Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Underage Sex

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Age Difference, Younger Shane Hollander/Older Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Father/Son Incest, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Dubious Morality, Incest, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Ilya Rozanov is Shane Hollander's Biological Father, Gross Hollanov Week 2026, Daddy Kink, Dark Ilya Rozanov, Toxic Ilya Rozanov, Good Boy Shane Hollander, Bodily Fluids, Unsafe Sex, Manipulation, Ilya Rozanov Calls Shane Hollander "Baby"

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of Gross Hollanov Week 2026, Part 9 of Hollanov Smut

Collections:

gross hollanov week, Rain Recs

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-24 Words: 9,508 Chapters: 1/1

Yes, Daddy

Summary

Something cold settles low in Shane's stomach at her hesitation. His mom almost never hesitates, always confident and firm in what she is doing. Whatever she's about to say, it's probably no small thing.

"There's something I need to tell you," she says quietly. "Something we need to tell you."

"Mom?" Shane asks, confused. Shane stares at his mother, waiting for the rest of the explanation, but nothing comes. Mom keeps both hands on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. "What do you mean?" he asks quietly.

"David isn't your biological father."

Notes

im so god damn serious when i say read the tags. the incest is the point of this fic, so it's very important you clock that before trying to read this lol shane is also only 17, so like, take note of that.

for day 5 of gross hollanov week: Criminal, prompts: age gape, incest, dub con.

Shane has never questioned the place his parents hold in his life. Not once has he ever looked at them and wondered if he should reevaluate the roles they played in how Shane viewed himself as an individual. 

His mom has always been his biggest defender; from her insistence on him not giving up when his U13 teammates made fun of him, or when the parents of a kid from the opposing team started getting mouthy with him at the tender age of nine, Yuna Hollander has always stood tall for Shane when he couldn't do it himself.

His mom has a lot of expectations for Shane, a lot of notions on what a good hockey player should look and act like. Shane needs to smile and shake hands with important people, nod along indulgently at anything they might say, and he needs to remember to keep his face neutral when someone says something a little too pointed about him being Asian Canadian. He's a role model and his actions don't just reflect him.

His mom will defend him to death, but she often makes it a point to enforce the idea that he shouldn't defend himself. He needs to mitigate the disaster before it happens, make himself into the perfect ideal of a well-respected professional hockey player, so that they will find no fault in the identity he can not change. He has to keep a good image, get the best sponsors, stay clean in the media, and all sorts of other criteria that feel impossible to Shane as a seventeen year old boy who just wants to play hockey.

His mom believes in the image Shane shows to the public to such an extent that they've spent the last two hours in Farah's office, listening diligently as his agent presents a slide show on the proper way to present himself at the Draft Combine and then at the Draft itself. 

Mom is nodding along, the notes she is taking written in perfectly swooped cursive, ready to start asking questions as soon as Farah indicates she's open to them. Shane sees how calm she is and tries to steady his own breathing, doing his best to replicate the strength and confidence his mom projects.

"The interviews matter as much as the off-ice testing," Farah is saying, using a laser pointer to highlight the bulleted point on her slideshow. "Scouts already know you can play hockey."

Shane nods, hands curled into fists in his lap.

"They'll ask about your leadership capabilities, about how you handle different levels of pressure."

"I understand."

"They'll ask questions specifically designed to make you uncomfortable," Farah tells him. "They want to make you squirm so they can get the most authentic reaction out of you."

Shane does his best not to start biting the inside of his bottom lip, or to start picking at his cuticles; as both would definitely give away how nervous he is, the knowledge of what to expect sending him into a bit of a panicked spiral.

Farah knows him well enough by now that she sends him a sympathetic smile, fully aware of Shane's anxiety, before she moves onto the next slide. She recites rules Shane should follow, from 'don't be caught partying or photographed drunk' to 'watch your tone and the words you speak around reporters'. Shane hasn't partied a day in his life and he's been so thoroughly media trained he thinks that if Farah ever told him to be genuine with a member of the press, he probably wouldn't be able to do it.

Mom had been particular about drilling the lesson of media training into Shane, not willing to give even an inch for the possibility of Shane saying anything but the most bland and neutral responses to the media. 

Farah clicks to the final slide, the projector humming softly in the lull that settles over the office. Shane forces himself to keep his shoulders loose instead of letting them creep up around his ears, even as he feels like every topic they've discussed over the past two hours has added another weight to his chest. The Draft has always felt exciting from a distance, something he watched every year with wide eyes, imagining his own name being called. Sitting where he is now, with the reality only months away, it feels far less like a dream and much more like a test he isn't entirely convinced he'll pass.

"One last thing," Farah says, folding her arms as she leans against her desk. "Is there anything that could come out before the draft that we don't already know about? Any family issues, old social media posts, disciplinary records, anything that could become a distraction?"

Shane blinks and furrows his brow in thought. It feels like an odd question after everything else they've discussed, but he understands why she's asking it. Teams spend millions of dollars on draft picks. They investigate everything, interview everyone, and if there's something embarrassing buried somewhere in his past, someone will probably find it before June.

He opens his mouth to say 'no,' but stops himself when he catches movement in the corner of his eye: his mom has gone strangely still. Mom's pen has stopped halfway through writing another note, her expression not quite shifting, but Shane notices the tiny twitch of her mouth anyway. Her fingers tighten around the pen just enough for her knuckles to pale before she relaxes them again.

Farah seemingly notices too. "Yuna?" she asks carefully.

Mom's eyes flick toward him for the briefest moment before settling back on his agent. "No," she says after a beat. "Nothing you need to prepare for."

Farah studies her for another second, then must decide not to push, simply nodding once. "All right. That's what I wanted to confirm." She sets her laser pointer down with a soft click and turns the projector off, the machine's soft buzzing cutting off. "Otherwise, I think we're in excellent shape. Shane, every organization I've spoken with has been impressed by your maturity. Keep doing exactly what you're doing."

