressed.

But sometimes it wasn't possible to avoid him.

One time she'd been in the storage closet. She was supposed to be getting clean rags for washing the floors. The closet was dark and smelled like soap and dust, but it was quiet. Peaceful. For just a minute, Sasha had stopped to catch her breath, to rest.

Then the door opened and Ivan came in.

Sasha's heart jumped into her throat. Her whole body went cold.

"What are you doing in here, brat?" Ivan asked. His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Quiet was worse than yelling.

"I—I'm getting rags," Sasha whispered. "Olga told me to get rags for cleaning."

"Olga told you to hide in here?" Ivan stepped inside and closed the door behind him, a smirk on his face.

The click of the door closing was the scariest sound Sasha had ever heard.

"I'm not hiding," Sasha replied, her voice shaking. "I promise, I was just—"

"You're lying." Ivan stepped closer. The closet was so small, and Ivan was so big, and there was nowhere to run. "You know what happens to children who lie?"

Sasha shook her head. She wanted to run but her feet wouldn't move. She wanted to scream but her voice wouldn't work.

Ivan grabbed her arm. His hand was so big it went all the way around, and he squeezed hard. So hard it hurt.

"Please," Sasha whispered. "I wasn't lying, I promise—"

Ivan's other hand touched her face. His fingers were rough and cold. They brushed her cheek, her neck, her shoulder.

Sasha's whole body was shaking. She felt like she might throw up.

"Such a pretty little thing," Ivan murmured, his voice soft and scary. "Too bad nobody wants you."

His hand moved down from her shoulder. Down to places that made Sasha feel wrong and dirty inside.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight. If she couldn't see, maybe it wasn't really happening. Maybe this was just a bad dream and she'd wake up soon.

But it wasn't a dream. It was real. Ivan's hands were real, touching her in ways that made her skin crawl, made her want to tear her own skin off to make it stop.

"If you tell anyone," Ivan whispered, his mouth close to her ear, his red hair, a deep auburn color, the only thing Sasha could see. "I'll hurt you. Much worse than this. Understand?"

Sasha nodded. She didn't really understand, but she was so scared she would have agreed to anything.

When Ivan finally left, he locked her in the closet.

Sasha slid down the wall and curled up in the corner, making herself as small as possible. She felt dirty. Gross. Like something bad and yucky had gotten inside her and she'd never be clean again.

She cried as quietly as she could, pressing her hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds. Crying was against the rules. Making noise was against the rules. She had to be quiet. She had to follow the rules.

Hours later, Olga opened the door and found her.

"What are you doing sleeping in here?" Olga snapped. "Lazy child. Get up."

Sasha got up. She didn't say anything about Ivan. What would be the point? Nobody would believe her. And Ivan said he'd hurt her worse if she told.

So Sasha kept it secret. Even though it felt like the secret was eating her up from the inside.

After that, Ivan would find her sometimes. In the bathroom when nobody else was there. In the laundry room. In the hallway late at night.

His hands were always cold. Always rough. Always touching places that made Sasha feel sick and wrong.

"This is our secret," he'd whisper. "Good girls keep secrets. You want to be a good girl, don't you?"

Sasha would nod. She did want to be a good girl. Good girls got families. Good girls got mamas and papas who loved them.

So she'd stay very still and go somewhere else in her head. She'd think about other things – about books she'd read, about birds she'd seen outside the window, about anything except what was happening.

And when it was over, she'd go back to her bed and curl up and try to forget.

She learned that this was just what happened. This was what life was like for kids nobody wanted. You got hurt and you stayed quiet and you survived.

That was all you could do. Survive.

When Sasha was six, another family wanted her.

She tried not to get excited. Tried not to hope. But it was hard. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe if she was braver and better, they'd keep her.

The Volkovs had two little kids already – Anya, who was four, and Maxim, who was two. Their apartment was small and messy and loud. The kids were always crying or yelling or fighting, and there were toys and clothes and dishes everywhere.

"You'll be such a big help," Marina told her, smiling. But her smile looked fake. Like the smile the mean girls at school gave you before they said something mean.

The first day, Marina explained all Sasha's jobs.

"You'll help make breakfast and watch the children while I rest and clean up after meals and fold the laundry and sweep the floors and make sure everything is tidy."

That was a lot of jobs. But Sasha nodded. She could do it. She'd show them she could be helpful and good, and then they'd want to keep her.

"I'll be good," Sasha promised eagerly, more than willing to do whatever it took to stay. "I'll work really hard."

And she did try. She tried so, so hard.

But the problem was that she was only six. She wasn't tall enough to reach the stove safely. The milk jug was too heavy and she'd spill it. The laundry basket was too big for her to carry. The broom was too tall.

And Anya and Maxim were... difficult.

They'd fight over toys and cry when they didn't get what they wanted and make huge messes that Sasha had to clean up. Sasha would try to keep them happy, try to stop them from crying, but she didn't know how.

Once, Maxim bit her arm. Hard. His little teeth sank right into her skin and it hurt so much Sasha screamed.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Marina demanded, scooping Maxim up and rubbing his back as though he was the one who was hurt. "You're supposed to be watching him!"

"I tried," Sasha stammered, tears running down her face. The bite mark was red and throbbing. "But he just—"

"No excuses. You're the big girl. Figure it out."

Sasha tried to figure it out. She really did. But she was only six, and she didn't know how to make little kids stop crying and fighting.

The first time she made a big mistake was when she was doing dishes. The plate was slippery with soap, and it just... slipped. It fell out of her hands and crashed on the floor, breaking into pieces.

Sasha stared at the broken plate, her heart pounding. No no no no no.

Viktor was up from the kitchen table in an instance. He grabbed Sasha's arm – grabbed it so hard it hurt – and dragged her to the living room.

"Do you know how much that plate cost?" Viktor yelled. His face was right in front of hers, too close, and his breath smelled bad. "Do you know how hard I work to buy things for this family?"

"I'm sorry," Sasha whispered, trying desperately not to cry. Crying made things worse. "It was an accident—"

"Accidents have consequences."

Viktor pulled his belt out of his pants. The leather made a scary hissing sound as it slid through the loops.

Sasha's whole body went cold. She knew what was about to happen. Some of the boys in the orphanage had told stories about getting spanked with belts, and they'd all said it hurt really, really bad.

"Please," Sasha begged, shaking in terror. "Please, I'm sorry, I'll be more careful, please don't—"

"Turn around."

"Please—"

"Turn. Around."

Sasha turned around. Her whole body was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

The first hit felt like fire on her back. Like someone had lit her skin on fire. It hurt so bad Sasha screamed.

"Quiet!" Viktor snapped. "You'll wake the children."

Sasha bit her lip hard. So hard she tasted blood. But she tried not to scream again.

The belt came down again. And again. And again. And again.

Sasha lost count. She lost track of everything except the pain. Her back was on fire, burning burning burning, and she couldn't stop shaking and tears were pouring down her face.

Finally, Viktor stopped. Sasha's legs gave out and she fell to the floor, sobbing.

"Maybe now you'll be more careful," Viktor said. He sounded normal. Like he hadn't just hurt her really bad. Like this was just a normal thing to do.

That night, Sasha lay on her stomach in bed. She couldn't lie on her back because it hurt too much. Her shirt was stuck to her skin where the belt had hit her, and pulling it off to change for bed had made her cry all over again.

She cried into her pillow, trying to be quiet. Trying not to make noise.

She wanted Misha. Her bear that Olga had taken away. If she had Misha, she could hug him and maybe feel a little bit better.

But she didn't have Misha. She didn't have anything.

She'd thought that maybe if she was braver this time, if she tried harder, the family would keep her. But she'd already messed up and it had only been a few weeks.

Tomorrow she'd try harder. She'd be more careful. She wouldn't break anything or spill anything or make any mistakes.

She'd be perfect. And then maybe Viktor wouldn't use the belt again.

But Sasha wasn't perfect. She tried to be, but she was only six. She wasn't big enough or strong enough or smart enough to do everything right.

She'd spill things or drop things or not clean things good enough. The children would cry even though Sasha tried so hard to keep them happy. Dinner wouldn't be ready exactly when Viktor got home because Marina was taking a nap and Sasha couldn't cook by herself.

And every time she messed up, Viktor would use the belt.

Sometimes it was just a few hits. Sometimes it was more. Sasha stopped counting after the first few times. She learned to bite her lip until it bled so she wouldn't scream. Learned to hold very still and count in her head to make it go by faster. Learned that crying made Viktor hit harder.

Her back always hurt now. Always had bruises and marks that throbbed when she moved. Her shirts would stick to the sore spots, and peeling them off at night hurt almost as much as getting hit in the first place.

Marina never stopped Viktor. She'd just sigh and say, "Well, if you'd been more careful..."

Like it was Sasha's fault. Like Sasha deserved it.

Maybe she did. Maybe this was what happened to kids who kept messing up. Kids who couldn't follow all the rules even when they tried their very hardest.

At night, Sasha would lie on her stomach – the only way she could sleep without her back hurting too much – and she'd think about the rules.

Be quiet. Don't complain. Do your chores. Keep the children happy. Don't break things. Don't spill things. Be grateful. Work hard. Be perfect.

She tried to remember them all. Tried to follow every single one. But there were so many rules, and she was so little, and she kept messing up.

What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she just do everything right?

The other kids at school had families and they seemed fine. They seemed happy. Why was it so hard for Sasha?

After three months, Marina and Viktor had a huge fight about money. Sasha could hear them yelling through the thin walls.

"We can't afford her!" Viktor shouted. "She eats too much and she's useless! More trouble than she's worth!"

Sasha didn't eat much at all. She got small portions, even less than little Maxim, although she knew better than to complain. But Viktor needed an excuse, and that was the excuse he was using.

Two weeks later, Marina and Viktor brought her back to the orphanage.

"She's too difficult," Marina told Tatiana Pavlovna. She didn't look at Sasha at all. "Too much work."

Sasha stood there silent. Her back still had bruises under her shirt – she'd checked that morning. Fading now, turning yellow and green, but still there.

She didn't tell Tatiana Pavlovna about the belt. What was the point? Nobody would believe her. Nobody would care.

Kids like her – kids nobody wanted – got hurt. That was just how it was.

As Marina and Viktor walked out, Viktor looked back at her one last time. His eyes were cold and scary.

Sasha looked away fast. Her heart was pounding. She was glad to be back at the orphanage, even though the orphanage was terrible. At least here she didn't have to worry about Viktor and his belt and his scary eyes.

After the Volkovs brought her back, Sasha gave up.

She was six, almost seven. Old enough to know the truth.

Nobody wanted her. Not the Sokolovs, not the Volkovs, not anybody. There was something wrong with her – something broken and bad – that made families not want to keep her.

Maybe she was too scared. Maybe she was too stupid and clumsy. Maybe she was just bad somehow and didn't know it.

The caretakers were so mean now. Especially Olga Popova.

"Two families," Olga said, shaking her head. "Two families sent you back. Do you know how rare that is? Most kids get one chance. You got two, and you wasted both of them."

"I'm sorry," Sasha whispered in an ashamed little voice, not knowing what else to say.

"Sorry doesn't fix anything. You're cursed, that's what you are. Cursed."

Maybe Olga was right. Maybe Sasha was cursed. That would explain why nothing good ever happened to her.

Ivan was worse now too. He seemed happy that the Volkovs had sent her back. Like it proved something.

"See?" he'd whisper when he caught her alone. "I told you. Nobody wants you. You'll never leave here."

Ivan still found her sometimes. His hands still touched her in ways that made her feel sick and dirty. She still had to keep it secret because good girls kept secrets and Sasha had to at least try to be good, even if she was cursed.

She stopped talking almost completely. What was the point? Nobody listened anyway. Nobody cared what she had to say.

She did her chores. Ate her tiny portions of food. Went to school. Came back. Went to bed cold and hungry every night.

This was her life. Forever and ever.

She stopped dreaming about mamas and papas. Stopped hoping for families. Stopped wishing for things to get better.

Things didn't get better for kids like her. Kids who were cursed. Kids nobody wanted.

The day Sasha met her papa started like any other day at the orphanage - cold, gray, and filled with the usual morning routine of thin porridge and whispered conversations. But Darya – one of the few social workers that actually seemed to care, that was always patient and kind with Sasha – had told her yesterday that today was special. Today, her papa was coming.

Sasha had barely slept. She'd lain awake in her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to imagine what he would be like. Would he be kind? Would he be scary? Would he look at her and decide she wasn't good enough, just like the foster family had?

Would he send her back?

The thought made her stomach hurt, so she tried not to think about it. Tried to focus instead on the small spark of hope that Darya's words had lit inside her chest.

He wants to meet you. He's very excited.

Excited. Excited to meet her. Sasha couldn't quite wrap her head around that concept.

Now she sat in the small meeting room at the end of the hallway, the one with the couch and the coffee table and the few lonely toys. Her heart was beating too fast, her palms sweating despite the cold.

She'd tried to sit on the couch, but it had felt too exposed, too vulnerable. So instead she'd lowered herself to the floor, to the worn carpet, and found a picture book on the floor near the scattered toys. The book was old and worn, the pages torn in places, the plastic cover cracked and peeling. But it had pictures, and pictures were easier to look at than the empty walls while she waited. While she tried not to think about what was about to happen.

The door creaked, and Sasha's breath caught in her throat.

She looked up from the book, her whole body tensing.

Darya stepped in first, which was good. Familiar. Safe.

But behind her was a man.

Tall. That was the first thing she noticed. He was very tall, with broad shoulders that filled the doorway. His hair was dark blonde, curling slightly at the ends, and his eyes–

His eyes were blue. The exact same shade as Sasha's own, like looking into a mirror.

He was wearing nice clothes, nicer than anyone at the orphanage ever wore. Dark jeans and a leather jacket over a gray sweater. He looked... important. Successful. Like someone from a different world entirely.

Like someone who didn't belong here, in this cold, gray building full of forgotten children.

Sasha's breath caught in her throat. This was her papa. Her biological one – the big word that Darya had used, one which Sasha had carefully etched into her memory. The man who was supposed to want her, supposed to take care of her.

He was so big. So tall. All men were tall to Sasha, but he seemed especially so. Strong-looking too, with those broad shoulders and muscular arms.

Strong enough to hurt her if he wanted to.

Sasha's fingers tightened on the book, and she felt herself inch backward slightly on the carpet, putting more distance between herself and the adults. She kept her eyes down, watching them from under her lashes, not wanting to seem rude but too scared to look directly at him.

Ivan was tall. So was Viktor. Tall men were dangerous.

"Privet, Sasha," Darya greeted her gently as they came closer. "What are you reading?"

Sasha's throat was too tight to speak. She shrugged one shoulder, not trusting her voice, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the worn plastic cover of the book. The plastic was cracked and peeling, coming apart in places, and Sasha focused on that instead of the people standing over her.

"Remember how we talked about your dad coming to meet you?" Darya continued, her voice still gentle and patient. She waited for Sasha to give a tiny nod before going on. "Well, this is him. This is Ilya."

Ilya. Her papa.

Sasha's stomach churned with fear and that dangerous, terrible hope.

She saw him move – saw him crouch down from the corner of her eye – and she instinctively shifted backward, just a little. Just enough to maintain distance.

Being on the floor was supposed to make her feel safer – if she was already low, she couldn't be knocked down – but now he was down here too, at her level, and Sasha didn't know if that made it better or worse.

"Privet, malyshka," he greeted softly, and his voice was deep but... gentle. Like he was trying not to scare her.

Sasha swallowed heavily past the lump in her throat. Malyshka. Little one. Viktor used to call Anya that. But not Sasha, never Sasha. No one ever called Sasha such soft words. 

Sasha kept her eyes on the book, on the torn pages and faded pictures. She knew she should probably stay quiet, the way she usually did when adults spoke to her. Being quiet was safer. You couldn't say the wrong thing if you didn't say anything at all.

But something about the way he'd said it – soft and gentle and careful – made her want to respond. Made her want to be brave, just for a second.

"Privet," Sasha whispered, the word barely audible even in the quiet room.

She finally looked up, just for a moment, meeting his eyes.

They really were the same color as hers. Exactly the same. She'd never met anyone with eyes like hers before – most people had brown eyes, or green, or darker blue. But his were pale, sky blue, matching hers perfectly.

He smiled at her, and it wasn't a scary smile. It was soft and gentle and... sad, somehow. Like looking at her made him sad.

Her heart sank, stomach twisting slightly. Was she disappointing already? Had he expected someone different? Someone better?

Sasha dropped her gaze back to the book, her heart sinking.

She heard movement – fabric rustling, a soft breath – and when she peeked up again, he'd settled himself on the floor properly, sitting cross-legged a safe distance away. Not crowding her. Not getting too close.

Viktor had always gotten too close, had loomed over her in a way that made Sasha want to disappear.

But her papa – Ilya – was keeping his distance. Giving her space.

That was... good. Better than she'd expected.

Darya said something to Ilya in a low voice, something Sasha couldn't quite hear, and then she was moving toward the door.

"I'll be right outside if you need me," Darya said to Sasha, her voice warm and reassuring. "Okay?"

Sasha nodded, even though her heart was racing at the thought of being left alone with him. With this tall, strong man who could hurt her if he wanted to. She wanted to beg Darya to stay, to cling to the woman’s hand, but Darya was leaving anyway, the door clicking shut behind her, and then it was just Sasha and her papa.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. Sasha kept her eyes on the book, her fingers tracing the edge of a torn page, waiting for him to say something. To do something.

Waiting for whatever was going to happen next.

She could feel him looking at her. Could feel the weight of his gaze, even though she wasn't looking back.

Was he deciding? Deciding if she was good enough? If she was worth keeping?

Viktor and Mikhail had looked at her like that too, especially near the end. Like they were evaluating her and finding her lacking.

Sasha's throat felt tight. She swallowed hard, trying to push down the fear rising in her chest.

"What are you reading?" Ilya asked finally, his voice still gentle, still soft.

Sasha's fingers stilled on the torn page. She glanced down at the book properly for the first time since he'd entered the room.

It was a collection of fairy tales. Old ones, Russian ones, with faded illustrations of princesses and witches and brave heroes.

"Fairy tales," Sasha whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Fairy tales are good," Ilya commented casually, and he didn't sound disappointed or angry that it was just a children's book. He sounded... interested. "Do you have a favorite?"

A favorite. Sasha thought about it for a moment, her mind racing through the stories she'd read over and over.

"Vasilisa," she answered quietly, naming the story about the girl who was brave and clever and survived when everyone thought she wouldn't.

"Ah," Ilya said, and she could hear the smile in his voice even without looking at him. "The one with Baba Yaga? That's a good one. Vasilisa is very brave."

Brave. Sasha didn't feel brave. She felt small and scared and like she might start crying if she wasn't careful.

But she didn't cry. Crying was weak. Crying made adults angry.

More silence, but it wasn't the scary kind. It wasn't the silence before punishment, before yelling, before hitting. It was just... quiet. Patient.

Ilya wasn't demanding that she talk, wasn't getting angry that she was being shy and difficult.

He was just... waiting.

Sasha risked another glance at him.

He was still sitting there, cross-legged on the floor, his hands resting on his knees. He wasn't looking at her with disappointment or frustration. He was just... looking at her. With those blue eyes that matched hers.

And his expression was soft. Gentle. Almost... tender.

Like she was something precious instead of something broken.

The first visit was short. Too short, Sasha thought, even though she'd been so nervous she'd barely been able to speak.

Ilya – Papa – had sat on the floor with her, not on the couch like most adults would. He'd asked her questions in a soft voice, gentle questions about what she liked to do, what her favorite color was, if she liked to read.

Blue, she'd told him. Her favorite color was blue. And yes, she liked to read, even though there weren't many books at the children's home.

He'd listened to every word like it was important, like she was important, and that felt strange and wonderful and terrifying all at once.

When it was time for him to leave, he'd promised to come back tomorrow.

"I have to do some paperwork," he'd explained, reaching out like he wanted to touch her hair but stopping himself. "But I'll be back. I promise."

Sasha had nodded, not quite believing him but wanting to so badly it hurt.

And then he'd left, and Sasha had gone back to her room, back to her narrow bed and thin blanket, back to the cold and the gray and the emptiness.

But now she had something she hadn't had before.

Hope.

Papa's house was big.

Bigger than even the Sokolovs’ house had been. 

Sasha stood in the driveway, staring at it, her legs feeling shaky. This was going to be her house now. If Ilya kept her. If she could be good enough.

Inside, the house was warm. Actually warm, not cold like the orphanage. The heat hit Sasha's face as they walked in and she almost wanted to cry from how good it felt.

But she held the tears back, biting the inside of her cheek hard. Crying was against the rules. Crying made adults angry.

Everything inside the house looked too nice. Floors so clean they almost gleaned. Spotless windows. A sofa without so much as the tiniest stain. Sasha knew she’d have to be careful not to ruin anything. Adults didn’t like messes. 

"It's late," Ilya commented, looking at his watch. "Let's eat something, then get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll show you everything, okay?"

Okay. Yes.

Ilya moved into the kitchen and Sasha stayed very still by the door, not sure if she was allowed to follow. What if she went into the kitchen and that was wrong? What if she was supposed to stay here until he told her to move?

She watched him nervously. He was so big. His arms were thick with muscle, his hands large and strong-looking. 

Those hands could hurt her so easily. Could hit her so hard she'd fly across the room. Could grab her and she'd never be able to get away.

Sasha's breathing got faster and faster. Her chest felt tight.

"Come sit, malyshka," Ilya called from the kitchen. "I'm making blinis."