Shane thanks her automatically, the practiced response slipping from his tongue before he really thinks about it. It's what is expected of him, mature and professional, the perfect Asian Canadian role model. He wonders, not for the first time, if everyone else sees a version of him that simply doesn't exist. Shane doesn't feel particularly mature; he feels terrified that someone is going to ask him a question he doesn't know how to answer, or that he'll accidentally say the wrong thing and disappoint everyone who has invested so much time and money into getting him here.

Farah walks them to the elevator, reminding him to email if any interview requests arrive outside the schedule she'd already prepared. Shane shakes her hand exactly the way he'd been taught, smiles the appropriate amount, thanks her for her time, and waits until the elevator doors slide shut before letting out a quiet breath.

His mom notices, sending him a sympathetic smile. "Nervous?" she asks.

"A little."

"A little nerves are perfectly normal," Mom reassures him.

Shane huffs a stiff laugh. "Easy for you to say."

"It isn't," she responds, her smile warm as she glances over at him. "I've been nervous for seventeen years."

The elevator reaches the lobby, both of them stepping out into the late afternoon sunshine. Toronto traffic crawls past them on the street. His mom unlocks the SUV with a chirp from her keys, and Shane automatically climbs into the passenger seat, tossing his bag onto the floor by his feet.

For several minutes, neither of them speaks. His mom pulls into traffic and Shane watches storefronts blur together while his mom navigates the road with practiced ease, one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel.

Normally the silence between them is easy, but Shane finds himself shifting with discomfort as his mind wanders back to the final minutes of their meeting. He thinks about the way his mom paused, how she looked at Farah, and how controlled her voice had been. Shane glances toward her, watching her watch the road with the same composed expression she always wears when she drives, humming quietly along with the radio. 

Shane has known her his entire life and, at this point, he can tell when she is hiding something.

"Mom?"

"Hm?"

"What was that back there?"

Mom glances at him, eyes straying from the road, before she looks away, another questioning hum leaving her. Her hands tighten on the steering wheel briefly and her shoulders roll back like she's trying to dislodge sudden tension in her back.

"The question Farah asked," Shane clarifies. "You looked," Shane tries to find the right word and can't, so settles for the word he can find, "weird."

Mom's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, her eyes once more darting to look at him. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Yeah," Shane confirms with a small nod, "I noticed."

A new silence settles over the car, stretching out for almost a full minute. He watches her closely, sees her glance into the rearview mirror before returning her attention to the highway ahead. She inhales slowly, a long measured breath, only releasing it once she seemingly can't take in any more air.

Something cold settles low in Shane's stomach at her hesitation. His mom almost never hesitates, always confident and firm in what she is doing. Whatever she's about to say, it's probably no small thing.

"There's something I need to tell you," she says quietly. "Something we need to tell you."

"Mom?" Shane asks, confused. Shane stares at his mother, waiting for the rest of the explanation, but nothing comes. Mom keeps both hands on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. "What do you mean?" he asks quietly.

"David isn't your biological father."

The statement settles into the silence of the car. Shane blinks, trying to process the idea, the words not making any sense at first. He has never once questioned that his dad was, well, his dad; the thought has genuinely never crossed his mind. He inherited most of his mannerisms from his mom and his quiet demeanor from his dad. His paternal grandmother had bragged more than once that he had her father's chin.

"I don't—," Shane trails off, nervously rubbing his palms against his jeans. "I don't understand. You and dad...?"

"I didn't cheat. We were barely acquaintances at the time," Mom says gently, her tone serious. "You've heard how we met at McGill. I had a such ridiculous crush on him." She laughs quietly, the sound tinged with nostalgia. "He was this cute hockey player that I kept trying to figure out how to introduce myself to. I had entire plans worked out in my head."

"You planned conversations?" Shane asks, unable to keep the small smile off of his face.

"Believe it or not, but I had cue cards in my dorm room."

Shane lets out a tiny, disbelieving laugh. "Mom," Shane says before the confusion starts to creep back in. "So, where does this fit in?"

"I was in Montreal one weekend. I'd gone to a sports bar after a Metros game, mostly because I was trying to convince myself to stop overthinking and just go talk to David the next time I saw him." She smiles faintly at the memory. "I was sitting by myself when someone came over and asked if he could buy me a drink."

Shane frowns, but nods in acknowledgement. "Okay."

"He was very handsome," Mom says, turning on her blinker and checking her rearview mirror. Shane shifts in his seat, feeling a little awkward at the idea of his mom with some handsome stranger.

"I'm sorry," she says softly when she notices his pinched expression. "I know this is strange to hear."

"It kind of is," Shane mumbles, wringing his hands in his lap as he takes a moment to glance out his window.

His mom waits until they've gotten off at an exit and stopped at a red light before continuing. "I recognized him immediately. He was the captain of the Boston Raiders."

Shane's head whips around to stare at his mother, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"He introduced himself, and we started talking."

"About hockey?" Shane asks.

Mom smiles and nods. "Mostly. We spent over an hour arguing systems and defensive structure. He seemed genuinely fascinated that I had opinions on all of it."

"Sounds like you."

"It does, doesn't it?" The light turns green, and she eases the SUV forward, adjusting her mirror briefly. "Eventually, he asked if I'd like to get out of there."

Shane turns and look back out the passenger window, his ears feeling warm. He's fairly certain this is a conversation neither of them ever expected to have.

"I still had every intention of trying to ask your dad out," Mom continues carefully. "I wasn't dating anyone. I wasn't committed to anyone. I just thought...," she trails off. "What's the harm in having one night with an incredibly attractive professional hockey player?"

Shane makes a face. "Mom."

"I'm trying to explain the timeline."

"I know, I just—," he groans quietly, hiding part of his face in one hand. "I don't really want to picture this."

A genuine laugh escapes her this time, and Shane glances over at her, watching the emotions play across her face. "I don't expect you to." The laughter fades into something more thoughtful. "He was very respectful," she says. "Kind and very charming. The next morning we went our separate ways, and I never expected to see him again. Two weeks later, I finally met David at a party."

Shane lowers his hand. "And?"

"And we clicked immediately," she replies, her smile softening, the expression making something warm settle in Shane's chest despite the increasingly surreal conversation.

"We talked for hours, then we went for a late dinner. We'd talked long enough to grab coffee the next morning before we actually parted. Before I knew it, we were seeing each other regularly. Not long after that," Mom says quietly, "I started feeling sick. I went to a doctor and got some bloodwork done; it was a fairly quick process for them to come back with the results: I was pregnant."

He swallows, his mind immediately trying to do the math. "Dad...?"

"There was no possible way the baby was David's," Mom shares, her voice cracking slightly. "Still, I went straight from the clinic to your father's apartment and I told him the truth."

"What did he say?"

His mom smiles at the question, pure adoration on her face. "He asked how he could help."

Shane blinks. "He didn't get upset?"

"No," his mom replies with a headshake, her voice soft. "He told me, 'You weren't with me. You don't owe me an apology for living your life before we became a couple.'" She pulls into the hotel parking lot they're staying at while doing business in Toronto, but doesn't put the car in park immediately. "He asked what I wanted to do. He promised he'd support whatever decision I made. When I decided I wanted to keep the baby, he told me we'd figure it out together."

Shane turns away from his mother, staring straight ahead at the building in front of them. His mom finally shifts the car into park and turns it off, silence enveloping them for a moment.

"We had a little boy," Mom finishes, her hand coming up to cup Shane's face, directing his head to turn and look at her. "And the fact that he wasn't biologically David's never mattered."

Shane feels strangely numb at the end of her story, the truth still slow to sink in. "So, dad isn't my biological father?"

"No," his mom replies, swiping her thumb across his cheeks. "David is your father in every way that matters, however. He chose you before you were even born."

Shane nods automatically, his thoughts starting to race. If David isn't his dad, then— "Who is?" Shane asks hesitantly, meeting his mother's gaze. "Who is my biological dad?"

His mom is quiet for several long seconds, her hand going still on his face, before she sighs and pulls away, her head dipping slightly in defeat. When she finally answers, her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Your biological father is Ilya Rozanov."

Everything inside Shane stops; the air leaves his lungs and his heart seems to forget how to beat, frozen in his chest.

He stares wide-eyed at his mother, certain he must have misheard her. "Ilya Rozanov?"

Mom gives a single, almost reluctant, nod.

Shane's mouth opens and then closes again, far too many emotions whirling inside of him. "Ilya Rozanov?" he repeats, his voice cracking. "Boston Raiders legend Ilya Rozanov?"

Another nod.

"The Ilya Rozanov?"

"Yes."

"The greatest player of his generation, Ilya Rozanov?" Shane asks incredulously, his stomach dropping lower with every word.

Ilya Rozanov, the man who Shane—

His mom nods one final time and Shane's world tips on its side.

Shane spends the next three days in a haze.

Everything continues moving around him as though nothing has changed. Mom fields phone calls about sponsorship opportunities from the hotel room, discussing fees and commercial obligations with the same effortless professionalism she always has. Dad calls every evening to ask how the meetings are going, congratulating Shane on another brand expressing interest in signing him. Shane answers every question, says all the right things, and hangs up each time before he can accidentally ask the question that keeps sitting on the tip of his tongue.

Did you ever wish I was actually yours?

He can't make himself ask it, though he thinks he knows the answer regardless: David is his dad.

Nothing his mom told him changes the man who taught him how to tie his skates or drove him to six o'clock practices before work. Nothing changes who stayed awake helping him finish homework after road trips or who stood outside freezing arenas with a coffee in hand because Shane always wanted to be the first player on the ice.

Shane has never once questioned whether his dad loves him, and he refuses to let biology rewrite seventeen years of certainty.

Still, this conviction on his dad's place in his life makes the question of his biological father all the harder to grapple with; if David is still his father, then what exactly is Ilya Rozanov to him?

That question circles endlessly through Shane's mind until it drowns out everything else. The Combine, the Draft, every interview, and possible sponsor, all of the events that are about to define the rest of his life, they suddenly feel strangely distant to him, eclipsed by one question without an answer.

The Draft is barreling toward him whether he likes it or not, carrying with it expectations and responsibilities he can't slow down. This lingering truth over his paternity feels like a problem he can get his hands on, one he can do something about. Shane has no control over what anybody in the MLH thinks of him, isn't in control of when or how they meet him, but he can be in control of this.

On the third morning after his world shifted, Shane wakes before sunrise and creeps down to the lobby of their hotel, sliding into the seat in front of the lobby computer, exchanging a brief nod with the front desk employee.

He tells himself he's only going to look, he's just curious on if there is any new information floating around about Ilya Rozanov, but five minutes later, he's deep enough into internet searches that his browser has nearly fifteen tabs open.

Shane learns quickly that retirement hasn't exactly removed Rozanov from hockey. There are articles from local Boston papers, interviews with current coaches, and multiple fan forums discussing the retired legend's latest appearances at several Boston Raiders morning practices. He pieces together a routine from dozens of scattered comments until a picture begins to form.

Apparently, Ilya Rozanov attends open morning practices at Ristuccia Memorial Arena often enough that nobody even finds it remarkable anymore. Even the current head coach mentions it during media availability, stating that Rozanov watches practices from the stands or occasionally from beside the bench. Sometimes he even skates with injured players or promising prospects during rehabilitation sessions, and offers unofficial advice whenever the coaching staff asks for it.

If Shane wanted to meet his biological father, Wilmington, Massachusetts seems to be the place he can most likely do it.

He clicks over to an airline website before he can think too hard about what he's doing. A flight from Toronto to Boston isn't that expensive, and Shane has his own money anyway. It's not MLH money, obviously, but there's enough from regional sponsorships and equipment endorsements that buying a plane ticket doesn't require asking permission. His mom helped him open the accounts, but they're in his name.