Oh. She was allowed in the kitchen. Okay.

Sasha crept into the kitchen on shaky legs and sat at the table, perched on the very edge of the chair. Her feet didn't quite touch the floor and she had to grip the edge of the seat to keep from sliding off. She sat up very straight, very still, her hands folded in her lap the way Elena had taught her.

Ready to run if she needed to. Even though she didn't know where she'd run to. She was in America now. She didn't know anyone or anything.

She was trapped.

She sat perfectly still while Ilya whipped up the blinis, murmuring a quiet, polite thank you when he placed a plate of them in front of her. 

She stared at it, her eyes going wide. It was so much food. More food than she ever got at the orphanage. 

"Eat," Ilya instructed gently, sitting down across from her with his own plate. "You must be hungry."

Sasha was hungry. She was always hungry. Her tummy hurt all the time from being empty, like there was a hole inside her that never got filled.

But she was also scared. What if this was a test? What if she wasn't supposed to eat all of it? What if eating too much made Ilya angry? Viktor used to get so mad when Sasha ate too much, saying she was greedy and didn't deserve food.

She picked up her fork with shaking hands and took a small bite.

They were good. So, so good. Better than anything Sasha had ever eaten before.

She finished the whole plate quickly, barely chewing, just swallowing as fast as she could. She hunched over her plate with her arms curved around it, protecting it from anyone who might try to take it, even though it was just her and Ilya in the room. It was how she always ate in the orphanage. If you were too slow, everyone else would take your food. 

"Slow down, malyshka," Ilya told her, his voice gentle, although she could hear a hint of concern running through it. "The food isn't going anywhere. You can have more if you're still hungry."

Sasha froze, her eyes darting to his face, her whole body going tense. Was he mad? But he didn't look mad. He looked... worried. Sad, maybe.

Why was he sad? Had Sasha done something wrong?

"Really?" The word came out small and scared and shaky.

"Really. You can always have more food if you're hungry. Always. You don't even have to ask."

That didn't make sense. That couldn't be true. You always had to ask for food. And usually when you asked, the answer was no. Sometimes asking for more food got you punished.

After they were finished, her papa stood up quickly and Sasha flinched so hard she almost fell off her chair. She couldn't help it. When big men stood up quickly, bad things sometimes happened. Viktor would stand up fast and then grab her before she could run. Ivan would stand up fast and then corner her in the hallway.

Her whole body went rigid, her muscles locked tight, her breathing stopped. She was ready to run or hide or make herself small or whatever she needed to do.

But Ilya just walked slowly toward the stairs, not coming near her. He kept lots of space between them. "Come on, malyshka. I'll show you where you'll sleep."

Sasha slid off the chair, her legs so wobbly she almost fell. She followed him up the stairs, keeping several steps behind him. Far enough that she could run if she needed to. Far enough that he couldn't reach back and grab her.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Thump-thump-thump-thump.

He led her to a bedroom that was larger than the one Sasha had slept in at the orphanage, the one that had housed eight girls. It was fairly plain, but with a large bed that had a thick blanket, the grand windows, and the soft rug underneath her feet, it was easily the nicest room Sasha had ever seen. 

"We can go shopping for things to make the room more yours," Ilya told her quickly, sounding oddly…nervous? As he stood in the doorway. But that wasn’t right, Sasha thought. Why would he be nervous? "You can pick colors you like, decorations, whatever you want. But for tonight, this is good, right?"

Sasha nodded, not trusting her voice. The room was already more than good. It was amazing. It was warm and clean and the bed looked so soft.

But her room at the Sokolovs’ had been nice too. And they'd still sent her back.

"The bathroom is across the hall," Ilya explained, pointing to the door. "I put out clean pajamas for you. They'll be too big, but we'll get ones that fit tomorrow."

He paused, then reached into a bag by the door. "One more thing."

He pulled out a stuffed animal. A dog. It was soft and gray and white with floppy ears and a little black nose.

Sasha stared at it, her eyes going wide. A stuffed animal. A toy. Just for her. She hadn't had a toy since Olga took Misha away.

"I know you're probably too old for stuffed animals," Ilya began, and he sounded nervous. Like he thought she might not want it. "But I thought maybe... maybe you'd want something soft. For sleeping."

Sasha reached out with shaking hands and took the dog. It was so soft. Softer than Misha had been. Softer than anything. She clutched it to her chest and before she could stop herself, tears started leaking down her cheeks.

No. No, she wasn't supposed to cry. Crying was bad. But she couldn't stop the tears.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Ilya's expression softened even more, his eyes getting shiny too. "You're welcome, malyshka. Now, go get ready for bed. I'll be downstairs if you need anything. Okay?"

Sasha nodded, not trusting her voice. Her throat felt too tight to talk.

Ilya left, closing the door most of the way. Not all the way, just most of the way, so there was a crack of light from the hallway.

Sasha stood in the middle of the room, holding the dog so tight her fingers hurt, and felt tears stream down her cheeks. She tried to stop them but couldn't. Her whole body was shaking now, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

She didn't understand. Ilya was being so nice. Too nice. Adults weren't this nice unless they wanted something.

What did he want from her?

She looked at the dog in her arms. At the warm room. At the soft bed with its thick blanket.

This felt like a trick. Like things would seem good for a little while and then get bad, just like with the Sokolovs and the Volkovs.

The Sokolovs had been nice at first too. They'd given her Misha and her own room and said she was part of the family. And then they'd decided she wasn't good enough and sent her back.

The Volkovs had seemed okay at first. Not nice exactly, but not mean right away. And then Viktor started using his belt.

What would Ilya do once he figured out how bad Sasha was?

But she didn't know what else to do except go along with it. So she changed into the too-big pajamas Ilya had left for her – he was right, they were a bit too big, but not awfully so – and climbed into the bed, and pulled the thick blanket up to her chin.

The bed was so soft. Too soft, almost. Sasha kept sinking down into it. The blanket was so warm and heavy. The pillow was fluffy and smelled clean.

Sasha had never felt anything like it. At the orphanage, the mattress had been thin and lumpy and the blanket had been scratchy and had holes in it.

She hugged the dog close and tried not to cry harder.

She had to be good. Had to follow all the rules. Had to be perfect so Ilya wouldn't send her back.

She just had to figure out what Ilya's rules were. Every adult had different rules. She just had to learn them fast. Before she messed up too bad.

Tomorrow she'd start figuring it out. Tomorrow she'd be so good that Ilya would want to keep her.

But tonight, just for tonight, she'd let herself enjoy the soft bed and the warm blanket and the stuffed dog that was all hers.

Even if it probably wouldn't last.

Even if Ilya probably wouldn't keep her.

Even if she'd probably mess up and ruin everything like she always did.

The next morning, Sasha woke up to sun coming through the window. Real sun, bright and warm, not the gray light of the orphanage.

For a moment she just lay there, warm and comfortable in the soft bed. Then she remembered – she was supposed to be good. She was supposed to follow the rules.

But she didn't know what Ilya's rules were yet.

Panic fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird. At the orphanage, you had to get up as soon as the caretakers woke you. You had to get dressed fast and make your bed perfect and line up for breakfast.

Was she supposed to be doing that now? Should she get up? Or should she wait for Ilya to tell her to get up?

What if she got up and that was wrong? What if she stayed in bed and that was wrong?

She didn't know. She didn't know and not knowing made her tummy feel sick with worry. Her hands twisted in the blanket, clenching and unclenching.

She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs – Ilya was coming – and her whole body tensed up like a rubber band pulled too tight. She sat up quickly, her heart racing. Ready to jump out of bed if he was angry she wasn't already up.

The footsteps got closer. Closer. Sasha's breathing got faster.

Ilya knocked softly on her door.

"Malyshka? You awake?"

"Yes," Sasha said quickly. Too quickly. Her voice came out high and scared.

Ilya opened the door slowly. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and his hair was messy. He looked... normal. Not scary.

But Viktor had looked normal too, sometimes. And then his face would change and get mean and he'd unbuckle his belt and–

"Good morning," Ilya greeted, smiling softly at her in a way that made her heart thump all funny. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Uh-huh." Sasha clutched the dog tight against her chest, her fingers digging into the soft fur. 

“When you’re ready, come downstairs and we’ll have breakfast,” he told her gently, before softly closing the door again, disappearing into the hall. 

After Ilya left, Sasha scrambled out of bed, her hands shaking. She didn’t know what he’d meant by coming down when she was ready. At the orphanage, and in the Volkovs’, she was meant to be downstairs as fast as possible, for breakfast then chores. Otherwise, she’d get in trouble. She got dressed in the same clothes from yesterday – the too-small ones from the orphanage – as fast as she could.

Then she tried to make the bed. The blanket was thick and heavy and she wasn't tall enough to smooth it out properly. She had to climb onto the bed to reach the middle part, and even then it didn't look right. There were wrinkles and bumps and it wasn't perfect.

At the orphanage, you got in trouble if your bed wasn't made right. Olga would make you do it over and over until it was perfect, and if you couldn't do it right, she'd hit your hands with a ruler.

Sasha's hands were shaking so hard now she could barely hold the blanket. She tried again. And again. But it still wasn't perfect.

Tears started leaking down her face. She couldn't even make a bed right. She was so stupid. So useless.

Finally she gave up, even though the bed looked messy. Maybe Ilya wouldn't notice. Maybe if she was really good at breakfast, he wouldn't care about the bed.

She went downstairs, holding the stuffed dog and walking slowly, quietly. Listening for Ilya. Trying to figure out where he was before she got too close, like she used to do with Ivan.

He was in the kitchen making food. Lots of food. Pancakes and eggs and bacon and fruit. The smell made Sasha's tummy growl even louder, but it also made her nervous. Why was he making so much food? Was it for other people? Was he having guests?

Sasha stood in the doorway, watching, her whole body tense and ready to run. Ilya moved around the kitchen with surprising grace for someone so big. His hands – those big, strong hands – were gentle as he flipped the pancakes.

Those hands could hurt her so easily. Could hit her so hard. Could grab her and hold her down and do bad things like Ivan's hands had done.

Sasha's breathing got fast and shallow again. In-out-in-out-in-out.

"You like pancakes?" Ilya asked, turning around. He saw her standing in the doorway, pressed against the wall, and his expression softened. "Come sit down, malyshka. Breakfast is almost ready."

Sasha crept to the table and sat down, perched on the very edge of the chair again. She put the stuffed dog on her lap under the table where Ilya couldn't see her holding it so tight. Ready to run. Always ready to run.

Ilya put a plate in front of her with two big pancakes, syrup, and some strawberries. Then he sat down across from her – not next to her, which Sasha was grateful for – with his own plate.

He looked at his plate, then at Sasha's, then back at his own. "I think you got the better deal," he said seriously. "Your pancakes are definitely rounder than mine. Mine look like... what do they look like? Maybe maps of weird countries."

Sasha looked at his pancakes. They did look a little odd-shaped, but she didn't think they looked like maps.

"They're fine," she whispered.

"Fine?" Ilya held up his fork dramatically. "Mishka, these are masterpieces. This one looks like Russia, see? And this one is... Australia, maybe. Or a blob. Definitely one or the other."

Sasha wasn't sure if he was joking or not. She stared at the plate, trying to see what he saw.

Ilya smiled at her. "Eat, malyshka. Before they get cold. Cold pancakes are sad pancakes."

Sasha picked up her fork with shaking hands and started eating. The pancakes were so good – sweet and fluffy and perfect. Better than anything she'd ever tasted.

She ate fast, the way she always did, hunched over her plate with her arms curved around it protectively. Protecting her food. One hand held her fork and the other arm stayed curved around the plate like a shield.

"Malyshka," Ilya said softly. "Nobody is going to take your food, remember? You can eat slower. It's okay."

Sasha tried to slow down, but her body wouldn't listen. Her body knew that eating fast meant you got to eat more before someone took it away. Her body knew that protecting your plate kept the bigger kids from stealing from you.

She finished everything on her plate, even though her tummy was starting to feel too full again. That sick-full feeling from last night.

"Would you like more?" Ilya asked.

Sasha's eyes darted to his face, trying to read his expression. Did she? Her tummy hurt from being full, but what if this was the only food she got all day? What if she got hungry later and there was no more? What if saying no made Ilya angry because it meant she didn't like his cooking?

"Yes please," Sasha whispered quietly, not really expecting to be given more.

But Ilya gave her another pancake, so Sasha ate it even though her tummy really hurt now. She felt kind of sick. But she had to eat it. Had to show she was grateful. Had to not waste food.

But as the morning went on, Sasha's tummy got worse and worse. It hurt so bad, like it was twisting up inside her, like there was a rock in there getting bigger and heavier.

She tried to hide it, staying quiet in her room, sitting very still on the floor with the stuffed dog. Trying not to move because moving made the sick feeling worse.

But finally she couldn't hold it anymore. Her tummy did a big lurch and Sasha knew – she knew – she was going to throw up.

She ran to the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet before everything came up. Her whole body heaved and heaved, bringing up all the pancakes and the blinis from last night.

She knelt on the cold floor, sobbing, waiting for Ilya to be angry. She'd wasted food. She'd made a mess. This was bad. This was so bad. This was against the rules.

She heard footsteps – heavy, fast footsteps – and panic flooded through her so strong she thought she might pass out. He was coming. He was angry. He was going to hurt her. She tried to make herself smaller, curling up tighter, protecting her head with her arms.

"Oh, malyshka," Ilya's voice was soft, worried, not angry. He appeared in the doorway. "It's okay. You're okay."

Sasha threw up again, crying harder. Her whole body was shaking so bad she could barely hold herself up. She felt Ilya move closer and she flinched, trying to scoot away, but there was nowhere to go. She was trapped between the toilet and the wall.

But his hands were gentle as they gathered her hair back, holding it away from her face. One large hand held her hair while the other rubbed small circles on her back.

Sasha's whole body went rigid. He was touching her. His hands were on her. Big hands. Strong hands.

But... but the touches were soft. Gentle. Not mean. Not scary.

She didn't understand.

"It's okay," he murmured. "Let it out. You're okay."

When she was finally done, when there was nothing left in her tummy to throw up, Sasha was crying so hard she was hiccupping. Her whole body was trembling like she was cold even though the bathroom was warm.

Ilya got a washcloth and wet it with warm water. He wiped her face with gentle, careful touches, like she was something precious that might break.

"I'm sorry," Sasha sobbed, her voice coming out in broken gasps. "I'm sorry I wasted it– I'm sorry– I'll be better– I promise I'll be better– "

"You didn't waste anything," Ilya told her firmly but gently. "You ate too much too fast. Your tummy isn't used to so much food. That's my fault– I should have given you smaller portions."

That didn't make sense. That didn't make any sense at all. How was it Ilya's fault? Sasha was the one who ate too much.

"I won't eat so much next time," Sasha promised, her voice shaking so hard she could barely get the words out. "I'll be better– I'll be good– please don't send me back–"

"Sasha. Malyshka. Look at me."

But Sasha couldn't. She kept her eyes down, staring at the bathroom floor, at the white tiles that were blurry through her tears.

"Please look at me," Ilya asked again, his voice so soft and gentle it made Sasha's chest hurt.

Slowly, slowly, Sasha lifted her eyes. Ilya's face was right there, close enough to touch, and Sasha flinched back.

But his face just looked sad and worried. Not angry. Not mean.

"You are not in trouble," Ilya assured firmly, his eyes looking into hers with an unwavering gaze. "You are not bad. Your stomach just needs time to adjust to having more food. We'll give you smaller portions for now, okay? And you'll eat slower. And soon your stomach will get used to it."

He paused, then added, "Also, I think maybe pancakes that look like weird countries are cursed. Next time I'll make them look like normal circles. Or squares. Can pancakes be squares? We should investigate this."

Sasha didn't understand what he was talking about, but his voice wasn't angry. It was almost... light. Like he was trying to make her feel better.

She nodded miserably, still not quite believing she wasn't in trouble.

Ilya helped her up and got her cleaned up. His hands were always gentle, never rough. Never mean. But Sasha still flinched every time he touched her, her body going tense and hard, waiting for the hurt that never came.

"Come on, let's get you to the couch. You can rest there."

He led her to the couch and got her settled with a blanket and Fyo. Sasha clutched the dog so tight her knuckles were white, her whole body still trembling.

"Rest here," Ilya instructed softly, tucking the blanket around her. "I'll bring you some water. Small sips, okay?"

Sasha nodded, watching him walk to the kitchen. As soon as he was gone, she buried her face in the stuffed dog's fur and cried as quietly as she could.

She'd messed up. She'd thrown up and made a mess and wasted food and Ilya had to clean up after her. And he said it was his fault, which made no sense, but maybe he was just saying that and secretly he was angry.

Maybe the punishment would come later.

Maybe he was just being nice now so she wouldn't see it coming.

Sasha pressed the dog against her chest and tried to stop shaking, but she couldn't.

She couldn't stop being scared.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Over the next few days, Sasha tried desperately to figure out Ilya's rules. But it was so confusing because he didn't seem to have the same rules as other adults.

At the orphanage and with the foster families, the rules had been clear:

• Be quiet
• Don't complain
• Do what you're told immediately
• Don't ask for things
• Don't take up space
• Be grateful
• Don't cry
• Don't make messes
• Be perfect

But Ilya didn't seem to follow any of those rules.

When Sasha was quiet during dinner, barely speaking, sitting very still with her hands in her lap, Ilya would ask her questions. "How was your day? What did you think of the park? Do you like this food?"

Like he actually wanted to hear her talk. Like her talking wasn't annoying.

When Sasha tried to stay in her room so she wouldn't take up space, making herself small on the floor in the corner with her stuffed dog, Ilya would come find her. "Come sit in the living room with me. We can watch TV or read or just sit. I like having you around."

Like he actually wanted her nearby. Like she wasn't a bother.

When Sasha tried to do chores – making her bed perfectly even though it took forever, trying to wash dishes even though she had to stand on a stool and could barely reach, trying to clean – Ilya would stop her and shoo her away before doing it himself.

Like he didn't expect her to earn her keep. Like she deserved to stay even if she didn't work.

It was all so confusing. Sasha didn't understand the rules here, and not knowing the rules made her anxious all the time. Her tummy always hurt from worry. Her hands were always trembling a little bit. She jumped at every sound.

She kept waiting for the punishment. Kept waiting for Ilya to get angry or use his belt or send her back.

But days passed and nothing bad happened.

Ilya never raised his voice. Never lifted his hand. Never looked at her with cold, mean eyes.

But Sasha still flinched when he moved too quickly, her whole body jerking away, her arms coming up to protect her head. Still tensed when he came near her, her muscles going tight and hard, ready to run. Still watched his hands carefully, tracking them whenever they moved, waiting for them to become fists.

She couldn't help it. Her body remembered all the bad things, even if Ilya seemed different from the other adults.

Her body didn't trust him yet. Maybe it never would.

The worst moment was bath time.

After the first day, Ilya said she needed a bath. That she should wash her hair and get clean.

Sasha's whole body went cold, like someone had dumped ice water over her head. Her heart started beating fast-fast-fast-fast, so fast it hurt. She couldn't breathe right.

Bath time at the orphanage had been terrifying. The water was always too cold or too hot, and the caretakers would scrub too hard with rough brushes that hurt Sasha's skin and made it red. They didn't care if Sasha cried. They just told her to stop being a baby.

And Ivan... Ivan sometimes volunteered to help with baths. And his hands would touch places they shouldn't while the other caretakers weren't looking. Places that made Sasha feel dirty and wrong and like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

"Do I have to?" Sasha whispered, her voice shaking so hard the words barely came out. She took a step back without meaning to, her body moving before her brain could think.

Ilya noticed and his expression became very gentle. He didn't move closer. "Yes, you need to get clean. But you can do it yourself. I'll start the water and make sure it's the right temperature, and then you can wash yourself. I'll stay right outside the door in case you need help. Okay?"

By herself? She could wash herself by herself?

No adults in the bathroom?

"Really?" Sasha asked, not quite believing it. Adults always wanted to be in the bathroom. They always wanted to watch or help or touch.

"Really. You're big enough to do it yourself." Ilya paused, then added, "Although if you need help reaching something, just call me. I'll stand outside the door like a bathroom bodyguard. Very serious job. I might need sunglasses."

Sasha didn't know what a bathroom bodyguard was or why they would need sunglasses, but Ilya's voice was gentle and his face was kind, and she felt a tiny bit less scared.

Ilya went to the bathroom and ran the bath, testing the water temperature with his hand. The tub filled with warm – actually warm, not cold – water. Steam rose up and made everything look soft and blurry.

"You take as long as you need," Ilya said. "I'll be right outside if you need anything. Just call me if you need help reaching something or if the water gets too cold. Or if you see any sharks. You should definitely tell me if there are sharks."

"There are no sharks in bathtubs," Sasha argued back, confused. She sucked in a breath once she’d realized she was talking back, holding herself very still as she carefully waited for the smack she knew was coming. 

But Ilya just smiled.

"Are you sure? Have you checked?" Ilya's eyes were twinkling. "Better look carefully just in case."

Then he left, closing the door behind him.

Sasha stood in the bathroom alone, staring at the bathtub. Her heart was still beating too fast. Her whole body was shaking.

She was supposed to do this by herself. No adults watching. No rough hands scrubbing too hard. No scary touching.

By herself.

But... but what if Ilya came in? What if he said she could do it by herself but then came in anyway? Ivan used to do that– say he was leaving and then come back and surprise Sasha when she wasn't ready.

Slowly, carefully, Sasha undressed. Her hands were shaking so hard it took forever to get her shirt off. She climbed into the tub, the warm water feeling strange and good against her skin.