He gets a paper and pen from the front desk and jots down the details and phone number for the airline, biting his lip as he navigates the site to confirm that there wouldn't be any issues for a minor flying internationally while unaccompanied by parent or guardian.

Shane takes the info and shoves it into his pocket, heading to the hotel gym and doing his morning workout routine, the one that he should've started twenty-five minutes ago. His stomach twists as he runs on the treadmill, the full-length mirror across from him forcing him to look at his flushed face and wide eyes. 

If he tells his parents what he's planning, they'll want to come. His mom would insist on it, unwilling to let Shane travel alone, and his dad wouldn't disagree. He doesn't see either of them trying to stop him; they'd simply want to protect him. 

Shane doesn't want protecting, though. Not this time, at least. This conversation belongs to him; he doesn't know exactly how he expects him just showing up and confronting a hockey legend about a kid he didn't know about is going to go, but it's his decision to make.

He needs to hear whatever answers exist without anyone trying to soften them first.

His heart pounds loudly enough that he can hear it in his ears as he turns the treadmill off, grimacing when he realizes he forgot his water bottle. He heads back up to the room and greets his mom as she buzzes around the room, her smart pantsuit pressed and professional looking. She kisses his cheek, promises to return with breakfast, and then is out the door.

Shane stares at the closed door for a good ten seconds, waiting to see if she forgot anything, before he immediately heads to the hotel room phone, taking out the piece of paper from earlier. He has a ticket booked within ten minutes, departure set for tomorrow afternoon, when his mom is going to be at an in-person meeting with Reebok and Shane is supposed to be packing their things for an early morning flight the day after, both of them heading to Buffalo early in preparation for the Draft Combine.

He forces himself into taking a shower, absent-mindedly lathering shampoo into his hair as his mind wanders. His life has been changing so quickly that he barely has time to process one milestone before another appears on the horizon. In less than a month, he'll hear his name called at the MLH Draft. Soon after that, he'll leave junior hockey forever and begin playing for whatever team drafts him.

Before any of that, however, he's going to meet the man who he—whose DNA he carries. 

He's not looking for another father, he doesn't think, his dad already occupying that position so completely that Shane can't imagine anyone replacing him, he just—needs to meet him. He needs to meet Ilya Rozanov and he thinks their surprising connection is more than reason enough to do so.

He quietly packs a small duffel bag with enough clothes for a night or two, tucks his passport into the front pocket, and books a car to the airport for early the following morning. When he zips the bag closed, he stands motionless in the middle of the hotel room, contemplating the odd direction his life has suddenly taken. He has everything he needs, so he hides the packed bag in the corner by his bed, squeezed tightly between the wall and the AC unit.

He sits quietly on his bed as he waits for his mom to return with breakfast, gaze distant.

Shane sneaks out before the sun has risen, gently laying a note on his carefully made bed, explaining what he's doing and that he'll meet his mom the day before the Combine, giving himself a few days to handle this in his own way. The flight from Toronto to Boston is just under two hours, but Shane spends every minute of it bouncing one leg nervously, noticing and stopping, and then accidentally starting it again with the opposite leg.

He hasn't ever done anything this impulsive before. Every major decision in his life—and hockey career—has involved meetings, conversations with his parents, and Farah weighing every possible consequence before anyone acted. This is different; this is just Shane, seventeen years old, carrying a backpack and a need that has been eating him alive for days.

The cab ride from Logan Airport to Wilmington is thirty minutes too long, but also not nearly enough time for Shane's nerves to calm the hell down. The driver chatters cheerfully about the Raiders' upcoming alumni golf tournament, but Shane only manages the occasional hum in response. Every kilometer they drive makes turning around feel less possible. His stomach twists itself tighter and tighter until he genuinely wonders if he might throw up before they reach the practice facility.

When the cab finally pulls into the parking lot of Ristuccia Memorial Arena, Shane simply sits there for a few seconds. This is stupid. He just flew to another country because his mom told him a story. He has absolutely no plan beyond find Ilya Rozanov. He doesn't know what he's going to say if he actually manages it. He doesn't even know if the man will agree to speak to him.

The driver glances back at him. "You getting out, kid?"

Shane blinks, shaking himself out of the doubt plaguing his mind. "Yeah, sorry." He pays for the ride, shoulders his backpack, and steps into the warm Massachusetts air.

The outside of the arena is far quieter than he expected; a handful of cars dot the parking lot, and there are only a few fans filtering toward the entrance, some of them wearing old Raiders jerseys. Shane keeps his head down as he follows behind them, relieved that he did this before the Draft so there is much less of a chance of anybody recognizing him.

The cool air inside the arena settles some of the frantic buzzing beneath his skin, the sounds of hockey greeting him as he makes his way to the stands. He can hear skates cutting into ice, pucks striking against the boards, and a sharp whistle before instructions are shouted.

The familiar rhythm wraps around him like an old blanket. His shoulders loosen almost without permission as he climbs the concrete stairs toward the section of seats he has his eye on. For the first time since his mom told him the truth, his thoughts quiet just enough that he can breathe normally.

Practice has clearly been underway for a while, the players already running through structured drills, moving the puck with precision while coaches bark instructions from the benches. Shane finds an open row in the section he spotted, about halfway up the stands, and slides into a seat with a clear view of the ice. He rests his elbows on his knees, watching the practice with a keen eye and no little level of excitement.

Hockey has always made sense to him.

Shane finds himself critiquing a defenseman's gap control in his head when movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention. Someone enters the row from the opposite staircase, walking with an easy confidence.

Shane glances over automatically at the movement, mind stuttering in his internal analyses, and his heart abruptly stops as he registers who has taken a seat in his row.

It's him. Ilya Rozanov, in the flesh and blood, not smiling from the glossy cover of one of the old magazines Shane practically wore out the pages of, or even staring at him from one of the dozens of cards Shane had collected in elementary school.

The retired Raiders' captain walks down the row with a confident stride, posture relaxed. A couple of people smile or nod in greeting, and Rozanov returns each acknowledgment with an easy grin before settling into a seat only a few chairs away.

He is close enough that Shane could stand up and be next to him in seconds. He is close enough with nothing in the way to filter what he looks like, and Shane can honestly say that he didn't know what he expected. Maybe that retirement would have softened him somehow? That twenty years of professional hockey would have left more visible wear on his body?

Instead, Ilya Rozanov looks infuriatingly unchanged.

He's older, certainly. There are faint lines at the corners of his eyes now, and the blond curls Shane remembers from old highlight reels have begun to silver subtly at the temples. None of it diminishes how striking Rozanov is, however; he's still devastatingly handsome.

He's broad across the shoulders beneath a fitted Raiders quarter-zip, still seemingly carrying himself with the effortless posture of someone who spent decades being the best player on every sheet of ice he stepped onto. His forearms are thick with muscle where they've been exposed by casually pushed-up sleeves, and when he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, Shane catches the outline of powerful legs beneath dark athletic pants.

There is not a single doubt in his mind that Rozanov has stuck to his training; maybe not as diligently and thoroughly as he did as an active player, but definitely enough that Shane is almost certain that if Rozanov decided to step over the boards right now, he'd embarrass half the roster currently practicing.

The realization sends an unexpected thrill through Shane's chest. This is Ilya Rozanov, the man whose highlights he watched until he practically memorized them, the captain whose interviews Shane quoted to himself before important games, the legend he secretly modeled parts of his own game after.

This is the same man who—

His thoughts screech to a halt, his mind refusing to go any deeper as reality sets back in.

Ilya Rozanov is his biological father. The two identities collide so violently in Shane's mind that he almost feels dizzy. He realizes he doesn't know how to reconcile them. He doesn't know whether he should be staring because he's looking at one of hockey's greatest players to ever play the game or because he's looking at the man who, impossibly, helped create him.

Shane manages to keep his freaking out internal for the most part, keeping his eyes to himself for the next five minutes. It's a herculean task and he can't help risking another glance. It lasts all of half a second before pale blue eyes meet his across the few empty seats separating them.

Oh no.

Heat floods his face so quickly it almost hurts. He jerks his gaze back toward the ice, suddenly finding the fourth line's passing drill to be the most fascinating thing he has ever witnessed. His heartbeat pounds so loudly in his ears that he's convinced everyone in the section can hear it.

A quiet chuckle comes from beside him. "Hello."

Shane's stomach flips. He turns back slowly, trying very hard to look like he hadn't just been caught staring.

Ilya Rozanov is looking directly at him now, one arm slung lazily over the back of the seat beside him. Up close, the man somehow manages to be even more handsome than he looked from a distance. His smile is easy, bordering on mischievous, and there is a warmth to his expression that completely contradicts the intimidating legend Shane has built in his head over years of watching him play.

"I have not seen you around here before," Rozanov says conversationally. His accent is unmistakable, thick enough to soften certain consonants without making him difficult to understand, his time living in the USA helping with that. "First time watching an open practice?"

Shane swallows and he nods, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. "Y-Yes," he responds, his voice cracking in a truly embarrassing way. He clears his throat. "Yes, it's my first time."

Something about that answer seems to amuse Rozanov, the corner of the Russian's mouth lifting a little farther, and he lets out a low laugh. "Oh?" he says. "You just move here?"

Panic flashes through Shane's chest. He absolutely cannot tell Rozanov that he flew to Boston specifically to track him down because his mother casually informed him just days ago that one of hockey's greatest players is actually his biological father.

So, he lies.

"I'm, uh," Shane hesitates. He can practically hear Farah screaming about interviews and maintaining composure. "I'm job hunting?" The words leave his mouth, sounding more like a question than an answer, and he winces.

Ilya's eyebrow lifts ever so slightly. "Job hunting."

"Yeah."

"Hm." The Russian looks him over with open curiosity. "You look a little young to be job hunting."

Another lie, his mind demands. Shane is apparently committed now. "I'm actually in college." He nods once, as though agreeing with himself somehow strengthens the story. "I'm nineteen." The number comes out surprisingly naturally, just close enough to eighteen that it doesn't feel entirely fabricated.

The older man hums softly, "I see." The sound carries just enough skepticism that Shane has to fight the urge to sink lower into his seat.

He doesn't believe me, Shane thinks, panic racing through him. Of course he doesn't believe me, I'm an awful liar.

Thankfully, and by some miracle, Rozanov chooses not to press. Instead, he extends a hand casually across the space between them. "I am Ilya."

"I know who you are," the words leave Shane's mouth before his brain has any chance whatsoever of stopping them. There is a beat of silence before Shane registers what he said and his eyes widen in horror. "Oh my God," he blurts. "I'm sorry. That sounded—I didn't mean—I mean, obviously I know who you are, but that sounded really rude and—!"

Ilya waves a dismissive hand through the air. "It is okay." He's grinning now, teeth showing just a little. "Ah, of course you have heard of me," he continues, leaning back comfortably in his seat, looking entirely pleased with himself. "I am the best hockey player in the world, after all."

The statement is so outrageously arrogant that Shane should probably roll his eyes. Instead, he laughs. The sound escapes before he can stop it, unwittingly charmed by the older man. And then, because something inside his brain has apparently decided today is the perfect day to stop functioning altogether, Shane hears himself say, "Only until I make it to the MLH."

The words hang between them for a moment, long enough for Shane to freeze and wonders what the hell was wrong with him. He hadn't planned to say that. He hadn't planned to challenge the greatest player of all fucking time. For one horrifying heartbeat, he thinks he's offended the other man, but then Ilya starts laughing. It's not a chuckle or a little exhale either, but a guffaw where he throws his head back, delighted laughter echoing lightly through the otherwise quiet section.

"You are very confident," he says, still smiling broadly. "I like confidence."

Shane feels himself blush even harder, the compliment landing with enough force to leave Shane momentarily speechless.