But the whole time, she kept her eyes on the doorknob.

Watching. Waiting.

Her heart wouldn't stop pounding. Thump-thump-thump-thump.

Any second it might turn. Any second Ilya might come in. Any second those big hands might—

The doorknob stayed still.

Sasha washed her hair, her eyes on the doorknob, barely blinking.

Still. Not moving.

She washed her body, her heart pounding, watching the door so hard her eyes hurt.

It didn't open.

She stayed in the bath for a long time, partly because the warm water felt so good and she'd never had a warm bath before, but partly because she kept expecting the door to open. Kept expecting Ilya to come in with excuses about helping her or making sure she was doing it right or checking if she'd drowned.

But he didn't.

The water started to get cold and Sasha realized she'd been in there for a really long time. Maybe too long. Maybe Ilya would be angry she took too long.

She climbed out quickly, water dripping everywhere, making puddles on the floor. She dried off with the fluffy towel Ilya had left for her, watching the door the whole time.

It never opened.

"You okay in there?" Ilya called through the door. "No shark attacks?"

Sasha jumped so hard she almost dropped the towel. "No," she called back, her voice shaky and high. "No sharks."

"Good. Clean pajamas are on your bed. And mishka? You're doing great."

Footsteps moved away from the door. Going back downstairs. Actually going away.

Sasha stood there, wrapped in the towel, staring at the closed door. Her whole body was still trembling, but now it was different. Not just scared-trembling. Something else too.

He hadn't come in. He'd said he'd stay outside, and he had. He'd said she could do it by herself, and he'd let her.

She got dressed in the new pajamas – they actually fit her, not too big or too small – before wandering downstairs, finding Ilya in the kitchen. He looked up when he heard her on the stairs and smiled.

"Feel better?"

Sasha nodded, not trusting her voice. She did feel better. Clean and warm and... maybe almost safe. Kind of. A tiny bit.

"Good. It's getting late. How about we read a book before bed?"

A book? Together?

At the Sokolovs', Mikhail had read to her sometimes, but it had always felt wrong. Sasha's body had been tense the whole time, every muscle tight, waiting for his hand to move somewhere it shouldn't or for him to pull her too close.

But she nodded anyway. "Okay."

They sat on the couch – with space between them, which Sasha was grateful for – and Ilya read a story about a mouse who lived in a library. His voice was deep and gentle, and he did different voices for the characters that made Sasha almost smile.

Almost.

When he got to the part where the mouse found a book about cheese, Ilya paused. "You know, I think mice have the right idea. If I found a book about hockey, I'd probably read it too. Although I already know everything about hockey, so maybe I'd read a book about... professional pizza eating instead."

Sasha remembered him joking about that in the car. She still didn't think it was a real job, but the way he said it – so serious – made her mouth twitch.

Ilya noticed and his smile widened. "Was that almost a smile I saw?"

Sasha ducked her head, suddenly shy.

"It's okay," Ilya assured gently, the smile on his face fading a bit. "You don't have to smile if you don't want to. But I'm going to keep trying to make you smile anyway. It's my mission now. Very important."

He went back to reading, and Sasha sat very still, very tense, watching Ilya's hands the whole time. Watching where they were, making sure they stayed on the book. Her own hands were clenched tight in her lap, her fingernails digging into her palms.

When the story was done, Ilya stood up. Sasha flinched hard, her whole body jerking, even though he wasn't even near her.

"Bedtime," Ilya said softly, like he hadn't noticed her flinch. But Sasha thought he had. His face looked sad. "Sleep well, malyshka."

Sasha went upstairs to her room, clutching the stuffed dog tight against her chest with both arms. She could feel her heart beating against the dog's soft body.

Ilya called her malyshka again. Little one. A name for good girls.

But Sasha wasn't good. She knew she wasn't good. She was bad and broken and wrong. So why did he keep calling her that?

She didn't understand anything about this place. Didn't understand any of the rules. Didn't understand why Ilya was being nice when everyone else had been mean.

She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, hugging the dog so tight it would have squeaked if it could make sounds.

Maybe tomorrow she'd understand better.

Maybe tomorrow the rules would start to make sense.

Maybe tomorrow she'd stop being so scared all the time.

Maybe.

But probably not.

The next morning, Ilya said they had to go to the doctor.

Sasha's good feelings from the bath evaporated immediately, sucked away like water down a drain. Doctor. She had to go to the doctor.

Her whole body went cold and tense. She didn't like doctors. They poked you with needles and it hurt so bad. They pressed on your stomach until you wanted to cry. They looked in your ears and throat and eyes with bright lights that hurt. And they told you to stop crying even when things hurt really bad, like crying was bad and you were bad for doing it.

And they asked questions. Hard questions. Questions about where bruises came from and why you were so thin and if anyone was hurting you. And if you answered wrong, bad things happened.

"Just a checkup," Ilya said gently, noticing her face. "To make sure you're healthy. Very boring. The most boring thing ever. We might fall asleep from how boring it is."

Sasha didn't think doctors were boring. She thought they were scary.

But she nodded anyway, because what choice did she have?

The doctor's office was bright and clean and smelled like medicine – that sharp, chemical smell that made Sasha's nose hurt and her tummy feel sick. Sasha sat in a chair in the waiting room, the stuffed dog in her lap clutched so tight her fingers hurt, trying not to shake.

But she couldn't stop shaking. Her whole body was trembling like a leaf in a big wind.

Ilya sat next to her – not too close, but close enough – and his presence felt big and overwhelming. He took up so much space. He could reach over and grab her so easily. Could hold her down if she tried to run. Could make her stay if she wanted to leave.

"It's just a checkup," Ilya assured her quietly, sounding as patient as ever. "To make sure you're healthy. The doctor is very nice. I promise."

There was that word again. Promise.

Sasha nodded jerkily, but she couldn't make her body stop shaking. Her teeth were chattering even though she wasn't cold.

"You know what?" Ilya began, leaning back in his chair casually. "I had to go to the doctor once because I got hit in the face with a puck. Right here." He pointed to his eyebrow. "Had to get stitches. The doctor said I was very brave. I said thank you, but really I cried the whole time."

Sasha looked at him, surprised. "You cried?"

Adults didn’t cry. Did they? Sasha had always been told crying was for little kids, and that she was a big girl now. 

"Oh yes. Very much crying. The doctor probably thought I was a baby. But you know what? That's okay. Sometimes things are scary and we cry. That's normal."

A nurse called her name and Sasha jumped so hard Fyo almost fell out of her lap.

They went into a small room and the nurse smiled at her. She had bright red lipstick that looked scary, like blood.

"Hi there! I'm Nurse Kelly. I'm just going to do a few quick checks, okay?"

Sasha nodded, not trusting her voice. She kept glancing at Ilya, watching his hands where they rested on his knees, watching his face for signs of anger.

The nurse checked her height and weight, then Sasha's temperature with something that went in her ear and beeped. Checked her ears and throat with lights that were too bright.

It didn't hurt, but Sasha stayed tense the whole time, her whole body rigid and hard, waiting for the bad part. Because there was always a bad part. 

The nurse left a small paper gown behind with instructions to put it on, and her papa stepped outside into the hall, giving her a minute to change. 

Sasha didn’t really want to, but she knew she couldn’t argue with the nurse, so she pulled the gown on anyway. It was cold in the office, and the gown felt scratchy against her skin, and she didn’t like the way it didn’t fully cover her back, but she knew better than to complain. 

She climbed up on the exam table, sitting with her back to the wall and her legs dangling over the side before telling her papa he could come back in. The doctor followed a few minutes later. 

Dr. Martinez. She had kind eyes behind her glasses and a soft voice, but Sasha knew that didn't mean anything. Adults could seem nice and then be mean.

"Hello, Sasha. I'm Dr. Martinez. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Sasha whispered. Her voice came out so quiet it was almost just breath.

"I'm going to do a quick exam to make sure everything is healthy. Is that okay?"

Sasha nodded, even though she wanted to say no. Wanted to run away. Wanted to hide.

Dr. Martinez listened to Sasha's heart and lungs with a cold stethoscope that made Sasha jump. Afterwards, she asked her to follow a light with her eyes, back and forth, back and forth until Sasha felt dizzy.

"Everything looks good so far," Dr. Martinez said cheerfully, before reaching for her stethoscope again. “Can you turn this way for me?” 

Sasha turned to sit sideways hesitantly, moving slowly. She didn’t exactly like facing this way, looking at the door, with Ilya now only in the side of her eyeline and Dr. Martinez fully behind her, but she listened anyway. 

Dr. Martinez reached out to gently press her stethoscope to Sasha’s back, sucking in a quick breath once she got a better look at Sasha’s back. 

Sasha froze.

Her whole body went absolutely still, like she'd turned to stone.

The scars were there. Fading, but still there. Red lines and white lines from Viktor's belt. Some of them were still raised, bumpy under her fingers when she touched them.

Now she knew. The doctor knew that Sasha had been bad. That Sasha had deserved to be punished. That Sasha was too much trouble.

Her papa stood up from his seat, likely to get a better view so he could find out what the problem was, and Sasha could tell the minute he saw the scars. 

She stared at the floor, at the shiny white tiles, not wanting to see their faces when they saw how bad she was. 

Ilya knew now what a bad kid Sasha was. Surely, he’d send her back, because who wanted a kid who was so bad she got hit with a belt?

There was a long silence.

Sasha's heart beat faster and faster and faster. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump. So fast she thought it might explode. They'd seen. They knew. They knew how bad she was.

"Sasha," Dr. Martinez began, her voice very gentle, but Sasha didn’t trust it. "Can you tell me what happened to your back?"

Sasha didn't say anything. She couldn't. Her throat was too tight. She stared at the floor, her whole body shaking.

"Malyshka," Ilya cut in, and his voice sounded strange – tight and angry but trying not to sound angry. "Please tell the doctor."

He was angry. She could hear it in his voice even though he was trying to hide it. He was angry because now he knew how bad she'd been.

"I was bad," Sasha whispered, her voice so small and broken, but knowing she couldn’t just ignore her papa’s instructions. Tears were running down her face now, dripping onto the floor. "I broke things and didn't do my chores right. So I got punished."

"Who punished you?" Dr. Martinez asked, her voice still gentle even though she must be disgusted.

"Viktor. My foster papa."

"He hit you with something?"

Sasha nodded, still not looking up. "His belt."

Another long silence. Sasha could feel them looking at her back, looking at all the scars that proved she was bad and wrong and broken.

She heard Ilya take a sharp breath, like someone had punched him. When she dared to glance at him from under her eyelashes, his face looked... angry. Really angry. His jaw was tight and his hands were clenched into fists, his knuckles white.

Sasha's whole body went cold, colder than she'd ever been. He was angry. He was so angry. His hands were fists and his face was mean and he was going to—

She stumbled backward, away from him, pressing herself against the exam table. Her breathing was coming too fast, in-out-in-out-in-out, making her dizzy.

"Sasha," Dr. Martinez said softly, stepping between Sasha and Ilya. "That was not okay. You were not bad. He should never have hurt you like that. Do you understand?"

Sasha shook her head, tears streaming down her face. She didn't understand. If she wasn't bad, why did Viktor hit her? Adults only hit you when you were bad. That was the rule. That was how the world worked.

Dr. Martinez let out a small sigh, motioning Ilya over to the corner of the room, the two of them talking in low voices. 

Sasha hugged herself tight, trying to stop shaking, but she couldn’t. 

She heard words like "abuse" and "trauma" and "therapy" and "protective services" but she didn't really understand what they meant. She just knew they were talking about her. About how bad she was.

Finally Dr. Martinez turned back to Sasha. "Sasha, you're very brave. And you're going to be okay. Your papa is going to take good care of you."

Sasha nodded, even though she didn't feel brave. She felt small and scared and broken. And she didn't know if Ilya would take good care of her now that he knew the truth.

And she was terrified – so, so terrified – of what Ilya would do now that he knew how bad she'd been.

On the way home, Ilya was quiet. Really quiet. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white, and his jaw was clenched so hard Sasha could see the muscles jumping in his cheek.

Sasha sat in the back seat, making herself as small as possible in the corner, clutching the stuffed dog so tight her arms hurt. She tried to disappear into the seat, tried to be so small that maybe Ilya would forget she was there.

He was angry. So angry. She could feel it coming off him in waves, filling up the whole car until there was no room to breathe.

Any minute now he'd yell. Or hit her. Or tell her he was taking her back to the orphanage because she was too damaged, too bad, too much trouble. Because who would want a kid who'd already been sent back twice? Who'd been hit with a belt because she was so bad?

She felt tears start to leak down her cheeks and tried to wipe them away quickly with the stuffed dog's fur, but she couldn't stop them. They just kept coming and coming, although she made sure to keep quiet.

Crying made things worse. Crying made adults angrier. But she couldn't stop.

When they got home, Ilya parked the car but didn't get out right away. He just sat there, his hands still gripping the wheel, his breathing loud and heavy in the quiet car.

Sasha waited, her heart pounding so hard it hurt, her whole body shaking. She pressed herself harder into the corner, trying to be smaller, trying to be invisible.

Finally, Ilya turned around in his seat to look at her.

His face did look angry. But also... sad. And something else Sasha couldn't name. His eyes were red and shiny like maybe he'd been crying too, but that didn't make sense because adults didn't cry. His expression only turned sadder when he caught sight of the tear tracks on Sasha’s face. 

"Let’s go inside, malyshka," he said quietly, jaw clenching a little. "We need to talk."

Sasha's stomach dropped so hard she felt sick. They needed to talk. That's what adults said when you were in big, big trouble. That's what Elena had said before she told Sasha they were sending her back.

She followed Ilya inside on shaky legs that barely worked. She thought she might fall down. Her knees kept wobbling and her feet didn't want to move right.

In the living room, Ilya knelt down in front of her on the rug. Getting at her level. Making himself smaller like he had before. It didn’t help much. Even sitting on the couch, Sasha was still barely his height, and she knew there was nothing to stop him from getting up.  

His big hands reached out toward her and Sasha flinched back hard, stumbling, almost falling. A scared sound came out of her throat, high and animal-like.

Ilya froze. His hands dropped immediately.

His face crumpled like paper, all the hard angry lines collapsing into something broken and sad. He looked like he might cry, which scared Sasha even more because what did it mean when adults cried?

"Malyshka," he began, his voice rough and thick and broken, his blue eyes searching her face for something, although she wasn’t sure what. "I need you to listen to me very carefully. What that man did to you – hitting you with his belt – that was not okay. That was not because you were bad. That was because he was bad. Do you understand?"

Sasha shook her head hard, tears running down her face faster now. "But I broke the plate. I– I was bad and–"

"Everyone makes mistakes. Children especially. You don't hit children for making mistakes. You don't hurt them. Ever."

"But—"

"Sasha." Ilya's voice was firm but still gentle, and he was crying now too, tears running down his face. She’d never made an adult sad before. Sasha wasn’t sure if that was worse than making them mad. Surely, it must be. It’d only get her into more trouble. "I will never hit you. Never. You could break every plate in this house and I won’t hit you. You can make one million mistakes and I would never hurt you. I promise you. I promise."

There was that word again. Promise.

Sasha wanted to believe him. Wanted to so badly it hurt like a physical ache in her chest.

But she'd been hurt so many times. Had been disappointed so many times. Had believed promises before and they'd all been lies.

"You can even eat all my pancakes," Ilya continued, his voice still thick with tears but with a tiny hint of something lighter. "The good round ones, not the weird map ones. And I still won't hit you. Even though those pancakes are very precious to me."

Sasha didn't understand why he was talking about pancakes. Was he joking? How could he be joking when he was crying?

"Okay," she whispered, even though she didn't really believe it. Even though her body was telling her to run, to hide, to protect herself.

"Come here," Ilya coaxed softly, opening his arms but not moving toward her. Letting her choose. "Please."

Sasha hesitated, her whole body trembling. His arms were so big. So strong. Those arms could hurt her so easily. Could hold her down. Could squeeze until she couldn't breathe.

But slowly, carefully, shaking so hard she could barely walk, she stepped forward.

Ilya pulled her into a hug. A real hug, gentle and warm. His arms came around her but they were soft, not tight. She could get away if she needed to. He wasn't trapping her.

His arms were big and strong and made Sasha feel so small, but also... also maybe safe. A tiny bit safe.

"You are safe now," Papa murmured, one hand gently stroking her hair. His voice was thick with tears. "I promise you are safe. Nobody will hurt you again. I won't let them."

Sasha stood there in his arms, rigid and shaking, not knowing what to do. Physical affection was new. Confusing. Scary.

The Sokolovs had hugged her sometimes, but it had always felt wrong, like she was supposed to do something but didn't know what. Like she was a doll they were playing with.

This felt different. Papa was crying. She could feel his tears falling into her hair. Could feel his chest shaking with silent sobs. Could feel how carefully he was holding her, like she was something precious that might break.

After a long moment, Sasha's arms came up slowly, shaking, and wrapped around Ilya's waist. She pressed her face into his shirt and held on tight, her small hands fisting in the fabric.

And she let herself cry too. 

Maybe, just maybe, she could believe him.

Just a little bit.

Just for now.

"I'm not angry at you," Papa said softly, like he could read her mind. "I'm angry at the people who hurt you. But not at you. Never at you."

Sasha nodded against his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt.

"I know you're scared of me," Papa continued, his voice gentle and broken. "I know you're waiting for me to hurt you or send you back. But I won't. You're my daughter. My malyshka. And I'm keeping you forever."

He paused, then added quietly, "Even if you do steal my pancakes. Even if you build a rocket ship in the living room. Even if you decide to become a professional pizza eater. Forever."

The last part was so ridiculous, said in such a serious voice while Papa was crying, that Sasha felt something in her chest crack open just a little bit more.

Forever. That was a long time.

Could forever actually be real?

Sasha didn't know. But lying there in Papa’s arms, feeling his hand gently stroking her hair, hearing his steady heartbeat under her ear even though his chest was still shaking with tears, she let herself hope.

Just a tiny bit.

Maybe this time would be different.

Maybe Papa would keep her.

Maybe she could learn to be the daughter he wanted, whatever that meant.

She'd try. She'd try so hard.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

"How would you feel about coming to work with me?" Papa asked from her doorway.

Sasha looked up from where she was sitting on the rug with her Legos. She'd been building a little house, trying to make it perfect, trying to be quiet and good.

Work? Papa's work was hockey. At the rink.

"To the rink?" she asked, hope bubbling up in her chest before she could stop it.

She loved watching hockey with Papa in the evenings. He'd explain all the rules to her in his patient voice while she sat close to him on the couch. Sometimes – if she was very lucky – his arm would come around her shoulders while they watched.

"Da," Papa confirmed, moving to her closet. "I need my good luck charm with me."

Good luck charm? Sasha looked around, confused. Did Papa have a charm he kept in her closet?

Papa pulled out a sweatshirt for her and grinned. "That's you, mishka. You're my good luck charm."

Oh. A warm feeling flickered through Sasha’s chest, and she found herself smiling just a little. 

She watched as Papa checked the sweatshirt, making sure it was the thick one. Making sure she'd be warm.

Papa was always making sure she was warm. He'd noticed – even though Sasha had tried so hard not to complain – that she was cold sometimes. And instead of getting angry about it like Viktor would have, Papa had just quietly started keeping extra blankets around and turning up the heat.

The fact that he'd noticed made Sasha's chest feel warm even when her body was cold.

On the drive to the practice arena, Sasha looked out the window at the buildings going by. Boston was so different from Russia. Not in a bad way. Just…different. 

"We'll have to get you some skates," Papa commented, and Sasha's head whipped around to look at him, finding his blue eyes glancing back at her in the rearview mirror. 

Skates? For her?

Papa's voice changed, became softer, more unsure. "If you want to, that is. We don't have to, malyshka."

Did she want to? Sasha thought about it. She liked watching Papa skate on TV. He moved so fast and looked so strong and graceful.

But what if she was bad at it? What if she fell and embarrassed Papa? What if–

But Papa was looking at her in the rearview mirror with hopeful eyes. Not demanding eyes. Not angry eyes. Just... hopeful.

"Yes, please," Sasha answered quickly, trying to use her polite voice instead of sounding too excited, too demanding.

And Papa smiled – a real, big smile that made Sasha's whole chest feel warm.

"Good," he said. "Maybe purple skates? Or do they even make purple skates? We'll have to investigate. This is important business, malyshka. Very serious."

His voice had that teasing tone again, the one that meant he was being funny. Sasha wasn't always sure when Papa was joking and when he was serious, but she was starting to learn that the little smile at the corner of his mouth meant he was playing.

The rink was huge and cold and loud.

Sasha held Papa's hand tight-tight-tight as they walked through the hallways. Her other hand clutched Fyo against her chest. She needed both of her safety things right now – Papa's hand and her dog.

They got to a room with lots of noise coming from inside. Men's voices. Loud and deep.

Sasha's heart started beating faster. Lots of big men. In a room. And Papa was going to take her in there.

Papa must have felt her hand tighten in his because he stopped walking and crouched down to her level.

"You okay?" he asked gently, blue eyes tracing over her face. "It's just my teammates. They're loud, but they're nice. Well—" He paused, his eyes twinkling. "Loud and weird, but still nice. Mostly."

Sasha wasn't sure if they really were weird or if Papa was joking again. She nodded anyway, trying to be brave.

Papa pushed open the door and the noise got a little quieter. One man was still in the room – he had dark brown hair and was tall and broad, enough that Sasha instinctively found herself inching closer to her papa. 

The man stood up when he saw them, his eyes going between Papa and Sasha.

"Hey, man," the man said, his voice a bit too loud and too fast. "Good to have you back."

Papa let go of Sasha's hand for just a second to drop his bag, but Sasha quickly grabbed it again. She needed to hold on. Needed that anchor.

She pressed closer to Papa's leg when the man looked at her. Her other arm wrapped around the back of Papa's knee, trying to hide.

"I'm not completely back yet," Papa reminded him, and his hand came down to cup the back of Sasha's head. 

The touch of Papa's hand on her head was gentle. Warm. Safe. Sasha leaned into it without meaning to, and Papa's hand pressed her closer against his leg.

It felt nice. Being held against Papa like this. Being protected.

"Right, right," Marly agreed, and then his full attention turned to Sasha.

Sasha wanted to disappear. Wanted to be invisible.

"Marly, this is my Sasha," Papa said, and there was so much pride in his voice that Sasha's throat felt tight. "Sasha, this is Marly.” 

My Sasha. Papa had called her his.

She clung to his leg a bit tighter, relishing in that feeling. She’d never been someone’s before. 

It was nice. 

Marly crouched down so he was at Sasha's level. Making himself smaller. He looked a little less scary this way.

"Hi, Sasha," he greeted, and his voice was quieter now. Gentler. "It's nice to meet you."

Sasha stayed quiet, her fingers digging into Papa's pants leg. She should say something. Should be polite. But her voice wouldn't work.

She could feel Papa looking down at her. Waiting. Not angry, just... waiting.

Finally, Sasha managed to make her voice work. "Nice to meet you," she whispered, then looked up at Papa to see if she'd done it right.

Papa was smiling at her. Proud. That warm feeling in Sasha's chest got bigger.

"You look just like your dad, you know that? Same eyes and everything," Marly continued, smiling at her.

Your dad.

Papa was her dad. Her papa. Hers.

Sasha felt something flutter in her chest. Something that felt like happiness and scared and proud all mixed together.

"She got the good genes," Papa informed the man proudly. "Hockey talent genes. Not genes that make you fall down for no reason like some people."

"I do NOT fall down for no reason!"

"Last Tuesday. You fall tying your skates."

"That was– it was slippery!"

Sasha watched the two men tease each other, their voices loud but not angry. At the orphanage, when people's voices got loud, it meant fighting. It meant danger.

But this was different. They were both smiling. Papa's hand was still gentle on her head.

This was playing, Sasha realized. Like the way the little kids at the orphanage would play-fight, pretending to be mad but really having fun.

Papa took Sasha up to the stands to watch practice. The seats were cold and hard, and even with her sweatshirt, Sasha was chilly. But she didn't complain. Complaining was against the rules.

"I'll be right down there on the ice," Papa said, pointing. "If you need anything, you tell that man over there – that's Coach LeClaire. He'll come get me. Okay?"

Sasha nodded, clutching Fyo tight.

"I'll look up at you sometimes," Papa told her, smiling. "So you'll know I can see you. Also so I can make sure you're paying attention and not reading a book or doing math homework or building a rocket ship or anything."

A rocket ship? In the stands? Sasha looked at Papa, confused.

Papa's eyes were twinkling. "That was a joke, mishka. I know you're not going to build a rocket ship. You'd need at least three more days for that."

Sasha felt her lips twitch. She still wasn't always sure when Papa was joking, but she liked when he did. It made his face look young and happy.

Then he left, and Sasha sat very still in the cold stands and watched as the team came out onto the ice.

Papa was number 81. She found him easily – he moved differently from the others. Faster. Stronger. Better.

And just like he promised, every few minutes Papa would look up at the stands. At her. And wave.

Each time he did, Sasha felt that warm feeling spread through her chest. Papa was checking on her. Making sure she knew he hadn't forgotten about her.

She wasn't alone.

After practice, Papa brought her back to the locker room. The men were sweaty and loud, talking and laughing.

Sasha pressed close to Papa's leg, staying in his shadow.

"What did you think?" Papa asked, sitting down to take off his skates. "Did you like watching?"

Sasha nodded. She had liked it. Had liked watching Papa do something he was so good at.

"Your dad scored on me three times," a man said – Sasha thought his name was Fitzy. His voice was loud and he talked fast, like all his words were trying to come out at once. "He's showing off because you're here."

"I always score on you," Papa retorted, and there was laughter in his voice. "That's nothing new."

"Yeah, well, maybe if I had a good luck charm in the stands too, I'd score more," Fitzy grumbled, tossing his gloves in his locker.

"You want a seven-year-old Russian girl?" Papa asked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. "Sorry, this one's mine. You'll have to get your own."

"Where do you even get one of those?" Fitzy asked, and several of the men laughed.

Sasha wasn't sure what was funny, but she liked hearing them laugh. Liked that Papa sounded so happy and relaxed.

Papa reached down and ruffled her hair gently. "Can't tell you my secrets, Fitzy. Then everyone would want one."

"I don't think it works like that," another player called out.

"Shows what you know," Papa called back. "Next you'll be telling me there's no such thing as magic."

Sasha listened to the men joke and tease each other. They all seemed nice. Not mean. Not scary.

"So," Papa said as he drove. "What did you think? Should we come back? Or was it too boring? Should I find a more exciting job? Maybe become a... what's an exciting job? Astronaut? Lion tamer? Professional pizza eater?"

Sasha giggled – she couldn't help it. The sound surprised her, coming out before she could stop it.

Papa glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his whole face lighting up. "Was that a laugh I heard? Did I make you laugh, mishka?"

Sasha felt her cheeks get hot. "You can't be a professional pizza eater," she retorted softly.

At least, she was pretty sure he couldn’t be. Surely, that wasn’t something people actually did, was it? Then again, grown ups did some pretty silly stuff a lot of the time. 

"Why not? I'm very good at eating pizza. I have years of experience."

"That's not a real job," Sasha insisted, and she felt brave saying it. Brave disagreeing with Papa, even if he was joking.

"It should be," Papa replied solemnly. "I would be the best professional pizza eater in all of Boston. Maybe all of America. They would give me medals."

Sasha smiled, looking down at her lap so Papa wouldn't see. But she thought he probably saw anyway, from the happy sound in his voice when he continued talking.

"Although I guess I should keep playing hockey. The team needs me. Especially with people like Marly falling down all the time."

"Why does he fall down?" Sasha asked.

"Nobody knows," Papa said seriously. "It's one of life's great mysteries. Like why the sky is blue or why American cheese isn't actually cheese."

Sasha didn't understand what American cheese had to do with anything, but she liked listening to Papa talk. Liked his silly voice and the way he made everything sound fun.

That night, Sasha went to bed feeling warm and safe. Papa had tucked her in, smoothing her blankets and making sure Fyo was secure in her arms.

"Goodnight, malyshka," he'd said softly, and his hand had stroked her hair for just a moment before he left.

Sasha had wanted to ask him to stay. But she didn't want to be a bother.

She fell asleep thinking about Papa's jokes. About his smile. About the way he'd ruffled her hair in the locker room. About all the little touches throughout the day that made her feel warm and wanted.

The bad dream came in the middle of the night.

Sasha was back at the children's home. Back in the dark storage closet with Ivan's hands on her, touching places that made her feel dirty and wrong. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't scream.

And then suddenly she could scream, and she did.

She woke up screaming, her whole body shaking, her chest heaving as she tried to breathe.

The door flew open and Papa was there, crossing the room fast. He turned on the lamp and sat down on the edge of her bed, and then—

Then he was picking her up. Scooping her into his arms and holding her close.

Sasha's first instinct was to push away. Big hands holding her, strong arms around her – it was scary, it was too much, it was—

But these were Papa's arms. Papa's hands. And they were gentle. Safe.

She pushed at his chest anyway, her body remembering fear even if her mind was starting to know safety.

But Papa just held her tighter, not letting go. Rocking her gently.

"You're okay," he whispered into her hair, his voice rough and urgent. "You're safe. I'm here. Nothing's going to hurt you."

Sasha sobbed against his chest, her whole body shaking. The dream had been so real. Ivan's hands had felt so real.

Papa kept rocking her, kept holding her, and slowly – so slowly – Sasha started to relax. Started to feel safe.

She could hear Papa humming something. A song. Soft and low and soothing.

Her sobs turned to hiccups and sniffles, but she was still shaking. Still so cold from fear.

Papa started to loosen his grip and panic shot through Sasha.

"No, Papa! Don't go!" she cried, her hands grabbing his shirt tight-tight-tight. "I-I'm sorry, I'll be good."

The word had slipped out without her meaning it to. Papa. She'd never called him that out loud before. Just in her head. She’d been too scared to. What if he didn't want to be called that? What if she wasn't allowed?

But Papa had gone very still. And when Sasha dared to look up at his face, his eyes were shiny with tears.

"Shhh, malyshka. I'm here, Papa's here. I'm not leaving," he promised, and his voice was thick and rough. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and Sasha felt something in her chest crack open. "And you're so good already, Sasha. So, so good."

Sasha sniffled, not quite believing it. She looked up at Papa, needing to see his face. Needing to know if he meant it.

"Really?" she whispered.

Everyone else seemed to think otherwise. It seemed impossible that somehow, all those other grown ups – Tatiana, Olga, Ivan, Viktor, Elena, Mikhail, Marina – could be wrong. But Papa sounded so sure, so certain that she was good. Not bad, not broken. 

Just good. It was more than Sasha ever could’ve hoped for. 

Papa's hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb wiping away her tears. His hand was so big against her face. So warm.

"Of course you are, mishka," Papa said, and his voice cracked. "You're the best thing in my life.”

Sasha tucked herself closer to Papa, pressing her face into his chest, unable to think of any way to respond to that. She felt him shift, felt him stand up with her still in his arms.

He was carrying her. Holding her close and carrying her.

They went down the hall to Papa's room. Sasha had never been in Papa's room before. It was bigger than hers, with a huge bed.

Papa settled them both in the bed, pulling the covers over them. Sasha had a brief moment of panic – was this okay? Was she allowed to be in Papa's bed? – but then Papa's arm came around her and she forgot to be scared.

"Normally I'd make a joke about how you're hogging all the blankets already," Papa murmured, adjusting the covers around her. "But tonight we'll let it slide."

Sasha didn't think she was hogging the blankets, but she was too tired to check. She scooted closer to Papa, even though there was lots of space on the bed. She wanted to be close. Needed to be close. Her hand fisted in his shirt while her other arm held Fyo tight.

Papa left a small lamp on in the corner – just enough light to chase away the scary dark. Then he pulled the heavy blanket over both of them.

It was so warm. So safe.

Papa's hand came up and stroked through her hair, gentle and rhythmic. Soothing.

"I love you, my brave, clever girl," Papa whispered, so soft Sasha almost didn't hear it. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "So much."

The words made Sasha's chest feel so full it almost hurt. Papa loved her. He'd said it. Out loud.

She didn’t think anyone had ever loved her before. 

"I love you too, Papa," Sasha whispered back, her eyes already starting to close. She couldn't quite believe this was real. That she was here, safe and warm, being held by someone who loved her.

But her eyes were so heavy, and Papa's hand in her hair was so soothing, and his heartbeat under her ear was so steady.

She fell asleep feeling safer than she ever had in her whole life.

The next morning, Sasha woke up still in Papa's bed. Still tucked against his side. His arm was still around her, keeping her close and safe.

She lay very still, not wanting to wake him up, not wanting this moment to end.

She thought about last night. About the nightmare and the screaming and how scared she'd been.

But then she thought about after. About Papa holding her. Rocking her. Humming to her. Carrying her to his room. Stroking her hair until she fell asleep.

About how good it had felt to be held like that. How safe. How loved.

Sasha wanted that again. Wanted Papa to hold her like that when she wasn't scared. Wanted to be rocked and soothed and kept close.

But she didn't know how to ask for it. Didn't know if that was only for nightmares or if she could ask for it other times too.

Papa's eyes opened, and he looked down at Sasha with a soft smile.

"Morning, malyshka," he greeted, his voice still rough with sleep. "How did you sleep?"

"Good," Sasha whispered. It was true. After the nightmare, after Papa held her, she'd slept better than she ever had.

"Good," Papa said. His arm tightened around her for just a moment – a gentle squeeze – before he started to shift. "Although I have to tell you, you snore like a baby bear."

Sasha's eyes widened. "I don't snore!"

"You do," Papa teased, his eyes twinkling even though his voice was serious. "Very loud. Like this–" He made a soft snuffling sound.

"I don't sound like that," Sasha protested, but she felt her lips wanting to smile.

"Okay, okay, you're right," Papa admitted, stretching. "You don't snore. You were the perfect sleeping companion. Ten out of ten stars. Would share bed again."

He said it like he was giving a review of a movie or a restaurant, and Sasha did smile then, just a little bit.

Over the next few days, Sasha kept thinking about that night. About being held and rocked and soothed. About Papa's arms around her and his hand in her hair and his heartbeat under her ear.

She wanted that again. Craved it like she used to crave food.

But she didn't know how to ask.

One afternoon, Sasha was sitting on the floor coloring. She was being very careful, trying to stay inside the lines, trying to make it perfect.

Papa came and sat on the couch nearby, reading something on his phone.

"What are you drawing, mishka?" he asked, glancing over.

"A house," Sasha said quietly. She was coloring it purple.

"A purple house? Excellent choice. Very stylish. All the best houses are purple."

"No they're not," Sasha retorted, looking up at him.

"In Russia, maybe not. But in America? Every third house is purple. It's a law."

Sasha was pretty sure that wasn't true, but Papa's face was so serious that she almost believed him.

She kept glancing over at him. Wanting to be closer. Wanting to be held.

Finally, she put down her crayon and stood up. Her legs felt shaky as she walked over to the couch.

Papa looked up when she got close, his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise.

Sasha stood there for a moment, not sure what to do. Then, feeling very brave, she held her arms up. The universal signal for "pick me up."

Papa's face did something soft and wonderful. His phone was immediately forgotten, set aside on the couch.

"Come here, mishka," he said gently, and he reached for her, scooping her up.

His arms came around her automatically, pulling her up into his lap, close against his chest.

Sasha pressed her face into Papa's shoulder and wrapped her arms around him as far as they would go. Papa's hand came up to stroke her hair – those same gentle strokes from that night.

"You okay?" Papa asked softly, concern clear in his voice.

Sasha nodded against his shoulder. She was more than okay. She was being held. Being kept close. Being loved.

"Just wanted to be close?" Papa asked, and there was no judgment in his voice. Just understanding.

"Uh-huh," Sasha whispered, nodding a little in his chest.

"That's okay," Papa assured her, and his arms tightened around her. "You can always ask for this, malyshka. Anytime you want to be held, you just tell me. Or do this." He squeezed her gently. "Though I should warn you, if you keep being this cute, I might have to keep you here forever. It's a risk you're taking."

"That's okay," Sasha mumbled, having absolutely no issue with this plan.

She’d happily stay here forever if she could, curled up in Papa’s arms, in the only place she’d ever been truly safe. 

She felt Papa's chest move with a surprised laugh. "Yeah? You'd be okay with forever?"

Sasha nodded, not trusting her voice.

Papa's arms tightened even more around her, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Good," he said, his voice thick. "Because that's exactly how long I'm planning to keep you."

Sasha stayed there for a long time, curled up in Papa's lap, his arms around her and his hand stroking her hair. Sometimes he'd rock her gently, just a little bit, the same way he'd done that night.

Sometimes he'd hum softly, or make quiet jokes about how Sasha was getting too big and soon she'd be carrying him around instead.

"When that happens," Papa said seriously, "you'll have to be very careful. I'm delicate. Like a flower. A very large, hockey-playing flower."

Sasha giggled into his shoulder.

"There it is again," Papa noted, sounding delighted. "That laugh. I'm collecting them, you know. Every time you laugh, I put it in my pocket for safekeeping."

"You can't put laughs in your pocket," Sasha argued, her voice muffled by Papa’s shirt.

"Shows what you know. I have seven laughs in there already. Getting pretty crowded."

And Sasha felt safe. Felt loved. Felt home.

She wasn't as scared anymore. Not of Papa. Not of asking for what she needed.

Because Papa had shown her that asking was okay. That wanting to be held was okay. That she was wanted and loved and safe.

Sasha was in her room playing with her Legos when Papa told her Shane was coming over for dinner.

"Shane Hollander," Papa said, leaning against her doorframe. "You remember him? From the hotel?"

Sasha nodded. She remembered. The tall man with the freckles who Papa's whole face changed around. Who made Papa smile differently than anyone else did.

"He's coming for dinner tonight," Papa continued hesitantly, almost like he was worried Sasha would be mad or something. "We're having pelmeni. Is that okay?"

Sasha nodded again. She liked Shane. He was nice. Quiet. He didn't try to touch her or get too close or ask too many questions.

And Papa was seemed happier when Shane was around. Lighter somehow.

"Good," Papa declared with a smile, a real one too, one that reached his eyes. "You can keep playing. I'll call you when dinner is ready."

Sasha heard Shane arrive while she was still in her room. She heard Papa's voice change – get warmer, softer. 

Papa never sounded like that with his other friends. Not Marly or Fitzy. Not even Auntie Sveta. 

Sasha gathered up Fyo and made her way downstairs. Her stomach was growling – Papa had been cooking and the house smelled amazing.

When she got to the kitchen, Shane was sitting at the counter and Papa was at the stove. They were talking quietly, and Papa was smiling.

"Papa, is dinner almost ready?" Sasha called out, making sure to ask politely, not wanting to seem greedy.

Papa turned to look at her, and Shane did too. Shane smiled at her – not a big smile, just a small, gentle one. Like he understood she was shy and didn't want to make her uncomfortable.

"In a few minutes, mishka," Papa assured her gently, before gesturing to the kitchen counter. "Come sit while we wait."

Sasha hesitated. The only empty stool was next to Shane, the others occupied with her backpack and some of Papa’s things. She looked at Papa, and he gave her an encouraging nod.

She could do this. Shane was nice. Shane was safe.

Sasha walked around the counter and climbed onto the stool. It wobbled a little as she pulled herself up, and her heart jumped – if she fell, it would hurt – but then Shane's hand was there, pressing down on the back of the stool, steadying it.

Sasha froze, waiting to see what he'd do next. Waiting for his hand to move somewhere it shouldn't.

But Shane just kept the stool steady until she was safely seated, then pulled his hand away. Like it was nothing. Like helping her was just... normal.

"Are you coming to watch the game tomorrow?" Shane asked, pretending as though it never happened. 

His voice was quiet, careful. Like he was trying not to scare her.

Sasha glanced at Papa first – always checking, always making sure – before shaking her head.

"Papa won't let me watch on school nights," she explained, and she couldn't quite keep the frustration out of her voice.

It wasn't fair. She wanted to watch Papa play. Wanted to see him score goals and skate fast and do all the things that made him special.

She looked at Papa pointedly, hoping he'd change his mind.

Papa looked right back at her, and Sasha knew she wasn't going to win this argument. They'd had it before.

"Your teacher will think I'm bad father if you fall asleep in class," Papa reminded, his voice a bit firmer in a way that would’ve scared her before, but didn’t really anymore.

"But—" Sasha started.

Papa gave her a look. The one that meant the discussion was over.

Sasha sighed loudly and slumped in her seat, crossing her arms around Fyo. It wasn't fair. But Papa's rules were Papa's rules, and Sasha had learned that arguing too much made adults angry.

Except Papa didn't look angry. He looked... sad. Like he didn't like saying no to her.

"You can come on Saturday," Papa offered, clearly trying to compromise.

Sasha perked up immediately, smiling at him. Saturday was soon. She could wait until Saturday.

Papa set a glass of milk down in front of her, and Sasha took it with both hands. The glass was cold and heavy, and she had to concentrate to make sure she didn't spill.

She took a sip, then turned to Shane.

"Papa's going to win tomorrow," she told him confidently, watching his face twitch in amusement.

She wasn’t sure why. Most people would be sad about losing. 

Papa always won. Or almost always. He was the best player on his team – everyone said so.

Shane laughed, the sound surprised and warm. "Your kid's only seven and she's already chirping grown adults?"

Papa snorted.

Sasha looked between them, confused. "Chirp?"

"Teasing, malyshka," Papa explained.

Oh. Sasha filed that word away for later. Chirping. English was strange sometimes.

Dinner was good. Papa's pelmeni were always perfect – he made them the way his mama used to, he'd told Sasha. 

Shane asked her about school, and Sasha told him about her class. About Emma, who was becoming something like a friend. About Mrs. Andrews, who was patient when Sasha didn't understand English words.

It was nice. Easy. Shane didn't ask hard questions or make her feel stupid when she didn't know something.

After dinner, Papa told her to go get ready for bed. Sasha went upstairs, changed into her pajamas – the gray ones with the little clovers that Papa had bought her – and brushed her teeth.

When she came back downstairs, Papa and Shane were on the couch. Close together. Closer than Papa sat with his other friends.

Shane was tucked under Papa's arm, which Sasha knew from personal experience was one of the best places in the world, and the two were talking in hushed, low voices. 

Sasha stood in the doorway for a moment, watching them. Trying to figure out what was different about Shane. 

"Papa, I'm ready for my story," she announced, bouncing on her feet a bit.

She loved when Papa read her a story before bed. He always did funny voices, and talked in a soft tone that made her heart thump all funny in a good way, and he let her cuddle close, never once complaining. 

Both of them jumped a little, like they'd forgotten she was there. Shane moved away from Papa quickly, and Sasha wondered why.

Papa didn't turn around. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and his shoulders looked tense.

"Papa?" Sasha asked, worry creeping into her chest.

Usually, Papa didn’t ignore her like that. 