"So," Ilya continues, blue eyes bright with interest now, "do I get to know the name of the player trying to usurp me?"

Shane's pulse jumps. This is it. He hesitates for only the briefest second before extending his hand across the empty seats between them. "I'm Shane," he says nervously, voice shaking slightly. "Shane Hollander."

Nothing disastrous happens, which, in hindsight, makes sense. Ilya doesn't immediately take his hand, tilting his head just slightly with a small smile on his face. The amusement is still there, but his eyes are narrowed slightly, something sharp in them. Those startling blue eyes linger on Shane's face for a long second, studying him with an intensity that makes the back of Shane's neck prickle.

Does he know? The thought hits so suddenly it steals the air from his lungs. 

Before Shane can lose his nerve and pull his hand back, Ilya's smile returns in full force, the curl of his lips warmer than before. The older man reaches forward at last, his hand large around Shane's. His grip is firm without being uncomfortable, calluses rough against Shane's palm from decades of holding a hockey stick.

He doesn't let go immediately. Instead, he holds the handshake just a heartbeat longer than etiquette really calls for, still looking directly into Shane's eyes.

"Pretty name," Ilya says, his voice low and smooth. His thumb shifts almost imperceptibly against the back of Shane's hand before he finally gives it one last firm shake. "Pleasure to meet you, Shane Hollander."

Their conversation, somehow, continues even after their introduction. Shane isn't entirely sure how; one moment he's sitting frozen beside the greatest hockey player he's ever seen, and the next Ilya is pushing himself to his feet. Shane is still trying to recover from their handshake when Ilya looks down at him with a relaxed grin.

"Are you hungry?"

Shane blinks, his brain taking an embarrassingly long time to process such a simple question. "Uh, yes?" he admits quietly, still wondering if this entire interaction is some sort of elaborate daydream.

"Good," Ilya nods, gesturing toward the exit with a small tilt of his head. "There is little place I like not far from here. Rocco's."

Shane stares.

"I am hungry," Ilya says, sounding as though that explains everything. His smile grows into a smirk as he studies Shane's expression. "You look hungry too. And before you try to argue," Ilya says, pointing a finger at him with mock severity, "I am paying."

"Oh, you don't have to."

"I know."

"I couldn't let you."

"You could."

Shane opens his mouth again before realizing there isn't actually an argument left to make.

Ilya chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. "You are a student," he says matter-of-factly. "I am retired millionaire. Let old man buy lunch."

The image of Ilya Rozanov referring to himself as an old man is so ridiculous that Shane laughs despite himself. The sound seems to please Ilya even more, his grin widening. "Come have lunch with me."

Shane should probably say no.

Realistically, he flew to Boston hoping he might catch a glimpse of the man from across the arena, not really believing he would get to talk to him, nor tell him the truth. Instead, he's somehow been invited to lunch with him. His carefully imagined conversation about awkward biological parentage is disappearing further and further over the horizon with every passing minute.

Shane should really say no.

"Okay." The word leaves him before he can second-guess himself. "I'd really like that."

Rocco's Restaurant & Bar is warm. The hostess greets Ilya by name the second they walk through the door, smiling like she's seeing an old friend rather than one of the greatest hockey players in league history.

Several patrons wave as they walk toward a booth near the back, and Ilya returns every greeting with effortless familiarity. He even pauses beside one table to ask an older man how his grandson's hockey tournament had gone over the weekend, listening attentively to the answer before congratulating him.

Shane can't stop watching. This isn't the version of Ilya Rozanov he grew up idolizing. This man isn't giving interviews or lifting trophies. He's part of the neighborhood, chatting with people over lunch like retirement has quietly folded him into ordinary life. 

The waitress hands them menus, though Ilya barely glances at his before setting it aside. Shane pretends to study his own while trying to steady the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat.

"So," Ilya says once they've ordered their drinks and food, resting comfortably against the booth. "Tell me about yourself."

Shane immediately tenses. "Oh."

"What are you studying?"

The lie arrives easily this time, because it's not a hard one to back up. "I'm actually still undecided."

Ilya hums softly. "That is common." His expression remains pleasant, but those startling blue eyes linger on Shane just a fraction longer than feels comfortable. Shane suddenly has the uneasy sensation of being examined rather than simply spoken to. "What college?"

Think of a college in Boston, Shane thinks as he scrambles for an answer. "Boston College," Shane answers eventually. He nods a little, satisfied. He's almost positive he's heard their hockey team mentioned somewhere before.

Ilya repeats it back almost thoughtfully. "Boston College. Very nice school."

Shane smiles with considerably more confidence than he actually feels. "Yeah."

"And hockey?"

"I've been playing practically my whole life," Shane reveals, his smile even more genuine now. Some of the tension drains from Shane's shoulders as he answers, finally settling a bit into his own seat.

"I could tell. You watched practice like a player would."

Shane feels warmth creep into his cheeks. "Oh."

The waitress arrives with their food before Shane has to think of anything else to say. He silently thanks her for the interruption as plates are set in front of them.

For a few minutes, they simply eat.

Shane relaxes enough to stop obsessing over every word coming out of his mouth, and conversation drifts naturally between bites. Hockey dominates most of it, unsurprisingly, with Ilya asking about Shane's thoughts on what he saw during that morning's practice.

"So," Ilya says casually after taking a sip of his drink, "how are the Terriers looking this year?"

Shane doesn't hesitate, confident that that must be Boston College's hockey team. "Oh, great," he says with a smile. "I think we've got a really good group."

"Do you?"

"Yeah," Shane replies earnestly. "Everyone's been really welcoming."

Ilya's smile changes slowly, curling at the edges. "Sounds like you are having a wonderful time in college."

"I am," Shane nods. "I really like it."

"I can tell."

The conversation wanders elsewhere before Shane has time to think about it. Ilya mentions growing up in Moscow and Shane responds with stories from his own upbringing, mentioning he'd always loved outdoor hockey. Without realizing it, he casually adds that he's Canadian, shrugging as though it isn't particularly important.

"I'm actually Canadian," he says. "I just moved down here recently. For school."

"Hm," Ilya nods thoughtfully. "I wondered."

"You did?"

"You have little accent."

Shane laughs, genuinely surprised. "I do?"

"Very little," Ilya nods, raising his hand to show a small gap between his thumb and index finger to indicate just how little said accent is, "but it is there."

For reasons Shane can't explain, Ilya noticing his accent makes his stomach flutter.

Lunch stretches comfortably beyond an hour. Somewhere along the way, talking to Ilya stops feeling impossible. He's still painfully aware that he's sitting across from a hockey legend, from the man who—from his biological father—but the conversation becomes unexpectedly easy.

Ilya steers it effortlessly, asking just the right questions to keep Shane talking without feeling overwhelmed. Every now and then he slips in a compliment so naturally that Shane feels like he's floating on air, his face holding a constant blush.

Eventually the waitress returns with the bill.

Before Shane can even reach for his wallet, Ilya has already paid. "I told you it is on me," Ilya says.

"You really didn't have to."

"I know," Ilya nods, a little smirk on his face. "But I wanted to."

They step back outside into the warm afternoon together, Ilya holding the door open for Shane to step through first. For a moment, they simply stand on the sidewalk, the conversation settling into a comfortable silence neither seems particularly eager to break. Then Ilya slips his hands into the pockets of his jacket and glances sideways at Shane.

"You in a hurry?"

Shane shakes his head. "No."

"Good," Ilya says, smiling again. "I have coffee at home, want to continue our conversation there?" Ilya asks, the question easy and inviting.

Shane hesitates. He's not ready to be done talking to his childhood hero. He's desperately trying to keep track of every lie he's told over the past two hours. Somehow, though, sitting across from Ilya no longer feels quite so terrifying.

"I'd like that," Shane says.

Ilya's eyes narrow when he smiles this time, head tilting slightly. "I hoped you might."

Shane is positive they must talk about something on the drive to Ilya's home. Something must have kept Shane occupied while sitting in Ilya's bright orange Porsche, but he can't remember whatever it was. Every thought and observation is wiped away from his mind when he enters Ilya's lavish home.

Shane blinks and he is sliding his shoes off, socked feet pattering on hard wood as he walks further into the house. He blinks again and is suddenly petting Ilya's new overeager puppy, who just turned three months old and is named Anya. He blinks again and he is biting his bottom lip as he watches Ilya's forearms when he slides off his quarter-zip and starts making the coffee he mentioned earlier. Shane blinks and he is gazing up at Ilya with wide brown eyes, his body trapped as his biological father pins him to the counter and call his freckles pretty.

Shane can't be held responsible for what happens next, he just can't be. The connection to the part Ilya plays in his biology is lost to him when the older man captures his lips in a slow, wet kiss. Ilya Rozanov—his biological father—doesn't compute when Ilya Rozanov—the player he has had a crush on for years, the one who he has a poster of on his wall that he has stroked his cock to more than once—is kissing him.

Ilya pulls back, a string of saliva connecting their lips. Shane is light-headed and so turned on his dick aches where it's trapped in his jeans.

"You know," Ilya purrs into his ear, one hand coming up to grip at Shane's hip. "I think you lied to me."

Shane sucks in a sudden breath, his heart pounding.

"I think you are not really nineteen."

Shane flounders for a moment, but the relief in his chest at Ilya not knowing the bigger truth is too much of a relief for him to not scramble to admit to this much smaller lie.

"I'm sorry," Shane apologizes. "I'm not nineteen, I'm seventeen."

Ilya's grip on his hip actually tightens and, much to Shane's surprise, Ilya smiles reassuringly at him, no anger on his face at Shane's deception. Ilya's other hand comes up to caress his face, thumb gentle as it rubs softly over his freckled cheeks.

"Thank you for telling me the truth, котёнок," Ilya whispers, brushing his lips against Shane's when he leans closer. "It will all be okay. I will take very good care of you."

Shane finds himself blown away at Ilya's kindness and understanding, his heart pounding. Shane has viewed David as his father for his entire life, and even though Ilya might have been the one to get his mom pregnant, it doesn't change how turned on Shane is as Ilya leads him to his lavish bedroom.

Ilya pulls Shane into another passionate kiss, tongue twining with his own, and his hands rubbing soothingly along Shane's sides. He slips his hands under Shane's shirt and tugs it up and off with zero resistance from Shane, gently pushing him back until he's laid out across the older man's sheets. He's staring at Shane like he's something precious and it makes butterflies swarm in Shane's stomach.

"I'm a virgin," Shane blurts out just as Ilya strips his own shirt off and is tossing it aside.

Ilya coos at him sweetly at the confession, climbing onto the bed and hovering over Shane's prone form. "Do not worry, котёнок. I promised to take care of you and I meant it."

Ilya spends the next several minutes kissing Shane's breath away, teasing him with wandering hands and a wet tongue. He trails kisses down Shane's neck, sucking hickeys into his skin with warm suction. He twirls his tongue around one of Shane's nipples and uses his hand to pinch the other between his fingers, drawing a loud moan from Shane. He hadn't even realizes his nipples were sensitive until this moment, back arching slightly to keep Ilya's wicked mouth attached to him.

Ilya is tugging his jeans off soon after, eyes full of lust, drinking in Shane's naked body when his underwear goes with his pants. Shane's dick is hard, twitching each time Ilya's breath grazes across his sensitive skin. Shane bites his lip when Ilya meets his gaze and slowly licks a stripe up Shane's shaft. Shane's head flies back at the sensation, a high-pitched moan escaping him as Ilya takes the tip of his dick into his mouth and sucks lightly.

"Fuck, Ilya!" Shane moans, his hands grabbing onto the sheet below him and pulling them tight.