"In a minute, malyshka," Papa replied, and his voice sounded... wrong. Strained. Tight.

Was he okay? Was he sick? Was he angry?

Sasha's heart started beating faster. She'd done something wrong. She must have. Papa was upset and it was her fault—

Shane stood up and came around the couch toward her.

"Hey, Sash," he said gently, the nickname slipping out like he hadn’t even realized. "How about we go pick out a book? Your papa just needs a minute."

Sasha looked at Shane's outstretched hand, then at Papa's back.

She didn't want to go with Shane. She wanted Papa. But Papa had said he needed a minute, and Sasha knew better than to argue when adults said things like that.

She took Shane's hand carefully. His hand was big and warm, and she let hers rest in it loosely, not quite holding on. Just... accepting.

Shane led her down the hall toward her room, and Sasha kept looking back at Papa, hoping he'd call her back. Hoping he'd say he was okay.

But he didn't.

In her room, Sasha climbed into bed and grabbed Fyo, hugging him tight. Her book was on the nightstand – Peter Pan, the one Papa had been reading to her. It was in English, which was hard sometimes, but Papa said it was good practice.

"Is Papa okay?" Sasha asked, her lip wobbling.

She'd heard his voice. Something was wrong. Something was bad.

"He's fine," Shane promised, smiling at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes and Sasha’s tummy tightened with worry. "He just had to make a phone call."

Sasha didn't think that was true, but she didn't know how to say that. So she just played with Fyo's soft ears and tried not to cry.

Shane picked up the book. "Do you like this one?"

Sasha nodded. "We read English books for practice. That's my favorite."

It was. She loved Peter Pan. Loved the idea of flying away to a place where kids could be safe and happy. Where there were adventures but no scary adults. Where you could just... be.

"Want me to read a bit while you wait for your papa?"

Sasha nodded quickly, scooting over to make room for Shane.

Shane sat down at the edge of the bed – not too close, giving her space – and opened the book to where they'd left off.

He read well. His voice was nice and calm, and he did some of the character voices, though not as many as Papa did. Sasha found herself relaxing as she listened, the familiar words washing over her.

She was so focused on the story that she didn't notice Papa in the doorway until Shane looked up.

Papa was there, watching them. His eyes looked a little red, but Sasha didn't think Shane had been telling the truth about the phone call. Papa had been crying.

But why? What had made him so sad?

"Guess I should let the expert take over, huh?" Shane suggested, standing up and holding the book out to Papa.

Papa took it, and his fingers brushed against Shane's. The touch lasted just a second longer than it needed to.

"I'm sure your reading is perfect, Hollander," Papa replied, as he sat down next to Sasha. She immediately curled into his side, pressing as close as she could get.

Papa was here. Papa was okay. Everything was okay.

"You were probably reading novels at two," Papa continued teasingly, and his voice sounded more normal now.

"Not true," Shane retorted, scoffing a little.

"Sasha agrees with me, right, mishka?" Papa asked, looking down at her.

Sasha thought about it. Shane had read really well. But...

"Shane was good," she said carefully, not wanting to upset the man. "But I like your reading more, Papa."

Papa smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. "I'll be out in a bit if you want to watch the game."

Shane nodded and started toward the door.

Sasha didn't want him to leave without knowing she was glad he'd been there. That she'd liked him reading to her.

"Night, Shane," she said softly, not sure if she was allowed to say it.

Shane turned around and smiled at her – a real smile, warm and genuine.

"Good night, Sasha."

Then he was gone, and it was just Sasha and Papa.

Papa started reading, doing all the voices the way he always did. Sasha snuggled closer, breathing in his familiar scent – cologne and laundry detergent and something that was just Papa.

"Papa?" she asked after a few pages. "Are you okay?"

Papa stopped reading. He was quiet for a moment, and Sasha thought maybe he wouldn't answer. That she’d made a mistake in asking in the first place. 

"I'm okay, mishka," he answered eventually, swallowing heavily. "Just... thinking about things. Grown-up things. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Were you sad?"

She’d learned from Papa that it was okay to be sad. Okay to cry. No one had ever told her that before. And surely, if it was okay for Sasha to be sad, then Papa could be sad too. 

Papa's arm tightened around her. "A little bit. But I'm not sad now. How could I be sad when I'm here with you?"

Sasha thought about that. Then, quietly: "Was it because of me?"

"No." Papa's voice was firm, chasing any last bit of doubt from her mind. "No, malyshka. Never because of you. You make everything better, not worse. Okay?"

"Okay," Sasha whispered, even though she wasn't totally sure she believed him.

But Papa kept reading, and his voice was steady and warm, and eventually Sasha let herself relax again.

When the chapter was done, Papa tucked her in properly, making sure all the blankets were smooth and Fyo was secure in her arms.

"Sleep well, mishka," he murmured, kissing her forehead. "I love you."

"I love you too, Papa."

Sasha sat on the floor in Dr. Ivanova's waiting room, her legs crossed, coloring very carefully. She had a purple crayon in her hand and she was trying very hard to stay inside the lines because staying inside the lines was important. It meant you were good at following rules.

Papa had gone into Dr. Ivanova's office by himself. He did that sometimes – went in to talk to Dr. Ivanova without Sasha. Sasha didn't mind. It meant she got to color and didn't have to answer hard questions about Russia or the orphanage or the bad things that happened.

She picked up a green crayon and started coloring grass. The picture was of a house with a family in front – a mama and papa and two kids. Sasha colored very carefully around the mama's dress, even though looking at the mama made her tummy feel funny.

She didn't have a mama. Just Papa.

Sasha picked up a green crayon for the papa's shirt. Papa wore green sometimes. It looked nice with his blonde hair.

She was working on coloring the little girl's dress blue when she heard a sound from Dr. Ivanova's office.

A loud bang, like something hitting the wall really hard.

Sasha's hand froze, the blue crayon hovering over the paper. Her heart started beating faster.

Was Papa okay? Was Dr. Ivanova hurting him?

No, that was silly. Doctors didn't hurt grown-ups. And Papa was big and strong. Nobody could hurt Papa.

But the bang had been so loud.

Sasha tried to keep coloring, but her hand was shaking a little now. She pressed the crayon down too hard and it broke in half.

She stared at the broken pieces. She'd broken it. She'd pressed too hard and now the crayon was broken and–

The door to Dr. Ivanova's office opened.

Sasha's head snapped up. Papa came out first, and then Dr. Ivanova behind him.

Papa's face looked... wrong. Not angry, but tight. Like he was holding something inside that wanted to come out. His eyes were red, like maybe he'd been crying, but Papa didn't cry. Grown-ups didn't cry.

Then Sasha saw his hand.

Papa's knuckles were all red and purple and swollen. They looked like they hurt really bad.

Sasha's tummy dropped. Papa was hurt. Papa's hand was hurt and Sasha didn't know why and what if it was bad? What if Papa couldn't play hockey anymore? What if—

"Sasha," Papa called softly, and his voice sounded rough and scratchy.

Sasha scrambled to her feet, leaving the coloring book behind. She hurried over to Papa, and when she got close, she could see his hand even better. It looked really bad.

"Papa!" She reached for his hand but stopped before touching it, afraid she'd hurt him. "Are you okay?"

"Da, malyshka," Papa said, but his voice still sounded wrong. He reached down with his other hand – the not-hurt one – and ruffled her hair. "I'm okay. Come, let's go home."

Sasha nodded, but her eyes were still on Papa's hand. It looked so bad. The knuckles were all swollen and bruised purple and red.

"Papa, your hand–" she started.

"Is fine," Papa explained quickly. Too quickly. He flexed his fingers and Sasha saw him wince, just a tiny bit. "I just... was clumsy. Walked into door."

That didn't make sense. How did you walk into a door with your knuckles? But Sasha had learned not to push when adults said things that didn't make sense. Asking questions sometimes made adults angry.

So she just nodded. "Okay."

"Go get your things," Papa instructed gently, nodding toward her backpack and coloring book.

Sasha went to gather her stuff. She put the crayons back in the box very carefully, making sure each one was in its spot. The broken crayon went in too, even though it was in two pieces now.

She picked up the coloring book and looked at the picture she'd been working on. The family with the mama and papa and two kids. The mama's dress was only half-colored.

Sasha closed the book and put it in her backpack with the crayons.

When she came back, Papa was talking quietly with Dr. Ivanova. Sasha couldn't hear what they were saying, but Dr. Ivanova looked worried. Her eyebrows were scrunched together and she kept looking at Papa's hurt hand.

"Ready?" Papa asked when he saw Sasha.

Sasha nodded and took Papa's good hand – the one that wasn't all purple and swollen.

They walked to the car and Papa helped her into her booster seat. His movements were careful, like maybe everything hurt, not just his hand.

The drive home was quiet. Papa didn't talk and Sasha didn't know what to say. She hummed softly to herself – a song Jess had taught her – and looked out the window at the buildings going by.

"Papa?" Sasha said after a while.

"Yes, mishka?"

"Can we have chicken nuggets for dinner?"

It was a safe question. Food was always safe to ask about.

Papa glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and Sasha saw his face do something soft. Almost like a smile, but sadder.

"Of course," Papa agreed, the way he always did when Sasha was brave enough to ask for something. "With the dinosaur shapes, da?"

"Da!" Sasha said, feeling a little bit better. Papa was still Papa. Even with his hurt hand and red eyes and wrong voice, he still remembered that Sasha liked the dinosaur-shaped nuggets best.

She kicked her feet against the car seat happily and went back to looking out the window.

Everything was probably okay. Papa said he was okay, and Papa didn't lie to her.

Probably.

After dinner – Papa had made the dinosaur nuggets and cut up apple slices, even though Sasha noticed he only used one hand and kept the hurt one close to his body – Papa said it was time for a bath.

Sasha didn't argue. She liked baths now. They were warm and Papa always let her play with her toys and he never came in without asking first.

She gathered up her pajamas – the ones with the little cartoon bears – and went to the bathroom. Papa was already running the water, testing it with his good hand to make sure it wasn't too hot.

"I'll be right outside," Papa said, like he always did. "Call me if you need help."

"Okay, Papa."

Papa closed the door and Sasha got undressed, folding her clothes neatly the way she'd been taught. Then she climbed into the tub, sinking down into the warm water with a happy sigh.

She played with her rubber duck and her plastic fish, making them swim around and have adventures. The duck's name was Kryakva and the fish was named Bubliki. Papa had helped her name them.

After a while, Sasha washed her hair with the shampoo that smelled like strawberries. She had to do it twice because her hair was long and got tangled easy.

"Papa?" she called when she was done.

The door opened a crack. "Da?"

"I'm done."

"Okay, mishka. I'll get your towel."

Papa came in with the big fluffy towel and held it up, turned away so Sasha could climb out and wrap herself up. Then he helped her dry off and get into her pajamas.

After that was teeth brushing, which Sasha did very carefully because Jess had shown her the right way. Then Papa brushed out her hair, being gentle with the tangles.

"Story?" Sasha asked hopefully when her hair was all brushed and braided for bed.

"Of course," Papa said.

They went to Sasha's room and she climbed into bed, getting comfortable under the covers. Papa sat down next to her and picked up the book from her nightstand.

Papa read a chapter, his deep voice making the story come alive. Sasha listened, her eyes getting heavier and heavier.

By the time Papa finished, Sasha could barely keep her eyes open.

"Love you, Papa," she mumbled, already curling into her pillow.

"Love you too, mishka," Papa whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "More than anything."

Sasha smiled and let her eyes close. She heard Papa stand up and walk to the door, pausing to turn off the light and leave the door cracked open, just how Sasha liked it. She could see the light from the hallway making a yellow stripe on her floor.

Sasha hugged Fyo close and thought about Papa's hurt hand. About how his eyes had been red. About how his voice had sounded wrong all day.

Something had happened in Dr. Ivanova's office. Something that made Papa hurt his hand and made him sad.

But Papa said he was okay. And Papa didn't lie.

Sasha closed her eyes and tried not to worry.

Everything would be okay.

It had to be.

Sasha could tell something was wrong before Papa even said anything.

He'd been quiet all morning. His eyes had dark circles under them like he hadn't slept, and his face looked tight and tired. He moved slowly around the kitchen, making breakfast like he always did, but something was off.

Sasha sat very still at the table, her tummy doing nervous flips. She watched Papa carefully, trying to figure out what she'd done wrong.

Had she been too loud yesterday? Had she made too much of a mess with her Legos? Had she asked for too many things?

She'd been good, hadn't she? She'd been trying so hard to follow the rules. She'd been quiet when Papa needed quiet. She'd eaten all her food without complaining. She hadn’t had any nightmares this week. She'd been good.

But Papa looked so sad and tired. And that meant Sasha must have done something wrong.

Papa set a plate of pancakes in front of her, and Sasha mumbled a quiet "thank you," not wanting to make things worse by being ungrateful.

Papa sat down across from her with his own plate, but Sasha noticed he wasn't really eating. Just moving the food around with his fork.

"So, mishka," Papa said, and his voice sounded too bright. Too cheerful. The same voice he used when he was trying to pretend everything was fine. "I was thinking– how would you like to have a special Papa-Sasha day today? No school, just us hanging out together. We could do something fun."

Sasha's fork paused halfway to her mouth. No school?

Now she really knew she’d done something wrong, and that missing school must somehow be part of her punishment. 

"Why?" she asked carefully.

"Why not?" Papa continued, smiling, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "We haven't had a day just the two of us in a while. I thought it would be nice. We could go to the park, or the aquarium, or—"

"Papa," Sasha interrupted softly. "What's wrong?"

Papa's fake smile faltered for just a second before he put it back on. "Nothing's wrong, malyshka. I just thought—"

"You look sad," Sasha said quietly, her hands twisting in her lap. "Did I do something bad?"

"What? No!" Papa's smile disappeared completely. He reached across the table and took Sasha's hand gently. "No, mishka. You didn't do anything wrong. You've been perfect."

But if Sasha hadn't done anything wrong, why did Papa look so tired and sad? Why were his eyes all red like he'd been crying?

"Then why..." Sasha trailed off, not sure how to ask.

Papa sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I'm just... I'm having a hard day, malyshka. But that's not your fault. It has nothing to do with you."

Sasha nodded, but she didn't quite believe it. When adults had hard days, it was usually because of something Sasha did. That's how it had always been at the orphanage and with the foster families.

"Actually," Papa said, sitting up a little straighter and putting his bright voice back on. "Shane is coming to visit today. He'll be here soon. So it'll be the three of us for our special day. That'll be fun, right?"

Shane. Papa's friend who made Papa smile and laugh and look happy.

Sasha felt some of the knots in her tummy loosen. Shane was coming. That was good. When Shane was here, Papa always seemed less sad.

"Is Shane coming to help you feel better?" Sasha asked curiously, regretting the question almost immediately when Papa’s fake smile slipped again.

He looked at Sasha for a long moment, and she could see something complicated in his eyes. Sad and tired and maybe a little bit surprised.

"Maybe," Papa admitted finally, his voice going soft and real instead of bright and fake. "Yes. Shane is coming to visit and... and that will help. But you being home will help too, mishka. Having both of you here will make Papa feel much better."

Sasha nodded. She could do that. She could be home and be good and help Papa feel better.

"Okay, Papa," she agreed, nodding eagerly, willing to do whatever it took to make Papa feel better. 

Papa squeezed her hand gently. "Thank you, malyshka. Now eat your breakfast. Shane will be here in about an hour."

Sasha ate her pancakes, watching Papa from under her eyelashes. He was still moving his food around instead of eating it, and his face still looked tired and sad even though he was trying to hide it.

But Shane was coming. And when Shane was here, Papa always seemed lighter. Happier. Less alone.

Sasha just had to be good until Shane arrived. Had to be quiet and helpful and not cause any problems.

Then Shane would make Papa feel better, and everything would be okay again.

She finished her breakfast and helped Papa clear the table, being extra careful not to drop anything or make any messes. Papa gave her a small smile and kissed the top of her head, but Sasha could still see the sadness in his eyes.

"Why don't you go play for a bit?" Papa suggested as he finished loading the dishwasher. "I need to take a shower before Shane gets here."

"Okay, Papa,” she replied obediently, sliding off her stool. 

Sasha went to her room and started building, but her mind wasn't really on the Legos. She kept thinking about Papa's sad face and tired eyes.

She'd been good. She knew she'd been good.

But Papa was still sad.

And Sasha didn't know how to fix it.

She just hoped Shane would know what to do.

After a bit, there was a soft knock on her door.

"Sasha? Can I come in?"

Shane's voice. Not Papa's.

"Okay," Sasha agreed quietly.

The door opened and Shane came in. He looked tired too, but he smiled when he saw her sitting on the floor with her Legos.

"Privet," she greeted him, biting her lip a bit when she remembered he didn’t speak Russian but not bothering to correct herself. Her voice came out nervous though, because she wasn't sure if Shane would understand. "Papa didn't tell me you were here already."

Shane crossed the room and crouched down, settling on the floor across from her. His knees made a cracking sound and Sasha almost smiled.

"Just got here a little bit ago," Shane explained, and something about his calm voice made Sasha relax a little. "Your papa's taking a shower. What are you building?"

"A house," Sasha explained, holding up her partially-built structure. "For Fyo."

She pointed to where Fyo was sitting nearby, watching over the construction.

Shane smiled. "That's really good. I'm sure Fyo will like it."

Sasha felt her cheeks get warm. She looked down, focusing on snapping another brick into place. She never knew what to do when people gave her compliments. Papa preened and smiled and said "I know" when people praised him, but Sasha just felt shy and uncertain.

They worked quietly for a few minutes, Shane helping her find the right pieces while Sasha carefully built up the walls. It was nice. Comfortable. Shane didn't try to talk too much or ask too many questions. He just sat with her and helped.

After a while, Sasha felt brave enough to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning.

"Shane?" she asked, not looking up from her building.

"Yeah?"

"Are you... are you mad I'm not at school today?"

Sasha kept her eyes on her Legos, but she could feel Shane looking at her. Watching her carefully.

"What? No. Why would I be mad?"

Sasha shrugged, making herself smaller. "You came all the way from Ottawa to see Papa. And I'm supposed to be at school during the day, instead of here. I didn't want to be... in the way."

The words came out small and scared. Sasha was worried Shane would agree. Would say that yes, actually, she was in the way and he'd come to see Papa, not her.

"Sasha, look at me," Shane said, and his voice was gentle but firm. He must have learned that from Papa.

Sasha looked up slowly, her hands still holding a Lego brick.

Shane's face was serious but kind. "You are never in the way. Never. I came here to see you and your papa. And to make sure you were both okay. And I'm really happy you're home today so I get to spend time with you."

Sasha's chest felt tight. "Really?"

"Really," Shane assured her, and then he reached over and ruffled her hair gently.

Sasha almost flinched – she couldn't help it, her body still remembered that quick movements from big hands could hurt – but Shane's hand was gentle and warm, and Sasha found herself leaning into the touch just a little bit.

Like Papa. She liked when Papa touched her hair like that.

"Promise?" Sasha whispered.

"Promise."

Sasha smiled – just a small smile, but a real one. "Okay."

They went back to building, and Sasha felt lighter. Shane really did want her here. She wasn't in the way.

After a few minutes of quiet building, Sasha said something she'd been thinking all morning.

"I'm not sad about missing school anyway," she told him, carefully placing a small window piece into the wall. "We were just supposed to finish our Mother's Day crafts."

She said it like it didn't matter. Like it was no big deal. But her hands were shaking a little bit as she placed the Lego.

Shane's hands stopped moving. "Oh."

Sasha kept her eyes on her building. "Everyone was making cards for their moms. Mrs. Andrews said I could make one for Papa instead, but..."

She trailed off, not sure how to explain the complicated feelings in her chest.

"But what?" Shane asked gently.

Sasha swallowed hard. "It's not the same. Papa is Papa. He's not a mommy."

The words came out quiet and sad, and Sasha immediately wished she could take them back. She didn't want to sound ungrateful. Didn't want Shane to think she didn't love Papa.

"No, he's not," Shane agreed softly.

"All the other kids have mommies," Sasha confessed, her fingers twisting in her lap. She couldn't look at Shane. "Emma has a mommy. And Michael. And Sofia. Even Tommy, and his parents are– are– what is it when they don't live together anymore?"

"Divorced," Shane offered quietly, not interrupting otherwise.

"Divorced," Sasha repeated, her face scrunching as she tried to remember the word. "But he still has a mommy. He sees her on weekends."

"And you don't," Shane finished, and it wasn't a question. Just a statement. Like he understood.

Sasha shook her head, her throat getting tight.

Then panic flooded through her. What if Shane thought she didn't love Papa? What if he told Papa what she'd said and Papa got sad?

"I love Papa," Sasha blurted out quickly, looking up at Shane with wide, scared eyes. "I love Papa so much. He's the best papa in the whole world and I–"

"I know you do," Shane assured her immediately, and something in Sasha's chest relaxed at his words. 

Sasha looked back down at her Legos, her hands shaking as she picked up another brick.

"But he works a lot," she explained quietly, so quietly she wasn't sure Shane would even hear. "And my mama's gone."

She heard Shane take a breath, and when she dared to peek up at him, his eyes looked shiny like maybe he was sad too. Regret immediately swirled up in her chest, and she found herself wishing she could take the words back. She’d already made Papa sad, somehow. She didn’t want Shane to be sad too. 

"I'm sorry, Sash," Shane told her, sounding like he really meant it. 

"It's okay," Sasha replied automatically, the way she'd been taught. Don't complain. Don't be a burden. Don't make people feel bad.

But it wasn't really okay. It hurt. It hurt so much sometimes that Sasha felt like there was a hole in her chest that nothing could fill.

"Papa says she loved me a lot," Sasha added, needing Shane to know that. Needing him to know that her mama hadn't left because Sasha was bad. That Papa wasn’t just a one-off, wasn’t the one person who thought Sasha deserved love. 

"I'm sure that's true," Shane agreed, his words making Sasha relax a little. "Your papa wouldn't lie to you about that."

"But she's not here," Sasha reminded him, and suddenly there was anger in her voice. Anger she didn't know was there until it came spilling out. "And now I don't have a mama and everyone else does and it's not fair."

Her voice cracked on the last word and tears started leaking down her cheeks before she could stop them.

Immediately, Sasha tried to wipe them away. She shouldn't be crying. Crying was bad. Crying made adults angry.

But Shane just moved closer and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. It wasn’t quite as good as when Papa did it, but it was still nice. 

"Hey," he murmured gently, words soft and quiet. "It's okay to be upset about that. It's okay to wish things were different."

Sasha leaned against him, feeling his warmth and his steady breathing. But panic was still fluttering in her chest.

"But I don't want Papa to know," she told him, swiping at her eyes frantically. "It'd make him sad."

She couldn't tell Papa. Couldn't let him know that she was sad about not having a mama. Papa already looked so tired and sad today. Sasha couldn't add more sadness to him.

She had to be good. Had to be grateful for what she had. Had to not want more than Papa could give her.

"Your papa loves you," Shane pointed out firmly, somehow knowing Sasha needed that reminder. "More than anything in the world. And I think he'd want to know if you were sad about something."

Sasha shook her head hard, panic making her breathing go fast. Papa couldn’t know. He’d think she didn’t love him enough. He’d be sad. He’d think he wasn’t enough but he was, he was more than enough, he was everything. She couldn't breathe right. The words were getting stuck and her chest was getting tight and–

"That's okay," Shane promised, taking back his previous words as he pulled her closer. "Okay. You don't have to tell him if you don't want to."

Sasha pressed her face into Shane's shirt, trying to calm down. Trying to breathe.

Shane's arm stayed around her, warm and solid. He didn't tell her to stop crying. Didn't tell her to be quiet or be grateful or stop being silly.

He just held her and let her cry.

After a few minutes, Sasha pulled away, scrubbing at her face with both hands the way Papa did when he was upset.

"I'm okay now," she declared, even though her voice was still shaky.

"You sure?" Shane asked, looking at her carefully, brown eyes tracing her face with concern.

Sasha nodded. She had to be okay. Had to pull herself together. Crying didn't fix anything.

"Can we go back to playing?" she asked, swallowing back any remaining tears.

Shane studied her face for a moment, then nodded. "Sure, kiddo."

They went back to building the Lego house, and Sasha focused very hard on making it perfect. On putting each brick exactly where it should go. On not thinking about Mother's Day or mamas or the hole in her chest that wouldn't go away.

By the time Papa came out of the shower fifteen minutes later, Sasha had packed all her sad feelings away in a box in her mind. The way she always did. The way she'd learned to do at the orphanage.

Papa came to her doorway, his hair still damp and curling, wearing clean clothes. He looked a little bit better than he had at breakfast. Not as gray and tired.

"Papa, look what Shane helped me make!" Sasha said brightly, holding up the completed Lego house.

She smiled big, showing Papa how happy she was. Showing him that everything was fine. That she was grateful and good and not wanting things she couldn't have.

"Is beautiful, mishka," Papa told her, his voice going soft the way it always did when he looked at her. "Very good work."

Sasha beamed, feeling proud and happy and trying very hard not to think about the conversation she'd just had with Shane.

She watched Papa's face, saw how he looked at her with so much love, and felt that familiar twist in her chest.

Papa did love her. More than anything. She knew that.

And she loved him too. So, so much.

But sometimes– just sometimes– Sasha wished she had a mama too. Wished she had someone to make Mother's Day cards for. Wished she wasn't the only kid in her class who didn't have a mom.

But she would never tell Papa that. Would never let him know. Would never make him feel like he wasn't enough.

Because Papa was enough. He had to be enough.

Because he was all Sasha had.

And she couldn't lose him.

Not ever.

The bad dream came back.

Sasha was in the storage closet again. It was dark and small and she couldn't breathe. Ivan's hands were on her – cold and rough and wrong – touching her in ways that made her skin crawl, made her want to disappear, made her wish she could tear herself apart and become someone else, someone clean.

She tried to scream but no sound came out. Her voice was stuck in her throat, trapped like she was trapped, and Ivan was laughing, telling her to be quiet, telling her that good girls kept secrets–

Sasha woke up screaming.

The sound tore out of her throat before she could stop it, loud and terrified and wrong. She cut it off as fast as she could, clamping her mouth shut and pressing her hand over it for good measure.

No noise. She wasn't supposed to make noise. Making noise made people angry. Making noise got you in trouble.

But she couldn't stop the gasping sounds. Couldn't stop the way her whole body was shaking. Couldn't stop the tears that were trying to come out even though crying was against the rules.

She tried to cry quietly – the way she'd learned at the orphanage. Silent sobs that hurt her chest, that made her whole body shake but didn't make any sound. She was good at quiet crying. She'd had lots of practice.

Her door burst open and Papa was there.

Papa. Papa was here. She was safe.

But her body didn't believe it yet. Her body was still back in the closet with Ivan's hands on her and nowhere to run and no one coming to help.

"Mishka," Papa murmured, and his voice was soft and worried and safe. He crossed the room in two big steps and scooped her up, pulling her tight against his chest. "You're safe. Papa's here. You're okay."

Sasha buried her face in Papa's shirt and held on as tight as she could. Her fingers twisted in the fabric, gripping so hard her hands hurt. She needed to hold on. Needed to make sure Papa was real and not part of the dream.

Papa was warm and solid and he smelled like Papa – like his soap and cologne and something else that was just him. Not like Ivan. Not like the orphanage. Like safety.

But she still couldn't stop shaking. Still couldn't stop the awful gasping sounds trying to escape. She pressed her face harder into Papa's chest, trying to muffle them, trying to be quiet like she was supposed to.

"Shhh, malyshka," Papa whispered soothingly, and one of his big hands cupped the back of her head, holding her close. His other hand rubbed slow circles on her back, the pressure gentle and comforting. "I’m here. I’ll keep you safe."

Sasha wanted to believe him. Wanted the shaking to stop and the fear to go away. But the dream was still too real. She could still feel Ivan's hands. Could still smell the storage closet. Could still hear his voice telling her to be quiet, be a good girl, don't tell–

She clung tighter to Papa, her legs coming up to wrap around his waist when he stood. She needed to be as close as possible. Needed to feel his heartbeat against her ear. Needed the reminder that he was here and she wasn't back there.

Papa started walking and Sasha realized someone else was in the room. She turned her head just slightly and saw Shane standing in the doorway. He looked worried and sad and like he didn't know what to do.

Shane was here. Shane was here and that meant... that meant Papa had been sleeping with Shane in his room. Sasha knew Shane had been staying over – Papa had told her that morning – but she hadn't really thought about what that meant.

She'd never seen Papa have sleepovers with his friends before. Not the kind where they slept in the same bed.

But she couldn't think about that right now. Couldn't think about anything except how scared she still was, how her whole body wouldn't stop shaking, how she couldn't breathe right.

"We'll go to my room," Papa said quietly to Shane as they left Sasha’s room. "More comfortable."

They went down the hall to Papa's room. Sasha kept her face pressed against Papa's shoulder, kept her eyes squeezed shut, kept holding on tight-tight-tight.

Papa sat down on his bed and leaned back against the headboard, and Sasha curled up smaller against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat – steady and strong and real. Papa was here. She was safe. The bad man couldn't get her here.

But knowing it and feeling it were two different things.

Papa was talking to her in Russian now, saying soft things that Sasha couldn't quite make out through the fog in her brain. His hand kept rubbing her back in those slow circles, and it helped a little. Made the shaking a tiny bit less.

Then Sasha felt something warm and soft settle over her shoulders. She peeked one eye open and saw Shane tucking a blanket around her, his movements careful and gentle.

He was being so careful not to scare her. So gentle with his big hands, wrapping the blanket around her like he was afraid she might break.

The blanket was soft and warm and it helped. Everything was so cold – she was always cold after the bad dreams, like the fear froze her from the inside out – but the blanket helped.

Sasha watched Shane through her wet eyelashes as he finished tucking the blanket around her. He looked up and saw her watching, and his face did something soft and sad.

"I'll just– I'll go sleep in the guest room," Shane offered, voice hushed like he somehow knew Sasha still found loud voices scary. "Give you guys some space."

No.

The word screamed in Sasha's head but she couldn't make her mouth work to say it. Couldn't find her voice through all the fear and shaking.

Shane started to walk away and panic surged through Sasha's chest. He was leaving. He was leaving and what if the bad dream came back? What if she fell asleep and went back to the closet and Shane wasn't there and–

Her hand shot out before she could think about it, grabbing the bottom of Shane's shirt. Her fingers twisted in the fabric, holding on.

Don't go. Please don't go.

Shane stopped and looked down at her hand, then at Papa, and Sasha held her breath waiting.

"Do you want Shane to stay, malyshka?" Papa asked gently, rubbing her back.

Did she? She barely knew Shane. He was Papa's friend and he'd been nice to her and he'd helped her build Legos and read her Peter Pan and he made Papa smile in a way Sasha had never seen before.

But she didn't really know him. Not really.

Except... except he'd tucked the blanket around her so carefully. And he'd stayed in the doorway watching with worried eyes like he cared. And something about having him there made Sasha feel safer, like having two big people who cared about her would keep the nightmares away better than just one.

Sasha nodded against Papa's chest. Just a tiny nod, but Papa saw it.

"Okay, mishka," Papa said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Shane can stay."

Shane came back to the bed and lay down next to them, close enough that Sasha could see him. Could keep track of where he was. That helped too, knowing where everyone was. No surprises. No one sneaking up behind her.

"That was good idea," Papa murmured to her approvingly, his chest rumbling a little under Sasha’s ear. "Shane will help keep the monsters away."

Sasha liked that idea. Two people to fight the monsters was better than one.

She reached her free hand out toward Shane – the one that wasn't holding Fyo – making grabby motions. She wanted him closer. Wanted to feel safe on both sides.

Shane scooted closer carefully, like he was afraid of scaring her. Sasha settled back against Papa's chest, and with Shane right there where she could see him, the shaking started to get a little bit better.

"You're okay, Sash," Shane told her quietly, and Sasha liked how he said her name. Like a nickname. Like she was someone special. "Your papa's got you. And I'm right here. You're safe."

Papa's hand kept rubbing circles on her back. Shane stayed right where she could see him, not moving, just being there like an anchor.

Slowly – so slowly – the fear started to fade. The awful gasping sounds got quieter. The shaking got less. The cold feeling started to go away under the warm blanket and Papa's warmth and knowing Shane was there too.

"That's it, mishka," Papa encouraged, and Sasha could hear something thick in his voice. Like maybe he was crying too, just really quiet like Sasha did. "Just breathe. In and out. Just like that."

Sasha tried. In and out. In and out. Following Papa's breathing under her ear.

She peeked through her eyelashes again and saw Papa's eyes were closed tight, and there was a tear on his cheek. Papa was crying.

That made Sasha's chest hurt in a different way. Papa was sad because she'd had a bad dream. Papa was sad because she was broken and scared and couldn't stop having nightmares about the bad things that happened in Russia.

But then Shane reached out and put his hand on top of Papa's hand on Sasha's back. Just a gentle touch, like he was saying I'm here without words.

Papa opened his eyes and looked at Shane, and Sasha saw something pass between them. Something she didn't quite understand but that made Papa's face relax a tiny bit.

Shane's hand stayed there, touching Papa's hand, both of them touching Sasha's back. It felt safe. Like a shield made of people who loved her.

Papa's hand turned and his fingers linked with Shane's, and Sasha felt the change in pressure on her back as they held hands.

Were they... were Papa and Shane...?

But Sasha was too tired to think about it. Too tired from being scared. Too tired from trying to be quiet. Too tired from everything.

She could hear Shane talking, his voice soft and low. Saying something about the park and the monkey bars and the warm sun. Safe things. Nice things. Things that had nothing to do with storage closets or bad men or being scared.

Sasha's eyes got heavy. Fyo started to slip from her grip and she tried to hold on tighter, but she was so tired...

She felt someone tuck Fyo back against her, securing him in her arms. Shane, probably. Making sure she had her dog.

That was nice.

Everything was nice now. Papa was here. Shane was here. She was warm under the blanket. Safe.

Sasha let her eyes close. Let the sleepiness pull her under.

She heard Papa and Shane whispering, but she couldn't make out the words anymore. Didn't need to. She could feel them there. Could feel safe.

Her breathing evened out. Her body finally stopped shaking. The fear faded away, replaced by warmth and safety and love.

Just before she fell completely asleep, Sasha felt Papa shift a little, settling more comfortably. Felt Shane stay right there beside them.

Two people to keep the monsters away.

When Sasha woke up in the morning, she was still on Papa's chest. The blanket was still tucked around her, and Fyo was still in her arms.

Papa's arms were wrapped around her, holding her safe. She could hear his heartbeat under her ear – steady and strong and real.

And Shane was still there too. He was asleep on his side facing them, close enough that Sasha could see the freckles on his nose.

He'd stayed. All night. Even though Sasha's bad dream had probably annoyed him, had ruined his sleep. Even though he could have gone to the guest room and had his own bed.

He'd stayed because Sasha had asked him to.

Sasha carefully extracted one hand from the blanket and reached out toward Shane. Her small fingers touched his arm gently, just checking. Making sure he was real and not a dream.

Shane's eyes opened, and he blinked a few times before focusing on her. Then his face did that soft smile thing.

"Hey, Sash," he whispered, his voice rough from sleep. "You okay?"

Sasha nodded. She was okay now. The bad dream was gone. Papa was here. Shane was here. Everything was okay.

"Good," Shane commented, sounding relieved. "You were really brave last night."

Brave? Sasha hadn't felt brave. She'd felt scared and small and broken.

But Shane looked like he meant it. Like he really thought Sasha had been brave.

"Go back to sleep," Shane murmured gently, tucking the blankets around her a bit tighter. "It's still early."

Sasha closed her eyes again and snuggled closer to Papa, feeling warm and protected. 

Shane being here, holding Papa's hand, sleeping in Papa's bed – maybe that was okay too. Maybe that meant Papa had someone to help keep his monsters away, just like Sasha did.

Maybe they were all keeping each other safe.

Sasha liked that idea.

She fell back asleep with a tiny smile on her face, tucked safe between Papa and Shane, and dreamed of nothing at all.

Sasha was lying on the living room floor, working on her puzzle, when Papa came and sat down next to her.

It was a hot afternoon, and Papa had turned the air conditioning on high. Sasha was wearing shorts and a t-shirt with her hair pulled back in a ponytail because it was too hot to have it down.

School had ended just two days ago. Sasha had finished second grade, and Mrs. Andrews had told Papa that Sasha was doing really well, that her English was getting so much better. Papa had been so proud he'd taken Sasha out for ice cream to celebrate.

Now it was summer, stretching out ahead of her with nothing to do except read and play and go to the park with Papa. Maybe take another trip with Auntie Sveta, if Papa let her. It was nice. Quiet. Safe.

But when Papa sat down next to her puzzle, Sasha knew immediately that something was different.

Papa had that look on his face. The serious one. The one that meant he had something important to say.

Sasha's stomach dropped like a stone.

Important conversations were never good. Important conversations meant bad news.

Her hands started to shake slightly as she put down the puzzle piece she was holding.

"Mishka, I need to talk to you about something," Papa began gently.

Sasha's heart started pounding. This was it. Papa had decided he didn't want her anymore. He was sending her back to Russia. Or to another foster family. She'd done something wrong, been too much trouble, and now–

"It's not bad news," Papa assured quickly, like he could see the panic on her face. "I promise. But it's... it's big news."

Not bad news. Sasha tried to breathe normally, but her chest felt too tight.

"I'm getting traded," Papa explained quickly, ripping the bandaid off. "To Ottawa. It's not official yet– but– but it's happening."

Traded. Sasha knew what that meant. Papa would play for a different team now. He'd wear a different jersey.

She waited, her whole body tense, for the other shoe to drop. For Papa to say that he couldn't take her with him. That she'd have to stay here. That—

"We're moving to Ottawa," Papa continued, watching her carefully for any reaction. "Both of us. Together. In August, before school starts."

Together. Sasha's racing heart slowed just a little. Papa was taking her with him. He wasn't leaving her behind.

But moving. Leaving Boston. Leaving home.

Sasha stared down at her puzzle pieces, her vision blurring. She wanted to say something, wanted to ask questions, but her throat felt too tight.

"I know this is a lot," Papa said softly, scooting a bit closer to her.

She took a shaky breath, trying to be brave. Trying not to cry more. "What about Jess?"

"Jess has to stay here for school," Papa explained gently, as though knowing how much those words would hurt. "But we'll find a new nanny in Ottawa. Someone just as nice."

Nobody would be just as nice as Jess. Nobody would know Sasha the way Jess did.

Sasha nodded anyway, not wanting to complain.

"What about my school?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "And my friends?"

Emma. Her first real friend. The girl who'd taught her to play tag, who sat with her at lunch, who'd invited Sasha to her birthday party last month.

"You'll make new friends," Papa assured her, rubbing her back a bit. "And you'll have a new school. We'll make sure it's a really good one. The best one."

Sasha's hands twisted in her lap. She'd finally learned all the rules at her current school. Finally figured out how to fit in. Finally stopped being the new kid, the Russian kid, the weird quiet kid who didn't talk much.

And now she had to start all over again.

In a place where she didn't know anyone. Where she'd be the new kid again. Where she'd have to learn all new rules and make all new friends and be scared all over again.

But she couldn't say that. Couldn't complain. Papa was already doing so much for her, taking her with him when he didn't have to.

"Okay," Sasha agreed quietly, even though nothing felt okay.

Papa's expression shifted to concern. "Mishka, you can tell me if you're scared. It's okay to be scared."

Sasha shook her head quickly, wiping at her eyes. "I'm okay."

"Sasha—"

"I'm okay," she repeated, her voice cracking. "It's okay, Papa. I understand."

Papa was quiet for a moment, watching her carefully. Then he said, "I was thinking... we could spend the summer with Shane. At his cottage."

Sasha looked up, confused. "Shane's cottage?"

"Da. He has a cottage just outside Ottawa, on a lake. It's really beautiful. We could stay there for the summer – July, most of August. You could swim and play outside and just... be a kid. And then we'd move into our new house in Ottawa before school starts."

Shane. Sasha liked Shane. Shane was nice and quiet and gentle, and he made Papa happy. She'd figured out a few months ago that Shane was Papa's boyfriend, even though they tried to hide it. But Sasha could tell from the way Papa looked at him, the way Shane's face changed when Papa walked into a room.

"And Shane will be there?" Sasha asked quietly, a bit of hope in her voice.

"He has the summer off, just like I do. So we'd all be there together."

Sasha thought about that. She'd only seen Shane a handful of times – he lived in Montreal, which was far away. But every time he came to visit, Papa smiled more. Laughed more. Seemed lighter somehow.

And Shane was always nice to Sasha. Always patient. Always careful not to scare her.

"I like Shane," Sasha told Papa quietly, fiddling with one of the puzzle pieces.

Papa's whole face softened. "I'm glad. Because he really likes you too, mishka. He asks about you all the time when we talk."

"Really?"

"Really. He wants to get to know you better. And I think... I think spending the summer together could be really good. For all of us."

Sasha wiped her eyes with her hands. "What's the cottage like?"

"It's on a lake," Papa explained, gratefully accepting the change in subject. "There's a dock where you can swim, and lots of trees, and it's very quiet and peaceful. There are loons – big birds that make funny sounds. And at night you can see all the stars."

That sounded... nice, actually. Quiet. Peaceful. Different from the city.

"And then in August, we'll move into our house in Ottawa," Papa continued. "You can help pick it out, if you want. Make sure you like it."

Sasha nodded slowly, trying to picture it. A new house, a new school, a new city. A summer at a cottage with Papa and Shane.

It still sounded scary. Overwhelming. Too much change all at once.

But maybe... maybe it wouldn't be terrible.

"When do we leave?" Sasha asked. "For the cottage?"

"In about a week," Papa told her, smiling softly at her "After we pack some things. We'll drive up together – it's only about a six-hour drive."

Six hours. That sounded far. But also not as far as Sasha had thought Ottawa would be.

"And Fyo can come, right?" Sasha asked, needing the confirmation.

"Of course. Fyo goes everywhere you go. And all your favorite books, and your stuffed animals, and whatever else you want to bring."

Sasha took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. Trying to be brave. "Okay."

"Okay?" Papa asked hopefully. "You'll try?"

Sasha nodded, even though her chest still felt tight with fear.

Papa opened his arms, and Sasha crawled into them, pressing her face against his chest. He held her tight, one hand stroking her hair, the other rubbing her back.

"I know you're scared," Papa murmured. "I can see it, mishka. And it's okay. It's okay to be scared."

"I'm sorry," Sasha whispered.

"Don't be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for." Papa's arms tightened around her. "I've got you, mishka. Always."

Sasha clung to him, breathing in his familiar scent, listening to his steady heartbeat.

She was still scared. Terrified, actually. Everything was changing and she hated change and what if the new school was bad and what if she couldn't make friends and what if—

But Papa was here. Papa was holding her. Papa was taking her with him.