Ilya hums a little, making Shane whimper at the vibration. He's lost for several seconds, trying not to shake apart, when he feels the probing of a slick finger against his asshole. Shane doesn't even know when Ilya could have possibly grabbed lube, too busy squirming as the finger breeches him, the intrusion not too uncomfortable; Shane has fingered himself before, though he hasn't yet gotten the courage to buy a dildo.

That fact seems irrelevant now, Ilya working a second finger into him in preparation for Shane to take his cock. This thought brings an even louder moan out of him, his cock jerking in Ilya's mouth as he slides a little further down on it, Shane's balls drawing tighter against his body. 

Ilya is fingering him, stroking his insides, getting Shane ready for him so Ilya can fuck him. Ilya Rozanov, his sexual awakening, is going to fuck him. Ilya Rozanov, his biological father, is going to fuck him. 

"Daddy!" Shane sobs out when Ilya's mouth sinks completely down onto his cock just as his fingers stroke firmly over his prostate. Shane's back arches away from the mattress as he comes down Ilya's throat, hitched moans filling the air.

Shane's subsequent mild heart attack is cut off at the feet when Ilya pulls off of his dick and rises to capture Shane's lips in a searing kiss, some of Shane still on his tongue. He moans into the filthy kiss, arms coming up to pull Ilya closer to him. 

"Yes, that's right," Ilya growls when he pulls away, shifting down slightly to slip three fingers into Shane's entrance. "I'm your daddy. Daddy thinks you are being so good for him, котёнок."

Shane whimpers as he verges on being overstimulated, his cock never quite going soft as Ilya hits his prostate with unerring accuracy. 

"You are so special to Daddy, котёнок," Ilya tells him as he curls his fingers, leaning down to give Shane's tummy several sweet kisses. "No one is as pretty as you, малыш, no one is as deserving of a reward as you."

Shane feels like he's burning up at each compliment Ilya gives him, each word of praise dripping down his spine like liquid gold. 

"Would you like a reward, малыш? Something just for you?"

"Yes," Shane gasps out, nodding his head.

"Daddy is going to gift you something he's never given anyone else," Ilya mutters into his stomach, eyes glancing up to meet Shane's. "Daddy isn't going to wear a condom, okay, котёнок? Doesn't that sound wonderful? Anyone else that came before you never got to know what it felt like for Daddy to fuck them raw; only my special малыш gets the privilege." 

Shane's eyes practically roll into the back of his head at the idea, dick leaking against his stomach. Daddy is going to fuck him and then come inside him, is gonna fill his baby boy up with cum. 

"Yes, Daddy thought that might excite his good boy," Ilya chuckles at Shane's face, pulling away to finally take his own pants off. His cock makes Shane salivate, beautiful and thick, hard and heavy between his equally gorgeous thighs. 

Ilya hikes Shane up a little as he shuffles forward, throwing one of Shane's legs over his shoulder and lining his cock up. He meets his eyes as he slowly slips inside Shane's waiting hole, Ilya's face flushing as Shane's virgin hole grips tightly around him. Shane is shaking as Ilya enters him, drool escaping his open mouth as he bottoms out with a grunt.

"Daddy," Shane sobs when Ilya pulls out after a moment, slowly pushing back inside until his hips meet Shane's ass.

"You look so pretty, котёнок," Ilya mumbles as he slowly starts fucking Shane, cock splitting Shane open. "You are a vision under me."

Shane can't stop the tears that form and fall when Ilya picks up the pace and starts really giving it to him, his cock punching into him roughly. Shane feels like he's burning up, his own cock painfully hard and so very close to exploding without being touched. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, gripping the sheets and releasing them over and over like he's a cat kneading a blanket. Shane moans and pants as his biological father fucks him stupid, practically rearranging his guts with each thrust. 

"Open your mouth for Daddy," Ilya pants, leaning forward and pushing Shane's leg back even further.

Shane does as his Daddy requests, moaning obscenely when Ilya spits into it and orders him to swallow. Shane does as he's told, greedy for it.

"You are perfect for me," Ilya tells him as he fucks him roughly, rubbing against his prostate on every other stroke. "Practically made for me. Most perfect hole I've ever fucked. Daddy wants to fuck you like this every night; would you like that, малыш? Do you want to be Daddy's special kitten, just hanging off his cock while he fucks you silly?"

Shane is sobbing, unable to stop as he comes untouched. His arms jerk forward to wrap tightly around Ilya as he shakes through his orgasm, the older man cursing as he thrusts a few more times before moaning into Shane's ear, coming inside of him.

Shane must black out for a moment, because when he finally opens his eyes, Ilya is returning from the ensuite bathroom, wet cloth in hand. He wipes Shane down gently, shushing Shane when he grumbles slightly, sweet sounding Russian leaving him as he takes care of cleaning him up. He discards the cloth and climbs into bed with Shane, pulling the dirty sheets from under him and covering them both with the sheet underneath that.

Ilya starts running his hand through Shane's hair, the gesture practically making Shane purr. It takes several minutes of this for Shane's brain to finally come back online and for all the consequences to catch up to him.

Shane just slept with his biological father. He stalked him using the internet, deliberately went where he knew the older man would be, lied to him multiple times, and then knowingly slept with him.

"So, how is Yuna doing?"

Shane freezes.

"She didn't have much time to talk with me when she called; she saw your note and called in a couple favors in order to get my number. She wanted to give me a heads up that you were on your way."

Shane moves slowly, tilting his head up from where it had been tucked under Ilya's chin. The older man is looking down at him, blue eyes intense as he stares at Shane. 

"I didn't know it was you at first," Ilya tells him. "But all I needed was to see you blush, your pretty freckles standing out, and I knew. You confirmed it when you told me your name, but the freckles were all I needed."

"Why?" Shane whispers, his heart pounding. "Why only my freckles?"

"Oh, Шанечка," Ilya chuckles, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to Shane's forehead. "You think I would not recognize my own flesh and blood? My darling baby boy," he whispers, eyes and smirk sharp on his face, "you have my mother's freckles."