She wasn't being left behind. Wasn't being sent back.

She was keeping Papa, and Papa was keeping her.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

That night, Sasha couldn't sleep.

She lay in her bed, Fyo clutched tight, staring at her purple ceiling. Her purple ceiling that she'd picked out herself. That Papa had painted while she was at a playdate with Emma.

In two months, she wouldn't see this ceiling anymore. She'd have a new ceiling in a new room in a new house in a new city.

Everything would be different.

The thought made her chest feel tight and her breathing come faster.

There was a soft knock on her door, and then Papa peeked his head in.

"Can't sleep?" he asked gently.

Sasha shook her head, her eyes already filling with tears again.

Papa came in and sat on the edge of her bed. "What are you thinking about?"

"Everything," Sasha whispered. "I'm trying not to be scared but I can't help it."

Papa's face softened with understanding. "Come here, mishka."

Sasha sat up and crawled into his lap, and Papa wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

“It’s all gonna be different,” Sasha mumbled into his shirt, blinking back her tears, trying not to seem like she was complaining. 

Papa had given her everything. A home, a family, safety. And now he had to move for his job, and Sasha should be grateful he was taking her with him instead of sending her back.

But her chest hurt and her hands were shaking and she was so scared.

"Mishka, look at me."

Sasha slowly lifted her head, meeting Papa's eyes.

"Can I tell you what's not going to be different?" Papa asked gently.

Sasha nodded, a tear escaping down her cheek despite her best efforts.

"Me," Papa said simply, like that somehow fixed everything. And in a way, it did. "I'm not going to be different. I'm still going to be your papa. Still going to make you breakfast and help with homework and tuck you in at night. Still going to love you more than anything in the world."

"I know," Sasha whispered.

"And Fyo," Papa continued, reaching out to gently touch the stuffed dog's floppy ear. "He's coming too. And all your books, and all your toys. We're just moving them to a new house."

"But it won't be the same," Sasha said, her voice small.

"No," Papa agreed honestly. "It won't be the same. It'll be different. But different isn't always bad, mishka. Sometimes different can be good. Sometimes change is scary but it leads to good things."

Sasha wanted to believe that. But change had never been good for her before. Change had always meant loss, pain, fear. At least, until she started living with Papa, it had. 

Sasha was quiet for a long moment, thinking.

“It’s still scary,” Sasha said after a moment, and Papa tugged her closer, pressing a kiss into her hair. 

“I know,” he murmured, running a hand through her hair. “But you’re brave, hm? My brave girl.” 

Papa always called her that, even though Sasha never felt very brave at all. 

“It’ll be okay,” Papa told her firmly. “I promise.” 

Papa had never broken a promise, not in the year and a half that Sasha had lived with him. So, despite how scary it felt, she found herself trusting his words anyway. Even if moving to Ottawa did seem like the end of the world, at least she’d still have Papa. 

Chapter End Notes

sorry for how long it's taken me to update but as y'all can see, this is a beast of a chapter at ~30k words. Hope you all liked it!!

Chapter 23: chapter twenty-three

Chapter Notes

The drive from Boston to the cottage took over six hours, which Sasha declared to be "very long" approximately forty-five minutes in and approximately every fifteen minutes after that.

"Are we almost there?" she asked, for what Ilya was fairly certain was the eleventh time.

"We've been driving for two hours, malyshka."

"That's a long time."

"We have four more hours."

There was a pause from the backseat, long enough that Ilya allowed himself to hope. Then:

"Are we almost there?"

Ilya caught his own eyes in the rearview mirror and exhaled slowly through his nose.

He'd downloaded three audiobooks, two playlists Sasha had approved in advance in Boston with the gravity of someone signing off on a government document, and a nature documentary about sea turtles that she'd been interested in since April. He'd packed her favorite blanket and her library book and three different kinds of snacks and made sure Fyo was buckled into the seat beside her. He had, by any objective measure, done everything right.

And yet.

"Four hours," he said. "Less now. Three hours and fifty minutes."

"That's still really long."

Ilya bit back a sigh. He’d always thought the “patience is a virtue” saying was bullshit. Apparently, when it came to parenting, it wasn’t.

"Yes," Ilya agreed evenly, trying not to add fuel to the fire. "It is."

"Can we stop?"

"We just stopped."

He’d never enjoyed roadtrips, but it turned out, road trips with an eight year old that wanted to stop every hour were worse. 

"That was like an hour ago."

Ilya glanced in the mirror. Sasha was curled in her booster seat with Fyo in her lap and her chin propped on the window glass, watching the flat Ontario landscape scroll past with an expression of mild offense, as though she'd expected more of it. 

"Tell me something," Ilya suggested, trying to think of some way to entertain the little girl. "About school. Tell me about Emma."

Sasha sighed. It was a very thorough sigh, the kind that communicated a great deal about the fundamental injustice of various things. "Emma's in California for the whole summer. Visiting her grandmother."

"That's nice for her."

"For her," Sasha confirmed meaningfully, making sure he understood the distinction. "She gets to go somewhere fun. We've been driving forever."

"We're going somewhere fun."

"We're going somewhere to live," Sasha argued, with the particular logical precision of almost nine-year-olds. "That's different from going somewhere fun."

Ilya couldn't immediately construct a counter-argument to this, so he turned the music back up instead. After a moment, the protests from the backseat ceased. Sasha went back to watching the highway, and Ilya watched her in the side mirror, and somewhere around the three-hour mark her head began the slow inevitable descent – dipping, jerking up, dipping again, and finally giving up entirely, listing sideways against the window with her mouth falling open. Fyo slid gradually down her stomach and off her lap, landing on the seat with a soft thump she didn't stir at.

He drove the last stretch in quiet, just the low music and the sound of Sasha's breathing and the highway noise, and tried not to think too carefully about what was waiting at the other end.

Shane was waiting at the other end.

Two months.

Ilya had never let himself have this much of Shane at once before. Had never allowed himself to imagine it too clearly or for too long, because wanting something that badly made the not-having of it worse, and Ilya had spent his whole life being very good at not-having things. He'd gotten three days at the cottage in September, which had nearly undone him. He'd gotten two weeks last July, which had changed things in ways he was still reckoning with. He'd gotten phone calls and visits and weekends stolen from schedules that didn't technically permit them.

Now he had two months, a whole summer, stretching out in front of him like something he hadn't earned.

He wasn't sure yet what to do with that. Wasn't sure he'd learned how to hold this much good without waiting for it to be taken away. Without watching the horizon for the thing that would make it make sense, that would explain why something this large and this unambiguous was being allowed to simply exist.

The trees thickened as he turned onto the dirt road, the afternoon light breaking into pieces through the canopy and scattering across the hood of the car. He heard Sasha stir.

"Are we—"

"Almost," Ilya answered, before she could finish.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes with both fists, her cheek bearing the pink impression of where it had pressed against the window. She leaned toward the glass and looked out at the trees going past, blinking slowly into alertness.

Ilya pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.

Shane was on the porch.

He was leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, wearing that linen button-down he loved so much and shorts, squinting a little against the afternoon glare. He'd been watching the driveway – Ilya could tell from the way he was already looking at the car before it stopped, from the fact that he straightened when the engine cut out. His face broke into a smile when Ilya's door swung open, and Ilya felt it somewhere in his chest, that smile, the way he always felt it – not like something that happened to him but like something that arrived in him.

In the backseat, Sasha unclicked her seatbelt.

She sat completely still for three full seconds, watching Shane come down off the porch steps, tracking him across the yard with the focused attention she brought to anything she was deciding about. Then the door swung open and she was running, her sneakers hitting the gravel and then the grass, Fyo still abandoned on the backseat.

"Shane!"

Shane came off the last porch step and met her in the middle of the yard, dropping into a slight crouch just in time to absorb the impact of her, getting his arms under her and scooping her up with a grunt of effort that was at least fifty percent performance.

"Hey, kiddo," he greeted warmly, settling her on his hip and looking her over with mock seriousness. “You’re growing like a weed, huh?”

"No, I'm not," Sasha replied, which Ilya had to agree with. Sasha was still a good few inches shorter than most kids her age, slighter too, despite Ilya’s best efforts. However, she’d probably grown about an inch since Shane had seen her last. 

"Definitely heavier,” Shane joked, feigning a groan as he set her down. “What has your papa been feeding you?"

Sasha giggled at his theatrics, bouncing on her feet a bit, excitement at seeing Shane clearly overwhelming. 

Ilya knew how that felt.

"Just normal food,” Sasha informed him, grinning a bit. 

"Must be the normal food," Shane agreed gravely, and looked over her head to where Ilya was and the expression on his face did the thing it sometimes did in private moments when he forgot to manage it – open, unguarded, warm in a way that Ilya had spent a long time allow himself to believe it was directed at him specifically.

"You're late," Shane told him, although Ilya could tell he wasn’t really upset.

"We stopped six times," Ilya replied tiredly, shutting the car door. He crossed the grass toward them. "Because someone had to inspect every available bathroom in Ontario."

"I did not," Sasha retorted with a pout, crossing her arms.

"Three bathroom stops. One snack stop. One stop because you wanted to look at a horse."

"It was a really good horse!"

Shane grinned at Ilya over the top of her curls – at the specific, warm grin that was just for him, that existed in no press conference and no arena and nowhere the world could see it – and Ilya walked the last few feet across the grass and felt something in his chest loosen, click into place, settle.

The first few days arranged themselves around the cottage with an ease that surprised all three of them, or at least surprised Ilya and Shane – Sasha seemed to take to it with the practicality of a child who had decided she was happy and saw no reason to make anything complicated.

Part of it was the cottage itself. There was something about the place that resisted performance, that sat outside the jurisdiction of their regular lives and the rules those lives required. Out here there was no Rozanov and no Hollander, no rivals who had to maintain careful distance in every rink and restaurant and television broadcast across the league. No one watching for the thing that would give them away. Just the lake and the trees and the three of them, which was both simpler and more enormous than anything Ilya had let himself think about for most of the past four years.

Mornings were slow in the specific way that felt like a luxury to Ilya, who had spent most of his adult life moving at the pace the schedule demanded. Shane made coffee and Ilya made breakfast and Sasha materialized from her room in her pajamas at some indeterminate time between seven and nine, Fyo hanging loose from one hand, blinking like she'd been somewhere far away and was still finding her way back. She'd climb onto her stool at the kitchen counter and tuck her feet up underneath herself and sit there accepting whatever was put in front of her with the particular contented quiet of a child who had decided she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Ilya watched her do it every morning. He was always watching her do things like that, cataloguing the differences between who she was now and who she'd been when he brought her home. It was the kind of thing that crept up on him in ordinary moments – the way she ate now, slowly, with genuine pleasure, instead of hunched over her plate with her arm curved around it like she was guarding it against something. The way she moved through a house like she lived in it.

On rainy afternoons, when the lake went silver and the clouds sat low in the trees, they played board games at the kitchen table. Sasha was a ferocious Snakes and Ladders opponent and had developed, over the course of the summer, an approach to Catan that was genuinely difficult to defend against, which Ilya felt strongly had to be genetic.

"She's eight," Shane commented, still somewhat in shock, staring at the board after Sasha had methodically dismantled everything he'd been building for forty minutes.

"She is Rozanov," Ilya replied with a shrug, as though that was all the explanation that was needed. "Was inevitable."

Sasha looked up at both of them. She was attempting to look modest. She was not very good at it.

"You can be impressed," she told Shane generously, a cheeky little grin on her face, one Sveta had told Ilya was scarily similar to his own. "It's okay."

Shane looked at Ilya with an expression that was equal parts exasperated and delighted. "She's yours, all right."

"I know," Ilya informed him with considerable satisfaction.

In the evenings they sat on the porch until the light was gone from the water, all three of them, Sasha usually wedged between them on the wide outdoor sofa with her feet tucked under and her head getting progressively heavier on whoever's shoulder it had found. She fell asleep out there more nights than not, and Ilya would carry her in while Shane held the screen door, and they'd tuck her in together in the room she'd claimed within the first ten minutes of arriving – the one with the view down to the dock that she'd stood in front of for a long moment before turning around and declaring: I like this one.

It felt, Ilya thought, every single one of those evenings, like the thing he'd spent most of his life not allowing himself to want. Not in a painful way. In the specific, quiet, slightly terrifying way of a person who has stopped denying that they want something and has started to accept that they might actually have it.

It was Shane who told her about the loons.

They were eating lunch on the dock – sandwiches, because the weather was perfect and the dock was warm and Sasha had asked with that specific quality of hopefulness she still occasionally deployed, the particular care with which she still sometimes requested things she expected might be refused. Neither Ilya nor Shane could tell her no when she asked like that. They both knew it and neither of them said so.

The sound came from across the water without warning – that eerie, undulating cry, somewhere between a wail and a laugh, rising up from the far end of the lake and carrying all the way across the still afternoon air.

Sasha's head came up sharply. Her sandwich stopped halfway to her mouth. "What was that?"

"Loon," Shane answered, still chewing. "They live on lakes like this one."

Sasha turned toward the water, scanning for the source with her eyes narrowed. "It sounds like something's wrong with it."

"They all sound like that. It's their call." Shane paused, and Ilya, who had gone very still, did not look at him. He could feel the specific quality of Shane's pause, the way it preceded something. "Interesting birds, actually. Your papa has some thoughts about them."

Ilya set his sandwich down with great deliberation.

Sasha looked at Ilya. Then at Shane. Then back at Ilya, with the heightened attention of a child who has detected that something entertaining is happening and is waiting to find out what kind.

"What thoughts?" she asked.

"Shane," Ilya groaned.

"What?" Shane spread his hands, the picture of innocence. "I'm just saying you have opinions. Strong ones."

"I am telling you right now—"

"Papa." Sasha put her own sandwich down. She was giving him her full attention, which was the particular undivided attention that she gave to things she had decided were important. "Are you scared of the loon?"

"They are not loons," Ilya argued, with as much dignity as the situation permitted. "They are stupid Canadian wolfbirds and they are completely insane."

"Wolfbirds," Shane murmured softly, in the reverent tone of a man who had been waiting years to hear this word again.

"They dive completely underwater," Ilya continued, because he had started and there was no graceful way to stop. "They disappear and then they come back up from nowhere. You don't see where they went. And then they scream. This is not normal bird behavior, Sashenka. Normal birds stay where you can see them."

"Papa." Sasha had both hands pressed over her mouth. Her shoulders were shaking with the effort of not making noise. "It's a bird."

"It's a wolfbird."

"That's not—" She couldn't finish. The laugh got out despite everything, bright and surprised, and she tipped sideways on the dock, and Shane caught her by the shoulder before she could roll into the water, his own face completely creased, no longer making any effort to contain himself.

"I hate this country," Ilya announced, standing. "I hate this lake. I'm going inside."

"You're absolutely not going inside," Shane managed to say through his laughter.

Ilya walked to the far end of the dock with his hands in his pockets and stood there looking at the water with great dignity while behind him his daughter laughed until she was wheezing and Shane wasn't doing much better.

He pressed his lips together very firmly.

He was not smiling. That was not what his face was doing.

Swimming happened in the afternoons, when the sun had gotten properly into the sky and the water had had time to lose the morning chill.

Sasha was a strong swimmer – had been since her first winter in Boston, when Ilya had put her in lessons at the pool near their house and watched from the viewing window while the instructor had expressed surprise at how quickly she'd taken to it. Ilya wasn't surprised. Sasha approached most things she'd decided to conquer with a focused, methodical persistence that he recognized because it was his, and the water had never frightened her the way other things had. She moved through it easily, confidently, in a way that was one of the things he liked most to watch.

What she wanted to do in it, however, was a separate negotiation.

"Papa," she pleaded, standing on the end of the dock in her swimsuit with her hands on her hips. "Can you toss me?"

"Da," Ilya agreed easily enough, already getting up from where he'd been sitting on the dock edge.

Behind him, Shane put down his book.

"Wait—" Shane sat up straighter. "Toss her?"

"She's a strong swimmer," Ilya assured him, moving toward Sasha.

"It's a pretty significant drop from the dock, Ilya—"

"It's fine, solnyshko."

"How deep is it right there? Do we know how deep it is—"

"It's deep enough," Ilya told him, having swam in the lake plenty of times last summer and well aware of how deep it was. 

Ilya scooped Sasha up by the waist and walked toward the end of the dock while she grabbed his shoulders and laughed at the indignity of being transported.

"Ilya—" Shane had gotten to his feet. He was watching this with the expression he got when his risk assessment was in direct conflict with his knowledge that he'd already lost the argument. "What if she—"

"It’s fun, Shane!” Sasha told him, sounding absolutely delighted the way all small children did at the idea of being tossed into water. 

"You can watch from the dock,” Ilya called to Shane over his shoulder. “Very safe. Like a lifeguard."

"I don't want to be the lifeguard, I want someone to have a– a plan–"

"The plan is I throw her and then she swims back to the ladder," Ilya informed him patiently. "This is the plan."

Shane made a sound that wasn't words.

Ilya held Sasha at the edge of the dock, her feet dangling over the water, and felt the coiled readiness in her – the bouncing, barely-contained anticipation of a child about to do something delightful. He looked down at her face, at the pure simple happiness in it, the brightness of it, and felt the thing in his chest that never entirely went away anymore when he looked at her.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," she answered immediately, like the word had been there since before he asked.

He swung her out and let go.

She dropped into the lake with a sound like a small explosion, water erupting upward, and Ilya watched the surface close over her, and then she came up gasping and grinning, her curls plastered flat to her face and both arms already moving toward the ladder.

"Again!" she announced, with the absolute authority of someone who had just confirmed a hypothesis.

From the dock, Shane said: "That was– okay, that wasn't as bad as– I mean she came up fine, obviously she came up fine–"

"She came up fine," Ilya confirmed.

They did it four more times. By the third, Sasha was making a noise that wasn't quite a scream and wasn't quite a laugh before she hit the water. By the fourth she had opinions about trajectory that Ilya did not honor but filed away as evidence of things. Shane watched all of it from the dock with the tight-shouldered energy of someone who had committed to a position and was seeing it through even as his nervous system filed a formal objection, muttering things like she went under for a second there and that's quite a splash to no one in particular and no one in particular paying attention.

After the fifth time, Sasha climbed the ladder dripping and stood on the dock catching her breath, and looked at Shane.

"It's really fun," she told him, very sincerely. 

“I’m sure it is,” Shane replied, sighing a bit. “Fun, but maybe not safe.” 

“Papa thinks it’s safe,” Sasha replied, sounding a bit confused. 

“Your papa has poor risk assessment,” Shane said pointedly, looking at Ilya who feigned hurt, but seemed to know better than to argue with that statement. 

It was on an afternoon in the second week that the clouds came in while they were all still on the dock – moving fast across the sky the way Ontario clouds did in June, stacking up and darkening with a speed that seemed implausible until you'd seen it a few times. The temperature dropped with them, the warmth sucked out of the air in the space of ten minutes, and the lake went from gold to a flat, pewter gray.

Sasha, who ran cold even in June heat and who had been in the water for nearly an hour, didn't seem to notice at first. She was swimming parallel to the dock, working on the distance she'd been adding to each day, her strokes even and efficient, and if her lips had gone a particular shade of blue it was Shane who saw it first, sitting up straighter on the dock and watching her with the focused concern he reserved for things he was trying not to make a production of.

"Hey, Sash," he called, keeping his voice easy. "I think that's enough for today."

"I'm okay," she called back, not stopping.

"You're the same color as a blueberry."

A pause. She stopped swimming and trod water and looked at him. "I'm not cold."

"Your lips are blue, malyshka," Ilya pointed out, since the little girl clearly hadn’t noticed.

She looked down at herself as though consulting her own body might provide a counterargument. Her teeth, barely audible from the dock, were chattering.

"Come on," Shane insisted, going to the ladder. "Out."

She came without further argument, which told Ilya she was colder than she'd admitted, because Sasha always came without argument when she was too cold or too tired or too scared to maintain the fiction that she was fine. One hand on the ladder and then up, water streaming off her curls, goosebumps raised on every inch of visible skin, her whole small frame shivering in the sharp earnest way of someone who had been cold for longer than they'd realized.

Ilya was already off the lounger, already reaching for the large towel he'd left there, the specific one he'd put at the top of the stack before they came down today because Sasha always came out cold and he'd learned to be ready for it.

"Here," he said, and she shuffled over and he wrapped the towel around her with the efficiency of someone who had done this many times, tucking the ends tight. Then the second towel over that. Then his own, pulled off his shoulders without looking and layered over the first two, until Sasha was a compact bundle from shoulders to knees with her wet curls sticking up above the topmost edge of the terrycloth.

"Can't move," she reported, pouting slightly as she wiggled a bit.

"You don't need to move," Ilya told her, satisfied once she was a little burrito of towel. "You need to warm up."

"My arms are stuck."

"Good."

Ilya scooped Sasha up, sitting down on the lounger with the little girl curled up in his arms, settling down with the certainty of a small creature that had identified the warmest available surface. She wriggled into position, her head tucking up under his chin, and he felt her exhale – the long, slow exhale she did when she was done holding something and was putting it down.

He pulled the edges of the outermost towel more firmly around her back and felt her shivering begin, gradually, to subside.

The sun came back out from behind the clouds. Slowly at first, then with intention, warm and direct, falling across the boards of the porch deck and the loungers and the top of Sasha's head where her curls were starting to dry into their usual chaotic spirals. Ilya tilted his face up toward it and felt it on his closed eyelids, and listened to the lake, and felt Sasha's weight settle heavier against his chest as the warmth reached her.

He didn't fall asleep so much as stop being awake. There was the sun and the water sounds and Sasha breathing against his collarbone, and then there was just the sun and the water sounds, and then there was nothing for a while – a warm, undemanding nothing, the best kind, the kind that only came when he wasn't bracing for anything.

When he surfaced again it happened slowly, layers of awareness returning without urgency. The lake first. Then Sasha, still asleep on his chest, her breathing deep and even, her small hand curled loosely against his sternum where it had settled sometime while he slept. His own hand was on her back, resting there.

He lay still and let the waking complete itself.

Then he became aware, without quite knowing what had alerted him, that he was being watched.

Shane was on the lounger beside him. He hadn't picked his book back up. He wasn't looking at his phone or at the lake. He was looking at Ilya and Sasha with an expression that was very quiet and very still, the expression of someone who has been looking at something for a while without meaning to and has only just realized it.

Ilya recognized the look. Not because he'd seen it on Shane's face specifically, though he'd seen it there too, in glimpses, in moments when Shane didn't know he was watching. He recognized it because he knew what it felt like from the inside. That particular quality of wanting something so much that you were barely letting yourself look directly at it, like the looking itself might use up some part of whatever made it possible, or might reveal that you had no business being here at all.

Ilya stayed still. He watched Shane watching them.

After a moment Shane's eyes moved from Sasha to Ilya, and whatever had been open in his expression caught itself and folded partly back, the way it always did when Shane noticed himself wanting too visibly. He looked slightly caught. Slightly rueful.

"Hey," he greeted, quiet enough not to wake Sasha.

"Hey," Ilya murmured back.

The lake moved against the dock. Somewhere in the treeline a bird made a sound Ilya had been specifically pretending not to know the name of.

Shane looked back at Sasha. At the way she was wrapped in the towels like something packaged carefully for transport, her form rising and falling with Ilya's breathing, one small fist still lightly closed against his chest. His jaw shifted, a motion Ilya recognized as swallowing something down.

"You okay?" Ilya asked.

Shane glanced back at him. The rueful quality in his expression deepened slightly, like he'd been caught at something and had decided there was no point pretending otherwise. "Yeah," he answered. Then: "Yeah. I just—" He stopped. Started over. "I keep thinking I should want less than this. Like it's too much. Like wanting all of this—" He made a small gesture that encompassed the dock and the cottage and, Ilya understood, the three of them. "Like I should be grateful for what we have and stop needing it to be—" He shook his head. "More real than it already is."

The afternoon held the words for a moment.

Sasha shifted slightly against Ilya's chest, some small adjustment of sleep, and settled again. He felt her hand flex once and then relax.

"Is real," Ilya promised softly, the softness he only ever used with Shane and Sasha. "This is real, Shane."

Shane looked at him. His eyes were a little too bright in the afternoon light, the specific brightness that came when Shane was feeling something he hadn't cleared enough room for.

"I know," he replied, swallowing heavily. "I know it is. It just—" He exhaled, a slow careful breath. "It doesn't feel like something I'm supposed to get to have. Still. Even now. Even after everything."

Ilya understood that. He expected he would understand it for a long time, maybe always. The particular difficulty of having something your whole history had taught you wasn't for you. Of holding it without waiting for the explanation of why it had been a mistake to let you have it.

"Well," he said, after a moment. "You have it anyway. Whether it feels like you're supposed to or not."

Something moved across Shane's face. Not a smile yet, but the shape of one beginning. He looked at his own hands, then at Sasha, then at Ilya, with the expression of someone doing an accounting and finding the numbers strange.

"Yeah," he murmured, very quietly. "I do."

They stayed like that while the afternoon went on around them, the lake doing its slow golden business, the birds in the trees working through their repertoire, Sasha warm and asleep on Ilya's chest and Shane on the lounger beside them with the look of someone who was learning, slowly and against some resistance, to let a good thing simply be a good thing.

Until Sasha woke up disoriented and immediately asked if there was lemonade in the fridge, which there was, and Shane laughed, and Ilya felt the specific uncomplicated happiness of a person who has stopped waiting for the catch.

_____________

The trade was confirmed on July 1st.

The notification from his agent arrived at nine in the morning and his phone buzzed three more times in the following two minutes. He picked it up from the kitchen counter and read the message, and then read it again, and when he looked up Shane was already looking at him from across the table with his coffee mug held in both hands, and his phone was lit up on the table in front of him.

"It went through?" Shane asked, voice tinged with a hope that was almost painful.

Ilya nodded. He didn't trust his voice.

"Yep," he answered after a moment. Which wasn't much, but it was what he had.

Sasha, who had been eating toast at the counter with the focused attention she gave to morning food, looked between them. "Did something happen?"

"Something very good, miska" Ilya confirmed, not wanting to worry her.

She nodded, satisfied, and went back to her toast. Then, thirty seconds later, without looking up: "Are loons scared of anything?"

Ilya closed his eyes.

Shane made the sound he made when he was very pleased about something and trying not to show it, which was not a very effective sound. He proceeded to spend the next several minutes detailing the loon's natural predators in loving and comprehensive detail while Ilya sat across the table and looked at the kitchen ceiling and felt, despite everything, deeply and unreasonably happy.

They took Sasha kayaking in the afternoon. She asked sixty questions about the local bird population and Shane answered approximately half of them with genuine accuracy and invented the answers to the other half with a confidence that was genuinely impressive, and Sasha caught him fabricating twice and was extremely unimpressed both times, and Ilya hadn't been so happy in his entire life. He thought that probably, if pressed, he could say that out loud and mean it completely.

He was working up to it.

It was well past midnight when Shane woke up.

He lay still for a moment, doing the work of remembering where he was. The ceiling came first, unfamiliar and then familiar. The curtains at the window, the particular offshore-wind sound the lake made at night, low and ongoing. Ilya breathing deep and slow on the far side of the bed with that specific quality of someone completely under, the way Ilya slept when he was actually resting and not just waiting out the dark hours.

Shane didn't know what had woken him. Some small sound, or no sound, or simply one of those random surfacings that happened sometimes in the middle of unfamiliar quiet. He let his eyes adjust and looked at the ceiling and didn't think about anything in particular.

And then he registered, without immediately understanding how, that the doorway was occupied.

He turned his head.

Sasha was standing at the threshold. She was in her pajamas with the little cartoon bears, Fyo clutched against the center of her chest with both arms, her dark curls loose and chaotic around her face. She was perfectly still in the specific way she went still when she was uncertain about something – not frozen, not frightened, but that quality of careful suspension, of holding herself in place while she assessed whether she was going to be welcome before she committed to being there.

She'd been standing there for a little while. Shane had the impression of it even though he hadn't been awake to see it. Long enough to have decided once to come in and then talked herself back out of it, probably. Long enough to have looked at the distance between the doorway and the bed and done the calculation several times.

"Hey," Shane mumbled, still a bit asleep. He kept his voice low, below the threshold that would carry to the other side of the bed. "Hey, Sash."

She didn't come in. She didn't leave, either. "I didn’t mean to wake you up" she told him apologetically, little face looking worried at the idea, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I know. I was already awake."

She relaxed a little, baby blue eyes not quite as anxious.

He'd learned, over the course of this summer and the visits before it, that there was a specific kind of waiting Sasha did. Not the patient waiting of a child who expected to be answered in a moment, but the braced waiting of a child checking whether the door was going to open or close before committing to wanting what was on the other side. He'd seen it at kitchen counters and on docks and once, memorably, in front of the kayak shed, where she'd stood and looked at the kayaks for three solid minutes before asking if she could try one. The wanting was visible – she hadn't yet learned to fully conceal it – and so was the simultaneous preparation for the wanting to not be worth it.

He thought about what Ilya had told him, carefully and in pieces over months of late-night phone calls and quiet cottage evenings. About the years before. About what need had gotten Sasha in the past.

"You can come in," Shane invited her. Easy, unhurried, not loading it with anything. Just: you can, if you want. The door is open.

She looked at the floor. Then at the bed. Then at the floor again, and Shane watched her doing the calculation – how much trouble would this be, how much was she allowed to need, what happened to people who needed things from him – and felt the familiar pull of sadness for it, for all the people and situations that had taught her to do that math in the first place.

"Sash." He waited until her eyes came up to his. "You're not going to bother me. I promise, kiddo."

She held his gaze for a long moment, checking it the way she checked everything, looking for the asterisk. Looking for the condition.

She didn't find one, apparently. She gave a very small nod.

Shane pulled the covers back.

She crossed the room on quiet feet and stopped at the edge of the bed, at Shane's side, and looked at him from about eighteen inches away with those pale eyes that were Ilya's eyes in a smaller, more uncertain face.

"You won't be grumpy?" she asked, very seriously, sounding painfully concerned about the idea.

“Not a bit,” Shane promised. He quite frankly wasn’t sure this child could ever do anything that would make him grumpy. 

She was holding Fyo so tightly the dog's ears were bent nearly flat. Shane watched her make the last calculation – the one about how much space she was allowed to take up in someone else's life, how much need was too much need, whether the welcome would hold against the reality of her actually being in it – and felt the familiar ache of it, the specific helplessness of watching someone you cared about brace themselves against something they couldn't be talked out of all at once.

He sat up slightly and got his hands under her arms and lifted her, easy and unhurried, the same way Ilya did it, before she'd finished deciding. Felt her go briefly rigid – the instinctive, reflexive tension of someone who'd learned that being picked up by adults was not always a neutral event – and then the release of it as she registered that nothing alarming was happening, that she was just being moved gently from one place to another by someone who meant it to be gentle.

He set her down in the middle of the bed, between himself and Ilya, and tucked the covers up around her shoulders.

She weighed almost nothing. Even after a year and a half of Ilya's cooking, of deliberate snacks and second helpings pressed on her with the casual insistence of a man who'd noticed she was underweight and had decided to do something about it without making it into a thing – even after all of that, she was still smaller than she should have been. It caught Shane sometimes, how small she was. He'd think he'd adjusted for it and then he'd pick her up and remember all over again.

Ilya breathed slow and steady on the far side of her, undisturbed. The moonlight came in at an angle through the curtains and lay in pale strips across the ceiling.

Sasha lay still for a moment with the covers up to her chin and Fyo gripped against her chest, doing the thing she did when she was waiting to find out what happened next.

Nothing happened next. Shane settled back on his side, close enough to be present. The cottage made its small nighttime sounds. The lake made its lake sounds.

After a while, Sasha shifted Fyo, tucking him more securely under her arm.

"Shane?" Very quiet.

"Yeah."

A pause. In the pause he could feel her weighing something. Deciding whether to say it.

"Do loons come out at night?"

Shane stared at the ceiling. He was aware of a very specific quality of effort being required to maintain composure. "Some of them do, yeah."

The pause that followed was contemplative.

"Don't tell Papa," she said.

"Deal," Shane agreed, and his voice only came out slightly uneven.

After that, quiet. Real quiet, the settling kind. Shane lay on his back and looked at the ceiling and listened to the lake and to Ilya breathing on the other side of the bed, that deep even rhythm, and to Sasha's breathing gradually finding its own evening-out beside him.

She was asleep in about ten minutes. He could tell by the way her whole body went gradual and soft, the grip on Fyo loosening by degrees until the dog was cradled rather than clutched, and the slight part of her lips, and the quality of the stillness that was sleep rather than waiting.

Chapter End Notes

heyyyyy y'all - sorry I've been MIA, finals season was actually killing me but i'm done now so yayyyyyyy

Hope y'all liked this chapter!

Chapter 24: chapter twenty-four

Ilya told Sasha about dinner at breakfast, which she'd learned was when he told her things he wanted her to have time to think about.

She was eating toast when he mentioned it – Shane's parents' house, that evening, seven o'clock – and she kept eating, because she'd also learned that her first reaction to things wasn't always useful and it was better to wait until the inside-feeling settled before deciding what to do with it.

She thought about it while she helped carry plates to the sink. Shane's parents. She'd met his mama in Boston in November, at the ice cream place, where she'd held Sasha's hand between the school and the parlor and hadn't made Sasha feel strange about it. That had been nice. She'd seemed like a mama-mama. The kind Sasha had noticed at school pickup – the ones who knew things about their kids without being told, who packed the right snacks and remembered doctor appointments and said we're almost home in a voice that meant something.

She thought about it more while she brushed her teeth. Shane's papa she didn't know at all. David. She'd heard his name plenty but she didn't have a picture of him in her head, just the name and some things Shane had said about him.

Papa's papa had not been nice. She knew this in the way she knew things Papa didn't say directly – from the shape of the spaces where he didn't say them. Papa almost never mentioned his papa, and when he did his face did a thing it didn't do other times, a going-away thing, like part of him had gone somewhere else for a moment and had to come back. She'd asked Auntie Sveta about it once and Auntie Sveta had said that some papas were not good papas, and had left it there, and Sasha had left it there too. She understood leaving things there.

She rinsed her toothbrush and looked at herself in the mirror.

The thing was, Shane talked about his papa the way Sasha talked about her papa. That was the thing she kept coming back to, turning it over like a puzzle piece to check the shape of it. Shane said my dad like it was easy. Like it was a good word in his mouth, not a sharp one. He said things like my dad thinks and my dad always and my dad makes this garlic thing your papa loves, in the same comfortable way Sasha said papa does the voices when he reads and papa always knows which snacks are my favorite. Like it was just true, and true things were safe to say out loud.

You only talked about someone that way, Sasha thought, if they were safe.

So probably David was safe.

Probably.

She decided this was good enough, and went to find Papa to tell him she was ready.

The drive was twenty minutes, and Shane was in the passenger seat, which helped.

Not because Shane said anything particularly useful – he mostly had his window down a little, one arm resting on the door, watching the road the way he did when he was thinking. But the fact of him being there was itself useful, had been useful since approximately the first time Ilya had understood that Shane's presence in a room did something to his nervous system that other people's presence didn't.

Sasha was quiet in the backseat. She'd been quiet most of the afternoon, in the specific way that meant she was processing rather than the way that meant something was wrong. He'd checked, quietly, and she'd said she was fine, and he mostly believed her. She'd eaten a proper lunch and played with her Legos for two hours after and asked him three questions about loons that were clearly designed to annoy him, which he took as a reasonable sign that she was okay.

Still. He watched her in the rearview mirror at a red light – the way her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her jaw set in the particular way it got when she was turning something over and over and not yet done with it.

He didn't ask. She'd say it when she wanted to.

He was also thinking about himself, which he was less comfortable admitting.

The Hollanders had never given him a reason to expect the welcome to stop. He knew this with absolute clarity. He'd catalogued the evidence over months of dinners and phone calls and the puzzle at Christmas and the afternoon at the cottage in September, and the evidence was clear and consistent. They were not people who offered things they didn't mean. Yuna had hugged him the first time he came to dinner – before he'd quite prepared himself for it – and the hug had felt real in the specific way that made it more complicated rather than less, because real things could be taken away and performed things were at least predictable. David had called him family at the end of that first dinner, standing in the kitchen scooping ice cream, so casual about it that Ilya had wondered if he'd misheard, and then spent three days afterward convinced he had.

He knew the Hollanders were not going to change their minds about him tonight.

He also could not entirely persuade the part of himself that had been shaped by years of his father's conditional approval and Alexei's contempt that knowing something and being able to rest in it were the same step. That part was still running its quiet calculations somewhere behind everything else, still tracking for the moment when the variable changed, still bracing for the welcome to reveal its conditions.

What he was afraid of, if he was precise about it, wasn't the welcome stopping. It was himself. Was reaching for an English word and finding the wrong one, the one that came out harsher than he meant or funnier than was appropriate or simply wrong in a way that took too long to explain. Was making a joke that landed badly because his humor didn't always translate and he never quite knew in advance which room it would and wouldn't land in. Was saying too much or too little or the wrong thing at the wrong moment, and having Shane's parents quietly revise their opinion of who their son had spent his summer with.

He was afraid of being, in some way he couldn't predict or prevent, not enough.

His leg had started bouncing somewhere around the twenty-minute mark, which he didn't notice until Shane's hand came across the center console and settled on his knee. Not heavy. Not a squeeze. Just there, a slight steady warmth that said I see it without making it into something larger.

Ilya's leg stilled.

Shane moved his hand back after a moment, returned it to resting on the door, went back to watching the road.

Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose.

"Hey," Shane murmured, tilting his head to look at him.

Ilya glanced over quickly before returning his eyes to the road.

"It's going to be fine," Shane reminded him gently, brown eyes peering at him with concern. "You know that."

"I know."

"Dad's been asking about Sasha since Mom met her. He's excited."

"I know."

"He's going to love her."

"Shane." Ilya said his name with a flat patience that communicated everything it needed to.

Shane glanced over at him sideways, the corner of his mouth doing something that wasn't quite a smile. He looked back at the road. "Okay," he agreed simply, and left it exactly there, which was one of the things Ilya had come to understand about Shane over time – the man knew precisely when to stop pushing.

In the backseat, Sasha had gone quiet again. Ilya checked the mirror and found her looking out the window at the treeline going by, her jaw still doing the thing, still working on whatever she was working on. The evening light was gold on her face, catching her curls where they'd escaped from her braid.

He left her to it.

They turned into the driveway just as the porch light came on.

David had been checking the temperature of the roast for the third time in twenty minutes when Yuna appeared in the kitchen doorway with the expression she reserved specifically for what she called his more transparent habits.

"David."

"I'm just checking—"

"You checked it eleven minutes ago."

"Temperatures can change."

"In a resting roast," Yuna began, crossing the kitchen and taking the thermometer from his hand with the practiced ease of someone who had been doing this for thirty-five years, "temperatures do not change." She set it on the counter. "Stop fussing. They'll be here in twenty minutes."

David looked at the roast, which was, objectively, done to perfection. He'd started it at three o'clock, which Yuna had pointed out was two full hours earlier than strictly necessary, and he'd spent the intervening time making incremental adjustments to everything else – the roasted potatoes, the carrots that he'd added last minute, the salad that had required a brief covert text exchange with Shane, facilitated through Yuna, about what Sasha liked.

"I just want it to be good," he told his wife, as though that wasn’t already incredibly obvious.

"It's always good when you make it," Yuna reminded him calmly, clearly not worried about the night in the slightest. 

"Sasha might not like pot roast."

"Then she can eat potatoes and bread and she'll be perfectly happy." Yuna put her hand on his arm. "David. Stop."

He stopped, or tried to, which meant he moved to the counter and began adjusting the placement of things that didn't need adjusting. He aligned the salt with the pepper. He straightened the folded napkins that were already straight.

The thing was, he'd had months to figure out Ilya. Months of dinners and puzzles and the gradual, careful process of learning what Ilya Rozanov was actually like, which bore almost no resemblance to what nearly ten years of watching him play hockey had suggested. He'd had time to understand what Ilya needed from a room and how to provide it quietly, without drawing attention to the fact that he was providing it. He'd had time to learn the specific geography of Ilya – the performing ease and the actual ease, which were different enough that once you knew to look for the difference, you couldn't miss it.

With Sasha, he'd had none of that.

He'd heard about her constantly, was the thing. Shane mentioned her in nearly every phone call, with the specific helpless affection of someone who'd been thoroughly and completely claimed by a small person and had long since stopped trying to pretend otherwise. Yuna had met her in Boston in November and came home and talked about her for four straight days, which was highly unlike Yuna, who was precise with her words and almost never repeated herself. She'd described Sasha's ice cream order and the particular way she'd watched everyone at the table before she decided anything and the way she'd reached for Yuna's hand on the sidewalk between the school and the parlor without seeming to notice she'd done it.

David had been jealous, if he was honest. He'd been jealous of his own wife for meeting this child first.

He wanted to meet her. More than that, he wanted to get it right. He wanted her to feel comfortable in this house the way she'd apparently come to feel comfortable at the cottage. He wanted her to feel like the house was safe, like he was safe, and he was aware in a way that sat heavily in his chest that he had no guarantee he could make that happen through wanting it alone.

He was nervous in a specific, clarifying way that he recognized distantly from twenty seven years ago, standing in this very kitchen with a newborn Shane in his arms and the particular mutual terror of two people who have just accepted responsibility for something irreplaceable. He hadn't felt this kind of nervous for a child since then.

"You're doing it again," Yuna piped up from behind him, faint amusement in her tone.

"I'm straightening the—"

"David. The napkins have been straight for ten minutes."

He turned around. Yuna was watching him with that expression, the one that was mostly fond and only slightly exasperated, the one that had been one of his favorite things about her face for the better part of four decades.

"She's going to like you," Yuna promised, her voice softer than usual. "You're good with kids."

And he was. He was good with kids. But Sasha wasn’t just any kid. 

"She might not," he argued, returning to fiddling with the napkins. "Shane said she’s not great with strangers. Especially, well…men."

Yuna's expression shifted, going quieter at his words. Shane had told them a bit about what Sasha’s life had looked like before Ilya. Not everything, just bits and pieces, but David wasn’t stupid. He could read between the lines. No child that had grown up in a loving, safe environment had a reason to fear men so intensely. 

So, David was well aware that Sasha might not warm up to him right away. After all, she had every reason not to. But that was okay. He was a patient man, and they had all the time in the world. 

He saw Shane get out first, then Ilya unfold himself from the driver's side, and then the rear door opened and Sasha climbed out, and David's first thought – arriving before he had a chance to prepare for it – was simply: oh, she's so small.

He'd known this in the abstract. Shane had said it. Yuna had said it. But knowing it and standing on a porch watching a small dark-haired girl step out of a car and look up at a house she'd never seen before were completely different experiences, and something shifted in David's chest with an abruptness he hadn't braced for.